Reconstruction of Occupation, on OVID.tv

Obviously, footage of the Soviet 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia was dangerous. That is why average Czechs and Slovaks kept it hidden. It was also a valuable historical record, which is why they never destroyed it. Fifty years after the brutal repression of the Prague Spring, filmmaker Jan Sikl shaped extensive excerpts of previously unseen professional and amateur film into the documentary, Reconstruction of Occupation, which premieres tomorrow on OVID.tv.

As a collector of vintage family home movies, Sikl happened to be the guy who often got called when someone uncovered an old reel of film. However, the cache of professionally-produced newsreel footage of the invasion and subsequent protests was something else entirely. Sikl started showing clips on news shows, hoping the demonstrators captured in the act of resistance throughout his footage might come forward. Many did. So did others who were secretly holding film of their own.

Suddenly, Sikl’s small project grew considerably in scope. Like many Czechs, the events of 1968 greatly shaped Sikl’s perspective. Yet, he made a conscious effort to interview those who chose to go along, as well as those who resisted. While Sikl strived to be non-judgmental, the most memorable stories involve those who lost loved ones to the Soviet imperialist invaders. For instance, one woman remembers how her mother responded to her brother’s shooting death, by hoisting his bloody shirt outside their window like a flag—until the Party ordered it down.

It is also fascinating to hear many of the protesters differing responses to Jan Palach’s self-immolation. Some were deeply moved, while others found his suicide deeply disturbing. Yet, in all cases, they still find it acutely painful to discuss.

NYICFF ’25: Living Large

Growing up can be tough, but everyone is expected to do it. Let’s be honest, some people, maybe a lot of them, never really get it right. Maybe that is why there will always be an audience for coming-of-age films. Indeed, any American can relate to this film, even though it was made by Czech animators and based on a French novel. Ben Pipetka has good friends and both musical and culinary talent, but he is a fat kid, so he gets bullied. However, he tries to take back control over his life in Kristina Dufcova’s Living Large which screens as part of the 2025 New York International Children’s Film Festival.

Luckily for Pipetka’s veterinarian mom, he is the one who does most of the cooking—using a lot of butter. He also fixes himself big breakfasts and substantial snacks throughout the day. The audience does not need the school nurse to tell us he is overweight, but in the wrong hands, her note prompts some nasty bullying. Eventually, things get so bad, Pipetka considers visiting a weight-loss doctor recommended by his divorced father Cyril and his new girlfriend Sofie.

Obviously, losing weight is difficult, given Pipetka’s sweet tooth and sophisticated palate. However, he has powerful motivation. Her name is Klara Laboutkova and she is unusually friendly for a girl. So much so, Pipetka thinks he might have a shot—even though her jerky bother is one of his biggest tormentors.

So yes, Living Large is thematically familiar—you might also say timeless. His story feels like a warm well-worn John Hughes sweater, especially when he rehearses his garage band with his friends, Erik Poupe, and his sister Sonia Poupetova.

Dufcova’s stop-motion characters have a slightly dirtier, sweatier look and vibe than other previous clay animation figures. It has a bit of a grungy look, but it rather suits its hormonally-charged angst-ridden teenagers. You could almost compare it to Welcome Back Kotter, but Dufcova and co-screenwriters Petr Jarchovsky, Barbora Drevikowska, and Anna Vasova only intermittently aim for laughs.

Viktor Taus’s Girl America

In the Communist-era Czechoslovakia, there was not much difference between the orphanages and the prisons. Emma Cerna would know, because she “served time” in both. Unfortunately, the lingering effects of her various institutionalizations cause her to continue cycles of dysfunctional behavior in Viktor Taus’s Girl America, which screens this week at Bohemian National Hall in New York.

Cerna’s mother was a party-person who could never really face reality, once she became a parent. Frankly, trouble dealing with reality runs in her family. She comes to share her older delinquent brother Mirek’s delusion their long-absent father waits for them in America (building the United States into an unrealiistic paradise in Cerna's mind). Since her mother frequently disappears on long benders, Cerna must act as a mother to her toddler brother. Eventually, the neighbors finally call social services, who separate the two siblings. Sadly, her little brother vanishes into the socialist system, never to be seen again, at least by her.

However, Cerna briefly reunites with her older brother when the authorities transfer him to her orphanage. Unfortunately, his rebelliousness and the schoolmarm-ism head mistress’s prejudices soon result in his expulsion. Nevertheless, Cerna develops sisterly feelings towards many of her fellow orphans. Somehow, the orphanage successfully places her with decent foster parents (although her step-sister is admittedly a pill), but she prefers the fantasy of her American father over a flesh-and-blood home. Inevitably, her self-destructive behavior lands her back in another state facility, of the correctional variety, where again she finds comradery with young women very much like her.

That all sounds pretty grim, which it often is. Yet, Taus’s visual approach is so wildly surreal, it sometimes makes the film rather confusing to follow. Frankly, between the bleak tone and the stylistic excesses, Girl America might be the most exhausting film of the decade.

Regardless, it is clear everyone invested their hearts and souls in this film. Klara Kitto, Julie Soucova, and Pavla Beretova are all equally and relentlessly devastating as Cerna, from childhood through adulthood. However, Tomas Sean Psenicka really stands out as a potential breakout international star for his intense, but also edgily charismatic performance as big brother Mirek.

AFI EU Showcase ’24: I’m Not Everything I Want to Be

Ironically, no regime was more oppressive and prejudiced when it came to LGBTQ rights than the old USSR and its Warsaw Pact puppet governments. They were also often quite racist. Yet, so-called “progressive” activists still frequently demonstrate under the ominous hammer-and-sickle. They should listen to Libuse Jarcovjakova, because she was there to witness Communist oppression—and she has the pictures to prove it. She also thoroughly documented the underground Czechoslovakian gay scene and her own sexual awakening—sometimes in those same aforementioned photos. Jarcovjakova tells her stories through her photos and journal entries in Klara Tasovska’s documentary, I’m Not Everything I Want to Be, which screens today and tomorrow at this year’s AFI EU Film Showcase.

This film truly would not exist without Jarcovjakova. The images consist entirely of her photos, assembled collage-like to accompany her story, as recounted from her diaries, which she herself reads. However, the film still reflects Tasovska’s filmmaker sensibilities, especially in the selection of photos, which sometimes looks eerily allegorical rather than on-the-nose illustrative. Of course, there are also plenty of candid and even journalistic photos, especially those capturing the Soviet invasion of 1968, crushing the brief liberalization of the Prague Spring.

Although she never says so straight out, it is clear coming to terms with her perhaps evolving sexuality was a decades-long process for Jarcovjakova. Regardless, she immediately felt at home at the T-Club, which she extensively captured in photos until the police confiscated her latest batch, ostensibly as part of the investigation into the murder of a club regular. Obviously, she quickly realized how those photos might endanger her many friends.

Jarcovjakova discovered T-Club through a colleague who also taught Czech to Vietnamese immigrants. Lured by false propaganda, the immigrants believed their Communist “allies” would welcome them warmly with waiting factory job, but they were instead greeted with nativist hostility. Such work was one of the few jobs open to Jarcovjakova, given her background as the daughter of non-conformist artists.

Fantasia ’23: Restore Point

In the future, you still must pay your taxes. Death is a different matter—depending on the circumstances. A quasi-government agency can resurrect anyone who dies an untimely death, as long as they digitally backed themselves up within the last forty-eight hours. Legally, they cannot use a file more than two days old. There are practical scientific reasons for that, but they will be violated anyway in Robert Hloz’s Restore Point, which had its world premiere at this year’s Fantasia International Film Festival.

Nobody dies, if they take reasonable precautions. However, there are those who feel taking so much risk out of life devalues the experience of living, somewhat like in Tony Aloupis’s better-than-you-might-think I am Mortal. Police detective Em Trochinowska has a bone to pick with them, particularly the terrorist group River of Life. They killed her husband, after holding him past the forty-eight-hour mark.

Apparently, they also just murdered the scientific director of Restore Point, David Kurlstat, and his wife, after sabotaging their back-ups. However, Trochinowska unexpectedly gets the benefit of Kurlstat’s technical expertise when she discovers Restore Point illegally revived the scientist with a six-month-old bootleg. Unfortunately, there is a bit of a mind-body disconnect, which makes the new imperfect copy twitchy and nauseous.

It has been a while since there was a new Czech science fiction film, even though the Czechoslovakian film industry released many moody sf classics in the 1950s and 1960s, such as Ikarie XB-1. In some ways, the dystopian Restore Point very much feels like a throwback to that era. Hloz’s future urbanscape is particularly impressive, taking design-inspiration from the real-life postmodern structures of Shanghai and Dubai.

Tormented Souls

This provincial Austro-Hungarian-era Czech town could relate to a lot of college campuses today. Anti-Semitism is rife, often manifesting in “blood libels.” Consequentially, when a bullying officer is murdered, the local authorities are only too eager to arrest a Jewish man for the crime. However, Superintendent Albert Mondl from Vienna is more concerned with evidence in Jiri Svoboda’s Czech TV-produced Tormented Souls (a.k.a. A Soul to Redeem), which airs on the Euro Channel.

Four years ago, the “heroic” colonel nearly ran over Kacov’s son. When the accused protested, the drunken officer gave him a lashing that left visible scars. Inconveniently, Kacov’s happens to be a kosher butcher, so when someone slashes the Colonel’s throat, the local police automatically arrest Kacov.

Of course, as soon as Mondl arrives, he can tell they have no case. The killer made a messy job of it, unlike a professional butcher’s work. Nobody likes it, but Mondl releases Kacov and proceeds to run a real investigation. However, his attention is diverted by Lea Stein, a gifted violinist, who remains deeply traumatized by her mother’s supposed suicide.

Tormented is an effective portrayal of early Twentieth Century anti-Semitism and an intriguing character study of the principled Mondl. However, screenwriter Vladimir Korner fails to develop the potentially creepy revelation that all three victims were involved in an ambiguously satanic secret society. Instead, it rushes to a forced and unsatisfying conclusion.

The Sound of Freedom, Adapted from Skvorecky

In his youth, Czech novelist Josef Skvorecky was an ardent jazz musician, but playing music from America was a dangerous proposition. However, when bassist Herbert Ward temporarily defected, Skvorecky and his bandmates capitalized (so to speak) on Ward’s “anti-imperialist” credentials to openly play their music. James Bulwer is transparently based on Ward, but Danny Smiricky’s friends will not enjoy much protection from their association with him in Andrea Sedlackova’s The Sound of Freedom, based on Skvorecky’s “Little Mata Hari of Prague,” which airs on the Euro Channel.

Of his band, Smiricky was always the least interested in politics. Nevertheless, he always carried guilt over the misfortunes suffered by his bandmates and their social circle. Frankly, he never really understood why he was spared the worst of it, because guilt and innocence were meaningless under Communism. He might have an opportunity to discover why, when Kunovsky, a former secret policeman, offers to sell him his long-lost file.

Back then (predating the Prague Spring), Smiricky just wanted to play and maybe pursue a relationship with Geraldine Brandejsova. She would be bad news anyway, since her mother is British. To make matters worse, Brandejsova has a friend in the American embassy, for whom she acts as a go-between with an activist priest. Kunovsky and his slimy boss have been assigned to build a case against Smiricky’s band. Unfortunately, their vocalist Marcela Razumowska is the obvious weak point for them to pressure. She tries to protect her friends, even breaking up with Richard Kambala, the trombonist-leader, but the life of her imprisoned brother depends on her providing incriminating evidence.

Although Sound of Freedom was produced for Czech television, it is remarkably mature and achingly tragic. It also has a nice swing-era-appropriate soundtrack that includes a number of arrangements by the great Emil Viklicky. There is also a laughably strident propaganda blues for Bulwer, very much like those Ward warbled, while backed by Skvorecky.

Even Mice Belong in Heaven: An Animated Czech Fable

Heaven--its not just for dogs anymore. All animals go there, but this isn’t exactly a paradise with 72 virgins. It is more like an afterlife in the tradition of What Dreams May Come. It can actually be a pretty scary place, but Whizzy the mouse might have a friend to go through it with, if they can get past their earthly history as prey and predator in Jan Bubenicek & Denisa Grimmova’s Even Mice Belong in Heaven, which releases today on VOD.

Whizzy is a bit of a scaredy-cat, but she tries to over-compensate by bluffing and showing off. It is not her fault. She still has lingering trauma from her father’s death. Ironically, he became a hero to the mice, by saving her from a fox. She feels compelled to repeat his heroics, by picking a fight with Whitebelly, a shy, stuttering young fox. Unfortunately, when he gives chase, they both end up flattened by a car.

Right, this might not be such a good film for kids, since the cute, furry main characters literally die in the first ten minutes. It really is more of an adult beast-fable, sort of in the tradition of Watership Down and Plague Dogs. However, the animation style definitely signals viewers to expect something cuter and lighter.

Regardless, the evolution of Whizzy’s post-mortem relationship with Whitebelly is quite touching. Whizzy can be more than a little annoying and self-centered, but death tends to be quite a learning experience. Whitebelly also has a dramatic arc in store for himself, but by accepting each other, they can overcome the hang-ups that held them back in life. At least that is what Heaven is trying to teach, if they would only pay attention.

For the Olympics: Fair Play

Are you watching the Olympics? Probably not, judging from the ratings. Viewers have a right to be disenchanted, when there are over 330 Russian athletes competing in Tokyo, despite the Russian Olympic team supposedly being banned for its systemic doping program. For a definitive expose of Putin’s doping program, watch Bryan Fogel’s Icarus on Netflix. However, they did not invent steroid regimens. They just built on a long Communist-era tradition. It was a practice rife in most Warsaw Pact countries, including then Czechoslovakia. That is where Anna Moravcova trains for the 200m dash, but she rebels against her coaches when they demand she participate in their anabolic steroid program in Andrea Sedlackova’s Fair Play, which is now available on VOD.

If Moravcova were not naturally talented, there is no way she would be allowed to train on the national team. Her father immigrated during 1968. Her mother almost joined him, but she got cold feet. Irena Moravcova now deeply regrets that choice, even though her feelings towards Moravcova’s father remain ambiguous. She used to run in dissident circles, so when her old flame Marek Kriz asks for a favor copying his samizdat texts, she reluctantly agrees, despite the danger to her and her daughter.

Anna Moravcova’s track times are good, but the state athletic apparatus has selected her for its special treatment. They are vague whenever she asks about the Stromba they inject her with and the nondisclosure documents they force her to sign further stokes her suspicions. Nevertheless, she initially complies, because they leave her no choice. However, when her body has a toxic reaction to the steroids, she resolves to quit the doping program, even if the Party bans her from competition. Unfortunately, her mother’s precarious political position and her coaches’ manipulativeness complicate her decision.

This might be the all-time greatest Olympic movie, even though it includes no scenes from the actual Olympic Games. (In a bitter irony, Moravcova is training for the 1984 Games, so you should know what that means.) Nevertheless, the way Moravcova takes responsibility for her actions and her body—and comes to understand her mother on a much deeper level—is quite moving and arguably even inspiring.

Judit Bardos is convincing both physically and dramatically as Moravcova, the young athlete. It is quite compelling to see her confusion forge into resolution. Yet, it is Anna Geislerova who is truly haunting as Irena Moravcova. It is a shame she never received the Awards consideration she deserved. Together, they do an excellent job bringing to life the tension and affection of a mother-daughter relationship, which are always somewhat difficult, but theirs is under tremendous tension.

Ikarie XB-1, Restored and Uncut

They set off to seek out new life and new civilizations three years before the original Star Trek launched. They found a strange form of space madness five years before the first Soviet adaptation of Solaris (and nine years before Tarkovsky’s classic). It too was loosely based on a Stanislaw Lem novel, but for years it was only known as Voyage to the End of the Universe, in a cut that was heavily edited and redubbed by American International Pictures (AIP). Happily, Jindrich Polak’s Czech science fiction masterwork has been fully restored in its entirety, which releases this Friday, via Film Forum’s virtual cinema.

Ikarie was also considered an influence on Kubrick’s 2001, at least in terms of its sleek space-age design. It is just as moody and brooding as the 1968 Solyaris, but also displays some of groovy vibe of vintage DEFA sf films, like Eolomea. You can tell just by looking at Ikarie that it must have been influential. The narrative sounds relatively familiar, but keep in mind, it was the product of the early Cold War-era-1960s.

Sometime in the future, a crew of scientists embark on a fifteen-year journey, searching for life in the Alpha Centauri system. As we can tell from the in media res prologue, one of the crew goes raving mad and will threaten the safety of all abord the Ikarie. It doesn’t just happen. The deranged Michael will apparently be infected with something. The question will be—is it the doing of mysterious aliens, or is it perhaps somehow related to the evil derelict NATO space vessel they find drifting from a dark era long-passed.

The very idea of a NATO starship does not make sense, since the North Atlantic Alliance has never been involved in space exploration—just maintaining the peace and containing Soviet expansionism, but obviously Ikarie XB-1 had to incorporate some kind of propaganda to earn its release. In most other respects, the futuristic crew do not sound much different than Star Trek’s Starfleet. Regardless, story is really just a vehicle for the wonderfully retro sets and Jan Kalis’s absolutely stunning black-and-white cinematography.

The Ikarie model is just okay (a bit like Space 1999’s Eagle), but the interiors will make sf fans swoon. Admittedly, the antiquated robot owned by crew mathematician Antony Hopkins [definitely not “Sir Anthony”] is transparently modeled after Robbie the Robot, from Forbidden Planet (1956), but that adds to the retro charm. Yet, there is a grace to spacefaring scenes that clearly prefigure 2001 (all that’s missing is The Blue Danube accompaniment).

Arguably, the cast acquits itself quite well, especially considering what a strong stylistic stamp Polak put on the film. Otto Lackovic delivers a Shatner-worthy freak-out as Michael and Radovan Lukavsky provides Picardian steeliness as Macdonald, the first officer, who makes all the hard decisions. Of course, the Ikarie has its share of expendable crew members too, just like the Enterprise.

The Painted Bird: Adapting Kosinski

For years, Poland’s Communist regime conducted a deliberate and malicious disinformation campaign to discredit novelist and human rights activist Jerzy Kosinski. John Corry exposed The Village Voice’s willingness to do their dirty work in the pages of The New York Times. Today, Kosinski is still widely read, including in Poland where he was once forbidden, but the Voice is no longer in print. To crown his posthumous victory, the Kosinski novel the so disturbed his ideological enemies has now been adapted for the big screen. The language is the relatively new Interslavic, but the spirit and narrative remain faithful to Kosinski. Human cruelty defines the nightmarish vision of Czech director Vaclav Marhoul’s adaptation of The Painted Bird, which releases today in select theaters and on VOD.

A boy has been sent to live with his rustic aunt in the hopes that he will be protected from the war in the countryside. Unfortunately, her untimely death sets in motion a series of disasters that will brutalize his body and spirit. Showing no mercy, villagers violently shun him, in the ignorant superstitious belief that he is a cursed harbinger of misfortune. In some ways, this always turns out to be true, but their moral failings directly contribute to each tragic episode.

From time to time, the boy finds shelter with a sympathetic adult, like Lekh, the bird-keeper, who provides the title, by releasing a bird with painted wings, knowing full well the wild flock would tear it apart. Numerous times, he escapes likely deportation to concentration camps, most notably thanks to the intercession of a kindly (but dying) Catholic priest. He also finds an unlikely protector in the Red Army (making the Communist regime’s antipathy even more perverse). Yet, each encounter inevitably leads to fresh terror.

This is a tough film that initially shocks viewers and soon exhausts them. Nevertheless, there is a purpose behind the horrors and humiliations rained down on the Boy. It is like witnessing literal Hell on Earth, which by definition, never seems to end. Indeed, viewers will feel like they too are staggering through a hostile Hellscape, which is quite an accomplishment for Marhoul.

Stylistically, the dark, immersive intimacy of Painted Bird shares a kinship with the films of Andrei Tarkovsky, Aleksey German and Bela Tarr, but it has a stronger narrative drive. Indeed, it is one horrendous darned thing after another for the Boy. It compares very directly with Elem Klimov’s Come and See, but it makes the Soviet epic look positively upbeat. This is high auteurist cinema that makes no concessions to popular taste, but Vladimir Smutny’s black-and-white cinematography is undeniably arresting.

Czech That Film ’18: Milada

The day of her execution is now the Czech Republic’s Commemoration Day for Victims of the Communist Regime.” That might sound like starting with a spoiler, but any film about a Czechoslovakian democracy advocate set during the late 1940s is sure to end in tears. Of course. Milada Horáková’s story is still worth telling, perhaps now more than ever—and it is told relatively well in David Mrnka’s English language Milada (trailer here), which screens during this year’s Czech That Film traveling showcase of Czech cinema.

Horáková was always a trouble-maker, who bravely fought and was imprisoned by the National Socialists as part of the Czechoslovakian resistance. Her poor husband Bohuslav Horák loyally stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, earning his own stint in a Nazi prison. Their family will later ironically note the Germans allowed them to visit Horáková in prison, unlike the Communists.

Inevitably, the film becomes something like a secular passion play, after Klement Gottwald (played like a truly odious viper by Jirí Vyorálek) and the Communists seize control in the 1948 Coup (that they call a democratic election). There is a short interlude of paranoia, as Horáková and her husband help other asylum seekers, knowing full well they too should be leaving. Alas, she is soon arrested and forced to endure sleep-deprivation and countless interrogation-torture sessions. Eventually, she will face the nation in a textbook show trial, but she remains inconveniently uncooperative throughout its duration.

It is important to remember Horáková and those like her at a time when a shockingly large number of people are willing—even eager—to voluntarily relinquish their freedoms, whether it be the right to free speech and a free press or the rights of gun ownership. The events of post-coup Czechoslovakia make it very clear once people surrender their freedoms to the state, it takes a full-fledged revolution to get them back.

Yet, Mrnka and co-screenwriters Robert J. Conant and Robert Gant clearly make an effort to focus on Horáková the wife, mother, sister, and daughter. They were blessed to have the active cooperation of Horáková’s daughter Jana Kánská, who provided personal family papers as well as her memories of key scenes, including her final meeting with her mother, right before her execution.

With that context, Israeli actress Ayelet Zurer creates a full-fledged, flesh-and-blood portrait of Horáková. She is not just a symbol. We believe all her pre-1848 frustrations and post-1948 pain and sorrow. Gant’s Horák is likeably earnest, but as a character, he is not given a lot dimension. However, the are some rich and complex supporting turns from Vica Kerekes, Vladimír Jarorsky, and Ivana Chylková, as Horáková’s sister, colleague, and cellmate, respectively. Tatjana Medvecká also lands a haymaker in her brief but pivotal appearance as Kánská in 1990, post-Velvet Revolution wrap-around segments.

One of the ironies of Horáková’s story is that she would probably be considered leftwing, even by today’s more extremist standards. She was a champion of feminism and labor causes, but she was also a free-thinker, which made her incompatible with the Communist regime. She upheld her principles when others cautioned expediency. There are not a lot of people like that on the political scene today, in any political party. Zurer’s passionate yet scrupulously restrained performance is also well-worth your time. Recommended for general audiences, especially Millennials who did not live through the Cold War era, Milada screens this afternoon (5/13) in Portland and this Friday (5/18) in Toronto, as part of the 2018 edition of Czech that Film.

Panorama Europe ’18: Case for the New Hangman

Prague was the home of Franz Kafka, but the old Communist regime was never really sure what to make of him. Apparently, they were even less enthusiastic about Jonathan Swift, judging from the lifetime filmmaking ban they imposed on Pavel Juracek after they got a load of his Kafka-influenced dystopian riff on Gulliver’s Travels. Of course, there is no better recommendation for a film than the crude use of censorial force. Poor Lemuel Gulliver is in for quite an excursion down the rabbit hole in Juracek’s freshly restored Case for the New Hangman, which screens during this year’s Panorama Europe at MoMI.

There is a lot going on in New Hangman, but it is hard to really pin down the plot. Frankly, that is far too prosaic a concept for this Gulliver’s misadventures. After his car breaks down, largely out of its own subversive willfulness, Gulliver is welcomed to Balnibarbi by some ghosts from his past. Once he breaks out of his own personal Hell, he quickly runs afoul of the local authorities by talking on a Monday, their designated silent day of the week.

He will sort of acclimate to dubious laws sets forth by the scientific society, at least for a short while. However, his guileless will lead to trouble. Indeed, his invitation to the cloud city of Laputa will be rather timely, arriving right before his appointment with the titular hangman. However, their interest in him stems from the vain hope he might have encountered their prodigal king, now working as a bellhop at the Monte Carlo Carlton Hotel, during his stay there. Or something like that.

In any event, it is easy to see why the socialist censors took one look at New Hangman and said “oh, Hell no.” It is not a strong one-to-one allegory, but it is clear as day every authority figure in the film is cruel, arbitrary, corrupt, unstable, and looney as a jaybird. Plus, it is just light years removed from the official sanctioned style of socialist realism. You will not find any rough-hewn but dignified laborers digging down deep to make their production quotas and hasten the building of socialism here.

Visually, New Hangman is wonderfully baroque and trippy. Balnibarbi is a cluttered place, but the sets and settings are often quite imposing. It certainly looks like Juracek was processing influences from caricaturists like Honoré Daumier and J.J. Grandville, as well as the films of Wojcieh, particularly The Hourglass Sanitorium. Lubomir Kostelka also rises to the occasion. As Gulliver, he looks like a composite of Graham Chapman and Roman Polanski and acts like a much less passive everyman than we might expect. He is often believably freaked out by it all, but he can also lose his patience and his cool.

The work of cinematographer Jan Kalis and the entire design team is always strikingly cinematic. Juracek also nimbly walks a tightrope, keeping the audience baffled and somewhat unnerved, without ever truly menacing them or leaving them unmoored in a surrealist maelstrom. Even if you are not sure what New Hangman all adds up to (which is highly likely), it is a rewarding film to parse, ponder, and generally try to impose meaning on. It should be seen on a big screen, like movies were meant to be seen, so real cineastes should definitely make an effort to see it when Case for a New Hangman screens this Saturday (5/5) during the 2018 Panorama Europe, at MoMI.

Czech That Film ‘17: The Noonday Witch

This is no ordinary hag. The supernatural predator immortalized in Czech nursery rhyme and Dvorak’s symphonic suite always strikes at high noon. She may or may not be stalking the daughter of a recently bereaved widow or possibly her guilt has metastasized into something toxic in Jiri Sadek’s The Noonday Witch (trailer here), which screens during this year’s Czech That Film in Chicago.

Eliska has just moved back to her husband provincial hometown with her daughter Anetka, but without her husband. That is because he is buried there. Evidently, he died in a misadventure that was most likely suicide, but she has yet to tell Anetka. Unfortunately, given the nature of his demise, she stands to receive no insurance benefits. This puts Eliska under tremendous stress that compounds whenever Anetka asks about her absent father. To make matters worse, the region is suffering from a historic draught. The last time water tables were this dry, bad things happened.

It seems they happened to Mayor Mraz’s desiccated-looking wife. Eventually, Eliska learns Madame Mrazova was committed for killing her son. Psychologically, she is unable to bear the guilt, so she now blames the Noonday Witch—or so the Mayor assumes. Ms. Mrazova has been agitated lately, because she senses the witch now has her eyes on Anetka. At first, Eliska does not want to hear her crazy talk, but she eventually sees alarming signs she might be right—or perhaps the single mother is creating them herself, acting out of guilt, stress, and the power of suggestion.

Noonday will inevitably be compared to the over-hyped Babadook, but it is the superior film by a good measure. Sadek and cinematographer Alexander Surkala give the film a distinctive look that is both sun-drenched and eerie. The film has a folkloric vibe, yet it still feels contemporary. Most critically, Sadek handles the evil entity, such as it might be, with dexterous subtlety.

As Eliska, Anna Geislerova mentally cracks up quite spectacularly. Whether there is anything uncanny or not afoot, her nervous breakdown is totally convincing. Veteran Czech thesp Daniela Kolarova is even creepier as Mrazova, while Zdenek Mucha grounds the film as the decent, remorseful Mayor Mraz.

The sun has never been scarier than it is in Noonday, because it dispels the shadows we might hide in. Arguably, it is ambiguous to a fault, but there is no denying the claustrophobic tension Sadek builds. Highly recommended, The Noonday Witch screens this Friday (7/21) and the following Wednesday (7/26) in Chicago, at the Siskel Film Center, as part of the 2017 edition of Czech That Film.

AFI’s EU Showcase ’16: I, Olga Hepnarova

In 1973, a mere five years after the Soviet Invasion, Czechoslovakia was ruled by the hardest hardline Communists. They were grim days for the mental health profession and hardly an era of tolerance in general. Plus, the death penalty was still very much in force. It was the worst possible time and place for young woman like Olga Hepnarová, the last woman executed in the Communist nation. Yet, in many ways she was created by the very system that tormented her. The infamous mass murderer’s story is vividly dramatized in Petr Kazda & Tomás Weinreb’s I, Olga Hepnarová (trailer here), which screens during the AFI’s 2016 EU Film Showcase.

Hepnarová’s sexual orientation was one of the unspoken issues that drove a wedge between her and her family and co-workers. In current parlance, we might also conclude she was to some degree “on the spectrum.” Regardless, we see in psychologically brutal detail how the bullying Hepnarová constantly faced short-circuited the development of her personality. As a result, she makes every painful social interaction even worse. She is not blameless for the dismal state of her life, but her family, particularly her domineering mother bear more responsibility than anyone.

Rather remarkably, Hepnarová has the wherewithal to come out of the closet and pursue a romantic relationship with the attractive Annie Hall­-ish Jitka, but it is inevitably undermined by circumstances and her own self-sabotage. Yet, that is not the immediate catalyst for her deadly vehicular assault, which prefigured this year’s Nice “terror truck” incident. Instead, it is just more drips in the prolonged water torture-like pressure that ultimately breaks her.

Polish Michalina Olszaanska (who was a marvel in The Lure) could probably be a waifish fashion model in real life, but she boldly transforms herself into the awkwardly boyish Hepnarová. Her twitchy, halting body language makes her look as uncomfortable in her own skin as she is with her oppressive environment. It is a tour de force performance that dominates and defines the film.

Yes, Kazda & Weinreb invite us to sympathize with a mass murderer who killed eight and wounded another twelve, to an extent—and we do, to an extent. Truly, the term “bullying” is not sufficient to describe the sort of pervasive hostility she endured. Yet, everyone is mired in a morass of utter and abject hopelessness.

The black-and-white cinematography of Adam Sikora (whose credits include Majewski’s incomparable The Mill & the Cross) emphasizes that unyielding drabness rather than scoring noir style points. Frankly, it is enormously impressive how Kazda & Weinreb maintain such stifling claustrophobia and a sense of steadily mounting tragedy. As accomplished as it is, it is hard to imagine anyone buying it on DVD. This is a film people ought to see, but once will be plenty. Recommended for those who can appreciate its uncompromising aesthetic, I, Olga Hepnarová screens this Monday (12/12) and Wednesday (12/14) , as part of the AFI’s annual EU Film Showcase.

Anchorage ’16: Murderous Tales

There are two extremes when it comes to violence and death in animation: the if-this-doesn’t-kill-you-nothing-will slapstick mayhem of Tom & Jerry and the serious make-you-lose-your-faith-in-humanity cruelty in the films of Yeon Sang-ho (Seoul Station, The King of Pigs). You can find pretty much everything in between in a new Czech animated anthology. Death is bittersweet, otherworldly, and ironic, but it is never dull in Jan Bubeníček’s Murderous Tales (trailer here), which screens as part of the 2016 Anchorage International Film Festival.

For these three short films and the interstitial sketches, Bubeníček pretty much does it all: 2D, 3D, stop motion, mo-cap, back projection, and live action hybrids. Yet, he seems have a consistent, somewhat noir-ish style, except perhaps for the Groo the Wanderer-esque Charge the Dragon interludes. They are amusing, but they seem like inconsequential tidbits compared the three full-course-meal tales.

In look and tone, Antonio Cacto is somewhat similar to Adam (Mary and Max) Elliot, but less sentimental and more fantastical. Upon inheriting his grandfather’s flat a (live action) man discovers a mischievous Mexican hobgoblin (3D animated) living in the cactus. Chaos ensues, but there is massive payoff at the end.

The shapes and mannerisms of the characters of the essentially wordless Lighthouse might evoke memories of Shane Acker’s 9 for some viewers, but this black-and-white world is more mysterious, yet also more richly realized. The professor is a field researcher from another world, sent to an outpost on the edge of a swamp on our planet, or one very much like it. He tries to live in harmony with the alien environment around him, so he is appalled to learn his “Superior” has very different intentions. He will go rogue to protect the creatures that most intrigue him: cows.

The Big Man is sort of the Czech Tarantino film with hitmen puppets we have waited so long for. A veteran mob killer and his socially unskilled new partner are supposed to whack the titular rival gang-leader, but when they lose their directions all kinds of complications set in. It is a solid piece that would ordinarily serve as a dynamite calling card, but it is almost anti-climactic following the arresting visuals of Lighthouse and the wonderfully humanistic sensibility of Antonio Cacto. It is “just” very good, whereas the previous two constituent short films are simply terrific.

Regardless of the installments’ respective superiority, there is more than enough animated goodness in Bubeníček’s Tales to delight any animation connoisseur. He calls them “murderous,” because they will slay you, don’t you see? It is hard to say what age group Bubeníček thought he was targeting, but Cacto should be safe for most ages—whereas parental discretion should probably be advised for the rest of the charmingly sinister tales. Regardless, teens and adults who take animation seriously will definitely get it. Very highly recommended, Murderous Tales screens this Thursday (12/8), during the Anchorage International Film Festival.

Strange Lands: The End of August at the Hotel Ozone

Jaromír Vejvoda’s “Roll Out the Barrel” (a.k.a. “Beer Barrel Polka”) is probably the bestselling polka tune of all time. Will Glahé hit #1 on the U.S. charts with his traditional recording before it was reworked into the Andrews Sisters’ wag-waver “Here Comes the Navy.” It is also the only record to survive the apocalypse in Jan Schmidt’s The End of August at the Hotel Ozone, which screens during the Film Society of Lincoln Center current series, Strange Lands: International Sci-Fi.

Frankly, a beer might help those settling in to watch Ozone, because Schmidt presents a distinctly bleak and vaguely absurdist vision of the future. Years after some sort of nuclear Armageddon (the details are hazy), an old woman with implied military training leads a band of unruly women born post-apocalypse through the Doupov Mountains. It seems the end of the world hit men the hardest, due to their higher vulnerability to the subsequent diseases. The old woman honestly doubts there are any left, but she keeps looking anyway, in the vain hope one of her rag-tag troupe will become the Eve to his Adam.

Unfortunately, the younger women do not inspire much confidence in humanity’s future. During most of the rather aimless opening half, the teen to twentysomethings mostly quarrel with each other in between random acts of animal cruelty (Peta would have a conniption fit if anyone ever tried to reshoot some of Schmidt’s sequences). However, their wanderings eventually take them to the “Hotel Ozon,” which is still maintained by its old caretaker. Yes, he is a man, about the same age as their leader. Initially, he is overjoyed by their company, especially that of his fellow doomsday survivor. However, ignorance will inevitably lead to tragedy.

Ozone is a dashed hard film to get one’s head and arms around. Presumably, it was green-lit by the Party authorities with the expectation it could serve as a pseudo-peacenik propaganda piece, attacking the capitalist warmongers. Instead, it is a politically neutral indictment of human nature and a sharp rebuke to utopianism in any form.

Considering the grave circumstances, it is difficult to understand how the younger women could be so reckless and wasteful with scarce resources. Perhaps we are supposed to ask whether they are any different than those who caused the end of the world. Still, the film brings to mind a famous Reagan story. Reportedly, while still governor, his official motorcade was briefly blocked by protestors, one of whom tapped on his window holding a sign saying “we are the future.” Without skipping a beat, he jotted the response: “then I’m selling my bonds.”

Indeed, there is little by way of character development for any of the post-Armageddon women. In contrast, Beta Ponicanová’s performance as the old woman is unusually mature and subtlety shaded. Likewise, Ondrej Jariabek is achingly tragic as the old man. Their scenes together carry real weight and power. Nevertheless, the film leaves us feeling sort of confused and stranded.

So yes, youth is wasted on the young. Happily, the world did not end in 1967. In fact, then Czechoslovakia successfully threw off its Communist oppressors during the Velvet Revolution. Unlike the almost feral younger generation of Ozone, Vejvoda’s son Josef would honor his father legacy and respect his musical tradition, becoming an accomplished jazz drummer and composer. Check out his arresting “Angel’s Cry in My Head, Angel’s Laughter in My Heart” here. The recording quality is not so hot, but the venue is quite fitting and the quote from “Barrel” makes it barely relevant to the discussion at hand. Granted, Schmidt’s Ozone is an interesting relic from the past, but the music of both Vejvodas is more strongly recommended. Not exactly unmissable, The End of August at the Hotel Ozone screens this coming Thursday (8/28) at the Walter Reade Theater, as part of Strange Lands.

Burning Bush: Jan Palach and the Legacy of Resistance

Tourists visiting Prague’s Rudolfinum concert hall will find themselves in Jan Palach Square.  The newest public square in the Old Town quarter, it was known as Square of Red Army Soldiers during the grim era of Communism.  An earnest university student, Palach sacrificed his life to re-awaken opposition to the Soviet occupation of 1968 (those very same Red Army Soldiers), eventually becoming a galvanizing symbol of the Velvet Revolution.

Polish filmmaker Agnieszka Holland was also studying in the then Czechoslovakia when Palach self-immolated on Wenceslas Square.  She shared the feelings of inspiration, frustration, and rage that swept across the country in the days that followed. Now she masterfully captures the tenor of those oppressive times in the monumental Burning Bush (trailer here), which opens today in New York at Film Forum.

Watching a man ignite himself into flames is a disturbing sight, as Holland shows viewers in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, Palach does not die immediately, but lingers on life support for three days. Having left multiple letters of protest, there was no question why Palach did what he did. As he hoped, the student movement is emboldened to call for a general strike. The government swings into full panic mode, fearing more will follow his example. The Party’s heavy-handed techniques do not sit well with Police Major Jireš, but his ostensive subordinate is more than willing to do the dirty work he assumes will advance his career.

As months pass, Palach’s fragile mother, Libuše Palachová, becomes the target of a ruthless harassment campaign. When a hardline member of parliament publicly slanders Palach at a regional CP conference, the Palach family decides to file suit, but finding a lawyer willing to accept their case is a difficult proposition. Eventually, Dagmar Burešová agrees to take the case, but it will cost her family dearly.

Although Palach appears relatively briefly in Burning Bush, his absence is felt keenly throughout.  He is the missing man—the ghost at the banquet. However, his mother and her advocate are very much of and in the world as it was, and must carry on as best they can. Frankly, Burning Bush will be nothing less than revelatory for many viewers.  Typically films dealing with the Prague Spring and subsequent Soviet invasion end in 1968, with a happier 1989 postscript frequently appended to the end.  However, Holland and screenwriter Štĕpán Hulík train their focus on the nation’s absolutely darkest days.

A onetime protégé and close collaborator of Andrzej Wajda, Holland has vividly addressed the Communist experience with films like The Interrogation and To Kill a Priest, while also finding tremendous American success directing leading-edge HBO programs like The Wire and Treme. On paper, Holland sounds like the perfect director for this project, yet she manages to exceed expectations with a clear-cut career masterwork.

There is considerable scale to Burning Bush, but it is intimately engrossing. Viewers acutely share the fear and pain of the Palach family and marvel the Bureš family’s matter-of-fact defiance. Somehow Holland simultaneous builds the suspense, as Burešová methodically exposes the Party’s lies and deceits, as well as a mounting sense of high tragedy, as the secret police rig the system against her.

Jaroslava Pokorná’s turn as Palach’s mother is not merely a performance, it is an indictment viewers will feel in their bones. It is a convincingly harrowing portrayal of a woman nearly broken by the Communist state.  Likewise, Petr Stach conveys all the inner conflicts roiling inside Jiří Palach, the brother forced to hold himself together for the sake of his family (and arguably his country). Ivan Trojan’s increasingly disillusioned Major Jireš adds further depth and dimension to the film. Although it is the “glamour” role, Tatiana Pauhofová still scores some impressive moments as Burešová, particularly with Jan Budař as her husband Radim Bureš.

Chosen by the Czech Republic as its official foreign language submission to the Academy Awards, but disqualified because it was originally produced for Czech HBO, Burning Bush is either excellent cinema or outstanding television, depending on how chose to categorize it. Although its 234 minute running time might sound intimating, it is a blisteringly tight and tense viewing experience.  An important but deeply moving work, Burning Bush opens today at Film Forum, screening in two parts, covered by one total admission charge.

Panorama Europe ’14: Honeymoon

Usually, couples keep the wedding simple for second marriages, but not Radim Werner and his fiancée Tereza. At least when you keep a low profile, it makes it harder for unwelcomed guests from the past to crash. There will be no ex-spouses arriving uninvited, but one mystery guest will thoroughly destabilize the celebration in Jan Hrebejk’s Honeymoon (trailer here), which screens during the rechristened Panorama Europe at the Museum of the Moving Image.

As fate would have it, Werner’s thirteen year-old son Dominik breaks his glasses seconds before the wedding ceremony. Fortunately, there is optometrist-in-the-box right on the church plaza. Werner does not think much of the man behind the counter, but he instantly recognizes him. Calling himself Jan Benda, the mystery man crashes the ceremony and hitches a ride to the reception in the country. He claims to be Werner’s old boarding school friend, but the groom pretends not to remember him. The kids take to Benda, but he unnerves both bride and groom.

It will become obvious the lens crafter is not really Benda, but he shares some complicated history with Werner and the real Benda. The truth is pretty ugly, especially when the newly married bride is forced to confront it. Honeymoon is considered the third installment of Hrebejk’s loosely thematic trilogy, begun with the excellent Kawasaki’s Rose, examining how the sins of the past continue to influence the present. While not explicitly political like Rose, it is worth noting Werner’s boarding school indiscretions indirectly involved his teenaged lust for Natassja Kinski during the height of her international superstardom, suggesting the 1980’s, perhaps thereby implying he was the privileged child of Party elites.

Regardless, Hrebejk successfully taps into viewers’ deep ambivalence regarding weddings and similar conventions. Somewhere deep within our inner Mr. Hydes, we resent having to dress up and be on our best behavior for people we only share an accidental relationship with. Like a Wedding Crashers from Hell, Honeymoon delivers the chaos we secretly yearn for at such times.

Indeed, Hrebejk deftly plays a dual game, creating suspense through not-Benda’s unsettling behavior, while dropping clear hints that he is more worthy of our sympathies. He rather risks undoing the balance act late in the third act, but he certainly keeps us on our toes. Ultimately, the messiness lends Honeymoon further credence.

As the respective nemesis-classmates, Stanislav Majer and Jirí Cerny play a dynamite cat-and-mouse game. They invest both men with sympathetic moments, as well as profound flaws, making it impossible to reflexively align with either one. Anna Geislerova initially seems to be problematically passive as the newlywed bride, but she more than holds her own during a pivotal confrontation with Cerny’s crasher.

Honeymoon is a mature film, in which karma packs a real punch. On one hand, Hrebejk challenges how well one can ever know a prospective spouse, while also questioning whether we can ever out live the moral statute of limitations for our mistakes. Good luck coming up with satisfying answers, but the resulting drama is quite compelling. Recommended for discerning adults, Honeymoon screens this Friday (4/11) at the Museum of the Moving Image, as part of Panorama Europe.

NYFF ’13: Burning Bush

Tourists visiting Prague’s Rudolfinum concert hall will find themselves in Jan Palach Square.  The newest public square in the Old Town quarter, it was known as Square of Red Army Soldiers during the grim era of Communism.  An earnest university student, Palach sacrificed his life to re-awaken opposition to the Soviet occupation of 1968 (those very same Red Army Soldiers), eventually becoming a galvanizing symbol of the Velvet Revolution.

Polish filmmaker Agnieszka Holland was also studying in the then Czechoslovakia when Palach self-immolated on Wenceslas Square.  She shared the feelings of inspiration, frustration, and rage that swept across the country in the days that followed.  The tenor of those oppressive times is masterfully captured in Holland’s Burning Bush (trailer here), a highly cinematic three-night miniseries produced for HBO Europe, which screens during the 51^st New York Film Festival.

Watching a man ignite himself into flames is a disturbing sight, as Holland shows viewers in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, Palach does not die immediately, but lingers on life support for three days. Having left multiple letters of protest, there was no question why Palach did what he did. As he hoped, the student movement is emboldened to call for a general strike. The government swings into full panic mode, fearing more will follow his example. The Party’s heavy-handed techniques do not sit well with Police Major Jireš, but his ostensive subordinate is more than willing to do the dirty work he assumes will advance his career.

As months pass, Palach’s fragile mother, Libuše Palachová, becomes the target of a ruthless harassment campaign. When a hardline member of parliament publicly slanders Palach at a regional CP conference, the Palach family decides to file suit, but finding a lawyer willing to accept their case is a difficult proposition. Eventually, Dagmar Burešová agrees to take the case, but it will cost her family dearly.

Although Palach appears relatively briefly in Burning Bush, his absence is felt keenly throughout.  He is the missing man—the ghost at the banquet. However, his mother and her advocate are very much of the world as it was, and must carry on as best they can. Frankly, Burning Bush will be nothing less than revelatory for many viewers.  Typically films dealing with the Prague Spring and subsequent Soviet invasion end in 1968, with a happier 1989 postscript frequently appended to the end.  However, Holland and screenwriter Štĕpán Hulík train their focus on the nation’s absolutely darkest days.

A onetime protégé and close collaborator of Andrzej Wajda, Holland has vividly addressed the Communist experience with films like The Interrogation and To Kill a Priest, while also finding tremendous American success directing leading-edge HBO programs like The Wire and Treme. On paper, Holland sounds like the perfect director for this project, yet she manages to exceed expectations with a clear-cut career masterwork.

There is considerable scale to Burning Bush, but it is intimately engrossing. Viewers acutely share the fear and pain of the Palach family and marvel the Bureš family’s matter-of-fact defiance. Somehow Holland simultaneous builds the suspense, as Burešová methodically exposes the Party’s lies and deceits, as well as a mounting sense of high tragedy, as secret police rig the system against her.

Jaroslava Pokorná’s turn as Palach’s mother is not merely a performance, it is an indictment viewers will feel in their bones. It is a convincingly harrowing portrayal of a woman nearly broken by the Communist state.  Likewise, Petr Stach conveys all the inner conflicts roiling inside Jiří Palach, the brother forced to hold himself together for the sake of his family (and arguably his country). Ivan Trojan’s increasingly disillusioned Major Jireš adds further depth and dimension to the film. Although it is the “glamour” role, Tatiana Pauhofová still scores some impressive moments as Burešová, particularly with Jan Budař as her husband Radim Bureš.

Chosen by the Czech Republic as its official foreign language submission to the Academy Awards, Burning Bush is either excellent cinema or outstanding television, depending on how chose to categorize it. Although its 234 minute running time might sound intimating, it is a blisteringly tight and tense viewing experience.  An important but deeply moving work, it is the one true can’t miss selection of this year’s NYFF, especially since its length makes it such a challenge to program.  At this point only stand-by tickets are available, but it is worth trying your luck when the exceptional Burning Bush screens this Friday (10/4) and the following Wednesday (10/9).