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Like Three Colors: Blue, White, Red, each part of The Decalogue is a complete dramatic picture and can be seen by itself. But seeing all ten films rewards viewers with the adventure of spotting themes that emerge throughout the series. Part Four and Part Seven jointly teach a lesson about parenthood: that it must be earned, and that it is more than just biology.

Both Part Two and Part Eight speak against taking a child's life. In my favorite of all ten films, Part Two (You shall not take the name of the Lord Your God in vain), a woman poses a hard question to the doctor in charge of her dying husband's case: "Will he live?" The physician is reluctant to give a verdict. Things could go either way—he's seen dying patients spring back to life and the healthy die unexpectedly, for no reason. The woman persists, stalking the doctor.

Eventually she tells him why she wants to know the answer: Previously unable to get pregnant, she's now expecting a baby. But the child is not her husband's. If her husband lives, she'll abort—if he dies, she'll keep the baby. Should the physician give in to this psychological blackmail? Should he swear that her husband will live, or swear that he will die, easing her decision about the baby? Initially he refuses to play God.

Part Three, Part Six, and Part Nine deal with love and lust: Love is "in the heart, not between the legs," says the heroine of Part Nine. Where does this love come from? How is it born and how is it sustained? (There is nudity in Part Six and some sensuality in Part Three and Part Nine.)

The Decalogue's understated, true-to-life settings—mass-produced, colorless buildings (much like the one in Szczecinek, Poland, where I lived as a child); cheerless wintry outdoors; cold flats; bad cars; impersonal stairwells; elevators and offices—do not detract from the series' charm. The shabby scenery directs the spotlight to some of Poland's best actors as they reflect the agonies of not-so-clear ethical choices.

Individual commandments influence each movie "to the same degree that the commandments influence our daily lives," the director said. Consequently, some of the films correspond with a given commandment almost incidentally, and the commandments function as excuses for bigger, more complex ethical debates.

Such is the case in Part Eight (You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor), which asks the poster question from an ethics course: "Would you lie to the Gestapo if you were hiding Jews during the war?" But this film digs even deeper: "If you believed it was wrong to lie to the Gestapo, would you refuse to hide Jews—even if you knew that your decision would send them to an almost sure death?" The questions aren't abstract. People in Poland faced these dilemmas during World War II before situation ethics debates began in American classrooms. In the film, a university professor meets the Jewish woman whom the professor refused to hide from the Gestapo when she was a girl. There's nothing predictable about their encounter.

One character poses a delightful puzzle. A lanky, blond, somber young man pops up in eight of the films, often carrying a large prop such as a kayak or a suitcase. The man often locks eyes with a main character just before that character makes a difficult ethical decision, or just before something unexpected happens. He never says anything. Who is he? I had thought I solved the riddle: the man symbolizes God's presence among us, Christian conscience, or at least—for a secular audience—fate. Then I found out what Kieslowski said about him: "I don't know who he is; just a guy who comes and watches us, our lives. He's not very pleased with us." With all other metaphors of The Decalogue being so thought out and consistent, it seems Kieslowski must have been teasing. But I'll never get a chance to ask him: the filmmaker died suddenly in 1996 at the age of 54.

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February 5 2001, Vol. 45, No. 2