Fran Rogowski, “Passages”
When it comes to communication, we are a face species. But the back talks, too. Some actors know how to get it to speak. Marlon Brando, say, at the climax of “A Streetcar Named Desire,” kneeling into Kim Hunter’s waist, his T-shirt shredded, his back slack, unburdened of the force of his machismo. Actors’ backs can advertise something obvious like dominance (find me an action star). Great backting, however, tends to emphasize failure, rue, humiliation, secrecy. In “Passages,” Rogowski’s back achieves most of that, plus a powerful dose of guilt. Here is a performer with a strong face: sleepy eyes, scarred upper lip, mouth that curls into a snarl, prominent forehead. But the back is a marvel: ample, supple. Anytime the selfish, insensitive, sexually libertine artist he is playing hurts his partner (it’s a habit), Rogowski turns away from the camera while also turning toward it, as if he can’t bear us looking squarely at him in judgment, as if he half expects to be lashed.
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