.png)
Vera Kowalska has nothing left but her voice — and yet, it is her purposeful silence that speaks deafening volumes.
1937 theatrical release poster for Confession
The statement seems cryptic, if not irrelevant: what great importance could a string of anecdotes woven by a neurotic cabaret woman hold, when she is already found to be guilty of her crime? At a first glance, it appears insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yet, it encapsulates the core theme and its duality that, in essence, constructs the skeleton of the film in question — our protagonist’s voice, upon which she depends for a living in more ways than one. Confession transcends the constraints of a standard melodrama with provocative analysis and commentary on the objectivity of truth, self expression, and identity through the power of voice.
The first thing that struck me upon watching the film was its brilliant and well-rounded versatility, leaving virtually no stone unturned in its cinematic conquest. Confession is one of those rare movies where everything joins collectively to become one whole working machine. It’s inventive, innovative, and as a result feels incredibly contemporary even by today’s standards. Kay Francis stuns with a powerhouse performance, heightened further by shadowy cinematography and choppy, haphazard vignettes: two techniques that would eventually come to define the film noir genre. Such an analysis warrants an entirely different paper: for now, I would like to examine its use and presentation of voice as a construct and measure of identity. It executes this masterfully in its exposition, weaving a complex story of love and loss based on both dualities of voice: its innate narrative ability as well as its musical quality, providing thoughtful, provocative and penetrating intellect.
Confession, at its core, details a woman bereft of hope, culminating in the sacrifice of revenge, love, and desperation. But it masquerades as the romance of a young girl and her unsavory suitor — a brilliant display of self awareness, given how central and omnipotent the role of voice and narrative is in the film. In a masterful display of deception, the viewer is at first led to believe that Confession is Lisa’s story, but ultimately it is Vera’s narrative that comes to dominate the film.
In the establishing shot of the first scene, the viewer meets Lisa Koslov. She’s a fresh-faced, eager young woman ready to step into the infancy of what she hopes will be a great musical career. She is close with her mother and seemingly happy — that is, until, a secret admirer slithers his way into the picture. In a manipulative play of bribery, he offers her and her friend tickets to see a renowned pianist, Michael Michailov. Lisa is reluctant to go, but her friend is thrilled at the prospect and manages to talk her into it. She goes, only to find that the famous artist in question, Michael, is indeed her mystery suitor.
Lisa (Jane Bryan) and Michael awkwardly conversate over a couple of drinks
A brief and disturbingly one-sided courtship ensues, with Michael taking herculean measures to stalk Lisa at every given opportunity. He forces himself onto her with a kiss; a few scenes later, she has reluctantly capitulated to his advances. The relationship then ends abruptly at a seedy cabaret: his presence causes the house singer to freeze and faint, much to Lisa’s confusion. This is our introduction to Vera. As he gets up to quickly usher her out of the building, we hear a gunshot, and he falls to the ground. The camera cuts to the wide-eyed, broken gaze of a near catatonic Kay Francis; moments later, she is taken away for murder. As soon as she fires that fateful bullet, the story is no longer Lisa’s — but Vera’s, as we come to know her. Even before any explanation is offered, one can’t help but to feel sympathy for her: Michael was clearly a predatory figure.
Vera Kowalksa (Kay Francis) seals her fate in an act of revenge
The film’s opening is incredibly strong and subversive, provoking querying from the get go: just who is this Vera, and why did she react the way she did upon seeing young Lisa with Michael? How does she know him? Perhaps she is a jilted lover of his past, or something more? There are myriad possibilities, which only further helps to cajole the curious viewer into watching: so that, little by little, different theories can be discerned and ruled out, in order to discover the truth behind it all.
As the story shifts gears and takes to the courtroom, Vera is sullen, obstinately resigned to silence. When prompted to speak, she quips, “I have nothing to say.” Despite pleading guilty, Vera is still subjected to a trial — seemingly a non issue at first, given her intent to stay silent. She never stopped to think about what a trial would unearth in regards to her past. Her prior ties to Michael exhume buried secrets — and while they pose no threat to her, she knows they hold the potential to ruin other people’s lives.
Vera as she appears in the present, in court.
What next transpires is perhaps the zenith of a tour-de-force performance: Kay Francis, heretofore listless, erupts in violent hysterics upon realizing her secret could be compromised — thanks to the unexpected arrival of her suitcase. In the heat of the killing, she failed to recognize the possibility of damning repercussions, jeopardizing her secret and putting others at risk. She springs to life and in animated defense, commands that the evidence be kept private.
Up until this very moment, Vera believed her alibi was airtight: she had nothing on her person that could prove her relationship to Michael, which was already subject to speculation. When confronted with unexpected evidence, her entire plan begins to collapse around her. Vera is suddenly forced to speak in order to protect her story — she capitulates and tells the judge she will explain her reasoning, but only if the jurors, witnesses, and audience are removed. Her attorney cites the criminal code, reasoning that what Vera has to say could be a potential violation of decency. Her request is granted; finally, we can hear Vera’s unadulterated story, from her own words. The duality of her voice reaches its apex here: by both willing silence to the audience and by granting her narrative exclusively to the judges, Vera is taking matters into her own hands.
Confession then lapses into a series of flashbacks. Vera reveals that she has had everything taken from her, save for two things: her voice, and her pursuit of justice — namely, taking form in the murder of Michael Michailow. Although the latter ultimately revokes her freedom, it comes at virtually no cost — so long as she can keep her voice, in whatever essence that may be — she is content to serve time for her actions.
Publicity for Confession, featuring a young Vera (Francis) as she was when involved with Michael (Basil Rathborne)
The entirety of Vera’s character arc is constructed exclusively around her voice, its many dimensions, and her power to disclose and withhold them when necessary. This is her last stand — her truth is her weapon. Until this moment, the viewer has only known Vera as a washed up cabaret singer. She proceeds to reveal that she was a former star of the Warsaw opera. Her voice, even then, paved the way for her career and survival. Vera tells the jury that she has lost her job and family to a series of misfortunes, and now solely depends on her waning talents to ensure her livelihood. Through her own disclosures by way of flashbacks, we learn her story as she wants it told — from her point of view. Vera controls her narrative, and when she finds its sanctity threatened, is launched into crisis. Her voice is the only thing over which she retains control — without it, she is powerless.
Her motivations for killing Michael are personal, but she has lost the right to lay claim to them, ushering in the film’s cunning reveal that clues only the viewer in while the jury and court remain in the dark. Despite her misery, Vera has remained selfless and kind — she wants to spare anybody from the same kind of despair to which she is eternally betrothed, even if it means having to embellish and/or withhold elements of the truth and bend the rules of morality.
A final sequence of recollections unveils the missing link, and finally Vera’s impassioned struggle to keep things from the public is made clear.. The viewer learns that Lisa is the biological daughter of Vera, but was taken away from her at a young age due to unfortunate happenstance. An inebriated Vera was coerced into sex by Michael, resulting in an ill-fated one night stand. Vera, disgusted by what has transpired, tries to cut all ties with Michael in order to preserve her marriage, but ultimately falls victim to his blackmail. Vera, as the woman, wife, and mother is portrayed as the incompetent parental figure. Thus, she is punished for her transgression by losing both husband and daughter. She is left with nothing but her own voice — as a woman and a musician. Her ability to reclaim her power by taking hold of her story is a testament to her strength and will. Perhaps she may no longer be a diva of the opera, but Vera Kowalska never truly stopped singing.
Michael (Rathborne) woos his young protege (Francis) in a flashback from 1912
The dual dimension of voice serves as both a motif and driving force that propels Confession forward. It is just as much a story about music and musicians as it is about a woman fighting to hold onto the one thing she refuses to have taken from her: her truth. The irony in this, however, lies in the fact that it is the actual truth that would ultimately ruin and devastate her happiness. It begs the question: what is truth? Is it ever objective, or always subjective? The way Confession handles the subject is fascinating, thanks in large to Kay Francis. She throws herself into a neurotic performance with one hundred percent commitment, effectively exploring every facet of this complex and tortured woman.
An emotional Vera in Confession
“I had to take my singing up again. I didn’t want to starve. My voice … is almost gone.” And yet, it’s about complete its swan song: it is her voice — and its selective absence — that ultimately allows her to make peace with herself and protect her daughter. By withholding her true confession from the public audience, she is able to bestow one last gift of motherly love upon her estranged kin: the gift of security and peace of mind. It is, undoubtedly, the greatest performance of her career, an intimate send off witnessed exclusively by the judicial coterie who are trying her for murder. Although they are her audience, the performance is dedicated to her daughter, Lisa, orchestrated in such a way that will guarantee her happiness.
The story concludes on a bittersweet note: Lisa, spared from the truth, goes out of her way to thank Vera for everything she’s done. In a haunting superimposition, Vera imagines herself pulling her into an embrace, but ultimately remains morose and still. “Thank you, Miss Lisa,” she manages with a sad smile, before turning her body and silently striding away. It is as happy an ending as Vera could achieve: now, with her secret safe, she can be content to know that her daughter will live a happy, fruitful life, safe from the clutches of her predator. Much like its brilliant opening, Confession stuns with its conclusion, lingering in one’s mind much like the haunting refrain of an old torch song.
The beautiful superimposition at the end of Confession
Comments