THE WITCHER (2001): Polish Film Came 18 Years Before Netflix

The Witcher has recently become Poland’s number one export commodity. Riding the wave of popularity and the extraordinary financial success of the third game, Netflix brought us a series set in the world of the white-haired hero. Let us not forget, however, that the first attempt to adapt Andrzej Sapkowski’s work took place in his native Poland—and twenty four years have passed since then.

Marek Brodzki’s film back then stuck in the throats of all Polish fantasy fans like a fishbone, and today it is remembered more as a not-very-funny joke than as an innovative, genre-defining work. But was it deserved? I decided, after all these years, to confront the film and see to what extent the criticism it received was, and still is, justified, and to what extent, based on the myths surrounding it, it was simply fueled by malice toward a misunderstood work that failed to meet expectations.

Enough of the sneering about the rubber dragon. Let us take a closer and more serious look at The Witcher. I must stress, however, that I am interested only in the film, not in the TV series produced at the same time. Blood of Elves – this is the title of the first volume of Andrzej Sapkowski’s famous saga, published in 1994. But if we are to be precise, The Witcher has existed in a pop-culture since the late 1980s. That was when Sapkowski began publishing the first stories about Geralt of Rivia in Fantastyka magazine—the ruthless monster hunter seemingly lifted straight from Slavic mythology.

The screenplay for the 2001 film, written by Michał Szczerbic, was based precisely on those early stories, taken, among others, from the collection Sword of Destiny. To make it funnier, however, Michał Szczerbic, shortly before the film’s premiere, distanced himself from the project and demanded that his name be removed from the credits. Why? Yes, you guessed it—because he did not like what the creators ultimately wanted to present to the audience. Still, critics usually focused on Szczerbic, making him the scapegoat and blaming him for the film’s failure.

Because everyone knows today that The Witcher neither captured the public’s imagination nor pleased the critics. It is remembered through the prism of its failure. I do not know to what extent director Marek Brodzki tampered with the story presented by Szczerbic—nor does it particularly interest me. The truth is that both of them botched the job. The main problem with The Witcher lies in its content. It is an exceptionally clunky, indigestible, and, above all, boring story that cannot be watched without reaching the state Jaskier so enjoyed putting himself in.

The risk of watching it after a few drinks, however, is that it may simply lull you to sleep. I would place most of the blame on the director, as he supervised post-production. It was the editing, in fact, that doomed the work, because the thickly stitched-together plotlines create the impression of a cinematic Frankenstein’s monster, cobbled together as a substitute for a TV series. That is a fundamental flaw—one that cannot really be forgiven. It is a paradox that a film about a character whose job is to fight duels gets bogged down in painfully static shots. 

But that is not the end of the negatives. The picture of failure is completed by wooden dialogue, which sounds roughly like something out of a kindergarten play; very poorly recorded sound, which continues the unfortunate Polish tradition of forcing the viewer to strain their ears in one scene only to be assaulted the next by an artillery barrage of tearing tones; and finally, a lazily handled set design, which reveals to the viewer right from the start something that should have remained part of the movie magic—that the footage was shot in modern times.

However, I must give Brodzki’s film its due, because despite all the criticism it has received, I cannot bring myself to call it an unambiguously bad or rotten work. It does have undeniable strengths—ones that are, strangely enough, so evident that, after all these years, they often dominate my memories of the film, pushing aside the amateurishness that radiates from the project. What do I mean? The acting and the music.

There was great potential in the fight scenes, as Michał Żebrowski, who played the main character, was properly prepared for them. Under the supervision of aikido master Jacek Wysocki, the actor underwent grueling training—six months, six hours a day—using a Japanese katana to make the fights more dynamic. As I mentioned, that potential was never properly used. Still, I will insist that Żebrowski did his job as best he could. His appearance alone perfectly fits Geralt of Rivia, but that is not the only strength of his performance.

He is cold and ruthless, but secretly also very sensitive, which matches the literary character. The petition by The Witcher fans who so doubted the actor that they began collecting signatures to protest his casting was therefore pointless. Żebrowski brought no shame—after all these years, he remains the film’s brightest point. But he is not the only one who shines. Grażyna Wolszczak dazzles with her charm and intrigues with her mystery, though her character is written very poorly—at least in the film version—because after appearing and igniting Geralt’s heart, she disappears again without much reason, leaving not even a trace of dust behind.

Another wasted opportunity. On the other hand, Zbigniew Zamachowski is delightful as Jaskier—the classic sidekick to the protagonist—bringing humor and natural ease to the story, both desperately needed to counterbalance the stiffness of the production as a whole. Further down the cast list, there are a few missteps. The villain, played by Maciej Kozłowski, is clearly missing something between his legs—he pulls grim faces, but his character is written with striking restraint in terms of menace. On the other hand, it is a pleasure to watch Anna Dymna, who embodies Nenneke with enchanting ease, creating the film’s best female role.

Finally, the real cherry on this lumpy cake: the film’s music was composed by Grzegorz Ciechowski—the leader of the band Republika. For the artist, who had previously contributed his music to a number of films, this was his final encounter with cinema, as, sadly, he passed away in December 2001, two months after The Witcher’s premiere. For his work on the adaptation of Sapkowski’s story, Grzegorz Ciechowski received the Eagle Award. And of course, it was fully deserved. Let us say it plainly—the music in The Witcher creates the entire atmosphere of this film.

If I had to choose a favorite moment, it would not be any duel or line of dialogue, but every time Michał Żebrowski appears alone on horseback, against the backdrop of beautiful Polish landscapes, accompanied by the rhythmic drumbeat of the main theme. A small wonder.

No, it is not a good film. Yes, something clearly went wrong during its production. And yes, it may serve as a textbook example of poor execution, bad decisions, and disappointed expectations. But I am far from completely dragging The Witcher through the mud. The more-than-decent acting is pleasant to watch, and the surprisingly good music is a joy to hear. Moreover, the whole thing carries an indefinable, familiar—because Slavic—atmosphere, which seems to instantly absolve all the film’s oddities. After all, it is Polish fantasy, for heaven’s sake—what did you expect?

If fantasy as a genre transforms reality while keeping its structure intact, then The Witcher, with all its imperfections and smaller blunders, has much in common with a flawed yet endearingly Polish reality. There is, however, not a trace of universality in it.