The western world paid its dues to Jiri Menzel with Closely Watched Trains, Czechoslovak cinema enjoyed its time in the spotlight for about five years, then as the Soviet tanks moved in on Prague and the UN sat and watched in carefully outraged anticipation, Milos Forman and a bunch of people left for greener pastures, those who stayed behind to make movies devised new ways to sidestep and confuse the Soviet mechanism, and everyone else went home to find the next New Wave/foreign national school of cinema to praise in dumbfounded amazement that movies were actually made outside of LA, Rome, and Paris. Ironically enough, the legendary Filmove Studio Barrandov that lent considerable resources at the hands of the Czech New Wave are now hiring out to major Hollywood productions.
My girlfriend is half-Czech which means I'm very lucky to get an insider's view of that culture. It's also funny because she doesn't know the famous Oscar material, Closely Watched Trains or Firemen's Ball or The Shop on Main Street, but she was showing me the other day a VHS of a 1931 comedy that is apparently a family favourite. I perfectly understand that because I'm Greek and Theo Angelopoulos is only discussed/ridiculed as "artsy" for his pretentiously long shot by people who haven't sat through one of his movies - he is the prestige cinema we export and send to Cannes every so many years but it's not what we watch as a peoples. Anyway, I wouldn't have seen this otherwise and I've seen no one mention it.
This is one of those movies the Criterion establishment has not managed to salvage for a world audience yet remains a household national classic in its home country. And it's not one of those movies that don't translate well because, like Closely Watched Trains or most Czech New Wave films for that matter, the humour is mostly physical and visual in the manner of silent cinema, the characters are drawn in identifiable ways because we may need cultural context to understand a ronin or a geisha but a neglectful boss is a neglectful boss in any language, although this is what Italians did in their spaghettis and the Czech always refined/elevated their characters above simple stereotype. Thus the fake priest in Fararuv Konec does the small village better spiritual service than the real ones and the leering doctor in this one is painted in gentlemanly colors. It's the comedy of the running gag and the pratfall so that the viewer is not even required to understand/decipher the political allegory behind it to at least enjoy it. Indeed a running gag in the film is the mention of silent comedian Lupino Lane and the owners of the brewery where the film takes place complain, when one of their meetings is turned into chaos and mockery, that this is not a Charlie Chaplin movie.
This is a movie where the brewery manager's earnest attempts at professionalism and seriousness are sidetracked by a mocking universe where a motorcycle will never start and where his annoying, loud-voiced, brother destroys his domestical peace, at some degree Bohumil Hrabal takes a jab at the unbearable lightness of being, or as the wife says about her husband who moves around in a constant scowl, with slumped shoulders, "he has the muscles of a gladiator but he feels like a skinned rabbit". But this is also a movie about the wife, the beautiful radiant woman whom everyone at the small village oogles at and yet who glides around life like a breeze, allowing nothing to cling to her, nothing to molest that purity of life and character, and as a testament to the kind of optimist lifeaffirming film Jiri Menzel is doing, that purity is never put to a test, is never groped at or corrupted by outside circumstances. The beauty of this comes with a question; would the husband be the grouch he is if his wife wasn't as breezy as she is? Or better yet, if a person in a relationship takes the lightness for herself, does that mean the other must by necessity shoulder the unbearableness of that lightness? The end is a happy one, like the silent comedians reserved for their audience. By the same token, this is cinema that addresses a broad audience but does so in a simple refined manner. Good stuff.
My girlfriend is half-Czech which means I'm very lucky to get an insider's view of that culture. It's also funny because she doesn't know the famous Oscar material, Closely Watched Trains or Firemen's Ball or The Shop on Main Street, but she was showing me the other day a VHS of a 1931 comedy that is apparently a family favourite. I perfectly understand that because I'm Greek and Theo Angelopoulos is only discussed/ridiculed as "artsy" for his pretentiously long shot by people who haven't sat through one of his movies - he is the prestige cinema we export and send to Cannes every so many years but it's not what we watch as a peoples. Anyway, I wouldn't have seen this otherwise and I've seen no one mention it.
This is one of those movies the Criterion establishment has not managed to salvage for a world audience yet remains a household national classic in its home country. And it's not one of those movies that don't translate well because, like Closely Watched Trains or most Czech New Wave films for that matter, the humour is mostly physical and visual in the manner of silent cinema, the characters are drawn in identifiable ways because we may need cultural context to understand a ronin or a geisha but a neglectful boss is a neglectful boss in any language, although this is what Italians did in their spaghettis and the Czech always refined/elevated their characters above simple stereotype. Thus the fake priest in Fararuv Konec does the small village better spiritual service than the real ones and the leering doctor in this one is painted in gentlemanly colors. It's the comedy of the running gag and the pratfall so that the viewer is not even required to understand/decipher the political allegory behind it to at least enjoy it. Indeed a running gag in the film is the mention of silent comedian Lupino Lane and the owners of the brewery where the film takes place complain, when one of their meetings is turned into chaos and mockery, that this is not a Charlie Chaplin movie.
This is a movie where the brewery manager's earnest attempts at professionalism and seriousness are sidetracked by a mocking universe where a motorcycle will never start and where his annoying, loud-voiced, brother destroys his domestical peace, at some degree Bohumil Hrabal takes a jab at the unbearable lightness of being, or as the wife says about her husband who moves around in a constant scowl, with slumped shoulders, "he has the muscles of a gladiator but he feels like a skinned rabbit". But this is also a movie about the wife, the beautiful radiant woman whom everyone at the small village oogles at and yet who glides around life like a breeze, allowing nothing to cling to her, nothing to molest that purity of life and character, and as a testament to the kind of optimist lifeaffirming film Jiri Menzel is doing, that purity is never put to a test, is never groped at or corrupted by outside circumstances. The beauty of this comes with a question; would the husband be the grouch he is if his wife wasn't as breezy as she is? Or better yet, if a person in a relationship takes the lightness for herself, does that mean the other must by necessity shoulder the unbearableness of that lightness? The end is a happy one, like the silent comedians reserved for their audience. By the same token, this is cinema that addresses a broad audience but does so in a simple refined manner. Good stuff.