Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe: Film Cultures and Histories 9781350987562, 9781786732392

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Dorota Ostrowska is Senior Lecturer in Film and Modern Media at Birkbeck College, University of London. She publishes in the areas of European film and television studies, film festival studies, and the history of film and media production. Her publications include Reading the French New Wave: Critics, Writers and Art Cinema in France (2008) and European Cinemas in the Television Age (with Graham Roberts, 2007). Francesco Pitassio is Associate Professor of Film Studies at the University of Udine in Italy. His main research interests are Italian cinema, Czech cinema, film performance and stardom, and film theory. His publications include II cinema neorealista (with Paolo Noto, 2010), and Attore/Divo (2003). Zsuzsanna Varga teaches Hungarian Studies at the University of Glasgow. Her research interests include comparative literature and film studies. She has written numerous articles and book chapters on Central European TV, and Hungarian, Portuguese and Scottish literature.

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‘Yes, there was popular cinema in the Eastern bloc. Contrary to what some believe, we were not raised on a diet of Soviet war movies. This book tackles the socio-cultural factors that allowed for the continued development of comedies, crime films, sci-fi, rom-coms and other genres across the region, marking 80 years of film history.’ Dina Iordanova, University of St Andrews ‘Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe definitively shows that “popular cinema did exist before, during and after Socialism”. This carefully researched volume has taken a major step towards recovering the long-­ submerged popular register of cinema and demonstrating the popular’s potential to challenge entrenched assumptions about (post)socialist cultures.’ Anikó Imre, University of Southern California

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Film Cultures and Histories Edited by DOROTA OSTROWSKA, FRANCESCO PITASSIO AND ZSUZSANNA VARGA

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Published in 2017 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com Copyright Editorial Selection © 2017 Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio and Zsuzsanna Varga Copyright Individual Chapters © 2017 Paul Coates, Gábor Gelencsér, Šárka Gmiterková, Jan Hanzlík, Ivan Klimeš, Mikołaj Kunicki, Matilda Mroz, Clara Orban, Dorota Ostrowska, Elżbieta Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, Pavel Skopal, Petr Szczepanik, Balázs Varga, Zsuzsanna Varga, Andrea Virginás The right of Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio and Zsuzsanna Varga to be identified as editors of this work has been asserted by the editors in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Every attempt has been made to gain permission for the use of the images in this book. Any omissions will be rectified in future editions. References to websites were correct at the time of writing. International Library of the Moving Image 40 ISBN: 978 1 78453 397 7 eISBN: 978 1 78672 239 3 ePDF: 978 1 78673 239 2 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available Typeset by Newgen Knowledge Works Pvt Ltd Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

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Contents Figures Graphs Tables List of Contributors Acknowledgements A Note on Naming Conventions Introduction: European Popular Cinema: The Centre and Its Margins

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Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, Zsuzsanna Varga PART I POLITICS OF POPULAR CINEMA IN THE INTERWAR PERIOD



1 Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions: The Merry Wives (1938)

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Ivan Klimeš

2 Starlets and Heart-throbs: Hungarian Cinema in the Interwar Period

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Zsuzsanna Varga PART II TOWARDS SOCIALISM: CONTINUITIES AND RUPTURES



3 The Stripping of His Charms: The Stability and Transformation of Oldřich Nový’s Star Image (1936–​55)

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Šárka Gmiterková

4 Transformations: Hungarian Popular Cinema in the 1950s Balázs Varga v

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Contents 5 Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy: The Autonomisation of Parody, and Lemonade Joe (1964) 102 Petr Szczepanik PART III SOCIALIST FILM CULTURES

6 How To Be Loved? Three Takes on ‘The Popular’ in Socialist and Non-Socialist Cinema: The Popular and The People

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Paul Coates 7 ‘Humanist Screens’: Foreign Cinema in Socialist Poland (1945–​56)

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Dorota Ostrowska 8 Poland’s Wild West and East: Polish Westerns of the 1960s

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Mikołaj Kunicki 9 Film in Full Gallop: Aesthetics and the Equine in Poland’s Epic Cinema

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Matilda Mroz

10 The Czechoslovak–​East German Co-​production Trˇi orˇísˇky pro Popelku/​Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel/​Three Wishes for Cinderella: A Transnational Tale

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Pavel Skopal

11 The Paradox of Popularity: The Case of the Socialist Crime Movie in Hungary

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Gábor Gelencsér PART IV OUT OF SOCIALISM: CO-​HABITING MODELS OF POPULAR CINEMA



12 Popular Nostalgia: On Alternative Modes of Popular Cinema in Post-1989 Czech Production

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Francesco Pitassio

13 The Power of Love: Polish Post-communist Popular Cinema Elżbieta Ostrowska vi

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Contents

14 When Walls Fall: Families in Hungarian Films of the New Europe

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Clara Orban PART V NATIONAL CINEMAS AND GLOBALISED FILM CULTURES



15 The ‘Hollywood Factor’ in the Most Popular Hungarian Films of the Period 1996–2014: When a Small Post-communist Cinema Meets a Mainstream One

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Andrea Virginás

16 The Exhibition of Popular Cinema in the Czech Republic and Slovakia: After 1989 Within the Context of the European Union

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Jan Hanzlík Bibliography Filmography Index

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Figures 3.1 Screenshot from the film Dívka v modrém (The girl in blue, 1940)

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3.2 Screenshot from the film Kristián (Christian, 1939)

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3.3 Screenshot from the film Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář (The poacher’s foster daughter, 1949)

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3.4 Screenshot from the film Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952)

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3.5 Screenshot from the film Hudba z Marsu (Music from Mars, 1955)

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3.6 Poster for Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952)

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Graphs 16.1 Unemployment rate 2009–​13 (the Baltics)

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16.2 Admissions per capita 2009–​13 (the Baltics)

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16.3 Unemployment rate 2009–​13 (Central Europe)

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16.4 Admissions per capita 2009–​13 (Central Europe)

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16.5 Unemployment rate 2009–​13 (Southern Europe)

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16.6 Admissions per capita 2009–​13 (Southern Europe)

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Tables 4.1 Hungarian cinema in the 1950s: Toplist by admissions numbers

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7.1 Distribution of foreign films in Poland 1945–56

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7.2 Selected film contracts with Western Europe and the USA 1945–6

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7.3 Genre films distributed in Poland 1957–9

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7.4 Number of films distributed in Poland by place of origin 1956–9

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15.1 The most popular Hungarian movies 1996–2014 (as of July 2015)

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16.1 Average admissions per capita in 2013 in selected EU countries

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16.2 Cinema admissions in the Czech Republic and Slovakia 1993–2014

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16.3 National market shares in Central Europe, Denmark and France (%)

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16.4 Top 10 films by number of admissions in the Czech Republic

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16.5 Top 10 films by number of admissions in Slovakia

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List of Contributors Paul Coates is Professor Emeritus in the Film Studies Department of the University of Western Ontario. He has taught at McGill University and at the Universities of Georgia (Athens, GA) and Aberdeen. His books include The Story of the Lost Reflection (1985), The Gorgon’s Gaze (1991), Lucid Dreams: the Cinema of Krzysztof Kieślowski (ed.) (1999), Cinema, Religion and the Romantic Legacy (2003), The Red and the White: The Cinema of People’s Poland (2005), Cinema and Colour: The Saturated Image (2010), Screening the Face (2012) and Doubling, Distance and Identification in the Cinema (2015). Gábor Gelencsér is Associate Professor at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, specialising in Hungarian cinema and Hungarian film adaptation. His books include Forgatott könyvek. A magyar film és az irodalom kapcsolata 1945 és 1995 között (2015), Az eredendő máshol. Magyar filmes szólamok (2014), Káoszkeringő. Gothár Péter filmjei (2006), Más világok. Filmelemzések (2005), Filmolvasókönyv. Írások filmművészeti kötetekről (2003), A Titanic zenekara. Stílusok és irányzatok a hetvenes évek magyar filmművészetében (2002). Šárka Gmiterková is a PhD candidate at the department of Film and Audiovisual Culture at Masarykova Univerzita, Brno, where she is working on a thesis contrasting the pre-World War II and postwar Czechoslovak stardom. In 2012 she guest-edited a special issue devoted to this topic for the Czech film studies journal Iluminace. She also published an article in the Journal of Celebrity Studies on the significance of blonde hair for the career of major Czech film star Jiřina Štepničková. Jan Hanzlík is Assistant Professor at the Department of Arts Management at the Vysoká Škola Ekonomická, Prague. He received both his M.A. in Film Studies and English Philology and his PhD in the Theory and History of Theatre, Film and Literature from Palackého Univerzita, Olomouc. He has x

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List of Contributors published articles in the Czech film studies journal Iluminace and presented papers at film studies conferences, mostly on the post-​1989 development of Czech film distribution and exhibition, labour processes and markets in the Czech film and television industry and recently on film tourism. Ivan Klimeš is Professor of Film Studies and Chair at Univerzita Karlova, Prague. Since 1981 he has been also posted at the National Film Archive (Národní Filmový Archiv). He is part of the editorial board of the journal Iluminace and president of the Czech Society for Film Studies. He has published extensively on Czech cinema, in particular on cinema and nationhood, cinema and history, silent cinema and film production during World War II and the Stalinist period until the 1960s. Among his recent publications are Gernot Heiss and Ivan Klimeš (eds), Obrazy času. Český a rakouský film 30. Let/​Bilder der Zeit. Tschechischer und österreicher Film der 30er Jahre (2003) and Ivan Klimeš and Tereza Dvořáková (eds), Prag-​ Film AG 1941–​1945. Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Protektorats-​und Reichs-​ Kinematografie (2008). Mikołaj Kunicki is a member of the History Faculty at the University of Oxford. Before coming to Oxford in 2013, he taught history at the University of Notre Dame (2006–13) and the University of California at Berkeley (2005). He received his PhD in History from Stanford University in 2004. He is the author of Between the Brown and the Red: Nationalism, Catholicism and Communism in Twentieth Century Poland (2012) and articles and chapters on twentieth-century Polish history, nationalism and cinema. Matilda Mroz is Lecturer in Film Studies at the University of Sussex. She held a British Academy Postdoctoral Research Fellowship at the University of Cambridge (2008–​11), where her research focused on Polish cinema, and where she also completed her PhD in Film Theory (2004–​7). She is the author of Temporality and Film Analysis (2012), which explores duration through the films of Antonioni, Tarkovsky and Kieślowski. She is the co-​author of Remembering Katyn (2012) and co-​editor of The Cinematic Bodies of Eastern Europe and Russia: Between Pain and Pleasure (2016). Her current research examines the Holocaust and Polish-​Jewish relations in Polish and transnational film. xi

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List of Contributors Clara Orban is Professor of French and Italian at DePaul University, Chicago. Her books include Au travail! (1995), a workbook for Business French, a translation of Hervé Guibert’s Cytomegalovirus (1996), The Culture of Fragments: Words and Images in Futurism (1997) and Surrealism, Surrealist Case Studies: Literature, Medicine and the Arts (2001), the novel Terra Firma (second place for fiction 2003 CNW/​ FFWA), Body [in] Parts: Bodies and Identity in Sade and Guibert (2008), Wine Lessons: Ten Questions to Guide Your Appreciation of Wine (second edition 2012) and Illinois Wine and Wineries: The Essential Guide (2014). In 2007, she became a certified sommelier. Her articles have appeared in journals such as The French Review, Italica and Literature and Medicine. Dorota Ostrowska is Senior Lecturer in Film and Modern Media at Birkbeck College, University of London. She publishes in the areas of European film and television studies (Polish and French), film festival studies and history of film and media production. Her publications include Reading the French New Wave: Critics, Writers and Art Cinema in France (2008) and European Cinemas in the TV Age (with Graham Roberts) (2007). She is working on a book on the cultural history of the Cannes film festival and is interested in the crossover between the history of national cinemas and international film festivals. Elżbieta Ostrowska teaches Film at the University of Alberta, Edmonton. Her research focuses on Polish cinema, cinematic representations of gender and transnational cinemas. Her publications include Women in Polish Cinema, co-​authored with Ewa Mazierska (2006), The Cinema of Roman Polanski: Dark Spaces of the World, co-​edited with John Orr (2006) and The Cinema of Andrzej Wajda: The Art of Irony and Defiance, co-​edited with John Orr (2003). Her articles have appeared in The European Journal of Women’s Studies, Slavic Review, Studies in European Cinema and Holocaust and Genocide Studies. She is deputy editor of Studies in Eastern European Cinema. Francesco Pitassio is Associate Professor in Film Studies at the Università degli Studi di Udine. In 2015 he was Fulbright Distinguished Lecturer at the University of Notre Dame (IN). He is editor of NECSUS –​ European Journal of Media Studies and member of the NECS-​European xii

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List of Contributors Network for Cinema and Media Studies Steering Committee. His books include Ombre silenziose. Teoria dell’attore cinematografico negli anni Venti (2002), Maschere e marionette. Il cinema ceco e dintorni (2002), Attore/​Divo (2003) and Il cinema neorealista (with Paolo Noto, 2010). Pavel Skopal is Assistant Professor at the Department of Film Studies and Audiovisual Culture, Masarykova Univerzita, Brno. In 2010–​12 he was a visiting researcher at the Konrad Wolf Film and Television University in Potsdam, Germany (research project supported by the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation). He co-​edited an anthology devoted to the Czechoslovak and East-​German film industries in the 1950s (Cinema in Service of the State, 2015) and published Filmová kultura severního trojúhelníku: filmy, kina a diváci českých zemí, NDR a Polska 1945–​1970 (2014), which is a book of comparative research on cinema distribution and reception in Czechoslovakia, Poland and the GDR in the period 1945–​70. His research interests include international co-​productions, local cinema history and film culture in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. Petr Szczepanik is Associate Professor at Karlova Univerzita, Prague; researcher at the National Film Archive, Prague; and editor of Iluminace. He wrote a book on Czech media industries of the 1930s (Konzervy se slovy, 2009) and has edited or co-​edited six books on the history of film thought, including Cinema All the Time: An Anthology of Czech Film Theory and Criticism, 1908–​1939 (2008). His current research focuses on the Czech (post)socialist film production system. Some of its findings are published in Behind the Screen: Inside European Production Culture co-edited with Patrick Vonderau (2013). He was the leader of an EU-​funded FIND project (www.projectfind. cz, 2012–​14), which used student internships for a collective ethnography of production cultures. In 2015, he was the main author of an industry report on practices of screenplay development for the Czech State Film Fund. Balázs Varga is Assistant Professor of Film Studies at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest. Between 1993 and 2007 he worked for the Hungarian National Film Archives. He is a founding editor of Metropolis, a scholarly journal on film theory and history published in Budapest. He has published articles and essays in English, Italian, Polish and Hungarian edited volumes and scholarly journals. His recent book in Hungarian, Filmrendszerváltások. xiii

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List of Contributors A magyar film intézményeinek átalakulása 1990–​2010, was brought out by L’Harmattan (Budapest) in 2016. His current project, ‘The Social History of Hungarian Cinema’, is funded by the National Research, Innovation and Development Fund. Zsuzsanna Varga teaches Hungarian Studies at the University of Glasgow. She studied English, Hungarian and Portuguese at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, and took her PhD at Edinburgh University on nineteenth-century English literature. Her research interests include women’s writing, travel writing and textual and visual reception studies. She co-​edited the volume The Worlds of Hungarian Writing (2015) and her volume on the Hungarian comparatist Antal Szerb was published in 2017. She is in charge of the Hungarian programme at the 2017 MLA convention, which focuses on the work of Béla Tarr. Andrea Virginás is Associate Professor in the Media Department of Sapientia University, Cluj-​Napoca, Romania. She holds an M.A. in Gender Studies from Central European University and a PhD in Literature from Debrecen University. Her research interests focus on film cultures in mainstream and peripheral contexts. She has published several books including Az erdélyi prérin. Médiatájkép (2008), Crime Genres and The Modern-​ Postmodern Turn (2008, 2011), Audiovizuális kommunikáció (2015), articles in Studies in Eastern European Cinema, The Nordic Journal of Aesthetics and has contributed to the New Romanian Cinema: A Reader (2016).

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Acknowledgements We are grateful to a number of institutions and people who have supported us through the long journey from the original idea to the volume you are now holding in your hands. We wish to thank the School of Arts at Birkbeck, University of London for its generous funding towards the editing and proofreading of the manuscript; the Central and East European Studies of the University of Glasgow for its generous help; the Nanovic Institute at the University of Notre Dame for its support to the research, the Dipartimento di Studi Umanistici e del Patrimonio Culturale of the Università degli Studi di Udine, for backing such a long-term initiative and the Národní Filmový Archiv in Prague, for opening its holdings to our research. We would also like to thank Petra Hanáková, Petr Szczepanik, and Kateřina Svatoňová for their kind and prompt help at various stages of the project, and Jill Hannum for her assistance with language editing. Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio and Zsuzsanna Varga

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A Note on Naming Conventions The volume and its filmography attempt to describe the circulation of films that were produced and reinforced popular cinemas in East Central Europe. For this reason, when referencing the titles, we strove to identify whether a film circulated only in its country of origin, or was released in the English-speaking world. Accordingly, the film titles are quoted according to this system: • Within individual chapters, titles which were released in an Englishspeaking country first appear using the following format: Bathory (Bathory: Countess of Blood, 2008) and with subsequent occurrences appear as: Bathory: Countess of Blood. • Within individual chapters, titles which were not released in an Englishspeaking country, first appear using the following format: Barwy walki (Battle colours, 1964) and with subsequent occurrences appear as: Battle colours. • Within the filmography, titles which were released in an Englishspeaking country are referenced as follows: Bathory (Bathory: Countess of Blood, 2008, Czech Republic/Slovakia/Hungary/Great Britain, Dir. Juraj Jakubisko) • Within the filmography, titles which were not released in an Englishspeaking country are referenced as follows: Barwy walki (Battle colours, 1964, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Passendorfer)

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Introduction European Popular Cinema: The Centre and Its Margins Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, Zsuzsanna Varga

In a short tale included in the collection Pabitelé (Palaverers), published in 19641 – one of the most outstanding and least known works by the celebrated Czech writer Bohumil Hrabal (1914–​97) – a notary asks the typist working in his office what her plans are for the upcoming evening. The young woman intends to go to a dress-​maker in order to have a blouse made just like the one the popular Austrian actress Paula Wessely wears in Maskerade (Masquerade in Vienna, 1934) or in Ein Leben lang (A whole life, 1940). In the former, director Willy Forst nostalgically revisits the Habsburg Empire by means of studio filmmaking, stars, and, importantly for Hrabal’s heroine, fancy dress –​all of which were once part of that culture. This brief passage in Hrabal’s story draws the reader’s attention to the enduring memory of interwar popular cinema in Eastern Europe. It also raises a number of questions about popular cinema more generally in that part of the world. Did popular cinema in the region completely disappear beneath the rubble World War II left behind? Did previous or subsequent major political shifts affect popular cinema, and if so, in what ways? What is popular cinema today, when the medium itself seems to have lost its 1

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe pivotal role as a national, regional and global source of media culture in favour of new media and new forms of media consumption?2 This volume aims to bring to the fore, examine and understand the nature, role and function that popular cinema has had in East Central Europe from the advent of the sound era to the present day. It offers a closer look at popular film products within a region which, for too long, has been perceived as being on the geopolitical and cultural margins of the USSR, Imperial Germany and, to some extent, of the Habsburg Empire. It demonstrates how political and social changes at different points in the history of the region, the end of World War II, political upheavals in the 1950s and 1960s and finally the collapse of communism, transformed the cinematic practices resulting in innovation and continuity in the realm of popular cinema. For close to 25 years now scholars of film have been focusing on popular cinema in Europe, which by and large meant Western Europe and which ignored the popular cinema of Eastern Europe. Beginning in 1992 with the seminal collection edited by Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, Popular European Cinema,3 academic film studies took possession of a popular cinema territory thus far prey only to the cinephiles’ raids and freed our understanding of cinema from the once-​productive but eventually limiting frameworks of auteurism and modernist aesthetics. Since then a number of studies have considered various aspects of European cinema, such as its transnational space and its diverse modes of production, distribution and consumption, and have successfully managed to take the debate about European cinema in new directions and away from purely artistic or aesthetic concerns.4 More recently, a number of works have attempted to define and discuss European cinema more completely and have included a wider number of European countries and a specific focus on the popular.5 However, the majority of this growing body of works has not managed to address in detail, or to fully consider, popular cinema beyond the Iron Curtain or in Eastern Europe more generally. As a result, the place of Eastern European popular cinema even today remains unclear in the debates about European cinema. This uncertain position of Eastern European popular cinema has been expressed very sensitively and poignantly in the Foreword to Via Transversa: Lost Cinema of the Former Eastern Bloc, whose editors, Eva Näripea and Andreas Trossek, call these cinemas 2

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Introduction ‘critical orphans’ and argue that ‘the collapse of the Soviet system brought about a vacuum of reception in current academic research on film of the former Eastern Bloc and, equally or even more importantly, a vacuum of distribution of the film, past and present, from the region’.6 This lost cinema ‘has been excluded from more general studies of the cinemas of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union, e.g. popular cinema and mainstream cinema (as opposed to the works of “great masters”), the production of small republican studios, especially those in the three Baltic States’.7 What are the reasons for this marginalisation of Eastern European popular cinemas? When it comes to the studies of European cinema, much of the effort to forge new ways of thinking about European cinema happened when the notion of Europe was still very much influenced by Cold War thinking wherein popular cinema was seen as almost exclusively rooted in Western European (and American) culture. Studies which emerged after the fall of the Wall overlooked the composite identity, both popular and European, of a good deal of past and contemporary Eastern European film productions. Furthermore, even prior to the 1990s, film studies researchers active on both sides of the Iron Curtain faced numerous obstacles to their pursuits. There were language barriers, problems with exploring film and non-​film archives, which often remained inaccessible due to political reasons, and poor circulation of Western European research to the East, and vice versa –​all of which led to popular cinema in Eastern Europe falling by the wayside of film studies research. Some of these problems sadly persisted beyond the end of communism, while others have been slowly rectified. More recently, several factors have led to the revision of the assumptions inherited from past scholarship and to closing some of the gaps: the growing interest in the specificity of the social and cultural life of individual countries once belonging to the Warsaw Pact, research on mediascapes8 and the continuing existence of local, regional and continental identities which endured despite ideological and geopolitical pressures as is the case with the region of East Central Europe. This indicates that examples of East Central European popular film production have been considered, albeit mostly in the context of individual national cinemas.9 What is still missing is a more encompassing scope, a look at similarities and differences, continuities and fractures, as well as national and transnational characters and characteristics of various East 3

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Central European cinemas.10 When soliciting contributions to this volume we found that most of scholarship and research on popular cinema is concentrated on national cinemas and lacks comparative or transnational perspective. Our volume reflects this dynamic with few exceptions (Skopal and Hanzlík) while being fully aware of its limitations. It remains a project for the future to establish a comparative perspective for the productions in the region, with more focus on co-​productions and transnational film and TV circulation and exhibition, as well as on the personnel exchanges. When it comes to the studies of Eastern European cinemas, our volume picks up the torch passed by scholars such as Dina Iordanova, Anikό Imre, Petra Hanáková, Eva Näripea, Andreas Trossek and Nikolina Dobreva. In 2003, Iordanova declared that ‘one of the most needed steps is to rehabilitate popular cinema […] The commonly held opinion today is that popular genres did not exist under state socialism, which is a serious distortion of the facts.’11 Two years later, when introducing her edited collection, Imre identified a number of outstanding tasks: ‘A significant amount of East European documentary, animation, popular genre-​film production remains unknown and unexplored. Children’s and youth culture is virtually non-​existent in studies of East European film and media; spectatorship studies have not yet travelled to East European film and media cultures. The post-colonial dimensions of East European cultures and the potential for Eastern Europe to complicate and problematise some of the established categories and disciplinary boundaries of post-colonial studies offer further, productive avenues of study.’12 In her contribution to the 2008 study by Eva Näripea and Andreas Trossek, Anikό Imre reiterated her call by arguing that ‘now we can and should refocus on the neglected production and consumption of popular films all through the socialist period: films that appropriated Hollywood generic formulas with local inflections; and that catered to desire much less easily contained by Soviet regimes than high-​ cultural dissidence. Many communist comedies, musicals and melodramas never crossed border; […] But many, such as East German Westerns or children’s television programmes, were produced in regional or European collaboration and distributed and viewed in most Soviet satellite countries’.13 In her 2012 contribution to Anikó Imre’s A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas, Nikolina Dobreva writes that ‘with the exception of some research on Westerns and science fiction films produced by the East 4

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Introduction German studio (DEFA), genre is rarely studied in the context of pre-​1989 East European cinema. […] Nevertheless, genre films, such as comedies, war films, children’s films, science fiction and musicals, are all essential part of Eastern European cinemas, and have been both popular and influential in their respective countries of origin.’14 This volume addresses some of these issues, thus adding to the debates about Eastern European cinema.15 Conceptually, the volume expands upon and complements Via Transversa: Lost Cinema of the Former Eastern Bloc, for whose authors ‘the issue of (supposedly non-​existent) popular cinema in Eastern Bloc versus the story of banned films (and subsequent ‘censorship marketing’), the nation versus transnational angle of investigation and so on, draws attention to the way in which studies of East European cinema have frequently resulted in somewhat limited narratives’.16 But unlike Näripea and Trossek, we do not focus on Eastern European cinema extending from the Baltics to Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary and East Germany, but rather on the East Central European region. We believe that while many of the concerns regarding popular cinemas are shared across the territory of Eastern Europe between present-​day Russia and Germany, and were even more so during the socialist period, there are also some characteristics unique to the cinemas of East Central Europe. In fact, we are convinced that beyond many differences in individual histories, languages, and politics, the region also shares many features in the articulation of the concepts of the national and the popular during the modern and post-​modern era, before, during and after Socialism. What then is the exact geopolitical and cultural subject that our venture revolves around? The present volume examines the popular film production in the region of East Central Europe by focussing on Poland, the Czech Republic/​Slovakia/​Czechoslovakia and Hungary. What are the reasons for bringing together in one study these countries whose languages and cultures may be different, but which do share the experience of socialism introduced against the will of the many and where political contestation and opposition took the shape of open political protest in the streets in Budapest in 1956, Prague in 1968 and Gdańsk in 1980? They also have the mutual bond of being part of the Visegrád Group, established in its modern version in the eponymous Hungarian town in 1991 (but harking back to the mediaeval alliance between the countries set up in 1335), resulting in the 5

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe four countries choosing to follow a similar path and eventually being admitted to the European Union together in 2004. They all have a tense relationship with the European Union, with the issue of national sovereignty and the desire for greater autonomy within the European Union representing a source of constant friction, often expressed in explosive language and provocative populist rhetoric. All these political and historical characteristics which defined the East Central European countries’ identity in the twentieth and twenty-​first century alone make them unique among their Eastern European neighbours and in itself justify the focus of this volume. Some scholars like Peter Hames have also rightly pointed to the permanently shifting boundaries and changing sense of belonging within the East Central European region and the deep sense of crisis which underpins it,17 which writers like Milan Kundera and Czesław Miłosz link to the well-​established notion of ‘Mitteleuropa’. The French scholar Jacques Le Rider explains the rise of the concept of ‘Mitteleuropa’ as a cultural reaction to the sense of an impending geopolitical crisis in this part of Europe.18 Indeed, the concept of Mitteleuropa was widely celebrated in the 1970s and 1980s by intellectuals such as Kundera or Miłosz. At least partly, it was an intellectual response to the political failure of the Prague Spring in 1968, after which the region set out to redefine its identity as culturally different from the politically dominant Soviet Union. Accordingly, Mitteleuropa became a concept of political resistance and the reassertion of the region’s long ties with Western Europe. It became a viable concept because it referred to a cultural legacy, with a toolkit of values, including humanism, tolerance and critical thinking, and it emphasised a strong sense of shared past that preceded Soviet Socialism. It called on the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the nations co-​existed with supranational political entities and cultures such as the German and Habsburg empires, whilst it also affirmed the existence of a strong Jewish heritage. The notion provided intellectuals and artists with a reference point for self-​identification and has been frequently transferred into film narratives celebrating that legacy, as in the works of Czech filmmakers Karel Zeman or Jiří Menzel or the Hungarian director István Szabó. Mitteleuropa may be a myth, but like all myths it has been productive at different historical times. We believe it is still an often used and powerful notion to help articulating cultural identity. 6

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Introduction The concept of Mitteleuropa also reminds us of the role of Germany in the region, both as a politically dominant great power and as a cultural centre, which actively contributed to shaping the individual national cultures and also acted as a place against which the process of self-​definition and identity creation took place. Szczepanik demonstrates that in the 1930s German films and German versions of American films were more popular than Hollywood productions ‘not only because of their language [German], but more importantly because of their cultural affinities’.19 The same was a case in the mid-​1920s Poland when ‘occasionally, American films (including films by D. W. Griffith) had been promoted as German films or compared to German films to find viewers in Poland’.20 When considered from the perspective of the history of the region’s cinematic cultures, the troubling and disconcerting shifts and changes resulting from the region’s geopolitics are repeatedly counterbalanced by a coherent, confident and well-​articulated response on the part of indigenous film industries which continue to exist and even flourish in spite of the dramatic changes in the political and economic regimes after World War II and again post-​1989. What is the reason for the robustness of the region’s cinemas? Other regions such as the Baltic republics or the now-independent states of former Yugoslavia and their cultural productions have been affected by geopolitics in different ways compared to East Central Europe. The countries comprised in the latter were never republics of the Soviet Union; East Central Europe has enjoyed relatively uninterrupted nation building since the nineteenth century, and the continuity between the different periods in national histories has remained important. The existence of national cultures dating back to the Middle Ages provided a powerful cultural heritage for the waves of national revivals starting in the early nineteenth century. The revivals have merged historical emblems and motifs with technological mass production in a myriad of publications, gravures, photos, and cinema played a non-​negligible role. The countries’ relative technological advancement within the socialist bloc was also an important factor in developing cinematic production and distribution. An element which has sustained the cultural production in East Central Europe is the close connection between cinematic art and the 7

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe nation building processes and definitions of national identity. All types of cinema, including popular ones, were always more than just pure entertainment there. Rather, cinema was a locus of cultural negotiations of national identities, as is shown in the case of   ‘patriotic films’ –​either political melodramas or historical reconstructions –​made in Poland after World War I.21 The audience preference for Polish films continued into the 1930s when Polish films attracted four times more viewers than foreign films.22 Czech cinema also adapted many patriotic plays and novels, in the interwar period and after. They often represented true or imagined struggles to preserve national identity under German threat, in films as diverse as Neporažená armáda (Undefeated army, 1938), by Jan Bor, or Jan Roháč z Dubé (Warriors of Faith, 1947), which Vladimír Borský directed. For Hungarian films, the preferred period was the nineteenth century, as films like Új földesúr (New landlord, 1935) and Királyné huszárja (The queen’s hussar, 1935) demonstrate. This politicised form of cinema only gained in intensity with the regime and political changes after World War II,23 after 198924 and again after 2004. Nation ​building through cinema continues even today and is considered an established and long-​term process. The robustness and scale of the cinematic engagement in the nation building was unusual in comparison to other countries of Eastern Europe for at least two reasons. On the one hand there was an important issue of popular cinema’s roots in East Central Europe in local popular cultures.25 On the other, there was a presence of powerful and dynamic urban centres in East Central Europe in which cinema culture developed at its early stages.26 Within the Habsburg Empire, Prague and Budapest closely followed Vienna in the number of movie theatres and the Bohemian metropolis, Prague, had the highest number of cinemas per capita. Urbanisation took place on a larger scale than elsewhere. During the interwar years, the new states emerging from the collapse of the empires increased their film production. Such production often relied on readily available models of popular culture, be they autochthonous and nation-​oriented such as nineteenth-​century patriotic literature or fine arts, or cosmopolitan, as was the boulevard theatre, whose artistic personnel and successful plays circulated throughout Europe. It is not surprising to discover that a Czech–​ Polish co-​production of the early sound era, Dvanáct křesel/​Dwanaście krzeseł (Twelve chairs, 1933), based on the world famous Russian novel 8

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Introduction by Ilf and Petrov, was adapted for the screen by Karel Lamač, a prolific actor, screenplay writer and director active in Czech, Austrian and German cinema, and revolved around the bodies and frantic performances of two comic actors, Adolf Dymsza and Vlasta Burian. The cosmopolitan urban elites of the urban centres such as Budapest, Prague and Warsaw, but also Bratislava, Brno, Cracow and Łódź, were part of an established network of economic and cultural exchanges. With Berlin and Vienna representing the close production centres and Paris or St Petersburg the more distant ones, artists worked at the important crossroads of a cultural industry, and their geographical and metaphorical position at the crossroads allowed them to absorb a range of powerful influences. What also mattered greatly in ensuring the intensity of popular cinema was the strength of local film industries, which, though physically destroyed in Poland and Hungary during World War II, still soon returned to production. Film production relied on the continuities of technical and creative personnel, star actors, genres and production infrastructure. The idea of nationalising the film industry in post​war Czechoslovakia ‘had already originated in the thinking of responsible filmmaking functionaries as early as the second half of the 1930s and was subsequently reflected in the concentration of film management in the hands of the state during the Nazi occupation. Thus the postwar developments did not constitute a major discontinuity in the development of Czechoslovak film’.27 Poland’s film production infrastructure was wiped out during World War II, its reconstruction was carried out under the leadership of the pre-​war progressive but marginal film-​making group START. At the same time ‘some of the first and most popular postwar films were made by the prewar professionals [i.e., Leonard Buczkowski] who had associated with the filmowa branża (film trade), much criticised by START members’.28 The reconstruction of the Hungarian film industry took two years after World War II, and although the number of films produced annually was under 10 until the mid-​1950s, the film industry heavily relied on pre-​war professional expertise. It was during state socialism that the Eastern bloc was at its most homogeneous, yet even in that period, the ruptures were evident. De-​ Stalinisation in the later V4 countries happened relatively early, and it was the political and cultural thaw in these countries that enabled the success of the national arthouse cinemas –​the Polish School, Czechoslovak and 9

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Hungarian New Waves. The auteur film-​makers emerged in relatively large numbers and established themselves internationally and also directed public attention to their countries’ cinema cultures. No international recognition on a comparable scale existed for other cinemas and film-​makers in the Eastern European region. Importantly for the argument of this volume, many of the auteur film-​makers ‘doubled up’ as popular genre film-​ makers, including Jiří Menzel, Otakar Vávra or Andrzej Wajda. The same film-​makers were also important, vocal and influential members of intelligentsia –​a uniquely Central European social group which developed in the nineteenth century partly because of the delayed emergence of the middle class in the region which modernised later than other parts of Europe. Under socialism, film production units represented the hallmarks of the production infrastructure in East Central Europe, granting a relative autonomy for the film-​makers and member film professionals.29 Szczepanik postulated that these units ‘compensated for the bureaucratic top-​down management’s lack of flexibility and competence, and created space for collaborative creative work that was partially free from central control –​ most importantly on the level of the story development and cast and crew selection’.30 He has pointed at the continuity between the units in the socialist and post-​socialist period but also argued that ‘film units are the key to understanding the state socialist production systems on a number of levels: they point to their hidden links with the production systems and production culture of the 1930s and the World War II periods, they explain the unexpected emergence of conditions enabling artistic innovation in the 1950s, and finally they help understand how the heritage of state socialist cinema has influenced the contemporary film industry, both in a positive and negative sense’.31 In the post-​socialist period many of the film units, which were at the core of the film production across the region, were made independent from state control (but often remained state-​owned) and transformed themselves into small or medium-​size production companies with the exception of the Czech Republic, where they virtually disappeared.32 In Hungary, they continued to survive until the mid-​1990s in a relatively intact form. In Poland their position was significantly undermined by absence of Polish cinema success domestically and internationally which in recent times have led to the calls among film-​makers ‘to rethink the film unit model today’ and ‘to create new, formal and informal 10

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Introduction communication channels, meeting places, film units and collectives […] to introduce new forms of cooperation between artists from different fields of culture, theorists and practitioners’.33 Unsurprisingly, there is an element of nostalgia in this call which harks back to the fact that the high points in the history of Polish, Hungarian and Czechoslovak cinema were linked to the films units.34 Concerns with the questions of national identity and nation building yet again entered the centre stage in the post-​socialist period. Whilst it was a time of a huge rupture, the cinemas in the region managed to preserve the continuity and reinvent themselves once again. Even though levels of arthouse cinema production dropped, the genre productions increased, with new genres such as melodrama playing an important role. The post-​ 1989 genre productions reflected contemporary concerns, but it was striking that some genres like that of melodrama and romantic comedy in Poland became a top box office success. This mirrored the dynamics of the Polish pre-​war film industry and revealed deep continuities within popular culture. Furthermore, the impact of an unprecedented flood of Hollywood products in the early post-​1989 era led to interesting cases of vernacularisation: Czech, Polish, and Hungarian film productions strove to import film genres and thematic and stylistic features from the USA. To name just one example out of the many available, Steven Spielberg’s model proved to be highly influential in the case of Jan Svěrák’s early films, such as Obecná škola (The Elementary School, 1991) or Akumulátor 1 (Accumulator 1, 1994). It is the continuity of nation building in the case of East Central European cinemas that sets them apart from the Baltic Republics and the countries of former Yugoslavia, and the shared entry into the EU in the 2000s did not erase these significant historical differences. Different dynamics and deep historical discontinuities are at work in other sub-​ regions. For the Baltic republics, the long Soviet control is to contend with during the reinterpretation of past history. For the Balkan cinemas, discontinuity is represented both by the difference between the federal Yugoslavia and the later small states as well as by the bloody war of the 1990s. No wonder that the end to a homogenising understanding of Eastern Europe practically equals intellectual liberation. As Iordanova states: ‘the dissolution of what used to be Eastern Europe into East Central Europe and the Balkans 11

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe allows the rediscovery of stylistic and thematic features shared by the cinemas of former Yugoslavia, Romania and Albania on one hand, and those of Greece and Turkey, on the other. A new concept of Balkan cinema, juxtaposed to Central European cinema, is coming into being’.35 Thus a more nuanced approach to the particularities of the cinematic and other histories of the countries earlier clustered as Eastern European ones allows us to draw new boundaries which are more reflexive of regional specificities in regard to cultural productions. The category of East Central European cinema is immensely helpful in articulating such differences. Undoubtedly, cinema produced in Poland, former Czechoslovakia and Hungary is a cinema of small nations, that is, with small or mid-​size language communities, whose national languages have never achieved lingua franca status, and who have ‘a history of rule by non-​nationals (as in contexts shaped by colonialism or by powerful separatist aspirations)’36. The possibility for these nations to either sustain or export their products has been limited, nevertheless, they proudly continue advocating and inventing their own specificity.37 Their film productions deliver mostly popular products to the national markets, although the scale of these productions does not compare with that of either Hollywood or the major film industries. Accordingly, categories and paradigms applied to understand and discuss popular cinema –​such as stardom38, film genres39, series40, most often based on Hollywood’s production –​are not an easy fit with the productions in focus here. Hjort’s concept of ‘affinitive transnationalism’ is particularly helpful in the consideration of the small nations of East Central Europe. ‘Affinitive transnationalism’ implies ‘cross-​ border solidarities and collaborative endeavors that find a starting point in a reciprocal sense of affinity’ which may be expressed through ‘shared ethnicities, in partially overlapping languages, or in geographic proximity […] shared problems, aspirations and values’.41 ‘Affinitive transnationalism’ underpins our consideration of popular cinema in East Central Europe. In particular, the alleged marginal condition of East Central European film productions, occasionally on the brink of making it big in terms of output and visibility, offers an opportunity to reconsider assumptions and accepted notions around popular cinema in East Central Europe and to expand them. Therefore, the basic 12

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Introduction question asked here is: What are we actually talking about when we say ‘East Central European popular cinema’? When discussing European popular cinema Dyer and Vincendeau rely on an effective distinction whereby the popular can refer to things that are commercially successful and/​or to things that are produced by, or express the thoughts, values and feelings of ‘the people’. There are various ways to express this distinction. One of the most extreme […] would posit ‘mass’ culture (industrially or centrally produced for wide-​scale distribution and consumption) versus ‘folk’ (artisanally, locally produced and consumed); much less stark would be a distinction between box-​ office receipts and ‘audience preferences’. All these can lay claim to the term ‘popular’. As a shorthand we shall refer to them here as ‘market’ and ‘anthropological’ approaches.42

It is useful to first take a closer look at the ‘anthropological’ approach in order to open up the notion of the popular in relation to the cultural production of East Central Europe. When discussing popular culture, in particular the Gramscian notions of ‘national-​ popular’ culture and folklore,43 ethnographer Ernesto De Martino referred to two different and yet related objects: on the one hand, there was folkloric cultural production, that is, a symbolic activity rooted in rural communities, estranged from modernity, literacy, technical reproduction; and, on the other hand, there was what De Martino named ‘progressive folklore’, that is, the output of modern urban proletarians.44 It is the second object which clearly resonates with widespread assumptions regarding popular culture, forming the backbone of early cultural studies. However, the first object was no less effective in shaping popular culture in East Central Europe, for the nineteenth-​century national revivals as well as for new-​born states in the interwar period, and later on for socialist regimes after World War II, which relied heavily on glorifying the supposedly uncontaminated, pure people of the countryside, their costumes and customs. Accordingly, folklore often had an ideological and political function, to express what was seen as ‘truly’ belonging to the ‘people’, and to distance the national cultures from any outside influences, which were 13

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe seen as corrupt. For instance, musicals celebrating socialist youth, such as Zítra se bude tančit všude (Tomorrow, people will be dancing everywhere, 1952) or Starci na chmelu (Hop Pickers, 1964), contrast urban, bourgeois and thus inauthentic characters with those coming from the supposedly healthy popular rural surroundings, wherein the essential truthfulness of the people can be grasped. Generally speaking, popular cinema in East Central Europe had elements of both the folkloric and popular urban cultures. As a matter of fact, the same folkloric culture from the late nineteenth century was part and parcel of modern national cultures, mechanically reproduced and widely circulated. Therefore, when discussing popular cinema in this part of Europe it is rather difficult and probably counterproductive to draw any clear-​cut lines between the rural and pre-​modern on the one hand and the urban modern popular cultures on the other. The market approach evoked in Dyer and Vincendeau’s volume together with the anthropological one also requires some discussion in the context of the popular cinema of East Central Europe. The idea that popular cinema is a commodity which most people like and make use of is not completely self-​evident in the case of East Central Europe. As several scholars have pointed out, using the ‘market’ or ‘commercial success’ as an indicator of popularity is very problematic in the case of our three countries, as freemarket economies were non-​existent under state socialism. Furthermore, communist parties in Western and Eastern Europe had an internally contradictory attitude toward popular culture. As cultural historian David Forgacs explains in his discussion of the postwar Italian Communist Party’s cultural policy‚ the ‘progressive’ or ‘authentic’ forms of popular culture were constantly invoked as positive alternatives to the debased forms of mass culture, but, at the same time, they were constantly delegitimised by a cultural policy which struggled to give people access to ‘real’ culture, that is, the nineteenth-​century canon.45 Beyond the Iron Curtain, communist parties fostered cultural policies aimed at producing a popular culture believed to be the most responsive to the people’s needs, which meant that these cultural products were closely dependent on the previous century’s bourgeois and nationalist culture as re-​interpreted by the ideologues of the new states.46 These paternalistic policies of fostering a cultural production expressing the ‘people’s needs’, often linked to a preference for particular genres47, and of preventing them from being contaminated by 14

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Introduction capitalist-​biased mass culture were accompanied by various import and distribution restrictions48, censorship49, mandatory viewings50 and intensive ‘cinefication’ –​expanding the country’s cinema distribution and exhibition infrastructure51. Generally speaking, the limited and complicated mode of operation of the public sphere in East Central Europe makes it necessary to question the notion of popular cinema being understood as that which people like best. The understanding of popular as ‘best liked by the people’ led some scholars to make extreme, and possibly misguided, assumptions. For instance, Anita Skwara opens her chapter in Dyer and Vincendeau’s collection by saying: ‘In the past four decades nothing like popular cinema in its typical western form existed in Poland.’52 In a more nuanced way, Pierre Sorlin, when dealing with European popular cinema of the 1950s, acknowledges complexity, commenting that ‘the countries under Soviet influence whose problems are totally different from those of capitalist Europe; anyway Soviet or East German statistics referring to this period are incomplete.’53 However, our assertion here is that popular cinema did exist before, during and after Socialism, which has, unfortunately, come to stand for the experience of the whole region. It is self-​limiting to take the essentialist approach that popular cinema is a fixed set of thematic, formal, and pragmatic features usually identified with successful products, or idealising it as the sincere expression of ‘the people’. Rather, East Central Europe popular cinema served different functions and took various shapes throughout film history and the history of the region. Although this volume neither is nor is meant to be a history of popular cinema in East Central Europe, the ensuing chapters aptly demonstrate the manifold ways in which the notion of ‘popular cinema’ applies to individual products and to the contingent circumstances shaping them. Therefore what is at stake here is to challenge the widespread idea that major political shifts affected and entirely determined cultural production, even when Stalinist totalitarianism prevailed in the region. A more effective approach when dealing with popular cinema within the region is found in the notion of conjunctural history described by French historian Fernand Braudel. He wants to move away from a synthetic and all-​encompassing rendering of history; instead, he takes into account shifts, oscillations and rhythms pertaining to the economy, politics, media 15

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe and the arts.54 Conjunctural time goes beyond simple facts and the history of events. It is primarily a social time as it refers to the history of social groups, communities, enduring habits and practices. Accordingly, significant turns affecting the politics or the economy of the region did not necessarily bring about entirely new cultural models, because individual areas of human activity are relatively autonomous and should be considered at specific conjunctures. Throughout our volume, one of the key notions is the continuity within the cultural sphere, which existed despite major changes in the social and political life of the countries. Although there is little doubt that totalitarianism had an adverse impact on cultural practices including production, circulation and consumption, and that an equally deep transformation happened with the fall of the Berlin Wall, a scrutiny based on a conjunctural history and longue durée reveals consistencies, well rooted practices and enduring values.55 Various contributions to this volume highlight sets of opposing concepts such as continuity/​rupture, market/​state, art cinema/​genre cinema as well national/​regional/​continental/​global issues. The market/​state opposition has to do with the shift from a market-​based economy to a state-​ controlled one which brought about new production and consumption practices. Ideological concerns determined what was appropriate to produce, circulate, import and show to the masses, and thus transformed drastically the relationship between the cultural industry and the audience. New cultural rituals such as mandatory attendance at screenings, often organised by the workplace, or a focus on particular topics such as resistance during World War II meant that viewing habits under socialism were radically transformed while at the same time a genuine popular culture emerged with its own set of feelings, emotions, memories and meaning-​ making practices. The focus on the art cinema/​genre cinema opposition reveals that the art cinema of the socialist period has received much more attention than genre cinema from the Eastern European film studies scholars. Their focus was on filmmakers whose film style and themes expressed their individual views of the world which were at times an indication of dissent from dominant dogma. Paradoxically, this academic approach replicated the function that state socialism assigned to artists as beacons for the masses. This focus on individual artists leaves out large portions of film history (e.g. interwar 16

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Introduction and contemporary production) and obscures the intersection of art and popular cinema during socialism, when popular productions such as heritage films could also be auteur based, as is the case with Kanał (Kanal, 1957) or Faraon (Pharoah, 1966). The relationship between national/​regional/​continental/​global is also marked by deep tensions. Whereas cinema from its early days greatly contributed to nation building processes in Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary, reflection on its role should not be limited to the traditional approach based solely on national cinemas. The consideration of regional networks both in terms of professional practices and cultural motivations sheds light on how popular cinema operates within the region. If we consider, for instance, migration patterns and professional exchanges, it becomes clear that until 1945 the region was dependent on the hegemony of German-​speaking countries, which resulted in bringing to Vienna filmmakers such as Mihály Kertész (Michael Curtiz) and producer Sándor Korda (Alexander Korda), and to Berlin Karel Lamač and Karel Anton. However, this traffic was not only one-​way, and several German directors or producers worked in Prague or established regular production initiatives during the war, which can be interpreted as a colonial conquest of a contested space.56 Furthermore, as recent research has shown, popular democracies did not exclusively depend on the Soviet Big Brother for fostering co-​productions; rather, the satellite countries also developed their own initiatives, which have yet to be fully surveyed.57 Past and present co-​ productions can rely either on loosely defined motifs and diegetic spaces –​ as in the Czech–​Polish co-​production Je třeba zabít Sekala/​Zabić Sekala (Sekal Has To Die, 1998) or in Czech–​Slovak–​Austrian co-​production Želary (2003) –​or they can refer to almost mythical regional past characters –​as in the Czech–​Polish–​Slovak Janosik. Prawdziwa historia (Janosik: A True Story, 2009), based on a seventeenth-​century popular hero,58 or the Czech–​Slovak–​Hungarian–​British–​French film Bathory (Bathory: Countess of Blood, 2008), based on the legendary and gruesome figure of a sixteenth-​century countess of Upper Hungary (present Slovakia). East Central European cinema also is part of a broadly understood European cultural sphere, as it participates in exchanges with western and southern European countries and is integrated into transnational and supranational institutions. While Polish, Czechoslovak and Hungarian 17

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe popular films were at times co-​produced and circulated in Western Europe in regular movie theatres, at film festivals or were broadcast on TV channels, regional cinema has also participated in transnational trends and more recently benefited from supranational (EU) initiatives. It suffices to mention the so-​called ‘Hungarian comedy,’ i.e. interwar screwball comedy adapted from theatrical plays or cheap popular fiction, which were remade in Italy, sometimes involving Hungarian personnel.59 Moreover, post-​1989 developments included regional cinemas in a global network of production, exhibition and distribution, bringing to Budapest or Prague both runaway Hollywood productions and Western European popular productions. The makers of these productions were attracted by the availability of local professionals who offered varied skills at a significantly lower cost.60 At the same time, the newly built multiplexes have been flooded with foreign blockbusters which began to transform national popular taste.61 Therefore, when dealing with these regional production and film cultures it is important to remember that they are part and parcel of complex regional, continental and global networks. This means that these cultures remain open towards new production initiatives, which reshape their cultural and professional identities and lead to new ways of seeing and conceiving films. Film genres are at the heart of a widespread notion of popular cinema in East Central Europe. In the interwar period East Central European popular cinema included a wide range of film genres, such as comedy, which continued to be present under socialism when new film genres also emerged, such as the fairy tale, children’s movie and spy stories. Some genres such as Westerns, historical and heritage films developed specific aesthetics in order to take part in the processes of nation building under socialism. Since 1989 the renewed and intensified exchanges with Western Europe, Hollywood and world cinema have transformed East Central European popular genre cinema yet again. The newly expanded film culture, drastically transformed by market forces, led to an unprecedented flurry of genre productions such as melodrama and romantic comedies; put critical categories such as auteur and genre into a new light, stimulated socialist media memories, and shaped post-​communist new media. This volume articulates the issues outlined above in five broadly chronological sections: ‘Politics of Popular Cinema in the Interwar Period’, ‘Towards Socialism: Continuities and Ruptures’, ‘Socialist Film Cultures’, 18

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Introduction ‘Out of Socialism: Co-​habiting Models of Popular Cinema’ and ‘National Cinemas and Globalised Film Cultures’. The first section revolves around East Central European popular cinema’s production modes and related practices. On the example of a historical film, Otakar Vávra’s Cech panen kutnohorských (The Merry Wives, 1938), Ivan Klimeš’s chapter demonstrates how a Czechoslovak generic production not only echoes political concerns around the German–​Czechoslovak Sudeten crisis and draws on deeply rooted national myths of Saint Wenceslas and Hussites but also remains in a dialogue with contemporary European historical genre films such as the British The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933) or the French La Kermesse heroïque (Carnival in Flanders, 1935). Zsuzsanna Varga expounds the impact that the political and historical circumstances of Admiral Horthy’s interwar reign in Hungary had on comedy and melodrama, the most popular film genres of the period, and on the stars who acted in them. The second section examines continuities and discontinuities between the interwar and socialist period in the context of popular culture and cinema. Šárka Gmiterková discusses the star figure Oldřich Nový, whose career spanned the interwar and socialist periods, to explain continuities present in the film culture and society of both periods. Balázs Varga addresses the issues of continuity and discontinuity between the interwar and postwar Hungarian cinema of the 1950s in the range of film genres including comedy, crime stories and historical films. His emphasis is on the specific strategy under socialism to depoliticise these generic productions by dislocating their narratives to capitalist countries, or by ideologically framing them as foreign products. Petr Szczepanik first examines continuities between interwar and socialist Czechoslovakia in terms of production modes, producers and other artistic personalities, continuities which were due to the need for specific sets of skills and production practices in order to create such popular genres as comedy. He then presents a homegrown socialist genre, film parody, which was the way to mediate the absence of Western popular culture and to create an Ersatzgenre in its own right under socialism. The third section discusses various aspects of film cultures in the socialist period. Paul Coates questions the very notion of popular cinema from the perspective of both socialist and post-​socialist productions in Poland and demonstrates the ambiguities of this category due to the blurring 19

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe between popular and art house cinemas. Dorota Ostrowska’s chapter demonstrates how ideologically-​loaded film criticism categories such as ‘humanist screens’ help to explain the process of mediation between foreign forms and cultures in the case of foreign film exports to socialist Poland. Mikołaj Kunicki addresses the issue of vernacularisation by discussing how socialist cinemas created their own versions of Westerns by obeying broadly the Hollywood generic conventions while at the same time including some indigenous elements which corresponded to the new national concerns and objectives under socialism. Matilda Mroz examines the genre of Polish heritage cinema by focussing on the aesthetic and narrative role played by animals, in particular horses, as one of the most expressive and recognizable elements of the genre during the socialist period. Pavel Skopal explores a popular genre in the region, fairy tale, by focusing on the Czechoslovak–​East German Tři oříšky pro Popelku/​Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973) and uses it as an example of a socialist co-​production mode to examine the aims, expectations and decision-​making processes which shaped popular cinema during socialism. Gábor Gelencsér focuses on the precarious position held by popular genre cinema in 1970s and 1980s Hungary when art house cinema was in a privileged position. He takes as his example a rare exception, the crime film Dögkeselyű (The vulture, 1982), which bridges in a unique way the gap between the genre and art house conventions. The fourth section focuses on the period around the end of socialism. Francesco Pitassio postulates the existence of two alternative popular cinemas in the Czech Republic on the cusp between the 1990s and the first decade of the twenty-​first century, both of which are embedded in the experience of socialism in terms of production skills, media memories and narrative structures: ‘mid-​brow popular production’ focused on the socialist past on the one hand and, on the other, popular cinema with no cultural pretence. By referring to the notion of transitional culture62 and assuming that film genres are a means to negotiate shifts in identities, Elżbieta Ostrowska demonstrates how melodrama adequately enabled its audience to come to terms with painful changes occurring during the transition from state socialism to capitalism. By focusing on family plots –​the traditional focal point of melodrama –​and metaphorical absences of father 20

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Introduction figures, Clara Orban sheds light on the pitfalls and difficulties of the period of transition in the Hungarian context. The final section looks into the national cinema of the East Central European region in the context of globalisation of film cultures. Andrea Virginás examines the role of Hollywood in shaping contemporary popular cinema in Hungary from two perspectives: on the one hand as a radical alternative to auteur or mid-​brow productions in terms of production practices, given that Hungarian popular cinema’s producers and crew members often directly experienced Hollywood film production (whether by working in the US film industry or thanks to runaway production); and on the other hand as a model in terms of narrative and aesthetics. Jan Hanzlík examines Czech and Slovak popular cinema exhibition after 1989 by comparing it to other European Union countries. He argues that in the Czech and Slovak cases national popular cinema co-​exists with the global popular cinema, thus allowing for the national identities to endure even while being negotiated and at times embedded in the global ones. East Central European popular cinema remains a fertile ground for further research. Among the venues still largely left to explore are the connections with early visual culture and entertainment which shaped the advent of popular cinema in the region. Also, the investigation of intermedia and transmedia networks and modes of media circulation points to a dynamic nexus interlinking the notions of celebrity, popularity and success across different periods in the region’s history, including socialism. The inquiry into the role played by popular cinema in everyday life shows cinema’s role in shaping identities, cultural habits and values, and popular culture generally.63 Much is to be gained from further embracing the comparative approach in future studies of the region, particularly when it comes to investigation of national legal frameworks, which are often strikingly alike in the ways they impacted popular cinemas in the individual countries and territories. Socialist geopolitics determined coproduction strategies, international release policies, film festivals and popular cinema circulation among brotherly European and non-​European countries and some Western countries, and this is another area of research which could be greatly enhanced by a comparative approach drawing on the diverse experiences of the countries across the region. 21

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe In the mid-​1990s, soon after the release of the box-​office success Psy 2. Ostatnia krew (Pigs 2, 1994), controversial Polish director Władysław Pasikowski declared: ‘Let me tell you what I know about the viewer of “my” films […] He has twenty satellite channels on which the longest shot is six seconds long […] His world is not divided into the East and the West but into the bad and the good.’64 This brief statement touches on numerous points that indicate a pathway for further inquiries. First, any reflection on East Central European popular cinema needs to relate it to various mediascapes which shape contemporary viewing habits. Second, it is important to remember that the post-​1945 geopolitical divides are not universally agreed categories; rather, regional identities have often been subject to frequent shifts and realignments, and so were popular culture and cinema which were the way to express these different identities. Third, popular cinema is not a spontaneous creation but is frequently born out of thorough reflection and planning, it is rooted in practice and requires complex professional skills, a varied audience and national and transnational networks. If we want to understand fully what was, is and will be East Central European popular cinema, we should not overlook these matters but rather consider them with all seriousness just as this volume attempts to do.

Notes 1 . Bohumil Hrabal, Pabitelé (Prague, 1964). 2. Anikó Imre argues that the last 25 years profoundly reshaped the cinemas in the region resulting in film productions which could be described as ‘having been radically decentralised and depoliticised [and whose] beating heart is no longer the director and his dissident artistic vision but the producer and the political-​economic imperatives of a globalised film industry’ in Anikó Imre, ‘Introduction: Eastern European Cinema from No End to the End (As We Know It)’ in A. Imre (ed.), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas (Chichester, West Sussex, 2012), pp. 1–​2. 3. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau (eds), Popular European Cinema (London, 1992). See also Pierre Sorlin, European Cinemas, European Societies: 1930–​1990 (London, 1991) and Duncan Petrie (ed.), Screening Europe: Image and Identity in Contemporary European Cinema (London, 1992). 4. See, for instance, Wendy Everett (ed.), European Identity in Cinema (Bristol, 1996); Catherine Fowler (ed.), The European Cinema Reader (London, 2002); Anne Jäckel, European Film Industries (London, 2003); Elizabeth Ezra (ed.),

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Introduction European Cinema (Oxford, 2004); Thomas Elsaesser, European Cinemas. Face to Face with Hollywood (Amsterdam, 2005); Tim Bergfelder, Sue Harris and Sarah Street (eds), Film Architecture and the Transnational Imagination. Set Design in 1930s European Cinema (Amsterdam, 2007); Petr Szczepanik and Patrick Vonderau (eds), Behind the Screen. Inside European Production Cultures (London, 2013); Mary Harrod, Mariana Liz and Alissa Timoshkina (eds), The Europeanness of European Cinema. Identity, Meaning, Globalization (London, 2014). 5. See, for instance, Jean-​Pierre Bertin-​Maghit (ed.), Les Cinémas européens des années cinquante (Paris, 2000); Dimitri Eleftheriotis, Popular Cinemas of Europe. Studies of Texts, Contexts and Frameworks (London, 2002); Ernest Mathijs and Xavier Mendik (eds), Alternative Europe. Eurotrash and Exploitation Cinema since 1945 (London and New York, 2004); Tim Bergfelder, International Adventures. German Popular Cinema and European Co-​productions in the 1960s (Oxford, 2005). 6. Eva Näripea and Andreas Trossek, ‘Foreword’, in E. Näripea and A. Trossek (eds), Via Transversa: Lost Cinema of the Former Eastern Bloc (Tallinn, 2008), p. 7. Also to be found at http://​www.eki.ee/​km/​place/​koht_​7.htm (accessed 8 December 2016). 7. Ibid., p. 8. 8. See, for instance, the ground-​breaking collection Anikό Imre, Timothy Havens and Katalin Lustyik (eds), Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since Socialism (London and New York, 2013). 9. A very promising pathway has been set by Ewa Mazierska, who organised in June 2014 at the University of Central Lancashire, Preston, a symposium titled ‘Crossing spatial, temporal, and political boundaries in science fiction cinema’. See the review by Gábor Gergely, ‘Journeys into Eastern outer space: conference crossing spatial, temporal, and political boundaries in science fiction cinema’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema vi/​1 (2015), pp. 103–​5. 10. Examples of this effort to overcome the boundaries of the national-​cinemas based approach are Gernot Heiss and Ivan Klimeš (eds), Obrazy času. Český a rakouský film 30. let/​Bilder der Zeit. Tschechischer und österreichischer Film der 30er Jahre (Prague and Brno, 2003); Michael Goddard and Ewa Mazierska (eds), Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context (Rochester, NY, 2014); Catherine Portugues and Peter Hames (eds), Cinemas in Transition in Central and Eastern Europe After 1989 (Philadelphia, PA, 2013), Anikó Imre (ed.), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas. 11. Dina Iordanova, Cinema of the Other Europe: The Industry and Artistry of East Central European Cinema (London and New York, 2003), p. 18. 12. Anikό Imre, ‘Introduction: East European cinemas in perspective’, in A. Imre (ed.), East European Cinemas (London and New York, 2005), pp. xxii–​xxiii. A recent collection aims to address the post-​colonial approach to East European

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe film studies. See Ewa Mazierska, Lars Kristensen and Eva Näripea (eds), Postcolonial Approaches to Eastern European Cinemas: Portraying Neighbours on Screen (London, 2013). 13. Anikó Imre, ‘Dinosaurs, Moles and Cowboys: Late Communist Youth Media’, in E. Näripea and A. Trossek (eds), Via Transversa, p. 125. 14. Nikolina Dobreva, ‘Eastern European Historical Epics: Genre Cinema and the Visualization of a Heroic National Past’, in A. Imre (ed.), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas, p. 344. 15. Recently these debates began to include another trend as evident in Anikó Imre’s 2012 edited volume A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas. There she reclaims the category of Eastern Europe in socialist and post-​socialist period but crucially not just in relation to cinema but to global media networks by marking a symbolic trajectory of her argument to run from the mid-​ eighties international successes of Eastern European auteurs to 2011 runaway Showtime TV production of The Borgias made in Hungary. 16. Eva Näripea and Andreas Trossek, ‘Foreword’, pp. 8–​9. 17. Peter Hames, ‘Introduction’, in P. Hames (ed.), The Cinema of Central Europe (London and New York, 2004), pp. 1–​13. 18. Jacques Le Rider, La Mitteleuropa (Paris, 1994). 19. Petr Szczepanik, ‘Hollywood in Disguise. Practices of Exhibition and Reception of Foreign Films in Czechoslovakia in the 1930s’, in Daniel Biltereyst, Richard Maltby and Philippe Meers (eds), Cinema, Audience and Modernity. New Perspectives in European Cinema History (London and New York, 2012), pp. 166–​85. 20. Marek Haltof, Polish National Cinema (New York and Oxford, 2002), p. 10. Haltof notes that American and French films became more popular with Polish audiences and ‘in 1925 French films held 20 percent of the Polish market, and German films, 15 percent’, pp. 10–​11. 21. Haltof, pp.  11–​13. For a detailed discussion of the Polish case see Sheila Skaff, The Law of the Looking Glass. Cinema in Poland, 1896–​1939 (Athens, OH, 2008). 22. Haltof, p. 24. 23. For the discussion on Polish historical costume dramas, see Mroz and E. Ostrowska in this volume. 24. Mazierska notes that ‘two genres were particularly successful in luring Polish audiences to the cinema after 1989. One was the police/​gangster/​thriller genre, which made a strong impact at the beginning of the decade, and the second was heritage films, which dominated at the end of the 1990s and the beginning of the 2000s. […] The late 1990s was dominated by […] a heritage cycle: a cluster of lavish, historical/​costume films, typically based on nineteenth-​and early-​ twentieth-​century masterpieces of Polish literature […]’ in Ewa Mazierska, ‘Searching for Survival and Meaning. Polish Films after 1989’, in C. Portuges

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Introduction and P. Hames (eds), Cinemas in Transition in Central and Eastern Europe After 1989, pp. 145 and 149. Portuges argues that in the case of Hungary ‘despite the innovations of post-​Socialist cinema, certain films refer to the concerns that have long occupied the directors, especially with regard to the intersections of film and history’ in Catherine Portuges, ‘Memory and Reinvention in Post-​ Socialist Hungarian Cinema’, in Ibid., pp. 104–​5. 25. For example, Haltof writes that in Poland the ‘mid-​1930s belonged to comedy [when] Polish popular cinema began to be controlled by people associated with Warsaw musical theatres and cabarets’. See Haltof, p. 30. 26. Anna Manchin, ‘Imagining Modern Hungary Through Film. Debates On National Identity, Modernity and Cinema in Early Twentieth Century Hungary’, in D. Biltereyst, R. Maltby and P. Meers (eds), Cinema, Audience and Modernity, pp. 64–​80; Haltof, pp. 25–6. 27. Jiří Knapík, ‘Czechoslovak Culture and Cinema, 1945–​1960’, in L. Karl and P. Skopal (eds), Cinema in Service of the State. Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–​1960 (New York and Oxford, 2015), p. 41. 28. Haltof, p. 47. 29. Apart from Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary, such film units also existed in East Germany and Soviet Union at different periods in the postwar history. For the discussion of film units in Czechoslovakia, see Petr Szczepanik, ‘Between Units and Producers: Organization of Creative Work in Czechoslovak State Cinema 1945–​ 1990’, in Marcin Adamczak, Piotr Marecki, Marcin Malatyński (eds), Restart Zespołów Filmowych. Film Units: Restart (Kraków-​ Łódź, 2012), pp. 271–​311; in Hungary, see Balázs Varga, ‘Co-​operation. The Organisation of Studio Units in the Hungarian Film Industry of the 1950s and 1960s’, in Ibid., pp. 314–​37; in Poland, see Marcin Adamczak, ‘Film Units in the People’s Republic of Poland’, in Ibid., pp. 232–70, and Dorota Ostrowska, ‘An Alternative Model of Film Production: Film Units in Poland after World War Two’, in A. Imre (ed.), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas, pp. 453–​65. 30. Szczepanik, p. 272. 31. Ibid., p. 272. 32. Alexandra Sosnowski, ‘Poland’s Film Industry Today: Structural and Economic Aspects’, in Janina Falkowska and Marek Haltof (eds), The New Polish Cinema (Wiltshire, England, 2003), pp. 10–​23. According to Balázs Varga, the studios became independent companies already in 1987, see in Balázs Varga, ‘Co-​ operation. The Organisation of Studio Units in the Hungarian Film Industry of the 1950s and 1960s’, p. 314. For the brief discussion of the units after the end of socialism, see Szczepanik, pp. 304–​5. 33. Piotr Marecki, ‘East-​ Central Europe:  Favorable Grounds for Film Units’, in M.  Adamczak, P.  Marecki and M.  Malatyński (eds), Restart Zespołów Filmowych, p. 227. 34. Ibid., pp. 225–​6.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 35. Dina Iordanova, ‘East-​ Central European cinema and literary history,’ in Marcel Cornis-Pope and John Neubauer (eds), History of the Literary Cultures of East-​Central Europe, vol. 1. (Amsterdam, 2004), p. 525. 36. Mette Hjort, ‘Small Cinemas: How They Thrive and Why They Matter’, Mediascape: UCLA’s Journal of Cinema and Media Studies (Winter 2011), pp. 1–​2. Available at: http://​www.tft.ucla.edu/​mediascape/​Winter2011_​Small Cinemas.html (accessed on 5 December 2016). 37. See Mette Hjort and Duncan Petrie (eds), The Cinema of Small Nations (Edinburgh, 2007). 38. Ewa Mazierska also signalled this problem in her ‘Train to Hollywood. Polish Actresses in Foreign Film’, in E. Mazierska and M. Goddard (eds), Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context, p. 154. 39. Dobreva, ‘Eastern European Historical Epics’. 40. Recently two volumes claimed the specificity and great relevance of Eastern European popular television. See Anikó Imre, TV Socialism (Durham and London, 2016) and Anikó Imre, Timothy Havens and Katalin Lustyik (eds), Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since Socialism. A broad scope on Socialist television and related issues of method is offered in Sabina Mihelj, ‘Understanding Socialist Television. Concepts, Objects, Methods’, View. Journal of European Television History and Culture, iii/​5 (2014), to be found at: http://​journal.euscreen.eu/​index.php/​view/​article/​view/​92/​105 (accessed 8 December 2016). 41. Hjort, ‘Small Cinemas’, p. 3. 42. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, in R.  Dyer and G. Vincendeau (eds), Popular European Cinema, p. 2 43. See Antonio Gramsci, ‘Osservazioni sul folklore’ [1935], in V. Gerratana (ed.), Quaderni del carcere (Turin, 2014), pp. 2309–​17; English translation: ‘Questions of folklore’, in D. Forgacs (ed.), A Gramsci Reader (London, 1988). 44. See Ernesto De Martino, ‘Due inediti su Gramsci: “Postille a Gramsci” e “Gramsci e il folklore” ’, in S. Cannarsa (ed.), La ricerca folklorica 25 (April 1992), pp. 73–​9. See also Stefania Cannarsa, ‘Genesi del concetto di folklore progressivo. Ernesto De Martino e l’etnografia sovietica’, La ricerca folklorica 25 (April 1992), pp. 81–​7. 45. See David Forgacs, ‘The Italian Communist Party and culture’, in R. Lumley and Z. Barański (eds), Culture and Conflict in Postwar Italy (Houndmills and London, 1990), p. 101. See also David Forgacs, ‘National-​popular: genealogy of a concept’, in D. Forgacs, Formations of Nation and People (London, 1984), pp. 83–​98. 46. Knapík, ‘Czechoslovak Culture and Cinema, 1945–​1960’, p. 49. 47. For example in Stalinist Czechoslovakia the state encouraged the production of historic films, comedies, documentaries as well as science and children’s films. Ibid., p. 51.

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Introduction 48. See D. Ostrowska’s chapter in this volume and also Pavel Skopal, ‘The Cinematic Shapes of the Socialist Modernity Programme. Ideological and Economic Parameters of Cinema Distribution in the Czech Lands, 1948–​70’, in D. Biltereyst, R. Maltby and P. Meers (eds), Cinema, Audience and Modernity, pp. 81–​98. 49. An interesting early example of censorship were the panels of blue-​collar ­workers at the Workers’ Film Festival in Zlín which in 1949 were instrumental in halting a distribution of Jirí Slavíček’s film Dvaasedmdesátka (The number seventy-two, 1948), a psychological drama which was described as ‘ideologically vapid and formalistic junk’ and singled out as an example of a film not to be produced in socialist Czechoslovakia (Knapík, pp. 49–​50). For a survey of the Film Festival of the Workers in Czechoslovakia, see Luděk Havel, ‘ “O nového člověka, o dokonalejší život, o nový festival”. Filmový festival pracujících’, in Pavel Skopal (ed.), Naplánovaná kinematografie. Český filmový průmysl 1945 až 1960 (Prague, 2012), pp. 312–​58. For discussion of censorship in socialist Poland see Paul Coates, The Red and the White. The Cinema of People’s Poland (London and New York, 2005), pp. 74–​115; Katarzyna Marciniak, ‘How Does Cinema Become Lost? The Spectral Power of Socialism’, in E. Näripea and A. Trossek (eds), Via Transversa, pp. 61–​83; Anna Misiak, ‘Polish Film Industry under Communist Control: Censorship Conceptions and Misconceptions’, Iluminace xxiv/​4 (2013), pp. 61–​83. 50. Skopal, ‘The Cinematic Shapes of the Socialist Modernity Programme’, p. 96. 51. Ibid., p. 83; Haltof, p. 49; John Cunningham, Hungarian Cinema: From Coffee House to Multiplex (London, 2004), p. 96. 52. Anita Skwara, ‘ “Film stars do not shine in the sky over Poland”: The absence of popular cinema in Poland’, in R.  Dyer and G.  Vincendeau (eds), Popular European Cinema, p. 220. 53. Pierre Sorlin, ‘Ce qu’était un film populaire dans l’Europe des années cinquante’, in Bertin-​Maghit (ed.), Les Cinémas européens des années cinquante, p. 19. 54. See Fernand Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism, 15th–​18th Century:  The Perspective of the World (Berkeley, 1982). On p.  72 Braudel writes:  ‘ “Social movement” can be taken to refer to all the movements at work in a given society, the combination of movements which forms the conjuncture or rather the conjunctures. For there may be different conjunctural rhythms affecting the economy, political life, demography, and indeed collective attitudes, preoccupations, crime, the different schools of art and literature, even fashion.’ On conjunctural history and cultural studies, see Lawrence Grossberg, ‘Does cultural studies have futures? Or should it? (Or what’s the matter with New  York?)’, Cultural Studies xx/​1 (2006), pp. 1–​32. 55. For the notion of longue durée as forged within the Annales tradition, see Fernand Braudel, ‘History and the social sciences: the longue durée’, in F. Braudel, On History (Chicago, 1982), pp. 25–​54; Michel Vovelle, Ideologies and

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Mentalities (Oxford, 1990). The term longue durée in the Annales’ scholarship refers to a third notion of time that is the time of permanencies over very extended time-​spans. This approach to a discussion of cultural history within the Soviet area is to be found in Denis Kozlov and Eleonory Gilburd, ‘The thaw as an event in Russian history’, in D. Kozlov and E. Gilburd (eds), The Thaw: Soviet Society and Culture during the 1950s and 1960s (Toronto, Buffalo and London, 2013), pp. 18–​81. 56. See Tereza Dvořáková and Ivan Klimeš, Prag Film AG 1941–​ 1945: Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Protektorats-​und Reichs-​Kinematografie (München, 2008). 57. See the recent and ground-​breaking Karl and Skopal (eds), Cinema in the Service of the State. 58. This tension between national and cross-​national has been discussed, in reference to a previous Polish TV show Janosik (1974), in Anikό Imre, ‘Adventures in early socialist television edutainment’, Journal of Popular Film and Television xl/​3 (2012), pp. 119–​30. 59. See Alessandro Rosselli, Quando Cinecittà parlava ungherese: Gli ungheresi nel cinema italiano 1925–​1945 (Soveria Mannelli, 2005). 60. Greg Elmer and Mike Gasher (eds), Contracting Out Hollywood. Runaway Productions and Foreign Location Shooting (Lanham, Boulder, New York, Toronto and Oxford, 2005); Tanner Mirrlees, Global Entertainment Media: Between Cultural Imperialism and Cultural Globalization (London and New York, 2013), p. 174; Petr Szczepanik, ‘A post-​communist production world: Barrandov Film Studios between the Cold War and Narnia’ (presented at the SCMS annual conference, Los Angeles, CA, 17–21 March 2010). For a brief discussion of the impact of supranational EU initiatives in East Central Europe, see Jäckel, European Film Industries. 61. For an account of transformations in film consumption after the eruption of multiplexes, see Helena Bendová and Tereza Dvořáková (eds), ‘Distribuce filmů v České republice v posledních letech’, Cinepur xxi (2002); Tereza Dvořáková (ed.), ‘Současná česká kinematografie’, Iluminace xix/​1 (2007); Cunningham, Hungarian Cinema. 62. Michael D. Kennedy, Cultural Formations of Postcommunism. Emancipation, Transition, Nation, and War (Minneapolis and London, 2002). 63. A pioneering attempt to address the issue of the relationship between everyday life and cinema, as the former is represented in the latter, is to be found in Ewa Mazierska, ‘Economy, social class, and the everyday in Polish cinema’, in E. Mazierska, Poland Daily: Economy, Work, Consumption and Social Class in Polish Cinema (Oxford, forthcoming). We thank Ewa Mazierska for generously sharing with us her work in progress. 64. Maciej Pawlicki, ‘Jestem wkurzony’, Film iv (1994), pp. 65–​7.

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Part I

Politics of Popular Cinema in the Interwar Period

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1 Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions The Merry Wives (1938) Ivan Klimeš

As soon as the new state of Czechoslovakia emerged after World War I, it was very quick to define one of the main strategies for its film industry: to portray national history’s pivotal moments and characters.1 The role that the historical and mythical past played during the nineteenth-century national revival, as rendered in novels, on stage, in fine arts or in music, provided Czech and Slovak artists with an impressive set of narrative motifs, emblematic characters and symbolic events which they could draw on in their practice.2 Public figures responsible for this patriotic wave themselves became popular subjects, and they came to represent commitment to the national cause and moral virtue in a number of biopics which were made about them. Thus, the novels, tales and plays from the nineteenth century, alongside the biographies of contemporary national heroes, offered suitable material for expressing patriotic feelings in films such as Fidlovačka (1931), Jánošík (1935), Filosofská historie (Philosophical history, 1937), Švanda Dudák (1937), Babička (Granny, 1940) or Karel Havlíček Borovský (1931), Karel Hynek Mácha (1937) and Milan Rastislav Štefaník (1935). Nation building was an important part of nineteenth-century Czech intellectual life, but there was an important difference with other European 31

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe countries where similar nation building processes took place: there was no Czech-​speaking elite to carry it out, as it disappeared after the loss of Bohemia’s independence to the Habsburgs in 1620. In the nineteenth century, Czech cultural and national revival released much of the country’s creative energies, and nation building was identified with spontaneous popular creation, an outburst of the true soul of the people whose language and culture had been repressed for centuries. Before and after World War II cinema consistently deployed the motives and themes of nineteenth-century culture. Furthermore, the representation and use of the national past on screen, either by rendering it directly or hinting at it allegorically, also fulfilled an important political function. Films were often meant to mirror and depict political concerns, and sometimes even offer solutions to them. This chapter examines one particular case, Cech panen kutnohorských (The Merry Wives, 1938), where the popular film genre of comedy is used to portray the historical past in order to address broader national issues and contemporary social concerns, such as class conflict, ethnic tensions and the Third Reich’s imperialistic aims. The Merry Wives conflates a biographical portrait, that of writer and nobleman Mikuláš Dačický z Heslova, with a historical reconstruction. The film’s narrative is based on two theatrical plays from the second half of the nineteenth century, a feature that highlights its connection to the period of the national revival.

Historical Narratives Shaping The Merry Wives The emerging historical consciousness of Czech society in the nineteenth century centered around two stories considered vital to the formation of national identity: the legend of Saint Wenceslas and the Hussite tradition. While their symbolism has undergone significant shifts through different historical periods, they have continued to act as potent key traditions in Czech cultural and political life. The Merry Wives is one particular example of the redeployment of such national historical mythologies in the service of contemporary political agendas. The life of Duke Wenceslas (907?–​35) recalls the beginning of Czech statehood. Wenceslas, then Duke of Bohemia, was responsible for converting the Czech lands to Christianity. He met fierce popular opposition, and 32

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions even his own mother and brother attempted to murder him. He was finally successful in converting the country and was proclaimed a Christian martyr immediately after his untimely death. Medieval legends soon transformed him into the patron saint of Czech lands. He remains a symbol that is still recognised and used today. Prague’s central square, Wenceslas Square, a venue of several important historical events, including the demonstrations against the Soviet invasion in 1968 and the rallies for democracy in 1989, is adorned with his equestrian statue. The fact that these events took place under the gaze of the saint’s statue signified the binding together of the historical figure, its myth and the nation even one thousand years after the Christian martyr’s death.3 In 2000, the name day of Wenceslas (Václav), 28 September, was officially declared Czech Statehood Day. The government even funded and issued a not-​for-​sale DVD special edition of the film Svatý Václav (Saint Wenceslas, 1929) to serve as a gift during the prime minister’s international visits.4 The Hussite tradition takes its name from Jan Hus, a rector at Charles University and an early Christian reformer and martyr, who was also an outspoken and influential critic of the Catholic Church.5 His teachings led to a clash with Church authorities, who eventually put Hus on trial at the Council of Constance, with the participation of Sigismund, King of Germany and Hungary. After Hus refused to recant his views, he was burned at the stake in 1415. The martyrdom of Jan Hus is considered one of the most significant events in Czech history and it occupies a unique place in Czech historical consciousness. After a number of failed papal crusades in the ‘heretical’ Czech lands, the Hussites managed to establish a degree of religious tolerance, and until 1620 Catholics and Protestants coexisted peacefully in the Czech kingdom. In 1620, the so-​called Bohemian Revolt culminated in the Battle of White Mountain near Prague and the Protestant army suffered a quick defeat. This was followed by executions, property confiscation, a wave of emigration, general re-​Catholicisation and the persecution of Protestants. The glorious history of the Czechs and the Hussite tradition and the Czech language were important elements in the nineteenth-century national revival movement. The Saint Wenceslas and Hussite traditions are generally viewed as conflicting ones, with one standing for Catholicism and the other for Protestantism. However, there have been several attempts to integrate both 33

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe traditions into the founding concept of the Czechoslovak state. The first attempt took place after the creation of Czechoslovakia in 1918, leading to a conflict between the Vatican and the new Czechoslovak state. During this period, there were several public competitions to create art works to commemorate St Wenceslas, including a screenplay competition for a film. The most expensive silent film in Czech film history, the epic Saint Wenceslas, directed by Jan Stanislav Kolár, was made in 1929 but its premiere did not take place until April 1930, when sound films had begun to make their way to Prague. This film was both a critical and a box office failure; despite earlier plans, it was never made into a sound film, and Kolár never shot another film.6 The case of Saint Wenceslas is a telling example of the difficulties of rendering remote national myths cinematically; the same difficulty also marked the attempts to get a film project concerning Hussites off the ground in the interwar period –​it was never released.7 Instead, interwar Czech cinema preferred to refer to nineteenth-century culture, deeply imbued with said myths, by reshaping and downscaling them to contemporary concerns and cultural experience, as was the case with comedies such as Philosophical history, dramas such as Písnickář (The singer, 1932), or adaptations of iconic operas, such as Prodaná nevěsta (The bartered bride, 1933). In this way the nineteenth-century Czech revival bequeathed to Czech cinema a set of powerful narratives, which became important elements of popular culture in the interwar period. During World War II Czech lands were subjugated and a Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia was established under German rule. Postwar production until the mid-​1950s continued to evoke the Czech national plotline by contrasting Czech working class heroes to German capitalist or aristocratic villains. This can be seen in films such as the historical epic Jan Roháč z Dubé (Warriors of Faith, 1947) or the biopic of a labour activist, Vstanou noví bojovníci (New fighters shall arise, 1950). The ideologues of communist Czechoslovakia were also keen on appropriating the legacy of the Hussite movement and made it part of their propaganda by reinforcing an interpretation contrasting popular Czech Hussites with German Catholic rulers.8 In contrast, the Catholic and aristocratic Saint Wenceslas tradition was largely silenced. The development of Czech society after 1989 demonstrates the possibility of co-​existence of both traditions. The state has recognised both 34

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions in public holidays, and in 2015, on the 600th anniversary of Jan Hus’s death, the Czech TV aired a miniseries about the preacher titled Jan Hus. Likewise, the Vatican was looking for ways to mitigate the lasting conflict. In the 1990s, on the initiative of Czech Cardinal Miloslav Vlk, the Vatican established an ecumenical commission that set out to redefine Hus’s place among the Church reformers. On 17 December 1999, at an international conference on Hus, Pope John Paul II expressed ‘profound regret over the cruel death of Jan Hus, and the consequent wound, the source of conflicts and divisions, which were opened in the spirits and the hearts of the Czech people’. At the beginning of his speech, he also said: ‘Hus is a notable man for a number of reasons. Yet it is mainly his moral courage that, face to face with adversity and death, made Hus especially significant for the Czech people who suffered much over the centuries.’9 It seems that a path opened up for a less conflictual and ideologically biased look at history. As we can see in the course of Czech history, the two martyrs, Saint Wenceslas and Jan Hus, came to embody the fate of Czech glory and brutal repression at the hand of external forces. Czech intellectuals and artworks, including cinema, were instrumental in keeping their myths alive. Czech films referred allegorically to martyrs from the Middle Ages as Saint Wenceslas, Jan Hus or the Hussites while in fact their ambitions were to portray prominent figures from the national revival. This is the case with Karel Havlíček Borovský, a biopic about a key political figure from the first half of the nineteenth century: the intellectual is prosecuted at the orders of Habsburg Minister Bach, but as Hus did he defends himself before the court; he then experiences symbolic martyrdom when exiled to the Tyrol; meanwhile his wife dies in solitude in Prague, and when he finally returns to the Bohemian city, he is ill, poor and isolated from his peers. Karel Havlíček Borovský is an example how the tradition of Jan Hus was invoked in mid-​1930s Czechoslovakia, when the Third Reich’s expansionist politics were threatening neighbouring countries. At that time Jan Hus came to represent the quest for finding truth beyond political circumstances while Wenceslas as the patron saint was a reference point uniting the nation. Both traditions resonated in feature films of various genres, including the period-​piece comedy The Merry Wives.10 35

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The Merry Wives: A Comedy Taking a Political Stance The Merry Wives, directed by young Otakar Vávra (1911–​2011), was released in theaters across Czechoslovakia on 16 September 1938, which was a highly tense and dramatic moment in Czechoslovak history. It was one week before the general mobilisation decree, and two weeks before the acceptance of the humiliating terms of the Munich Agreement under which Czechoslovakia ceded one third of its territory to Nazi Germany, who claimed it as part of the Third Reich and whose residents were in large majority ethnic Germans. The Merry Wives was the third feature film for the ambitious 27-​year-​old filmmaker. It successfully merged two most popular interwar film genres:  film comedy and historical film and thus introduced the period comedy film genre to Czech cinema. The comedic angle was expressed in the title itself –​which translates literally as ‘The guild of maidens in Kutná Hora’ –​and referred to a group of ladies who were willing to undertake amorous adventures. The film, set in the late sixteenth century, tells the story of a conflict in the Bohemian city of Kutná Hora, famous for its silver mines and for coining money. The wealthy town is ruled by swindlers and foreigners. When a miner overtly protests, he is sentenced to death. However, a knight, poet and seducer named Mikuláš Dačický of Heslov arrives in town and exposes the private interests that rule the city. The city council, fearing for its earnings and women, turns Mikuláš in before the Emperor as a sorcerer. However, the hero succeeds in persuading the Emperor and goes back to Kutná Hora, releases the imprisoned miner and triumphs over the villains. The Merry Wives demonstrated Vávra’s commitment to tried and successful devices, such as top actors and widely recognised literary classics, which had already become his established practice in his feature debut Philosophical history and in Panenství (Virginity, 1937). In this way The Merry Wives travels a well-​trodden path. Yet the film is also a testimony to the fact that the Czech cinema of the late 1930s combined genre conventions of a comedy film with high film-​making standards, which were still not too common in Czech cinema. One might even argue that at this point in the Czech history, the production of popular film genres was closer to more auterist and aesthetically conscious film-​making. This fact influenced favourably the film’s critical reception but there were other reasons as well. 36

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions Some of the positive responses to the film were due to the stereotype popular among Europeans of the Renaissance as an eternally sunlit period of pleasantly loose morals.11 This approach had already been established in the film market at home in Czechoslovakia and abroad. Prototype films of this genre, such as the British film The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933)12 and the French La Kermesse héroïque (Carnival in Flanders, 1935) were both successfully released in Czechoslovak theatres.13 Yet in the fall of 1938, Czech audiences viewed Vávra’s The Merry Wives not only as an entertaining historical farce but also as a significant cinematic ‘protest song’. The nationalist ideology of the film corresponded to the political atmosphere of the time, when defending the country was a political necessity.14 For this reason tried and successful devices (top actors and literary classics) became imbued with the patriotic rhetoric established in the historiography and literature at the time of national revival. During the international crisis provoked by the annexation of Czechoslovakia by Hitler, the nationalist rhetoric was used again. Like many Czech intellectuals, Vávra was aware of the nationalist overtones of some of the topics and narratives circulating in Czechoslovak culture, such as historical discourse produced in the nineteenth century and imbuing national consciousness, and his screenplay for The Merry Wives followed this trend. Modern historiography written in the Czech language was an integral part of the national revival through the influence of František Palacký, the nineteenth-century Czech historian and politician. There the national past was represented according to a scheme of glory-​fall-​resurrection, wherein the Czechs lands, once united and triumphant, came to be threatened (mostly) by Germans and forced into darkness under the Habsburgs, but were now reclaiming their place in the sun. Such simplified understanding of history was a serious and monolithic approach, excluding a priori the possibility of a lighter treatment of the national narrative. The genre of historical comedy could only be used to portray certain periods (and historical figures), mainly the Luxemburg period in the fourteenth century and the Renaissance. To an extent, these periods served as an ideology-​ free safe haven when the Czechs and Germans of Bohemia and Moravia were not in conflict with each other as they were integrated into a wider ­cosmopolitan culture which also had a European relevance. These less dramatic periods of the Luxemburg rule and of the Renaissance were treated 37

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe with comic overtones on screen; yet even this supposedly safe haven inevitably absorbed something of the mainstream historical genres that repeatedly challenged a fixed image of Czech history.15 The two one-​act plays by Ladislav Stroupežnický, a former dramaturge at the National Theater, Zvíkovský rarášek (1883) and Paní mincmistrová (The Mint Master’s Wife, 1885), which served as the basis for Vávra’s The Merry Wives, testify to this effect. Additional sources of the film were Mikuláš Dačický’s Paměti (Memoirs, 1620–​6) and his poetry collection Prostopravda (Simple Truth, 1619–​20). Zvíkovský rarášek is set in 1585 at Zvíkov, while Paní mincmistrová (a source for the main plotline of The Merry Wives) takes place in 1611 in Kutná Hora, and both feature the figure of the Renaissance gallant and libertine, Kutná Hora –​born Mikuláš Dačický of Heslov. Vavra’s film is set in 1590 and shows Dačický in his prime as a fearless 35-​year-​old philanderer. The year in which the plot is set was carefully chosen. The authors made use of the fact that Dačický ‘married Alžběta, the daughter of Jiří Mládek, on 20 February, 1590 during the carnival festivities’16 in order to capture the protagonist’s development as he turns from a debauchee into a proper and responsible citizen, as recounted in Dačický‘s books Memoirs and Simple Truth. The film differed from the plays mainly in its general approach to the residents in the community of Kutná Hora. In Stroupežnický‘s plays, we see a generally harmonious description of the town life across all social, ethnic and religious divides. The final exposure of the alchemist Wolfram serves to bring the community even closer together. Differences are only superficial and relate primarily to religion without ever becoming the source of dramatic conflict or a subplot. The motif of religious differences appears repeatedly in conversations between the mint master, Vilém of Vřesovice, and his wife, Ludmila. While he is a Catholic, she is –​like her protégé Dačický –​a Protestant. Stroupežnický effectively tied two of the main protagonists to a religion that evoked the Hussite period. It was assumed that as long as Dačický was not Catholic the play’s audience was ready to accept his flaws as the seducer of married women and young maidens. By blending social concerns with a veiled xenophobic and nationalist concern, Otakar Vávra and Zdeněk Štěpánek, the co-​author of the screenplay and the lead actor,17 created a deep rift in this peaceful community in 38

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions their film The Merry Wives. Poor Czech miners supported by an impoverished Czech aristocrat face the nouveau riche foreign (i.e. German) officials who obtained their wealth through theft and fraud. In the film it is the struggle of the poor against the rich, Czechs against Germans, the honest against the dishonest and, ultimately, the poor honest Czechs against the rich dishonest Germans, which determines the plot. At the same time the motif of Czech honesty is recurrent and often epitomises the Czech’s quest for truth. The brave miner, Jakub, who publicly stands up to the steward, Felix of Hasenberg, is the first to talk about it: JAKUB: We, the miners […] know everything about the skimming of imperial pensions. While we live underground in permanent fear over a piece of bread, any outlander can fill up his pockets. STEWARD: You’ll get a chance to prove it in court. JAKUB:  That’s what I want so that mint master finally finds out the truth about you. STEWARD: The truth –​you and your truth… [emphasis added] The steward, one of the dishonest lot, delivers the last line with a contemptuous laugh. He distances himself from the truth and gladly leaves any concern for truth to the local (Czech) poor. It is important to point out that the steward’s line is also a judgmental reference to Hus’s moral principles. Nothing could possibly disqualify the steward more effectively in the eyes of Czech audiences than his contempt toward Hus’s legacy; he was decisively labeled as one of ‘our’ enemies. The motif of truth in The Merry Wives is not merely a speculative interpretation or a theological concern, as shown in the following scene from a trial of Jakub: STEWARD:  Jakub the miner, recant the insults spoken against us and your punishment will be lighter. JAKUB:  I swear to the memory of Master Jan Hus, our sacred martyr, that I speak the truth. KOZEL: Be sensible and recant. JAKUB: I won’t recant. I stand by what I said. [emphasis added] Rather the trial of Jakub provides one of the dark undertones in Vávra’s comedy and constitutes its foundation. The film opens with Jakub being 39

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe jailed and ends with him being saved from execution at the last minute. Interestingly, all gallant adventures that take place in between these two events are haunted by the threat of death. The fact that an ordinary miner’s life is at stake (‘I speak for all’) and that his rescue is organised by Mikuláš Dačický, effectively strengthens the position of ‘common people’, although the story is set in the environment populated by townsfolk and aristocracy. Vávra revived the myth of the common people as the bearers of wisdom and progress that corresponded with the ‘plebeian ideal’ of Czech society. If honesty and truth in The Merry Wives are associated with the ‘local’, the ‘foreign’ means dishonesty, wrongdoing and malice. Foreigners are treated with a concentrated, strong and a priori self-​justified hostility. This general dislike of foreigners is never challenged or relativised. On the contrary, over the course of the film, we get further evidence pointing out their duplicity, which culminates in plans to murder the protagonist. The steward, whom Dačický mockingly calls ‘your foreign eminence’, turns out to be a truly sinister figure. In 1938, Czech audiences surely read the scene in which the steward plans a murder as a reference to violence against Czechs in the Sudetenland, the Czechoslovak border region inhabited by a large majority of the German-​speaking population where shifting from the supranational Habsburg Empire to a new society imbued with Czech and Slovak nationalism did not calm ethnic tensions. The Great Depression hit particularly hard the regions where the German minorities lived. As a consequence, the majority of the German-​speaking population turned to National Socialism as a viable alternative to claim their rights and achieve a higher social status; and some embraced violence as a political strategy. In The Merry Wives these tensions are implied in the steward’s character, a wealthy ‘foreigner’ living within a kingdom, but not explicitly expressed. The claim for truth and national unity resonating in the film culminates in a pathos-​filled scene at Dačický’s house, with the Czech state emblem hanging on the wall, in which the viewers –​hearing the Saint Wenceslas Chorale performed in an instrumental version –​witness the birth of one of the patriotic poems from Simple Truth, as Dačický recites and writes it down: 40

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions Lev, znamení České země, mnohými jhy obtížené vždy od cizího plemene. Tak lva mordují a loupí, rvou se oň jako kohouti. Branižse, milýlve, směle a roztrhej nepřítele. Lion, symbol of the Czech lands, Always in shackles Put on by a foreign race. They abuse and rob him, Fight over him like roosters. So stand up and fight, dear lion, And rip your enemy apart.18 The entire scene stands apart from the rest of the film and its significance is emphasised by the comedic scenes that precede and follow it. The term ‘foreign race’ evoked in the Wenceslas Chorale is in need of some clarification. It is fair to assume that back in the sixteenth century Dačický‘s patriotism was based on territorial concerns rather than on nationalist concerns primarily based on language or ethnicity. It was only in the nineteenth century that political struggles came to be seen through a nationalist prism and when national affiliation became the basis of social identity. The notion that nation states are coherent ethnic and linguistic communities occupying one particular territory marked with borders did not emerge until the nineteenth century and France or the United Kingdom served as models for such constructions. However, the protagonist of The Merry Wives avoids using the sixteenth-century notion of patriotism rooted in the idea of belonging to one particular kingdom; instead, he makes use of a patriotic ideology revolving around notions of ethnicity and language. For Czech film audiences in the late 1930s, Dačický speaks of a national state in the most recent meaning, as the nineteenth century conceived it: for film-makers, screenplay writers and producers in 1938, Dačický’s Czech land was a land without Germans. 41

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Using the blueprint of ‘a gallant comedy about drinking and love’, but also a comedy about upright Czechs and devious Germans on the eve of the Munich Agreement, Vávra has his protagonist, Mikuláš Dačický, say the following lines as a sort of happy-​end solution to the current situation: ‘Sir, thank you for him [Jakub the miner] and for all miners from the mountains. I beg you on their behalf, drive these crooks once and for all out of this town. Let them go where their heart belongs. We are able to take care of our affairs on our own, without these foreigners who just pillage this land and care about their own profit.’ [emphasis added] In the strongly exaggerated Czech–​German conflict in The Merry Wives, the Czech side gains much strength from both the Hussite and the Saint Wenceslas traditions. The Hussite tradition is represented by direct references to Jan Hus but also with the recurrent motif that truth is worth sacrificing one’s life for. The Saint Wenceslas tradition makes an appearance in two powerful sequences. The first sequence captures town residents leaving the church after mass. From inside the church, we can hear a mixed choir slowly singing the Saint Wenceslas Chorale, one of the most popular religious songs in the Czech lands of the time, but originally from the twelfth century. The melodic line, only slightly rhythmical, is accompanied by Czech lyrics in prayer form. The first stanza of this still-​popular hymn is as follows: Svatý Václave, vévodo české země, kněže náš, pros za nás Boha, svatého Ducha, Kyrie eleison. Saint Wenceslas, Duke of the Czech lands, Our Prince, Pray for us with God, Holy Spirit, Kyrie eleison.19 42

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions In the following sequence, we hear an instrumental version of the Saint Wenceslas Chorale. It is a scene in which Dačický writes his poem urging the Czech lion to defend the country. By deploying both traditions in defense against German foreigners and their aggression, Vávra’s film fits seamlessly into art that stages the threat to and the defence of the homeland. The resonance of these lines is, oddly enough, supported by the film’s very traditional style. The carefully-​crafted screenplay allowed the filmmakers to draw on the staging tradition of theatrical realism, including set design, costume design and make-​up. This ensured that the attention of the audience would not be distracted by a new film-making style but instead be drawn to the film’s message. The mutual relationship between, on the one hand, national mythology as the nineteenth-century’s Czech revival forged it, ideological function responding to contemporary political needs and, on the other, a transparent, verisimilar cinematic style was to endure major political shifts. This is what happened with the Hussite myth’s upswing in the mid-​1950s, that is, after the 1948 Communist putsch. This time, the fifteenth-century Czech theologian and the wars of religion ravaging Central Europe between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries served the political goals of the ruling Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and Otakar Vávra, no stylistic innovator himself, came to hand once more. His 1954–​6 Hussite trilogy, Jan Hus, Jan Žižka and Proti všem (Against all), follows the same stylistic conventions that The Merry Wives relied on. The trilogy adapted the literary work of Alois Jirásek, a major exponent of the nineteenth-century national revival, and followed the Stalinist project of reinterpreting the historical and nationalistic epic in the light of Socialist Realism. This became known as Jiráskova akce (Jirásek action). Similarly to The Merry Wives the trilogy steers away from stylistic innovation and instead pays homage to the nineteenth-century narrative, visual and political culture. Rooting interpretations of the past in the rhetoric of national revival, while making the message of the films advantageous for the contemporary ruling power, was a widespread practice during the Stalinist era, as it is demonstrated in biopics devoted to nineteenth-century nationalist artists, such as Mikoláš Aleš (1951), or literary adaptations such as Psohlavci (Dog’s heads, 1955). Therefore, popular cinema in Czechoslovakia from the 1930s into the 1950s chose to reproduce 43

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe well-established nationalist themes, motifs and ideology, while reducing other factors that might challenge this strand of cultural heritage. The task of radically disassociating cinema from the stylistic tradition inspired by nineteenthcentury culture was left for director František Vláčil and his historical films from the 1960s;20 that is, at a time when national and ideological myths were deeply scrutinised and eventually criticised.

Conclusion An ability to suppress prejudice in the treatment of Germans in Czech historiography has to date not been made evident. The Merry Wives proves that when the national body feels threatened, Czech society is keen to invoke both the Saint Wenceslas and the Jan Hus traditions, which have the potential to be seen as symbols of resistance against German expansion. The success of Vávra’s film from 1938 does not lie only in its artful adaptation to the political situation of the time. Its anti-​German sentiments were in line with a long tradition of nationalist-​leaning Czech culture that goes back to the nineteenth century and speaks primarily against German influence. However, the success of popular cinema is not just a question of gross patriotism. The genre of comedy  –​the most enduring genre in Czech cinema, and the most successful in the 1930s –​also contributed to the success of The Merry Wives. Other factors included its literary sources, a politically-​influenced view of the national community and an established theatrical tradition. In conclusion, the combination of past figures symbolising the suffering of the nation (a toolkit Czech revival forged during the nineteenth century and based on myths, emblems and discourses defining the national community) and European and Czech stylistic and generic developments produced a unique blend. This compound was very effective in addressing ‘the people’, as both a national community and as an audience.

Notes 1. On Czech interwar nationalism and historical cinema, see:  Ivan Klimeš and Jiří Rak, ‘Idea národního historického filmu v české meziválečné společnosti’, Iluminace i/​2 (1989), pp. 23–​37.

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Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions 2. An overview of the national revival in the nineteenth century and its close connection to cultural creation is to be found in Derek Sayer, The Coasts of Bohemia. A Czech History (Princeton, 2000). For an insightful semiological reading of the national revival’s culture, see Vladímir Macura, Znamení zrodu. České národní obrození jako kulturní typ (Prague, 1995). 3. The former Horse Market was renamed as Wenceslas Square in 1848 on the proposal of notable Czech journalist and poet Karel Havlíček Borovský. 4. The film was screened on 28 September 2010 at Rudolfinum, one of the major music halls in Prague (which not only hosts the Prague Spring festival but it also served historically as the Parliament during the interwar years), accompanied by original music by Oskar Nedbal and Jaroslav Křička that was performed by the Prague Radio Symphony Orchestra. The screening was attended by Prime Minister Petr Nečas and the then-​Archbishop Dominik Duka. 5. On the Hussites, see: Petr Čornej, Velké dějiny zemí Koruny české, vol. V, 1402–​ 1437 (Praha-​Litomyšl, 2000); Petr Čornej, Světla a stíny husitství. (události-​ osobnosti-​texty-​tradice). Výbor z úvah a studií (Prague, 2011); Petr Čornej, Tajemství českých kronik. Cesty ke kořenům husitské tradice (Prague, 2003); František Šmahel, Jan Hus. Život a dílo. (Prague, 2013); František Šmahel, Husitská revoluce. Kronika válečných let (Prague, 1996). 6. ‘Svatý Václav. První český historický velkofilm/​ The First Czechoslovak Historical Epic Film’ (supplementary book by Viktor Velek on the Svatý Václav DVD release) (Prague, 2010). 7. On the attempts to produce a movie on Hussites in the interwar era, see Ivan Klimeš and Jiří Rak, ‘Husistský film –​nesplněný sen české meziválečné kinematografie’, Filmový sborník historický iii (1992), pp. 69–​135. A detailed description of historical cinema during the Stalinist era is to be found in Ivan Klimeš, ‘K povaze historismu v hraném filmu poúnorového období‘, Filmový sborník historický ii (1991), pp. 81–​6. 8. Zdeněk Nejedlý, Komunisté –​dědici velkých tradic národa českého (Prague, 1946). 9. http:/​avalon.wz.cz/​Dusevni_​rust/​Janhusomluvypapeze.htm (accessed 27 March 2015). 10. Detailed data on the film is to be found in Anonymous, Český hraný film II. 1930–​1945 (Prague, 1998), pp. 52–​3. 11. See Ivan Klimeš and Jiří Rak, ‘Film a historie III. Tradice a stereotypy v historickém film’, Film a doba xxxiv/​9 (1988), pp. 516–​21. 12. The original title ‘The Private Life of Henry VIII’ refers to the popular device of ‘ruler of the world in a bathrobe’ fostered in Czech theater by, for instance, Emanuel Bozděch. 13. Korda’s film The Private Life of Henry VIII opened in the Prague movie theaters Kotva and Lucerna on 15 December 1933; Feyder’s Carnival in Flanders

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe opened at the Alfa cinema on 25 February 1936. Feyder’s film was often discussed as a sort of inspiration for The Merry Wives. See Luboš Bartošek, Náš film. Kapitoly z dějin (1896–​1945) (Prague 1985), pp. 321–​2. 14. See Jiří Rak, ‘Český film a hnutí na obranu republiky’, in Anonymous, Obraz vojenského prostředí v kinematografii meziválečného Československa I (Prague, 1992), pp. 23–​7. 15. We should note a critical review of Feyder’s Carnival in Flanders by Václav Tille, a professor of comparative literature at Charles University. According to Tille, the film ‘ridicules and demeans the townsfolk’ and ‘praises the aristocracy as being absolutely […] perfect’. ‘We also know of the harsh battles of the Dutch against the bloody rule of the Spanish. Charles de Coster depicted this struggle for freedom in his magnificent novel about Ulenspiegel […] Another Belgian novelist, Spaak [Charles, the film’s screenwriter –​author’s note], a conservative Catholic, defends the Spanish army against him, an army that had for years devastated and occupied the country, and laughs at those who –​like Jirásek in our context –​depicted the suffering under aggressive foreign rule. Just imagine that a Czech novelist would write about, let’s say, Mělník after the Battle of White Mountain, that the people are scared as they wait for the arrival of a foreign nobleman, one of those who have occupied the country and persecute the people for religious reasons. And the novelist would then describe how the townsfolk hide when the Spanish soldiers arrive, but the women –​headed by the mayor’s wife –​host the soldiers, but the supremely gallant noblemen and soldiers don’t dare touch them unless the women start seducing them.’ [Václav Tille], ‘Dva filmy’, Literární noviny, ix/​6 (6 December 1936), p. 7. 16. Mikuláš Dačický z Heslova, Paměti (Prague, 1940), p. 46. 17. Štěpánek since the 1930s repeatedly worked with Vávra, and later embodied the Hussite leaders in the 1950s Jirásek trilogy, interpreting Jan Hus in the eponymous film, and Jan Žizka z Trocnov in Jan Žizka and Against all. 18. Mikuláš Dačický z Heslova, Prostopravda (Prague, 1902), p. 83. 19. Tellingly, the only other piece of Czech medieval music that is still generally familiar is the song Ktož jsú boží bojovníci (Ye who are warriors of God), a war anthem of the Hussites. Both traditions are represented by a song in contemporary Czech society. 20. See Petr Gajdošík (ed), Marketa Lazarová. Studie a dokumenty (Prague, 2009); Ivan Klimeš, ‘Vítejte v baroku! První záběr z Ďáblovy pasti’, in P. Kopal (ed), Film a dějiny (Prague, 2005), pp. 183–​96.

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2 Starlets and Heart-throbs Hungarian Cinema in the Interwar Period Zsuzsanna Varga

In the first years of the twentieth century, we watched the birth and the growth of a new art form, which has grown into hard-​ to-​follow importance in the meantime, with the dizzying speed of our century: the cinema […] Today cinema is one of the most important factors of life, the philosopher of culture has to reckon with it when he examines the intellectual life of our age, the psychologist has to reckon with it […] the economist has to reckon with it as it constitutes the fourth largest industry of America and the third largest of Germany […] Cinema shares its psychological roots with other art forms: it, too, is wish fulfilment for the people of today, and more than other art forms for people who do not engage with art professionally. It does not need any preliminary study, the poor person can go to the cinema and can live the life of the rich, and those who yearn to see the Middle Ages, can see them before their eyes. Cinema is a powerful tool for the happiness of mankind and is probably the most benevolent of all arts.1

Few would deny that Hungarian cinematic art enjoyed one of its most popular and artistically distinguished periods during the interwar period. 47

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Its popularity is not just a nostalgic, contemporary reconstruction by posterity: rather, the best of the interwar movies were widely distributed, marketed and viewed during the 1930s, and their initial release mobilised the imagination of viewers in exemplary ways. The abundance of periodical articles and readers’ letters related to the film industry suggests that the operations of the film industry and the lives of cinema actors aroused much public interest.2 The period from 1931 to 1944 –​starting with the first Hungarian-​made talkie and ending with the year before the Soviet takeover –​was at first dominated by comedies, whilst later on melodramas also appeared in significant numbers. What captured the viewers’ imagination were the easy-​to-​understand plots and the stellar actors playing the leading roles. But behind the film production, profound industrial and social changes were also at work. This chapter sets out to map the relationship between industrial developments, genre and stardom against the backdrop of the period’s historical and cultural shifts. I argue that the emergence of a rich culture of genre films –​the type that dominated Hungarian film-making –​was closely linked to intellectual and artistic influences from the sister arts and from European film-making, and also that the stars offered recognisable types to the predominantly urban viewers: the comic man, the dashing hero, the saucy girl and the vamp. Following the careers of four major and very different stars, I sketch the close relationship between screen, stage and individual life choices during historical cataclysms. The golden age starts in 1931, with the launch of the comedy Hyppolit, a lakáj (Hyppolit, the Butler), the second-​ever Hungarian talkie, but during the rest of that decade an array of film genres populates the screening venues. Hyppolit was a comedy about the relationship between an upstart industrialist’s family and their aristocratically-​minded butler, much in the vein of Molière’s Bourgeois gentilhomme but with a twist to turn the audience’s sympathy towards the upstart family. The family, perhaps lacking in polish but driven by down-​to-​earth common sense, is at first bullied but also amused by Hyppolit but eventually rises up against him. Hyppolit launched the comedy tradition for the 1930s and was succeeded by at least 80 film comedies. They marked a particular film trend which ‘represented the liberal, cosmopolitan, consumption-​oriented middle class Budapest as the symbol of modern Hungary.’3 Glamour comedies 48

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Starlets and Heart-throbs (or ‘white telephone films’) were first introduced by Meseautó (The Dream Car, 1934), a romance between an office girl and a disguised company director.4 Lila akác (Purple Lilacs, 1934) foreshadowed melodramas with its plot focusing on the unrequited love of a young seamstress for a young bank clerk, whilst she also dreams of stardom on the stage. Repülő arany (Flying gold, 1932) introduced a detective film, and the 1940s even boasted an unusual science fiction film directed by Ákos Hamza (Szíriusz/​Sirius). From 1931 to early 1944, 348 feature films were made, with the number averaging around 40 annually during the war.5 The boom of the 1930s followed a rather slow period in Hungarian film-making. The emergence of the cinematic industry in the 1910s was sudden and spectacular, but the boom was brought to a sudden halt by the rapid, and largely unexpected, collapse of the Austro-​Hungarian monarchy, with Hungary losing two-​thirds of its territory and one third of its resident Hungarian speakers.6 The territorial losses affected the film-​making infrastructure and the market also shrank.7 The turbulent years between 1918 and 1921 including the four-​month-long Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1919 and the subsequent right-​wing takeover, caused a mass emigration of experienced filmmakers. National film production suffered a further setback when the large-​scale import of foreign films was renewed and American, French and Italian films started to flood the market.8 By 1922, the level of domestic production had significantly dropped: the number of films made was well below ten, with only two films produced in 1925.9 Film-making continued to be a private, market-​driven commercial enterprise during the interwar years, but very powerful acts of state intervention helped to spur its revival. In 1924, the Magyar Filmiroda (Hungarian Film Bureau) was set up with the remit of regular newsreel production, and during the 1930s it also added feature and educational films to its profile.10 Other, capital-​poor production companies were supported by a financing structure that was designed to tax the distributors of imported films and then reinvest the funds for domestic film production. The film legislation of 1925 (4.963/​1925 and 6.292/​1925 M.E.) stipulated that distributors pay a one-​off fee for each imported film, a fee for each meter of imported film, and another fee referred to as a ‘censorship ticket’.11 Taken together, these fees generated an income of about one million pengős annually at a time when one film could be produced for about 120,000–​160,000 pengős.12 The 49

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe funds thus accumulated were placed in the hands of the state-​administered financial organisation Filmipari Alap (Film Industry Foundation, set up in 1925), which loaned sums to applicants, which then had to be recouped by sales. In 1927, Corvin Studio, well-​known from early days of film-making, was modernised with the help of the Fund, renamed Hunnia Film Studio and acquired the equipment for making feature films.13 The arrival of talkies soon set a further challenge to Hungarian film-making, but in 1931, Hunnia was made suitable for sound recording, and the domestic production of talkies with local actors and stories followed immediately.14 Films normally were made in two weeks, with the presence of stars and very low budgets being the two essential conditions of filmmaking. The cinema network also developed rapidly: in 1929, 555 cinemas were already showing reels in the country, and although the spread of the talkies bankrupted many smaller cinemas in the early 1930s, their number still rose to 410 by 1935, with a predominance of cinemas in major cities.15

Glamour Comedies and the Rise of the Male Stars The rise of the Hungarian film industry in the 1930s owed much to more established art forms. From the beginning, it had a near-​symbiotic relationship to literature: it did not emerge as a new, ‘culturally more democratic’ alternative to literature, rather, it was closely associated with the country’s very strong and much revered textual culture, which itself was not considered elitist. Men of letters like Szerb or the poets Mihály Babits and Dezső Kosztolányi wrote about cinema with passion and curiosity; the main modernist periodical, Nyugat, published film essays, and literary classics were adapted to the screen as early as 1918.16 Actors had enjoyed celebrity status since the end of the eighteenth century, and the late nineteenth century also saw the rise of that specifically Central European genre, the operetta, which combined dance, singing and acting. When the urban production of texts in print and the joint cults of orality and textuality that are represented by the theatre all combined with the practice of urban entertainment that had been established by the early 1910s, the result was the creation of a landscape that was receptive to the entrance of film culture. Like theatrical genres, screen comedies were based on simple patterns of accident, coincidence or role swapping. In these stock plots, the old 50

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Starlets and Heart-throbs comic model of the ‘marriage plot’ eventually helps love to transcend social or financial differences. The arrival of Hungarian-language films only contributed to the domestication of cinema-​going and the enjoyment of films as extensions of ‘our’ cultural forms and entertainment. Language was a crucial factor, as was pointed out by István Székely, a renowned director of the time, and Hungarian talkies were set in the local environment.17 Seeing Hungarian-​speaking actors on the screen gave a new dimension to stardom, and common critical consensus suggests that the cult of Hungarian movie stars emerged between 1929 and 1936.18 Film stardom resonated with theatre stardom, as exemplified by the popularity of nineteenth- and twentieth-century stage actress memoirs.19 For actors in the 1930s, screen and stage stardom grew hand in hand, though their stage roles were often more versatile than the screen ones. Film periodicals circulated images and knowledge about the representatives of the film production industry, and by the 1930s, they had come to focus on the ‘star’ and the ‘star scandal.’20 With the stock characters normally being associated with one particular star and with the off-​screen life of performers becoming part of the public discourse, stars were constructed as coherent and recognisable. The early 1930s was characterised by the dominance of male stars, and the starring actors included Pál Jávor, Antal Páger, Gyula Kabos and Imre Ráday. They represented different types: Páger was the most versatile actor; Jávor was the true heart-throb; Gyula Kabos was the man in the street (the ‘Svejk’); and Imre Ráday embodied the urban rascal. Though no action movies or gangster movies yet existed, early 1930s films used men as the lead characters, with the plotlines frequently revolving around the question of defining a ‘real gentleman.’21 Aristocrats were frequently represented as caricatures and kept in the background, and conflict often took place between the not-very-polished but likeable upstart industrialist and the impoverished young man from a good family. Of the long list of stars, Gyula Kabos and Pál Jávor emerged as the ones whose presence not only defined screen masculinity but also around whose person two quintessential and opposite types crystallised: the comedian and the heart-throb. Both came from very simple backgrounds. Kabos (1887–​1941) came from a lower middle class Budapest Jewish family and had already established his reputation as a comic actor and 51

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe operetta star in the provincial towns of Szabadka (Subotica, now Serbia) and Nagyvárad (Oradea, now Romania) before he moved to Budapest in 1922.22 From 1926 onwards he was the acknowledged male prima donna of the Operettszínház (Operetta Theatre), where his stunning acting and dancing saved several mediocre plays. His brave attempt to serve as director of the Operetta Theatre in 1929–​30 was a financial failure, and, as his interviews for Est (Evening) magazine suggest, he was happy to be relived of the post.23 His role in Hyppolit came unexpectedly, after the director, István Székely, spotted him on stage at the theatre; and The Dream Car in 1934 cemented his stardom. Initially, Kabos saw film acting as a source of additional income to help him support his several retainers and pay off his debts, but in eight years he played in 45 films.24 His theatrical work encompassed a range of different roles, including the tragic figure of Marmeladov in Crime and Punishment, but film audiences only wanted to see him as a comedian. In films, he played only stock characters: shy and inhibited men, downtrodden in their professional environments (merchants, lawyers, secretaries), husbands henpecked at home, whose role often bordered on tragicomedy, but whose power, nevertheless, lay in the apt and witty use of language in verbal duels. One of his last interwar films made in Hungary, Lovagias ügy (Affair of Honor, 1937), showed the tragic-​comic figure of Mr Virág the petty clerk, who nearly loses his job after coming into conflict with the lazy and arrogant nephew of the company’s owner. His roles in Budai cukrászda (The Little Pastry Shop, 1935) and Halló Budapest (Hello Budapest, 1935) had box office sales that only US and German films had previously achieved. His name listed first on posters guaranteed success and ‘people would flock to the cinema because they knew that he would lift the spirits of an audience that was tired of the monotonous labouring of life, that he would inspire them […] [N]‌obody could play the petit bourgeois better […], with more inspiration. His observations seem to have been constructed from his memories of old Budapest, of the Seventh District, the years of his youth. This is why his film roles were always animated and life-​like.’25 His stardom was never in question. His stature was made indisputable in the magazine Délibáb, which, in June/​July 1935, launched a series of reader competitions to vote for the most popular stars. Kabos came in first, with an emphasis on the audience’s identification with him as the representative 52

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Starlets and Heart-throbs of Budapest humour.26 The vote was repeated in 1938 in another magazine called Sztár; he regularly was listed among the six most popular actors. By 1937, his popularity reached such heights that Zoltán Egyed, writing in the influential film magazine Mozi Újság, declared his name to be the utmost guarantee of box office success: ‘The purchasing confidence of the Hungarian audience centres exclusively on misunderstanding-​based comedies with happy endings.’27 Popularity and success did not save Kabos from persecution. When the Second Jewish Law of 1939 limited the participation of Jewish actors in cultural life to 6 per cent,28 Kabos fled to the USA, where he planned to re-​launch his career as an actor in the strong and sizeable Hungarian émigré community, but his three short tours ended in failure. He died at the age of 54. With the same crowd appeal, Pál Jávor (1902–​ 59) embodied an entirely different masculine identity. Jávor was also a self-​made man and came from a family of impoverished gentry from Arad (Arad, Romania), then a major Hungarian city.29 Like all actors of his generation, he learnt the trade in provincial theatres, where his stage and private role as a ladies’ man quickly became established. He had played small roles and some bigger ones in the Vígszínház (Víg Theatre) in Budapest in 1930 before the film industry discovered him. He first starred in the semi-​talkie Csak egy kislány van a világon (There is only one girl in the world, 1929), then also in the first Hungarian talkie Kék bálvány (Blue idol, 1931), a film that was a real flop. His film career was also assisted by a well-​intended but misguided decision made by Sándor Hevesi, the director of the National Theatre: to protect his theatre, Havesi discouraged his actors from taking part in films.30 Without rivals from the National Theatre, Jávor could fully occupy the position of the heart-throb. The characteristic bifurcation between repetitive film roles and more varied theatrical ones was also his lot: in the theatre, he was given the chance to play characters ranging from Horatio in Hamlet to Rank in Ibsen’s Doll’s House; but in films, he was the just the dashing hero.31 He represented the masculine ideal of the 1930s: the elegant yet emotional and sensitive gentleman; a man from the nobility or the professional class who, though impoverished, still has polish and is quick to attract the attention of the female lead. In his earlier films, including Elnökkisasszony (Miss President, 1934) and Fizessen, nagysád! (Pay up, Madam! 1937), Jávor 53

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe plays variations of the same role: he is the unemployed university graduate engineer with whom the young lady director or the director’s daughter becomes smitten, and whom he marries after the necessary plot complications and comic intrigues masterminded by the cunning but not particularly intellectual girl. In Maga lesz a férjem! (I will just marry you, Sir! 1937) he is a landowning nobleman who becomes caught up in the marital plans of a young woman. Whether financially inferior to the daughters of the industrial bourgeoisie or on a par with them, his character always has the advantage in age, experience and intellect over his female opposites. The ironic smile with which he watches the girls’ machinations never leaves him, but the marriage plot dictates that he must (suddenly and often puzzlingly) fall in love with the girl. Towards the end of the decade, Jávor was invited to represent vulnerable and psychologically more complex characters. His brooding looks suited him to the role of a man torn between the modern versions of two archetypal female characters: the faithful and honest woman and the mysterious and fatally attractive femme fatale. In Halálos tavasz (Deadly spring, 1939) he is eventually driven to suicide by the woman’s unwillingness to commit to him; while in Valamit visz a víz (Something adrift in the water, 1943) the happily married János is caught up in a struggle between his duty to his wife and his fatal attraction to the mysterious woman he has saved from drowning –​a woman whose past and identity remain veiled throughout the film. In the films made in the 1940s, his portrayal of characters who exhibit anxiety and vulnerability and encounter what they understand to be fate, shows his capacity as an actor who is masterfully able to represent human suffering. Jávor’s stardom grew directly out of his screen persona. In star competitions organised by movie magazines, he came in second after Kabos (Délibáb, 1935) or among the first three (Sztár, 1937–​8 monthly competitions).32 Regarding masculine beauty and elegance, one of the readers commented: ‘A star must shine. Stars should be unattainable for their audience; stars should embody a distant world. They should be strong enough to live up to the notion that if they are stars on stage, they are stars in private life, too.’33 Jávor’s star qualities were also related to his legendary personal impulsivity. In 1934, during a performance of the play A cirkusz csillaga (The star of the circus), he got into a fight with the owner of a horse, who then took the case to the police.34 But such occasional scandals aside, 54

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Starlets and Heart-throbs Jávor’s image was never that of the bully or the aggressive man. Rather, he was the impulsive and sensitive soul with an acute moral sense that demanded a response to injustice –​the modern reincarnation of the nineteenth-century image of the Hungarian nobleman of passion and integrity. During the war years, Jávor’s social circles overlapped with the secret, pro-​Allied political circles; in 1943, he vocally opposed discrimination against his Jewish colleagues. Like many Hungarian intellectuals who were pro-​British sympathisers, he was also on the German’s list of those to be detained after the March 1944 German occupation. His house arrest in 1944 was followed by a nine-​month imprisonment after the Arrow Cross (Hungarian Nazi) takeover in October 1944.35 The Soviet occupation in 1945 forced him to emigrate to the USA in 1946, where he was disappointed to discover that the film industry was unreceptive to actors whose native language was Hungarian: he auditioned for the Metro-​Goldwyn-​ Mayer film The Great Caruso, but was turned down.36 He finally returned to Hungary during the Kádár consolidation in 1957 and had some successful theatrical performances, but he died the following year.37

Turning Toward Melodrama: The Film Industry From 1936 Onwards During these years, the gossip magazines turned their attention to the private lives of the actresses, and the affairs only of some dashing actors found their way into the limelight. Comic actors, whose role was to make serious faces smile, had no place there. Their business was to say witticisms, and even wittier witticisms, and then disappear from the stage and give the floor to some mesmerisingly beautiful actresses and their good-​looking lovers, who have always represented youth that was invincible.38

The film industry underwent major changes from about 1936 onwards: with the loan system more consolidated, Hunnia Studio also became more professional and the market –​the domestic one and the one provided by the North American communities –​was available for Hungarian-language films.39 The availability of the two main film studios for rental helped small production companies. Promoting the national language was supported by legislation in 1935 which required cinemas to devote 10 per cent of their 55

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe screening time to Hungarian-​language talkies.40 In 1938, 32 films were produced.41 The Hungarian-​speaking market became much larger after the re-​annexation of the Hungarian-​speaking territories in 1941, increasing the number of potential viewers from 9.3 million to 14.3 million people.42 During the war, film production was over 40 films per year, an increase which was almost as attributable to the understanding that films boost the population’s morale as it was to the fact that the film production infrastructure remained intact.43 Film-making became significantly more controlled from 1938, when the Színművészeti és Filmművészeti Kamara (Chamber for Theatre and Film Arts) was set up and put in charge of implementing the Jewish Laws limiting Jewish participation in the industry. In 1939, pre-​production film censorship was introduced.44 Protectionist legislation continued to support domestic film production, but finances, despite the existence of the loan system, continued to be precarious. It is no wonder that Ákos Hamza, a director who also had a solid background as a film producer, openly complained in the pages of Mozi Újság: It is money that determines the length of time [used for shooting], the amount of material used and the technical execution. Private capital is not made available for filmmakers because it would be impossible to recoup the investment, and it is futile to expect government support. The only thing left to do is to use the funds, accumulated at the cost of much hassle and at high interest rates, to make films that suit the taste and the needs of the masses.45

From the perspective of genre, melodramas increasingly appeared from 1936 onwards, though comedies continued to be produced. Purple Lilacs had already set the trend in 1934 with its bittersweet love triangle between a love-​struck bank clerk, an icy-​cold, well-​off widow and a tender-​hearted and innocent cabaret girl. This film’s ending was changed to a happy one by popular demand, but a year later the plot of Café Moszkva (Café Moscow, 1935), set during World War I on the Galician front, showed lovers separated by the war. Again, however, one film gained legendary status, Deadly spring in 1939, and it set the trend for melodramas during the war years. The melodramatic mode has been seen by several film 56

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Starlets and Heart-throbs historians as the direct reflection of the country’s march towards World War II.46 Less often mentioned is the impact of the Hungarian directors who were returning from Western Europe. Apprenticeship in Berlin and Paris introduced Géza Radványi to poetic realism and expressionism, as is evident in his Zárt tárgyalás (Closed court, 1940). This elegantly directed and acted, psychologically intense domestic drama focuses on the moral and emotional dilemma of a married woman whose former beau reappears in her life. She eventually chooses duty over the glamour of a different life. Ákos Hamza also learnt the trade abroad, in Paris from René Clair, and he was successful in adapting the criminal milieu to Hungarian conditions. In Külvárosi őrszoba (Guard post in the suburbs, 1942), the life of petty criminals in the outskirts of Budapest is contrasted with the philistine decency of a police constable’s family, and the plotline also involves a young woman who has fallen in with the criminals but is hankering after a more honest life. Melodramas made during the late 1930s and early 1940s focused on messy and confusing human relationships and anxious and uprooted characters who suffered from a mental paralysis; with their anxieties and aggression often deriving from love.47 Femmes fatales exhibiting high degrees of unpredictability also make their first appearance in Hungarian films.48 From 1941 on, with Hungary increasingly becoming involved in the war, the number of melodramas dramatically increased, though overtly propagandistic films were rare. The male stars with clearly defined roles in comic genres who dominated films in the early 1930s were joined by their female counterparts in the late 1930s. Women’s newly-​distinguished role stemmed in part from the presence of melodramas, normally associated with femininity and the realm of the domestic and of private emotions. Indeed, as Ginette Vincendeau convincingly shows, French poetic realism also had a strong woman-​centred undercurrent.49 But the wider range of roles for women was also the outcome of broader social changes. As Pápai and Varga suggest in the Hungarian film magazine Metropolis, ‘for successful genre film making […] reflexive cultural meaning making is required’, explaining further that the efficacy of popular myths depends on their power to reflect the desires, memories and needs of the local audience.50 In the films, the proliferation of the types of the modern woman closely reflected the emergence of new, young, female identities in society –​the working woman, 57

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe the educated woman, the divorcée, the sporty girl –​which, ironically, had gained inspiration from American films.51 These melodramatic movies often tested the relationship between men and women, posing the question of ‘who is the real man and who is the real woman’.52 Shifting away from the naive, palely drawn ingénue in Hyppolit or There is only one girl, actresses began to embody a broad range of distinct character types: Klári Tolnay stood for tender femininity; Zita Szeleczky was the tomboy; Lili Muráti was the emancipated type; Mici Erdélyi and Ida Turay were the comic actresses; and Katalin Karády was the vamp. The gender shift in stardom was also documented in the magazine Sztár in 1937–​8, when female actors were ranked on or close to the top.53 Again, it is useful to focus our enquiry on two actresses embodying two different character types: the modern woman and the vamp. Lili Muráti (1912–​2003) was the first actress to play the emancipated, or at least spirited and original, woman. After several minor roles in Budapest theatres, her screen potential was proven in the title role of A csúnya lány (The ugly girl, 1935), where she played a respectable gentlewoman who is courted by a lawyer, Dr Halmi, but who, in disguise, also works for Dr Halmi as his secretary.54 In Pay up, Madam! (1937) she played a rich mill-​owner’s daughter who outmanoeuvres her father, who intends to marry her off to the wrong suitor. Although it would be unjustifiable to suggest that she represented 1930s feminism, her independence and challenge to male authority associated her with the real ‘modern woman’ in the eyes of a critic writing in Színházi Élet.55 Much of Muráti’s public personality was constructed through the media: her elegant but slightly non-​conventional clothing attracted crowds of female fans. Unsurprisingly, she had something of a reputation as an eccentric bohemian, and when the press discovered that she and her husband, the director and fellow bohemian János Vaszary, kept separate households, they simply referred to them as the ‘crazy couple’.56 Muráti’s career was cut short by the aftermath of the war. After the Soviet takeover, she was falsely accused of pro-​Nazi sympathies. In 1946 she and her husband emigrated, finally settling in Spain, where she also worked as an actress, including film roles in Spanish and even a small role in Dr Zhivago. She was not allowed to return to Hungary until 1975, after which date she visited her homeland occasionally. 58

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Starlets and Heart-throbs Katalin Karády (1910–​90), emerged as a star in the late 1930s and during the war. She dominated the box offices and her singing voice reigned over popular music, or, in Jenő Király’s words, she was ‘the first and last of the great divas, our film goddess’.57 From a humble Budapest background, she was discovered by the film and theatre journalist Zoltán Egyed. Her striking looks secured her spectacular career: from 1939 to 1948 she starred in 20 feature films. Not only photogenic and possessing a decent voice, Karády was also prepared to undertake some risqué roles, such as the seductress in Deadly spring, in which the male hero is unable to resist her allure and is driven to suicide. Its eroticism made the film the subject of sustained attacks.58 The dangerous femme fatale became her staple role: in Something adrift in the water she played the mysteriously appearing and disappearing Anada, whose sheer magic nearly drives János to murder his honest but commonplace wife; in Guard-​post in the suburbs (1942) her ‘victim’ is a happily engaged young man. But literal or emotional seduction is never a means to secure the man for herself; after ousting the other woman, she would simply and mysteriously drift out of the plot. Mysteriousness turns from an attribute into a central dramaturgical principle in the film Machita (1944), in which Karády plays a spy from an unnamed country who is dispatched to Budapest in search of the plans for an anti-​aircraft gun.59 The convoluted plot takes a conventional turn when, unexpectedly, Machita falls in love with one of the aircraft engineers and is eventually killed for her love; nevertheless, the core of her role remains that of a seductress couched in mystery and fascination. Karády, like many actresses of her age, grew into a fashion icon. One of her first appearances was the in the magazine Színházi Élet, in which she was featured wearing a mink coat.60 Her audiences responded to her image with the same fascination as they did to her male counterparts, and her appearance on concert tours in Miskolc and Debrecen caused traffic jams.61 Her genuine popularity with admirers led to the setting up of her fan club, (KKKK= Karády Katalin Kedvelőinek Klubja, literally, club of Katalin Karády’s fans).62 During the war, the most frequent reports about her portrayed her in a successful merging of a singer’s exotic appeal with the traditional female role of offering comfort and consolation. In a letter from a member of her fan club, the writer movingly explains Karády’s interactions with servicemen: ‘She had wiped off 59

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe many tears and offered hope and consolation to many of our brothers in the army.’63 Her role as a spy in Machita had a curious resonance with her private life. She was heavily involved in circles attempting to mastermind Hungary’s secret negotiations with the Allies, with her partner, Colonel General István Újszászy, playing a major role in the US–​Hungarian secret meeting codenamed Operation Sparrow in 1944. Karády also played an important part in that operation.64 Recent historical research has proved that she also sheltered Jewish friends in her villa. In 1944, she was imprisoned by the Gestapo, and she was also detained by the Communists in the summer of 1945. Her move to the USA in 1951 was the start of an unglamorous, everyday life in which she lived in obscurity, far from the film universe.

Conclusion The 1930s belongs among the golden ages of Hungarian cinema: the newly emerging art form, drawing on existing cultural models, offered entertainment and ideal types to spectators on a wide spectrum. Not only did it rely on strong existing traditions of performance but it was also receptive to the influences of mainstream European cinema that were transmitted by Hungarian directors returning from Western Europe. Film historiography under state socialism did not attempt to subject it to close scrutiny:  the aesthetic preferences for auteur movies from the 1960s onwards marginalised the significance, popularity, power and aesthetic values of the interwar film production. The association of interwar cinema with kitsch and petit bourgeois taste was the dominant critical mode until the 1990s.65 But a consideration of individual stars’ careers also offers important perspectives. All actors considered here represented important examples of individual social mobility and splendid acting skills with the deftness to manoeuvre across genres and popularity. The darkening landscape of events was quick to decimate the film industry:  Kabos was only one of several filmmakers who left the country to escape persecution. Karády and Jávor, on the other hand, were imprisoned and physically tortured during the German occupation, and their choice to emigrate after 1945 was a pre-​emptive decision also taken by many theatre and political actors with pro-​British leanings.66 60

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Starlets and Heart-throbs Under state socialism, this second, political dimension deepened the silence about interwar filmmakers. Stardom itself was suspicious, but the fact that most stars did not just play bourgeois characters but also stood for the traditions of parliamentary democracy, made their erasure from film history a political expediency. In recent years, aesthetic and historical scrutiny has begun to do justice to interwar film-making: with the restoration of the legitimacy of the study of popular film production, the complex socio-​ political dynamics behind such film production have been studied with increasing discernment, frequently relying on archival studies and memoirs or oral history studies.67 Though individual or collective nostalgia may be the driving sentiment behind the present popularity of interwar cinema, it also restores to the spectators one particular right of which they were deprived before 1989: the right to remember.

Notes 1. Antal Szerb, ‘A mozgóképszínház kulturális jelentősége’ in Antal Szerb, Összegyűjtött írások vol. 3 (Budapest, 2000), pp. 58–​61, quoted from p. 58, a talk given by the literary historian Antal Szerb to a school parents’ evening during his career as secondary school teacher in Budapest. 2. The number of titles produced, the number of cinemas earning a reliable income for their owners and the textual references to cinemas (reviews, reports, comments in the general press and writers’ memoirs) all point to the popularity of the cinema with audiences. For the 1930s, Nemeskürty identifies 23 titles that deal with cinema exclusively, but non-​specialised periodicals also paid attention to cinema. See István Nemeskürty, A meseautó utasai: a magyar filmesztétika története, 1930–​1948 (Budapest, 1965), pp. 359–​60. 3. David Frey, ‘Just what is Hungarian? Concepts of national identity in the Hungarian film industry, 1931–​1944’, in P. M. Judson and M. L. Rozenblit (eds), Constructing Nationalities in East Central Europe (Oxford, 2005), pp. 203–​22. 4. It was also the basis of a British remake, Car of Dreams, directed by Graham Cutts, 1935. 5. István Nemeskürty, A meseautó utasai: a magyar filmesztétika története, 1930–​ 1948 (Budapest, 1965), pp. 311–​20. 6. John Cunningham, Hungarian Cinema:  From Coffee House to Multiplex (London, 2004), pp. 9–​15. 7. As Cartledge explains, the main objective of interwar Hungarian foreign policy was to regain the territories lost as a result of the Versailles Treaty concluding World War I. This was the motive behind the political alliance with Nazi Germany. The

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Vienna Awards in 1938 and 1940 returned part of Czechoslovakia and northern Transylvania to Hungary. See Bryan Cartledge, The Will to Survive: A History of Hungary (London, 2011), pp. 373–​82. 8. Gyöngyi Balogh, Vera Gyürey and Pál Honffy, A magyar játékfilm története a kezdetektől 1990-​ig (Budapest, 2004). 9. Ibid, p. 40. 10. http://​www.hangosfilm.hu/​filmenciklopedia/​magyar-​film-​iroda-​rt (accessed 15 June 2016). 11. A good description of the financial setup is in Nemeskürty, A meseautó utasai, pp. 10–​11, referring to János Smolka, Mesegép a valóságban (Budapest, 1938), no page, and Ábel Márk Záhonyi, ‘A magyar filmes intézményrendszer 1938–​ 1944’, Metropolis xvii/​2 (2013), reference to p. 20. The one-​off fee amounted to 1,000 pengős, a ‘meter-​fee’ was charged (20 fillers for each meter of imported film), and the ‘censorship ticket’, (cenzúrajegy) also amounted to between 1,200 and 1,300 pengős in 1938. 12. Balogh, ‘A magyar film születésétől’, p. 7. 13. Balogh, Gyürey and Honffy, A magyar játékfilm, p. 41. 14. Ibid, p. 43. 15. Záhonyi, ‘A magyar filmes’, p. 22. 16. János Kenedi (ed), Írók a moziban (Budapest, 1971). 17. István Székely, ‘A magyar hangosfilm új útjai’, Filmkultúra (March 1932), p. 2 and ‘A magyar filmgyártás eddigi művészi es erkölcsi mérlege’, Filmkultúra (November 1933), pp. 1–​2. The latter article welcomes the fact that Budapest is no longer just a venue for film shooting, but plots are also set there. 18. Balogh, Gyöngyi and Jenő Király, Csak egy nap a világ: a magyar film műfaj –​és stílustörténete 1929–​1936 (Budapest, 2000), p. 61. 19. Examples of theatrical stardom from earlier include:  the memoirs of Lujza Blaha, Mari Jászai, Déryné and others. 20. Richard Dyer, Stars (London, 1998), pp. 177–​8. 21. Balogh and Király, Csak egy nap a világ, p. 260. 22. Tibor Bános, Kabos Gyula (Budapest, 2000). 23. Tibor Bános, ‘Kabos Gyula’, http://​www.szineszkonyvtar.hu/​contents/​k-​o/​ kaboselet.htm. (accessed 15 June 2016) 24. Tibor Bános, Pályák és sorsok: színészportrék a huszadik századból (Budapest, 1981), p. 179. 25. Ibid, p. 179. 26. Brigitta Skaper, ‘Magyar világsztárok a két világháború közötti Magyarországon,’ Médiakutató (Autumn 2008). 27. Bános, ‘Kabos Gyula’. 28. The First Jewish Law in 1938 limited Jewish participation in the professions, including roles in the film industry, to 20 per cent. The Second Jewish Law in 1939 limited it to 6 per cent. See Cartledge, The Will to Survive, p. 375.

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Starlets and Heart-throbs 29. Gábor Gergely’s chapter ‘Cutting a dash in interwar Hungary:  Pál Jávor’s enduring stardom’ in L. Bolton and J.L. Wright (eds), Lasting Screen Stars (Basingstoke, 2016), pp. 41–​54 was not available until the final drafting of this chapter. The author would like to express her gratitute to Dr Gergely for allowing her a glimpse of the page proofs. 30. György Székely, Magyar színháztörténet, Available at http://tbeck.beckground. hu/szinhaz/htm/36.htm (accessed 25 May 2016). 31. Ildikó Dévényi, ‘Jávor Pál’, 2006. http://​www.szineszkonyvtar.hu/​contents/​f-​j/​ javorelet.htm (accessed 15 June 2016) 32. Skaper, in ‘Magyar világsztárok’ about the competition taking place from November 1937 to May 1938. 33. Ibid, quoting Délibáb, 6 July 1935, p. 77. 34. Bános, Jávor, pp. 102–​4. 35. Pál Jávor, Egy színész elmondja… (Budapest, 1987). 36. No Hungarian émigré actor achieved Hollywood stardom, but several Hungarian directors had successful careers abroad, including Géza (von) Radványi and Ladislao Vajda. 37. Ildikó Dévényi, ‘Jávor Pál’, 2006. 38. Bános, Kabos Gyula. 39. Nemeskürty, Meseautó, p.  16, and Balogh, Gyürey and Honffy, A magyar játékfilm, p. 50. 40. Záhonyi, ‘A magyar’, p.  24–​5. A  Ministry of the Interior decree stipulated that a certain percentage of films shown had to be in the Hungarian language but only half of the films had to have been made in Hungary. The rest of the films could be dubbed. Nemeskürty, Meseautó, p. 16, and Balogh, Gyürey and Honffy, A magyar játékfilm, p. 50. In 1935, 10 per cent was required, which went up to 20 per cent from 1936–​40. From 1940, this increased to 25 per cent. Half of the films had to be made in Hungary, while the rest could be dubbed. See Záhonyi, ‘A magyar’, pp. 24–​5. 41. Nemeskürty, Meseautó, p. 311 and p. 314. 42. Záhonyi, ‘A magyar’, p. 21. 43. 28 films were made in 1939, 38 films in 1940, 41 films in 1941, 45 in 1942, and 53 in 1943. See Nemeskürty, Meseautó, pp. 314–​20. 44. Záhonyi, ‘A magyar, p.14. 45. Gyöngyi Jánosi (ed.), Képek fekete-​ fehérben: Hamza D. Ákos a magyar filmművészetben (Jászberény, 2000), p.17, reference to Mozi Újság 6 (1944). 46. Balogh, Gyürey and Honffy, A magyar játékfilm, p. 51. 47. Jenő Király, Karády mítosza és mágiája (Budapest, 1989), p. 8. 48. Zsolt Pápai and Balázs Varga, ‘Hollywoodon innen és túl: bevezető a magyar műfaji film összeállításhoz’, Metropolis xiv/​1 (2010), p. 16. 49. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic realism’, Screen xxx/​3 (1989), p. 51. 50. Pápai and Varga, ‘Hollywoodon’, p. 15.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 51. Balázs Sipos, ‘Modern amerikai lány, új nő és magyar asszony a Horthy-​ korban: Egy nőtörténeti szempontú médiatörténeti vizsgálat’, Századok, 147/​ 1 (2014), pp. 21–​34. 52. Balogh and Király, Csak egy nap, p. 260. 53. Skaper, ‘Magyar’. 54. Anon., ‘Muráti Lili, a vamp’, Muráti. http://​cultura.hu/​szub-​kultura/​murati-​ lili-​a-​vamp/​ (accessed 15 June 2016) 55. Színházi Élet 5 (1936), p. 36. 56. Skaper, ‘A magyar, referring to the Sztár, 21 June 1941. 57. Király, Karády, p. 5. 58. Bános, Jávor, p. 160. 59. David S Frey, ‘Mata Hari or the body of the nation? Interpretations of Katalin Karády’, Hungarian Studies Review xli/​1–​2 (2014), pp. 92–​3. I am much indebted to Frey’s excellent study. 60. Skaper, ‘A magyar’, referring to Színházi Élet, 28 November 1937, p. 30. 61. Skaper, ‘A magyar, referring to Délibáb, 13 February 1943, p. 19. 62. Skaper, ‘A magyar’. 63. Skaper, ‘A magyar’, referring to Délibáb 24 April 1943, p. 38. 64. Frey, ‘Mata Hari’, pp. 92–​3. 65. Györgyi Vajdovich, ‘Az egyszerő néző cirkuszi szórakozása: az 1931 és 1945 közötti magyar filmek megjelenése a magyar filmtörténeti monográfiákban’, in Metropolis xiii/​3 (2009), pp. 46–​57. 66. A good summary of pro-​British Hungarian efforts during the war is available in Tibor Frank, ‘Introduction: A. Ullein-​Reviczky: A Tribute’, in A. Ullein-​ Reviczky, German War Russian Peace: The Hungarian Tragedy (Reno, NV, 2014), pp. xvii–​xxxiv. 67. Karády’s memoir Hogyan lettem színesznő (How I became an actress) was republished in 1989, and Emese Fáy wrote a play under the title Budapest epizód: monodrama Karády Katalin életéről (Budapest episode: monodrama on Katalin Karády’s life) in 2012. See Frey, ‘Mata Hari’, p. 103. About Muráti, see Anon., ‘Muráti Lili, a vamp’ and János Vaszary, Zörgetik az ajtót (Budapest, 2007).

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Part II

Towards Socialism: Continuities and Ruptures

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3 The Stripping of His Charms The Stability and Transformation of Oldrˇich Nový’s Star Image (1936–​55) Šárka Gmiterková

To say that many things changed in the Czechoslovak film industry after World War II partly reflects the real state of things and is partly a mere truism. The crucial and most visible aspect of the new order was the state control exercised over all cinematic activities. On 11 August 1945, this powerful cultural industry was centralised. This transformation was widely celebrated and was perceived positively as an instance of creative personnel finally taking charge instead of vilified producers. From that point on, cinematic projects were to be carefully selected and developed instead of being forced at a rapid pace. The state-​governed system also allowed for the qualitative elevation of film culture, shifting it from mere entertainment with a focus on financial profit towards artistic and educational endeavours. And lastly, in order to be authentic and truly reflect postwar reality, these movies had to dispense with the stars from the previous era.1 Although still visible and a prominent part of nostalgic reminiscences of the First Republic, star identities were never until recently subjected to academic scrutiny.2 The popular discourse on stardom developed after the fall of Communist regime in 1989. With the accent put on personal tragedies, career bans, deprivation and emigration, the topic of the possible 67

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe survival of stardom after 1945 has never been properly tackled. However, making a clear and precise ‘before and after’ distinction is never possible and complicates our full understanding of the situation. While the total postwar reorganisation of the industry contributes strongly to the embrace of a diachronic perspective, the latest research invites new concepts and approaches. For example, Petr Szczepanik’s chapter in the book Naplánovaná kinematografie reveals a particular continuity over time of production practices employed by above-​and below-​the-​line personnel.3 Not only technical staff but more surprisingly also creative producers worked continuously throughout the decades in spite of ideological rhetoric forbidding once-​prominent figures from holding influential posts. Throughout the 1930s and during the war years, the star system was crucial for the local film industry. Similarly to various forms of European stardom, celebrated Czechoslovak performers fulfilled two important functions. First, they served as a major crowd-​puller, securing domestic and in some rare cases even international revenues; and second, the stars stood for a culturally important product.4 Evidence of audiences gravitating towards actors who were famous locally can be found in various sources; for example, archival materials displaying preferences for certain casting combinations,5 tables detailing the theatrical lifespan of popular domestic movies,6 or fan letters addressed to film magazines after 1945 and calling for re-​runs of pre-​war films with their favourite stars.7 Despite the massive following many stars enjoyed, postwar changes implemented in a top-​down fashion modified various facets of stardom such as talent scouting, the production of star-​focused films and subsequent promotional strategies. Although the whole concept of stardom seemed endangered due to nationalisation of the film industry, and especially after the Communist putsch in February 1948, a practice of evaluating and selecting the best performers persisted, with a new set of criteria. This chapter focuses on one of the most important stars of this era, Oldřich Nový. His case is an opportunity to address the topic of the stability versus the transformation of star images in an era which generally was not at all favourable to stardom.8 In order to sustain a long-​term career all stars have to periodically undergo a certain redefinition to address the process of their ageing, unstable and changing social milieu, and evolving film production patterns. But not much has been said about celebrated 68

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The Stripping of His Charms performers who were forced to articulate a different set of qualities due to changes in political situation. In order to secure an influx of acting opportunities for Oldřich Nový, the ‘Czech Chevalier’ even after World War II, a complex set of negotiations had to take place. Such dynamic is not exclusive to the Czechoslovak situation, and similar cases can be found in a wider East Central European context. My chapter thus sheds a much-needed scholarly light on the demise of Czechoslovak prewar stardom, undermining the myth of the total elimination of a whole generation of celebrated performers. In the first section I describe Nový’s star qualities as they were developed and employed through starring roles on stage and in films in the 1930s and the war era. Embodying and performing a specific version of ‘bourgeois cliché’, Nový stood in stark contrast to established Czechoslovak theatrical traditions and to some of his male star contemporaries as well. After establishing this context, I introduce the strategies which were tailored for downplaying his conflicting characteristics in the communist era. In several films, Nový was presented in ways contrasting to his previous starring parts; namely, through parodying his pre-​war work, later emerging as a radical new hero and finally as a politically matured version of his typical leading man. However, despite his star persona having to face radical changes in terms of styling, genre and performance modes, other aspects proved hard to dissolve or recalibrate. In section two I focus on those characteristics which rendered this transformation rather incomplete; for example, production factors, Oldřich Nový’s reception by critics and audiences, and persistent star patterns in performance and promotion.

The Star Lead Apart from being a major acting star, Oldřich Nový was also a film director, recording artist, radio performer, theatre manager, screenwriter and translator of some of his repertoire as well. Such a multiple positioning provided Nový with a high degree of creative control over his work and career development. This star’s career thus reveals an impressive coherence, which was sustained by focusing on and developing his unique performing, creative and managerial skills. Throughout three decades he starred in some 40 films. The majority of them fall into the category of comedy, variously 69

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe labelled as romantic, crazy, social or conversational. Nový never profiled himself as a versatile actor but rather focused on one particular type of comedic performance combining singing, dancing and acting. From his early days on stage he played in specific musical comedies, so-​called operettas. Although frequently ridiculed by critics, the cultural elite and even actors themselves, this genre attracted large audiences, and the revenue from these productions supported experimental and dramatic repertoires. Knowing early on that a dramatic mode of acting would erase his gentle comedic skills and put him in direct competition with a much larger talent pool, Nový opted for operetta and the elevation of its status beyond that of mere lowbrow entertainment. Although Nový had already made his first film in 1922, an on-​going career in cinema became possible only after 1935. In the middle of the decade, the actor left an influential position as the creative director of the musical company at the National Theatre in Brno in order to move to Prague. The Czechoslovak metropolis, being the centre of film-making activities, offered Nový a chance to break into cinema. His staring parts in terms of genre and modes of acting were closely tied to establishing his own theatre, Nové divadlo. On the stage bearing his surname, the actor continued to brand his distinctive star persona. Due to space limitations, accommodating a maximum of only 266 viewers and leaving no space for an orchestra or large dancing troupes, Nové divadlo defined itself through situational or conversational comedy. This subgenre favoured a coherent narrative over interludes full of musical and visual excess; with the soundtrack merely illustrating the story and supporting the overall atmosphere of the play. The combination of the intimate performing space and subtle repertoire led to restrained modes of acting, eschewing resonant voices and broad gestures. Although not a strong singer, Nový’s vocal performance nevertheless had a genuine quality and a unique colour. While many period comedians, for example, Vlasta Burian or the clownish duo Voskovec and Werich, relied on the comic effect of a Czech and German mash-​up vocabulary, Nový cultivated a nasal, distinctively French intonation. In his early movies, such as Na tý louce zelený (On the Green Meadow, 1936) or Uličnice (Gamine, 1936), Nový embodied negative figures, mostly marriage frauds luring women into matrimony with phony accents and fake aristocratic origins. His later romantic leads possessed 70

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The Stripping of His Charms different characteristics, though. They were educated, career-oriented and belonging to a higher social class –​doctors, lawyers or writers moving freely around urban landscapes such as modernistic apartments, posh restaurants and fashionable bars. Despite the control they exercised over their financial and material wellbeing, however, love came as their biggest challenge. The storylines usually presented the hero in a state of longing for a steady girlfriend or even a prospective wife, and while chasing romantic fulfilment, his orderly bachelor life was turned upside down, providing the source of comedy. At the end of the 1930s, Nový’s star vehicle was fully developed and highly functional, and he was making three films on average per year, with critics acknowledging the formula with phrases such as ‘another version of this coy hero’, ‘the usual standard’ or ‘routinely performed’. The scrutinised star persona was articulated around a particular set of ideas concerning a modern romantic hero. Such an unusual version of period masculinity contained three cornerstones –​departure from acting tradition, female courtship and costume strategies. In the Czechoslovak situation, Nový’s generic preferences and performance choices posited him apart from the dominant trends in the Czech thespian heritage. If falling under the category of the farcical, actors regularly embodied men from lower social classes, for example, servants, carters and artisans. Dramatic actors, on the other hand, opted for a serious repertoire, portraying complex characters in tragedies, historical or classical plays. While these two modes of acting epitomised the highest attainable ideal in male performance,9 actresses were valued for their parts in contemporary drawing room pieces. Respected thespians occasionally portrayed their romantic counterparts, but both their artistic aspirations and critical acclaim lay elsewhere. An actor who would profile himself as the tender lover type would also have to embrace having his presence on stage be only as part of a couple and not as the dominant sole hero. Nový consciously posited himself within this genre and accepted its limitations, never expressing any ambition to succeed in a classical or any other highly acclaimed repertoire. Drawing on this notion of the shared spotlight, it is frequently stated that in contrast to other male stars of the period, Nový didn’t highlight only his own starring performance. Looking at his body of film work and keeping in mind his label as a romantic lead, it is clear that the wooed 71

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe lady  was of equal importance to the main hero. One of his biographies clearly states: ‘… preventing tediousness, at least the females had to vary when the partner stayed the same’.10 Despite frequent changes in casting combinations, the nature of the parts Nový regularly performed ensured that the actresses weren’t reduced to merely cementing his star status. His leads may have anchored the narration, but always did so with respect paid to the agency of the heroine as well. Nový was never featured as the seducer who merely exploited women, and his courtships weren’t presented in a ‘hunter and prey’ manner but as a growing cooperation between two strong individualities. Such characteristics also resulted in his starring roles having a rather chaste nature and lacking extreme emotions and events, namely infidelity, illegitimate children or divorces. Seduction was reduced to its verbal dimension and dispensed with the physical manifestations of mutual attraction; even the final kiss was often replaced by a mere embrace, which indicated the harmony and stability of the established couple (see Figure 3.1).

Figure 3.1  Screenshot from the film Dívka v modrém (The girl in blue, 1940)

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The Stripping of His Charms Finally, subtle musical comedy required a polished and elegant exterior. Costuming was crucial to Nový’s star persona, though not in the form of spectacular display. His costuming strategies, relying on genteel elegance and following conventions, were discernible on multiple levels. Stage critics’ commentaries frequently described him as a desirably dressed gentleman; and his notion of elaborate style made this star stand out among his peers. Period trade papers detailing the on-​location shooting of each Czech film printed stories about Nový helping his co-​stars fix their bow ties, thus saving the studio minutes of precious time. After his first, excessively styled film parts in 1936, Nový’s typical hero possessed a certain, apparently inherent instinct for appropriate clothing (see Figure 3.2). Never mentored, the lead always sported an outfit matching the occasion and the required dress code. The overall styling reflected Nový’s practical side (perfectly tailored suits for daytime), and he wore even festive evening clothes (namely tuxedos, tailcoat or cutaway) with an easy naturalness.

Figure 3.2  Screenshot from the film Kristián (Christian, 1939)

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The Transformed Lead Some factors supported the post​war development of Oldřich Nový’s career. He evaded any political backlash targeting his culturally prominent position by cultivating his self-​image as that of a busy theatre entrepreneur. However, other aspects of his star persona became increasingly problematic, especially after the Communist Party took over the country in February 1948. Nový’s looks, speech, demeanour and clothing contributed heavily to his persistent star status and upper-​class characteristics. Film opportunities weren’t as regular as in the previous era, but until 1955 the actor made various efforts to recalibrate his star image. In 1949 a film called Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář (The poacher’s foster daughter or the generous millionaire) was released, providing a parody reversion of Nový’s typical leads. The storyline contained narrative and formal tropes frequently employed in pre-​war comedies, tearjerkers and romances –​ a goodhearted millionaire in disguise courting a poor, naive small town girl, singing numbers, dramatic misunderstandings, and happy endings for multiple couples. However, Nový’s acting style carefully combined sentiment with a touch of irony and never burdened single performances with pathos. In order to secure the parody effect of the fortunate hero, René Skalský, the actor’s once-gentle movements had to give way to ostentatious melodramatic gestures, and the latent French colour of his voice was comically exposed. The costuming strategies disposed of the practical suits with an occasional touch of glamour in favour of the stereotypical adornment of overly emotional heroes. Thus, as a millionaire with artistic cravings Skalský sports a wide coat with an ornate shawl collar topped with French beret (see Figure 3.3); as a suffering lover he is covered head to toe in black; and for the happy ending he is excessively styled in white gloves, a top hat and an elaborately folded scarf. Nový’s significant demureness is ridiculed through the relationship Skalský has with his loyal servant, Bolton, who serves his master almost like a loving wife. Even the bride has to appreciate his efforts and count him in as a part of the marriage with the statement, ‘Now let’s take care of him together!’ While The poacher’s foster daughter still looked into the past, making a radical departure from outdated stereotypes, Nový’s next movie introduced a redefined lead for the Socialist Realist version of romantic comedy. 74

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Figure 3.3  Screenshot from the film Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář (The poacher’s foster daughter, 1949)

Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952) centred on Ludvík Zach, an extremely enthusiastic worker and ageing bachelor. His leisure time activities are non-​existent, therefore he offers to take on extra shifts for his married colleagues. When Zach meets Jarmila Svátková, he has to learn to set limits to his busy schedule and also to appreciate the value of female labour, both in and outside the workplace. Nový’s characteristic coyness was thus transformed into being merely the result of a work overload. He avoids dates in order to meet deadlines, explains to Jarmila the advantages of electrical heating and the overall courtship is reduced to a labour competition. A woman as good as her word also featured a singing number performed by Nový. However, that sequence was a radical departure from the more intimate style of Nový’s pre-​war star vehicles, where the actor merely whispered tender lyrics solely to his lady. In the latter case, the main hero unnaturally took centre stage, his voice resonating strongly through the full auditorium, supported by a large choir. The song itself didn’t allow for any melancholic undertones, instead it highlighted the positive message of the relationship as a form of mutual education. Eventually, over time, this movie gained the infamous label as the one in which Oldřich Nový wears overalls11 (see Figure 3.4). Although sporting 75

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Figure 3.4  Screenshot from the film Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952)

this outfit in only a couple of scenes, the under-dressed image of a star known for his smart style resulted in the film’s reputation as the low point in Nový’s career. Nový’s final major part in the postwar decade was the musical comedy Hudba z Marsu (Music from Mars, 1955), in which he had to deal with his ageing and thus mobilise the familiar star image once again, although in a different fashion. For the first time he didn’t play the romantic lead, despite stirring things up between the main couple, but was cast as a mentor to an amateur band. At first Jiří Karas, Nový’s part, lacks enthusiasm for the whole project, considering his stay in a small town as a sort of punishment for his previously prosperous career as a popular music composer and songwriter. Gradually he begins to enjoy the band’s progress and collective success and finally loses any traces of nostalgic longing for his lost celebrity status. Karas’s courteousness towards his landlady, Hana, confuses the band members, primarily her fiancé, but the older musician self-​critically 76

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The Stripping of His Charms acknowledges the age difference, thus reducing himself to a father figure. The most significant scene for re-​adjusting Nový’s star image occurs early in the movie. Watching the amateurish musicians, Karas wants to leave immediately, telling Hana he is unsuitable for the whole project. Then he moves to the piano and sings one of his character’s greatest hits, a sweet, romantic song typical of Nový’s pre-war staring parts. However, through Jiří Karas the performer has to admit that despite large sales and immense popularity, the quality of his former work was very low, ‘…but this was asked of me’. Such a self-​reflexive moment was far more crucial for the actor himself than for the film’s main protagonist. For the first time Nový’s previous film work was directly addressed and built upon, and this neither served as the object of parodic excess, nor was it suppressed in order to promote him as a social realist hero. Nový and others with a similarly conflicting legacy could keep up with the times not by negating or erasing their pasts, but by accepting their personal history as misguided and moulding themselves into obedient socialist citizens. The positive critical reception Music from Mars received valued it precisely for the fact that it dealt with the issue of transformation directly, displaying the star’s mannerisms but also breaking through them and letting the celebrated performer mature politically and artistically.

The Resisting Lead Despite the imposition of narrative and to some extent even stylistic strategies in order to accommodate Oldřich Nový’s star image in the post​war decade, other elements of his persona resisted such transformation. His position in the field of cultural production shifted significantly, but he still remained an influential background figure. Losing his theatre due to legislation changes, banning private ownership of stages from 8 July 1945, Nový’s managerial and dramaturgical skills found their outlet in film production. As was already stated, despite official rhetoric, various creative and production personnel could capitalise on their previous experiences even in the reorganised state cinema. In 1950 Nový became the leader of one of the newly established dramaturgical units, the so-​called collectives. Each group was profiled in accordance with the supervisor’s preferences; some of them dealt extensively with ideological issues, others effectively sought 77

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe out suitable original themes and screenplays. Not only did Nový’s unit prominently feature his name in its title but its generic specialty focused on comedies. However, the turn of the 1940s into the 1950s was defined by rapid reorganisations and bureaucratic and ideological obstacles with respect to the production process, resulting in only seven films being made in 1951. That same year, the system of dramaturgical collectives was abandoned due to its poor results. However, the gesture of delegating Nový to such a prominent position in a collective unit points to the recognition and approval of this star as a labouring professional, dedicated to the systematic elevation of domestic film culture. Problematic values attached to his image, such as internationality, high class sophistication and kitsch overtones, were what resulted in the need to redefine Nový’s star persona in the first place. However, these characteristics were attached to his film roles and therefore were sorted out on screen, without any direct influence on his reputation as a hardworking professional. The noticeable continuity of Nový’s star image was also largely supported by audience preferences and critical reception. The case of The poacher’s foster daughter is instructive for viewing the traditional prewar contours if Nový’s star image, despite its proclaimed alteration as parody. Reviewing the movie, a contemporary critic considered the its humour too sophisticated and intellectual for the regular moviegoer to grasp.12 Indeed the first screenings split audience reaction between recognition of the parody effect and pure enjoyment of the melodramatic excess. Nový himself personified this issue of mixed reception. On-​location reports stressed the radically changed looks of the cast, such as Hana Vítová dyeing her hair platinum blonde or Vítězslav Vejražka wearing a moustache. Nový, on the contrary, looked and acted exactly as in the pre-war years. Changes in his voice, performance and costuming were perceived as minor modifications, and made the performance vulnerable to accusations of actually celebrating the decadent genre.13 However, audiences didn’t have to rely on decoding these minute shifts. In order to prevent any misunderstandings, the movie opened with its instructive title, announcing familiar patterns in the unfolding story. The grand finale in which a black and white image turned into colour was interrupted by Nový himself directly addressing the viewers with instructive speech. In it he attempted to clear things up one more time, stating that the authors wanted to ‘…ridicule the life without labour, where 78

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The Stripping of His Charms sentimental singing suffices and where everything turns into a happy ending.’ Significantly, the scene is split between the words and their delivery; between the message and the star performance. Nový recites the pamphlet condemning pleasing lies, glycerine tears and silly clichés in his calm and deliberate manner. The conciliatory tone is at odds with the sharply denigrating speech, creating an extremely artificial impression. The star is singled out, enjoying the privilege of rupturing the fourth wall and sporting an elegant tuxedo, thus striking a balance between an appropriate outfit and the overdressed part. Yet the spoken words downplay the genre Nový was strongly associated with. Such an oscillation –​between, on the one hand, presenting the part in the familiar way that is connected to a particular set of values, while on the other representing its ideological opposite –​was the source of the tension between the tone and the content of the speech. Apart from production positioning and reception patterns, a general tendency towards star treatment is discernible on multiple levels. Although the narratives of A woman as good as her word and Music from Mars demonstrated a significant effort to subsume Nový’s characters into a wider collective, the star always seemed to be singled out. Highlighting the unique individuality of the celebrated performer can be identified in his solo singing performances, promotional materials and opening credits. First, musical numbers bring in the most idealised aspects of star presence, prioritising formal construction of the scene and the emotional appeal of the music.14 In Music from Mars, Karas’s earlier career as a composer of hit songs was encapsulated in a solo performance delivered shortly after his introduction (see Figure 3.5). Again, the critics’ comments praised the inclusion of such a piece but also expressed concern that some viewers might actually still enjoy such a lowbrow form of entertainment. Resisting the ideological rewriting of these sequences offered the notorious ‘guilty’ pleasures of seeing Nový sing in intimate settings, hearing the romantic lyrics and recognising the familiar star’s voice. Second, the presence of the star was announced more directly through posters, production stills and opening credits. In the case of A woman as good as her word, the poster featured the main couple, Jarmila and Ludvík, with the woman holding her partner’s arm and both staring into the distance. The pair seems odd because while the female has been extremely deglamourised, wearing plain, unflattering work apparel with a headscarf covering her blond hair, Nový 79

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Figure 3.5  Screenshot from the film Hudba z Marsu (Music from Mars, 1955)

sports a casual, yet still properly fitting and smart suit (see Figure 3.6). Such preference for the lead as is demonstrated on the poster precisely mirrors the costume strategies in the film itself. The wardrobe of the starring part can follow one of two vastly different strategies. The central character can be either matched to the continuing, off screen star style, as in the majority of Nový’s pre-war films, or the leading characters can display more authentic adornment reflecting their class, age or inner state of mind. Consequently, the infamous overalls are the only time when Nový‘s costume choices reflected his character rather than his own more sophisticated fashion.15 The promotional materials thus mobilised the persistent star image rather than its newly redefined version, delegating to the woman the task of wearing the Socialist Realist aesthetic and its adjacent work ethic. Finally, Nový’s star status was indicated through the opening credits. Not only was his name at the top of the cast list but the credits sequence also concluded with a list of the more significant titles in which this star was featured as the sole artistic collaborator –​for example, A woman as good as her word. This label wasn’t an official, state-awarded accolade such as the national artist or artist of outstanding worth, but rather it pointed to subtler notions of 80

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Figure 3.6  Poster for Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952)

professional mastery. It expressed recognition of Nový’s understanding of the comedy genre, his long-​time experience with it and thus securing satisfactory results through his collaboration on screenplay, embodiment of the main part and performing the title song. Another movie made in 1955, Nechte to na mě (Leave it to me) included opening credits featuring Nový’s name next to the title of the film. This first piece of information on creative personnel is followed by a shot of Oldřich Nový in his part of Mr Patočka, thus enforcing the connection between the star and his part. Only after this 81

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe extensive star introduction the name of the director is revealed and this hierarchy clearly stresses the importance of star casting for the whole project. These indirect hints also implied that Nový was still exercising a high degree of creative control over his films, which resulted in channelling the familiar star image quality.

Conclusion Based on popular press and assumptions passed on for generations, it has been frequently stated that after 1945 Oldřich Nový’s successful career came to an end. The newly established centrally organised state cinema system had disposed of stars, popular genres such as romances or comedies and minimised the notion of film entertainment in general. Nový thus had to take parts in films of little aesthetic value, which were not equal to the pre-​ war films in which he starred. This chapter has aimed for a re-​evaluation of this rather simplified view and considered Nový’s multifaceted stardom and evaluated its post​war transformation as incomplete or imperfect. The main characteristic of Nový’s star image is its stability, resisting the changing notions concerning quality acting and ideal masculinity. Beginning in the early 1920s, Nový himself gradually created a specific acting type, later developed into a multimedia star image. This construct was connected to a genre of subtle romantic musical comedy, foregrounding the star’s voice as his most important performing asset. In terms of the meanings and values attached, Nový’s image mobilised a departure from domestic acting traditions and the introduction of a new type of romantic lead, characterised by upper-​class origins, international influences and smart styling. Although not cultivating any direct connection between his stage career and film parts (e.g. adaptations), his star persona nevertheless conflated recognizable patterns on the level of performance, genre and narrative. After World War II, individual acting styles generated by private theatrical enterprises and the home-grown film star system were seen as a matter of the past. Oldřich Nový was also forced to give up his own theatre, but unlike many of his contemporaries, he was able to maintain both a screen presence and an influential background position. His case illuminates the elasticity of stardom; while some aspects might be temporarily downplayed or even negated, others tend to ensure and maintain the stability of 82

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The Stripping of His Charms the image. In the ideologically turbulent postwar period, political authorities focused on the selection and development of storylines rather than on the ways screenplays were staged, enacted and shot. In the case of Nový’s films made after 1945, we see that narrative and generic patterns were the easiest ones to mould to fit socialist aesthetics requirements. While a screenplay represents the first, most accessible, complete and negotiable aspect of a prospective screen project, other aspects of film-making such as editing, production design or even acting resist effective outsider control.16 Therefore the performance aspects, especially when considering such a fixed and coherent star image as Nový’s endangered the envisaged transformation project. Such concerns were frequently expressed in a film’s critical reception, implying that the audience was reading the film in an established, star struck manner; and also implying Nový’s non-​negligible insider position within the industry. The star’s career development in the late 1950s and throughout the 1960s gradually accommodated nostalgic discourse, inviting greater tolerance for the prewar cinema heritage. Nový’s position thus evolved into that of an aging icon, influencing a new generation of actors, who openly articulated their admiration for ‘the man of outstanding star personality.’17

Notes 1. Unfortunately, a complete historical overview of Czechoslovak cinema doesn’t exist. A range of information on postwar development can be found in the following volumes and books: Pavel Skopal (ed.), Naplánovaná kinematografie. Český filmový průmysl 1945 až 1960 (Prague, 2012); Pavel Skopal, Filmová kulutra severního trojúhelníku. Filmy, kina a diváci v českých zemích, NDR a Polska 1945–​1970 (Brno, 2014). A repudiation of prewar stardom can be found in popular press discourse, which frequently capitalised on this topic. For example, see: Marie Fromáčková, Zita Kabátová –​Sto let a já (Prague, 2012); Václav Junek, Herec Antonín Novotný. První milovník, který zmoudřel (Prague, 2012). 2. The first systematical introduction of star studies method to Czech academia dates back to 2012, when a special issue of Czech film studies journal Iluminace published an issue dedicated to domestic stardom. See Šárka Gmiterková (ed), České filmové hvězdy, special issue of Iluminace xxiv/​1 (2012). 3. Petr Szczepanik, ‘“Machři” a “Diletanti”. Základní jednotky filmové praxe v době reorganizací a politických zvratů 1945 až 1962’, in Skopal (ed.), Naplánovaná kinematografie, pp. 27–​101.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 4. For more on the cultural specificity of stars in a similar time frame and geographical context, see Joseph Garncarz, ‘The Star System in Weimar Cinema’, in Ch. Rogowski (ed.), The Many Faces of Weimar Cinema (Rochester, 2010), pp. 116–​34. 5. Národní filmový archiv –​oddělení písemných archiválií, Fond Filmové studio, inv. č. 27, Výrobní komise-​zápisy-​rozhodování o podporách, p. 42. 6. Numbers concerning film production, import, distribution and cinema attendance in the period 1930–​45 can be found in Jiří Havelka, Čs.filmové hospodářství 1929–​37 (Prague, 1938), and Jiří Havelka, Filmové hospodářství 1939–​45 (Prague, 1946). For a more detailed profile of the early sound period, see Petr Szczepanik, ‘Poněmčený Hollywood v Praze. Předvádění a recepce zahraničních filmů v pražských kinech třicátých let’, in P. Szczepanik, Konzervy se slovy. Počátky zvukového filmu a česká mediální kultura 30.let (Prague, 2009), pp. 270–​327. 7. See, for example, Kino magazine and its letters to the editor: Kino i/​14 (1946), p. 235, Kino i/​20 (1946), p. 331. 8. For the purposes of this article I use the term star image as defined by Richard Dyer: an intellectual construct produced across a range of media and cultural practices. See Richard Dyer, Stars (London, 1979) 9. Restricting highly acclaimed male performance to comic and dramatic mode is evident in all academic accounts on local theatre history. See, for example: František Černý, Dějiny českého divadla III. Činohra 1848–​1919 (Prague, 1977). 10. Ladislav Tunys, Oldřich Nový (Prague, 2011), p. 127. 11. Such critical condemnation of Slovo dělá ženu already appeared in the first popular biography on Nový, published in 1969: Antonín Langr and Marie Paříková, Oldřich Nový (Prague, 1969), p. 77. Recent audience responses, posted on the online film database, offer a similar view: http://​www.csfd.cz/​ film/​6280-​slovo-​dela-​zenu/​ (accessed 2 May 2015). 12. Jan Dvořáček, ‘Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář’, Kino iv/​8 (1949), p. 108. 13. For more on the film’s style, genre perspectives and reception see: Dagmar Mocná, ‘Pytlákova schovanka aneb Fričovo veliké loučení’, Iluminace viii/​2, (1996), pp. 77–​106. 14. Richard Dyer, Only Entertainment (London, 1992), pp. 19–​35. 15. Stella Bruzzi, ‘Dressing Mildred Pierce: costume and identity across the ages’, Screen liv/​3, (2013), pp. 397–​402. 16. Petr Szczepanik, ‘How Many Steps to the Shooting Script? A Political History of Screenwriting’, Iluminace xv/​3, (2013), pp. 73–​98. 17. Miroslav Khun, ‘V nové roli Jiří Sovák’, Záběr ii/​19 (1969), p. 4.

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4 Transformations Hungarian Popular Cinema in the 1950s Balázs Varga

The history of Hungarian film is usually described as a highly discontinuous and fragmented process with serious interruptions caused by political changes. Among these interruptions, the post​war years and the Sovietisation of Hungary are of foremost importance, as they marked the termination of the phase that lasted from the 1910s until the end of World War II, which was characterised by a vibrant commercial film industry based on genre film-making. After 1945 –​and especially from the 1960s onwards –​art house and auteur cinema became more and more influential. Thus, in the Hungarian film history the postwar years and the 1950s represent an important transition period, because of both political changes and the shifting paradigms of popular and art house cinema. Critics considering the ‘long fifties’ from the vantage point of art house cinema, usually further divide the period into two distinct stages: the first period, from nationalisation to Stalin’s death (1948–​53) was characterised by the adoption of Socialist Realism, while the second period, 1954–​62, enabled the shedding of cultural Stalinism and provided support for the discovery of new forms and a cultural ‘thaw’ and renaissance of artistic film-making.1 While the history described above, focusing on tectonic shifts within cinematic art, may contain incontestable observations, it is also true that 85

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe the history of popular filmmaking displays a slightly different dynamic. Though nationalisation in 1948 and the enforced use of Socialist Realism and its subsequent abandonment also strongly influenced popular filmmaking, there was also strong continuity between the cinematic production of the 1930s and the popular film-making of the 1950s. It is this frequently forgotten relationship that this article will examine. I first survey the dominant trends in Hungarian popular cinema in the 1950s through the continuity of its traditions and through the adjustments to the political expectations of the Socialist Realist and post-​Socialist Realist period. The second part of the article concentrates on three different genres, namely comedy, crime and historical films, and shows the similarities and differences between the pre-war and postwar popular Hungarian cinema in the use of genre patterns.

From the Commercial Film Industry to the State-​Owned Cinema Culture During the late 1940s the Hungarian film industry was restructured from a market-​oriented and decentralised system into a centralised, politically and ideologically controlled state-​run industry, which fundamentally reshaped the conditions of popular film-making. Between 1945 and 1948, during the short period of the multiparty coalition years when the Communist party was already a major force but did not yet have total control over political, economical and cultural life, the Hungarian film industry was based on a mixed economy, with private entrepreneurs and state-​owned firms producing a variety of films with both political, ideological content and aesthetic or cultural aspects. However, after the takeover by the Communist Party in 1948, the multi-​party system ended and Hungary began to adapt the Soviet model in the political, economic, social and cultural spheres as well. The Sovietisation of the Hungarian film industry not only meant nationalisation but also the imposition of a tightly controlled and centralised system within a planned command economy. The Hungarian film industry was the last to be nationalised in Eastern Europe in 1948. The nationalisation was followed by centralisation: production was centralised by setting up the State Film Studio; distribution by setting up the distribution company MOKÉP, which was to 86

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Transformations have a monopoly within Hungary from the late 1940s until 1987; and the exhibition by nationalising film theatres, which would be run by the local municipalities under the political control of the Ministry for Culture. The turn of events in the late 1940s brought a change in the organisation of the industry, in the production model and in the number of productions as well. Hungarian film production during the interwar period reached its peak in the early 1940s, with more than 40 titles per year. After the end of World War II, annual film production dropped dramatically to 4–​5 films per year. The average number of films produced started to grow again only in the mid-​fifties and stabilised at around 15–​20 films per year towards the end of that decade. The main reason for the decline in the late 1940s and early 1950s was partly financial, as the economy was hit by very high inflation between 1945 and 1948, and partly political, as the bureaucratic restructuring of production in the 1950s made film production slower and more difficult. The new, centralised model of a state-​socialist studio system was very inefficient. Its unrealistic target of producing 8–​10 films annually was never reached, and the result of the rigid political control was that scripts had to undergo several revisions, and costly additional shootings had to be arranged. The production time of the films increased to months, in sharp contrast with the 1930s, when the average shooting schedule was usually 10–​14 days. After Stalin’s death, from the mid-​1950s until the early 1960s the system underwent significant changes:  the bureaucratic control softened, annual thematic plans were less rigid and production figures began to rise. The changes slowed down after the repression of the 1956 revolution, but the overall tendency was toward decentralisation.

Hungarian Cinema for the Millions Movie-​going was one of the most popular cultural activities in Hungary in the 1950s. Cinema attendance jumped from 2.1 annual attendances per capita in 1935 to 4.6 in 1949 and 12 in 1956.2 The peak year was 1960 with 14 attendances per capita (i.e. 140 million admissions), one-​fourth of which were to see Hungarian films. In terms of domestic admission numbers, the 1950s (and especially the second half of the decade) were the golden years of Hungarian cinema.3 However, regarding movie-​going 87

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe habits, distribution and exhibition policies, there are differences between the first and second halves of the decade: in the first, the rapid growth in attendance numbers was due to the sudden increase in exhibition facilities; in the second, the growth was fostered by the changes in distribution policies. In order to disseminate films and ideology, a new wave of ‘cinefication’ of the country was begun in the early fifties.4 The project was successful: by the end of the decade there were cinemas or at least mobile projection facilities in almost every village, even in the most remote parts of the country. Access to cinema was easier than ever, and cinema penetration was almost universal.5 At that time, cinema was often the only form of entertainment for people living outside the cities –​this was one of the most important factors in the rapid increase in cinema attendance numbers, as the increase was the highest among the rural population. Besides ‘cinefication’ there were numerous other changes in distribution policies. Film imports from Western countries were very limited and the number of films in distribution also dropped. In contrast to the 180 films released in 1948, in the early 1950s only 60–​70 films were released in Hungary per year.6 Western film imports were meant to be substituted for by films from the socialist countries and partly from non-​allied countries (India, Mexico). Distribution trends changed again from the mid-​1950s onwards and especially after the 1956 revolution, when the main objective of the early Kádár regime’s cultural policy was to depoliticise the country, which was partly achieved by opening the door to popular culture. More films were released, with more imported Western productions, and previously blacklisted highlights of the Hungarian popular cinema of the 1930s and early 1940s had re-​runs in selected cinemas in Budapest only.7 Thanks to these changes, attendance rose steadily toward its 1960 peak of 140 million ticket sales, in a country with a population of around 10 million. That was an all-​ time record: the gradual spread of television during the 1960s brought the admission number down to 70 million by 1970.8 Thus the early 1950s could be described as an era of very limited repertoire circulating in an expanded exhibition network, and the late 1950s as a period of a more varied repertoire and bigger audiences. During the 1950s average admission numbers for Hungarian films were around two million. The top films, by admission numbers, were domestic 88

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Transformations productions; the first non-​Hungarian film, Le Comte de Monte-​Cristo (The Count of Monte-​Cristo, 1954) is in twelfth place, Fanfan la Tulipe (Fan-​Fan the Tulip, 1952) is fourteenth.9 The top list of popular Hungarian films shown in Table 4.1 shows the main trends of the era: musical comedies (operettas), costume films, period pieces and adaptations of literary classics attracted the most viewers. The overwhelming majority of the most popular domestic films are colour, costume dramas filmed on location or in lavish studio sets, and comedies. Therefore we can say that genre preferences (musical comedy, costume dramas and adaptations) and high production values (i.e. period pieces, films with high-​quality design, sets, props and costumes) were the main reasons for the popularity of Hungarian films. Only 4 films among the top 15 Hungarian films are set in a contemporary milieu, and all of them are musical comedies: Mágnás Miska (Mickey Magnate), Állami áruház (State department store), 2x2 néha öt (2 x 2 are sometimes 5), Civil a pályán (Try and win). The possible explanation for the popularity of the trend might be the utopian character of musical comedies, as described by Richard Dyer, and the fact that the films offered escape from the everyday hardships of Hungarian Stalinism.10 Hungarian popular cinema of the 1950s was not an uncomplicated and direct continuation of the pre-​war commercial popular cinema. Ironically, there were more connections between the market-​oriented, genre-​based cinema of the 1930s and early 1940s and the Stalinist-​Socialist 1950s than one might normally assume. Firstly, the most prolific directors of the 1950s were Márton Keleti, Frigyes Bán, Viktor Gertler and László Kalmár, all of whom started their careers in the popular film industry in the late 1930s. These directors were the so-​called ‘bourgeois specialists’ of that era. The Communist Party had no reason to trust their ideological reliability, but cultural policy considered scripts and scriptwriters to be more important than directors, and therefore they could continue their careers.11 In addition to the directors and other creative personnel of the Hungarian commercial film industry, some of the movie stars from the 1930s and early 1940s, such as Kálmán Latabár, Klári Tolnay and Gyula Gózon, were allowed to continue their careers in the 1950s.12 The most popular actor of the decade was Kálmán Latabár, an acrobatic comedian, dancer and singer, whose name attracted millions of cinemagoers.13 89

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From Socialist Realist Operettas to Satirical Comedies In his article on Hungarian comedies and their political context, Gábor Gelencsér made a pointed statement: ‘If we wanted to summarise the history of comedy in Hungary we could easily come to a slightly twisted conclusion: before World War II Hungarian film art had a tradition only in comedies –​after the war it had everything but comedy. Comedy predominated in the 1930s and 1940s and was underrepresented in the 1950s –​first it courted the favour of the audience, then it completely ignored the expectations of viewers.’14 Even if it is not possible to say that comedy vanished completely from 1950s Hungarian cinema, it was seriously reshaped. Popular Hungarian comedies of the 1930s were typically light and romantic, urban and cosmopolitan visions and social utopias (Meseautó/​The Dream Car, 1934, Elnökkisasszony/Miss President, 1935). In their formulaic narratives the heroes came from different social backgrounds, but despite their different social status, which set, for example, a working girl against a rich entrepreneur, love transcended the differences.15 Character development played an important role in these classical romantic and screwball comedies. This serves as a link between the popular comedies of the 1930s and the Socialist Realist Bildung-​stories of the 1950s in which the hero was shown to be on the path towards developing a political-​ideological consciousness. In the comedies of the 1930s, social reconciliation was exceptional and individual, usually confined only to the romantic leads. In the musical comedies of the 1950s there was no need for social reconciliation, as all the heroes were workers or peasants, although they had to undergo an individual ideological-​political transformation. If Hungarian comedies of the 1930s were visions of a utopian bourgeois and liberal society, the comedies of the 1950s were visions of a utopian socialist community. This utopian element was further emphasised in these films by the generic feature of music. The majority of Hungarian Socialist Realist comedies were musical comedies. Music always played a decisive role in Hungarian films, partly because operetta, a basic Central-​European cultural form, provided an obvious tradition and inspiration for cinema. In addition to the film adaptations of successful operettas, Hungarian comedies of the prewar period also used the operetta tradition by adopting its narrative 90

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Transformations structure, including the double love-​ plot. Furthermore, almost every Hungarian comedy included several songs, many of which became hits. Thus, together, popular musical tradition (from operettas to cabaret songs) and comedy represented the mainstream of Hungarian popular culture in the 1930s.16 Hungarian musical comedies of the 1950s likewise were versions of operettas and comedies with musical song numbers. The operetta films (Mickey Magnate, State department store) were intended to meet the demands of Socialist Realist aesthetics. The idealised worlds of the musicals were well suited to the aims of Socialist Realism, namely depicting contemporary reality from the utopian perspectives of the Communist future. Thus postwar Hungarian musical comedies on the one hand represented Socialist Realism’s utopianism, but on the other, they maintained the tradition of the comedies of the 1930s. Music, in the form of popular songs and musical numbers, was an essential ingredient of these films. State department store, directed by Viktor Gertler (1953), was a major hit of the period and was a sign of change and transformation in Hungarian comedies. Gertler’s film turns Socialist Realism’s production narratives inside out as it focuses on the places of consumption rather than production. In a new state department store the men’s and women’s clothing sections enter a socialist sales competition. The ‘socialist competition’ movement, widespread during Stalinism in the Soviet Union and its satellites, created a type of race between individual workers and/​or brigades to reach and exceed production targets. Although the narrative concentrates on a politically ‘correct’ motif of workers overcoming imperialist sabotage, the comedy relies on the officious character of Dániel (Kálmán Latabár), the head of the men’s clothing section. Dániel is a caricature of an ideal Stakhanovite worker, for he can sell everything, regardless of the consumer’s needs, and does not even care if the suit fits or not. State department store is indeed the prototype of the Stalinist operetta, but at the same time the film can be read as an early satire on production narratives, Stakhanovite competitiveness and socialist consumption.17 From the mid-​ 1950s on, the monolithic ideological narratives of Socialist Realism were replaced by films offering more varied and nuanced interpretations of contemporary reality. The first sign of this transformation was the appearance of light comedies which gently and playfully 91

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe permuted political content, as we saw in the case of State department store. The dismissal of direct ideological indoctrination was a general trend of Hungarian cinema in the mid-​1950s and was typified by two different versions or modes of comedies. The first group contains costume comedies which successfully left out ideological messaging:  Károly Makk’s debut, Liliomfi (1953), a shiny and funny costume comedy, and László Kalmár’s operetta, Gábor diák (Leila and Gábor, 1956). Both were success at the box office. The second version or group of comedies, those about everyday life, involves critical political content which is either softened by the use of irony or is overtly satirical, including Mese a 12 találatról (Tale on 12 points, 1956), Csodacsatár (The football star, 1956) and Nagyrozsdási eset (A remarkable case, 1957). However, in contrast to other Eastern European film cultures, satire did not become a dominant subgenre of Hungarian comedies until the mid-​1960s.18

Crime Cinema During Socialism: Mission Impossible? The history of crime films is especially ambiguous in Hungarian popular cinema. Crime films have never been a genre that is representative of Hungarian popular cinema, not even in the 1930s and early 1940s, when the occasional examples of detective stories were usually generic hybrids of crime and comedy or crime and melodrama. In her overview of the history of Hungarian crime films in the pre-​World War II period, Gabriella Lakatos discusses this generic hybridity as an oblique way of representing crime stories in Hungarian society in the 1930s and 1940s.19 Although there was an unquestionable demand for crime stories, censorship and the scope of production put limitations on the possibilities for representing crime, and especially murder, on screen.20 The strategy of masking or hiding crime stories underwent some changes in the 1950s. Crime narratives in the early postwar period were present only in the ideological straitjacket of spy films and sabotage narratives. Crime was depicted as something to be associated with the capitalist and Western world. If we describe Hungarian crime films of the 1930s and 1940s as ‘crime stories without murder’, we can say that Socialist Realist versions of the genre represented 92

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Transformations cases of ‘Westernised crime.’ Gyarmat a föld alatt (Underground colony, 1950)  is the story of attempted murder and sabotage in an oil company which is to be nationalised but is still owned by Americans. Nyugati övezet (West zone, 1952) is a spy story which takes place in Berlin. Crime always came from outside of the socialist bloc: in the form of either from the reactionary bourgeois representatives of the past or from Western spies and saboteurs. Furthermore, crime was not ‘individual’, as criminal behaviour in these films was not a result of personal weakness but was motivated by social and political forces, namely anti-​Communism. One of the rare Hungarian films from this period with some distinctive features is Gázolás (Hit and run, 1955) which delivers a well-motivated drama with film noir elements and keeps the social commentary in the background. An interesting courtroom drama, it uses characteristic noir low lighting and flashback techniques, and the conflict also revolves around a passive, weak hero and a femme fatale. The protagonist is a judge who must preside over the case of his secret lover, Judit, a pretty, déclassé bourgeois woman now working as a taxi driver. She has hit someone on the road, and the story unfolds in a series of flashbacks in which the audience and the judge discover together that she had only pretended to love the judge in order to get ahead. The judge’s ‘fair’ sentence pronounces judgment on Judit and the entire bourgeoisie. The transformation of crime films during Socialism was a roundabout process in which the first step was the sabotage narrative which was followed by spy films. Not until the early 1970s did Hungarian crime films portray local criminals rather than American or Western agents.

From the Precursors of the Present to Historical Adventure If Socialist Realist musical comedies were important social utopias, historical films and biopics served the purpose of ideological legitimation. Mikołaj Kunicki summarised this type of Eastern European film of the 1950s and 1960s thus: ‘National’ roads to communism saw the appropriation of historical events and figures that espoused the marriage of national

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe liberation and social revolution. Anti-​ Ottoman and anti-​ Habsburg rebellions in the Balkans and Central Europe, the Chinese Boxer Uprising and the Hussite movement in medieval Bohemia together served as native, indispensable roots for the communist nation states. In fact, the Second World War partisans were contemporary versions of various ‘freedom fighters’ from the past, whereas numerous individuals from nationalist pantheons were protosocialist in their simultaneous rejection of domestic reaction and foreign oppression.21

The most expensive genres of historical films were not a frequent offering in the Hungarian popular cinema in the 1930s. The early 1940s, together with the intensifying political control of the film industry, brought some experiments with the genre, which resulted in such films as Rákóczi nótája (The song of Rákóczi, 1943) and Ördöglovas (Devil’s horseman, 1943). One of the main objectives of these high-​budget, patriotic films was to foster national cinema and create national style and content. In spite of their domestic commercial success, these films were unable to recuperate their costs in foreign markets, which was one reason this cycle of Hungarian films ended.22 The conservative-​patriotic historical films of the early 1940s had their Stalinist counterpart in the Hungarian Socialist film industry’s first super-​ production Föltámadott a tenger (The sea has risen, 1952) depicting the anti-​Habsburg uprising and war of independence of 1848–9. This lavish, historical epic has a three-​part structure portraying three men emblematic of the era: Lajos Kossuth, the ‘founding father’ of the revolution, Sándor Petőfi, the plebeian revolutionary poet, and József Bem, a Polish general who was the hero of Hungarian’s freedom fight. Although the film retells the Hungarian national founding myth of the rebellion against the Habsburg Empire, it ends with a visionary international tableau in which Hungarian and Romanian peasants and a Polish general stand together, fighting for world freedom. There are some interesting analogies between the early 1940s and the early 1950s regarding historical films. For instance, several biopics were made in both periods and they portrayed almost the same famous figures from Hungarian history. One of these was physician Ignác Semmelweis, the ‘saviour of mothers’ who discovered how hand washing could reduce 94

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Transformations puerperal fever (André de Toth, 1940, Frigyes Bán, 1952). Another such figure was Róza Széppataki Déryné, the legendary actress of the Hungarian-​ language theatre (Futótűz/​Wildfire, 1943 and Déryné/​Mrs. Déry, 1951). The Petőfi family provides a third example in Szeptember végén (At the End of September, 1943), about the poet’s son, and the aforementioned epic, The Sea Has Risen. In addition to these biopics, The song of Rákóczi was planned to be the first part of a trilogy on the founding fathers of the Hungarian Reform Age, which lasted from 1825 to 1848.23 In the early 1950s an adventure film was made about the Rákóczi freedom fight in the early eighteenth century (Rákóczi hadnagya/​Rákóczi’s lieutenant, 1953) and another notable biopic was made on Ferenc Erkel, who composed the music of the Hungarian national anthem and was the father of Hungarian romantic operas (Erkel/​Erkel, 1952). A whole cycle of biopics was made on great historical figures from the nineteenth century, the period of romantic nationalism. Obviously, the biopic was an important subgenre of the period all over the world, and Hungarian versions of the cycle fitted well into the early 1950s Stalinist political vision of Hungarian history.24 The films about Erkel, Semmelweis or Déryné, in spite of focusing on the artistic or scientific struggles of their heroes, delivered didactic historical plots with politically and ideologically conscious heroes who sacrificed their private happiness for the sake of their vocation and could be regarded as precursors of a historical class struggle for a better Communist future. However, the mid-​1950s brought a change in Hungarian historical films. Instead of serving the ideological appropriation of history, enlightenment, education and entertainment became the engines of historical fiction. Rákóczi’s lieutenant (1953) can be seen as a turning-​point: Bán’s film was the one of the first not-​explicitly-​political historical fictions that privileged adventure over didactic historical-​ideological interpretation. Thus the legacy of the early 1940s in Hungarian historical and costume films is as evidenced in the historical films of the mid-​1950s, was not to provide the latter with a preponderance of ideology but to bring to it a ‘tradition of quality’ or middlebrow culture. A cycle of well-​made and sometimes lavish adaptations of literary classics came to represent mainstream Hungarian popular cinema in the mid-​to late 1950s and cinema and television series in the 1960s. These films were usually adaptations of late-​nineteenth century 95

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe historical adventure novels (most typically by Mór Jókai and Géza Gárdonyi) that focused on periods of struggles for national independence, like the resistance against Ottoman rule in the sixteenth century (Egri csillagok /​The stars of Eger, 1968) or the revolt against Habsburg rule in the nineteenth century (A kőszívű ember fiai /​Men and Banners, 1965).

Conclusion The late 1940s brought fundamental changes in the Hungarian film industry. Although the commercial film industry of the 1930s and early 1940s came to an end, popular film culture did not vanish. The Socialist Realist film culture of the 1950s was ideologically hostile towards the Hollywood-​ style urban, bourgeois comedy culture of the 1930s and also towards the conservative film culture of the early 1940s.25 However, there are more similarities and connections between the early 1940s and the early 1950s film cultures than histories generally acknowledge. Governmental intervention was already present in the 1930s: it supervised the film industry in the 1930s, and its control increased in the late 1930s, when anti-​Jewish legislation banned numerous actors and film-makers from the industry. The complex relationship between 1940s and 1950s film-making can best be illustrated through the example of ‘social problem’ films. From the perspective of political and ideological content, they represented polar opposites: the early 1940s ‘social problem’ films represented a nationalistic image of Hungary and used peasant heroes and rural settings in contrast with urban, middle-​class values and lifestyles, while the early 1950s production narratives represented the communist image of the country and showed the country’s unfolding industrialisation and collectivisation. However these films also show remarkable similarities: in both decades, they were made to correspond to strict political dictats. Frey’s article also points out the generic similarity between the two groups: 1940s filmmaking was intent on creating a Hungarian ‘national style’ cinema, which included and experimented with historical genres.26 Significantly, historical films and biopics of the early 1950s focused on the same historical period, the early nineteenth century, and very often portrayed the same historical figures. Ideological differences notwithstanding, these historicising representations showed much similarity with each other. 96

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Transformations After the communist takeover, Hungarian film culture and popular cinema underwent two major stages of transformation. The first phase included nationalisation, the centralisation of the industry and the introduction of Socialist Realism; the second stage, in the mid-​1950s, included both depoliticisation and the appearance of political and social criticism. This second stage determined the trends in Hungarian cinematography for the subsequent periods. The decades from the mid-​1960s until the end of communism in the late 1980s were characterised by the dominance (and sometime the exclusivity) of politically motivated, art house auteur cinema. During these years, popular cinema found itself in an unstable situation. Comedies, crime films, television series, historical epics and musical films appeared, but from a political and ideological point of view ‘pure entertainment’ was suspect. Making a film that was ‘only’ successful and amusing brought little credit to the film-maker. Even simple comedies required some social message. Social criticism, satire and education remained dynamic and decisive factors in Hungarian popular cinema, and genre films had to learn how to balance between a political agenda and entertainment.

Appendix Table 4.1  Hungarian cinema in the 1950s: Toplist by admissions numbers27 Hungarian Title

English Title

Director

Release Admissions Genre

Mágnás Miska

Mickey Magnate Leila and Gábor Rákóczi’s lieutenant State department store Liliomfi

Márton Keleti László Kalmár Frigyes Bán Viktor Gertler

1949

9.531.000

1956

6.857.000

1954

6.721.000

1953

6.425.000

comedy /​ musical

Károly Makk György Révész Viktor Gertler

1955

6.260.000

1955

6.142.000

costume /​ comedy comedy

1962

5.970.000

Gábor diák* Rákóczi hadnagya* Állami áruház Liliomfi* 2x2 néha öt* Az aranyember*

2 x 2 are sometimes 5 The man with the golden touch

97

comedy /​ operetta costume /​ musical adventure

costume /​ adaptation

98

Table 4.1  (cont.) Hungarian Title

English Title

Fel a fejjel*

Keep your chin up! Fatia Negra

Director

Márton Keleti Szegény Frigyes gazdagok* Bán Déryné Mrs. Déry László Kalmár Hintónjáró Love travelling László szerelem* a coach Ranódy Ludas Matyi* Mattie the László goose-​boy Ranódy Civil a pályán* Try and win Márton Keleti Különös A strange Márton házasság* marriage Keleti Szent Péter* St Peter’s Frigyes umbrella Bán Egy pikoló A glass of beer Frigyes világos Máriássy Körhinta Merry-​go-​ Zoltán round Fábri Csendes otthon A quiet home Frigyes Bán Janika Johnny Márton Keleti Bakaruhában A Sunday Imre romance Fehér A Noszty fiú esete Love and Viktor Tóth Marival money Gertler Gerolsteini Adventure in Zoltán kaland gerolstein Farkas Légy jó Be good till László mindhalálig death Ranódy Kölyök Our kid Mihály Szemes Kiskrajcár* Penny Márton Keleti Dollárpapa Dollar daddy Viktor Gertler Mese a 12 Tale on the 12 Károly találatról points Makk

Release Admissions Genre 1954

5.943.000

comedy

1959

5.509.000

1951

5.147.000

1955

5.134.000

costume /​ adaptation historical /​ biopic comedy

1950

4.884.000

1952

4.482.000

1951

4.261.000

1960

3.937.000

1955

3.891.000

costume /​ adaptation costume /​ adaptation drama

1956

3.880.000

drama

1958

3.848.000

comedy

1949

3.829.000

comedy

1957

3.682.000

1960

3.638.000

1957

3.549.000

1960

3.270.000

1959

3.247.000

drama /​ adaptation costume /​ adaptation operetta /​ comedy costume /​ adaptation comedy

1953

3.192.000

drama

1956

3.091.000

comedy

1957

3.000.000

comedy

costume /​ adaptation comedy

9

Transformations

Notes 1. Gyöngyi Balogh, Vera Gyürey and Pál Honffy, A magyar játékfilm története a kezdetektől 1990-​ig (Budapest, 2004) and Eszter Fazekas, ‘Main Tendencies of Hungarian Film from 1945 till 1979’, Filmkultúra. Available at www.filmkultura.hu/​regi/​2001/​articles/​essays/​fazek.en.html (accessed 5 August 2015). 2. Gyula Peregi, ‘Az államosított film és mozi szakma 15 éve’, in J. Homoródy (ed), A magyar film 1948–​1963 (Budapest, 1964), pp. 117–​222. 3. Unfortunately we do not have detailed statistics on cinema attendance from the pre-​war period (only partial data on box office revenues were published in trade press and official documents). Thus the comparison between the pre-​war and post​war period is based on estimates, but we can say with high probability that attendance in the 1950s was much higher than in the previous decades. 4. In the mid-​1930s the cinema penetration rate was around 50 per cent in Hungary: there were more than 400 cinemas operating in the country. Most of them existed in cities but usually smaller towns had their cinemas too. Árpád Borsos, A mozi mint innováció magyarországi elterjedése, a hálózat alakulásának földrajzi jellemzői napjainkig (Pécs, 2000). 5. Ibid., pp. 58–​60. 6. In 1948, out of the 180 films which were released, 80 were American and 51 Soviet. In the following years, American films almost completely disappeared from Hungarian cinemas. In 1949 the number of total releases dropped to 85 and only 6 American films were released. There were no American films in distribution from 1950 through 1956. Western film import was reduced only a couple of Italian and French films. (Source of data: Hungarian National Digital Archive and Film Institute catalogue, Peregi, ‘Az államosított film’.) 7. There were 74 films in distribution in 1953, 91 films in 1954 and 112 in 1955. After the mid-​1950s almost one third of film imports came from Western countries, mostly from Italy and France. (Source of data: Hungarian National Digital Archive and Film Institute catalogue, Peregi, ‘Az államosított film’.) 8. Peregi, ‘Az államosított film,’ p. 176. 9. Ibid.,’ p. 182. 10. ‘Entertainment offers the images of “something better” to escape into, or something we want deeply that our day-​to-​day lives don’t provide. Alternatives, hopes, wishes –​these are the stuff of utopia, the sense that things could be better, that something other than what is can be imagined and maybe realised.’ Richard Dyer, Only Entertainment (London-New York, 2002), p. 20. 11. The politically most important creative positions in the film industry –​the content (script) ‘planning office’, the so-​called Central Dramaturgy –​were held by the new generation of film-makers, mostly directors like András Kovács and Péter Bacsó.

99

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 12. The most celebrated actress and actor of the early 1940s, Katalin Karády and Pál Jávor, were rejected by the Hungarian cinema and theatre in the late 1940s. The reason for their marginalisation was not their right-​wing politics (which would have been untrue) but because they symbolised the ideologically condemned commercial cinema, and therefore they became personae non grata in Sovietised Hungary. On the interpretations of Karády, the most glorious Hungarian star of the 1940s, see David Frey’s study. David Frey, ‘Mata Hari or the Body of the Nation? Interpretations of Katalin Karády’, Hungarian Studies Review xli/​1–​2 (2014), pp. 89–​105. 13. Almost all of the films Latabár played in were box office hits Mickey Magnate, Try and win, State department store and Keep your chin up!. Even the films he took part in with a Socialist Realist production theme (Dalolva szép az élet/​ Singing makes life beautiful, Ifjú szívvel/​Young at heart) were modest successes. He was definitely the Hungarian ‘prince of laughter’, especially during Stalinist repression. On the comparison of Latabár and the Toto character and on the ‘invented traditions’ of Hungarian Socialist Realist operettas see Györgyi Heltai’s monograph, Gyöngyi Heltai, Az operett metamorfózisai, 1945–​1956: a “kapitalista giccs”-​től a haladó “mimusjáték”-​ig (Budapest, 2012). 14. Gábor Gelencsér, ‘Mesetrabant. A legvidámabb barakk legvidámabb filmjei’, Filmkultúra, 2 (1999). Available at www.iif.hu:8080/​1999/​articles/​essays/​mesetrabant.hu.html (accessed 5 August 2015). 15. Balogh-Király 2000. 16. On the cabaret tradition of Hungarian popular cinema in the 1930s see: Anna Manchin, ‘Jewish Humour and the Cabaret Tradition in Interwar Hungarian Entertainment Films’, in L. H. Khatib (ed), Storytelling in World Cinemas. Vol. 1. (New York, 2012) pp. 34–​47. 17. Tibor Hirsch, ‘Utak és csapdák. A hazai filmvígjáték 1945–​1990 között’, magyar.film.hu. Available at http://​magyar.film.hu/​filmtortenet/​mufajok/​utak-​es-​ csapdak-​a-​hazai-​filmvigjatek-​1945–​1990-​kozott-​mufajelemzes.html (accessed 5 August 2015) and Oksana Sarkisova, ‘Sing with Us, Spend like Us! Images of Consumption in East European Musical Films during the Cold War’, in M. Waligorska (ed), Music, Longing and Belonging: Articulations of the Self and the Other in the Musical Realm (Newcastle, 2013), pp. 12–​27. 18. After the suppression of the 1956 revolution, censors banned several Hungarian films. The following years saw a decline in experimentation with dangerous political subjects. Satires picked up only during the early and mid-​1960s, when Hungarian state socialism was more politically liberal and tolerant. 19. Gabriella Lakatos, ‘A magyar félbűnfilm. Bűnügyi műfajok 1931 és 1944 között’ Metropolis xvii/​2 (2013), pp. 46–​63. 20. Censors prohibited the portrayal of murder, as well as gangsters and crime scenes. Even the depicting innocent men mistakenly accused by the court

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Transformations was forbidden for political reasons. On the other hand, in the success period of light comedies and in a commercial film industry (characterised by small budgets and proven generic formulas) it might have seemed hazardous to experiment with other genres. 21. Mikołaj Kunicki, ‘Heroism, Raison d’état, and National Communism: Red Nationalism in the Cinema of People’s Poland’, Contemporary European History xxi/​2 (2012), pp. 235–​56. Reference to p. 236. 22. That time Hungarian films were successful commercially on international markets but a local historical-​patriotic story like The song of Rákóczi did not sell as well as a melodrama or comedy. 23. The two other films, one about Count István Széchenyi and another on Lajos Kossuth were not realised. David S. Frey, ‘Just What is Hungarian? Concepts of National Identity in the Hungarian Film Industry in 1931–​1944’, in P. M. Judson and M. L. Rozenblit (eds), Constructing Nationalities in East Central Europe (Oxford, 2005), pp. 203–​22. 24. Two other, non-​ Hungarian, biopics were made about Semmelweis (That Mothers Might Live by Fred Zinnemann, 1938, and Semmelweis –​Retter der Mütter (Dr Semmelweis) by Georg C. Klaren, 1950), but the most evident counterparts to these Hungarian historical films are Dieterle’s classics, British biopics and German biographical and historical films. 25. The international models for the Hungarian film industry changed over these decades. In the 1930s the Hollywood studio system was the model for Hungary’s commercial film industry. In the early 1940s Hungarian right-​wing politicians tried to adapt the German model, and in the early 1950s the model industry was the Soviet or state Socialist studio system. 26. Frey, “Just What is Hungarian?”. 27. János Tárnok, A magyar játékfilmek nézőszáma és forgalmazási adatai 1948–​ 1976 (Budapest, 1978). Colour films titles are followed by an asterisk.

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5 Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy The Autonomisation of Parody, and Lemonade Joe (1964)1 Petr Szczepanik

Ladislav Rychman, a prominent director of Czechoslovak musicals and comedies, once wrote:  ‘If we counted quality  –​I  stress quality  –​ film parodies relative to the size of the population and the number of films produced in individual countries, Czechoslovakia would be an undisputed world leader.’2 Rychman’s comments make it clear that the number of parodies shown in the country’s film theatres after World War II was exceptionally high. These feature-​length films participated in a general rise in the production of parodies, which included animated shorts, student films and television series. Many of these had prominent directors at the helm, featured top stars and were supported by big budgets. While some lampooned Hollywood staples  –​adventure yarns, crime thrillers, gangster movies, musicals, Westerns, horror films, sci-​fi pics and even comic books –​others poked fun at the staples of Czechoslovak popular literature and cinema. The most acclaimed Czechoslovak parody of the period was unquestionably the 1964 Western Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Lemonade Joe). Peter Hames describes this story of a fearless hero purging a lawless frontier town of thugs and drunkards as ‘affectionate and witty in a way 102

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy that outdoes any other European parodies.’3 Not only did it take aim at the Westerns of Hollywood and Poverty Row but also satirised capitalism and the commercialisation of American frontier mythology. Lemonade Joe was perhaps the single most frequently adapted Czechoslovak comedy of its day. The theme can be traced back to 1940, when it appeared as a serial in a humorous magazine. It was then adapted to stage in 1944 and novelised the following year, only to resurface on the stage a decade later, directed by Oldřich Lipský and starring actors who would go on to appear in the 1964 motion picture. In subsequent years, Lemonade Joe would be remade for radio and the stage on myriad occasions.4 These quite exceptional circumstances invite us to consider why this story was so appealing and inspiring; whether Czechoslovak audiences had a particular affinity for Westerns, or if, as this chapter argues, the film fitted a long-​standing national comedy tradition. This chapter approaches comedy as a mode of expression that manifests itself in genres such as comedies of manners, musical comedy, crazy comedy, the fairy tale, satire, parody and agitprop. When seen in this way, comedy represents the most distinctive and consistent component of Czech(oslovak) cinema from the interwar years to the present day, forging an enduring bond with the Czech public. Moreover, comedy was the most influential genre to inspire the most productive film-making teams of the period, including the screenwriting duo Josef Neuberg and František Vlček, and the writer–​director partnerships of Jiří Brdečka and Oldřich Lipský, Jaroslav Papoušek and Miloš Forman, Miloš Macourek and Václav Vorlíček and Zdeněk Svěrák and Ladislav Smoljak. Comedy deserves the attention of scholars of state-​ socialist cinemas, not least because it evinces long-term historical developments wherein the slow shifts characteristic of the longue durée unfold beneath the rapidity of political and economic changes.5 For historical production studies, it is important to consider three aspects of this continuity. We first need to appreciate how trends in literature, theatre, music and television shaped film comedy, and second, how industrial and organisational conditions enabled the genre to proliferate, including dramaturgical ‘planning’ and production processes. Finally, we need to appreciate how interpersonal networks and values embraced by individual creative workers shaped comedy into a flexible genre capable of balancing replication of established convention with innovation.6 103

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe To examine the political, cultural and industrial conditions that underscored the production of Czechoslovak parodies after 1945, this chapter opens with an overview of parody’s place within the various comedy traditions that characterised Czechoslovak cinema from the 1920s to today. The second section draws on the concept of collective creativity and authorship that characterised the Czechoslovak state-​ socialist system of production after the reorganisation of film production in 1955. The chapter’s third section focuses on Lemonade Joe both in order to demonstrate that the revival of popular genre film-making was facilitated by this new kind of collaborative, group-​based creative practice, and to illustrate how the film’s parodic techniques helped the ‘autonomisation’ of a parody canon. (Here, I focus less on the film’s director Oldřich Lipský than on its writer and on-​set creative ‘adviser’ Jiří Brdečka.) The chapter’s final section explores the unique historical position of Czechoslovak parody. As the texts and traditions that these parodies mocked were largely absent from the public sphere, the parodies turned inwards, referring to other parodies (rather than to concrete examples of non-​parody target genres) as constituting a distinct production trend in the Czechoslovak cinema. Parody production thus created a canon of its own –​in a process that was driven by production trends and film cycles. This ‘canonisation’ is manifested in regimes of intertextuality such as the casting of Miloš Kopecký as a sophisticated villain in all of Brdečka and Lipský‘s parodies.7 While the limited scope of this chapter makes it impossible to explore in detail the conditions in which film cycles emerged in state socialism, it is important to emphasise that the explanations applicable to American cinema fail to account fully for similar trends in East Central Europe. In the latter case, trends were not initiated simply by a single hit film or by extra-​industrial social forces, and not even by producers’ assessments of ‘profit potential, comparative profit potential and the capacity to maintain the supply chain that links producers to consumers,’ as Richard Nowell has proposed.8 Rather, they were generated by a combination of official cultural policy –​political directives translated into so-​called thematic and dramaturgical planning –​and the internal social logic of the field of production. To be precise, they were generated by group-​based creativity concentrated around the ‘units’ that replaced producers in the state-​socialist 104

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy system. Acting as interfaces between upper management and the professional community, the units were embedded within informal, long-​term networks of collaborators, some of whom espoused particular cultural taste or genre aesthetics. In this command economy, commercial success played but an indirect role: it was always filtered through the cultural politics of the State and the Communist Party, which was in turn refracted by the internal social logic of the field of film production.9

Comedy in the Political History of Czechoslovak Cinema After World War II, management of the recently nationalised Czechoslovak film industry searched for new comedy material that reflected, and could be used to promote, the new social order, with efforts to foster ‘optimistic’ comedy. This trend only intensified after the Communist coup of 1948. Yet, at this time, little humorous fiction was available for adaptation, and the talent to craft socialist-​realist comedies was not available. Unlike Communist agitprop, comedy demanded personnel who were capable of delivering amusing gags and impeccable timing. Talent also needed to be connected to the same cultural sensibility as that of the targeted audiences. Under these conditions, many comedies were criticised for being ‘regressive’: they were accused of simply transplanting tired old formulae (mostly from interwar petit bourgeois comedy cycles) into contemporary settings. Tellingly, the most successful comedies made immediately after the war were written by industry veterans like Josef Neuberg and František Vlček, directed by other stalwarts like Vladimír Slavínský and Martin Frič, and starred old-​ timers like Jindřich Plachta, Jaroslav Marvan and Oldřich Nový. As early as the summer of 1946, management had gone as far as to issue a public call for proto-​socialist comedy material with an ‘optimistic view of the future, supporting the national building plan’10. Yet public response generated no usable story material.11 Moreover, attempts to produce optimistic socialist comedies often ended in artistic and commercial failure. Even if financially successful, such films were dismissed by the cultural authorities as being riddled with interwar or wartime clichés, as happened to Bořivoj Zeman’s tales of a retired ticket inspector, Dovolená s Andělem (Holiday with Angel, 1953) and Anděl na horách (Angel in the mountains, 1955). This reliance 105

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe on established conventions was spelled out by the leading film critic of the day, Jaroslav Boček, who wrote: What do we mean by the ‘old type of Czech comedy’? It is this kind of sentimentally humorous film which appeared in Czech cinema at the end of the 1920s and developed in the early 1930s, after the advent of sound. It created a peculiar world of reformed, unruly girls and kind-​hearted executives, a world of elegant Art Noveau apartments and would-​be plebeian homes. It catered to the jovial nature of the Czech petit bourgeois, as derived from the Austrian idea of the good food and the good heart of the middle class. Czech comedy of this type survived the war, survived liberation, survived [the Communist putsch of] February 1948. True, in recent years, the executive character is being replaced by the morose ticket inspector of Prague trams, but its essence remains unchanged.12

Boček’s observations illustrate how comedy was the primary channel through which established and familiar aesthetic sensibilities, narrative stereotypes and creative practices influenced this supposedly revolutionary new film culture. As these films tended to focus on the social habits of the middle classes, his comments also suggest that audiences were somewhat resistant to social and cultural change, even at a time of abrupt political twists and turns. This genre-​specific resistance explains the dialectic between the ‘conservative’ narratives and the ‘innovative’ styles that were to follow. Yet, this is not to say that postwar Czechoslovakia failed to produce any comedies that were at least superficially different from the popular traditions of the 1930s. A direct reaction to old-​style comedy did emerge in the form of a short-​lived agitprop trend lasting from 1949 to 1952. These films typically pictured a petit bourgeois transforming into a proletarian, and they openly advanced the communist regime’s recruitment and mobilisation campaigns. Nevertheless, it took several more years –​and the deaths of Stalin and Czechoslovak President Klement Gottwald in 1953  –​for a new and persistent comedic trend to gather momentum. During a late 1953 meeting of the Central Committee of the Czechoslovak Communist Party, official calls were made for the revival of popular entertainment in place of the existing ‘schematic’ –​which is to say agitprop –​cultural productions.13 This call failed to liberalise the 106

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy cultural sphere at once, but it did help the newly-​installed film industry management of 1954 to defend its decentralised, pluralistic reorganisation of creative practice –​a process which involved several important changes. First, it led to the reintroduction of ‘creative collectives’, an equivalent to the production units of the 1940s, which replaced interwar and wartime producers. It also involved increasingly flexible ‘dramaturgical’ plans which implied a cautious return to genre film-making and allowed for the inclusion in films of content such as supernatural creatures, jazz and hints of eroticism. Lastly, it reintroduced aesthetic and media-​specific criteria (like authenticity) –​as opposed to purely ideological criteria –​as means of evaluating directorial styles, acting, the music and other aspects of content. These developments not only catalysed comedy production but also led to its (re)establishing a higher cultural status. Comedies represented about a quarter of postwar feature film production in Czechoslovakia. They accounted for 116 of the 471 feature films made in the two decades after World War II.14 Comedy also consistently attracted larger audiences than other dramatic genres. In the first decade after the war, comedies secured an average of 3.6 million viewers, compared to 2.3 million for other genres. This pattern continued even during a period of decline in attendance across the subsequent decade, when comedies secured an average of 1.7 million moviegoers compared to a mere 1.2 million for others.15 The authors of the only book-​length analysis of postwar Czechoslovak comedy used their personal taste preferences to explain a rise in the quality of comedies after 1955, and, however subjective their evaluative scheme, it gives us a sense of comedy’s growing importance in terms of production volume and critical acclaim. Elmar Klos, an experienced film-maker and dramaturge, and film historian Pavel Taussig maintain that from among three to six comedy productions annually between 1945 and 1955, one or two could be deemed ‘better than average’. They go on to suggest that of the eight comedies released in 1958, four were ‘better than average’ and one ‘well above average’, and that of the ten opened in 1964, five could be seen as ‘better than average’ and three ‘well above average’.16 Many of these films received awards from local prize-​givers and international festival juries. The new comedy trend drew inspiration from a range of sources. Of supreme importance were the self-​ reflexivity, irony and stylisation of 107

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe modernist literature and theatre of the interwar and wartime periods, most notably satirical theatrical groups such as the ‘Osvobozené divadlo’ (‘Liberated Theatre’) of Jiří Voskovec and Jan Werich and the ‘Divadlo satiry’ (‘Satire Theatre’) it inspired. Surfacing as a subversive amateur enterprise in 1943, ‘Divadlo satiry’ hit its peak shortly after the war, before being shut down during the draconian period immediately following the Communist putsch. Among those who started their careers there were Oldřich Lipský, the director of Lemonade Joe, the satirical playwright and lyricist Vratislav Blažek, who penned some of the songs featured in that film, and Miloš Kopecký, its dashing villain. A second source of inspiration was popular music, whose growing importance to youth culture had already been acknowledged by those working in theatre and television. In particular, the ‘television songs’17 of the late 1950s and early 1960s –​effectively a precursor to pop music videos –​exerted a profound influence on contemporaneous musicals and comedies. A third influence on the new comedy trend was animation, especially the output of a collective that had developed around Jiří Trnka, first under the occupying German authorities and then within Czechoslovakia’s nationalised film industry. The influence of all these aspects of cultural production can be seen in the work of the screenwriter, animator and lyricist Jiří Brdečka –​a friend of Jan Werich and a master of parody and satire. Trnka teamed with Brdečka on, among others, the first filmed version of Lemonade Joe, an animated short titled Árie prérie (The Song of the Prairie, 1949), which mocked the chase sequence in the John Ford Western Stagecoach (1939). The expressive nature of animation –​its sense of exaggeration, ironic abstraction and compression, its image–​music interplays, bold colours and fantastic transformations –​informed the look of many feature-​length Czechoslovak comedies.18 Some of the films even boasted mixed-​media techniques and animated fantasy sequences, thereby showcasing the self-​reflexivity and nostalgia for which they would come to be known. The only influence on the new comedy trend to come directly from feature film-making was the humorous perspective brought to the banality and awkwardness of everyday life by the documentary-​inspired elements of the Czech New Wave (most famously in films directed by Miloš Forman). The new comedy trend was initially applied to fairy tales in the early 1950s, then to anti-​bureaucracy satires and musicals in the late 1950s and 108

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy early 1960s, to comedies of awkwardness from the 1960s onwards, to crazy comedy and parody in the 1960s and 1970s and finally to comedies of mystification in the 1980s.19 However, such films failed to generate the effects communist apparatchiks had called for in 1948, as they did not offer direct criticism of the old regime while romanticising working lives under state socialism. Although some films allegorised class struggle and featured other ideological content, they relied heavily on fantasy and style, mixing reality with fiction and cultivating an ambivalent love/​hate relationship with ‘decadent’ genres of popular film and literature.

Industrial Authorship and Group Styles in the State-​Socialist Production System The production of film comedy typically requires a shared taste derived from the close cultural proximity of creative talent and targeted audiences, as well as talent recruited from other sectors such as theatre, literature, animation and music.20 Accordingly, the revival of comedy genres in post​war Czechoslovakia would have been impossible without a series of organisational changes that were introduced in the mid-​1950s in order to strike a balance between top-​down centralised control and the creative freedom necessary for voluntary collaborations, competition and product differentiation. In 1955, ‘units’, effectively substituting for hands-​on creative producers, were re-​established at Prague’s Barrandov Studios as part of a broader process of decentralisation intended to loosen the rigid production system of the early 1950s. The units were encouraged to compete with one another, to innovate and to differentiate their output by building informal collaborative networks with young writers and directors. Mapping out these networks reveals the social workings of the group styles which characterised Czechoslovak cinema of the late 1950s and 1960s.21 Directing attention to the units, some of which housed commercially minded decision makers with a penchant for pop culture, helps us to identify how personnel influenced trends in postwar comedy. With regard to the units, highbrow films of the late 1950s, as well as the New Wave of the 1960s, amounted to little more than a localised intervention and not a dominant tendency. While the most visible examples of the progressive group styles of the 1950s were quasi-​neorealist movies like Žižkovská romance 109

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe (A Local Romance, 1958) or poetic experiments such as Touha (Desire, 1958), we need to acknowledge that popular genres such as satirical comedy or crime represented a second, no-less-important strand during this period. At the time, the most prolific and commercially successful of the units was that led by Karel Feix, the principal rival to his former mentor Bohumil Šmída, whose unit produced the highbrow fare noted above.22 Having previously thrived as a top producer under capitalism, Feix elected, in the second half of the 1950s and even more so in the 1960s, to specialise in the production of popular genres such as comedies, crime stories and later musicals. Unlike his competitors, Feix showed little interest in recruiting New Wave talent. Reflecting on his 15-​year tenure as unit head (1954–​69), Feix did not stress achievements of award-​winning directors but the marketability and appeal of his product. He suggested that his mission had been to produce well-​liked formulae and drew attention to his hit comedies: Lemonade Joe, Král králů (The king of kings, 1963), Ženu ani květinou neuhodíš (Never Strike a Woman…Even with a Flower, 1966) and others. Naturally, this one-​ time ‘capitalist’ producer did not overlook the opportunity to emphasise that ‘although his unit represents 12 to 15 per cent of [Czech] feature film output, its audience share stands at a whopping 30 per cent.’23 Jiří Brdečka was a key talent in Feix’s unit. A writer and dramaturge and something of a connoisseur of Western popular culture, he24 transformed the characters and narratives of the Westerns, cartoons and science fiction he held so dear into gentle parodies and pastiches like Vynález zkázy (The Deadly Invention/​ The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, 1958) and Lemonade Joe. The unit also included genre film experts Vratislav Blažek and Oldřich Daněk. The long-​term collaborative network these individuals forged was not limited to Feix’s unit. Brdečka was extremely well connected, boasting relationships to countless film-makers, writers, actors, musicians and artists spanning generational and institutional divides.25 Many of them played important roles in the development of Lemonade Joe. The film’s director, Oldřich Lipský, screenwriter, Vratislav Blažek, animator, Karel Zeman, composer, Jan Rychlík and costar, Miloš Kopecký, were all leading figures in the Czechoslovak comedy scene. Indeed, Lipský, Rychlík and Kopecký had already worked together on a 1955 stage adaptation of Lemonade Joe. What is more, Rychlík, who had also written the music for both a theatrical and an animated version of the property, was vastly experienced in the 110

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy production of stage satire. Lipský, already an experienced director of film comedies, could bring a proven troupe of actors to Lemonade Joe. These individuals shared a strong sense of stylisation and the capacity to use it to ‘smuggle’ popular genres and playful fantasy into state-​socialist cinema.

Lemonade Joe: Paradoxical Historicity of Czech Film Parody As I have shown above, comedy represented the single most enduring genre in Czech cinema, especially in the form of its two principal traditions: the populist comedies revolving around everyday awkwardness and the ironically escapist comedies of fantasy. If other genres –​fairy tales, musicals and parodies –​showed some longevity, it was as a result of their being infused with comedy. Parody is especially significant to the history of Czechoslovak film comedy because it enabled film-makers to engage with non-​native genres in a manner that took into account local creative competencies, ideological imperatives and audience tastes. However, unlike the comedies of the 1940s and 1950s, parody was not discussed in official ideological guidelines. Such films were not mentioned in either ministerial or Central Committee directives, nor were they required to reflect ideological demands such as ridiculing Western popular culture. Rather than the strategic tailoring of content dubbed ‘thematic planning’, parodying genres characteristic of the West resulted from the informal, shared predispositions of the films’ makers. In contrast to earlier Soviet parodies such as Neobychainye priklyucheniya mistera Vesta v strane bolshevikov (The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, 1924), Vor, no ne Bagdadskii (The thief, but not from Baghdad, 1926) and Potseluy Meri Pikford (A Kiss from Mary Pickford, 1927),26 Lemonade Joe and its contemporaries were not driven by a propagandistic agenda in terms of comparing capitalist democracy and state-​socialist regimes. What is more, Lemonade Joe and its ilk were not shaped by efforts to compete with American imports, as was the case with the much later Soviet production, Chelovek s bulvara Kaputsinov (A Man from Boulevard des Capucines, 1987).27 This, however, doesn’t mean that Czech parodies were not influenced by political changes. As a vehicle for Communist propaganda following the 111

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe coup of 1948, the newly-​nationalised Czechoslovak film industry rejected what was seen as the ‘bourgeois’ tradition of commercial cinema. One way in which this powerhouse of Eastern and Central European cinema did so was to produce a parody of the tear-​jerkers made before and during the war. In what essentially amounted to a case of cinematic self-​flagellation, Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář (The poacher’s foster daughter or generous millionaire, 1949) showcased actors mocking the performance styles and conventions of films in which they themselves had appeared. Anecdotal evidence suggests that upon original release, some viewers remained so spellbound by these conventions that they failed to notice that they were being parodied and instead viewed the film as serious drama.28 One explanation for this phenomenon derives from the targeted films having been temporarily removed from circulation. It would appear that audiences at least partly mistook the parody for a straight successor to the targeted films, thereby allowing themselves to enjoy viewing pleasures that were otherwise suppressed. A similar sense of substitution explains the motives of at least some of the talent behind the parodies: parodies allowed them to work with beloved genre conventions without being accused of political revisionism. The postwar parodic trend was not without predecessors. Comedies that parodied –​sometimes affectionately –​aspects of American popular culture were made sporadically in Prague between the silent era and the early 1940s. Such films included Dáma s malou nožkou (The lady with the small foot, 1919), Únos bankéře Fuxe (The kidnapping of Fux the banker, 1923), Chyťte ho! (Catch him!, 1924), Peníze nebo život (Your Money or Your Life, 1932) and Těžký život dobrodruha (The hard life of an adventurer, 1941). The first bona fide, Czech-​produced parody of Westerns was Pancho se žení (Pancho’s wedding), which although initially greenlighted for production in 1944 took two years to complete due to complications resulting from the nationalisation of the film industry. However, it was not until the 1960s that a fully-​fledged cycle of parodies of popular genres unfolded. Lemonade Joe is distinguished from its contemporaries by its presentation of a complex, mythic universe of the West, transformed by elaborate language, music and the performances of onscreen talent. The film tells the tale of an idealised singing gunslinger who attempts to clean up a morally bankrupt frontier town, partly in order to win the heart of a preacher’s daughter. This highly conventional narrative is used, however, to satirise 112

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy American capitalism. In reality, Joe works for a soft drinks manufacturer who stands to reap significant financial rewards from closing down the town’s whisky salon. His seemingly noble actions are thus shown to be financially motivated, a point which, alongside his pursuit of the preacher’s daughter, brings Joe close to the film’s villain in terms of their comparable motives. Expressed in such terms, Lemonade Joe can be seen to advance an ideologically apposite critique of life and culture in the West. However, quite the opposite reading is possible if one also considers the energies invested in lovingly creating this world, energies evident in serious performances, the complexity of the dialogue, and the catchy songs voiced by several of Czechoslovakia’s biggest pop stars. Brdečka felt that his film represented the most complex incarnation of the Lemonade Joe property. He explained in notes in the screenplay that Joe had now been invested with additional satiric resonance that effectively elevated this tale from parody to satire, thanks largely to his highlighting of the character’s marketing role for the soda concern. In making such claims, it seems Brdečka was responding to criticism he received for the 1955 stage version of Lemonade Joe, produced by ‘Divadlo estrády a satiry’ (‘Satire and Variety Theatre’), which some critics dismissed as an affectionate pastiche rather than the sneering parody they clearly desired. Yet, with Czechoslovak culture and politics having changed significantly in the subsequent decade, Brdečka’s 1964 film found itself subject to charges of showing insufficient reverence for its target genre. In light of the criticism, the filmmaker evidently felt compelled to defend his work by citing his deep knowledge of frontier history, by arguing that the stereotyping of which he was accused had in fact also characterised earlier American Westerns, and by insisting that those films, too, had commercialised Wild West mythology.29 And so, parodic intention is cast as meta-​stylisation, as a commentary on the stereotyped representational practices of American Westerns themselves. Yet, as contemporaneous reviews make clear, the parody in Lemonade Joe did not extinguish emotional investment in the Western; the film’s meticulous, loving recreation of this universe actually consolidated the Western by providing a beautifully crafted substitute. Lemonade Joe’s textual complexity was thus a product of negotiations among different creative interests and of differing perspectives on comedy and parody. It represented an index or palimpsest of this story’s travels through three political regimes. 113

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Autonomisation of Parody Brdečka’s notion of the meta-​Western suggests a parody which would not ridicule its target from without but instead would extract and exaggerate the genre’s own internal tensions between historical frontier reality and commercialised stylisation, all the while maintaining the pleasures derived therefrom. In so doing, it illustrates what we might call the ‘autonomisation’ of parody, a parody that invites the spectator to view exemplary films as selfcontained, almost serious, as creating their own generic integrity.30 ​ Accordingly, Brdečka’s meta-​Western does not reflect on or stand against any original Westerns as specifically targeted texts; rather, it recreates the Western as an autonomous spectacle. Formalist definitions explain parodies as ‘rupturers’ of an established canon, twisting, defamiliarising, critiquing and transgressing generic conventions.31 However, the only postwar Czechoslovak films to function in these ways were those like The poacher’s foster daughter, which lampooned interwar kitsch, or later efforts that mocked Communist agitprop in Pražská pětka (Prague five, 1988). The remaining parodies either targeted an absent canon of films that had not been in circulation or otherwise confected one anew, as Krvavý román (Horror Story, 1993) did with a vision of silent cinema that never existed on celluloid. Both Brdečka and Lipský recognised that in the years before they made Lemonade Joe, Czechoslovaks had had little exposure to American Westerns. In fact, even in the 1930s, when US imports were widely available, American Westerns had failed to attract the sizable audiences drawn at that time to European productions.32 American films were banned in 1941, but they briefly re-​emerged from 1946 to 1949, only to be banned again for several years, this time by the Communist authorities. Before Lemonade Joe opened in theatres, local audiences would have had the opportunity to see only a handful of American Westerns –​High Noon (1952), The Big Country (1958) and The Magnificent Seven (1960) –​and the first in a series of German Westerns, Der Schatz im Silbersee (The Treasure of the Silver Lake, 1962). What is more, with the possible exception of The Treasure of Silver the Lake, neither creative personnel nor local audiences were familiar with European variants such as the Italian comedy or Westerns of the late 1950s and early 1960s. For many Czechoslovak moviegoers, Lemonade Joe represented an early encounter with the generic conventions of the film Western, 114

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy resulting in their linking it to older local literature about the Wild West and to the culture of tramping, which drew from a romantic vision of frontier life.33 The second feature of autonomisation relates to the role that parodies played in the history of Czechoslovak cinema. A surge in parody that encompassed myriad media forms, including animated shorts and television series followed Lemonade Joe, lasting until their demise early in the 1980s.34 Within months of the release of Lemonade Joe, a 30-minute parody Western was being shot for television on the same Barrandov studio sets. Entitled Šlechetný cowboy Sandy aneb Prohraná nevěsta (The noble cowboy Sandy or Gamble bride, 1964), this film also replicated Lemonade Joe’s anti-​commerce theme. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Brdečka and Lipský collaborated on new parodies: the Nick Carter detective parody Adéla ještě nevečeřela (Dinner for Adele, 1977) and the Jules Verne parody Tajemství hradu v Karpatech (The Mysterious Castle in the Carpathians, 1981). In addition, writer Miloš Macourek and director Václav Vorlíček made several parodies, including the James Bond-​inspired Konec agenta W4C prostřednictvím psa pana Foustky (The End of Agent W4C, 1967) and the sci-​fi spo of Pane, vy jste vdova! (You Are a Widow, Sir, 1970). The distinction of being the best-​liked gangster film parody goes to Macourek and Lipský’s ‘Čtyři vraždy stačí, drahoušku’ (‘Four murders are enough, Darling’, 1970). What is more, one of the 1950s’ most productive comedy directors, Bořivoj Zeman, turned to the production of parody with the murder mystery Fantom Morrisvillu (The Phantom of Morrisville, 1966). The New Wave filmmaker Juraj Herz also embraced parody with his sci-​ fi horror spoof Upír z Feratu (Ferat Vampire, 1981) and the gangster film Buldoci a třešně (Bulldogs and cherries, 1981). The appeal of parody also spread to other sectors of Czechoslovak cultural production. For example, state-​run television contributed a mini-​series poking fun at 1930s operettas, Fantom operety (The Phantom of Operetta, 1970), as well as Gagman (1987) –​a six-​part slapstick comedy series lampooning early Hollywood. Fully animated parodies also ­proliferated, some following in the footsteps of Trnka’s The Song of the Prairie by targeting the Western. Among the animations were V pravé dopoledne (High morning, 1964) and Kamenáč Bill a ohromní moskyti (Billy the Tough and the giant mosquitoes, 1971). These films, television series and animated films 115

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe boasted their own pantheon of directors, Lipský and Vorlíček, screenwriters, Brdečka and Macourek, and stars such as Miloš Kopecký, Květa Fialová and Jiřina Bohdalová. What is more, fans embraced the unique comedic style of their parodies, rather than simply laughing at how they mocked the original genres.35

Conclusion This chapter approached Czechoslovak film parody from the perspective of historical production studies. From the late 1920s to the present day, comedy has represented the most pervasive and enduring generic component of that nation’s cinema, transcending Nazi occupation, World War II, the nationalisation of the domestic film industry and various forms of State-​ socialism. By contrast, other popular genres either were not produced at all or were made in low numbers for short periods of time, as was the case with sci-​fi films. Indeed, even the period’s other prominent genre, the fairy tale, tended to be characterised by comedic modes as well. Parody served as a substitute for absent genres and generated a canon in its own right, one that permitted careers, styles and cycles of films to develop from the 1960s to the early 1980s. Parody proved itself to be one of the most visible sites of ‘soft resistance’ by a production culture that often tried to preserve its genre-​based tastes and values in the face of political pressures. A more complete understanding of this genre’s role in the region will hinge on taking a greater number of phenomena into consideration. These will no doubt include issues such as appropriation, that is, the ‘downscaling’ and ‘localising’ of foreign models to meet local economic, production and ideological parameters. They may also include substitution (replacing missing foreign films with parodies thereof), identification processes (projecting local cultural identities onto foreign films) and, speaking more broadly, the cultural implications of the shortage economies of state-​socialist nations.

Notes 1 . The author would like to thank Richard Nowell for his editing assistance. 2. Ladislav Rychman, ‘TV: Parodie filmová a televizní’, Slovo lxxxii (8 April 1997), p. 13.

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy 3. Peter Hames, Czech and Slovak Cinema:  Theme and Tradition (Edinburgh, 2009), p. 50. 4. Apart from various reprints and performances (from 1979 through 2015, almost one new theatrical adaptation per year on average), a special exhibition presenting visual material and objects from the film was organised in 2012. 5. In a previous article on the popularity of films according to their national provenance, I used the Braudelian concept of ‘long duration’ to show why comedies drawing on an Austrian–​Central European tradition of popular culture were the most popular Czech films in domestic theaters throughout the 1930s. See Petr Szczepanik, ‘Hollywood in Disguise: Practices of Exhibition and Reception of Foreign Films in Czechoslovakia in the 1930s’, in D. Biltereyst, R. Maltby, and P. Meers (eds), Cinema, Audiences and Modernity. New Perspectives on European Cinema History (London and N ​ ew York, 2011), pp. 166–​86. 6. This transformation was famously shown by the critic Jaroslav Boček as early as the 1960s. See Jaroslav Boček, Kapitoly o filmu (Prague, 1968), pp. 138–​46. 7. Of course, this unusual phenomenon was catalysed by more than simply an absence of target texts; it was also determined by external factors. These included the ‘shortage economy’ characterised by an unsatisfied demand for western goods –​see János Kornai, The Socialist System: The Political Economy of Communism (New York, 1992). 8. Richard Nowell, ‘Hollywood Don’t Skate:  US Production Trends, Industry Analysis, and the Roller Disco Movie’, New Review of Film and Television Studies xi/​1 (2012), pp. 73–​91. 9. See Petr Szczepanik, ‘The State-​Socialist Mode of Production and the Political History of Production Culture’, in P. Szczepanik and P. Vonderau (eds), Behind the Screen: Inside European Production Cultures (New York, 2013), pp. 113–​34. 10. ‘Soutěž za filmovou veselohru’, Věstník československého filmu i/​11 (1946), p. 173. 11. Elmar Klos and Pavel Taussig, Česká filmová komedie (Prague, 1983), p. 27. 12. Jaroslav Boček, O komedii (Prague, 1963), p. 93. 13. See Jiří Knapík, V zajetí moci. Kulturní politika, její systém a aktéři 1948–​1956 (Prague, 2006), pp. 220–​4. 14. Klos and Taussig, Česká filmová komedie, pp. 3–​7. 15. See Pavel Taussig, ‘Kdo smíchem zachází, ten…?’, Scéna xiii/​11 (1988), p. 11. 16. Their evaluative criteria correspond to the 1960s modernist aesthetics, focusing on originality of form and style rather than on ideological meanings. See Klos and Taussig, Česká filmová komedie, pp. 3–​7. 17. The key pioneers of Czech ‘television songs’ (televizní písničky) –​Ján Roháč, Vladimír Svitáček and Ladislav Rychman –​were also the most renowned directors of film musicals of the 1960s. The television songs were, virtually, short TV films, often featuring a simple narrative, group choreography, elaborate

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe mise-​en-​scène and playful gags. For example, Zdvořilý Woody (Well-​mannered Woody, 1963), the first television song by the popular singer Karel Gott, was a parody of 1950s agitprop, using a Western setting and a cowboy costume. 18. It is well known that, since the 1930s at least, animation was often an inexpensive way to parody film genres with otherwise expensive production values. See Dan Harries, Film Parody (London, 2000), pp. 16–​17. 19. By comedy of awkwardness, I refer to the films of Miloš Forman and his successor Jaroslav Papoušek. The comedy of mystification is best represented by the films of Zdeněk Svěrák and Ladislav Smoljak, famous for their ‘Jára Cimrman’ theatre, whose output was entirely based on mystification. 20. The fundamental relationship of comedy to shared tastes and sociocultural proximity between performers and audiences is discussed, for example, in Sam Friedman, Comedy and Distinction: The Cultural Currency of a ‘Good’ Sense of Humour (New York, 2014). 21. I attempted to do so in Petr Szczepanik, ‘Průmyslové autorství a skupinový styl v českém filmu 50. a 60. let’, Iluminace xxvi/​2 (2014), pp. 5–​40. 22. Competition between Šmída’s and Feix’s units lasted until the 1960s, providing the social background for the two most distinctive group styles of the era. See Szczepanik, ‘Průmyslové autorství’. 23. mfa, ‘Vizitky tvůrčích skupin FSB (4)’, Rudé právo, 3 April 1969, p. 5. See also ‘Naše anketa: Jak pracují tvůrčí skupiny’, Film a doba iii/​3 (1957), pp. 149–​50. 24. I discuss the specific concept of ‘dramaturg’ in the Czechoslovak production system in Szczepanik, ‘The State-​Socialist Mode of Production’. 25. His rich intellectual and social life was recently documented by his daughter. See Tereza Brdečková, Jiří Brdečka (Řevnice, 2013). 26. This film includes cameos by Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks shot during their visit to the USSR in 1926. 27. This film was clearly inspired by Lemonade Joe, from its idealistic hero and musical numbers to its hyperbolic fight scenes and even some of its sets. 28. See, for example, Miloš Fiala, Martin Frič. Muž, který rozdával smích (Prague, 2008), p. 194. 29. See Jiří Brdečka, ‘O westernu polemicky’, Film a doba xi/​4 (1965), pp. 208–​ 11; see also the screenplay (‘literary screenplay’ version from June 1962) and a collection of reviews of both theatrical and filmic versions in Jiří Brdečka, Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Prague, 1988). 30. By using this term, I am loosely referring to Fredric Jameson’s work on pastiche as ‘blank parody’, ‘amputated of the satiric impulse’, and to his definition of ‘autonomisation’ as ‘becoming autonomous’, or, as the fragmentation of cultural production into mere effects for their own sake, detached from the mode of production and the structural whole. See Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham, 1991), p. 17. More directly, I am

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Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy referring to Harries’ approach to ‘canonisation’ of film parody, that is, to ‘parody’s increasing transformation into its own canon’. See Harries, Film Parody, p. 3. 31. Harries, Film Parody, p. 6. 32. Not a single Western was sufficiently popular to break into the annual box office top ten. See Szczepanik, ‘Hollywood in Disguise’. 33. See Ivan Klimeš, ‘ “Limonaden-​Joe” und die Pferdeoper:  Bericht aus einem Land ohne “Wilden Westen” ’, in J. Distelmeyer, J. Schöning and H.-​M. Bock (eds), Europa im Sattel (München, 2012), pp. 97–​104. 34. It is unclear whether this decline was initiated by the availability of imported films or by the shortcomings of domestic comedies. 35. For comparative purposes, it is worth noting that in American film culture sophisticated parodies as well as the autonomisation of the genre came somewhat later, during the late 1960s and 1970s, which saw both Woody Allen and Mel Brooks produce such films. It is therefore unsurprising that Lemonade Joe won numerous festival awards –​most significantly a Silver Shell as a Special Jury Prize, as well as a FIPRESCI award at the San Sebastián IFF of 1964 –​or that it attracted so much attention abroad, boasting famous admirers such as Henry Fonda.

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Part III

Socialist Film Cultures

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6 How To Be Loved? Three Takes on ‘The Popular’ in Socialist and Non-Socialist Cinema The Popular and The People Paul Coates

The concepts of the popular and of entertainment overlap in Film Studies to the point of near-​synonymity. Entertainment itself has been linked to Utopia, a key-​word in the discourse of socialist theory, albeit more honoured by twentieth-century Western Marxists than by Marx himself. The two words’ coupling by Richard Dyer1 responds to the frequency with which those excluded from official culture’s estate, usually on class grounds, seek manna in cinema’s ‘Pennies from Heaven’. Since the difference between ‘a people’ and ‘the people’ is one between a social totality and its underprivileged part, one may speculate whether the lack in Slavic languages of the definite and indefinite articles subtending this distinction increases the likelihood of ideological conflations of part and whole, rendering such societies more susceptible to extremes of individualism (whole subsumed under part in the liberum veto of the eighteenth-​century Polish Sejm) or collectivism (whence the propagation of the ‘typical character’ by Soviet Socialist Realism?). Entry into the public sphere need not guarantee popularity, for all the common origin of ‘public’ and ‘popular’ in the Latin populus. Although only sound, not etymology, links ludowe, one Slavic (Polish) word for ‘of the people’ or ‘folk’, and ludic, they communicate implicitly in 123

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Mikhail Bakhtin’s theory of carnival, in which the people playfully invert rigid social hierarchies. Another contestation of elites’ claims would be –​to continue in the Polish cinematic context –​the moral victory of the recognition finally accorded the dying heroine of the melodramatic Trędowata (The leper, 1936), originally black-​balled by the aristocracy. As this film suggests, identification of that which is ‘of the people’ with gaiety and entertainment may trivialise their experience, glozing over the deep grief feeding such popular art as folk songs. Even comedy compensates slights, as in Buster Keaton’s repeated, unjust banishments by sweethearts’ families. Calling folk art ‘popular’ may be justified by its status as ‘of the people’, but its renaming also hints at its loss to commodity exchange of the usefulness of community reinforcement, its turning out, outwards, and inside out, to solicit ‘popularity’. The debate over why Francis James Child, compiler of the most important nineteenth-​century English folk music collection, translated the German Volksballade as ‘popular ballad’ and not as the more obviously cognate ‘folk ballad’,2 may register the effect upon these songs of their capture for subsequent release into the capitalist nineteenth-​century market. The adjective ‘popular’ asserted the status to which the songs aspired. As Milan Kundera’s early novels show, the fate of folk culture under socialism would be even worse. Although the notion of ‘the people’ haunts socialism’s vocabulary, which is no surprise given its commitment to non-​individualist production, its conception of cinema is not inherently folkloric: films followed the electrification that also served ideological unification. Indeed, cinema’s best-​known folkloric conception was neither socialist nor Soviet in origin: Austrian art historian Erwin Panofsky contended that its ‘legitimate paths of evolution were opened, not by running away from the folk art character of the primitive film but by developing it within the limits of its own possibilities’ through themes of ‘success or retribution, sentiment, sensation, pornography, and crude humour’.3 Initially, the ideology of international socialism favoured the industrialism that destroyed folklore by luring peasants to towns. Only later did it try to build back in both the folklore, and popular support, it had lost and the peasantry that its own version of collectivism had either antagonised or –​in parts of the Soviet Union –​destroyed, through the ‘negation of the negation’ known as Socialist Realism, that mask placed before the community-​destroying face 124

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How To Be Loved? of Stalinism. The loss of folklore would be sealed by its transmigration into the body of high, stylised art: in the USSR, in the films of Paradjanov and, outside it, in those of such figures as Juraj Jakubisko (Slovakia) and the early Karel Vachek (Moravia). The extent to which ‘of the people’ is not simply ludic becomes apparent, for instance, in the work of a Russian who experienced much of the same history as Bakhtin, in the Korol Lir (King Lear, 1971) of Grigori Kozintsev. Kozintsev’s own description of the work as founded upon ‘the people’s grief ’4 renders particularly telling his commissioning of a score by Shostakovitch, much of whose music wears mourning for the losses scarring Soviet experience. The film’s version of the Fool, therefore, whom Kozintsev termed ‘the boy from Auschwitz’ and likened to the chorus in Greek tragedy, is one of the people. Nevertheless, for all its empathy with the people, Kozintsev’s film is far-removed from the folk art whose proverbs pervade it. Bolesław Michałek might have considered it yet another example of the inability of cinema, lamented at conferences, to produce ‘a popular or folkloric film’ (film popularny czy ludowy).5 He notes that Poland’s interwar commercial cinema, when seeking popularity, always went ‘from top to bottom, never from the bottom to the top’, adapting, for instance, the patriotic and socially a​ ctivist early t​ wentieth-​century novels of Stefan Żeromski, or poems by Poland’s greatest Romantic, Adam Mickiewicz. (Andrzej Wajda did likewise when seeking reconnection with the post-​1989 audience, filming Mickiewicz’s Pan Tadeusz (Pan Tadeusz: The Last Foray in Lithuania, 1999)). For Michałek, postwar Polish cinema, meanwhile, approaches folklore’s ‘universality and authenticity’ –​ transcending ‘commercial cinema with its false mythology’6 –​only in a few works: films by Kazimierz Kutz, ‘strongly rooted in the life, habits and mentality of a region [Silesia]’, ‘the popular comedy cycle of Sylwester Chęciński’ and the television adaptation of Władysław Reymont’s turn-​of-​ the-​century epic novel Chłopi (The peasants).7

‘Serious’, ‘Unserious’, ‘Art Cinema’ and the ‘Epic’ Thus, problems surround the notion of ‘the popular’, and Dyer’s non-​ mention of the folkloric, when discussing ‘entertainment as entertainment’,8 may be an index of the peculiar remoteness of the moment of 125

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe industrialising Britain’s loss of connection with its folk culture, the memory of which may have haunted the popular music of the 1960s and 1970s (even there, though, soon eroding into ‘folk rock’:  Fairport Convention, Steeleye Span) but not British cinema. ‘Popular culture’ can signify, on the one hand, products branded generically to guarantee spectator satisfaction through simultaneous novelty and reassuring familiarity. Opposing this capitalist model of individual consumption is that of an ostensible society-​wide fulfilment of the downtrodden class’s dreams of liberation celebrated on Socialist Realist screens. However, the possibility of crossovers between socialism and capitalism, or of a mixed economy of desire, becomes evident from the applicability to the lives of salaried Hollywood employees of the conclusion Miklós Haraszti drew from the integration of art and censorship in the ‘totalitarian socialism’ of the Hungary of Kádár: ‘art is not wedded to freedom forever and always’.9 Similarly, oppositions between the ephemeral utopia of a capitalist entertainment and the lasting but evolving one of ‘real, existing socialism’ are troubled whenever such directors as Lev Kuleshov, in 1920s Soviet Russia, or Andrzej Wajda, in 1970s Poland, seek self-​consciously to graft ‘American virtues’ onto films to ensure popularity for the art of non-​and even anti-​American industries. Noting in the 1920s that American films appealed more to Soviet audiences than domestic productions, Kuleshov discerned the cause of American films’ success ‘in the greatest common measure of film-​ness, in the presence of maximum movement and in primitive heroism, in an organic relationship to contemporaneity’,10 where the possibly pejorative ‘primitive heroism’ has its positivity underlined by the reference to the organic connection with the contemporary. Moreover, contradictions proliferate on both sides of the capitalist/​ socialist dichotomy. Theorists of Hollywood debate whether its function is ‘ritualistic’, meeting spectators’ needs, or foisted upon them by an industry sowing compliance with ‘the dominant ideology’.11 At the same time, artists working under ‘real, existing socialism’ (the statement that this was not yet communism reluctantly admitted the disparity between that reality and the utopia…) could aspire to achieve popularity by subverting, directly if possible but by ‘Aesopian’ means if necessary, generally unpopular Soviet-​ imposed regimes. Some of these artists –​of whom Wajda might furnish the most richly conflicted e­ xample –​were not averse to using a poetic Wajda’s 126

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How To Be Loved? own Człowiek z marmuru (Man of Marble, 1976) describes as ‘American’ (depth of field, handheld cameras) and narrative (quest) strategies to pour ‘popular content’ (criticism of the regime) into an appropriately ‘popular’ form. Indeed, Klaus Kreimeier maintained that ‘at times he descends into an apologist for the most slippery Americanism’.12 It is surely significant that several key Wajda works (Popiół i diament (Ashes and Diamonds, 1958), Wszystko na sprzedaż (Everything for Sale, 1968), and Man of marble) were influenced extensively by Citizen Kane (1941), which itself fused high and low by combining ‘art cinema’ strategies with the popular quest narrative, its double ending manifesting both modernist unknowability (Rosebud as ‘a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle’) and its riddle’s solution. Equally quixotically, Wajda’s work continually attempts to square the circle, to create a ‘popular art cinema’. As such, it has emblematic significance for debate on the popular in an East Central European context, and will figure prominently in this article. Although East Central European cinema was distributed in Western, capitalist societies as ‘art cinema’, this should not be taken as indicating the impossibility of Eastern Europe having a ‘popular art cinema’, as its distribution systems proclaimed the value of a somewhat one-​way transmission to ‘the people’ of art previously monopolised by the bourgeoisie: in other words, of the proletariat entering into possession of what East German cultural functionaries described as ‘die Erbe’ (the inheritance), rather than ransacking, October Revolution-​style, a provocatively alien palace. (Critics echoed the functionaries: Walter Benjamin famously hailed the dissipation of aura as enabling working class access to a once-​remote, cultic culture.) Thus Ewa Mazierska’s proposal ‘to redress the imbalance between artistic/​serious and popular/​unserious cinema in critical discourse’ on East European cinema by ‘adopting a genre perspective’13 overlooks the extent to which, before 1989, serious, non-​genre-​based work could achieve popularity through the dislike of the authorities shared by vast swathes of the populace and the most independent-​minded filmmakers. As Krzysztof Zanussi noted, the million viewers who attended his Barwy ochronne (Camouflage, 1977) could not all have been intellectuals.14 Such distinctions between the ‘artistic/​serious’ and the ‘popular/​unserious’, applied to East Central European cinema, reflect deeply entrenched ones between a European cinema best known for its nongeneric works and 127

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe an American one able to grease the distribution of its generic products worldwide through attractive, technologically advanced, expensive spectacle and the revolving doors and constellation of its star system. Importing such distinctions into discussions of East Central European film of the pre-​1989 period is an overdue integration of its cinemas into wider contexts. Nevertheless, it can also denigrate the most resonant achievements of production systems that challenge the currently hegemonic capitalist one. Ignoring the way economic imperatives can censor just as effectively as political ones, it can even repress as ‘elitist’ a European cinema whose interactions with genre have usually been more fluid than has been possible in Hollywood. Paradoxically, meanwhile, East European regimes, viewing an array of genres as the commodified hallmark of a capitalist production dividing class and national consciousness so as to rule them, and unruly film-makers fearing further straitjackets on the imagination, could both join in opposition to it. Party-​sponsored reviewers –​whether arguing opportunistically or simply under the influence of the auteur theory whose adoption, conscious or not, was almost de rigueur for any critic seeking credibility with postwar readers, but in any case with little concern for its compatibility with most forms of Marxism –​might even lament the genre system’s hostility to artistic (a word less compromised than ‘individual’) production. And yet, of course, dissociating European cinema from such generic categories as ‘the epic’ and ‘the spectacular’, whose evident production values and ‘casts of thousands’ are viable financially only when sustained by mass appeal, perpetuates a stereotypical fusion of ‘the European’, ‘the difficult’ and ‘the low budget’ whose automatism serves both prejudice and product differentiation. The terms of debate become more subtle, and arguably more accurate, if such forms of the popular as ‘epic’ and ‘spectacle’ are declared not so much absent from the European context, including an East Central European one less alien to it than to an American system (socialist directors being numerous, and having friends, on both sides of Europe’s divide), as subject to a differential conceptualisation. Thus, whereas Hollywood epic production’s ability to annex any time or place, including outer space, indicates the extent of its capital, digitisation and will to worldwide appeal, the European epic will probably tap its own country’s history and participate in dialogues on national identity: dialogues which may be couched in personal terms, serve official propaganda 128

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How To Be Loved? aims, or complexly do both to different degrees. (Case in point: Jancsó in the 1960s.) Whereas Hollywood translates ‘epic’ into ‘large’, ‘displaying considerable production values’ and even ‘blockbuster’, in a European lexicon, including the East Central European one, it rather connotes the traditional literary genre that tells of national founding fathers. The fact that its protagonists, although not necessarily exemplary in any simple sense (as were those of Socialist Realism), were always prototypical, and hence relevant to the present, grounds both their popularity (including that of medieval or early-​modern defenders of a still nonexistent nation states) and that of the work in which they appear, regardless whether their representation be hagiographic or more complex. American ‘epic’, however, does not showcase US founding fathers so much as those of the Judaeo-​Roman-​Christian tradition. This general nonrepresentation of America’s own Revolutionary founders suggests, among other things: a belief that spectator identification is better served by ideal figures than historical ones; a will to avoid alienation of those who followed the ethnic national traditions later melted down into an American identity; a democratic preference for finding exemplars outside the apparently ­history-​making and often WASP ruling class; the American Revolution’s lack of the ambiguously attractive, usefully dramatic, violent spectacle of the French one; and –​perhaps primarily –​the centrality to cinematic spectacle of exotically distant pasts and lands, their unknown status rendering them in a sense ‘pure’, transcending history’s complications as idealistically as the Republic itself. D.W. Griffith really does seem to have established the moment of Lincoln, and the grief for his death, as the true popular birth of a nation. Only one genre, the one whose democratically rough-​ hewn protagonists arise after that moment –​the Western –​functions as the ‘American epic’. Works straddling the distinction between celebration and interrogation  –​one often aligned with that between popular and art cinema  –​ assume particular interest here. East Central European terrain offers several particularly pregnant examples in Wajda’s consistent attempt to fulfil the arguably contradictory roles of people’s tribune and auteur. Thus his Lotna (1959) arguably both ironises and apostrophises military virtue, positioning itself beyond high–​low binaries confusing audiences both then and now. Wajda’s investment in spectacle is congruent with a desire 129

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe to produce a national epic (the three war films accumulating epic length through designation as a ‘trilogy’), but he seeks also to critique nationalist myths that he, like (other?) socialists, deemed doubly dubious because complicit with conservatism and fostering the military unpreparedness that rendered September 1939 so traumatic. In this context, Wajda’s status as both a (to some extent simulated) ‘people’s tribune’ in a socialist sense and a practitioner of genuinely oppositional cinema made almost inevitable the controversy dogging Kanał (Kanal, Andrzej Wajda, 1957), which could be lauded as seeking belated justice for the Home Army (AK), the majority-​Polish resistance group during the Nazi Occupation, following the expiry in 1956 of the period of its virulent, Stalinist demonisation. Nevertheless, although Niech żyje AK!’ [Long live the AK!] is visible on a distant building wall just before one of its platoons enters the sewers, the film was rejected by the many Varsovians who held dear the memory of Warsaw Uprising insurgents it depicts as not just heroic but misguided and spattered with sewage.15 Meanwhile, although the youth of most of those defeated AK fighters may have sharpened death’s sting, their adherence to the Conradian beliefs of the prewar intelligentsia dictated a rightful end on the garbage heap of History: and so the Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza (PZPR, (Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza –​Polish United Workers’ Party) pronounced Kanal one of the few late 1950s films whose ‘ideological resonance’ merited a ‘positive’ evaluation.16 Where the three films centred on Kanal dramatised Polish wartime suffering, Wajda’s later, epically long Man of Marble treats dialectically, and self-​ critically, the socialist state’s hagiography of those who participated in the country’s reconstruction after the depredations of World War II. The kitschy, state-​sponsored statue of exemplary Stakhanovite worker Mateusz Birkut may rightly have been relegated to the basement of the Muzeum Narodowe (National Museum) on aesthetic grounds, but the human Birkut’s pressing into the mud of the political unconscious by the state apparatus is deeply troubling. The film suggests, as Człowiek z żelaza (Man of Iron, 1981) will spell out, that he lies underground not just symbolically, as a hidden statue, but literally, alongside other Gdańsk workers shot and buried hugger-​mugger in 1970. Nevertheless, Wajda’s own establishment of Birkut as exemplary in morality, and not just in fate, 130

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How To Be Loved? arguably matches both the authorities’ mandated use of proletarian consciousness as the yardstick of goodness and American cinema’s chronic spawning of hero figures, while the phantom of Socialist Realism haunts every corner of Man of Iron. Attachment to the hero figure marks the intersection between Socialist Realist norms and Hollywood ones –​between two forms of ‘the popular’. And lip service is still paid to Party ideology; for instance, in the sequence at the Katowice Steelworks, whose ‘monumental image’ prompted Zbigniew Klaczyński to declare ‘Wajda’s failure to integrate the drama he shows with what after all is an optimistic vision of development’17 and Janina Falkowska to discern an ‘internal polemical discourse’ that ‘caused confusion in the spectator’.18 And yet, just as Agnieszka seems to be enjoying herself imitating a TV reporter, so Wajda may mimic the official ‘propaganda of success’ in order playfully to feel out an alien consciousness, subtly and slyly offering momentary relief from the film’s otherwise unremittingly committed tone.

Kitsch and Realism So often has the term ‘kitsch’ been applied to popular culture that its relevance should be weighed here. Socialist Realism matches Umberto Eco’s definition of kitsch as a quotation of unacknowledged originals with no ability to generate new contexts from them.19 Such quotation differs from that in, say, T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922). Whereas the kitsch work strives to hide the extent of its use of quotation, Eliot thematises it as part of a quest to determine what fragments of culture can be shored up against its ruination at all levels. If kitsch is quotation incapable of sparking new contexts, its infantilised son–​father relationship suggests a desire for higher status or protection beneath the umbrella of accepted styles. If, as Miklós Haraszti noted, ‘[a]‌rtistic production has boomed under communism’,20 this was due not just to unprecedented state funding but also to the prestige artists still enjoyed in cultures for which they had once figured as tribunes of the people (a role arrogated to itself by the Party: Trybuna ludu (The People’s Tribune) was the PZPR daily’s title). The easy publication granted to all but the most refractory demonstrated a new, popular access to the once-​ privileged positions of gentry intelligentsia. Meanwhile, as the vanguard 131

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe of the working class, guarantor of and proxy for popular ownership of art, the Party could declare which art forms best served the people’s interests. Socialist Realism’s ‘inability to generate a new context’ betrayed parasitism upon nineteenth-century realism, its reflection theory reflecting lack of any correspondence with reality. Despite the Party’s possession of the initial advantage of the popular preference for realism, attaching an exclusively socialist lens to the realist camera rendered monotonous the polyphony accorded the novel, that realist form par excellence, by Bakhtin: ‘typical characters’ were mere puppets moved by the hands of class. Clement Greenberg, the most influential advocate of the mid-​twentieth-​century avant garde, once linked kitsch to realism. This is not surprising: both are of nineteenth-century provenance and so a priori might be considered related, and avant garde artists opposed both.21 Given socialist art’s self-​presentation as ‘for the people’, contradictions between the artist’s membership of a political, Leninist avant-​garde and possible allegiance to a stylistic, that is, quasi-​modernist one were resolved when politics trumped aesthetics: ‘[i]‌f art belonged to the masses, whose interests were represented by the Party, art could no longer be regarded as the special province of artists.’22 The growing artistic autonomy that accompanied nineteenth-​ century realism was rolled back, and the artist integrated as a state functionary. This was arguably paradigmatically the case in the film industry, staffed by artists dependent on the state for the means of production. Cinema enjoyed the two-​edged Leninist promotion to ‘most important art’ that also made it the most assiduously censored. Facing a choice between being able to ‘count on the privilege of being censored’23 and departing for other countries (Polański, Skolimowski, Żuławski, Holland or Bugajski in Poland; Forman and Passer in Czechoslovakia, among others), few resembled Krzysztof Kieślowski, who was prepared to see four of his first six documentaries shelved. In the Soviet context, of course, the popular preference for realism (which Greenberg lambasts as one for Repin over Picasso24) echoed and was amplified by Stalin’s. The Soviet Socialist Realism first mandated in the 1930s extended to its postwar, Eastern bloc satellite states before undergoing dilution, after Stalin’s death, into ‘critical realism’. Nevertheless, a partial return of Socialist Realism would mark every attempted ‘normalisation’ of those Eastern bloc film industries, which sinned through ‘formalism’: thus, 132

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How To Be Loved? after the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, its cinema experienced what Barrandov’s literary adviser Ludvik Toman demagogically hailed as ‘a return to the spectator’, which Peter Hames sums up as follows: ‘the official line had returned to the aesthetics associated with Zhdanov and the 1950s.’25 The mid-​1950s may have withdrawn the positive requirements of Socialist Realism  –​the dances of engineers of the soul on fields and building sites, tainted by association with Stalinism –​but most of its prohibitions remained. The proscription of ‘pessimism’, for instance, would complicate any full incorporation of Italian neorealism, that most influential of postwar movements, its films’ endings being equivocal at best. Polish cinema of the 1950s may have acquired a peculiar aura of quasi-​neorealism from a still partially ruined Warsaw, but only the Thaw of 1956 permitted pessimism’s brief escape from the censor’s red pencil. It was compelled nevertheless to survive through application to class enemies and by hiding the extent of audience identification with those enemies. In many respects, postwar Polish cinema moves dialectically between opposed realisms: from Socialist Realism, through a critical realism whose tolerance of some degree of symbolisation gave artists crucial room for manoeuvre (between, say, Kanal and Andrzej Żuławski’s Trzecia część nocy (Third Part of the Night, 1971), to the bare bones realism of the ‘cinema of moral concern’. The latter’s unvarnished speech would prompt Party efforts to discredit it as simply journalistic and therefore ‘inartistic’. For Haraszti, this tactic would illustrate how the art of the ‘driven dissident’ is ‘branded a mere vehicle for his political discontent’. ‘From being a member of the elite world of aesthetics, [the artist] has now become one of the masses.’26 In Poland, however, such aesthetic demotion constituted a moral promotion, exemplifying the solidarity of intelligentsia and people forged in the aftermath of the Radom and Ursus plant protests of 1976 and institutionalised in the Komitet obrony robotników (KOR, Workers’ Defense Committee), founded in reaction to state persecution of the workers involved. Inspired to some extent by the documentaries of the early 1970s, symbolic veilings give way to a transparency of discourse whose primary model may well have been Orwell, whose disillusioned late novels circulated in samizdat. The films in question remain works of art, however, albeit perhaps approaching its degree zero, as they retain a rhetorical function: that of using pars to represent toto, local problems as 133

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe symptoms of the debility of the entire soi-​disant socialist system: of high level, careerist Party corruption and media mendacity. This suggests an ironic return through inversion of a key category of Socialist Realism, typicality, though this time with the previously taboo implication of corruption beyond the provinces where so many such films were set: in the commanding heights of the Party that controlled them all the more strongly after Edward Gierek’s calculated dilution of the power of the sort of provincial centre that had been his own launching pad, splitting 17 voivodships into 49.27 The attenuation of the symbolising impulse by the cinema of moral concern would accompany a near-​disappearance of the pathos Yvette Bíró, identified as the first dominant mode of socialist cinema in East Central Europe, declaring irony its successor:28 whence the abandonment of symbols by that arch-​symboliser, Andrzej Wajda, who headed the particularly restive ‘X’ film unit. Pathos was replaced by irony’s assiduous measurement of the gulf between socialism’s ‘propaganda of success’ and its actualities, thus foreshadowing the Polish upheaval of 1980–​1, the ones rippling across the region in 1989, and then the East Central European advent of the postmodernity whose sole resting place is in irony.

Notes 1. Richard Dyer, ‘Entertainment and utopia’, in B. Nichols (ed.), Movies and Methods II (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London, 1985), pp. 220–​32. 2. Sigrid Rieuwerts, ‘The folk-​ballad: the illegitimate child of the popular ballad’, Journal of Folklore Research iii (1996), p. 221. 3. Erwin Panofsky, ‘Style and medium in the motion pictures’, in L. Braudy and M. Cohen (eds), Film Theory and Criticism (7th edition) (New  York, 2009), p. 249. 4. Grigori Kozintsev, King Lear: The Space of Tragedy: The Diary of a Film Director, trans. Mary Mackintosh (Berkeley-Los Angeles, 1977), p. 44. 5. Bolesław Michałek, ‘Więc może folkor?’ in B.  Michałek, Notes filmowy (Warszawa, 1981), p. 24. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid, p. 28. 8. Dyer, ‘Entertainment and utopia’, p. 221. 9. Miklós Haraszti, The Velvet Prison: Artists Under State Socialism (New York, 1987), p. 12.

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How To Be Loved? 10. Lev Kuleshov, Kuleshov on Film: Writings by Lev Kuleshov, trans., ed. and intro. Ronaldo Levaco (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London, 1974), p. 128. 11. Rick Altman, ‘A semantic/​syntactic approach to film genre’, in L.​Braudy and M. Cohen (eds), Film Theory and Criticism (New York-Oxford, 2009), pp. 554–5. 12. Klaus Kreimeier, ‘Nach der Schlacht’, in Kreimeier et al., Andrzej Wajda (München, 1980), p. 7. 13. Ewa Mazierska, Polish Postcommunist Cinema: From Pavement Level (OxfordBern, 2007), p. 16. 14. Dan Georgakas and Lenny Rubenstein, ‘Workings of a pure heart’ (interview with Krzysztof Zanussi), in D. Georgakas and L. Rubenstein (eds), The Cineaste Interviews: On the art and politics of the cinema (Chicago, 1983), p. 338. 15. Bolesław Michałek, The Cinema of Andrzej Wajda (London, 1973; South Brunswick-New York, 1973). 16. Paul Coates, The Red and the White: The Cinema of People’s Poland (London, 2005), p. 121. 17. Zbigniew Klaczyński, ‘Ten stary –​nowy film’, Film xix (1977). 18. Janina Falkowska, The Political Films of Andrzej Wajda: Dialogism in ‘Man of Marble’, ‘Man of Iron’ and ‘Danton’ (Oxford, 1996), p. 78. 19. Umberto Eco, ‘The structure of bad taste’, in R. Trevelyan (ed), Italian Writing Today (Harmondsworth, 1967), p. 119. 20. Haraszti, Velvet Prison, p. 9. 21. Clement Greenberg, Art and Culture: Critical Essays (Boston, 1961), pp. 15–​21. 22. Haraszti, Velvet Prison, p. 15. 23. Ibid, p. 151. 24. Greenberg, Art and Culture, pp. 14–​15. 25. Peter Hames, The Czechoslovak New Wave, 2nd ed. (London, 2005), pp. 241–​2. 26. Haraszti, Velvet Prison, p. 152. 27. Peter Green, ‘Third round in Poland’, New Left Review ci-​cii (1977), p. 88. 28. Yvette Bíró, ‘Pathos and irony in East European films’, in D. W. Paul (ed), Politics, Art and Commitment in the East European Cinema (LondonBasingstoke, 1983), pp. 28–​48.

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7 ‘Humanist Screens’: Foreign Cinema in Socialist Poland (1945–​56) Dorota Ostrowska

Imports of foreign films in socialist Poland were intended to support the then-​dominant national and ideological projects. The imports fluctuated according to the levels of national film production and were shaped by political factors. Due to the devastation brought by World War II and the German occupation, in the immediate postwar period Poland had a very limited film production infrastructure, which resulted in low film output: in 1946 only a single film was made, in 1950 there were 4, in 1955 there were 7, and only in 1960 did production level reach 20 –​a significant increase in comparison to the start of the period.1 Due to these generally low production numbers, in the first ten years after the war film imports were an important means of boosting the number of films programmed and also of supporting the formation of a new socialist film culture, one that had new goals and objectives when compared to those of pre-war Poland. Much of the work of restructuring and reshaping Poland’s film culture was initially accomplished through film exhibition rather than film production, and for this reason it is important to examine this period’s patterns of film imports and distribution. The goal of creating a socialist film culture could be fairly easily achieved using Soviet films and those coming from the socialist satellites, but doing so was far more complicated in relation to American and Western films.2 136

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‘Humanist Screens’ In order to explore the impact of non-​local productions on Poland’s socialist film culture and exhibition, this chapter looks at the kinds of Western European and American films, as well as those from the Soviet Union and other ‘brotherly’ countries, that were screened in Poland in socialist times. The aim is to open a discussion about how the Western European and American films complicated the notions of popular cinema, cinematic pleasure and entertainment in relation to socialist film productions, whether local or imported. The chapter is focused on three distinct points in the history of Polish film distribution (outlined in Table 7.1), each of which preceded the increase in local film production that eventually made foreign imports less important for sustaining local film exhibition. The three focal points are the exhibition practices of the postwar period (1945–​49), the Stalinist period (1950–​54) and finally the post-​Stalinist thaw (1954–​56). One year that is seen as particularly significant for historical reasons is selected from each period to be the focus of the discussion of the exhibition practices relating to foreign films. The landmark years of 1949, 1951 and 1955 offer a good sense of how, from 1945 until 1956, exhibition practices were transformed in line with the ideological shifts undergone by the entire country and were made distinct from the pre-war film culture, which was still then part of living memory. The differences between these three moments are extreme in the case of Western films, which were distributed in 1949 and 1955 but virtually disappeared during Poland’s Stalinist period and were not imported at all. The years 1945–9 saw a gradual introduction of new socialist state policies in the artistic, cultural and intellectual life of Poland. Polish cinema was nationalised in November 1945. Four years later, in November 1949, the congress of Polish film-​makers in Wisła (Zjazd Filmowy w Wiśle) embraced the principle of employing socialist realism in future Polish films, thus concluding the period of bringing film production in Poland in line with the ideological principles of the new state. Until 1947 there had been efforts ‘to co-​opt the intellectuals and artists, but it was not done through force but through persuasion and discouragement of the initiatives which did not chime with the new objectives of the state.’3 And at the end of 1947 Poland began to introduce the principles of socialist realism much more forcefully in order ‘to counteract the penetration of capitalist mentality.’4 In terms of film distribution, in the first part of the period, 1945–​6, Polish 137

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe screens were populated by films which had been imported before the war, had survived it, and were suitable for renewed exhibition in part because the available copies were subtitled. Around that time, the Polish government signed a number of distribution contracts with Western countries, so there was also a chance for some films made during the war to reach Polish screens.5 There were a lot of Soviet films being shown at the time as well. The period in which there was a fairly balanced number of Soviet and non-​Soviet films concluded in 1949, and it is useful to examine that year for this reason alone, as such balance was subsequently rare. The year 1949 was also a decisive year of the ‘cultural revolution’ instigated by the Polish socialist government, and by year’s end ‘socialist realism became compulsory in all fields of art, and cultural associations became instruments of control over their members, reinforcing the process of self-​censorship’.6 From the second period, 1950–​4, the selected year, 1951, was when socialist realism was in full swing and firmly in place and Western films had virtually disappeared from Polish screens. The death of Stalin in March 1953 did not mean the end of Stalinism in Poland to the extent that ‘the perceptible changes which took place in the three countries closest to Poland during the months immediately following Stalin’s death seemed to pass Warsaw by’.7 Not until autumn 1954 did Józef Światło, a defector to the West, begin his Radio Free Europe broadcasts, ‘Behind the Scenes of the Security Service and the Party’, which revealed the level of terror in Poland. He offered listeners new insight into the corruption in the highest echelons of power in Poland and described a ‘blood-​thirsty, demoralised, and fractious clique’ of leaders.8 These broadcasts had momentous impact and marked the beginning of the end of Stalinism in Poland. Poland’s emergence from Stalinism was a process which began in January 1955 and ‘was most visible in the sphere of culture and in the gradually expanding freedom of speech’.9 Thus 1955 –​which saw the reintroduction of Western, French in particular, films at Polish cinemas –​was chosen here as the focus point for discussing the transition from Stalinism. The transition that began in 1955 is bracketed at the other end by the ‘Polish October’ of 1956, when Władysław Gomułka came to power and publicly condemned ‘the old system’ that was ‘identified with terror, arrogant control over the whole of public and social life, interference in private life, contempt for and destruction of national traditions, deprivation 138

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‘Humanist Screens’ and poverty, humiliating subjection to the Russians, and the surrender of state sovereignty’.10 October 1956 was thus ‘far more significant than just a change of course and leadership’, and Gomułka became a guarantor of political change on both the individual and national level.11 My contention here is that despite the ideological shifts and political turbulence, the overall cultural objective remained the same throughout the 1945–​56 period: it was, in the words of Zbigniew Gawrak, to create ‘ekran humanistyczny’/​‘humanist screen’ on which a wide range of films –​ both popular and not –​had a place as long as they contributed to the creation of this ideal humanist screen. The first aim of the humanist screen was to educate, in particular with regard to the principles of socialism; to entertain was only secondary.12 Humanism in arts and culture was not a Polish project only but rather a shared and strategic objective of the Soviet Union and its socialist satellites. This explains its longevity in spite of the political and ideological changes happening in Poland.13 As we shall see, the relationship between cinema’s didactic and entertainment functions was problematic in the context of films imported from Western countries. Before discussing particular periods and films, I offer a brief examination of the concept of humanist screens, which I argue captured the objectives and ambitions of the new socialist film culture in Poland and impacted the critical reception of films and their selection as well.14

Humanist Screens and Mass Audiences Under state socialism cinema was envisioned as a particularly important sphere of cultural activity whose main function was didactic. This meant that while providing entertainment the principal aim of cinema was to educate.15 Another important feature of cinema at the time was its mass appeal.16 This is not to say that before the war or in capitalist countries cinema was not also a mass, or, for lack of a better word, popular, entertainment; rather, what’s important is that under state socialism the definition of ‘mass’ underwent some important changes. A new classless society was to be created by uniting different social classes irrespective of the individual skills, level of education or family background, which often might have been better classified as middle class or professional. This mass society was governed by a new set of values and objectives –​which were called 139

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe ‘humanist’ –​with peace, equality and respect considered fundamental to the new definition of humanity.17 What did being didactic, with regard to the function of culture, and being humanist, with regard to culture’s objectives, mean for cinema  –​ especially for the bulk of films shown in Poland immediately after World War II, films imported from abroad? In Poland films were judged by a set of criteria which assessed their value in the context of the humanist project of the state socialist culture. They were evaluated against the available Soviet films and those made by the socialist satellite states –​Czechoslovakia, East Germany and Hungary in particular were seen already having embraced the ideals of humanism at the production stage. In the case of Western films, the production context did not as easily determine the final product. Thus, film criticism played a crucial role in reading, exploring, judging and framing the films that made it to Polish screens. It is for this reason that much of the argument in this chapter is based on examining the leading film magazine, Film, for its critical reception of foreign films in Poland. Criteria such as ‘realism’ and the relationship between ‘content and form’ (with content being privileged over aesthetics) were used and referred to quite often by critics, for they reflected the values of socialist realism which determined much about how the films under consideration here were read. In terms of themes, even films which were considered ‘politically-​correct’ (in the sense that they critiqued tensions within a capitalist society) were judged by critics to be too negative in their message if they lacked a positive resolution of the main characters’ problems. At the same time, the films made under state socialism were praised for the progressiveness of the choice and resolution of their themes, implying that such resolution was offered by a socialist society. The issue of genre was quite problematic, with some genres, biopics, for example, being privileged and others, melodrama and crime dramas, dismissed for most of the period under discussion here. By the mid-​1950s a debate had unfolded as to whether genre films such as suspense dramas and melodramas, which were meant to be entertaining, could also become a vehicle for humanist values. This meant that the concept of humanist screens was malleable and changeable depending on whether the political situation in the country allowed for more or less contact and exchange, in particular when it came to the US and Western European countries. Furthermore, films imported from capitalist countries 140

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‘Humanist Screens’ were all seen as products of a capitalist film industry, and little or no distinction was made between box office blockbusters and less popular films such as auteur and art house productions.18 That in itself was an indicator of a ‘levelling’ of the audiences and their transformation into ‘masses’ which needed to be educated by screen fare imported from abroad that was varied but carefully selected and critically framed.

1949:​When Films Were Not Socialist Realist Enough In the immediate postwar period Polish screens were in a sad state. A great deal of the prewar cinema infrastructure had been destroyed and film production stalled completely. The entire industry would soon undergo a huge overhaul to turn it into a branch of the socialist state, but until then, most of the films shown in Poland immediately after the war were surviving copies of pre-war films, either Polish or foreign. Contacts with foreign distributors were quickly rekindled and film import contracts were signed with the British, Americans and French. Most of these contracts were only partially executed due to the rapidly changing political situation in Poland.19 The Western productions were supplemented with films from the Soviet Union and socialist satellite countries –​in particular Czechoslovakia, East Germany and Hungary.20 It would be difficult to classify the Western films that made it into Polish distribution during this period as pure entertainment, and the reasons why particular films made it differed. In 1949 three Italian films were shown in Poland: Roma, città aperta (Rome, Open City, 1945) and Caccia tragica (Tragic Hunt, 1947) belonged to the broadly understood genre of Italian neo-​realism, and Quattro passi fra le nuvole (Four Steps in the Clouds, 1942), which was a beacon of that genre. There were also a few British films –​Black Narcissus (1947) and So Well Remembered (1947).21 What concerned the Polish reviewers in Film magazine was how these films depicted social and political conflicts and made the ideological message obvious or veiled. The critical review of Rome, Open City aimed to assess whether it fitted with the objectives of socialist realism.22 A very sharp dividing line was drawn between socialist realism and neo-​realism, and the conclusion was that it was incorrect to classify Rome, Open City as a Socialist Realist film. 141

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Socialist Realist cinema was trying to represent a construction of a better world with a positive hero at the centre of it. The critic did not find such elements in Rossellini’s film. What was striking in the review was that the film’s formal innovation and para-​documentary aesthetics were not mentioned, as though they had no bearing on the Italian films’ impact as a phenomenon in film history. Such categories of film history were seen as simply being less important or less relevant to the socialist project. The review of Powell and Pressburger’s Black Narcissus is striking for a different reason.23 Here the reviewer did not ignore the film’s sumptuous colour and studio settings but was most adamant to point out its social themes –​ which, in his view, were not adequately explored and represented; there was no depiction of ‘real India’ –​that included a struggle for national independence, backbreaking labour and terrifying poverty. Nonetheless, the film was redeemed in the reviewer’s eyes for one simple reason: the nuns lost their faith and the colonial religious mission was bankrupt. This is what made the film an exponent of the (political and historical) ‘truth’ that could otherwise have been lost due to the film’s overwhelmingly formalist concerns. In the period 1947–​9 the number of films shown reached about 90 per year. However, the educational and artistic value of these films was considered inadequate even in reviews publishes as late as 1955. The ‘substandard’ films from that period included mostly crime genre and noir films such as Gilda (1946), My Darling Clementine (1946), Caravan (1946), Whispering City (1947), They Met in the Dark (1943), Madonna of the Seven Moons (1944).24 With films originating in the Anglo-​Saxon countries, it is safe to argue that they were also deemed undesirable due to the ideological and political tensions between the socialist and capitalist countries, and not just because of the generic conventions the films were based on.

1951: Cinema Should Educate Rather Than Entertain Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves, 1948) was one of two Italian films shown in Poland in 1951.25 The Film review focused on its message rather than on its aesthetics, and just as in the case of Rome, Open City, the message was criticised.26 The reviewer appreciated the way in which social relations in the capitalist system were presented. However, he was critical of the end of 142

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‘Humanist Screens’ the film –​which he saw as overly pessimist. The working class, he argued, had the ability to organise to bring down the capitalist system and transform the social conditions of Italy’s poor and unemployed. The absence of this positive and uplifting message was seen as the film’s weakest point. The only UK film shown in 1951 was Edward Dmytryk’s Give Us This Day (1949). From the review we learn that the film, depicting the milieu of New York construction workers, was shot in the UK because Dmytryk would not have been able to make it in the USA.27 The reviewer depicted Dmytryk as an exceptionally talented artist who lacked discipline but was clearly very sensitive to social problems, though he did not have a ‘deeper sense of social consciousness’. For this latter reason, he was in danger of being drawn towards formalism and losing the progressive and combative message of his films. In 1951 films made in the Soviet Union and in the satellite countries dominated Polish screens. These were mostly dramas and biopics with strong ideological message, and rarely genre films. These films were generally recognised for depicting the ways in which socialist society may be transformed, with the new opportunities offered to women serving as a particularly important element. Two Hungarian films, Egy asszony elindul (A woman takes off, 1949) and Szabóné (Mrs Szabó, 1949) showed how socialism could emancipate women in all aspects of their lives. These films were seen as paths towards socialist realism.28 East German productions were mostly political dramas and biopics. Kurt Maetziga’s Der Rat der Götter (Council of the gods, 1950) was an anti-​war film which depicted the roots of fascism and mobilised the spectators to strive for peace. It showed how fascism and capitalism went hand in hand in the Third Reich and argued that with the onset of the Cold War such an alignment might be repeated –​with the help of the Americans.29 The film Familie Benthin (Family Benthin, 1950), made to commemorate the founding of the East German state, carried a similar anti-​West German and anti-​American message, portraying both as desirous of ‘revenge, renewed militarisation and war.’30 Another East German film highly praised by Polish reviewers was the biopic Semmelweis –​Retter der Mütter (Dr Semmelweis, 1950) in which the life of the doctor and his struggle to save the mothers of newborn babies were set in juxtaposition to the socio-​economic realities of the nineteenth century society which prevented him from realising his life’s 143

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe goal. According to the reviewer, this type of tension had been overcome under state socialism where scientific knowledge truly saved the broadest possible masses and served the needs of the nation.31 It is important to note that the criticism and scrutiny which the films underwent were also quite crushing in relation to some films, in particular genre ones, produced in the socialist countries. A Hungarian film, Frigyes Bán’s Talpalatnyi föld (Treasured Earth, 1948), was deemed problematic because it focused too much on the romantic and economic troubles of the main character at the expense of portraying the social drama more sharply. The film was regarded as having missed an opportunity to educate the mass audience about the problems of bourgeois society and the advantages of the socialist one.32 The reviewers expressed similar concerns regarding Czechoslovak comedies screened in Poland.33 The ideological weakness of these films was clearly linked to their use of generic conventions that were sitting uncomfortably with the new aims and objectives of cinema under state socialism. In more general terms we could say that what was being emphasised in the film reviews was the films’ ideological message. Usually the structure of a review was such that it first gave a brief overview of a socio-​political context in which the film belonged or to which it spoke; it was then followed by an analysis of the film’s ideological content, with emphasis placed on the script. This ‘educational’ value of the films, which actually meant the propagandistic value, was stressed rather than the artistic one, and only at the very end were some vague references made to the film’s aesthetic or formal aspects. Unsurprisingly, this method of reading films was particularly pronounced in the Stalinist period and was to change significantly with the post-​Stalinist ‘thaw’.

1955:​Genre Isn’t So Bad After All A turning point in the history of postwar film exhibition in Poland was reached in 1955 which marked the beginning of the post-​Stalinist thaw. As early as 2 January of that year, Film published an article which outlined the new exhibition policy of the Centrala Wynajmu Filmów/​Film Distribution Office, which was intended to rectify the problems of the past years.34 First, we read that the number of films in circulation would be 144

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‘Humanist Screens’ increased significantly to about 120 from the 50–​60 films screened in the period 1950–​3. Second, more entertainment films would be screened. These had been missing in the previous three years and were to include not only more Soviet comedies but also Western films. About a month later, in February 1955, it was announced that this menu of genre productions was to be supplemented by reruns of the ‘key cinematic masterpieces’ from France, Britain, Germany and Italy. About 120 classics made in the 1920s and 1930s (until 1939) were scheduled to be shown in Poland in 1955.35 France became particularly privileged in this new cultural exchange with the West.36 At the same time, Italian films, Western productions which until then had been represented quite generously on Polish screens, were criticised profusely.37 Before 1955 Italian neo-​realism was widely imported and debated in Poland, but, as was evident in the reviews of Rome, Open City and Bicycle Thieves, the messages in these films were considered too negative because they did not show or at least indicate that poor socio-​ economic conditions can be redeemed by a working class that follows the Marxist script. By 1955 another quite surprising criticism was aimed at Italian films. Namely, the critics, such as Zygmunt Kałużyński, argued that ‘Italian films –​in spite of their wonderful achievements, […] continue to exploit the same set of themes, which is the poverty of Italy; [it presents] stark social conditions [set] in shacks on a cloudy day, with people in torn jumpers, and with street squabbles’.38 The general public was yearning for more glamour and less drabness in which socialism signified political and economic progress for all. It was the French rather than the Italians whose films were likely to deliver what the public wanted. French films were to re-​ enter Polish cinemas in significant numbers beginning in the mid-​1950s, and they were indeed very different from Italian neo-​realist productions. According to Kałużyński, this was because French cinema drew on a rich and varied literary tradition.39 Furthermore, when popular French cinema depicted the life of the working classes, it did so through satire, poetry and songs rather than with the stark and unforgiving realism of Italian films. Kałużyński also emphasised that though France churned out a lot of poor-​quality films in order to compete with American ones, the French films shown in Poland represented the best of that country’s output.40 This is a telling point, because it allows us to identify another criterion –​a film’s broadly understood 145

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe high artistic quality –​which was used to judge the value of foreign films screened in Poland while at the same time emphasising the high cultural standing of cinema in state socialism. Debates and discussions regarding one Franco–​Italian film, Le Salaire de la peur (The Wages of Fear, 1955) made by French director H.-​G. Clouzot, were particularly important because they brought out the complexities of the relationship between genre and the humanist objectives of cinema under state socialism.41 The film was praised for its suspense film genre conventions and for its strong and persuasive narrative, which was deemed progressive because it showed the shortcomings of the capitalist system. What was seen as problematic and sparked debate was the question of whether it was acceptable for a director to exploit genre conventions in order to create a psychological and social drama which was critical of capitalism but which was also so absorbing that it was in danger of being psychologically damaging for the viewer. In another words, the film was seen as an excellent critique of capitalism with the support of genre conventions. Much of the debate around the film was about trying to understand the role of genre in socialist cinema and the degree to which it was an admissible convention for socialist cinema. Melodrama was another genre being reconsidered by the critics for inclusion in Polish showings and for having some humanist value. One reason melodrama had been disregarded in the past had to do with its desire to reach the broadest mass audience and its supposedly low artistic ambitions. Critic Jerzy Płażewski argued for the redemption of melodrama because its mass appeal, which made it acceptable in the socialist context, allowed it to fulfil cinema’s social objectives. Interestingly, and cleverly, in making his argument Płażewski drew on the example of a Soviet film, Skazanie o zemle sibirskoy (Symphony of Life, 1948), which was a very popular melodrama. The underlying argument was that if Soviet cinema could produce a melodrama, that genre could not be completely dismissed and was worth revisiting.42

The General Public: Humanist Screens’ Spectators The ways in which postwar audiences’ attitudes were reshaped in the context of the new socialist film culture were part and parcel of creating spectators for the humanist screens. By and large, these audiences remembered the film culture of the pre-war period very well and were drawing on that 146

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‘Humanist Screens’ experience while adjusting to the changes brought about by state socialism. For this reason, many of the questions raised in letters written to Film referred to pre-war film-​going experiences and offered a limited but fascinating insight into the attitudes embraced by the audiences. One of the most common complaints was about the small number of films being shown, with the same ones screened over and over again.43 There was also a lack of posters and other publicity materials to entice and encourage potential viewers.44 In addition, there were complaints about Film itself being boring and not a collectible item like prewar film periodicals as it did not have pictures of stars and other materials targeting fandom. Film’s editorial board responded: ‘Our periodical is suited for contemporary life. […] Its format is determined by our readers’.45 To underline this point, there followed in the same issue a letter to the magazine from a university student who explained that as a child he had enjoyed watching genre films –​crime and adventure –​but had come to understand that these were a waste of time because they had nothing to do with the educational aims and objectives of cinema under state socialism. He had become aware of the completely different way in which Soviet film and films produced in the Soviet satellite countries shape the spectator’s preferences and open up new ways of looking at life and experiencing it.46

Conclusion The distribution and exhibition of foreign films in Poland in the decade after World War II was influenced by the creation of an ideal socialist viewing experience, which I have referred to as ‘humanist film screens’. Humanist screens were shaped in the course of screening carefully selected films, which had had their ideological value assessed in film reviews. In the Stalinist period the films that were screened had to adhere to the requirements of Socialist Realist aesthetics, but in the post-​socialist period those particular aesthetics were abandoned as a criterion. Throughout the period under consideration here, the issue of genre continued to pose problems from the perspective of socialist cultural policies. This meant that melodramas, comedies and suspense and crime films underwent a process of redefinition in order to make them more fitting from the perspective of film policy under socialism. In 1957 the tide turned, and there was a steady increase in the number of genre films shown in Poland, many of them from 147

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe the West, which resulted an exhibition circuit which was one of the most varied and vibrant in the whole socialist block.47 Meanwhile, humanism remained an important and distinguishing feature of art house cinema made in socialist Poland, which became best known internationally through the film festival circuit –​starting with the success of the Polish School in the 1950s. It is fitting that these films originating in Poland contributed to what I have called elsewhere ‘humanist films’, which showed at such major film festivals as Cannes and shaped postwar film festival history.48 After all, humanist films and ‘humanist screens’ were never meant to be strictly national but rather were always international in nature.

Appendix Table 7.1  Distribution of foreign films in Poland 1945–56 Year

Country of production

Number of imported films

1945

USSR UK

34 2

36 (data incomplete)

1946

USSR UK France US Sweden

40 10 3 3 2

58 (data incomplete)

1947

USSR Other socialist countries UK France US Sweden Other countries

34 1 6 12 23 7 17

100

1948

USSR Other socialist countries UK France US Italy

30 5 16 15 31 2

99 (data incomplete)

1949

USSR Other socialist countries UK France

33 22 3 11

91

148

Total

149

Table 7.1  (cont.) Year

Country of production

Number of imported films

Total

US Italy Other countries

1 3 18

1950

USSR Other socialist countries France Other countries

40 18 5 11

74

1951

USSR Czechoslovakia East Germany Other socialist countries UK France Italy Finland Holland

23 14 9 13 1 2 2 1 1

66

1952

USSR Czechoslovakia East Germany Other socialist countries France Italy Other countries

14 9 10 13 4 5 2

57

1953

USSR Czechoslovakia East Germany Other socialist countries France Italy Other countries

16 9 5 13 4 3 2

54

1954

USSR Czechoslovakia East Germany Other socialist countries UK France US Italy Other countries

38 8 2 6 1 4 1 5 3

68

150

Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Table 7.1  (cont.) Year

Country of production

Number of imported films

Total

1955

USSR Czechoslovakia East Germany Other socialist countries UK France US Italy Other countries

33 14 13 17 2 13 2 5 12

111

1956

USSR Czechoslovakia East Germany Other socialist countries UK France West Germany Italy Other countries

33 9 7 20 9 17 2 5 13

115

Source: Andrzej Kołodyński, ‘Handel zagraniczny (eksport i import filmów)’, in Kinematografia polska w XXV-​leciu PRL (Warszawa, 1969), pp. 142–3.

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Table 7.2  Selected film contracts with Western Europe and the USA 1945–6 Country

Company or institution

Date of Contract Signed

Number of films stipulated in the contract

Examples of titles

UK

British Ministry of Information Eagle-​Lion Distribution Inc.

1945 1947

14 feature films and 11 shorts 40 feature films

‘Pimpernel’ Smith, 1941; Desert Victory, 1943.

France

Pathe Cinema, Francinex, Les Films Raoul Plaquin

1945

10 feature films

US

Enterprises Inc.

1946

14 feature films

Les Enfants du Paradis (Children of Paradise dir. M. Carne, 1945, released in Polish as Komedianci)

US

Motion Picture Export Association

1947

65 feature films

Sovexportfilm

1946

UK

Italy

USSR

Source: Kołodyński, Ibid., pp. 141–​2.

1948

unspecified

Actual number of films screened

19 feature films including Pygmalion, 1938; Caesar and Cleopatra, 1945; Black Narcissus, 1947

3 feature films including Alibaba and the Forty Thieves, 1944; Jesse James, 1939; The Sea Hawk, 1940 55 feature films Sciuscià (Shoeshine, 1946; Quattro passi fra le nuvole (Four Steps in the Clouds, 1942)

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Table 7.3  Genre films distributed in Poland 1957–9 Genre Dramas (psychological/​ social) Action films (crime/​spy/​western/​adventure) Comedies (classic/​satire) Musicals Costume films Children & Youth films Total: Genre films Total: Non-​Genre films

1957

1958

1959

70

83

81

12 25

20 29

42 35

2 13 8 130 6

3 14 8 157 14

11 14 16 199 7

Source: Zygmunt Chrzanowski, ‘Rozpowszechnianie filmów’, in Kinematografia polska w XXV-​leciu PRL (Warsaw, 1969), p. 93.

Table 7.4  Number of films distributed in Poland by place of origin 1956–9 Country

1956

1957

1958

1959

Poland USSR Socialist countries Capitalist countries Total

6–​5% 33–​27% 31–​25% 51–​42% 121

16–​12% 18–​14% 16–​12% 82–​62% 132

18–​10% 26–​15% 34–​20% 97–​55% 175

16–​8% 32–​16% 51–​24% 107–​52% 206

Source: Chrzanowski, Ibid., p. 92.

Notes 1. The volume of film production was also adversely affected by the dramatic changes in the political situation which brought with them new ideological constraints and censorship. In countries like Czechoslovakia, where the production infrastructure did not suffer the same level of devastation as in Poland, the film output also remained very low in the Stalinist period. 2. Pavel Skopal demonstrated how Western films distributed in Czechoslovakia ‘contrasted with the promoted version of socialist values in ways that the [socialist] regime’s contradictory approach to cinema distribution could not entirely appropriate’ (p. 92). ‘The cinematic shapes of the socialist modernity programme: Ideological and economic parameters of cinema distribution in the Czech Lands, 1948–​1970’, in D. Biltereyst, R. Maltby and P. Meers (eds), Cinema, Audiences and Modernity: New perspectives on European cinema history (London-New York, 2012), pp. 81–​98.

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‘Humanist Screens’ 3. Andrzej Paczkowski, The Spring Will Be Ours, trans. Jane Cave (University Park, PA, 2003), p. 256. 4. Ibid., p. 257. 5. See Table 7.2 for details of the contracts. Some of the companies, such as the New York-​based independent distributor Miles Sherover, as well as the Motion Picture Export Association (MPEA), were also active in other socialist countries, including Czechoslovakia. For details of their Czechoslovak activities, see Jindříška Blahová, ‘The good, the bad and the un-​American: the Czechoslovak film monopoly, Hollywood and independent distributors’, Post Script: Essays in Film and the Humanities xxx/​2 (2011), pp. 9–​20. 6. Paczkowski, The Spring Will Be Ours, p. 260. 7. Ibid., p. 265. 8. Ibid., p. 267. 9. Ibid., p. 268. An interesting debate about the condition of Polish postwar cinema took place on the pages of a newly founded magazine called Po prostu. Since 1955 the magazine also ran its own Filmowy Klub Dyskusyjny (film discussion club) also called Po prostu (straightforward), which was part of a network of country-​wide film discussion clubs which screened foreign films sanctioned by the Polish state but not included in general film distribution. In 1955 among the films included were Citizen Kane (1941), Sous les toits de Paris (Under the Roofs of Paris, 1930) and The Kid (1921). Dominika Rafalska, Między marzeniami a rzeczywistością: tygodnik “Po prostu” wobec głównych problemów społecznych i politycznych Polski w latach 1955–​1957 (Warszawa, 2008), pp. 155–​60. 10. Paczkowski, The Spring Will Be Ours, p. 277. 11. Ibid., p. 277. 12. Zbigniew Gawrak, ‘Ekran a rozwój edukacji humanistycznej’, Kwartalnik Filmowy iv/​28 (1957), pp. 50–​75. 13. Francesco Pitassio, ‘Italian neorealism goes East’, Illuminace xxvi/​3 (2014), p. 11. 14. In 1951 as part of the Centrala Wynajmu Filmów/​Film Distribution Office (see note 34 for details) a special committee was set up made up of journalists, writers and government officials (Komisja Ocen Filmów/​Commission for Film Assessment) whose role was to decide whether an imported film was ­ suitable or not for distribution in Poland. For details see Zygmunt Chrzanowski, ‘Rozpowszechnianie filmów’, Kinematografia polska w XXV-​ leciu PRL (Warszawa, 1969), pp. 86–​116. 15. Gawrak, ‘Ekran a rozwój edukacji humanistycznej’, p. 54. 16. Ibid., p. 51. 17. Ibid., p. 56. See also Saverio Giovacchini and Robert Sklar (eds), Global Neorealism: The Transnational History of a Film Style (Jackson, MI, 2012); Jindříška Blahová, ‘National, socialist, global: the changing roles of the Karlovy Vary Film Festival, 1946–​1956’, in P. Skopal and L. Karl (eds), Cinema in Service

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe of the State. Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–​1960 (New York and Oxford, 2015), pp. 245–​72; Dorota Ostrowska, ‘Inventing arthouse cinema: Film festival cultures and film history’, in B. Kredell, S. Loist and M. de Valck (eds), Film Festivals: Theory, History, Method, Practice (London, 2016), pp. 18–​33. 18. The categories such as ‘auteur’ and ‘art house cinema’ were not fully formed or established in the 1940s and 1950s, and I am using them as a shorthand to draw a distinction with the films which were more of a box office than a critical success. 19. Table 7.2 includes information on the contracts signed in the immediate postwar period. 20. The first Czechoslovak film was purchased in 1947 (Muži bez křídel/​Men without wings, 1946). The first Hungarian film (Tűz/​ Flames, 1948) and the first East German film (Rotation/​Rotation, 1949) were obtained in 1950. Andrzej Kołodyński, ‘Handel zagraniczny (eksport i import filmów)’, Kinematografia polska w XXV-​leciu PRL (Warszawa, 1969), p. 142. 21. I was not able to determine the title of the third British film distributed in 1949. 22. Wacław Swieradowski, ‘Rzym –​miasto otwarte’, Film vii (1949), pp. 12–​13. The reception of neo-​realist films differed quite significantly among various socialist countries. For instance in the case of Czechoslovakia Pitassio was able to identify three phases, that of ‘novelty’ when ‘neorealism was framed as a new cinematic development’; ‘symbol’ when ‘neorealism was transformed into an emblem of the challenges progressive filmmakers were seen to face under capitalist’; ‘specificity’ which ‘emphasised the distinct stylistic elements of neorealist films’ (p. 9). The reception of neorealist films in Poland lacked the nuance of the Czechoslovak one and belonged mostly to the ‘symbolic’ phase. 23. Leon Bukowiecki, ‘Czarny narcyz i białe zakonnice’, Film viii (1949), p. 6. 24. Mieczysław Dydtko, ‘Co ujrzymy na ekranie w 1955 roku?’, Film i/​318, (1955), p. 8. 25. I was not able to determine the title of the other Italian film shown in Poland in 1951. 26. K. M., ‘Złodzieje rowerów oskarżają swym losem prawdziwych winowajców’, Film iv/​113, (1951), p. 10. 27. Zbigniew Pitera, ‘Za cenę życia rosną amerykańskie drapacze chmur’, Film xix/​ 128, (1951), pp. 10–​11. 28. Karol Mirski, ‘Kobieta wyrusza w drogę, aby z ludem węgierskim dojść do socjalizmu’, Film v/​114, (1951), p. 10. Karol Mirski, ‘Sukces Anny Szabo sukcesem węgierskiej kinematografii’, Film vii/​116, (1951), p. 10. 29. Jerzy Giżycki, ‘Rada Bogów i jej zbrodnicze cele zdemaskowane przed światem’, Film vii/​116, (1951), pp. 10–​11. 30. H. L., ‘Bracia Benthin, których zgody boją się Amerykanie’, Film xiii/​122, (1951), p. 7.

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‘Humanist Screens’ 31. St Q., ‘Dr Semmel Weis. Dobroczyńca matek, bohaterski bojownik postępu’, Film x/​119, (1951), p. 10. 32. Jerzy Giżycki, ‘Wielkopańskie hulanki węgierskiej magnaterii  –​niewiele więcej’, Film xvi /​125, (1951), p. 10. 33. Piotr Borowy, ‘Śpiew jest pięknem życia. Kłopoty z komedią‘, Film xxvii /​136, (1951), pp. 6–​7. 34. Dydtko, Film i/​ 318, (1955), pp. 8–​ 9. Centrala Wynajmu Filmów/​ Film Distribution Office was established in 1951 to oversee all film exports, imports and distribution through its provincial branches and regional cinemas distribution network. The Centre superseded the institutions established earlier (1945–​51) which were restructured a number of times in this short period in an effort to find the most suitable formula for film distribution and exhibition for the newly nationalised film industry in Poland. For details of the institutional structure of the Polish film industry before and after 1951, see Chrzanowski. 35. Anonymous, ‘Klasyka filmowa na ekranach’, Film xviii/​325, (1955), p. 3. The article does not mention any specific titles. 36. French–​Polish diplomatic relations were in a very turbulent state until about 1956, which impacted any cultural and educational exchanges between the two countries. For details see Maria Pasztor, ‘France and the Polish October of 1956’, in J. Rowiński (ed), The Polish October 1956 in World Politics (Warszawa, 2007), pp. 263–​76. 37. The fading interest in Italian cinema in Poland was most likely related to the changing fortunes and attitudes of the Italian Communist Party in that period and the decline in neorealist productions. For details see Francesco Pitassio, ‘For the peace, for a new man, for a better world! Italian leftist culture and Czechoslovak cinema, 1945–​1968’, in A. Imre (ed.), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas (Chichester, UK, 2012), pp. 266–​70. 38. Zygmunt Kałużyński, ‘Francja na naszych ekranach’, Film vi/​323, (1955), p. 5. 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid. 41. In the January issue of the magazine Film, the film was promoted in a special way; the stills were included in the middle of the magazine with a synopsis which briefly explained the plot (Film iv/​321, (1955), pp. 8–​9). Throughout 1955 there were a number of articles about the film, including Kazimierz Dębnicki, ‘Nie ma życia za taką cenę. Refleksje o filmie Clouzota’, Film vii/​324, (1955), p. 4; Zofia Grzelecka, ‘Głos psychologa. Cena, ktorą płaci się za strach’, Film vii/​324, (1955), p. 5; Halina Laskowska, ‘Polemiki. Nie ma w tym filmie litości’, Film ix/​326, (1955), p. 10; Kazimierz Dębnicki, ‘Ludzie czy karaluchy’, Film ix/​326, (1955), p. 11. 42. Jerzy Płażewski, ‘Sekret powodzenia’, Film xiii/​330, (1955), p. 12. 43. [List czytelników], ‘Prosimy o nowe filmy’, Film xviii/​127, (1951), p. 14.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 44. Anonymous, ‘Błyskawiczny wywiad. Kino “Aktualności” w Łodzi daje 7 seansów dziennie’, Film x/​119, (1951), p. 10. 45. Anonymous, ‘Biedna głowa ryzykownej “Mali” ’, Film xxi/​130, (1951), p. 14. 46. Ibid. 47. See Tables 7.3 and 7.4 for details. 48. Ostrowska, ‘Inventing arthouse cinema’.

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8 Poland’s Wild West and East Polish Westerns of the 1960s Mikołaj Kunicki

The late 1950s and early 1960s saw the revival of Westerns worldwide. While John Ford’s late movies and John Sturges’s star-​packed The Magnificent Seven (1960) set the tone in the US, Europe’s film-makers began producing their own Westerns, the ‘Spaghetti Western’ in Italy, ‘Sauerkraut Westerns’ in the Federal Republic of Germany and Indianerfilme (Indian films), produced in the DEFA studio of the German Democratic Republic. While German and Italian productions still displayed the traditional settings of the American frontier and populated movie screens with cowboys, sheriffs, outlaws and Indians, the Poles, Yugoslavs and Soviets chose instead to recreate their own ‘Wild West’ on the basis of national histories. In Yugoslav partisan Westerns, Nazis, Chetniks and Ustasha were villains and Tito’s partisans were positive heroes. The Soviets utilised the period of the Russian Civil War, replacing Indians and outlaws with the Whites, anarchists and the Islamic Basmachi rebels from Central Asia. Polish Westerns looked to the postwar chaos, lawlessness and taming of Poland’s Wild West (the Western Territories annexed from Germany) and Wild East (the Bieszczady Mountains in the south-east). Here the forces of evil included anti-​communist guerrillas, Nazi Werewolf saboteurs, Polish looters and Ukrainian nationalists from the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (Ukrayins’ka Povstans’ka Armiya, UPA). 157

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe The proliferation of native Westerns did not simply reflect the limited release of American action films in Poland and Eastern Europe. In Yugoslavia, American Western films were enormously popular and screened as early as 1949.1 In addition, Yugoslav filmmakers co-produced Spaghetti Westerns and West German Westerns, which were often shot on locations in Yugoslavia.2 Hence the Yugoslav answer to Western films is sometimes referred to as ‘partisan Spaghetti Westerns,’ which fused archetypal narrative structures and forms with the socialist values of self-​sacrifice, collectivism and modesty.3 Soviet Westerns or ‘Easterns’ (isterny) blossomed in the Brezhnev era, following the unanticipated success of Vladimir Motyl’s Beloe solntse pustyni (White Sun of the Desert, 1969), a smash hit. Brezhnev’s ‘stagnation’ (zastoi) saw the curtailment of expressive freedoms in the arts. While auteur cinema was pushed to the margins, entertainment films and genre filmmaking soared.4 In the Polish context, far more important than entertainment was the goal to instil new national identity, popular memory and historical narratives, all tied to Władysław Gomułka’s national Communism, which projected People’s Poland as the end result of nation b ​ uilding processes.5 Cinema could combine didacticism with mass entertainment, syncretising past and present, memory and myth, and legitimising the party state. Ideologically correct action flicks targeted the generation born after World War II, raised in Communist Poland but increasingly exposed to Western-​ style popular culture after the end of Stalinism. Jerzy Passendorfer, the leading director of patriotic action films in the 1960s, was rightly convinced that dynamic combat scenes attracted young audiences.6 The push for popular cinema which catered to the tastes of mass audiences received the vehement support of Gomułka, who on numerous occasions appealed for ‘cultural entertainment serving relaxation’ and ‘meeting the cultural needs of millions of working people.’7 According to Artur Starewicz, one of Gomułka’s closest collaborators and chief of the press bureau of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers Party, the Polish leader lamented the overproduction of films addressed to the intelligentsia and the absence of such pictures as High Noon (1952) by Fred Zinnemann.8 While assessing Passendorfer’s Barwy Walki (Battle colours, 1964), Starewicz’s deputy, Stefan Olszowski, was equally explicit when he cautioned against making films that followed a ‘format of history lecture’. Instead he advocated ‘a 158

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Poland’s Wild West and East partisan-​action movie’, a significant suggestion considering the fact that he talked about the adaptation of wartime memoirs of General Mieczysław Moczar, the minister of internal affairs and leader of the ultranationalist ‘Partisans’ faction.9 Regardless of their political, intellectual and cultural horizons, communist bigwigs favoured mainstream films and escapism over auteur cinema or simplistic propaganda pictures. Nobody missed socialist realism, but Gomułka’s resentment of ‘elitist’ cinema reflected the crackdown on the Polish School, which was indirectly condemned as pessimistic and anti-​heroic in the notorious 1960 resolution of the Central Committee Secretariat of the party. Perhaps more amiable, popular films dealing with the subject of the war and its aftermath could repair the damage caused by Andrzej Wajda, Andrzej Munk or Kazimierz Kutz, who also focused their lenses on the war but withstood the optimistic message of the regime, that is, the projection of the Polish nation united in the victorious struggle against the Nazis and the making of People’s Poland. To that end, a surge of mainstream action films dealing with the recent past could instil nationalist pride rather than trigger the therapeutic questioning characteristic of the Polish School. And Polish audiences loved Westerns. According to film critic Lech Pijanowski, out of 25 foreign box office hits in Poland in 1967–​8, 11 were Westerns. At the top of the chart were Harald Reinl’s adaptations of Karl May’s Winnetou novels.10 The Polish situation was not dissimilar to that in Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. Partisan Westerns and super-​productions promoted the Titoist foundational myth of ‘Brotherhood and Unity’ in a society which had experienced a civil war, ethnic conflict and collaboration during World War II. The second wave of Partisan films of the 1960s and 1970s followed the official condemnation of the new Yugoslav cinema, labelled as the Black Wave. Soviet isterny came in the aftermath of the Thaw and reflected the Brezhnev regime’s claims of prosperity, stability and modernity. The Red Army soldier Sukhov, the protagonist of Motyl’s White Sun of the Desert, protected the nine Turkestani wives of ‘Black’ Abdullah, a Basmachi leader who intended to kill his spouses before escaping abroad. In doing so, Sukhov heralded the advent of the modern communist state to the remote frontier of the Soviet Union –​and the motive of frontier was central to Westerns. 159

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe People’s Poland had new frontiers in 1945. The regime had to symbolically reclaim the Western Territories by cultivating a ‘pioneers’ myth, which acknowledged not only the role of the Soviet and Polish military in the ‘recovery’ (rather than ‘conquest’) of these lands, but, above all, that of settlers, people who came from different regions, class backgrounds and even political persuasions –​Poles All. Here we should also keep in mind that Germanophobia was one of the ethno-​centric nationalist constructs adopted by the Gomułka regime. Already in the 1940s, Gomułka claimed that the successful absorption and reconstruction of the Western Territories could unite Polish society.11 Here was a chance to forge the Polish version of Manifest Destiny. The 1960 resolution on cinema demanded films which showed the ‘unification of the Western Territories with the motherland’.12 To a similar end, the glorification of the armed struggle against the UPA, which went on in the south-​eastern borderland until 1947 could help to heal the trauma of thousands of Poles without going to the roots of the problem, that is, the Polish–​Ukrainian conflict, which reached levels of barbarity and genocide in 1943–​4.13 It also legitimised the expulsion of some 150,000 ethnic Ukrainians from the south-east to the Western Territories, where the deportees underwent forced Polonisation. At the same time, the cinematic projections of the fighting in the Bieszczady Mountains incited nationalist frenzy among audiences and conveniently downplayed the civil war between the communist authorities and their Polish opponents in the northeast region of Podlasie.14 It is worth remembering that de-​Stalinisation brought the release of political prisoners, including members of the anti-​ communist underground, who returned to normal life. At the same time, however, the deportations of Ukrainians remained a historical taboo. I have divided my selection of relevant films into two groups: Bohdan Poręba’s Droga na zachód (The road west, 1961), Jerzy Hoffman and Edward Skórzewski’s Prawo i pięść (The law and the fist, 1964) and Sylwester Chęciński’s Agnieszka ‘46 (1964) pictured Poland’s ‘Wild West’; Poland’s ‘Wild East’ was the setting of Ewa and Czesław Petelskis’s Ogniomistrz Kaleń (The artillery sergeant Kalen, 1961) and Aleksander Ścibor-​Rylski’s Wilcze echa (Wolves’ echoes, 1968). All of these were produced between 1961 and 1968, that is, after the twilight of the Polish School, which largely abstained from dealing with the Western Territories, and shortly before the signing of the 1970 Polish–​West German recognition treaty. While Poręba’s 160

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Poland’s Wild West and East film set the trend, The law and the fist remains a cult classic and Agnieszka ‘46 offers a feminist twist in the otherwise-​male-​dominated genre.15 The artillery sergeant Kalen blends a combat drama, a Western and a tale of a plebeian folk hero, whereas Wolves’ echoes, shot in the Bieszczady Mountains, is packed with the horse riding scenes, shootouts and chases that are typical attributes of Westerns. A few words are needed about film production culture in Poland. Although state-​owned, the Polish film industry became relatively de-​ centralised in 1955 with the creation of film production units (zespoły filmowe). Part-​artistic, part-​economic enterprises, the film units included directors, writers, literary critics and production manages. Similar institutions existed, in one or another form, in socialist Czechoslovakia and Hungary.16 In Poland, the units oversaw the first assessment of proposed films. Successful projects were then forwarded to the Script Assessment Commissions (Komisje Ocen Scenariuszy) and the Commissions on Film Approval (Komisje Kolaudacyjne). Both commissions were headed by the boss of the Chief Board of Cinematography (Naczelny Zarząd Kinematografii) and populated by representatives of other film production units, party officials in charge of culture and propaganda, censors, and the directors and scriptwriters of assessed films. A positive verdict of these commissions mandated a movie’s entrance into production and distribution. It is important to keep this process in mind. While the state authorities commissioned some films, the majority of movies discussed in this chapter reflected not only the government’s intentions but also the artistic and socio-​political perspectives and the personal choices of filmmakers.

Lonely Heroes, Settlers and Gunslingers: How The Polish West Was Won The Polish cinema of the 1960s depicts the absorption of the Western Territories as People’s Poland’s Stunde Null, the zero hour of the mature socialist state. Poland’s Wild West draws to it settlers, inmates of Nazi concentration camps and former slave labourers, military veterans, former resistance fighters and active-​duty soldiers. The dregs of society include looters and bandits, Nazi saboteurs and anti-​communist partisans. More often than not, German residents are largely absent, having escaped or 161

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe been evacuated by the Nazis, leaving behind them ghost towns with well-​ stocked wardrobes, kitchens and luxury goods. The coming Poles constitute a nation on the move, living on freight trains and in gypsy-​like caravans. With the army units scattered and police forces being rebuilt the protagonists, predominantly males, must take the initiative in organising a normal life, defending public property and acting on moral grounds. Female characters are usually complementary: they humanise male protagonists whose idealism is buried under layers of machismo and cynicism. Supporting characters usually include overburdened yet efficient administrators, government ‘placement’ officers (pełnomocnik), village chairmen and mayors –​all of them often portrayed by actor Aleksander Fogiel (1910–​96), jovial, plebeian and capable of mediating, the antithesis of a bureaucrat.17 Red Army soldiers are helpful, joyful, enterprising and heavy-​drinking, but never intoxicated; their presence is both necessary and temporary.18 Bohdan Poręba’s The road west signalled the beginning of patriotic Westerns about the Western Territories. The film tells the story of aPolish train carrying ammunition to the front in 1945. As the train enters former German lands, its crew –​consisting of an old locomotive driver, Walczak (Kazimierz Opaliński), his apprentice Górski (Władysław Kowalski) and a military escort –​encounters masses of settlers and DPs, and the remnants of the German army. Eventually all the soldiers and Górski are killed, but Walczak delivers the cargo to the Polish troops. The movie uses a familiar motif of Westerns: a vehicle thrust deep into unfamiliar frontier territory with its passengers dying. More importantly, this movie is the blueprint for the subsequent depictions of towns and cities in the Western Territories. The former German Poppowitz and now Polish Popowice is a ghost town, physically intact but depopulated. Górski ventures into the town, entering furnished apartments and businesses. At a watchmaker’s shop, he symbolically sets all clocks on alarm. He then encounters a Polish female concentration camp inmate, traumatised, if not mentally disturbed. Together they visit an abandoned apartment on Sunshine Street (Sonnenstrasse), where they try to recreate a semblance of family life. But Walczak’s call for help ends this idyll. Górski dies in the struggle against two SS men who hijack the train in order to reach the German lines. Although initially nihilistic and selfish, Górski, possibly 162

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Poland’s Wild West and East a former Home Army soldier on run, contributes to the takeover of the Western Territories and the victorious struggle against the Nazis. Poręba’s film was his first and last Western. The filmmaker went on to direct numerous historical dramas with a strong nationalist and authoritarian flavour, and he acquired notoriety in the film industry and intellectual circles.19 In contrast, Hoffman and Skórzewski’s The law and the fist, was a fully-​fledged Western, which downplayed politics and focused on entertaining. The plot is very simple. Andrzej Kenig (Gustaw Holoubek), veteran of the 1944 Warsaw Uprising and Nazi concentration camps, wants to relocate to the Western Territories. He joins the operational team dispatched to a small town, Graustadt/​Siwowo, to secure residential areas for settlers, organise a local government and reopen a hospital and sanatorium. All members of the group receive firearms from the people’s militia. At their destination, Kenig realises that Doctor Mielecki (Jerzy Przybylski), whom his gang calls a doctor, and his men are looters. Kenig confronts Mielecki’s gang, kills three members and secures the town until the arrival of the militia. He refuses the government’s offer to stay in Graustadt/​ Siwowo as its mayor and departs, like Gary Cooper in High Noon. This plot synopsis points to the essential characteristics of Westerns. The protagonist is a last-​standing man, a lonely hero who singlehandedly confronts a bunch of villains. Kenig yearns for peace and solitude and seeks the post of a forester –​a significant choice considering his university education. Members of the gang refer to him as ‘Professor’. He is a member of the intelligentsia transformed by the war into a tough fighter. Casting Gustaw Holoubek in an action movie carried a significant risk because the actor was mostly known for classic theatrical productions and his roles as intellectuals and middle-class heroes. In the movie, he has dyed blonde hair, displays boxing skills and shoots from the hip. Several members of the film assessment commission, which evaluated the film, were not particularly convinced by the actor’s metamorphosis into a Western hero.20 However, the supporting characters, particularly members of the gang, fit the appropriate imagery and stereotypes. Mielecki aka ‘Doctor’ is ruthless, intelligent and manipulative. Bespectacled, he dons a hat and wears riding boots. He confides to Kenig that he does not need ‘talented people’ but obedient ones. Wijas (Ryszard Pietruski) is a gunslinger who might have stepped out of The Magnificent 163

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Seven with his leather waistcoat, gloves and Elvis Presley-​like hairdo. Smółka (Wiesław Gołas) is a plebeian simpleton, a greedy peasant, but also a good sinner who is murdered by his comrades when he starts showing remorse and moral principles. We also have a group of Polish women, former slave workers and one concentration camp inmate, Anna (Zofia Mrozowska), who quickly becomes Kenig’s love interest. The women comfort men, sing, dance, drink and fire up a wild party, which precedes Kenig’s confrontation with the gang. In a typical Western, Anna would be Kenig’s only loyal ally, but instead she deserts him due to fear and trauma. It is flamboyant Janka (Ewa Wiśniewska) who tries to help Kenig and sleeps with him before the final shootout. Finally, there is the German, Schaeffer (Adam Perzyk), maître d’hotel ‘Tivoli’, and the town’s sole resident. Constantly intoxicated, he readily serves his new masters, yet at the crucial moment helps Kenig  –​ a fact which did not sit well with Tadeusz Zaorski, the boss of Polish cinematography.21 Hoffman and Skórzewski’s cinematography –​particularly the bird’seye-view shots of a desolate market square littered with Nazi leaflets and the tracking shots of settlers on the train –​and the film’s musical score deserve praise. The opening and closing song, Nim wstanie dzień (Before the day dawns), composed by Krzysztof Komeda, with Agnieszka Osiecka’s lyrics, not only captures the spirit of adventure and the mythology of pioneers but also resembles Dimitri Tiomkin’s memorable soundtrack for High Noon. Never before or after was Polish cinema able to produce a ‘native’ Western which combined film craft with a politically acceptable message. Zaorski might have had reservations about the film’s originality, limited number of subplots and details, but other members of the assessment commission applauded its spirit of ‘manly adventure.’22 The same categorisation cannot be applied to Sylwester Chęciński’s Agnieszka ‘46, which takes a very different approach toward military settlers in the Western Territories. It is a Western with a feminist twist: the good, lonely sheriff is a woman. The year is 1946. Agnieszka (Joanna Szczerbic) travels to the remote town of Białobrzegi in the Western Territories to supervise a grammar school. Isolated from the mainland by a lake and alienated from a neighbouring village populated by re-​settlers from lands lost to the Soviet Union, the town is a colony of military settlers 164

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Poland’s Wild West and East ruled by the iron hand of Lieutenant Bałcz (Leon Niemczyk). ‘Is this a village or military barracks?’ asks Agnieszka. ‘Here we have military order or no order at all,’ replies Bałcz. Depravity, ignorance and tyranny reign in Białobrzegi. Children, often born out of wedlock, steal, bully each other and do not attend school. Adults engage in alcoholism, sexual abuses and crime. Bałcz tolerates and encourages these practices. Agnieszka soon learns that the community consists of the remnants of a penal company, who stormed the place in 1945. Thus, Bałcz and the majority of male inhabitants are ex-​convicts. In order to keep his community together, the commander promotes drunken parties and cultivates anachronistic rituals commemorating the fallen. It is as if the dead rule the living. What ensues is a duel between a young idealistic teacher and a corrupt sheriff over the souls and, above all, the future of the village. It is also a confrontation between protagonists who fall in love. The turning point occurs when, in a symbolic moment, the teacher rescues an outcast child, a girl suffering from a hair disease, known in Polish as plait (kołtun). Then she confronts and converts Bałcz’s men, ‘Why have you retreated to a shelter? The war is over.’ Bałcz loses the loyalty of the villagers and sails away in spite of Agnieszka’s pleas. Despite its seemingly optimistic message, this is an ambiguous ending. In fact, Bałcz and his settlers are not culprits but victims of the war, outcasts whose demons can only be exorcised by the end of mourning and return to civilian life. Agnieszka ‘46 was a daring attempt to confront the commemorative narratives of military heroism, martyrdom and unfinished mourning that were prevalent in Gomułka’s Poland. The film won the press award of the city of Wrocław, the capital of Lower Silesia in the Western Territories, and elicited generally positive reviews from film critics. Stanisław Grzelecki even claimed that Agnieszka ‘46 evoked David Miller’s Lonely Are the Brave (1962), which depicted the twilight of the legend of the Wild West.23 But the powerful veterans’ lobby and the military press vehemently attacked Chęciński’s movie for ridiculing military settlers and undermining their accomplishments in reincorporating former German territories. The harshest indictment came from Colonel Zbigniew Załuski, the ideologue of the ‘Partisans’ faction, who lambasted the film for presenting the veterans as despicable characters with ‘unshaved mugs’ and ‘dirty uniforms’, for slandering their ethos and unmasking their supposed 165

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe complexes, particularly their intoxication by war.24 The film was recalled from cinemas and withdrawn from distribution. Three years later, Chęciński directed a movie which would help to rehabilitate him in the eyes of the party regime. Sami swoi (Our folks, 1967) is a comedy about a feud and reconciliation between two farming families, the Pawlaks and the Karguls, resettled from Kresy, that is, Poland’s eastern borderlands, to the Western Territories. It chronicles the successful transformation of uprooted settlers into masters of the new lands. The film was a huge commercial, critical and political success. A timeless classic, it has been consistently voted the best Polish comedy ever made. Our folks also anticipated the end of the genre of Westerns on Poland’s Wild West. In December 1970, Władysław Gomułka and Willy Brandt signed a mutual recognition treaty which also affirmed the West German acceptance of Polish western borders. The treaty removed the threat of German territorial revanchism, depriving the party regime of one of its major ideological tools for mass mobilisation. In the same month, Gomułka fell from power after the bloody crackdown on striking workers on the Baltic coast, which resulted in dozens of deaths. He was succeeded by Edward Gierek, who put the brakes on ideological crusades such as the 1967–​68 anti-​Semitic campaign, relied on consumerism, and significantly opened Poland to the West, importing scores of popular movies and TV shows. Gradually, cinematic tales of Poland’s Wild West faded away. The lifespan of their eastern equivalent, Westerns set in the country’s Wild East, proved to be even shorter.

Defending the East: Soldiers and Rezuny Considering the UPA-​led massacres of Polish populations in Volhynia and Galicia during World War II, it is hardly surprising that in the Polish pantheon of enemies Ukrainians occupied a paramount position, second only to Germans. The former were often referred to as rezuny, an old Polish term borrowed from Ukrainian which stood for a cruel murderer, a butcher of humans. I have already explained the political reasons for focusing camera lenses on the Polish–​Ukrainian conflict in south-east. From the film-makers’ point of view, the scarcely populated Bieszczady Mountains, with their vast spaces, dense forests and wildlife, provided an attractive setting for 166

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Poland’s Wild West and East horse riding scenes, shoot outs and chases –​typical attributes of Westerns. Poland’s cinematic ‘Wild East’ was synonymous with lawlessness, backwardness, the ruins of burnt-​out villages and destroyed Greek Catholic churches –​a post​war wasteland overtaken by grandiose and unforgiving nature. It was populated by half-​civilised and treacherous individuals waiting for an occasion to stab one in the back, hoodlums and drunkards. The only safe havens were military garrisons, border outposts reminiscent of forts and police precincts. Soldiers and members of the militia were the only guardians of peace. They lacked, however, iron discipline and often resorted to not-​so-​legal methods. The most prominent of the Bieszczady Westerns is Ewa and Czesław Petelskis’s The artillery sergeant Kalen. The directors had already used the region as the setting of their Baza ludzi umarłych (The depot of the dead, 1958), an adaptation of Marek Hłasko’s novel, which they turned into the Polish cinematic answer to Henri-​Georges Clouzot’s Le salaire de la peur (The Wages of Fear, 1953). Three years later, the Petelskis used for their script Jan Gerhardt’s novel Łuny w Bieszczadach (Fires in the Bieszczady), about the struggle with the UPA. The end result, The artillery sergeant Kalen, was a tragic tale of a Polish soldier caught up in the fighting with the Ukrainian nationalists and the Polish anti-​communist guerrillas. The movie takes place in 1946. Kaleń (Wiesław Gołas) yearns to return to civilian life. But instead he is thrown into a mortal struggle, first, against the anti-​communist partisans of Major ‘Żubryd’ (Janusz Kłosiński) of the Wolność i Niezawisłość (Freedom and Independence) organisation, then, against the UPA commander Saszko ‘Bir’ (Leon Niemczyk). Whether fighting against the anti-​communists or the Ukrainians, Kaleń performs one stunt after another, narrowly avoiding death, which claims his comrades. He escapes an ambush of his patrol, endures torture at the hands of Żubryd’s henchmen and pretends to be a deserter. After rejoining his army unit, Kaleń participates in an offensive against the UPA which leads to the massacre of a Polish company. The sole survivor of this catastrophe, he is rescued by Ukrainian women only to die from a Polish bullet while protecting a Ukrainian child, Saszko’s son. The film revolves around Kaleń, the main protagonist portrayed by Gołas in a riveting performance. He possesses the attributes of a folk tale hero, with his physical virility and combat skills, quick wit and idealism 167

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe masked by gallows humour. Lustful and randy with women, derisive about his narrow-minded officer, Kaleń is a likeable scamp but also selfless.25 He is also one of many soldiers in the uniform of the First Polish Army under Soviet command whose path to Poland led away from the Soviet Union. Hence Kaleń, a plebeian hero, is a perfect representative of the People’s Polish Army (Ludowe Wojsko Polskie).26 The image of the UPA reinforces the folk construct of rezuny. The Ukrainian nationalists are cruel and hateful. Yet they also thrive in the Bieszczady, climbing trees and hiding in secret bunkers –​on one occasion the doomed Polish unit spends a night in a ruined Greek Catholic church, unaware that their enemies are just below. The UPA fighters constitute the curious blend of forest creatures, subhumans and fascist fanatics, superbly armed and wearing uniforms –​a bogus historical claim. Following the destruction of Kaleń’s unit, Saszko orders the beheading of Polish POWs. Already stripped of their uniforms and much battered, the Poles die in a spectacle reminiscent of a Nazi Parteitag, with the UPA partisans holding torches and chanting slogans. ‘Do not let your hands holding an axe tremble above the enemies’ necks,’ instructs Saszko. ‘We will keep fighting until the Bolshevik plague is vanquished, from the Caspian Sea to the Dunajec River, from the Black Sea to the Prypet River.’ It is not only Saszko who defines the UPA Lebensraum; he also has a Nazi soldier under his command, Hans, who excels in beheadings –​another historical inaccuracy, since the UPA also fought the Germans. Saszko and his men are fascists. And this makes the anti-​communist guerrillas of ‘Żubryd’ even more despicable as they collaborate with the Ukrainians. By extension, they collaborate with the heirs of Hitler. Notwithstanding the presence of propaganda, the film contains striking imagery. Baligród, where Kaleń‘s regiment stations, is a ghost town filled with ruins and Jewish gravestones converted into sidewalks. ‘Everything here stinks of blood,’ Kaleń tells Captain Wierzbicki (Józef Kostecki). ‘This is the Devil’s town (diabligród).’ The ruined Greek Catholic church is shot hauntingly, in the German expressionist manner. The movie also contains visual shots iconic of Westerns: UPA fighters overlooking the advancing Polish soldiers and characters riding horses in the wilderness. Fifty-​four years after its production, The artillery sergeant Kalen continues to attract audiences that are unfamiliar with communist propaganda and its myths. 168

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Poland’s Wild West and East The same remark does not apply to Aleksander Ścibor-​Rylski’s Wolves’ echoes. Best known to non-​Polish audiences and cinephiles as the script writer of Andrzej Wajda’s Popioły (The Ashes, 1965), Człowiek z marmuru (Man of Marble, 1977) and Człowiek z żelaza (Man of Iron, 1981) Ścibor-​ Rylski always preached the gospel of making Polish popular films, copycats of American thrillers, detective dramas and Westerns that would appeal to mass audiences and leaving political and historical debates aside. Wolves’ echoes was an answer to this call. The film takes off where The artillery sergeant Kalen ends. It is the year 1948. The struggle against the UPA is over, but its scars are still visible in the Bieszczady, with burnt villages, ruins of churches and banditry. Having tested the limits of his commander’s patience, ensign Słotwina (Bruno O’Ya) is ordered to leave his border post and file for resignation. As he ventures into a small town, he quickly learns that the criminal gang of Moroń (Mieczysław Stoor) has overtaken the local militia outpost. Apparently the bandits are searching for the treasure of a UPA commander, Tryzub. What ensues is a series of chases, fistfights and shootouts combined with a ‘whodunit’ puzzle. There is a beautiful girl, Tekla (Irena Karel), who helps the protagonist and falls in love with him, a reformed sinner, Piwko (Marek Perepeczko), who becomes Słotwina’s sidekick, and an ally turned villain, Witold (Zbigniew Dobrzyński). The ending is predictable: Słotwina destroys the gang and wins Tekla’s love; the villain is exposed; Tekla and Piwko depart with our hero after he is demoted from yet another post for violating the ‘border of another brotherly country’ while pursuing horse thieves. Indeed, predictability reigns in this movie from the beginning. But it is the film’s sluggish narrative and wooden dialogue, which make it boring. ‘Be careful,’ says Tekla. ‘I think they posted sentries.’ The only crisp line comes from Tosiek (Bronisław Pawlik), who describes the town. ‘We are far from the outside world. The press does not reach us. Everybody drinks his homemade vodka and does not ask any questions.’ The whole content of the film is sacrificed to the imagery of Westerns and its clichés. The execution leaves much to be desired. At the sound of the first gunshot from an unknown destination, Moroń and his gang ride off on their horses, yet they still catch up with Słotwina, giving him a chance to triumph in a shoot-​out during a mad chase. Even the ‘whodunit’ convention proves to 169

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe be unsuccessful, in part due to poor dialogue and in part because of badly executed makeup or costumes. Wolves’ echoes was the last Bieszczady western and as such was symptomatic of the twilight of the genre. The year 1968 was marked by the student revolt, and the peak of the anti-​Semitic campaign launched in 1967 made the film look like an escapist bailout from the then-​current political situation. We also know that Ścibor-​Rylski then worked on a grand historical war drama, Sąsiedzi (Neighbours, 1969), about the Polish–​German clashes and war crimes in Bydgoszcz in September 1939. All in all, Wolves’ echoes was a critical flop and marked the end of the genre.

Conclusion The year 1970 marked the end of Polish Westerns. In the new era, it was TV that provided the outlet for the distribution of Westerns and other crime dramas. Under the leadership of Gierek’s TV boss, Maciej Szczepański, Polish television provided an influx of American and European action flicks and TV dramas. From then on, Polish viewers could watch Bonanza (1959–​73) or The Magnificent Seven (1960) on a regular basis, including on national and church holidays or the so-​called ‘free Saturdays’ introduced in the second half of the 1970s. Meanwhile, Polish artistic cinema got its second wind (the Polish School having been the first) in the form of the Cinema of Moral Concern (Kino moralnego niepokoju) in the second half the 1970s. These were ‘interventionist’ films, both documentaries and features, which attacked corruption and criticised a society in moral crisis. The legacy left by Westerns in the Polish perception can be aptly exemplified in the classic documentary of Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Z punktu widzenia nocnego portiera (From a Night Porter’s Point of View, 1977). In it, Marian Osuch, Kieślowski’s hero, who epitomises authoritarian and dictatorial tendencies at the grassroot level, says in his horrid Polish, ‘I like them war films best. You know, cowboy films and that.’

Notes 1. Sergey Lavrentiev, ‘The Balkan Westerns of the Sixties’, Frames Cinema Journal iv (2013), pp. 1–​7.

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Poland’s Wild West and East 2. These titles include Dino De Laurentiis’s production The Deserter (1971), Harald Reinl’s Der Schatz im Silbersee (The Treasure of the Silver Lake, 1962) and several other adaptations of Karl May’s adventure fiction. 3. Uroš Čvoro, Turbo-​folk and Cultural Representations of National Identity in Former Yugoslavia (Farnham, 2014), p. 146. 4. Vincent Bohlinger, ‘The East is a Delicate Matter: White Sun of the Desert and the Soviet Western’, in C. J. Miller and A. Bowdoin van Riper (eds), International Western: Re-​locating the Frontier (Plymouth, 2014), pp. 373–​7. 5. Władysław Gomułka (1905–​82) was the leader of the Polish United Workers Party from 1956 to 1970. Initially viewed as a moderate –​he came to power against the initial objections of the Soviet leadership and presided over de-​ Stalinisation –​Gomułka grew increasingly authoritarian. His ‘Polish Road to Socialism’ or National Communism blended ethnocentric nationalism and Marxist ideology. 6. Filmoteka Narodowa, Komisja Kolaudacyjna, A-​216 poz. 8 (27 September 1963), Skąpani w ogniu. On Passendorfer see Mikołaj Kunicki, ‘Heroism, Raison d’état, and National Communism: Red Nationalism in the Cinema of People’s Poland’, Comparative European History xxi/​2 (2012), pp. 235–​56. 7. Ewa Gębicka, ‘Obcinanie kantów czyli polityka PZPR i państwa wobec kinematografii lat sześćdziesiątych’, in T. Miczka and A. Madej (eds), Syndrom konformizmu? Kino polskie lat sześćdziesiątych (Katowice, 1994), pp. 36, 38. 8. Filmoteka Narodowa, Komisja Kolaudacyjna, A-​216 poz. 1 (15 May 1963), Milczenie. 9. Filmoteka Narodowa, Komisja Ocen Scenariuszy, A-​214 poz. 300 (5 May 1964), Barwy walki. The Partisans were high-​ranking security and military officers who served in the People’s Army (Armia Ludowa), a communist resistance group, during the war. Their ideological platform consisted of anti-​Semitism, authoritarianism, militarism and opposition to liberalism of all kinds. 10. Lech Pijanowski, ‘Film popularny i widzowie’, Kino xii (1968), pp. 2–​6. 11. Jakub Zajdel, ‘Filmowy obraz Polski powojennej’, in T. Miczka and A. Madej (eds), Syndrom konformizmu, p. 122. 12. ‘Uchwała Sekretariatu Komitetu Centralnego w sprawie kinematografii,’ in T. Miczka and A. Madej (eds), Syndrom konformizmu, p. 31. 13. The Polish–​Ukrainian conflict claimed the lives of 75,000–​100,000 Poles and 15,000–​20,000 Ukrainians. Ukrainian nationalists slaughtered their victims in a particularly savage fashion, indiscriminately killing men, women and children. The murders led to the mass exodus of Poles and reprisals against Ukrainians. Keen not to antagonise the Soviets, the Polish communist historiography largely ignored the massacres in Volhynia and Galicia, increasing the trauma of survivors. On the UPA massacres of Poles see Grzegorz Motyka and Dariusz Libionka (eds), Antypolska akcja OUN-​UPA 1943–​1944. Fakty i interpretacje (Warszawa, 2003).

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 14. Zajdel, ‘Filmowy obraz Polski powojennej’, p. 103. 15. The popularity of The law and the fist made Józef Hen, the author of the adapted novel Toast, use the title of the movie for the 1996 re-​publication of his book. 16. On film production units see Marcin Adamczak, Piotr Marecki, Marcin Malatyński (eds), Film Units: Restart (Kraków and Łódź, 2012). 17. I am aware of Fogiel’s casting in six films on the incorporation of the Western Territories. Born to a railway worker’s family and active in theatre since his early youth, Fogiel organised a front theatrical ensemble in the Second Polish Army. He also worked at several state theatres located the in Western Territories and starred in more than hundred films, mostly in supporting roles. 18. On the cinematic projections of the Western Territories see Mikołaj Kunicki, ‘Pionere, Siedler und Revolverhelden: Die “Rückgewinnung” der Westgebite im Polnischen Spielfilm der 1960er-​Jahre’, in D. Müller, L. Karl, K. Seibert (eds), Der lange Weg nach Hause: Konstruktionen von Heimat im europäischen Spielfilm (Berlin, 2014), pp. 190–​210. 19. On Poręba see Kunicki, ‘Heroism, Raison d’état, and National Communism’, pp. 235–​6. 20. Filmoteka Narodowa, Komisja Kolaudacyjna, A-​ 216 poz. 15 (29 January 1964), Prawo i pięść. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid. The law and the fist was the last project of the directing team. Jerzy Hoffman later became the leading creator of successful Hollywood-​style historical blockbusters, including the adaptations of Henryk Sienkiewicz’s trilogy, Pan Wołodyjowski (Colonel Wolodyjowski, 1968), Potop (The deluge, 1973–​4), and Ogniem i Mieczem (With Fire and Sword, 2000). 23. Quoted in Zajdel, ‘Filmowy obraz Polski powojennej’, p. 116. 24. Zbigniew Załuski, ‘Agnieszka i krytycy,’ Wolność i Lud, 31 January 1965; Zbigniew Załuski, ‘Agnieszka i rzeczywistość,’ Wolność i Lud, 15 February 1965. 25. Artur Starewicz liked the character of Kaleń so much that he questioned the sense of his death. ‘Why does Kaleń have to die?’ he complained at a meeting of a film assessment commission. Filmoteka Narodowa, Komisja Kolaudacyjna, A-​216 poz. 1 (15 May 1963), Milczenie. 26. Zajdel, ‘Filmowy obraz Polski powojennej’, p. 122.

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9 Film in Full Gallop Aesthetics and the Equine in Poland’s Epic Cinema Matilda Mroz

The enormously popular Pan Wołodyjowski (Colonel Wolodyjowski, 1969) is a generically slippery and hybrid product. It is an adaptation of the final text of Henryk Sienkiewicz’s classic trilogy of works, written between 1884 and 1888, revolving around Poland’s military fortunes in the 1600s.1 The film unites, however, the texts of Sienkiewicz with elements from a number of popular cinematic genres or subgenres, including the Western, the fairytale, melodrama and, particularly, the epic.2 The epic genre is itself a hybrid one, both politically relevant and affectively resonant. As Robert Burgoyne has noted, epic films carry ‘traditional messages’ relating to ‘the birth of a nation, the emergence of a people, the fulfilment of a heroic destiny.’3 He stresses, however, that audiences are drawn to epic films partly for the pleasures of ‘tactility and immersion, spectacle and eroticism, monumentality and sensuality’ that they offer, suggesting that ‘the sensory excitement of the [cinematic] medium itself ’ has a large role to play in the success of the genre.4 The precise aesthetic strategies that shape the spectacular and sensory moments of Hoffman’s film have infrequently been discussed, however.5 The Polish epic films of the 1960s and 1970s in general have primarily been read against their political and ideological contexts. As Marek Haltof notes, Polish epic films were frequently received as ‘historically distant parables 173

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe on contemporary Poland’; they ‘stirred heated national debates, usually dealing with historical and political issues surrounding the films, rather than the films themselves’.6 It is in such critical frameworks that the films have largely remained.7 This chapter aims to redress this imbalance, using Colonel Wolodyjowski as a case study, by drawing attention to some of the aesthetic strategies by which a mythological vision of the past and a canonical literary text are animated, that is, made to move and, particularly for my purposes, to gallop. For while a self-​reflexive play with mythological pastness emerges through many elements of the film that will be briefly treated here, including the visual quotations of paintings and the sumptuousness and richness of textured interiors, the primary focus of this chapter is on the figure of the horse. The horse condenses within itself much of the hybridity of the film, functioning as a political and ideological symbol, as well as a force of affect and a site of fascination. Cinema has, from its inception, worried at the boundary between stillness and movement, the animate and inanimate. The horse has a particularly privileged position in this history, as the technological challenges of capturing equine movement on film were an important driving force in the development of cinematographic technology.8 In 1872, Eadweard Muybridge began his photographic study of the movements of the horse in order to establish the nature of the gallop,9 which led eventually to the creation of the Zoopraxiscope, an early pre-​cursor of cinema that animated ‘the frozen moments of serial photography into vivacious sequences.’10 The photographs of Etienne-​Jules Marey display a similar fascination with the propulsive movement of the horse in gallop. His notations of each phase of the horse’s gait were reanimated on the zoetrope as a demonstration that, at one point in both the trot and the gallop, all four of the horse’s legs were off the ground: ‘the body of the animal is, for an instant, suspended in the air.’11 As Jonathan Burt notes, there is a continuum between the parading of animals in front of early photographic cameras to study their movement, and the early moving image sequences of animals moving past the camera.12 The epic film, with its processions of spectacularly decorated horses moving at a variety of speeds, is, I would argue, also a part of this trajectory. It is clear, then, that the interest in equine movement is not confined to popular cinema, or to the epic genre specifically, but was imbricated in the development of cinema itself. Yet Hoffman’s epic films stage a particularly 174

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Film in Full Gallop spectacular encounter with the literal movements of horses that gallop across landscapes, as well as the metaphorical movements of the horse between symbol and material force. The figure of the horse, both with and without its rider, is central to Polish literary and visual culture. As Janina Falkowska has pointed out, the white horse in particular ‘is an enduring symbol of virginity, innocence and chivalry’, a figure that nevertheless appears with multiple connotations in different contexts.13 The horse is connected with the country’s heritage in the form of the splendour of the winged hussars who were responsible for several key military successes between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. Following World War II, however, when the cavalry basically ceased to exist, the uhlans (Polish light cavalry) were caught up in the official narrative of the failure of the pre-war regime to properly equip the army. That horseriding could signify bourgeois tendencies that did not belong in a new socialist society is powerfully suggested in Krzysztof Zanussi’s Cwał (In Full Gallop, 1996), where Aunt Idalia’s passion for horseriding goes hand in hand with her hatred of the Stalinist regime and images of the horse in full gallop carry overtones of political defiance. Given this ideological positioning, it is unsurprising that there were few films depicting the wartime movements of the cavalry in postwar Polish cinema. Andrzej Wajda’s Lotna (1959), which depicts a small cavalry unit coming under attack during the September 1939 German invasion, is a significant exception.14 Lotna fetishises the horse and horsemanship and constitutes an elegy for the cavalry, which appear from the outset in nostalgic and mythic terms, like ‘denizens of a dream-​world.’15 The film’s most controversial moments, in which the cavalry unit charges German tanks and a rider strikes a tank with his sabre in frustration, is variously read as either a symbol of Polish martyrdom and sacrifice or of backwardness and stubborn adherence to a set of Romantic ideals.16 This grappling with questions of modernity that resound so sharply in Lotna and its reception is naturally, given its setting in the distant past, greatly softened in Polish epic cinema, in which skilled horsemanship is a sign of military superiority. Such films, which include Aleksander Ford’s Krzyżacy (Knights of the Teutonic Order/​Black Cross, 1960), Wajda’s Popioły (The Ashes, 1965) and Hoffman’s Potop (The deluge, 1973–​4), were made partly as a response to the tightening of censorship restrictions. 175

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe At the beginning of the 1960s the authorities denounced what they called the overly ‘pessimistic’ strands of the Polish School.17 Polish film-makers found themselves largely unable to ‘voice their real concerns regarding recent national history, politics, and social issues’ in an era that was periodically turbulent.18 Moments of political upheaval included the 1968 student revolt, the anti-​Semitic campaigns and the Polish participation in the crushing of the Prague Spring; as Ostrowska notes, by the late 1960s ‘the Polish self-​image, traditionally based on suffering, sacrifice and heroism, had been seriously undermined’.19 In such a climate, adaptations of the national literary canon were ‘safer’,20 offered the possibility of escaping a tempestuous present into a mythologised past and responded to the ‘political need to praise a particular vision of “Polishness”.’21 As Ostrowska also points out, Sienkiewicz’s novels were themselves written to ‘raise people’s spirits’ during the time of the partitions by offering ‘a nostalgic vision of the country’s past power’; the films that were made during communism could ‘play a compensatory role for the Polish nation once again.’22 Their production may also have owed ‘something to the fact that the film units were trying for financial success’, as their popularity was to some extent ensured by virtue of their adaptation of texts that were prescribed reading in schools.23 To gain a more complete understanding of the popularity of Colonel Wolodyjowski, however, one must consider more closely the film’s aesthetic appeal. As Vivian Sobchack has written, an analysis of the ‘experiential field’ of the epic film, the way it addresses an embodied spectator, requires us to pay attention to both the sensory and the sense-​making elements of the genre.24 The resonant materiality of the horse is set within a context of an affective aesthetics, in which the textures of landscapes, costumes and tapestries activate a mode of looking sensitive to the ‘matter’ of the film. The decoration of interiors is particularly noteworthy here. Both Colonel Wolodyjowski and The deluge were sumptuously decorated with historical objects –​tapestries, paintings, jewellery, cabinets, and carpets –​loaned from museums and churches; the number of props ran into the hundreds of thousands.25 Many of the wood-​panelled and marbled interiors that feature in the films were genuine and thus partly function to provide a sense of authenticity; rooms in Kraków’s Wawel Castle were, for example, used for some of the interiors of the homes of the noblemen.26 As in much heritage 176

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Film in Full Gallop cinema, such interiors thus become ‘house-​museums’ that unfold as visual spectacle, spaces ‘poised between narrative and descriptive modes’.27 In relation to heritage film, Belén Vidal has noted a particular process at work in which ‘the narrative priorities of the cinematic image shift to the visual emphasis and affective meanings of figuration’ by way of ‘an attention to the “surface” visual qualities’ of a film, which are ‘afforded special weight and duration’.28 In Colonel Wolodyjowski, similarly, one can identify aesthetic strategies by which the material presence and intensity of images are not reducible to, or ‘used-​up’ in, narrative and meaning.29 For example, the cinematography and mise-​en-​scène of interior scenes are frequently deployed to disturb the usual hierarchy between foreground and background, between, that is, the dialogue and actions of characters, and the ‘setting’ in which these take place. In moments where characters mimic the stances of male and female figures in portraits situated behind them, the film draws on the tableau vivant to acknowledge ‘both the absence of the past, its fixity, and at the same time the possibility of reanimating it.’30 The patterns and colours of the characters’ costumes are echoed in the tapestries that adorn the walls, momentarily blurring distinctions between foreground and background. Our eyes are encouraged to move between the planes of the image, tracing aesthetic and textural echoes. One effect of this is a particular activation of what is usually still and temporally fixed –​ the wood of panels, the figures in paintings, the textures of tapestries –​into life, as we see these textures, shapes and materials shimmer in living form in their adornment of moving figures. The opening images and credits of Colonel Wolodyjowski involve us immediately with the dynamic animation of a fantastical history. The film opens with an image of a lightly undulating hillside. Grass sways gently in the foreground. At the top of the frame, dark silhouettes begin to form, and the sound of crickets becomes overlaid with the sound of galloping hooves. As the silhouettes move down the hillside, they become distinguishable as horses with riders, sweeping towards the resolutely still camera. The credits appear on screen alongside a resounding, triumphant score as the horses draw nearer and the camera, roused from stasis, begins to track with the riders, following their movement screen left. The camera briefly zooms in on one rider in particular, who will soon be identified as Michał Wołodyjowski, before reframing to capture his white horse and the horses 177

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe beyond him as they gallop across this indeterminate and unmapped space. On the one hand, this opening could be seen to constitute a potent symbolic moment that transcends its specific narrative context, with the white horse and rider standing in for Polish patriotic heroism. At the same time, however, a purely symbolic interpretation of this opening scene threatens to abstract the image from its unfolding through time and from its dynamic movement. The film’s opening is a whirl of colour and sound; it is not yet ‘captured’ by narrative, and it resonates through and beyond the viewers’ awareness of the source text. The scene compels, fascinates and energises before it becomes tied into a linear trajectory. The articulation of the film’s interest in the animation of the past continues to resonate through the remainder of the credit sequence. From the images of the riders in full gallop, the film cuts to a series of split screens that introduce the characters to us, taken from moments that will recur later on in the film. These moments might be read as flash-​forwards, and thus as a narrative device, but at the moment of their appearance, divorced from the context they later attain, they disrupt chronology and narrative linearity. Appearing side-​by-​side, the images allow visual elements not yet tied to narrative to emerge; they function, to use Vidal’s words, as ‘sheer potentiality […] not yet subdued into the parameters of reading across the categories of narrative linear time.’31 The images are accompanied by a textured strip resembling wood, upon which the names of the actors are written. The animated figures, then, are triply framed: by the ‘wood’, by the split-​screen, and by the frame of the cinema screen itself. The conjunction of movement with the stasis of framing introduces a self-​reflexive celebration of a mythological pastness that emphasises texture and privileges moments of sensation. Towards the end of the credit sequence, the split screens disappear, and we are once again presented with an image of galloping horses, moving this time away from the camera, leaving only dust in the frame and the echo of hooves. The opening sequence as a whole, framed by equine movement, enacts a fascination with different modes of framing and what might momentarily escape capture within them. As Eugenie Brinkema has pointed out, affects, those intensities that disrupt, agitate and resist meaning, are, nevertheless, ‘a problematic of structure, form and aesthetics’ which requires close and attentive readings of filmic texts.32 In so doing, one can identify how the presentation of equine 178

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Film in Full Gallop movement as affective spectacle appears in Colonel Wolodyjowski through a particular pattern of framing and editing that recurs in very similar guise numerous times in the film. This pattern is already present in the credit sequence:  first, a long-​shot of a vast landscape will be established, often with shrubs or grasses in the foreground providing a picturesque border but otherwise featureless enough to function as pure setting for the affective movement of the horse. The shot is held for a few seconds of silence that build expectation before galloping hooves are heard and horses enter the frame, generally from the background of the shot into the foreground, thus growing in size, stature and material presence and, as in the opening sequence, often activating the camera into a movement alongside them. The film opens and closes ‘in full gallop’, with a shot of winged hussars galloping across a plain, while the camera, as though unable to keep up, registers their passing as a blur of equine legs and hooves in front of the lens. These images have no centre or focal point; rather they ‘host’, to borrow Anne Rutherford’s term, a current of explosive energy that has the capacity to effect bodily agitation.33 At a number of points throughout the film, surrogate spectators watch these equine displays in a double framing of the horse as spectacle, as when Michał explains battle configurations to his indefatigable wife Basia. The ensuing long shots of galloping horses are aligned with her vision, emphasised by cross-​cutting between the battle and her excited expression. Through extensive long-​takes and close-​ups of the animals galloping across the landscape, then, horses momentarily function less as symbols or narratorial elements and more as infectiously affective forces that create a dynamic visual field of energy and movement. This is not to say that such moments are entirely and always set apart from the film’s narrative and thematic concerns. As I have argued elsewhere, in the duration of a film’s unfolding, sensory evocations and symbolic resonances continually come together and disperse again,34 hence the horse is a figure that gallops between symbol and affect, between its association with Polish national heritage and its function as a locus of fascination present in film from its inception. In Colonel Wolodyjowski, the link between equine movement and narrative development is particularly underscored at times of great joy or great distress for the characters. For example, Krysia and Michał first declare their love for each other as they are carried across a snowy 179

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe landscape in a horse-​drawn sled. This scene is given excitement and dynamism by music and equine movement. It begins in medias res with a mid-​ shot of a galloping horse before the camera pans downward to capture the blur of its hooves pounding against the snow. The scene proceeds to then cut between shots of the horses from different angles and shots of the couple in the sled being thrown together. Their emotional investment in each other is coupled, as it were, with the affective dynamism of the horses’ movements. Such a scene forms a recurrent motif in Polish epic cinema, appearing, with variations, in The deluge and, extensively, in The Ashes. The imbrication of horse and human within the narrative is also indicated by their shared vulnerability, at least in the fictional sphere of the film. In Polish epic films, men, women and horses tend to be exquisitely adorned and decorated and equally subject to death and destruction in scenes of battle and pillage. The ‘embodied exposure […] that we ungraspably share with animals’, as Laura McMahon puts it, is, however, most powerfully indicated in Colonel Wolodyjowski via a sequence that inverts some of the codes of the equine spectacle.35 This occurs when Basia escapes from her would-​be captor, Azja, setting off at pace through the snow with both their horses. The scenes are set in increasing darkness, dimming the previously bright light of exhibition. The sequence emphasises Basia’s own vulnerable ‘creatureliness’, as, like the horses, she falls victim to Azja’s lust and maltreatment and is exposed to the unforgiving nature of the winter landscape.36 Basia is seen galloping with both horses across snowy plains, while four of Azja’s men on horseback search for her. As Basia tires, horses and rider displaying drooping heads and uncoordinated movements, she lets go of the reins of her own horse and it is chased by a pack of wolves, which are echoed by the group of her own pursuers: when Azja’s men find the corpse of the horse, they mill around it as the wolves had done moments earlier. Momentarily spurred into action, Basia, riding Azja’s horse, canters across a frozen pond until the ice breaks, drowning the horse as it squeals in horrific desperation (Basia manages to clamber out). Whereas in previous scenes of spectacle the landscape acted as a backdrop to equine movement, here, the water swallows the animal without a trace. This moment seems to signal a double disappearance of the horse: it sinks away from the narrative, as Basia weeps, and is also removed from 180

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Film in Full Gallop the pro-​filmic set, for which the horse has served its purpose and is cruelly discarded. The emergence of sheer animal vulnerability here demonstrates a particularly powerful way in which animal imagery frequently refuses to be contained by the fictional sphere of the film, pointing beyond itself to concerns about actual animal treatment.37 The display of animal vulnerability in the fictional sphere, that is, has a tendency to spread beyond the edges of the frame; in Colonel Wolodyjowski it emerges only in flashes, through the momentary glimpses of terrified equine eyes directed at the camera, and in the distressing plummets of real horses in flight. The image of the horse is an ambiguous one in the Polish heritage epic, a trait that it arguably shares with animal images in general. As Burt has written, cinematic animals ‘can be burdened with multiple metaphorical significances’ but are also ‘marked as a site where these symbolic associations collapse into each other. In other words, the animal image is a form of rupture in the field of representation’.38 The appearance of the white horse in Polish cinema may be symbolic, but that symbolism is enacted by a material being. There is a particular moment in Colonel Wolodyjowski that encapsulates this quite comically. When Michał first meets Krysia and Basia in the forest, his white horse remains in sight in the background, as though acting as visual shorthand for Michał‘s patriotic chivalry. Rather obtrusively, however, the animal eats leaves, looks around curiously, and flicks its tail, while the clinking of the bit against its teeth underscores the dialogue of the characters. The horse’s symbolic potential becomes strained by the very materiality of its corpus. The brief glimpses of actual animal vulnerability that the film affords us seem to occur in spite of the film’s drive to aestheticise the equine, and at the very least sit uncomfortably with the film’s popularity. This is an area for future research. In the meantime, this chapter has argued that the political, ideological, and allegorical contexts against which Polish epic films have most frequently been read provide only a partial understanding of the popular appeal of films like Colonel Wolodyjowski. The film’s hybridity, the ways in which it marries the political with the spectacular, demands an analysis sensitive to the affective potential of its aesthetic forms, its movements and its gallops across the mythologised landscapes of canonical texts. 181

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Notes 1. The first and second books of Sienkiewicz’s trilogy, Potop (The deluge) and Ogniem i Mieczem (With Fire and Sword) were adapted by Hoffman in 1974 and 1999 respectively. 2. Tadeusz Lubelski, Historia Kina Polskiego: Twórcy, Filmy, Konteksty (Katowice, 2009), p.  347. As Ewa Mazierska notes, epic Polish ‘super-​productions’ like those of Hoffman also share characteristics with the genre of ‘heritage cinema’, functioning as elements of the larger discourse of Polish national heritage. Ewa Mazierska, ‘In the Land of Noble Knights and Mute Princesses: Polish heritage epic’, Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, xxi/​2 (2001), p. 167. 3. Robert Burgoyne, ‘Introduction’, in R. Burgoyne (ed.), The Epic Film in World Culture (New York and Abingdon, 2011), p. 2. 4. Ibid. 5. A significant exception is Elżbieta Ostrowska’s analysis of the affective force of the images of masculine antagonists in Hoffman’s films. Elżbieta Ostrowska, ‘Desiring the Other:  The Ambivalent Polish Self in Novel and Film’, Slavic Review, lxx/​3 (2011), p. 505. 6. Marek Haltof, Polish National Cinema (New York-Oxford, 2002), p. 113. 7. See for example: Bolesław Michałek and Frank Turaj, The Modern Cinema of Poland (Bloomington and Indianapolis, 1988), pp. 37–​8; Adam Bingham, The Directory of World Cinema: East Europe (Chicago, 2011), p. 82. 8. Jonathan Burt, Animals in Film (London, 2002), p. 85. 9. Ibid., p. 104. 10. Esther Leslie, ‘Loops and Joins: Muybridge and the optics of animation’, Early Popular Visual Culture, xi/​1 (2013), p. 38. 11. Etienne-​Jules Marey cited by Marta Braun, Picturing Time:  The Work of Etienne-​Jules Marey (1830–​1904) (Chicago, 1992), p. 30. 12. Burt, Animals in Film, p. 110. 13. Janina Falkowska, Andrzej Wajda: History, Politics and Nostalgia in Polish Cinema (Oxford-New York, 2008), p. 58. 14. Another noteworthy exception is Bohdan Porȩba’s 1973 film Hubal (Major Hubal), which depicts a cavalry unit that refused to surrender following the failure of the 1939 September campaign. 15. Paul Coates, The Red and the White: The Cinema of People’s Poland (LondonNew York, 2005), p. 125. 16. Ibid., pp. 122–7. 17. Haltof, Polish National Cinema, p. 103. 18. Ibid., p. 110. 19. Ostrowska, ‘Desiring the Other’, p. 505. 20. Haltof, Polish National Cinema, p. 110. 21. Lubelski, Historia Kina Polskiego, pp. 279–​80.

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Film in Full Gallop 22. Ostrowska, ‘Desiring the Other’, pp. 503–​4. 23. Michałek and Turaj, The Modern Cinema of Poland, p. 37. 24. Vivian Sobchack, ‘ “Surge and Splendour”: A Phenomenology of the Hollywood Historical Epic’, Representations, 0/​29 (1990), p. 27 and p. 32. 25. Frank Bren, World Cinema 1: Poland (London 1986), p. 89. 26. Ibid. 27. Belén Vidal, Figuring the Past:  Period Film and the Mannerist Aesthetic (Amsterdam, 2012), p. 66. 28. Ibid., p. 11. 29. David Trotter, Cinema and Modernism (Malden-Oxford, 2007), p. 66. 30. Vidal, Figuring the Past, p. 115. 31. Ibid., p. 62. 32. Eugenie Brinkema, The Forms of the Affects (Durham-London, 2014), p. xvi. 33. Anne Rutherford, ‘Cinema and Embodied Affect’, Senses of Cinema (2003) Available at http://​sensesofcinema.com/​2003/​feature-​articles/​embodied_​affect/​ (accessed 8 January 2015). 34. Matilda Mroz, Temporality and Film Analysis (Edinburgh, 2012), p. 8. 35. Laura McMahon, Cinema and Contact:  The Withdrawal of Touch in Nancy, Bresson, Duras and Denis (London, 2012), p. 54. 36. I am drawing here on Anat Pick’s terminology from Creaturely Poetics: Animality and Vulnerability in Literature and Film (New York, 2011). 37. Burt, Animals in Film, p. 13. 38. Ibid., p. 11.

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10 The Czechoslovak–​East German Co-​production Trˇi orˇísˇky pro Popelku/​Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel/​Three Wishes for Cinderella A Transnational Tale Pavel Skopal

From the 1950s on, film studios in the people’s democracies of the Eastern Bloc regularly entered into international co-​productions with partners from both sides of the Iron Curtain. This practice went through periods of greater or lesser intensity depending on the status of international relationships in different states or on the cultural policy of the Soviet Union. The studios had manifold reasons for engaging in negotiations with a foreign partner despite the inevitable problems they also encountered throughout the production process due to differing concepts, practices and expectations. By entering into co-​productions, studios sought, for example, to secure commissions from party or government bodies, to achieve international recognition (especially when collaborating with a capitalist partner), to acquire training from indigenous practitioners and specialists, to secure superior technical equipment, to enhance the studio’s production portfolio (and thus increase chances for festival awards or higher profits) or simply to share the production expenditures.1 The last two reasons in particular played an important role in the case of 184

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Three Wishes for Cinderella Tři oříšky pro Popelku/​Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973).

Popularity With Two National Audiences A fairy-​ tale film2 co-produced by Czechoslovakia and the German Democratic Republic (GDR), Three Wishes for Cinderella, remains a perennial highlight of Christmas TV programming even today.3 The initial incentive to shoot it as a co-​production was the desire on the part of the Czechoslovak studio, Barrandov, to share the film’s production costs, which were projected to be much higher than the average.4 The deal was facilitated by the partners’ mutual interest in producing a film that would be truly popular with both national audiences –​and the fairy tale was one of the few genres5 with good prospects to appeal simultaneously to viewers in both countries. In fact, fairy-​tale films proved to be an extremely attractive product, particularly during the early 1950s, the period when the range of genres available in East German and Czechoslovak cinemas was the most limited in the states’ histories. In Czechoslovakia, Pyšná princezna (The proud princess, 1952) and Byl jednou jeden král (Once upon a time, there was a king, 1954) reached 6.8 million and 4.4 million viewers respectively, making them the second- and seventh-most attended movies of the decade.6 In the GDR, the adaptation of Wilhelm Hauff ’s story Die Geschichte vom kleinen Muck (The story of Little Mook, 1953) drew an astonishing 12 million cinema-​goers, and the romantic fairy tale Das kalte Herz (Heart of Stone, 1950) reached 4.1 million viewers in the first two years after its premiere.7 In addition to the local popularity of indigenous fairy tales, films of this genre also proved to travel well throughout varied national and cultural spaces. Among the elements contributing to the genre’s mobility were stories shared among cultures, clear distinctions between good and evil, and settings localised in fantastic and culturally nonspecific worlds –​Three Wishes for Cinderella contains all of these. Upon its release the film achieved extraordinary results in Czechoslovakia, garnering 1,476,000 viewers during the first year after its premiere8 and faring well in the GDR as well, where it was the sixth-​most-​attended movie in 1974, with 721,000 tickets sold.9 All these data imply that fairy-​tale films in general, and Three Wishes for Cinderella in particular, were truly popular with audiences. However, 185

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe any consideration of ‘popularity’ in the context of cinema exhibition in the Soviet-​bloc countries requires a brief clarification of the concept ‘popular.’ Usage of this term is complicated by the fact that Czechoslovakia and the GDR systematically provided promotional and distributional support for movies that fully met the state-​defined ideological requirements. Furthermore, cinema-​ goers’ choices were limited by the compulsory participation in screenings organised by their schools or places of work. These distortions complicate the interpretation of film attendance understood as an expression of cinemagoers’ free choice, but despite that, the consistently high attendance numbers that fairy-​tale films enjoyed in both Czechoslovakia and the GDR are a clear indicator of the genre’s popularity. That is so if we understand the term ‘popular’ according to the anthropological paradigm whereby popularity is measured by the product’s correspondence to the recipients’ preferred values.10 The most popular fairy-​tale films all shared a rather brisk narrative pace, contained a clear and easily acceptable distinction between good and evil, blended action with humour, visual attractiveness and familiar, culturally-​domesticated stories that were ‘well narrated’ according to accepted norms of a ‘good movie.’ In effect, they more than met the demand for ethically distinct and culturally familiar entertainment that operated according to the established narrative and stylistic norms of a quality film product.11

Children’s Films at Barrandov and DEFA: A Temporary Reconciliation of Production Concepts Barrandov and the East German Deutsche Film-​Aktiengesellschaft (DEFA) studios jointly co-produced six films primarily oriented towards children and youth, of which four were creatively controlled by Czechoslovak film-makers: Three Wishes for Cinderella, Die Insel der Silberreiher/​Ostrov stříbrných volavek (Island of the silver herons, 1976), Der Katzenprinz/​ Kočičí princ (The cat prince, 1979) and Zauberhafte Erbschaft/​ Kouzelné dědictví (Magical heritage, 1985). The other two –​Die Igelfreundschaft/​ Uprchlík (The runaway, 1961) and Abenteuer mit Blasius/​Dobrodružství s Blasiem (Adventure with Blasius, 1974) –​were initiated and creatively controlled by DEFA, which nevertheless accepted a certain degree of advice and creative input from their Czechoslovak partners due to their trust in 186

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Three Wishes for Cinderella Barrandov’s experience and effectiveness when it came to this kind of production. The fact that one partner always held clear creative dominance over each of the projects helped avoid major conflicts between the studios and yielded results which mostly, although not always, satisfied both partners. Besides, all but one of these co-​productions were implemented in the 1970s and 1980s, during the Normalisation era,12 which put both party politics and the cinema industry structure in better sync.13 Another reason for the long-​standing cooperation between these studios was the fact that fairy-​tale films were more adaptable to cultural negotiation than other genres. By contrast, although cultural functionaries in Czechoslovakia and the GDR placed a high premium on the use of war movies as a way to confirm ideological alignment between the former wartime enemies, such productions inevitably touched sensitive nerves in the participating nations and were thus far less frequently attempted. Barrandov and DEFA did successfully demonstrate the ideal of solidarity among socialist states in the co-​production of the war films Jahrgang 21/​Ročník 21 (Those born in 1921, 1957) and Koffer mit Dynamit/​ Praha nultá hodina (Prague at zero hour, 1962), however both projects had difficulty overcoming disagreements between the partners over the representation of the war,14 and consequently the studios never again made a joint foray into the war movie genre.15 It was in the production of films for children that the partners’ mutual adjustment of expectations was most fluid and lasting. This does not mean that conflict was entirely absent from the collaborative work on the six co-​productions aimed primarily at children. Differences in the standards of cinema production and variances in the attributes expected from genre movies16 gave rise to numerous disputes and ultimately resulted in the termination of cooperation between the studios in 1985 after the production of the fairy-​tale film Magical heritage. DEFA agreed to participate in this project, proposed by Barrandov, under the strict condition that Barrandov would reciprocate and coproduce a DEFA-​ controlled project titled Der Eisen Hans (Iron John, 1987).17 However, Barrandov harshly criticised the latter project on grounds that are significant because they echo rather typical complaints by Barrandov’s creative personnel towards DEFA’s output:  that the script was poorly structured, overly symbolic and featured insufficient comic relief.18 Consequently, and in contrast to earlier cases, DEFA head Hans Dieter Mäde rejected all of Barrandov’s proposed changes to the script of Iron John. The Barrandov 187

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe practitioners were confident in their own creative capacities, believing that their indigenous vision of children’s films constituted a sure-​fire recipe for success, and when DEFA refused to acknowledge this view, the partnership between the studios was effectively over. As a result, DEFA completed Iron John without Czechoslovak assistance. Prior to Mäde’s move to protect DEFA’s sovereignty and individuality of production that resulted in this breakup, the studio had readily accepted the pragmatic approach of Czechoslovak dramaturges and scriptwriters for over a decade. The most productive period of cooperation was launched by the financial and popular success of Three Wishes for Cinderella, which demonstrated Barrandov’s expertise in crafting fairy-​tale films and led to other collaborations on productions for children. In addition to the co-​productions stimulated by the success of Three Wishes for Cinderella, DEFA also cast Czechoslovak actor Pavel Trávníček in Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot (Snow White and Rose Red, 1978) in a role that closely followed Trávníček’s leading character in Three Wishes for Cinderella. A memorandum of the East German Hauptverwaltung Film (Central Film Administration)19 reveals that the guardians of cultural policy came to regard Three Wishes for Cinderella as a benchmark for how a commercially and aesthetically satisfying family movie should look: ‘We hope that this fairy-​tale [Snow White and Rose Red] will replicate the commercial success and the artistic methods of Three Wishes for Cinderella, so that it may meet the expectations of children and adults.’20

Cinderella, a Transnational Character As Anne Jäckel has pointed out, a successful model of international co-​ productions demands cultural affinities.21 In the case of Three Wishes for Cinderella, the studios succeeded in finding a common cultural field in the Cinderella story, which has strong ties with both the German and the Czech literary traditions. The story had been adapted by the creators of the romantic literary canon in both national contexts, the Grimm brothers and Božena Němcová, respectively.22 The authors and their folktales were easily tailored to meet the demands of the cultural policy in the GDR, as well as in Czechoslovakia during the Normalisation era. As part of the two German states’ competition for national heritage, the Grimms were incorporated 188

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Three Wishes for Cinderella into the construction of the GDR’s national identity and included in the official literary canon.23 Likewise, Božena Němcová had a firm position in the Czechoslovak literary pantheon established according to state cultural policy after the communist putsch in February 1948.24 Because of the global popularity of the Cinderella story more generally and its acceptability for the communist cultural policy more specifically, the 1973 movie Three Wishes for Cinderella addressed audiences already well acquainted with filmic adaptations of the fairy tale: in addition to the black and white Soviet version Zolushka (Cinderella, 1947), there were also Disney’s Cinderella (1950), which first came to Czechoslovak screens only in 1971, and an indigenous Czechoslovak adaptation, Popelka (Cinderella), a black and white TV musical produced in 1969. In an effort to differentiate its new project from these previous versions, Barrandov envisaged Three Wishes for Cinderella as a big budget venture with lavish sets, to be shot on the expensive Eastmancolor film stock. In effect, the project’s high budget made external financing a necessity.25 Although DEFA was very active in exploiting the writings of the Grimm brothers,26 this 1973 Cinderella adaptation was not based on the Grimms’ version but on the one written by Božena Němcová. The preference for Němcová‘s version of the story was rooted in scriptwriter František Pavlíček’s27 intensive and long-​ lasting interest in Němcová‘s 28 oeuvre. The differences are significant between the versions of Cinderella as adapted by Pavlíček from Němcová, on the one hand, and the Grimms’ Aschenputtel, on the other. In contrast to the Grimms’ take on the tale, Božena Němcová’s Cinderella is a much more active figure, and Pavlíček emphasises the character’s independence even further. Regardless of the recognizable tie to the Czech literary canon, director Vorlíček pragmatically promoted a transnational reading of the story during the project’s approval process and insisted that he did not fear a ‘denationalisation’ of the fairy tale.29 The Czechoslovak studio’s declarations of the story’s transnationality and cultural adaptability30 might have been intended to emancipate the project from the sacrosanct cultural heritage of Němcová’s fairy tales and might have been motivated by the desire to ensure that the envisioned international co-​production not be cancelled. For their part, however, the German partners had no problem accepting that this modernised telling of the story diverged significantly from the Grimm version. The 189

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe chief of DEFA, Albert Wilkening, was fully aware of the digression from the German version of the tale, yet this did not prevent him from praising the film. On the contrary, he emphasised the film’s ‘strong realism’ and the fact that ‘deeds are more important for the story than miracles’.31 The modernisation became an emblematic feature of the project for both partners. Ota Hofman, the head of the dramaturgical group that had been developing the project, did not emphasise any element of national specificity; according to him, the divergences from the previous versions of the tale were a factor of the unconventionality, originality and modernity of the script, rather than a result of any attempt at national appropriation.32 He proclaimed that the script’s moral value is grounded in a sense of justice and in the active attitude toward life Cinderella expressed in the story. The director, Vorlíček, also publicly emphasised this concept of an active heroine in a Czechoslovak film journal: ‘Readers remember Cinderella as a passive, defenceless creature, tortured by her wicked stepmother and envious sisters, dependent on the help of doves and liberated by a prince charming. Our Cinderella is more like a modern girl, she is active, brave, sporty and she helps herself out of misfortune.’33 The concept of the ‘modernised’ Cinderella, as well as the source of the modernisation in Němcová’s version of the story were equally enthusiastically recognised and accepted in East German critical discourse. Neues Deutschland, the official newspaper of the Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschslands, SED (Socialist Unity Party of Germany) highlighted the fact that Cinderella is presented as an emancipated, strong and determined character: ‘Cinderella, as we met her in this movie, is different from the one we know from the Grimms’ fairy tales. She does not bear her suffering with patience […] she helps herself. […] The movie elaborates an emancipatory tendency. Cinderella becomes a creature which could almost be our contemporary.’34 Another review enumerates the character’s features that would be easily attributable to the ideal socialist youth: ‘In the centre of the story is not a lucky fellow (Hans im Glück) into whose hands happiness fell like a ripe plum. Instead, we are watching a girl who has to fight for her happiness and future. And the little cinemagoer can easily identify with Cinderella and can learn how one has to fight: with courage, persistence, purposefulness and an iron will.’35 This did not mean that the social reality in the GDR and Czechoslovakia would keep the promises of such discourses of emancipation.36 Although 190

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Three Wishes for Cinderella young women were more independent than their mothers’ generation, society still demanded that they behave according to traditional morals, a contradiction that was closely related to the society’s modernisation.37 In this context, the image of Cinderella as independent but also responsible, active and lippy but at the same time hardworking and caring, obviously corresponded to the constructed normativity of young women’s behaviour. This movie provides us with a character that is rather extraordinary for a genre usually glorifying passivity and self-​sacrifice as heroines’ virtues but does not challenge societies’ norms and expectations. In the GDR, ‘by the 1970s, East German women and men began to change their attitudes about their social and economic roles, and DEFA fairy tale figures began to comment, often subtly, on these developments’, Benita Blessing argues. She adds, however, referring to a DEFA fairy tale from 1978, ‘…that the cinema audience at the end of the 1970s was not quite ready for princesses to reject their princes was both reflective of a bourgeois sentiment regarding marriage and, at the same time, a lesson in not losing one’s princess-​worthy looks.’38 Only the DEFA fairy tale Gritta von Rattenzuhausbeiuns (Gritta von Ratsinourhouse, 1984), in a diversion from the literary version, let the heroine avoid marriage. The late 1970s movie with more conventional ending that Blessing was referring to was, significantly, Snow White and Rose Red, that is, the fairy tale mentioned above as having been produced with the intention of repeating the concept and, in effect, the commercial success of Three Wishes for Cinderella.

Conclusion Although fairy tales were among the most popular genres both in the GDR and in Czechoslovakia, there was no guarantee that Three Wishes for Cinderella would achieve equal success in both countries. Yet, despite the differences in the respective concepts of filmmaking for children, this is exactly what happened. The project also had to overcome a significant discrepancy in the degree of mutual respect between the partners. Whereas DEFA functionaries and filmmakers had highly prized and respected Czechoslovak fairy tales and children’s films since at least the 1960s, Barrandov was not equally enthusiastic about DEFA’s productions and creativity. The smooth and successful implementation of 191

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe the co-​production outlined in this paper was determined by the East German studio’s appreciation of the Czechoslovak approach to the genre, as well as by DEFA’s fondness for Barrandov’s scriptwriters and directors. The dramaturges at DEFA appreciated the effective storytelling as well as the light and humorous atmosphere in Barrandov’s films for children. Another essential factor was the transnational dimension of the Cinderella story, which provided a ready defence against cultural heritage protectionists who might attempt to claim Němcová’s adaptation as exclusively Czech (thereby ensuring that the project would remain available for international co-​production), while at the same time making the film palatable to East German cultural functionaries, critics and audiences. The exceptionally successful co-​production Three Wishes for Cinderella highlights some of the advantages as well as certain pitfalls of those international projects established between film studios from two Soviet bloc countries that focused on popular genre production. The sharing of expenditures and production facilities helped Barrandov overcome significant difficulties during the shooting process and increased the production value of the film, since the project was able to invest in expensive western film stock, lavish settings and attractive exteriors. No less important was the fact that DEFA did not interfere with Barrandov’s creative concept. Both sides realised that the blending of two concepts into one product could hardly work. This mode of cooperation between the two studios came to an end in the mid-​1980s, as Barrandov was not willing to assume the position of minor participant on Iron John and DEFA adopted a more protective attitude towards their own conception of fairy-​tale films. Rather than being the product of a magic formula for a popular fairy-​tale genre film, Three Wishes for Cinderella’s success was the result of a pragmatic alliance that united two production facilities under the umbrella of a singular creative concept built around a transnational story.

Acknowledgement This chapter was made possible through the financial support of the Faculty of Arts, Masarykova Univerzita, and through the help of the National Film Archive in Prague, which provided the archival material. 192

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Notes 1. For details on DEFA’s motivations for international co-​production, see Mariana Ivanova, DEFA and East European Cinemas. Co-​Productions, Transnational Exchange and Artistic Collaborations (Dissertation, Austin, University of Texas, 2011). She recognises three motivations: to gain international prestige, to compete with the West in the field of genre production and to display international solidarity between the socialist countries. For detailed analysis of Barrandov’s co-​productions and its motivations, see Pavel Skopal, Filmová kultura severního trojúhelníku. Filmy, kina a diváci českých zemí, NDR a Polska, 1945–​1970 (Brno, 2014), pp. 21–​59. 2. I classify Three Wishes for Cinderella interchangeably as a fairy tale or as a children’s film. Both labels are adopted from the contemporary discourse in the film industry and film criticism. Barrandov’s dramaturgical plans, for example, routinely divided production output into five categories: 1. dramas, 2. adventure and detective stories, 3. comedies and musicals, 4. films reflecting ‘problems of young viewers’, 5. Children’s films, with Three Wishes for Cinderella falling into the last category. 3. For example, the largest Norwegian TV channel regularly screens the film at Christmas. In Germany, the film has a museum dedicated to it (in Moritzburg) as well as a strong fan base, and it is regularly screened on TV. A good token of the enduring fame of the film are websites such as: http://​www.dreihaselnuessefueraschenbroedel.de/​(accessed 1 March 2016). 4. See the interview with the director Václav Vorlíček from 4 May 2000, Národní filmový archive (NFA), Prague, 322 OS, Oral History collection. The film’s budget was CZK 3,552,000, but the final expenditures reached CZK 4,083,000. See Barrandov Studio a. s., archive (BSA), Prague, collection Scénáře a produkční dokumenty, file Tři oříšky pro Popelku. It was still below the average budget in 1973 (CZK 4,761,000) but extraordinarily high for a fairy-​tale (an average budget for crime films in the same year, for example, was CZK 3,213,000 –​see Lucie Šimůnková, Případ Exner. Prohry českého kriminálního filmu v letech 1970–​1982 (M.A. Thesis, Faculty of Arts, Masarykova Univerzita, Brno, 2015), p. 126. More importantly, this was not the DEFA budget but solely the budget of Barrandov, which participated in the project with a 60 per cent share. 5. I’m referring to fairy-​tale films as a genre. Most historians of GDR cinema dealing with production for children use ‘fairy tale’ as a generic label as well, see, for example, Benita Blessing, ‘Happily Socialist Ever After? East German Children’s Films and the Education of a Fairy Tale Land’, Oxford Review of Education xxxvi/​2 (2010), pp. 233–​48; Qinna Shen, The Politics of Magic. DEFA Fairy-​ Tale Films (Detroit, 2015); Marc Silberman, ‘The First DEFA Fairy Tales Cold War Fantasies of the 1950s’, in J. Davidson and S. Hake (eds), Take Two. Fifties Cinema in a Divided Germany (New York, 2007), pp. 106–​19. For a reflection

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe of the contested status of fairy-​tale films as a genre, see Pauline Greenhill and Sidney Eve Matrix (eds), Fairy Tale Films. Visions of Ambiguity (Logan, UT, 2010), pp. 15–​17, and Sue Short, Fairy Tale and Film. Old Tales with a New Spin (New York, 2015), p. 6. 6. Jiří Havelka, Československé filmové hospodářství 1956–​1960 (Prague, 1973), pp. 205, 209. 7. Bundesarchiv Berlin (BArch), Ministerium für Kultur, DR1/​4441. 8. The ninth most-​attended film in Czechoslovak cinemas in the period 1973–​7. See Rozbor distribučních výsledků za měsíc srpen 1974 v ČSR, Národní filmový archive (NFA), R18-​BII-​1P-​2K. 9. See Elizabeth Prommer, Kinobesuch im Lebenslauf. Eine historische und medienbiographische Studie (Konstanz, 1999), p. 346; and SED, Abteilung Kultur, 1972–​1980, attendance of DEFA films premiered in 1974–​5, Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR im Bundesarchiv Berlin (SAPMO-​BArch), SED, DY/​30/​IV B2/​9.06/​80. 10. For an introduction to the anthropological and market paradigms of popularity, see Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, in R. Dyer and G. Vincendeau (eds), Popular European Cinema (London and ​New York, 1992), pp. 2–​5. 11. For a more elaborate discussion of audience preferences in both the GDR and Czechoslovakia, see Skopal, Filmová kultura severního trojúhelníku, pp. 177–​259. 12. ‘Normalisation’, as it was known, was a period in Czechoslovak history that followed the Soviet-​led invasion of the country in 1968. The conservative turn in politics that normalisation brought with it significantly affected cultural policy and had a strong impact on cinema culture. In 1970 Barrandov underwent major managerial and organisational changes: the former ‘artistic groups’ were replaced by dramaturgical groups and production groups. In this centralised model of production, which was typical of both the Czech and East German production systems, dramaturges coordinated screenplay development. For an overview of the organisational changes in Barrandov’s production system, see Petr Szczepanik, ‘The State-​socialist Mode of Production and the Political History of Production Culture’, in P. Szczepanik and P. Vonderau (eds), Behind the Screen. Inside European Production Cultures (New York, 2013), pp. 113–​33; for a detailed description of dramaturges’ role in the ‘State-​socialist Mode of Production’, see also Petr Szczepanik, ‘How Many Steps to the Shooting Script? A Political History of Screenwriting’, Iluminace xxv/​3 (2013), pp. 73–​98. 13. The liberalisation of Czechoslovak cultural policy in the 1960s, which had caused tension between these two countries, was later redrafted by hardliners, ensuring that it was in synch with that of the GDR. The official ideological positions of both the East German and Czechoslovakia Communist Parties

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Three Wishes for Cinderella were thus closer than previously. And the major changes which Barrandov underwent at the start of the Normalisation era saw it restructured in a manner similar to that which DEFA had put in place in 1966. 14. For more details on these projects see Pavel Skopal, ‘Kriegsgeschichten von Liebenden und Nationen Internationale Romanzen in drei Co-​Produktionen der späten 1950er-​Jahre’, in L. Karl, D. Müller and K. Seibert (eds), Der lange Weg nach Hause. Konstruktionen von Heimat im europäischen Spielfilm (Berlin, 2014), pp. 152–​66. 15. Successful joint projects were focused on different generic formulae instead: a musical Eine schreckliche Frau/​Strašná žena (A terrible woman, 1965), a historical comedy (Die Gestohlene Schlacht/​Ukradená bitva (The stolen battle, 1971)), and a historical drama Die Elixiere des Teufels/​Elixíry ďábla (The devil’s elixirs, 1972). In all of these cases, certain disagreements had to be solved and conceptual differences had to be adjusted to meet the other partner’s demands, but no serious conflict emerged, and all of the projects closely followed the concept of the leading partner: Barrandov for The figure skater and fidelity, and DEFA for The stolen battle and The devil’s elixirs. 16. Although Barrandov’s productions for children had a good reputation at DEFA, the East German studio cultivated its own tradition, and between 1950 and 1989 it produced over 40 feature length, live action fairy-​tale films (Märchenfilme) which ‘played an important role in the GDR’s claim to the realist-​humanist tradition.’ See Shen, The Politics of Magic, for a cultural history of DEFA’s fairy-​tale films from the post-​WWII period to reunification. 17. A report from 4 October 1984, BArch, VEB DEFA-​Studio für Spielfilme DR 117/​28357. 18. See, for example, letter from the director of Barrandov studios, Jaroslav Gürtler, to the DEFA director Hans Dieter Mäde, undated (probably the end of 1985), BArch, DR 117/​28960. 19. A division of the Ministry of Culture that oversaw film production and distribution. 20. A letter from HV Film to Hans Dieter Mäde, 17 February 1978, BArch, DR 117/​27245, file 1. 21. Anne Jäckel, ‘European Co-​production Strategies:  The Case of France and Britain’, in A. Moran (ed.), Film Policy: International, National, and Regional Perspectives (London and New York, 1996), p. 87. 22. Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm, ‘Aschenputtel’, in J. Grimm and W. Grimm (eds), Kinder-​und Hausmärchen. Ausgabe letzter Hand (Ditzingen, 1997), pp. 137–​44; Božena Němcová, ‘O Popelce’, in B. Němcová (ed.), Národní báchorky a pověsti I (Prague, 1950), pp. 112–​28. 23. See David Bathrick, The Powers of Speech: The Politics of Culture in the GDR (Lincoln, NE, 1995), pp. 167–​8.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 24. Božena Němcová (1820–​62) was celebrated as one of the ‘classics’ of the Czech literary canon, a ‘progressive’ author and a representative of the Czech National Revival. Folk tradition became an important element in the shaping of the identity of the new regimes both in GDR and Czechoslovakia, although not without difficulties. The folkish culture had to be incorporated into the proper, progressive strand of two divergent trends: irrational Romanticism versus rational Classicism; and the bourgeois/​ reactionary element versus the national/​progressive one. See Bathrick, The Powers of Speech; Vladimír Macura, ‘Obrození‘, in V. Macura, Šťastný věk (a jiné studie o socialistické kultuře) (Prague, 2008), pp. 131–​46; Jiří Křesťan, Zdeněk Nejedlý. Politik a vědec v osamění (Prague, 2012), pp. 360–​1. 25. The co-​production contract divided the rights according to production share – 60 per cent for Barrandov and 40 per cent for DEFA. See the contract between DEFA and Barrandov, BSA, collection Scénáře a produkční dokumenty, file ‘Tři oříšky pro Popelku’. 26. Throughout its history, DEFA made 23 feature-​length films based on the Grimms’ tales. See Qinna Shen, ‘Barometers of GDR Cultural Politics. Contextualizing the DEFA Grimm Adaptations’, Marvels & Tales xxv/​1 (2011), pp. 70–​95. 27. Pavlíček wrote the script under the name of his colleague Bohumila Zelenková because he had been dismissed from Barrandov in 1970 for his political attitudes and had not been allowed to work for the studio since then. See Štěpán Hulík, Kinematografie zapomnění. Počátky normalizace ve filmovém studio Barrandov (1968–​1973) (Prague, 2011), pp. 108 and 121. 28. For the script Pavlíček also borrowed motifs from another Němcová fairy tale, About Three Sisters. In 1962 Pavlíček wrote a script for a biopic of Němcová, Horoucí srdce (An ardent heart, 1962); and just two years before Three Wishes for Cinderella he authored a script for a TV adaptation of the most famous work by Němcová, Babička (Granny, 1971). 29. Václav Vorlíček’s explication of realisation and financial conditions of the co-​ production Three Wishes for Cinderella, undated, Barrandov Studios Archive collection, scripts and production documents, file: ‘Tři oříšky pro Popelku’. 30. Which was fully justified, as hundreds of versions exist the world over, from China to North America, and it is impossible to reconstruct the Urmärchen, or authentic parent tale. See Maria Tatar, The Hard Facts of the Grimms’ Fairy Tales (Princeton, 1987), p. 153. 31. Barch, DEFA Studio für Spielfilme, DR 117/​26495. 32. Ota Hofman’s dramaturgical explication of the literary script, addressed to Barrandov’s ‘central dramaturge’, Ludvík Toman, 29 June 1972, BSA collection, Scripts and production documents, file: ‘Tři oříšky pro Popelku’. 33. A. Krejčíková, ‘Národní spisovatelka a její pohádka v čase normalizace. Poznámky k Pavlíčkovu scénáři k filmu Tři oříšky pro Popelku’, Kino xxviii/​7 (1973), pp. 8–​9.

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Three Wishes for Cinderella 34. Rolf Richter, Neues Deutschland, 24 March 1974. The popular magazine Filmspiegel similarly celebrates Cinderella’s independence and activity (30 January 1974, quoted in Československá kinematografie v zahraničním tisku 3 (1974), pp. 32–​3). Both reviews recognise Božena Němcová as the source of the story and both also describe the character as a modern one –​that is, as a proper benchmark for a socialist girl. 35. Ralf Schenk, ‘Warum nicht einmal “Aschenbrödel”?’ Freies Wort v/​4(1974). 36. For an analysis of DEFA’s Frauenfilme of the 1970s and 1980s, which addressed such ‘typically feminist issues as equality in the domestic sphere, male violance against women, patronising male behaviour, and sexual harassment at work’ and criticised ‘the prevailing state of gender relationship in the GDR’, see Andrea Rinke, ‘From Models to Misfits: Women in DEFA Films of the 1970s and 1980s’, in S. Allan and J. Sandford (eds), DEFA:  East German Cinema (New York, 1999), pp. 183–​203. 37. For example, women were still fully subordinated to the duty of work during the Normalisation in Czechoslovakia, although some exemptions from the duty were applied towards mothers. See Christiane Brennerová, ‘Líné dívky, lehké dívky? Příživnictví a disciplinace mladých žen v době normalizace’, Dějiny a současnost xxxv/​7 (2013), p. 19–​22. 38. See Blessing, Happily socialist ever after?, pp. 240–​5.

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11 The Paradox of Popularity The Case of the Socialist Crime Movie in Hungary Gábor Gelencsér

Introduction This chapter is an exploration of Hungarian popular films in the 1970s and early 1980s. These two decades constituted the final stage of nationalised and politically controlled film-​making in Hungary, and for this reason they offer a particularly important vantage point from which the history of the period can be examined. In many senses, the 1970s and 1980s represented a low point in popular film-​making: politically supported and artistically highly regarded auteur-​cinema dominated, almost entirely suppressing popular film-​making. What survived of popular cinema was forced into an uneasy and tense relationship with art house cinema. I begin the chapter by examining the general condition of popular film-making in Hungary using as an example crime movies. Then, through the example of Ferenc András’s Dögkeselyű (The vulture, 1982), I demonstrate that there was one instance in which the negotiations between art house cinema and popular cinema were productive. The vulture successfully merged art house traditions, the generic conventions of socialist crime film and the universal motives and plots of crime movies creating a unique and interesting example of popular genre production in Hungary at the time. 198

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Popular Film and the Politics of Power Although popular films constituted the bulk of Hungarian film-​making in the pre-​1945 period, they gradually lost their significance after World War II. Though some such films were still being made, and some directors in the 1960s excelled in filming nineteenth-century historical novels, the importance and numbers of popular productions decreased drastically. Several factors caused this, among them the fact that producers no longer played a major role in film production, and that the social groups providing the stock characters for comedies and melodramas –​whether in literature, theatre or film –​became either socially marginalised or physically isolated. ‘Unproblematic’ and ‘light’ popular films were seen as a cultural, political and artistic problem; cultural policy makers, critics and film-​makers looked at them with disdain, and their marginalisation was made evident by their scarce representation at the Hungarian Film Weeks.1 By the 1970s, popular films had practically disappeared, and those directors who were trained in the popular film tradition before the war had by then retired from the film industry. Why were popular films in an especially difficult position in Hungary? Looking beyond the ‘obvious and directly perceivable antipathy’ of the socialist countries’ cultural politics towards mass culture (to which some lip service was paid, though it was considered cheap and inferior), to what extent was the Hungarian situation different?2 The unusually long hiatus in Hungary’s history of popular films can be traced to its pre-​World War II film traditions in which the silent film period in the 1910s and the sound  film period of the 1930s both produced genre films for the market. Genre film making was intertwined with the politics, taste and value system of the ruling political regime. But film-​makers  –​motivated by practical considerations such as censorship and state funding, but also by aesthetic considerations such as the commitment to film as a source of entertainment –​chose not to represent the regime critically.3 Typically, the film genres between 1931 and 1945 were various types of comedy, particularly glamour comedies, whose plot lines usually rewarded characters for their good disposition and intentions.4 The Soviet-​style, one party system installed in 1948 defined itself in contrast with the pre-​1945 period and was intent on marginalising and 199

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe silencing the cultural attitudes and products of the prewar regime. Market-​ oriented capitalist film-​making was seen as ‘yielding’ to entertainment and serving the demands and the ideology of the bourgeoisie. Hungarian popular film-​making was no longer acceptable for the political leadership. Thus a statement formulated in an interview with Jenő Király, a prominent scholar of Hungarian popular film, rings true: ‘The old Hungarian film was purely mass culture, while the Hungarian film after 1945 was the polar opposite’.5 But let us consider another, more circumspect and detailed description of the discontinuation of the popular film tradition, one that suggests a more complex and nuanced situation: Socialist cultural politics did not continue the legacy of Hungarian interwar film-​making  –​partly for ideological reasons and partly due to its hostile attitude towards the concept of genre and popularity in general. Genre films did not fully disappear, but films without a ‘message’ and without any ‘social agenda’ –​films whose sole purpose was entertainment –​were still considered suspicious in the 1980s.6

What needs to be kept in mind is that party diktats or political censorship were only partly responsible for the rejection of popular films. Beginning in the 1960s, the party state generously supported auteur films, and their modernist aesthetics came to define the nature of good cinematic art, and the consideration of the change in aesthetic values adds to a more nuanced understanding. The following section provides some insight into the close interactions between the politics of the early Kádár regime and the Hungarian version of European modernism.

Popular Film and the Politics of Auteurs The year 1963 marked the beginning of the Hungarian New Wave; a trend that was part of European modernism. Miklós Jancsó took the lead; his art not only followed the international movement but also contributed to shaping it. The new aesthetic movement preferred the auteur film genre both in Europe and Hungary. In addition to the change in aesthetic attitudes, the Hungarian New Wave owed its rise to political factors as well. 200

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The Paradox of Popularity The launch of the movement was closely connected to János Kádár’s consolidation of the post-​1956 political regime. The long line of reforms that followed the failed revolution created a mood of optimism, and the arts –​ in particular the cinematic arts –​were particularly supported in the hope that they would further boost the general optimism. The support made the production of New Wave films possible; in turn, the ways in which they differed from earlier works under the influence of cultural Stalinism demonstrated that the Kádár regime was markedly more liberal than its predecessor, that it was modern and tolerant of artistic experimentation. This interdependence and the confluence of interests –​the artists needed Kádárism to authorise and finance their works, and the regime needed the artists for its self-​legitimation as a tolerant regime –​led to a flourishing of Hungarian film, first and foremost of auteur film-​making. A generational factor also contributed to the dominance of auteur films in the 1960s. As the 1960s turned into the 1970s, the generation of film-​ makers that started their careers before the war and learnt film-​making as a crafts-​based profession gradually disappeared. Those with the best known names  –​Frigyes Bán, Viktor Gertler and Márton Keleti, who all excelled in turning national literary classics into highly popular movies in the 1960s –​had died between 1969 and 1973, which came to symbolise the end of an era. With none of this generation surviving, the craft of popular film-​making practically disappeared. The newer generation, especially the New Wave film-​makers graduating in the early 1960s, defined themselves as artistes, as auteur film-​makers, and the professors at the College of Theatre and Film Art were also more likely to be auteurs than teachers of the craft. As a consequence, beginning in the 1970s the auteur film became hegemonic in Hungary; a fact that was also made apparent by their production rates.7

After 1968 The failure of the Czechoslovak political experiment in 1968, which clearly demonstrated the impossibility of reforming state socialism, brought no significant change in the Hungarian film industry: the modernism of the 1960s continued in a more radical form. Documentary film-​making (a new trend, also rooted in modernism) also emerged embracing the methods of 201

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe cinéma direct and cinéma verité. The production of popular films decreased further. Data show that out of the 40 films made in the first 2 years of the new decade 22 were popular films, after which their numbers declined drastically: of the 38 films made in 1974–​5, only 6 were popular films.8 Although the national film school’s focus on auteur films played a role in the decline of popular genre film-making, but the slowing down of the political reforms of the 1960s was also responsible for it. By 1974, the attempts at making reforms in Hungary had petered out, and no further societal movements came into view until the late 1980s. János Kádár’s ­middle-​of-​the-​road politics proved resistant to any crisis domestic or international; he maintained the politics of consolidation established in the 1960s by balancing between the reformists and hardliners. This left its mark on cultural politics as well: from the 1970s, reforms were introduced and withdrawn in a seesaw pattern that became the norm. These unpredictable processes affected popular film-​making more deeply than other fields of cultural production. Film production normally requires long, stable creative periods and transparent and predictable economic and cultural political environments. But these requirements affect different types of films differently: auteur films, using higher levels of abstraction, are less affected by unpredictability; while the more rigid generic structures of popular films –​with more direct representations –​are more vulnerable to political and economic changes. The uncertain, rather unpredictable environment of the 1970s was more suited to films of intellectual analysis rather than to popular culture accustomed to using less coded plotlines. Thus, the launch and subsequent withdrawal of the political and economic reforms of the 1960s primarily affected the popular aspects of cultural life. As Kalmár explains, tension emerged between the market factors entering into socialism from the 1960s and the intention to maintain the regime; consequently, an ‘optimal model’ needed to be found to meet both principles: controllability and financial viability.9 In culture, the optimal model had to encompass the ideological expectations of ‘socialist art’ while providing entertainment for the masses. This ideal was achievable in popular film. What is more, mass culture (that is, culture that attracted a large audience, regardless of the individuals’ education) has precisely these two characteristics: the archetypal stories used in these genres articulate relevant social messages that the masses can both 202

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The Paradox of Popularity understand and call their own. However, policy makers in charge of culture rather worried about any true social message or critique: auteur films, viewed by only a few, could couch them in intellectual discourses, but popular culture –​addressing the wider audience –​had the power to create social instability, and therefore required more control. Those few film-​makers who considered producing genre films, or even tried to create new genres, found themselves in a similarly controversial situation. Jenő Király uses the example of the ‘Eastern’, (the counterpart of the ‘Western’, that is, Western style films set in East European contexts) to show why the attempt to marry ideological expectations and mass appeal failed, but his conclusions can be applied more widely. Using the notion of the ‘double bind’, he explains that film-​makers did not want to confine themselves to the simplifying, mythmaking clichés of genre film, therefore they used elements of auteur films in their films: rather the dynamic action of genre films, they slowed action down, inserted procrastination into chase scenes and deployed complex networks of relations among characters. However, ‘auteur’ motives and the genre motives negated each other, resulting in works that can be interpreted and enjoyed neither as genre films nor as auteur films.10 The low attendance figures for ‘Easterns’ such as Talpuk alatt fütyül a szél (The wind blows under their feet, 1976) and Rosszemberek (Wrong-​doers, 1979) demonstrate their commercial failure.11

The Case of the Crime Movie While comedy was the most common of the popular genres after 1945 and science fiction and horror were totally absent, crime movies were a constant presence in the film industry. Though the crime genre had some tradition before the war, it never appeared as an important, fully-​fledged genre.12 During the era of cultural Stalinism, crime fiction elements came to play a very important role in the dominant genre of ‘production films’. These films, set in factories or other venues of industrial production, focused on productivity competitions between individual workers or brigades, and glorified Stakhanovites who increased productivity through (unrealistic) personal efforts.13 The ‘struggle for the final victory’ over the reactionaries took place in an industrial environment on ‘the front of labour’, with the progressive communists and the conservative reactionaries standing 203

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe on opposite sides. Crime motives play a significant role in these films but always with a strong political element. In order to stop progress, the reactionaries will resort to sabotage, explicit crime or downright murder, but they are –​as a matter of course –​always unmasked by the vigilant police of the socialist state. A striking example of mixing crime elements into production films is Félix Máriássy’s film Teljes gőzzel (Full steam ahead!). Made in 1951, its propagandistic production film plot revolves around increasing production in the transport industry, but the crimes committed are typically political ones, including sabotage and political murder. In the 1960s, the political spy story Fotó Haber (Haber’s photo shop, 1963) was still using crime in a similar way. Here, the criminal is a bourgeois reactionary who also has a history as an Arrow Cross (Hungarian Nazi) man in 1944. Significantly, this film, made at the start of the Hungarian ‘thaw’, does not associate political evil with the 1956 revolution –​an interesting example of the memory politics of the Kádár regime, which rendered the 1956 revolution unmentionable. The criminal, though politically compromised, in no way undermines the regime. Not only crime films but other genre films were turned into conveyers of state socialist ideological messages. The situation of popular film-​ making from the 1970s can be described thus: the purely generic aspect of popular art, formulating its social message within its special code system, was not accepted either by the cultural political leadership or by the film-​ makers. Cultural politics required more than pure entertainment: films were expected to convey some direct social message. The directors, too, preferred auteur films, and even when experimenting with generic films, they regularly included many auteur-​elements. Consequently, not only was popular film in a controversial situation in the 1970s and 1980s but the films themselves reflected internal tensions that were also apparent in the crime movies. This combination of direct political message and generic crime features often turned the films into parodies of themselves. The specific crime genre called ‘socialist crime movie’ is defined by the requirement of an unambiguous social message.14 As Mecseki explains, the premises were –​first, that crime did exist in state socialism but the criminal always came from abroad, and was either a capitalist agent or a 56’er defector, and –​second that private detectives did not exist in state socialism, therefore the task of fighting crime is fulfilled by a state organisation 204

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The Paradox of Popularity in an organised and collective manner. Conforming to these two criteria guaranteed a safe ideological message, but it also led to an important change in the genre: the crime itself became heavily politicised, and neither crime nor punishment ever gained any existential or metaphysical dimensions. Fighting crime became a collective action, with no room for an individual crime fighter. Thus, the socialist crime movie can be regarded as the crime movie’s parody.15 Sometimes film-​makers were aware of that and even made it explicit by making deliberate parodies, such as Emberrablás magyar módra (Kidnapping − Hungarian style, 1972), directed by Zoltán Várkonyi. Importing foreign models and then Hungarianising them was an even more successful model. The Italian Flatfoot (Piedone) police comedy series, with Bud Spencer starring as the pugilistic policeman whose heart is always with the underdog, was successfully adapted to Hungarian circumstances. Its Hungarianised version openly parodied the series in highly popular releases such as Gyula Mészáros’s Pogány Madonna (The pagan Madonna, 1980) and Sándor G. Szőnyi’s Csak semmi pánik (Don’t panic, please!, 1982). These Piedone-​inspired Hungarian films include spectacular fights and car chases in well-​known Hungarian locations such as Lake Balaton. The association between the original Piedone movies and their Hungarian paraphrase was made even more obvious by using István Bujtor, the actor who also had worked as the Hungarian voice of Bud Spencer. Here, too, criminals are always foreign agents or Hungarian émigrés with political motives. Even as late as the 1980, a Hungarian movie was released with the title Kojak Budapesten (Kojak in Budapest), referring to the US police television series Kojak, made between 1973 and 1980, which had also enjoyed popularity in Hungary. However, as András Réz explains in his essay on ‘imported heroes’, importation usually served the purpose of removing social critique. ‘The message of the mass film is society itself,’ he argues, ‘therefore the heroes of mass films have to integrate the proper social characteristics. If this does not happen, or if the hero represents the characteristics, values and priorities of another culture and community, the film may still remain entertaining, but it cannot fulfil its “socialising” function in the given society.’16 Would it be thus impossible to shoot a crime film in socialist Hungary that provides genuine social commentary? Can social space be present in 205

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe such films only as parody? Or is social space simply left out, as in the case of Az áldozat (The victim, 1979), which uses Hungarian heroes yet places them into a hermetically sealed space in which the plot revolves around a detective’s attempt at identifying the next likely victim? Similar obliteration of the social space can be found in Péter Fábry’s intellectual heist film Nyom nélkül (Without clues, 1981). There is, however, one film that demonstrates both that it is possible to combine crime with social commentary and that a talented director can produce excellent work even in such hostile circumstances. Ferenc András’s The vulture offers genuine social critique within the realist framework, and while exploring the social reality of the late 1970s through a critical lens, it also adheres to the rules of the genre.17 Obviously, a single film cannot change cultural trends or alter the controversial position in which Hungarian popular film found itself in the 1970s and 1980s. However, a thorough analysis of The vulture indicates the controversial position held by popular film itself. It shares the specificities of the ‘socialist crime movie’ –​that is, that the villain must also be politically stained –​but it also successfully places them within the structure of the crime genre. Unlike the crime movies with imported heroes, it inserts the generic codes into the sociological context of its time, and while using generic conventions manages to articulate a complex and relevant social meaning. So The vulture was a new –​and, regrettably, unique –​instance of a Hungarian popular film that shows the deficiencies and contradictions of the Hungarian popular film.

The vulture The plotline of the film is simple: József Simon, a university graduate engineer who is forced to make his living as a taxi driver in the Hungary of the late 1970s, has all of one day’s fares stolen by a well-​dressed elderly lady and her accomplice. Thwarted by the ineptitude of the police, he takes justice into his own hands and kidnaps the thief ’s daughter. The film’s generic character is immediately apparent: András Réz, a contemporary reviewer, was quick to locate it in the then-​almost-​forgotten genre of crime movies. His review began with a definition of the mass film: ‘The sender, the receiver and the message of the mass film  –​is society itself. The director of the mass film fills the strict generic framework with topical issues 206

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The Paradox of Popularity and moulds into it those social values and norms, prohibitions and preferences which are, there and then, characteristic of the consciousness of society.’18 Then he defines The vulture as fitting the description of the mass film:  ‘However, The vulture uncovers the crime, the crimen in its social, sociological aspect.’19 Before examining the film in terms of genre and social critique, we will explore the features typical of the ‘socialist crime film’ and also of the universal genre of crime movie. It is worth focusing the analysis on two important aspects that create the genre, namely on conflict and on character, while occasionally referring to the social context. The structure of the conflict in The vulture accurately charts the film’s spiritual path from ‘socialist crime movie’ to ‘classic crime movie’. The starting point is the simple theft of Simon the taxi driver’s fares. Disbelief and impotence on the part of the police turn the victim into a vigilante, who, while seeking revenge, begins to commit increasingly serious crimes. Planning extortion, he first steals the perpetrator’s pet dog, then kidnaps her daughter, then kills the dog and holds the daughter captive. The action then escalates to involve Simon’s semi-​legal assistants in a car chase. In a long final monologue, Simon passes judgment on the thief, the world, and finally himself. Reaching existential dimensions, his monologue concludes with a judgment on the limited social horizons open to Simon’s generation: for the first time in life, he has experienced the ability to carry out an action by himself. There is nothing ambivalent about the film’s moral stance: although Simon feels he has gained an individual moral victory over the thief and her accomplice, but taking revenge by kidnapping another person is unequivocally unacceptable. After exposing the criminal, avenging the crime and taking care of his family, Simon commits suicide. Thus the conflict ascends from a petty crime (theft of cash) characteristic of socialist crime movies to contemplation of the concept of sin formulated in an existential sense, that is, it achieves a complex and profound use of the crime movie genre. The film’s characters follow the same pattern as the structure of the conflict: the individuals’ roles occupy distinct positions on a scale extending from socialist crime movie to crime movie proper. The criminally minded elderly ladies and the police department investigators evoke most powerfully the politically inflected tradition of the socialist crime movie. The two déclassé gentlewomen reflect the value system of a passé world. Their 207

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe personal past is blemished by their emigration in 1956, and this blemish is loosely connected to their present thieving, which also finances their lavish lifestyle. Rich people, the film suggests, do exist in socialist Hungary but their financial well-​being stems from either a politically blemished past or a criminal present. Simon’s assistant –​an entrepreneur working in the grey economy –​is similarly guilty of using unlawful means to achieve affluence. His garage provides quick body work to transform stolen cars, and he offers money laundering and ‘legal’ solutions to conceal dodgy economic transactions. His actions are presented as normal everyday occurrences, with no moral or political condemnation. In contrast to the politically suspect thieves who returned from emigration after 1956, the mechanic brings to the story the contemporary semi-​underworld in which the transgressor is a normal, socially recognisable and realistically represented ‘white collar’ criminal. The investigators and the police in general fit the model of socialist crime movies. The police force is a faceless machine; the detective is non-​ individualised. The state organisation does not help the victimised hero; they question his honesty and are so cynical regarding his case that he is virtually force to make his own justice. Thus, the motivational logic which transforms the socialist crime movie into a crime movie is extremely important in the film: the passive protagonist-​victim is pushed to act as a private detective by the dysfunctional organisation of law enforcement. This sort of social criticism has a very strong political dimension, but it also has generic consequences. The film is enriched by sub-​genres that come from powerful international traditions largely absent from Hungarian films: the protagonist’s turn from victim into detective evokes film noir, and the car chase scene with the hero on the run weaves in thriller elements that are firmly supported by the visual background, which stylises Budapest into an exciting, vibrant big city. By relegating the collective of investigators (police) found in socialist crime movies to the background, Simon personalises and individualises his own role, enabling the unfolding of his individual drama. However, the hero retains his social embeddedness, and the film articulates its message in a very nuanced, sociological way. Setting the crime plot aside, the hero represents a character familiar from popular films of the 1970s and 1980s offering social commentary. These art house films first appeared in the slowed-​down, unproductive and 208

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The Paradox of Popularity disillusioned period after 1968: the heroes are unable to reach maturity because their limited and limiting society deprives them of the possibility of making material, spiritual or professional progress.20 These films report on a lost, neglected and cynical generation, accurately charting society’s existential malaise in the late Kádár era. The protagonist of The vulture fits precisely into the tradition of the so-​called social atmosphere films: a middle-​aged, divorced man in a financial crisis, an engineer with a university degree forced to earn his living as a taxi driver. At one point during his quest for revenge, the protagonist oversteps the boundaries of his own story and articulates a particular social truth that exposes the social injustice of his age. He reveals the true circumstances of his life to the spoiled, kidnapped girl (who is ignorant of her mother’s thieving), describing his limited financial means and his life’s equally limited other prospects. It is in this conversation that he sums up the philosophy behind his actions and explains his vendetta and also the inertia of his generation: ‘For the first time in my life I have gone through with something.’ This sentence and the setting in which he holds her captive –​a ramshackle cottage belonging to his father, which contrasts sharply with the captive’s mother’s elegant villa in the expensive suburb of Rose Hill –​drive the social message home. This double-​bind situation creates a social message which no other Hungarian popular film articulated in the 1970s and 1980s. Contrary to the cultural politics and auteur attitude of the age, The vulture clearly draws attention to the paradox of popularity in Hungary. It combines scathing social commentary about the nouveau-​riche and the limits of social horizons with an adherence to generic expectations, and in this sense, the film is a unique experiment, with no known continuation.

Conclusion The 1945 political turn meant the end of a fledgling tradition of crime film production in Hungary, while the demand for political propaganda also put an end to the thriving culture of other genre films. The decade of the 1960s did not favour the development of genre movies: it saw the split between politically compliant generic films on the one hand, and on the other the auteur film with more progressive artistic and more radical political messages. When it came to crime movies, the 1950s saw the 209

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe production of ‘production films’ with crime elements that were always taken from the realm of politics; and the 1960s crime movies also made anti-​communist politics the motivation of the crimes portrayed in them. Yet, no modern reworkings of this genre appeared. No films appeared that were comparable to the gangster movies of the French New Wave, such as À bout de souffle (Breathless, 1960) and Tirez sur le pianiste (Shoot the Pianist, 1960). The 1970s were ruled by auteur films. In the early 1980s, the dominant trends in cultural politics were more open to genres offering entertainment, thus making space for crime movies with imported heroes as well as for original genre movies. The latter films attempted to break free from the post-​1945 inheritance of propaganda films by suppressing social messages or criticism. The vulture (1982) represents an exception, as it uses the genre against a backdrop of the social reality of the 1980s. Its representation of society is less propagandistic than genre film in general, and it very consistently uses the generic elements of genre films, ranging from the narrative to elements of action movies. The inspiration for making The vulture is unknown, nor is it clear why its fascinating combination of crime and auteur motives was never reproduced. The mysteries surrounding its genesis and its lack of long-​term influence remain unsolved, but perhaps such mysteries fit the very genre The vulture represents.

Notes 1. The hegemony of auteur film-making can be accurately measured by the Hungarian Film Week programmes. Between 1965 and 1973 a pre-​selected group of six films competed with each other, which represented about a third of the annual output. Popular films were rarely shortlisted, and when they reached the shortlist, they were awarded the smaller prizes –​for camera work or acting. The marginalisation of popular films only changed at the twenty-​eighth Hungarian Film Week of 1997. The main prize was shared by an auteur and a popular film, thus making a statement about the prestige of popular films. See Gábor Gelencsér (ed), Harminc magyar filmszemle (1965–​1999) (Budapest, 1999), pp. 13–​74 and p. 197. 2. Bálint András Kovács, ‘A “szoft horror”. Populáris mítosz Magyarországon’, Filmvilág xxxii/​9 (1989), p. 29. 3. For details on the funding of the Hungarian film industry in the 1930s and early 1940s, see Zsuzsanna Varga’s article in this volume.

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The Paradox of Popularity 4. Gyöngyi Balogh and Jenő Király, “Csak egy nap a világ…”. A  magyar film műfaj-​és stílustörténete 1929–​1936 (Budapest, 2000). 5. Júlia Váradi and András Bálint Kovács, ‘A Meseautó esélye. Beszélgetés Király Jenővel’, Filmvilág xxxviii/​1 (1995), p. 47. 6. Zsolt Pápai and Balázs Varga, ‘Hollywoodon innen és túl. Bevezető a magyar műfaji film összeállításhoz’ Metropolis xiv/​1 (2010), p. 17. 7. Balázs Varga (ed), Hungarian Feature Films 1931–​1998 (Budapest: Magyar Filmintézet, 1999), pp. 560–​684. 8. Ibid. 9. Melinda Kalmár, ‘Az optimalizálás kísérlete. Reformmodell a kultúrában 1965–​ 1973’, in Rainer M. János (ed), “Hatvanas évek” Magyarországon (Budapest, 2004) pp. 166–​7. 10. Jenő Király (ed), Film és szórakozás (Budapest, 1981), pp. 155–​236. 11. From their release until 1987, The wind blows under their feet had 569,000 viewers and Wrong-​doers had a similar figure (559,000). Compare this to the number of viewers that the most popular film attracted: Mágnás Miksa (Mickey Magnate, 1949) was seen by 10 million people in the period 1948–​87, which is equal to the entire population of Hungary. See József Gombár (ed), A magyar filmek nézőszáma és forgalmazási adatai 1948–​1987 (Budapest, 1987) p. 88, p. 92, p. 114. 12. Gabriella Lakatos, ‘A magyar félbűnfilm. Bűnügyi műfajok 1931  és 1944 között’, Metropolis xvii/​2 (2013), pp. 50–​66. 13. John Cunningham, Hungarian Cinema from Coffee House to Multiplex (London, 2004), p. 216. 14. Ágnes Koltai, ‘A bűn története. Krimi magyar módra’, Filmvilág xxix/​10 (1986), pp. 10–​13. Anett Mecseki, ‘Egy eltűnt zsáner nyomában − A szocialista krimi’. Available on http://​magyar.film.hu/​filmtortenet/​mufajok/​egy-​eltunt-​zsaner-​ nyomaban-​a-​szocialista-​krimi-​mufajelemzes.html (accessed 22 November 2014). 15. For further details, see Petr Szczepanik’s article in this volume. 16. András Réz, ‘Importált hősök. Észrevételek a magyar szórakoztató film jelen állapotáról’, in Ferenc Dániel (ed), Kortársunk a film (Budapest, 1984), p. 264. 17. Unfortunately, no sources are available about the immediate political background of the film’s production or reception. 18. András Réz, ‘Neophron percnopterus. András Ferenc: Dögkeselyű‘, Filmkultúra xviii/​4 (1982), p. 60. 19. Ibid., p. 60. 20. Some art house films showing individual and social stasis are: BÚÉK (Happy new year!, 1978), Kis Valentino (Little Valentino, 1979), Verzió (Version, 1981).

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Part IV

Out of Socialism: Co-​habiting Models of Popular Cinema

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12 Popular Nostalgia On Alternative Modes of Popular Cinema in Post-1989 Czech Production Francesco Pitassio

Some 25 years have passed since the 1989 power transition called the Velvet Revolution; a time-​span during which Czech film production, distribution and consumption changed radically. Among the most relevant processes affecting the region were: Czechoslovakia’s split in two separate nations, each with its own audiovisual markets and laws; the abrupt transformation of a subsidised state industry into a private one; the shift from state-​control of film imports to a free market in which US film productions prevailed and many European products disappeared; radical shifts in the media scenario, including the emergence of private TV broadcasters, a significant drop in film attendance and the development of multiplexes. Despite all of these major changes, outside of the Czech Republic there has been very little research produced on them. Moreover, in what research has been produced, the focus is often on issues of authors and style, with related attempts to trace lineages connecting the golden era of the Czech and Slovak New Wave to the less highly regarded present time.1 An issue that is paramount to free-market audiovisual production appears to have been overlooked: the production, circulation and consumption of popular cinema. 215

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Rather than taking the term ‘popular cinema’ for granted as a self-​ evident notion and moving forward from there, I would like to propose some intertwined concepts as well. First, the notion of popular cinema should simultaneously encompass both its market and its anthropological values, as Dyer and Vincendeau have done when examining European popular cinema.2 They use this two-​fold approach to look at how successful a product is in terms of consumption, and in what ways it conveys traditional, pre-​technological forms of (folk) culture.3 Second, the notion of popular cinema that I rely on is not based exclusively on the close reading of films.4 Instead I argue that greater attention needs to be paid to circulation. John Fiske has reminded us that popular culture is not self-​sufficient, because instead of creating completed structures of meaning embedded in the text, dissemination and use are crucial determinants, as popular culture refers to and provokes meanings and pleasures that are ‘relevant to everyday life’. For this reason I would like to bring forward here the importance of the notion of ‘everyday life’,5 as represented in popular films. Third, I argue that the issues Toby Miller has raised when referring to popular cinema remain valid. Namely, the fact that the reflections on popular cinema might benefit greatly by including within their scope objects such as institutional policies and legal frameworks. Furthermore, the very notion of popular is transient, as it is coined under specific historical circumstances and by specific agencies, among which film criticism played and in part still holds a relevant role. Finally, opening the scope of research beyond authors and style enables a reading of individual films to connect in a rigorous and effective way to the society from which they emerge. Miller has criticised the lack of engagement within film studies on a number of fundamental points, including: ‘(i) A lack of relevance in the output of cinema studies to both popular cinema and the policy-​driven discussion of films; (ii) a lack of engagement with the sense-​making practices of criticism and research conducted outside the textualist and historical side of the humanities; (iii) a lack of engagement with social science.’6 Increasingly, film studies are connected to social science; nonetheless, much remains to be done in the examination of policies and sense-​making practices as means of creating Bourdieu’s ‘distinction’. By the term ‘distinction’, French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu referred to the strategies social 216

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Popular Nostalgia classes adopt to create aesthetic taste as a way to take advantage of their cultural capital and therefore aspire to social mobility, particularly when such capital is disjointed from economic capital.7 Individual products are qualified as distinctive by agents such as film criticism, praise for particular kinds of films, and institutions that finance film productions because of their acknowledged aesthetic, cultural and somehow political value. In consequence, such films, and related film-makers, are recognised as culturally palatable, and viewing and appreciating them creates a distinction, that is, increases the viewers’ cultural capital. Factors such as institutional policies and film criticism are influential in determining both highbrow and popular cinema production and consumption. I claim that contemporary Czech cinema offers two different kinds of popular cinema: traditional popular genres, such as farce, and production that is allegedly ethically and aesthetically engaged, the output of established auteurs.8 In this regard, the notion of popular culture coined by scholars in early cultural studies calls for revision. In point of fact, a political and critical value is attached to the notion of popular in the work of scholars such as Raymond Williams and John Fiske, both influenced by Marxism, through their peculiar reading of Italian intellectual Antonio Gramsci’s writings.9 Fiske singled out popular culture in 1989 as ‘made by various formations of subordinated or disempowered people out of resources, both discursive and material, that are provided by the social system that disempowers them.’10 Given the major shifts and changes in both social structures and media practices during the intervening decades, I suggest that the people producing popular culture be considered as encompassing a wider social scale than Fiske’s ‘subordinated or disempowered people’. Since social classes as conceived in traditional sociology seem not to find adequate reflection within contemporary society, and access to resources does not necessarily determine audiences’ consumption of popular culture, we should think of popular cinema as a product that is alternatively top-​down and bottom-​up, meeting a widespread demand, reflecting deeply rooted cultural motifs and circulating across a broad media platform. My focus here begins with film production in the mid-​1990s and extends into the first half of the 2000s’ first decade. This period, which was characterised by major international achievements such as an Academy Award for Kolja (Kolya, 1996), occasioned temporary, specific modes of production, 217

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe a particular media scene and contemporary alternative notions of popular cinema. My reasons for choosing this time-​span are related to major shifts in the framework defining film production and related activities in the Czech Republic. On the one hand, new laws were implemented after the collapse of the state-​financed film industry in the early 1990s, as happened in an analogous way in many former socialist bloc countries.11 Regarding Czechoslovakia and later the Czech Republic, I refer to laws 241/​1992 and 273/​1993. The first one established the terms of state support to the film industry, namely the Státní fond České republiky pro podporu a rozvoj české cinematografie (Czech Cinema Support and Development State Fund), a typically European institution fostering audiovisual production considered relevant to the national culture. The second law gave juridical consistency to the post-​1989 organisation of audiovisual production and aligned the national audiovisual market to that of the Western European countries, bringing forth private TV broadcasting and home video and having some major consequences for film exhibition.12 In 1993 the Český lev (Czech Lion)13 award was established, a national acknowledgement founded by film producer and director Petr Vachler and based on the template of the American Academy Award.14 On the other hand, the first decade of the twenty-​first century marked a period of turmoil for the film industry, as attempts to revitalise the now-​feeble state support policies failed and one of the major national producers, the Czech national broadcasting channel (Česká televize), reduced its involvement in film production. When compared to its regional counterparts, Czech cinema after the Velvet Revolution benefited from a unique situation: despite the dramatic drop in admissions from 1989 to the mid-​1990s, falling from above 50 million to fewer than 10 million per year,15 and despite the contemporary and constant increase in admittance prices, Czech audiences always showed their appreciation for national film production by consistently and massively attending the screenings of Czech films. In the years summarised below, the highest grossing films –​first on the Czechoslovak, and since 1993 on the Czech market only –​were all national productions: in 1991 Tankový prapor (The Tank Battalion), in 1992 Černí baroni (The black barons), in 1996 and 1997 Kolya, two years in a row, in 1999 Pelišky (Cosy Dens), in 2001 Tmavomodrý svět (A Dark Blue World), in 2003 Pupendo, in 2005 Román pro ženy (From Subway with Love), in 2006 Účastníci zájezdu 218

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Popular Nostalgia (Holiday makers), in 2007 Vratné lahve (Empties), in 2008 Bathory (Bathory: Countess of Blood), in 2009 Libáš jako Bůh (You kiss like a god), in 2010 Ženy v pokušení (Women in temptation), in 2011 Muži v naději (Men in hope), and in 2013 Babovřesky. These films were all Czech. Moreover, from 2000 to 2013 Czech cinema held a market share within its national borders that ranged between 20.5 per cent in 2000 and 39.7 per cent in 2008, the sole exception being a 10.1 percent share in 2002.16 Czech cinema benefits little from state financial support, is little-known beyond the national borders and does not do too well at international film festivals;17 nevertheless, the national audience appreciates it as part of a widespread appreciation for national culture. Eventually, this has produced a deadlocked situation, as characterised by film scholar Jan Bernard: ‘Since 1989 Czech cinema is in great part a valued product on a market that cannot afford it.’18 The reduced size of the Czech market does not provide enough revenue for the greater part of individual productions to recover their costs, despite the fact that the national product performs fairly well on the domestic market. Consequently, many companies have a precarious existence. Nonetheless, Czech cinema is a popular cinema indeed. I would like to add another reflection regarding this assertion: during the examined decade, the national TV broadcasting channel was the main film producer, as many observers have remarked,19 while also playing a relevant role in fostering a specific mode of popular cinema: an allegedly auteur production. Other agencies, namely film criticism and awards such as the Czech Lion, often sanctioned this strategy. What came into being in this specific period might be termed ‘popular art-​house production’, thanks to the Česká televize support, blending the search for a wide audience with the reference to established national aesthetic, political and moral values. Popular art-​house production conflates three main features: a narrative dominant in film representation through carefully conceived scripts; a reflection on national history from a worm’s-​eye view, as ordinary people experienced it in everyday life;20 a notion of auteur as a ‘humanist artist’ focused on humanity’s supreme values rather than on artistry or intellectual concerns. Accordingly, the director is less a personality developing his or her expression through a reflection on cinematic representation and its means, and rather is someone achieving artistic identity by portraying through clear narratives the fate of (mostly stereotypically masculine) 219

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Czech everymen. Among the products of such production values are the highest grossing films in the chosen period in the Czech Republic: Kolya, Cosy Dens, Musíme si pomáhat (Divided We Fall, 2000), Rebelové (Rebels, 2001), A Dark Blue World, Pupendo. As emerges from this list, those primarily responsible for this production are film director Jan Svěrák and his father, Zdeněk Svěrák, as both actor and scriptwriter; director Jan Hřebejk; and screenplay writer Petr Jarchovský.21 Česká televize co-​produced all the above-​mentioned films set in the historical past, and the Cinema Support and Development State Fund supported such films. Producers such as Jaroslav Kučera (for Česká televize) and Ondřej Halada (on the cinema end) played paramount roles. All these films place at their core masculine Czech John Does who are forced by the hardships of history to test themselves and their nation. A variation on this theme are the narratives in which a child or adolescent observes the contradictions of adulthood within historical processes, as in Obecná škola (The Elementary School, 1991) and Cosy Dens. These films promote a model of popular cinema based on the notion of ordinariness: everyday people confronting enormous historical events –​World War II, anti-​Semitism, Stalinism and Neostalinism –​by retreating into their own privacy and enduring. When considered from the perspective of film genre, all of these films display a blend of comedy and drama as the most viable option to convey tragic events through the lens of everyday life: an experience conceived of as human, permanent and before and beyond history. Furthermore, such narratives have two major advantages: they refer to a shared national experience and convey a pedagogy –​they teach how things were for ‘common people’.22 By moulding history into tragicomedy, they downsize knowledge into a viable product for both TV broadcast and international sales, as the involvement of British producers in both Kolya and A Dark Blue World illustrates. The conflation of the national past, humanism –​which has often been referred to as the typical Czech tolerance (laskavost) and is circulated abroad as ‘irony’–​and linear narrative create a popular product circulating beyond theatrical exhibition: most of the titles already mentioned were broadcasted and achieved significant success in terms of market share.23 Finally, this template resonates with past cinematic heritage: the least critical members of the Czech New Wave (for example, Jiří Menzel) became 220

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Popular Nostalgia renowned for their tragicomic look at history. Furthermore, tragicomedy removes contradictions, or at least looks at them through a benign lens; accordingly, it produces non-​divisive narratives. It is not accidental that all of the above-​mentioned films depict a wide spectrum of social and political behaviours and through the storytelling process bring them all together. A large number of these narratives are collective, that is, they are embodied by a large group of people as a way to cope with differences, and they depict an image of the nation as an organism that is enduring historical shifts.24 Here, history is brought back into a domestic and private arena: the house around which all the events revolve, down-​scaling major dramas to human feelings. It is not only a way to reduce world tragedies to laughable matters but also a way to avoid a confrontation with international film genres and preserve a national lineage which meets a popular demand. Rendering past experience is a way to maintain a cultural and cinematic heritage that is rooted in popular audiovisual consumption, as screenwriter Jarchovský explained in the mid-​1990s: After the experience with Bolshevism we cannot produce allegories on the now-​ruling early days of capitalism, with which two or three different generations of people are totally unfamiliar […] This is the reason why some more challenging films turn back to the past, which we, however, look at from a new perspective. Authors [of Czech films] would like […] to start over […] but paradoxically they refer to a situation that they know only in a mediated way. Accordingly, they take as reality (as a verified reality) genres such as, for instance, the American crime movie or action movie, and they just don’t care about how that reality is applicable here.25

A good example of this kind of production is Cosy Dens. Set between December 1967 and August 1968, that is, during the Prague Spring and its brutal ending at the hands of Polish, East German, Hungarian, Bulgarian and Soviet troops, the film tells the story of two families. The Kraus family is ruled by a former World War II aviator (Jiří Kodet), an embittered hero representing nostalgia for the democratic traditions of the interwar republic and opposition to the socialist state. The second family, the Šebeks, is more varied and warm, but the father (Miroslav Donutil) is a military officer who glorifies whenever possible the great achievements of socialism. 221

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe The nine months between Christmas and the Soviet invasion are seen from the vantage point of Michal Šebek (Michael Beran), an adolescent whose first, unlucky, love is Jindřiška Kraus (Krystýna Nováková), the girlfriend of his friend Elien (Ondřej Brousek). This latter is the well-​off son of parents who presumably have been favourably introduced to the Communist party hierarchy, as they are living in the USA and sending Elien gifts of Western goods, which provoke Jindřiška’s admiration and Michal’s envy. Elien has international friends in his dormitory, and he screens French and Hollywood movies for them. After Mr Kraus becomes a widower, he soon marries Michal’s aunt, a teacher at the school where her nephew, Jindřiška and Elien are pupils. Divided national identities, memories and experience –​ such as those belonging to committed Communists and dissidents, parents and children –​are thus reunited. On the night the wedding is celebrated, Soviet tanks enter Czechoslovakia and bring to an end both the Prague Spring and Michal’s hopes of love: the newlyweds and Jindřiška flee to the U.K. Conceived as a TV production, Cosy Dens is replete with references to late 1960s everyday life: popular songs, goods, objects, clothes punctuate the narrative. History is an ordinary matter and has little to do with the dramatic processes. The forced resignation of Stalinist President Antonín Novotný and the subsequent election of Ludvík Svoboda are reduced to a quick change of the portraits displayed in public buildings. The narrative space is scaled down to a few streets in Prague 5, where the story is set. The Soviet invasion is downsized to the acoustic vibrations that the invaders and their vehicles produce on the model aeroplanes Mr Kraus has constructed. Cosy Dens’ narrative sympathises with heart-​broken adolescents, makes fun of Michal’s father’s boasting glorification of socialist achievements and looks with compassion at Mr Kraus’s broken and outdated democratic hopes, all the while depicting from a distance the drama of the Soviet invasion. Cosy Dens epitomises tragicomedies representing the national past: these films offer a rendition of problematic past periods that is rooted in everyday, domestic experience conveyed by a linear, causal narrative. Such productions receive sanction through the award that the Česká Filmová a Televizní Akademie (Czech Film and Television Academy) bestows annually.26 They represent top-​down popular culture, as the Czech Lion award and institutional policies promote and support these products, 222

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Popular Nostalgia which nonetheless meet widespread demand. To summarise: state institutions support this kind of film on the basis that they mirror national cultural values, that is, crucial moments in national history and their intimate humanism; the national broadcasting channel co-​produces and later on broadcasts them; the media milieu bestows awards on them; and established critics praise them. However, even though all this seems to conjure up a high-​brow, well-designed institutional policy, the national audience enjoys and appreciates these products. Side by side with this ‘popular art-​house production’ is a traditional popular one, maintaining such national literary, theatre and film genres as the fairy tale and the farce. This trend includes popular comedies, such as Trhala fialky dynamitem (She picked up the violets with dynamite, 1992), Konec básníku v Čechách (The end of poets in Bohemia, 1993), Byl jednou jeden polda (There Once Was a Cop, 1995), or fairy tales such as Princezna ze mlejna (The Watermill Princess, 1994) and Jak si zasloužit princeznu (How to Deserve a Princess, 1995). These films often rely on professionals already active in the 1970s and 1980s, such as Vít Olmer, Jaroslav Soukup, Dušan Klein, or Zdeněk Troška.27 Frequently they are serial creations, with one film following another, based on the same simple plot, set, characters and title. If one of the characteristics of popular culture, as Fiske puts it,28 is not being self-​sufficient, these films fit perfectly into the notion. On the one hand, they often reference foreign film genres in order to imitate or make a parody of them, as in Byl jednou jeden polda, Byl jednou jeden polda II: Major Maisner opět zasahuje (There Once Was a Cop: Major Maisner Strikes Again, 1997) and Byl jednou jeden polda III: Major Maisner a tančící drak (There once was a cop: Major Maisner and the dancing dragon, 1999), which ape the Police Academy series. On the other hand, they create a serial universe whose components always refer to previous episodes. Most of these films exhibit a very loose narrative structure built around a succession of trivial gags and jokes: rather than a consistent and motivated narrative thread, traditional popular films line up scenes that are almost self-​contained. Finally, they show a grotesque universe, in the sense that Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin attributed to the notion; that is, revolving almost entirely around the body and sexuality29 and evoking an implausible corporeal world, engorged with secretions, sexual intercourse, masquerading and magic. The farcical universe ignores likelihood and 223

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe prefers supernatural solutions, inasmuch as they are needed to advance storytelling. However, the world of farces and fairy tales is no less self-​centred than the one exhibited in historical tragicomedies:  the same familiar places, faces, situations repeat, and so does a blatant repulsion exhibited towards foreigners and sexual difference.30 These products frequently figure among the ten highest grossing films and sometimes top the ranks.31 Established film criticism scorns such productions as lacking any feature that would qualify as film art. In the period from the mid-​1990s through the twenty-​ first century’s first five years, film critics awarded another prize together with the Czech Lion, the Plyšový lev (Plush Lion), which was bestowed on the worst Czech film of the year. For three years in a row, this ‘award’ went to a series of films directed by Zdeněk Troška:  Kameňák 1 (2003), Kameňák 2 (2004) and Kameňák 3 (2005).32 For his part, Troška was no less disdainful towards the established media elite, and he left the Czech Film and Television Academy in 2002, as he disagreed with the handling of the national film awards.33 Set in the imaginary South Bohemian village of Kameňákov, Troška’s series presents the comic adventures of Pepa, chief of the local police, his wife Vilma, and the village inhabitants. Although this latter group includes all social classes, the films depict a society whose members share the same experience:  an eternal present. The three films all start with an external view of Pepa’s house, a subtitle indicating a day of the week, or in the case of Kameňák 3 the more metaphorical ‘Everyday’, followed by a scene of sexual intercourse between Pepa and Vilma. The village seems to exist outside history; and yet there is nothing outside the village, as all the situations take place within its boundaries. Time does not affect its inhabitants, since at the end of the first film a magic fountain is found, providing those who benefit from it with extraordinary sexual energy. The few people who join the community in the subsequent films are marked as sexually and/​or ethnically ambiguous: a homosexual aristocratic and a group of Roma. Historical tragicomedies and popular farces could not look more different: the former being based on a clear narrative, renowned historical periods and psychologically motivated characters, and directed with an allegedly auteur; the latter composed of a series of gags set in a timeless place, with characters little more than rough sketches and a very simple 224

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Popular Nostalgia mise-​en-​scène. However, a number of features are shared, and in my opinion these constitute a deeper layer, defining Czech popular culture. First, the world revolves around the family or a community; both are internally varied and conflictual but coalesce when facing intrusion from without. This same structure is also maintained in other major box-​office successes, such as Holiday makers, in which a group of Czech people go on vacation to the Adriatic shore but never interact with anybody outside their group.34 The second shared feature is that the storytelling glorifies and pivots around the Czech man in his plebeian persona, whether it be Pepa in Kameňák or an apparently more refined version such as Oliver in From Subway with Love. Recently, scholars such as Mazierska, Kristensen and Näripea have discussed post-​communist cinema and culture as post-​ ­colonial, emerging from a past made up of Soviet dominion but also entering one of new, globalised interdependence.35 If we admit that post-​1989 Czech cinema is a post-​colonial one, not least because it emerged after 40 years of Soviet control, we might also draw some conclusions about the strategies it makes use of, in order to define its specificity against past and present external hegemonic powers. In fact, Czech cinema looks condescendingly at uncultivated colonisers, be they contemporary Americans as in From Subway with Love, or Russians in an earlier time, as in Cosy Dens and Kolya. Czech films exhibit a no less contemptuous regard for Czechs who emigrate abroad, as in Teddy Bear and Beauty in Trouble. These narratives project the Czech type as a white man who is natural and sexually powerful when confronted with decadent Westerners, and whose cultivation is made clear against the gross grain of imperialist nations. Third, both kinds of popular cinema tighten up social bonds by depicting unanimous communities enduring social or historical transformations. A paramount strategy to achieve what might be termed a ‘palatable past’ is nostalgia, as produced through goods. Works such as Cosy Dens or Rebels revolve around nostalgia for lost objects of the 1960s and depict the characters’ dreams of consumption. These same dreams –​sexual and economic –​lie at the core of successful comic teen-​pics such as Snowboard’áci (Snowboarders, 2004) or Raft’áci (Rafters, 2006), which update traditional farces. If popular culture has to do with people’s desires and meanings, then these films display objects of desire. 225

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Finally, when looking at the circulation of these films, it is indeed telling to discover their second life in TV broadcasting. Tragicomedies are part of a media diet prolonging TV serials of the Normalisation era, fairy-​tale films and farces. For instance, in 2000 Cosy Dens held the highest share (67 per cent!) when ČT1 (Česká televize 1) broadcasted it, but in the same year, Třicet případů Majora Zemana (Major Zeman’s thirty cases), a reprise of a popular serial of the 1970s, was also among the Top Ten shows.36 In 2001 Zdeněk Troška’s fairy tale The Watermill Princess II enjoyed similar success (66 percent), followed by a contemporary fairy-​tale serial.37 In 2002 Rebels was the second most popular broadcasted program, and The Watermill Princess and The Watermill Princess II were sixth and eighth respectively.38 Just a year later, ČT1 launched a new serial, Nemocnice na kraji města po dvaceti letech (Hospital at the end of the city after twenty years), a sequel to a very popular TV serial of the late 1970s/​early 1980s.39 What emerges from a look at national broadcasting in the selected period is its consistency with 1970s and 1980s popular culture. Coherence was produced through the persistence of specific genres, such as the farce and the fairytale, and the continuity in the careers of individual filmmakers, such as Zdeněk Troška or Zdeněk Svěrák. It was also achieved by repeating successful programs or films from the past, or by producing sequels fostering a related popular culture. Finally, this consistency was nurtured through a nostalgic look at the past, releasing the nation from past accountability and coping with guilt and suffering through narratives of reconciliation, such as those offered in Cosy Dens or Pupendo, or in analogous TV shows.40 This popular culture is conceived as proudly national, and it cuts across divides between high-​and low-​brow forms. By way of conclusion, I would first like to highlight the fact that in the chosen period both high-​and low-​brow films were successful in terms of attendance. However, they are also revealed to have become popular by perpetuating anthropologically meaningful cultural and consumption forms: an appreciation of plebeian characters; a reluctance to include anything not identified with the national experience, leading to open xenophobia in a number of occurrences; a focus on closely packed social groups that endure the external circumstances that affect them. Second, we might notice an attempt to detach national culture from previous experiences by fostering a self-​critical look at past media production: an attempt supported 226

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Popular Nostalgia through institutional policies (the Cinema Support and Development State Fund), realised through institutional agencies (Czech national television) and praised by established organisms, such as film criticism and national film awards. These agencies not only confer merit but also disavow traditional popular products, for example, through markers as the Plush Lion; they intend to nurture an updated and cultivated popular culture, as opposed to the trivial productions belonging to the Normalisation era or to private TV broadcasting, and namely in the period I am here focusing on.41 Nonetheless, if we evaluate popular media practices, both in film theatres and in TV broadcasting, the two kinds of popular culture reveal themselves to be close. Finally, if popular culture is tightly connected to everyday life, we should not disregard the fact that both kinds of popular product make reference to a previous culture which appears to be still very present in popular consumption, through TV shows, remakes, sequels and home video products. Moreover, both types of popular product hint at goods, habits and social formations that are embedded in the national experience. In one of the most hilarious scenes in Cosy Dens, Mr Šebek gifts the newlywed couple with a set of plastic spoons produced in the former German Democratic Republic. When presenting the gift, he explains: ‘These are no usual spoons!’ The groom, the bride and all the banqueters stir their coffee with the brand new spoons, which melt in the hot liquid. A plastic spoon is the central image on the film poster and on the DVD menu, and Mr Šebek’s punch line continues to resonate. They were definitely lousy, cheap, everyday objects –​and therein lies their enduring popularity.

Notes 1. An informative overview is in Peter Hames, ‘A business like any other: Czech cinema since the Velvet Revolution’, Kinokultura, Special issue iv (November 2006), pp. 1–​37. http://​www.kinokultura.com/​specials/​4/​hames.shtml (accessed 19 May 2015). 2. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, in R. Dyer and G. Vincendeau (eds), Popular European Cinemas (London and New York, 1992), pp. 1–​14. 3. I would favour a more nuanced notion of traditional culture. In Eastern European Socialism, traditional folk culture has been understood as something

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe related to a pre-​modern creation, rooted in rural areas and population; accordingly, the true identity of the ‘people’ coincided with an unspoiled state of being, preceding modernity. I would instead prefer to also incorporate modern, urban folklore into the notion of ‘traditional’ culture, in order to include everyday modern experience. 4. A reasonable plea for combining audience and textual studies is in Rosalind Brunt, ‘Engaging with the popular:  audiences for mass culture and what to say about them,’ in L. Grossberg, C. Nelson and P. A. Treichler (eds), Cultural Studies (London and New York, 1992), pp. 69–​76. 5. John Fiske, ‘Understanding popular culture’, in Reading the Popular (Winchester, 1989), p. 6. 6. Toby Miller, ‘Cinema studies doesn’t matter:  or, I  know what you did last semester’, in M. Tinkcom, A. Villarejo (eds), Keyframes: Popular Cinema and Cultural Studies (London and New York, 2001), p. 305. 7. See Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Cambridge, MA, 1984). 8. A recent detailed survey on Czech film production describes four typologies of film production: a) mainstream art house; b) peripheral art house; c) mainstream commercial; d) peripheral commercial. The two kinds of popular cinema I am dealing with might be identified with a) and d), whereas in the second typology the notion of peripheral refers to an almost exclusively national target. See Petr Szczepanik and Collective, Studie vývoje českého hraného filmového díla (Brno 2015). My deepest gratitude to Petr Szczepanik for sharing the report with me. 9. For an overview of the interweaving of politics and culture in this field of study, see Jim McGuigan, Cultural Populism (London and New York, 1992). For a discussion of Gramsci’s legacy in British cultural studies, see David Forgacs, ‘National-​popular: genealogy of a concept,’ in Formations of Nation and People (London, 1984), pp. 83–​98. 10. Fiske, ‘Understanding Popular Culture’, p. 2. 11. See Dina Iordanova, Cinema of the Other Europe: The Industry and Artistry of East Central European Film (London and New York, 2003). 12. For an account of the shift see Peter Hames, ‘The Czech and Slovak Republics: the Velvet Revolution and after,’ in C. Portuges and P. Hames (eds), Cinemas in Transition in Central and Eastern Europe after 1989 (Philadelphia, PA, 2013), pp. 40–​74. Unfortunately, the author mentions only English language sources. A first attempt at examining film distribution in the Czech Republic is in Helena Bendová and Tereza Dvořáková (eds), ‘Distribuce filmů v Ceské republice v posledních letech,’Cinepur xxi (2002), pp. 21–​31. A more encompassing survey is in Tereza Dvořáková (ed.), ‘Contemporary Czech cinema,’ Iluminace xix/​1 (2007).

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13.

14.

15. 16.

17.

A broader scope on the transition from a state-​driven to a market-​driven economy is in Vladimír Kroupa and Milan Šmid, ‘The limitations of a free market: Czech Republic,’ in Eureka Audiovisual (eds), The Development of the Audiovisual Landscape in Central Europe since 1989 (Luton, 1998), pp. 61–​110. The Czech Lion, a silver double-​tailed lion against a red backdrop, has been Bohemia’s coat of arms since the twelfth century, and metonymically came to represent Czech lands. Therefore, the award bestowed yearly on Czech film production is conceived as the purest symbol of national identity and pride. The reference to the Academy Awards is intentional, because the Czech award aims at creating an aura of fame and high quality similar to the one surrounding the Oscar. Furthermore, the Czech Lion’s awarding procedure and awards categories reflect those of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences. See: http://​www.filmovaakademie.cz/​ (accessed 19 May 2015). Commentators and artists involved have compared the Czech award to the American one. See for instance:  Mirka Spáčilová, ‘Český lev:  velká show v male kleci,’ MF Dnes, 3 March 2002, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​cesky-​lev-​velka-​ show- ​v-​male-​ k leci-​do3-​ /​ show_​lev.aspx?c=A020301_​172746_​f ilmvideo_​ ef (accessed 15 May 2015); Mirka Spáčilová, ‘Český lev sice zařval, ale koza opět přežila,’ MF Dnes, 3 March 2002, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​cesky-​lev-​sice-​ zarval-​ale-​koza-​opet-​prezila-​fkc-​/​show_​lev.aspx?c=A060116_​211923_​show_​ lev_​kot (accessed 15 May 2015); Mirka Spáčilová, ‘Jan Budař: Po Českém lvu jedině Oscary!’, MF Dnes, 27 January 2007, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​jan-​budar-​ po-​ceskem-​lvu-​jedine-​oscary-​dvx-​/​show_​lev.aspx?c=A070127_​673930_​filmvideo_​kot (accessed 19 May 2015). See the data provided by the Association of Film Distributors at http://​www. ufd.cz/​prehledy-​statistiky (accessed 19 May 2015). A survey for the years 2000–​2013 in http://​filmcenter.cz/​cz/​uzitecne-​informace/​ 19 (accessed 19 May 2015). The above mentioned Association of Film Distributors offers statistics also referring to the years 1998 and 1999. The National Film Archive offers a yearbook including thorough surveys. See Filmová ročenka 1992–​2007 (Prague, 1993–​2008). The figures for film exports of new EC members show that Czech production in the period 1996–​2012 is the most successful. However, these data include the Slovak market, which was the market originating more than 44 percent of Czech production EC revenues. See André Lange, ‘The production and circulation of films from the EU new member states (1996–​2012)’ (paper presented at the Audiovisual Summit ‘From MEDIA to CREATIVE EUROPE.The experiences of the MEDIA Programme in New Europe Countries. Challenges for the Future’ organised by the Media Desk Poland and the Polish Ministry of Culture, Warsaw, 10–​12 December 2013. http://​www.obs.coe.int/​en/​country/​ czechrepublic (accessed 19 December 2015).

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 18. Jan Bernard in ‘Jaký je český film po roce 1989?’, Film a doba, lii/​4 (Winter 2006), p. 212. 19. See Andrej Halada, Český film devadesátých let. Od Tankového praporu ke Koljovi (Prague, 1997). 20. See Peter Hames, ‘The ironies of history: the Czech experience,’ in A. Imre (ed.), East European Cinemas (London and New York, 2005), pp. 135–​49. 21. It should not go unnoticed that in the half of the first decade of the twenty-​first century both Hřebejk and Svěrák shifted this current to contemporary subjects, meeting with similar success, with films such as Horem pádem (Up and Down, 2004), Kráska v nesnázích (Beauty in Trouble, 2006), Empties, Medvídek (Teddy Bear, 2007), Nestyda (Shameless, 2008). 22. This pedagogical tendency was noticed from the inception, although in an exclusively appraising perspective. See Jan Lukeš, ‘Obecná škola –​Škola obce,’ Moveast 4 (1992); now in Id., Orgie střídmosti (Prague, 1993), pp. 73–​85. A more critical perspective on the gender and political implications of ordinariness is in Petra Hanáková, ‘The construction of normality:  the lineage of male figures in contemporary Czech cinema,’ in J.  van Leeuwen-​ Turnovcová and N.  Richter (eds), Mediale Welten in Tschechien nach 1989: Genderprojektionen und Codes des Plebejismus (München, 2005), pp. 149–​59. 23. The present survey did not take into account either home-​video releases or internet viewings. However, I believe inquiries into this area of the audiovisual market could lead to a more encompassing picture. 24. A reflection on history in the work of Svěrák and Hřebejk is in Jaromír Blažejovský, ‘Bitva o život,’ Film a doba xlvii/​4 (Winter 2001), pp. 179–​84. See also Luboš Ptáček, ‘Jejich pelechy a naše pelišky. O rodině a národní identitě,’ Cinepur 13 (May 1999), pp. 20–​3. 25. Petr Jarchovský, quoted in Stanislav Ulver, ‘Český film včera a dnes,’ Film a doba xli/​2 (Summer 1995), p. 58 and 60. 26. The award has been given to the following films set in a historical past: Šakalí léta (Big Beat) in 1993; Díky za každé nové ráno (Thanks for every new morning) in 1994; Kolya in 1996; Je třeba zabít Sekala (Sekal Has To Die) in 1998; United We Stand in 2000; A Dark Blue World was given the award for best direction in 2001; Obsluhoval jsem anglichého krála (I Served the King of England) in 2006; Protektor (Protector) in 2009; Ve stínu (In the Shadow) in 2012; Hořící keř (Burning Bush), directed by Polish-​born filmmaker Agnieszka Holland in 2013. 27. On Czech film comedy of the 1970s and 1980s see Petra Hanáková, ‘ “The films we are ashamed of ”: Czech crazy comedy of the 1970s and 1980s,’ in E. Näripea and A. Trossek (eds), Via Transversa: Lost Cinema of the Former Eastern Bloc (Tallin, 2008), pp. 109–​21. Also to be found at http://​www.eki.ee/​km/​place/​ pdf/​kp7_​08_​hanakova.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015).

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Popular Nostalgia 28. See Fiske, ‘Understanding Popular Culture’. 29. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and his World (Cambridge, MA, 1968). 30. A reflection on Czech popular cinema and gender and national diversity is to be found in Jan Čulík, Jací jsme. Česká společnost v hraném filmu devadesátých a nultých let (Brno, 2007). 31. This has been the case of the fairytale Princezna ze mlejna II (The Watermill Princess II) in 2000, and more recently of Babovřesky in 2013. Zdeněk Troška directed both films. 32. See ‘Plyšového lva má Troškův Kameňák,’ MF Dnes, 18 February 2004, http://​ kultura.idnes.cz/​ p lysoveho-​ l va-​ m a-​ t roskuv-​ k amenak-​ d q1-​ / ​ s how_​ l ev. aspx?c=A040218_​174915_​filmvideo_​jup (accessed 15 May 2015); Jitka Gráfová, ‘Nejhorším filmem roku je druhý Kameňák,’ MF Dnes, 24 February 2005, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​nejhorsim-​filmem-​roku-​je-​druhy-​kamenak-​dyf-​/​show_ lev.aspx?c=A050224_​170640_​tv_​film_​gra (accessed 15 May 2015); spa, ‘Pomeje: Díky za lva z plyše’, MF Dnes, 5 March 2004, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​pomeje-​diky-​ za-​lva-​z-​plyse-​09j-​/​show_​lev.aspx?c=2004M055O07E (accessed 15 May 2015); ČTK, ‘Tvůrce Kameňáku nadchl plyšový hattrick’, MF Dnes, 23 February 2006, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​tvurce-​kamenaku-​nadchl-​plysovy-​hattrick-​ffr-/​show_​lev. aspx?c=A060223_​174022_​show_​lev_​kot (accessed 15 May 2015). Recently, the series had an unsuccessful sequel: Kameňák 4 (2013). 33. See ČTK, ‘Troška vystoupil z filmové akademie,’ MF Dnes, 3 March 2002, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​troska-​vystoupil-​z-​filmove-​akademie-​dv0-​/​show_​lev. aspx?c=A020321_​143616_​filmvideo_​brt (accessed 15 May 2015). Troška also directed quite successful series as Slunce, seno, jahody (Sun, hay, strawberries, 1984), Slunce, seno, a párfacek (Sun, hay, and a pair of slaps, 1989), and Slunce, seno, erotica (Sun, hay, eroticism, 1991), and The Watermill Princess and The Watermill Princess II. 34. This attitude is mirrored in Czech cinema’s professional culture, whose members seem to ignore or dismiss foreign film production. See Petr Szczepanik and Collective, Studie vývoje českého hraného filmového díla, pp. 5–​6. 35. See Ewa Mazierska, Lars Kristensen and Eva Näripea, ‘Postcolonial theory and the Postcommunist World,’ in E. Mazierska, L. Kristensen and E. Näripea (eds), Postcolonial Approaches to Eastern European Cinema. Portraying Neighbours On-​Screen (London and New York, 2014), pp. 1–​39. 36. See http://​img.ceskatelevize.cz/​boss/​image/​contents/​sledovanost/​zebricky/​ 2000_​celkove/​50_​nejsled_​ct1_​2000.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015). 37. http://​img.ceskatelevize.cz/​boss/​image/​contents/​sledovanost/​zebricky/​2001_​ celkove/​nejsled_​2001.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015). 38. http://​img.ceskatelevize.cz/​boss/​image/​contents/​sledovanost/​zebricky/​2002_​ celkove/​50_​nejsled_​ct1_​2002.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015).

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 39. See http://​img.ceskatelevize.cz/​boss/​image/​contents/​sledovanost/​zebricky/​ 2003_​celkove/​50_​nejsled_​ct1_​2003.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015). 40. See Irena Carpentier Reifová, Kateřina Gillárová and Radim Hladík, ‘The way we applauded: how popular culture stimulates collective memory of the Socialist past in Czechoslovakia –​the case of the television serial Vyprávěj and its viewers,’ in A. Imre, T. Havens and K. Lustyik (eds), Popular Television in Eastern and Southern Europe (London and New York, 2012), pp. 199–​221. 41. This emerges quite clearly from the harsh discussions held in the forum of the daily newspaper MF Dnes, which I mainly scrutinised in the first decade of the twenty-first century. In such forum, Troška is repeatedly judged as an idiot, or addressed as ‘Comrade’, and his fans are characterised as passive viewers of the private TV channel Nova. See ‘Diskuse ke článku ‘Plyšového lva má Troškův Kameňák’, MF Dnes, http://​kultura.idnes.cz/​diskuse. aspx?iddiskuse=A040218_​174915_​filmvideo_​jup (accessed 21 May 2015). Babovřesky’s huge success prompted one contributor to say that the Czech nation deserves to experience genocide. See http://​www.csfd.cz/​film/​316428-​ babovresky/​(accessed 21 May 2015).

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13 The Power of Love Polish Post-communist Popular Cinema Elz˙bieta Ostrowska

In his discussion of the significance of the collapse of communism in Europe, Michael Kennedy writes: ‘It is a cliché. The world was dramatically transformed in 1989, much as it was in 1789 or 1848. Political and economic systems and everyday lives were radically changed. Transition typically names this epoch whose two mantras –​from plan to market and from dictatorship to democracy –​anchored a new liberal hegemony in the world and especially in Eastern Europe’.1 The mantra metaphor implies that the economic and political transition is not a process that can be rationally planned and executed. Indeed, these transformations have not proceeded as smoothly and predictably as expected. Slavoj Žižek comments on the utopian expectations of post-communist societies after 1989, ‘they wanted free-​market democracy while also retaining the previous social security provided by the planned economy of communism.’2 The socio-​ political reality of post-​1989 Poland, like that of any other country within the former Eastern Bloc, has been far removed from such a utopian vision. Hence, collective frustration, disappointment and a feeling of things being ‘inadequate’ rapidly followed the initial euphoria caused by the political turnover.3 Cultural production, including popular cinema, has responded to the conflicting forces acting upon post-communist society.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe The rapid post-​1989 growth of Polish popular cinema was due to two main factors: re-​organisation of the film industry to fit the rules of free-​ market economy and the emergence of a new type of film audience consisting of young middle-​class professionals and their unprecedented exposure to popular genres not practiced in communist Poland.4 Thus, the cultural and economic empowerment of genre cinema is itself part of a socio-​cultural transformation which occurred in Poland after the collapse of communism. Popular cinema in post-communist Poland has developed within various generic formulas employed by Western cinema(s). Observing its trajectory one can see a noticeable shift from the initial prevalence of ‘male genres’, such as gangster and crime drama, to a subsequent surge of ‘female genres’, such as melodrama and romantic comedy. This dynamic may be indicative of a gradual change in attitude towards the political changes of 1989. The evolving popularity of certain genres can be seen as parallel to the emotional processes of denial, anger and acceptance with which Polish society has responded to the trauma of the past. With its nostalgic return to the literary canon of a distant past, vernacular heritage cinema creates an arch over the communist period which consigns it to oblivion. The gangster and crime films that rapidly erupted after the 1989 political turnover express anger towards both communism and postcommunism. Władysław Pasikowski’s Psy (Pigs, 1992) and its generic followers conveyed doubt, bitterness and fear as to whether it would ever be possible to fight the evil engendered by the previous era. Finally, the cinematic forms of melodrama and romantic comedy expressed acceptance of the past. Melodrama released repressed past suffering and made it into an object of grief. Romantic comedy offered the utopian projection of a ‘happy life’, embracing a more conciliatory orientation toward the past and a less accusatory attitude to the present. For discussing popular cinema’s significance in post-communist Poland, Richard Dyer’s elaboration of the inherent utopianism of entertainment provides a useful framework. He notes: ‘Entertainment offers the image of “something better” to escape into, or something we want deeply that our day-​to-​day lives don’t provide’.5 To produce this utopian ‘something better’, cinema uses non-​representational codes. As Dyer argues, entertainment cinema presents ‘what utopia would feel like rather than how it would be organised.’6 With its emphasis on the affective rather than representational 234

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The Power of Love aspects of popular utopias, it is possible to look at vernacular popular cinema not only as an escapist retreat from ‘everyday life’ but also as a social and emotional mechanism enabling the audience to cope with the regimen of newly emerging neoliberal reality. According to Dyer the utopian sensibility of popular entertainment comprises two qualities, those of intensity and transparency, hence its capacity to address complex and ambiguous feelings in a straightforward and direct manner. In the following analysis, I will focus on popular films’ utopianism as a cultural response to frictions and tensions permeating post-communist socio-​political reality. Specifically, I will examine selected examples of heritage cinema, melodramas and romantic comedies, the genres that are preoccupied with the issue of love in its romantic, patriotic and religious variants, to argue that they do not provide a means to escape reality but rather to negotiate its conflicting forces and values.

Heritage cinema:​the (un)certainties of the past Although Polish heritage cinema dates back to the communist period, or even pre-​war times for that matter, it has genuinely flourished since 1989.7 Mostly consisting of adaptations of Polish literary classics, whose action takes place in a relatively distant past, they feature protagonists who are preoccupied by matters such as love, honour and patriotism. Among the most significant examples of this sub-​genre are: Pan Tadeusz (Pan Tadeusz: the Last Foray in Lithuania, 1999), Ogniem i mieczem (With Fire and Sword, 1999), Quo Vadis (2001), Przedwiośnie (The spring to come, 2001), Zemsta (Revenge, 2002) and Śluby Panieńskie (Maiden Vows, 2010). All of these films enjoyed box-​office success; however, as many critics have bitterly pointed out, this was greatly due to school trips organised to attend screenings. Ewa Mazierska considers this trend within post-​1989 Polish cinema as part of a ‘nostalgia business’ manufactured to ‘facilitate[s]‌and strengthen[s] nationalism, namely Catholicism, patriarchy, sexism, and elitism.’8 Indeed, the narratives of these films may well warrant such conclusions, however, as Dyer claims, in entertainment, it is not the represented object that matters but its mode of representation, specifically certain narrative devices, mise-​en-​scène and cinematography that work together to create a positive emotions toward a fictional reality. If one adopts this perspective to examine 235

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe vernacular variants of heritage cinema, the tension between conservative narratives and formal devices becomes clearly visible. This strain may evoke certain conflicting aspects of Polish identity as it has been evolving during the period of political transition. For this multifaceted transformation, Michael Kennedy proposes a broad category of transition culture that relates to a chain of interrelated changes between plan and market, East and West, past and future, nationalism and globalism, unfreedom and freedom, dependency and responsibility, ideology and reason.9 Polish society, as any other in post-communist Eastern Europe, had to redefine its identity with respect to all of these factors. Unlike communist heritage cinema, its post-communist variant often employs self-​reflexivity, albeit very subtly and well integrated in the films’ diegesis. Thus, it offers a nostalgic return to the historical past while tacitly recognising its utopianism. Frequently used flashbacks highlight the narrative re-​enactment of the past. In Pan Tadeusz, mise-​en-​scène, especially the colour palette, encodes the past as a non-​existent utopia. The present of the narrative frame is dominated by cold bluish hues, whereas the idealised past emerges in warm golden yellows and oranges. The past ‘feels’ invitingly warm, whereas the present is alien and ‘cold’.10 The narrative structure identifies the former as part of a nostalgic memory, whereas the latter appears to belong within empirical reality. To validate a transfer from the present to the past, these films frequently use the figure of a wanderer visiting sites of (collective) memory. Thus, a temporal distance is translated into a spatial one. Predominantly the past is presented as a realm that can be nostalgically re-​visited but not inhabited. Although nostalgia has traditionally been interpreted as a regressive social force, recently it has been recognised as a sign of either discontent with actual political realities or a search for continuity in the ruptured historical process.11 The stories told in Polish heritage films indirectly address the historical rupture. They follow a traditional pattern of order first disrupted and then restored, in which the latter is confirmed by the positive resolution of heterosexual romance. However, each of these films utilises a disruptive formal device which makes the ‘happy ending’ ambiguous. In Pan Tadeusz, the final dance provides only a brief narrative resolution, which then metamorphoses into a self-​contained visual spectacle developing outside of chronological as well as historical time. Thus, this dance, a symbolic paean 236

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The Power of Love to national unity, leaves the domain of historical time to become a timeless evocation of national myth, of utopia. In the ending of With Fire and Sword, the Polish hero Skrzetuski (Michał Żebrowski) reunites with his beloved Helena (Izabella Scorupco), yet the politics of gaze employed in the scene disrupts this newly emerging unity. The male protagonist looks upon Helena, whereas she gazes towards their Ukrainian antagonist, Bohun (Aleksandr Domogarov). This triangular gaze structure disrupts the solidity of heterosexual and national union.12 Finally, in Revenge, happy ending is only mentioned. There is a notable absence of either a wedding or engagement ceremony, conventional symbols of national unity. In conclusion, the narrative content of Polish heritage cinema, specifically the positive resolution of heterosexual romance that also provides a story closure, speaks for a possibility of social integration, whereas its mode of representation implies its utopianism. This tension conveys uncertainty that is typical of transition culture as elaborated by Kennedy.13 The fracture between the narrative and the visual may produce a conflicting structure of feeling in audiences, who have experienced analogous contradictory sentiments regarding the collapse of communism and the complex transformation that followed.

Melodrama: Historical Trauma as an Affect Although very popular in pre-​war Polish cinema, melodrama was virtually absent during the communist period. Therefore, its surge after 1989 is of particular importance. Interestingly, melodramatic imagination has found its way not only into the realm of popular cinema but also into art cinema and genres which traditionally privilege realistic modes of representation, such as historical dramas. The most remarkable examples of post-​1989 melodramas are: Mała Moskwa (Little Moscow, 2008) and Różyczka (Little Rose, 2010). Both films feature an unhappy romance for which the defunct communist system is manifestly responsible. The same thematic motif of tragic love is employed by Wojciech Smarzowski in Róża (Rose, 2011), a highly acclaimed art-​house historical drama that concocts naturalism and melodramatic excess. Finally, historical dramas which revisit the traumas of the communist oppression frequently use a combination of melodramatic generic formulas and techniques of mainstream 237

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe ‘invisible’ realism (for example, Katyń (2007); Generał Nil (General Nil, 2009); Popiełuszko. Wolność jest w nas (Popieluszko. Freedom is within us, 2009). Notwithstanding generic and aesthetic differences between these films, they all put the communist past on ‘moral trial’ in order to make the difference between good and evil visible and the two clearly distinct. They offer utopian worlds of moral potency and transparency. Emphasis on moral issues is one of the most important characteristics of melodrama. In his seminal book, Peter Brooks argues that the mode emerged after the French Revolution in response to ‘a world where the traditional imperatives of truth and ethics have been violently thrown into question, yet where the promulgation of truth and ethics, their instauration as a way of life is of immediate, daily, political concern’.14 The collapse of communism, even if occurring in a non-​violent fashion, marked another moment of rupture in history, and as such it separated both individuals and collectives from previous times. Thus, during the years that followed, a desire to revisit and judge the past arose. Certainly, the call for a clear and transparent ethical system could not be immediately answered by means of legal action and regulation. Law was also undergoing transformation. Melodrama has proved useful to address certain consequences of these changes. As ‘an intense emotional and ethical drama based on the manichaeistic struggle between good and evil’15 it has responded to the rapid and often inexplicable changes of erstwhile social hierarchies and systems of value. Furthermore, with its generic unhappy ending, which always comprises a separation, melodrama has proved capable of containing the socio-​political rift of the 1989 change. It provided a textual space for the viewers to channel their actual emotions as experienced during the time of transition. Melodramatic affect was helpful in working through traumas of communism and its aftermath. The intensity of melodramatic affect in Polish post-communist films revisiting the communist past originates from both the narrative content and specific artistic strategies.16 For example, Little Moscow employs flashback narrative structure and, thus, the past is presented as a subjective memory rather than as an objective historical ‘grand narrative’, as it frequently occurs in standard historical dramas. The film tells the story of a tragic romance between a Polish soldier, Michał (Lesław Żurek), and a Russian woman, Wiera (Svetlana Khodchenkova). Its action takes place in 238

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The Power of Love the 1960s, in the town of Legnica, where the Soviet troops had their headquarters during the Cold War period. The flashbacks suspend the linear chronology of historical time and replace it with an affective chronology of ‘forbidden love’ ending with the Russian woman’s suicide. Importantly, these flashbacks are the memories of her cuckolded Russian husband, who returns after years to Legnica to revisit the past in order to come to terms with it. This time he goes there not as an oppressor but as a man whose wife fell in love with another. He is as much a victim as are his late wife, her lover and her daughter, who is unable to come to terms with her mother’s betrayal. The narrative of Little Moscow leaves no doubt that the totalitarian system was a pure incarnation of evil which acted as an oppressive force upon innocent individuals. The family story lends itself to being perceived as an affective metaphor of totalitarian oppression. Finally, it offers a utopian vision of possible reconciliation between the past and the present as well as between oppressed and oppressor. In a similar vein, Kidawa-​Błoński’s Little Rose reworks the Manichean structure of melodramatic feeling. The action of the film takes place in the late 1960s, shortly before the 1968 anti-​Semitic campaign that forced many Polish Jews to leave the country. It tells the story of a young communist secret service agent, Roman Rożek (Robert Więckiewicz), who asks his lover, Kamila Sakowicz (Magdalena Boczarska), to spy on a famous dissident writer, Adam Warczewski (Andrzej Seweryn). To please her boyfriend, she agrees to this; however, ultimately, she falls in love with and marries the writer. She does not break up with her former lover though. So, when she becomes pregnant it is uncertain who the father is. After all, the child will never know its father, for the writer commits suicide, and the erstwhile victimiser and ruthless secret service agent, Roman, is revealed as a Jew and expelled from Poland, becoming the victim of a communist upsurge of anti-​semitism. On the one hand, this narrative device of transforming an antagonist into a victim of political persecution exemplifies the emblematic melodramatic motif of disguised identity;17 on the other hand, it complicates the initial relationship between good and evil. In the end, it transpires, as in Little Moscow, that all the protagonists are victims and all of them suffer. Instead of the utopian happy ending typical of heritage cinema, the post-communist melodrama offers a utopian à rebours vision of all members of Polish society, or people living in communism, being 239

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe equally victimised by the system and thus deserving an all-​encompassing sympathy. Suffering is a commonly recognised component of melodrama. In his reconsideration of the genre, Augustín Zarzosa indicates that whereas in Brooks’s reading, ‘suffering becomes a means  –​a mechanism  –​to prove the existence of virtue and evil’, he thinks that ‘the duo of virtue and evil is simply one of the mechanisms through which melodrama redistributes the visibility of suffering. […] Melodrama shifts the sense of virtue and evil in order to determine whose suffering is rendered visible or legitimate and whose is rendered invisible or abstract.’18 Thus, visibility of suffering serves the purpose of moral judgement and simultaneously is a source of melodramatic affect. In Polish post-communist melodrama, the motif of suffering is ultimately employed to present a utopian vision of the communist past as being morally direct and transparent, as opposed to the moral uncertainty experienced by the viewers in their real life. Zarzosa’s notion of suffering as a central concern of melodrama is useful for a critical approach to the most popular post-​1989 historical dramas, such as Katyń and Popieluszko. The first tells the story of the murder of Polish officers by the Soviets in 1940, an event that was not officially revealed until the collapse of communism. The second film is a biopic of Jerzy Popiełuszko, a Catholic priest who supported the Solidarity movement and was murdered in 1985 by communist secret service agents.19 Both films expose the suffering that was first engendered and subsequently hidden by the communist system. Likewise, both films employ highly expressive visual and narrative devices both to render the suffering visible and to provide it with an intense affective power. The opening scene in Wajda’s Katyń effectively establishes its melodramatic mode. Two groups of Polish escapees run from opposite directions and meet on a bridge over a river which marks the border between the German and the Soviet occupation of Polish lands. The people are trapped between two deadly and evil powers from which there is no escape. However, a woman and her daughter try to make their way to the other side of the bridge in order to find their husband and father. When they reach the Polish soldiers camp, they see a body covered with a military coat prostrate upon the ground. Soon they learn that this is a profaned figure of the crucified Christ, which a Polish soldier has respectfully covered with 240

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The Power of Love his coat. Finally, the woman finds her husband and the family is temporarily reunited. However, the man refuses to return home, and the scene ends with the daughter’s farewell cry to her daddy. The bridge featured at the film’s opening symbolises the entrapment of the Polish people during World War II , whereas the crucified Christ connotes their suffering. The setting and the prop establish an excessively symbolic mise-​en-​scène, typical of melodrama, which is employed throughout the film, aside from its ending. The closing scene, which depicts the execution of the Polish officers, utilises a contrastingly minimalist, documentary-​like style. This striking aesthetic divergence from the visual excess used throughout the film to the stylistic minimalism of its narrative ending emphasises both the suffering and its affective power. Ultimately, the use of documentary-​like aesthetics heightens the melodramatic effect. Expressive style and emotionally charged narrative are typical devices in post-​1989 historical dramas. Hence, critics often disapprovingly state that these films transform history into melodrama.20 However, from the perspective of recent historiography, such critical judgements are rather questionable. As Hayden White notes in his seminal book The Content of the Form:  Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation, historical discourse is ‘far from being a neutral medium for the representation of historical events and processes, is the very stuff of a “mythical” view of reality […] which, when used to represent real events, endows them with illusory coherence and charges them with the kind of meanings more characteristic of oneiric than of waking thought’.21 Following White’s argument, Alun Munslow claims that history itself is ‘a category of expression (varieties of narrative representation).’22 Therefore, history cannot be transformed into a mode of representation as it is itself an expressive representation. Yuejin Wang specifically examines the way in which history and melodrama are created to mirror each other: ‘History is shortchanged, displaced and replaced with the knowability of a melodramatic mode, which is a controlling metaphor and a malleable mode of historical understanding.’23 Thus, it is not cinema that transforms (or, as some would have it, degrades) history through melodrama, it is history itself that emerges from various public discourses as a mode of representation. Munslow concludes that ‘the textual historical representation is as much invented, directed and produced as any film.’24 Thus, history itself is 241

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe an expressive recounting of the past which transmits not only knowledge but also a certain structure of feeling. Approaching post-​1989 historical dramas from the perspective of contemporary historiography, one can argue that these films do not employ melodramatic modes of representation; rather, they reproduce to a certain extent that which already exists in popular historical discourse. In an effort to resist official historical narratives, vernacular popular discourses developed by Polish society, during both communist and post-communist periods, have been predominantly commemorating the past by staging sites of memory (such as, for example, little shrines or crosses made out of candles). With their excessive visual mode of representation, these popular historical discourses have always mobilised melodramatic structures of feeling. Polish post-​1989 historical (melo)dramas have incorporated into public historical discourse those affects and emotions that have long belonged to the realm of popular collective memory.

Romantic Comedy: Modernity Domesticated The genre of romantic comedy is not as alien to Polish popular cinema as is melodrama, for there are many films made prior to 1989 that can be considered its antecedents. Communist romantic comedies represent the group of genres that Thomas Schatz identifies as intended to forward the aim of ‘social integration’.25 As such, they usefully contributed to the utopian project of the ‘brave new world’ of communism. Post-​1989 romantic comedy also worked towards the aim of ‘social integration’, as is signified by the various positive romantic resolutions that take place between representatives of different social, and sometimes even ethnic or national, milieus. In turn, this social integration helped to heal the rupture caused by the collapse of communism. Vernacular romantic comedy directly addresses the utopian expectations of post-communist societies to ‘have it all’, as noted by Žižek, that is, to retain all the benefits of the past yet to simultaneously embrace the advantages of the new system. The genre is particularly suited to the production of such utopian paradises within the new post-communist reality as it often operates within the cinematic codes of conventional realism and locates its action in contemporary settings, producing a cinematic trompe l’oeil effect. In 242

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The Power of Love this utopian reality, the past has its place in the present and therefore promises a safe future. Juliusz Machulski’s film Ile waży koń trojański? (How much does the Trojan horse weigh?, 2008) exemplifies this attempt to harmoniously incorporate the communist past into the post-communist present. Its female protagonist, who lives happily with her second husband and her daughter from her first marriage, magically returns to communist times and her chauvinist, nouveau riche first hubby on the day of her fortieth birthday. She is terrified and disgusted by this unexpected return to the past. Nevertheless, she uses this opportunity to spend some time with her beloved late granny in her tastefully decorated old apartment in historic downtown Warsaw. Not only this, but she also manages to prevent her granny’s tragic death and finally resurrects her in the present. The happy ending in Machulski’s film reunites the heroine with her husband, daughter and granny. Moreover, they all move to a newly purchased apartment in the old part of the city. Due to its spatio-​temporal politic, the film offers a somewhat selective approach to the communist past. It cherishes some parts of it, such as the heroine’s childhood with her beloved granny, whilst attempting to erase other aspects, such as her first husband, who was an icon of communist cultural degradation. The old, yet modernised, apartment is a spatial metaphor of the past co-​existing with the present, whereas its moderate size secures a comfortable but less than luxurious living space. Thus, it offers a harmonious union between Western consumerism and the Polish cultural tradition that survived the times of communism. Most of the Polish post-​1989 romantic comedies feature utopian spaces where tradition meets with modernity. For example, the heroine of Ryszard Zatorski’s popular film, Nigdy w życiu (Never in my life!, 2004) and its sequel Ja wam pokażę! (I’ll Show You!, 2006) builds a country house far away from bustling civilisation, a process which marks the beginning of her new and happy life. In U Pana Boga za piecem (In heaven as it is on earth, 1998), Western technology neatly fits with Eastern spirituality, as is demonstrated by the local priest, who uses his pager to remind his parishioners to pray. In Nie kłam kochanie (Darling, don’t lie, 2008), the heroine, a student of landscaping, proves capable of bringing together nature and civilisation, which ultimately establishes the possibility that Western modernity and Polish tradition can coexist. In all Polish post-​1989 romantic 243

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe comedies, codes of conventional realism and ‘invisible’ style produce utopian realities of post-​transitional fulfilment. The unprecedented popularity of romantic comedy is significant for several reasons. First of all, as romantic comedy is commonly considered the most conservative of genres,26 its currency proves vernacular cinema’s complicity with neo-​liberal capitalism as it operates in post-communist Poland. However, as a ‘female genre’ to be consumed by a female audience, romantic comedy demonstrates the economic empowerment of female subjective agency. Finally, as a form of popular entertainment, it realises the most complete utopian vision of life in the post-communist era. In these films, Poland is a place where it is possible to reconcile the past with the present, the vernacular with the foreign, the universal with the local, the modern with the traditional, and where all class, gender and ethnic conflicts can be resolved. To make these utopian realities plausible and difficult to dismiss as non-​existent cinematic ‘paradises’, Polish romantic comedies, like their Western counterparts, feature moments of loss and mourning. As a result, the cinematic utopias of romantic comedies become perfect simulacra of life in post-communist Poland.

Conclusion Popular cinema is usually criticised for its escapism and innate complicity with dominant ideology. Certainly, one can reasonably accuse Polish post-​1989 popular cinema of both on occasion. However, such a dismissal can be called into question by conceptualising an active viewer who is capable of both decoding and deconstructing the ideological message of these films. Nevertheless, in my opinion, the binary opposition between passive and active spectatorship does not sufficiently explain the cultural work of popular cinema. To explore it, I find Žižek’s reconceptualisation of Marxist critiques of commodity fetishism useful. He claims that Marx offers not only an economic critique of capitalism but also a succinct analysis of its ideology. Following the German philosopher and utilising some concepts of Lacanian psychoanalysis, Žižek comments on the exteriority of beliefs: ‘the most intimate beliefs, even the most intimate emotions such as compassion, crying, sorrow, laughter, can be transferred, delegated to others without losing their sincerity.’27 This transfer is not only between 244

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The Power of Love subjects but it also occurs between objects, argues Žižek, and he concludes, ‘the things themselves believe for them’ (original emphasis).28 I contend that Polish post-communist popular cinema provides an affective response to traumatic political change on behalf of a viewer who is preoccupied with the material activities necessary to adjust to ever-​changing socio-​economic reality. Heritage cinema nostalgically longs for the glorious past, melodrama cries over all past loses and, finally, romantic comedies extol the reconciliatory nature of post-communist society.

Notes 1. Michael D. Kennedy, Cultural Formations of Postcommunism. Emancipation, Transition, Nation, and War (Minneapolis-London, 2002), p. 1. 2. Slavoj Žižek, Living in the End Times (London-New York, 2011), p. xvii. In a similar vein, David Williams points out contradictory sentiments towards both the communist past and the democratic capitalist present. He considers the motif of ruins permeating post-communist cultural imagery as conveying ‘a critique of both the (communist–​socialist) past and (democratic–​capitalist) present’ (David Williams, Writing Postcommunism. Towards a Literature of the East European Ruins (Basingstoke, 2013), p. 14). For more detailed discussion on the issue of postcommunism see: Richard Sakwa, Postcommunism (Buckingham, 1999); Amy Linch and Jan Kubik (eds), Post-​communism from Within: Social Justice, Mobilization, and Hegemony (New York, 2013). 3. Ewa Mazierska begins her book on Polish post-communist cinema with a description of these unfulfilled hopes: ‘The transition from state socialism to liberal democracy that took place in Poland in 1989 raised many expectations about both the material and the cultural side of the lives of its citizens or, to use Marxist terminology, basis and superstructure. Everything was supposed to improve: food, cars, jobs, as well as books and films, and people themselves. How could things be worse? After all, by the 1980s communism was universally believed to be an economically ineffective and culturally toxic regime that failed to fulfil even the basic material needs of its citizens and thwarted their creativity. The Solidarity revolution promised to change this. However, after several years, the initial optimism evaporated. For a large proportion of Poles, especially those who lost their jobs as a result of the restructuring of the economy, not only were these expectations not fulfilled, but the whole change was for worse.’ (Ewa Mazierska, Polish Postcommunist Cinema. From Pavement Level (Oxford, 2007), p. 11). 4. For analyses of changes in Polish film industry and the rapid development of popular cinema see, for example:  Marek Haltof, Polish National Cinema

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe (New York and Oxford, 2002), pp. 243–​58; Mazierska, Polish Postcommunist Cinema, pp. 25–​40. 5. Richard Dyer, ‘Entertainment and Utopia’, in T. Corrigan et al. (eds), Critical Visions in Film Theory. Classic and Contemporary Readings (Boston and New York, 2011), p. 468. 6. Ibid. 7. See:  Marek Haltof, ‘Adapting the National Literary Canon:  Polish Heritage Cinema’, Canadian Review of Comparative Literature, xxxiv/​3 (2007), pp. 298–​306. 8. Mazierska, Polish Postcommunist Cinema, p. 89. 9. Kennedy, Cultural Formations, p. 186. 10. This visual strategy is similar to a certain tendency in post-communist Czech cinema as examined by Petra Hanáková. See: Petra Hanáková, ‘Imagining National Identity in Czech Postcommunist Cinema’, in P. Hanáková and K. Johnson (eds), Visegrad Cinema: Points of Contact from the New Wave to the Present (Prague, 2010), pp. 160–7. 11. Timothy Barney, ‘When We Was Red: Good Bye Lenin! and Nostalgia for the “Everyday GDR” ’, Communication and Critical/​Cultural Studies vi/​2 (2009), p. 133. 12. Elzbieta Ostrowska, ‘Desiring the Other: The Ambivalent Polish Self in Novel and Film’, Slavic Review lxx/​3 (2011), pp. 503–​23. 13. Tadeusz Lubelski identifies Pan Tadeusz as a communal ritual whose ‘goal is to recognise the community’s identity’. Tadeusz Lubelski, ‘ “He Speaks To Us”: The Author in Everything for Sale, Man of Marble and Pan Tadeusz’, in J. Orr and E. Ostrowska (eds), The Cinema of Andrzej Wajda. The Art of Irony and Defiance (London-New York, 2003), p. 45. 14. Peter Brooks, The Melodramatic Imagination. Balzac, Henry James, Melodrama and the Mode of Excess (New Haven-London, 1976), p. 15. 15. Ibid., pp. 12–​13. 16. In contrast, Polish post-communist heritage cinema privileges the formal devices, specifically mise-​en-​scène, for producing affective response from the viewer. 17. Brooks, The Melodramatic Imagination, pp. 3–​4. 18. Augustín Zarzosa, Refiguring Melodrama in Film and Television. Captive Affects, Elastic Sufferings, Vicarious Objects (Lanham-Boulder-New York, 2013), p. 17. 19. Both the Katyń massacre and the figure of Father Popiełuszko are of great importance for the process of negotiating the Polish national identity after 1989. The Katyń massacre became in the post-​1989 epoch a strong element of self-​identification and anti-​Russian identity (one that Wajda’s film tries to resist in offering a more reconciliatory image of the Russians), which the 2010

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The Power of Love Smoleńsk airplane crash –​in which Polish President Lech Kaczyński perished along with many prominent politicians and activists –​has greatly reinforced. The Popiełuszko persona integrates into the national discourse a strong religious overtone that is also typical of public post-communist discourse. 20. See, for example, Monika Nahlik, ‘Katyń w czasach popkultury’, in T. Lubelski and M. Stroiński (eds), Kino polskie jako kino narodowe (Kraków, 2009), pp. 321–49. 21. Hayden White, The Content of the Form:  Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore, 1987), p. 12. 22. Alun Munslow, Narrative and History (Houndmills, 2007), p. 9. 23. Yuejin Wang, ‘Melodrama as historical understanding: The making and the unmaking of communist history’, in W. Dissanayake (ed), Melodrama and Asian Cinema (Cambridge, 1993), p. 79. 24. Munslow, Narrative and History, p. 67. For a more detailed discussion of the relationship between historiography and cinema, see: Ewa Mazierska, European Cinema and Intertextaulity. History, Memory and Politics (Basingstoke, 2011), pp. 10–​16. 25. Thomas Schatz, ‘Film Genre and the Genre Film’, in L. Braudy and M. Cohen (eds), Film Theory and Criticism, 7th ed. (New York-Oxford, 2009), p. 571. 26. See: Tamar Jeffers McDonald, Romantic Comedy. Boy Meets Girl Meets Genre (London-New York, 2007), p.14; Claire Mortimer, Romantic Comedy (LondonNew York, 2010), p. 31; Sarah Kozloff, ‘Romantic Comedy’, in L. Friedman et al. (eds), Introduction to Film Genres (New York-London, 2014), p. 144. 27. Slavoj Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology (London-New York, 1989), p. 34. 28. Ibid.

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14 When Walls Fall Families in Hungarian Films of the New Europe Clara Orban

The passage from the 1980s into the 1990s set in motion political and cultural shifts witnessed throughout the world but felt most deeply in the countries of East Central Europe. During the years before and after the fall of the Berlin Wall, while the new freedoms were certainly welcomed, uncertainty was also pervasive as countries tried to re-​establish new orders and systems. The cinema of this region has often interpreted historical realities. Dina Iordanova notes that the countries of East Central Europe tend to create films ‘concerned with the discourse on morality and history, with the relationship between the private and the public’, so that depicting history and its relationship to societal constructs provides a central nexus of the region’s cinematic identity.1 For Pierre Sorlin, the cinematic image represents a historical document which allows spectators to actively engage in a conception/​construction of the universe and in so doing find insight.2 Images provide access to reality, and our interaction with events and people is mediated through images. Films allow for the mediation and reinterpretation of society and in turn mirror societal constructs.3 Tropes in Hungarian cinema in the years surrounding 1989 showed evidence of anxiety concerning the challenges of the post-​Soviet era. Not only auteur cinema but also popular films explored unease created by political changes in Eastern and Western Europe.4 During the crucial period immediately 248

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When Walls Fall before and after the fall of the Berlin Wall, when social and political structures were in flux, allegories in popular Hungarian films traced the social evolutions taking place. Films such as Hol volt, hol nem volt (A Hungarian Fairy Tale, 1988), Túsztörténet (Stand off, 1989) Eldorádó (The Midas touch, 1989) and Sose halunk meg (We never die, 2003) can all be characterised as popular, either because of genre (comedies, thrillers), box office success, or both.5 In all four films, dysfunctional or fragmented family relationships may stand for the changing political and social reality. Hungarian films followed a new trajectory that had already begun in the 1970s, according to John Cunningham. He compares the 1970s and the 1980s to previous decades and considers the 1970s and 1980s transitional periods in Hungarian cinema,6 since film-making included more women directors, fewer taboo topics, and the multiplication of films that look to the future. In discussing Ildikó Enyedi’s Az én XX. századom (My Twentieth Century, 1989), Catherine Portuges notes 1989 as an important turning point for cinema.7 Portuges also shows that this period saw a split where ‘a certain number of films tend towards memorialising Hungarian history and culture, while others, primarily those of younger filmmakers, rather distance themselves from such traditionally oriented projects through approaches that embrace the diverse realms of the imaginary and fantasy, documentaries and comedy, thriller and drama.’8 By the middle of the 1990s, the ‘new historical reality’ had become the norm. Marguerite Waller discusses Ibolya Fekete’s Bolse Vita (Bolshe Vita, 1996), noting that by the time this film was made, it was possible for Fekete to break away from heterodox readings that portrayed 1989 as a crisis. Instead, Fekete casts this watershed moment as a revelation because it illuminated the past and offered an opening to a different set of political, social and artistic possibilities.9 As the decade of transitions moved forward, Hungarian filmmakers, and all Hungarians, adapted to and adopted new realities. In several films from the late 1980s and the early 1990s, fatherless families, children who reject the father, and family members who become surrogate fathers, serve as allegories for the new reality. While not new, this trope was reshaped at the turn from communism to post-​communism. In previous decades, the father figure who inserted himself into a fatherless family unit was often a harmless or benevolent figure who restored order and gave meaning, reasserting the role the father has played in allegorical 249

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe constructs and universal myths. Several films from the beginning of the 1990s show flawed fathers, at times in ambiguous situations in which their authority is challenged or they are incapable of asserting authority. In these films, authority figures that often appear, such as bureaucrats or policemen, are unable to maintain order. The search for a father can be conflated with the search for a fatherland in a situation in which it is changing into something unknown. Authoritarian film-​fathers are at times rejected when they too closely mimic the brutality of the state, but the ability to divorce oneself from either the family tyrant or the dictatorship, to cross the border to freedom, may be elusive. Often, violent encounters with authority figures prove to be a necessary part of the quest for freedom. These themes reflect the societal transition Hungarian film-makers were translating to the screen. Social order is disrupted, leading to a sense of displacement heightening the need for identity and belonging. Flawed father figures in these films often cannot restore order because their power is limited. Fatherlessness as a trope has reappeared in Hungarian films at important historical junctures as an image for authority. Sorlin concludes his transnational study of European cinema by recapping his premise that cinema is ‘a source and reserve of images […] means by which spectators actively engage in a conception/​construction of the universe and in so doing find further insight into it.’10 The link between the father figure and authority figures has, of course, inspired many of humanity’s oldest universal myths, as well as pagan and Judeo-​Christian belief systems. Freudian re-​appropriations of Oedipus, and Lacanian discussions of the non/​nom du père both position fathers as the ultimate authority against which the troubled psyche may rebel. Two key examples show the decades-​ long trajectory of this trope in Hungarian cinema. Films such as Géza von Radványi’s Valahol Európában (Somewhere in Europe, 1947) portrayed war orphans saved by a kindly musician as a way of underscoring the rootlessness of the immediate postwar generation. Abandoned and fatherless after the war, the orphans begin by fending for themselves while creating a makeshift, savage society. Upon arriving at the orchestra conductor Peter Simon’s (Artúr Somlay) castle, they initially try to intimidate him. Yet he manages to subdue them and even teaches them La Marseillaise, a symbol of unity. He becomes a benevolent father figure as he recreates society from the ashes for the fatherless children, showing them that unity and order 250

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When Walls Fall are beneficial. István Szabó’s second feature, Apa (Father, 1966), portrays Takó (Dani Erdélyi), a fatherless boy, and the myths he creates about his father (Miklós Gábor), imagining his great exploits as a resistance fighter and more, only to realise as an adult that the man bore little resemblance to this idealisation. In one of Takó’s fantasies, during a parade, images of Hungarian leaders are supplanted by the father’s portrait. The conflation of father figure and authority figure is complete. A surrogate father never appears in this film because the father is forever present in the son’s imagining. In Father, only an imaginary father remains, but as was the case in Somewhere in Europe, he is seen as a benevolent, heroic figure. For Melinda Szaloky, Father offers the ‘autobiography’ of the fatherless generation growing up after the war.11 During pivotal periods in Hungarian history, the late 1940s and mid-​1960s, father figures are necessary to re-​establish order, bring stability and confer peace of mind. The theme of searching for a father was reinvigorated in the ­transitional period straddling the 1990s, but this time the fathers seem to be flawed, unable to provide traditional, nuclear-​family stability, although tragic consequences do not always ensue. Gyula Gazdag’s fantasy Hungarian Fairy Tale, made at the very end of the communist period, tells of a fatherless boy, András (Dávid Vermes), who searches for and, without knowing it, ultimately finds his father figure, Antal Orbán (Pál Hetényi), a lawyer who works for the Court of Guardians. Orbán is in charge of registering children born out of wedlock when they reach school age, and András’s mother, Mária (Mária Varga), is told when she goes to his office that she must register a father on the birth certificate. She selects Orbán as a last name, and together she and the eponymous official decide that the fictional father’s first name will be József, and his occupation, bricklayer. In close-​ ups, the camera moves between the two of them, who smile at one another as the bureaucrat becomes, essentially, a surrogate father. They even determine that the fictitious father will live in Újhely, a place where Orbán had worked for eleven years before moving to Budapest. By registering fathers for fatherless children in his role as state official, he becomes the patriarch of the nation, in some sense. The family unit has to be artificially recreated and exists only on paper. The film’s first scenes outline the chance encounter between András’s mother and father at a performance of Mozart’s Magic Flute. After the 251

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe opera, András is conceived during a one-​night-​stand and the father disappears from the film. The choice of opera here proves significant, because at its core stands Sarastro, high priest of Isis and Osiris, who holds the fate of the lovers Tamino and Pamina in his hands. Like Orbán in the film, the authority figure in Mozart’s opera remains a surrogate parent. Pamina is the daughter of the evil Queen of the Night, but she seems to be fatherless. Sarastro triumphs over evil and becomes the protector/​father figure for the pair. As a loving father would, he also plays the role of pater familias by keeping the lovers apart until Tamino can complete a series of tests. Fatherless children find a benevolent substitute who keeps them out of harm’s way. The opera overflows with magic beasts, the Queen of the Night, a parrot man, and other mystical figures that help the lovers on their quest, although they do not subvert Sarastro’s authority. A Hungarian Fairy Tale’s ending also makes ample use of allegory to magical effect. When András’s mother dies in a freak accident –​a brick falls from a building and hits her head, reminding the viewer of the ‘profession’ of her child’s fictitious father –​he is slated to be transferred to a state home. Instead, he finds the copy of his fictional birth certificate, reads the address of the man he presumes to be his father, and begins a journey, a sort of Bildungsroman, to find the man. At the address on the birth certificate, he finds a young woman instead of his father, and she joins in the quest. In the meanwhile, Antal Orbán has rejected his position as a bureaucrat, burned many of the certificates he created, and started on his own journey. András and the woman magically encounter Antal in a train car, although unaware of each other’s identity. At the end, chased by a rifle-​bearing crowd (presumed to be followers of the rifle master András has killed in self-​defence in the train car), the three characters mount a statue of an eagle, which comes alive and flies them over the city towards the countryside and then beyond. Magic transforms András’s world and allows him to escape into a better future of his own imagining. The ineptitude of party bureaucrats was one of the most prevalent cinematic themes during the transition years, and it is highlighted in A Hungarian Fairy Tale. They continue to uphold rules and regulations that they themselves find ludicrous. Orbán realises the absurdity of the job he had been asked to perform and rejects it all. He burns the documents as a way to 252

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When Walls Fall erase the fiction that the children have known fathers, which is no more the truth than that the fatherland exists as a unifying force in the lives of these characters. Twice in the film, András finds himself among children who are parading and singing patriotic songs, or performing military exercises in an absurd parody of the warrior state teaching the most vulnerable to fight to the death for the fatherland. In this film, it is personal connections that allow characters to create meaning. In the final scene, reminiscent of Vittorio De Sica’s Miracolo a Milano (Miracle in Milan, 1951), when the protagonists escape on the transformed eagle statue, a new family is formed by joining three people who are alone in the world. Orbán’s fatherhood-​on-​ paper leads to a fulfilling relationship only when his ‘child’ willingly joins him. The fatherland itself cannot provide identity and belonging, only a paper trail leading nowhere. Instead, chance encounters lead to fulfilling relationships and the reconfiguration of the family unit. Authority, control and forces of order have a dramatic effect on family dynamics in Gyula Gazdag’s Stand off, a thriller which at its core shows the desperation of life on the border and the disruption of families in chaotic times. Zoltán (Ari Bery) and István (Gábor Svidrony), sons of a hated border guard (Tibor Bitskey), hold the residents of a girls’ dormitory hostage. As ransom, they demand a million dollars, which, one of the captives notes, is more money than exists in all Hungary. Tight camera angles and the use of contrasting dark and light shadows create a sense of tension in this film in which most of the action takes place in one bleak, dimly-​lit dormitory room. The ransom, if paid, will allow the hostage takers to leave the hated town, from which their father’s profession has alienated the family. They believe they will be granted political asylum elsewhere, allowing them to see the world outside the town’s restrictive borders, which have been closed once again now that the children are under siege. The brothers in this film are confronting authority in the form of both the father and the state, but through desperate measures. Their father has trained them to be sharpshooters as a way, he says, to protect the state. Instead they use their skills against it. In the opening scene, the older boy, Zoltán, stands with his back to the barbed wire border and in view of a guard tower. As soldiers parade behind him, he meticulously and ruthlessly shoots several birds, a visual clue to the impending ‘stand-​off ’ between the boys and authority. Zoltán is clearly the instigator of the plot. Destined 253

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe for military school, instead of having the regulation crew cut, Zoltán has shaved his head in a gesture of defiance and anarchy. While István begins to fraternise with some of the captives, Zoltán remains distant. When a helicopter hovers over the section of the building under siege, one of the captives moves to a window. Zoltán stands behind her looking across the courtyard and not necessarily noticing the sharpshooters. He pushes the captive aside, providing an opening for a sharpshooter to kill him. The viewer is led to believe that Zoltán realises the hopelessness of their situation at the end and essentially allows himself to be killed, perhaps as a gesture of redemption. Having evacuated the dormitory, police come in to trace the outline of Zoltán’s dead body on the floor. In the final shot, even his body has disappeared from view, as though Zoltán had never existed: in one shot, the body is being outlined, in the next, it has been removed but the outline remains. Even the dead body seems to suggest that alienation and desperation for freedom ultimately lead to annihilation. Stand off presents violence and confrontation with authority as the only solution for those seeking freedom from those who had maintained order and control before the Wall’s fall. The siblings’ father, flawed by the nature of his profession, becomes a symbol of repression that leads to the family being ostracised. He guarded the border on the orders of a bankrupt regime in a world before borders were becoming obsolete, and violently rejecting him breaks down the alienated family unit. Though their relationship to violence differs –​ the older brother is more hardened, perhaps because he himself was soon to become part of the violent machine keeping the citizens from escaping –​the siblings work together against their common enemy, the father, who symbolises the fatherland’s most brutal reality, that of sealing off the country from the world. In A Hungarian Fairy Tale, true to the nature of fairy tales, lack of biological parents can be overcome through chance, and rejection of the fatherland’s absurd rules leads to escape and freedom. In Stand off, rejection of the father who represents the totalitarian state is a desperate attempt to reach freedom through violence, which in the end results only in death and erasure. The absurdity of politics in this time of transition finds its image, in Sorlin’s terms, in a broken family unit in another Hungarian film of this period, Géza Bereményi’s ironically titled dark comedy The Midas touch. 254

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When Walls Fall This film plunges the viewer into the subterranean world of the open-​air market, where black marketers and underworld figures ply their trade beside legitimate businessmen, peddlers and farmers. Corrupt policemen appear to maintain law and order, but in reality this world is ruled by petty thieves and charlatans, brutal lords in their own right who hold power by sheer force. The open-​air market is an economic system going through the same transitions that Hungary faces after the Wall falls, when the first period of freedom led to excess and uncertainty. The setting of the film runs from the immediate post-​World War II period to 1956. Both these historical moments still resonate in 1989, a time when Hungary finally realised the freedoms tragically denied more than 30 year previously. Roumiana Deltcheva notes that this work is one of a series of Eastern bloc films that examine the moral decay and the sacrifices ‘often unpremeditated and involuntary, incurred by those living in totalitarian systems. These works focus on the personal sins and betrayals individuals were forced to commit in order to survive in the political regime.’12 The Midas touch shows the brutality of the system from the perspective of Sándor Monori (Károly Eperjes), a depraved peddler who wheels and deals in the District VIII market in Budapest. His daughter (Enikő Eszenyi) and her shiftless husband have a son, whom the grandfather appropriates. He bribes the boy’s father to disappear and relegates the mother to an observational role in the boy’s life. During the 1956 Revolution, Sándor and his grandson plan to escape, leaving the rest of the family behind, however the peddler has an attack of appendicitis and dies in the hospital. Like Stand off, this film’s family consists of father, mother, and children, but with the grandfather as the surrogate father. The father figures in both films are deeply flawed, though in different ways. Stand off’s premise is based on the father’s rigidity, which has corrupted the boys just as the failed state, symbolised by the border, has alienated the townspeople. In The Midas touch, the biological father relinquishes his responsibilities through greed and weakness, leaving room for the corrupting influence of his father-​in-​law, the very influence from which he should be shielding his child.13 Sándor seems obsessed with obtaining and regaining gold, although he does not ultimately benefit from it: the curse of Eldorado, the mythical land of gold. He clings to gold as the only certain currency in a world where economies are corrupted, just as he obsessively appropriates his grandson 255

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe as the only family worth having. Monori has a hidden stash of gold jewellery and coins which he uses to bribe his son-​in-​law and corrupt officials, and which he tries to use to save his life by bribing hospital personnel to treat him as he lies dying. Gold seems to represent the only security in the various periods of transition in the film. In the end, neither his gold nor his grandson brings him to freedom in the West when the borders are opened. In The Midas touch, the characters’ innate greed and brutality sabotage any hope of real reform or freedom. The system fails to bring freedom: the hospital is overwhelmed, and the peddler dies in the hall without any support from the state agencies created to help him. Sándor’s grandson, the only family this malevolent patriarch allows to come within his control, is of no use during the last agonising moments. During the transition years, there is one film in which fathers are represented by surrogates that stands out because it is a raucous comedy and its international appeal translated into box office success. Róbert Koltai’s We never die was produced with the assistance of several corporations that were paid through product placement. One of the first to employ Western-​ style financing strategies after the collapse of film subsidies in Hungary, the film garnered acclaim at film festivals and did well at the box office both at home and abroad, even in the United States.14 Imre’s (Mihály Szabados) straight-​laced parents reluctantly let him accompany his Uncle Gyuszi (Robert Koltai) on his travels as a coat hanger salesman one summer, during which time Gyuszi introduces his nephew to sex, gambling and joie de vivre. Set in the 1960s, this film takes a nostalgic look at a time when Hungary began to experiment with ‘Goulash Communism,’ which, in contrast to the hard-​ line practices of other Soviet satellites, allowed Hungarians limited free market economies and improved human rights. Gyuszi in this case serves as a surrogate father, an anti-​parent in some ways, who allows his nephew to experience everything on the fringes of decency. Thematically, this film relates to others from this period showing flawed fathers. As in The Midas touch, the biological father in this film is relegated to a secondary, superfluous role, just as party bureaucrats were pushed to the margins during the 1990s in Hungary. In this Bildungsroman, Imre gets an education of sorts, although it is far from anything his father and mother would have approved. As uncle and nephew travel from Budapest through 256

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When Walls Fall the countryside selling wooden hangers, they have amorous adventures in train cars, with long-​lost lovers found in small towns and with strangers; and in general they wheel and deal their way through Hungary. They also encounter petty authority figures who try to stop them. In one scene, Gyuszi is beaten for having spoken sarcastically about the regime. Gyuszi, however, has heart troubles, and as they increase, he runs with his nephew to the race track, hoping to place one final bet. He dies after finally winning big, and his nephew, who had gone to collect on the bet, keeps the money, thus securing his future through this unexpected inheritance. By winning at the horse races, Gyuszi finally gets the better of the system that he derided sarcastically but did not dare to challenge openly. However, the real ‘winner’ is the next generation, for Imre can live his dream without really having to work for it. In this parody of free market economies where anything goes, this ending is possible precisely because family units are unravelling and nothing is coming to take their place. In We never die, national, religious, cultural and ethnic identities are fluid as Imre attains manhood of a sort. Sarcastic remarks against the status quo lead viewers to see Gyuszi as something of a revolutionary who taunts the system without, however, openly challenging it. In the marketplace, when Gyuszi tries to set up his stand despite protests from other sellers, he is called a dirty Jew, at which his nephew asks him if he is indeed a Jew. The answer is evasive, as if strictly identifying with a group is to be avoided as a strategy for survival in a borderless reality. In the marketplace, the two men experience tense moments with officers roaming about to establish order among the chaos. In several instances, the provincials deride the pair from Budapest, to which uncle and nephew reply, ‘We are all Hungarians.’ These moments of mutual solidarity are meant to create a sense of belonging for these two outsiders, since the ever-​wandering Gyuszi and the yet-​ to-​mature Imre both have to find their places in the world. Only the horse races –​a world of transience, of chance, of fortunes lost and found –​provide them with a sense of belonging and secure Imre’s future. The racetrack itself functions as a microcosm of the world’s winners and losers, those who have given up on structured pursuits and livelihoods and instead focus on luck as the only possibility for success. As Imre collects his dead uncle’s winnings, his dream of becoming an actor can be realised, thus establishing a new identity for him. In this film, a surrogate 257

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe father helps shepherd the next generation toward the new realities because the parents are stuck in the old system. The new world brings the possibility of material gain, but only to those who are prepared to be reckless. Koltai has created an allegory of the new European order through the eyes of an ad hoc family unit, a comic look at the present with an eye towards the future. Writing in 2005, Anikó Imre notes: ‘With the regional unity imposed by Soviet rule and Western representations no longer keeping its imaginary border intact, the region has fissured into two entities: the warring “barbaric” Balkans, tense with a wide range of economic and cultural differences, and East Central Europe, consisting of those lucky nations with realistic aspirations of rejoining Europe.’15 Films produced in Hungary shortly before and after the fall of the Iron Curtain, part of the East Central Europe Imre describes, show thematic similarities in which families, identity and authority are called into question. Family units are altered, or disintegrate, their structure crumbling, leaving members to adapt to new uncertainties. Biologically determined familial relations can disappear or become impediments, just as the overarching control of the state loosens but is not clearly replaced by an alternate system. Surrogates can take the place of family members –​in the case of these films, fathers –​at times, recombining into functional, even happy, units. In other instances, however, the family unit is so damaged that there is little hope of healthy relationships. In this same way, each individual adapts to the new social and political structure –​willingly or reluctantly as the case may be. Several of these films also show characters who are searching, and the resultant search transforms them and their relationships. Thematically, in the popular films discussed here, problematic fathers and fatherhood express for a wide audience the problem of authority in times of socio-​economic change and uncertainty. Even when the changes proved positive, the very fact of transitioning to new forms of order and new economies involves putting the past into question. Although a sophisticated rhetorical strategy, allegory allows viewers or readers to decode subversive meaning in a relatively non-​confrontational way. Allegory’s transference of symbolic identity onto reality provides a protective cover for the message’s sender. For that reason, although we might consider allegory to be rooted in auteur cinema, in reality, it can provide sophisticated 258

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When Walls Fall nuance to popular genres as well. Key to allegory’s success is the audience’s ‘decoding’ of it. In the post-​fall films under consideration, the transfer of father images to authority figures remains straight-​forward enough to be accessible in all film genres, including comedies, as in the case of We never die. By privileging families in difficulty, each of these films in its own way provides a reading of the societal situation in which Hungary found itself. In many ways, the films of this transitional time demonstrate that Hungarian filmmakers continued to show history through the lens of film and that families often served as allegories of the citizens caught between two worlds.

Notes 1. Dina Iordanova, Cinema of the Other Europe: The Industry and Artistry of East Central European Film (London and New York, 2003), p. 43. This comment refers to films in general, not only those from the 1980s and 1990s. 2. Pierre Sorlin, European Cinemas, European Societies:  1939–​ 1990 (London, 1991), p. 207. 3. Ibid, p. 6. 4. Critics often define popular cinema by genre. Iordanova divides popular films into several categories, including science fiction, action-​adventure and comedies. In general, her definition separates ‘popular films’ from ‘serious films’, those which play at international festivals or are promoted by international cultural venues (p. 117–​18). Comedies, science fiction and other popular genres have been at times box office flops, or have been widely acclaimed in international, serious, venues, so box office appeal is not necessarily a marker of popular cinema. In examining Hungarian cinema of the past quarter century we find examples of several popular genres, although there may be a predominance of comedies. Balázs Varga notes that Hungarian cinema ‘is characterised by middle-​range genres (dominantly comedies) and not by a broad scope [of genres]’, although he does find examples of thrillers, horror and sci-​fi movies produced in Hungary (‘Tradition and modernity: Contemporary Hungarian popular cinema’, Images xiii/​22 (2013), p. 176. Available on https://​repozytorium.amu. edu.pl/​jspui/​bitstream/​10593/​11919/​1/​Balazs%20Varga%20-​%20Tradition%20 nad%20Modernization.%20Contemporary%20Hungarian%20Popular%20 Cinema.pdf (accessed 6 May 2015). 5. This chapter will leave aside in-​depth consideration of noted Hungarian auteurs such as Béla Tarr or István Szabó. Both film-makers began their careers during the late 1960s and early 1970s but intensified and expanded their work throughout the period under consideration. Tarr undertook some of his most

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe challenging examinations of the desperation of the human condition in films such as Sátántangó (Satantango, 1994), and Szabó ended the decade with an international hit, A napfény íze (Sunshine, 1999). 6. John Cunningham, Hungarian Cinema from Coffee House to Multiplex (London and New York, 2004), p. 138. 7. Catherine Portuges, ‘Central European twins: psychoanalysis and cinema in Ildikó Enyedi’s My Twentieth Century’, Psychoanalytic Inquiry: A Topical Journal for Mental Health Professionals, xxvii/4, pp. 525–​39, DOI:10.1080/​ 07351690701484675 (2009), p. 526. 8. Catherine Portuges, ‘Memory and reinvention in post-​socialist Hungarian cinema’, in C. Portuges and P. Hames (eds), Cinemas in Transition in Central and Eastern Europe After 1989 (Philadelphia, 2013), p. 104. 9. Marguerite Waller, ‘What’s in your head. History and nation in Ibolya Fekete’s Bolse Vita: Ghetto art’s making the walls come down’, in A. Imre (ed.), East European Cinemas (New York and London, 2005), p. 22. 10. Sorlin, European Cinemas, p. 207. 11. Melinda Szaloky, ‘Somewhere in Europe: exile and orphanage in post-​World War II Hungarian cinema’, in Imre, East European Cinemas, p. 89. 12. Roumiana Deltcheva, ‘Reliving the past in recent East European cinemas,’ in Imre, East European Cinemas, p. 199. 13. In both films, incidentally, the fathers have a primary role because the mothers, while present, are completely ineffectual. In Stand off, the mother pleads with her sons to no avail while trying to mitigate the harm done by her husband. In The Midas touch, both mothers (Monori’s wife and daughter), weakly attempt to intervene but are crushed by Monori’s sheer force and energy. 14. Cunningham, Hungarian Cinema from Coffee House to Multiplex, p. 147. 15. Imre, ‘Introduction: East European cinemas in new perspectives’, in Imre, East European Cinemas, p. xvi.

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Part V

National Cinemas and Globalised Film Cultures

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15 The ‘Hollywood Factor’ in the Most Popular Hungarian Films of the Period 1996–​2014 When a Small Post-​communist Cinema Meets a Mainstream One1 Andrea Virginás

Small Hollywood In their 2007 book The Cinema of Small Nations Mette Hjort and Duncan Petrie describe ‘small cinemas’ as those originating from smaller nation states as per their number of inhabitants and amount of territory, with a generally low GNP per capita and the historically formative experience of being dominated by non-​nationals.2 The case studies cover such examples as Iceland, Bulgaria, New Zealand and Denmark, among others. Hungarian cinema fits Hjort and Petrie’s categorisation to the degree that it may even be considered a typical small national cinema.3 Hjort and Petrie’s framework of small national cinemas is focused on identifying production and distribution circumstances, yet formal and aesthetic criteria may also be discerned as recurrent elements in various national cinemas that are small in Hjort and Petrie’s sense. This observation has informed the argumentation of this article. While Hjort and Petrie position their model as something that allows going beyond what they call ‘an unfortunate relationship with a single 263

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe dominant other, Hollywood’, my aim here is to understand precisely how a post-​communist Eastern European small national cinema, the Hungarian one, exists within this ‘unfortunate relationship’.4 According to my hypothesis, in the post-​1989 period –​and in line with European art-​house cinema in general –​art-​house/​highbrow, and possibly also midcult/​middlebrow films in Hungarian cinema have explicitly situated themselves as functioning as far as possible from Hollywood-​produced, globally distributed mainstream cinema.5 Lowbrow, popular Hungarian cinema, meanwhile, ‘bears the responsibility’ to engage with Hollywood on various levels –​for example, production organisation but also with respect to formal and aesthetic methods.6 Thus a basic premise of my argumentation is that no contemporary European small national cinema, including Hungarian cinema, is immune to the influence of Hollywood. One may point to the high percentage of effectively marketed Hollywood films distributed to audiences in (Eastern) Europe, too, not only in cinemas but also on DVDs, television and through various streaming services. ‘When choosing to view a European film, European audiences are almost by definition likely to be deciding against viewing a US production. This choice is possible, and so is the opposite choice to see the US film’, observes Karen Diehl.7 Accessible weekly movie audience data for Hungary in the 2000s repeatedly reconfirm Diehl’s point with reference to Hollywood films –​for both first weekends and whole screening periods. In the second weekend of June 2015,8 the premier of Jurassic World had 114,495 viewers, while Saul fia (Son of Saul), recently distinguished at Cannes, had 10,541 viewers.9 For an example of a whole screening period we may refer to Avengers: Age of Ultron, which attracted nearly 370,000 viewers during six weeks of screening (as of 14 June 2015), while the most successful Hungarian film, Argo 2, brought in somewhere around 107,000 viewers in the same period.10 The palpable connections between Eastern European post-​communist cinema, such as Hungary’s, and the Hollywood industry (as part of US film production) are not limited to the influence of distributed films, as measured by the number of audience members and possibly by the formal/​aesthetic imitations Hollywood might trigger in national creations. It is necessary to mention  –​also in a historical perspective  –​Hollywood’s influence on Eastern European and Hungarian film production, or indeed 264

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ the relocation of Hollywood productions in this geographical region (the so-​called ‘runaway Hollywood’). Referring to the prolific Hungarian feature film industry of the 1930s and the early 1940s –​53 feature films were produced in 1943 alone –​Zsolt Pápai and Balázs Varga argue that ‘[t]‌he relationship between Budapest and the Dream Factory covers organising production, methods of production, directing techniques, and also cinematography [practice] […]. Creators and also critics and audience are in a constant dialogue with the big popular film industries, first of all the American one. Budapest tends to be mentioned worldwide as “Small Hollywood”.’11 The instauration of communism as an ideological and economic framework put an end to the explicit prewar ‘dialogue’ with Hollywood on the part of Hungarian and Eastern European cinema, which dialogue continued as such on the level of non-​communist Western Europe. Tim Bergfelder mentions that ‘many [supposedly Western] European producers of the 1960s preferred American co-​operation over inter-​European agreements where such co-​operation was available.’12 Very few studies concern themselves with the implicit links throughout production and reception that nevertheless existed between Hollywood and cinema in Eastern European communist countries,13 therefore it is hard to formulate observations on a par with Bergfelder’s –​obviously, the history of ‘Hollywood Hungarian style’ still needs to be written.14 Focusing on the connections between Hollywood and Eastern Europe/​ Hungary in the post-​communist period, we see the emergence of what Dina Iordanova calls ‘parallel industries’, a characteristic she, and Hjort and Petrie in paraphrasing her, attributes to small national cinemas in particular: ‘Whereas one of these [parallel] industries is small and both locally focused and anchored, the other is externally owned and run, and in every way part of the global film industry.’15 Iordanova’s ‘parallel industries’ exist currently in such very different small cinemas as the Danish or the Hungarian one, supported by and also giving rise to what Hjort and Petrie, following Toby Miller, call ‘a new international division of (cultural) labour’, a ‘new order […] founded on an intensification of Hollywood’s direct participation in the production sectors of other national film industries –​most notably Canada, the UK and Eastern Europe –​through an increase in runaway and co-​production initiatives’.16 Recent Hollywood-​related ‘runaway 265

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe and co-​production initiatives’ in Hungary –​such as the TV-​series The Borgias (2011–​13), the action-​movie A Good Day to Die Hard (2013), the TV mini-​series Houdini (2014) or Ridley Scott’s The Martian (2015) –​are platforms that disseminate practical, production-​oriented know-​how of all types to film production personnel in the country (and even in the region). In such a context, where both Western and Eastern European cinema production, distribution and consequently reception as well seem to have had Hollywood involved to greater or lesser degree during various historical periods, Karen Diehl’s formulation in a 2012 book echoes a long line of historians and interpreters: ‘the term “European film” can be conceptualised historically only in terms of its opposition or synergy with US cinema.’17

‘Popular’ on a Small, Post-Communist Scale One could argue that the term ‘popular cinema’ inflicts perhaps more pain than gain if employed in reference to Eastern European, post-​communist films and, consequently, contemporary Hungarian cinema. In the introduction to the 1992 Popular European Cinema, Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau differentiate between ‘market’ (the economic performance of films on the market of distribution) and ‘anthropological’ (the participation of users in creating culture, and, consequently, films) approaches to popular cinema, pointing to the shortcomings of both. Concerning market popularity they ask: ‘Is it the films that made the most money or the films that the largest number of people saw?’ that should count, since ‘[t]‌he two are not necessarily the same thing’.18 The validity of this observation is currently highlighted by the differences between official box-​office results of premiering films, sales over the long-​run for DVD, television and other formats, and viewing by using (il)legal online content providers. Another blind spot of measuring film popularity through market performance is revealed by the case of communist film production, which ignored the feedback of the market –​box office performance, profit –​altogether. Dyer and Vincendeau also mention communist era Polish film production when considering the necessary conditions for a ‘popular European cinema’ to exist: ‘It may even be that there can be no understanding of popular film 266

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ without reference to the market, because popular cinema has only existed in a market economy.’19 As for cinema popularity in the anthropological context, Dyer and Vincendeau’s observation that ‘ “popular cinema” cannot mean films made “by the people” –​most people will never be in a position to make cinema’, is even more pertinent.20 This is painfully evident in our era of cheap, widely available digital cinema-​making possibilities, with sophisticated technological and production conditions harder to access than ever before in cinema history, especially for someone situated in a peripheral position –​as, for example, that defined by a small national cinema. In Cinema Studies: Key Concepts (2001) Susan Hayward does not even include a separate entry for popular cinema. Rather, the index refers one to the terms ‘dominant/​mainstream cinema’ and the text reads, ‘[a]‌ll countries with a film industry have their own dominant cinema and this cinema constantly evolves depending on the economic and ideological relations in which it finds itself. Given the economic situation, the film industry of a particular country will favour certain production practices over others.’21 Hungarian feature film production had coalesced into an industry even before sound was introduced, and from the early 1910s until 1945 it was considered a venture that was structured by market principles, driven by high private investment, besides indirect state intervention, and with box-​ office popularity and fandom practices accepted as strong signifiers of success.22 During the years of state socialism (1948–​89) film-​making became a cultural industry funded by state money and controlled by official party ideology, with low-​level and only occasional private participation being possible in (underground) avant-​garde filmmaking. In this period, success was quantified by the amount of state financial support received for a given production, by the interest manifested in official film criticism and theorising, and also by international festival presence and prizes, which re-​ confirmed the aesthetic choices of the state socialist cultural industry. After the 1989 regime change the majority of Hungarian feature films continued to be funded by the state, with the Magyar Mozgókép Közalapítvány (The Motion Picture Public Foundation of Hungary)23 having acted as the central coordinating body in the period 1990–​2010, replaced in 2011 by the Magyar Nemzeti Filmalap (The Hungarian National Film Fund).24 Private investment through television channels, advertising companies and 267

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe product placements has been growing only in the last decade. Communist and post-​communist Hungarian cultural politics has favoured the creation of art-​house-​type films, which also enjoy the support of the critical establishment; thus art-​house cinema may be considered the dominant cinematic formation, in Hayward’s sense, in post-​1989 Hungarian cinema as  well. One may register how a several-​decades-​long practice of state-​ funding of film production –​as rooted in communist-​style dismissal of the market –​and the aesthetic ideology of an elitist modernism –​fully (and paradoxically) accepted by communism –​enforced each other throughout the post-​communist period as well. Given these specifics of the contemporary Hungarian film canon, terms such as ‘dominant’, ‘mainstream’ and ‘popular’ as applied to Hungarian cinema(s) possibly reference quite different corpuses. Art-​house cinema, in general, could be called ‘dominant’, even if not exhibiting the features of Hayward’s mainstream-​type cinema,25 while also being characterised by a generally poor performance in terms of national box office26  –​a cluster of phenomena partly motivated by the above mentioned features of Hungarian film funding and reviews. Contrarily, Hungarian films that have good box office performance and evidently incorporate Hayward’s summarised ‘mainstream aesthetics’ have a low profile and little recognition in official criticism, university courses and public cinéphile commentaries  –​that is, in the discourses where box-​office performance and dedicated fandom are considered to be signs of the market’s dominance and are thus not respectable enough. (Possible changes are happening currently as millennium generation critics express their opinions.) Thus, while post-​communist popular Hungarian films certainly exhibit ‘mainstream’ features, they cannot be called ‘dominant’ in the sense that Hayward attributes to this term, a position which is occupied by Hungarian art-​house cinema instead. It is here that the term ‘popular Hungarian cinema’ becomes useful in order to characterise those films that have garnered the greatest audience numbers on a more or less systematically documented basis, thus being representative –​within the limits of the above mentioned restrictions –​of what movie goers in Hungary have loved to watch in the post-​communist years. 268

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Computing Popularity: a Post-​Communist Challenge According to Barry Langford, it is ‘enormously difficult to compute popularity’, since box office popularity/​ticket purchases do not ‘necessarily prove assent to all or indeed any of a film’s ideological content.’27 But what is to be done when even learning the exact number of tickets purchased proves to be a challenge? It is not an easy task to find systematic and verifiable data on the audience reached and income achieved by Hungarian films throughout the post-​1989 era. Comprehensive data sets exist –​for example, on the website of the Nemzeti Filmiroda (National Film Office) or the European Audiovisual Observatory –​only since 2004, the year of Hungary’s accession to the EU.28 The 1989–​2003 datasets have many missing pieces, and –​due to the 2010–​11 restructuring of the Hungarian Moving Image Public Fund into the Hungarian National Film Fund–​the period 2011–12 is also poorly covered.29 Because 1996–​2014 is the period for which systematically comparable data are available, that became the reference period for my expression ‘post-​1989 popular Hungarian cinema’. I needed to examine and blend heterogeneous sources30 with my chief findings –​all of the films that had more than 100,000 viewers in that period –​presented in Table 15.1. This list allows one to sketch a profile of the post-​ 1989 popular Hungarian cinema. During the studied period one can observe a steady decrease in the number of officially registered screening attendances for a given year’s most popular Hungarian film. This number has dropped by roughly 100,000 every five years: in the peak year, 1997, the most popular Hungarian film had a registered audience of 660,000 viewers, while in 2014 this number fell to somewhere around 100,000. During the period 1996–​ 2014 of the post-​communist transition popular Hungarian cinema has had to reconcile itself to the fact that a very popular film will have an audience numbering about 100,00031 and come to terms with the loss of some 500,000 viewers. However, if we consider views such as that expressed by Paul McDonald  –​according to which feature films’ actual popularity is very much dependent on YouTube viewings and (il)legal downloading via torrents32 –​then the lost segment of the audience for popular Hungarian films may be recouped as, for example, viewers on YouTube. (This suggestion is in need of careful analysis, but that is not pursued here.33) 269

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Table 15.1  The most popular Hungarian movies 1996–​2014 (as of July 2015) English title

Hungarian title

Director

Premier

Movie viewers

YouTube views

YouTube upload period

1

Out of order

A miniszter félrelép

1997

662,505

246,228

2 years

2

A Kind of America 1

Valami Amerika 1

András Kern, Róbert Koltai GáborHerendi

2002

529,184

3 4 5 6

Children of Glory The Conquest Dollybirds Hungarian vagabond romanise Fateless Just Sex and Nothing Else Fairy tale auto

Szabadság, szerelem Honfoglalás Csinibaba Magyar vándor

Krisztina Goda Gábor Koltay Péter Tímár Gábor Herendi

2006 1996 1997/​1998 2004

506,939 504,742 502,787 456,326

Sorstalanság Csak szex és más semmi Meseautó

Lajos Koltai Krisztina Goda

2005 2005

449,724 406,990

no YouTube presence 97,805 241,095 385,295 no YouTube presence 323,339 349,569

2000

304,994

10 11 12

Glass tiger 2 SOS Love Made in Hungary

Üvegtigris 2 SOS Szerelem Made in Hungária

Barna Kabay Katalin Petényi Péter Rudolf Tamás Sas Gergely Fonyó

2006 2007 2009

304,021 238,000 224,000

13 14 15

A Kind of America 2 Glass tiger 3 Coming out

Valami Amerika 2 Üvegtigris 3 Coming Out

Gábor Herendi Péter Rudolf Dénes Orosz

2008 2010 2013

218,000 174,000 141,760

16

What ever happened to Timi?

Megdönteni Hajnal Tímeát

Attila Herczeg

2014

104,863

7 8 9

Total audience 908,733 529,184

1 year 3 years 3 years

604,744 745,837 888,082 456,326

2 years 1.5 years

773,063 756,559

192,273

2.5 years

497,267

96,293 125,871 no YouTube presence 4,134 128,373 no YouTube presence 2,492,564

2 months 1 year

400,314 363,871 224,000

1 week 2 months

222,134 302,373 141,760

4 months

2,597,427

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ This list of the 16 films with more than 100,000 viewers in the period 1996–​2014 also shows that historical epics –​usually considered midcult or middlebrow in Hungarian-​language criticism –​have a strong fan base among contemporary Hungarian cinema goers. Three of the titles –​ Szabadság, szerelem (Children of Glory, 2006), Honfoglalás (The Conquest, 1996) and Sorstalanság (Fateless, 2005) –​explicitly belong to this film type; in addition, Csinibaba (Dollybirds, 1998) and Magyar vándor (Hungarian vagabond, 2004), although basically comedies, also have retro or historical undercurrents. These films address two major periods in Hungarian history: the ninth-century appearance of Hungarian tribes in Europe (The Conquest and Hungarian vagabond) and the middle of the twentieth century, namely the Holocaust (Fateless), the 1956 revolution (Children of Glory) and the milder communism of the 1960s (Dollybirds). Finally, the persistence of comedy, a well-​known feature of Hungarian cinema, must be mentioned. Film historian Györgyi Vajdovich mentions that of the 352 Hungarian feature films made in the period 1931–​45, 201 (56 per cent) could qualify as comedies.34 The genre was quite popular in the communist period as well: examining the 1968 ‘Budapest 12’ list of Hungarian film critics’ top choices, Balázs Varga mentions that the only non-​art-​house film included is a comedy, Márton Keleti’s A tizedes meg a többiek (The corporal and others, 1965), and he adds that this must have been because of the genre’s eminence in public preference.35 Film critic Gusztáv Schubert also registers the post-​1989 preponderance of this film type: ‘The typical film type of the system change became, again, the satire rather than the micro-​realistic depiction of society.’36 Titles in my table such as A miniszter félrelép (Out of order, 1997), Dollybirds, Meseautó (Fairy tale auto, 2000), Valami Amerika 1–​2 (A Kind of America 1 and 2, 2002, 2008), Csak szex és más semmi (Just Sex and Nothing Else, 2005), Made in Hungária (Made in Hungary, 2009), Coming Out (2013) or Megdönteni Hajnal Tímeát (What Ever Happened to Timi?, 2014) resemble classical Hollywood screwball comedies,37 centred as they are on humorous situations generated by a strict, almost puritan, system of heterosexual behaviour.38 However, unlike classical screwball comedies, these popular Hungarian films are usually mixed with musical, theatrical or show business elements, a feature discussed in detail below. 271

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Given my interest in the ongoing negotiation of the asymmetrical relationship between Hollywood and Hungarian cinema, and in accordance with my initial hypothesis referring to the different attitudes art-​house, middlebrow and lowbrow Hungarian films manifest towards Hollywood, I argue here that the most popular middlebrow historical films –​four titles on my list: Children of Glory, The Conquest, Hungarian Vagabond, Fateless –​ do not engage directly in ‘adopting and adapting’ Hollywood; such links may be established only with respect to production. However, the remaining 12 titles cannot escape the task ‘assigned’ to them due to the functioning of the various cultural canons: these lowbrow ‘Hungarian-​style’ screwball comedies with musical interludes need to establish ‘some kind of ’ relationship to Hollywood (‘America’/​American popular culture). This is how these films fulfil the role of ‘interpreting’ a mainstream cinematic canon, such as the Hollywood one, in the context of a small national cinema in post-​communist Eastern Europe.

Hollywood in Our Bedroom Nolwenn Mingant suggests that the following features of Hollywood films are those that European and consequently Hungarian audiences might find interesting and fascinating:  ‘high-​quality production, presence of stars, well-​crafted scripts, state-​of-​the-​art special effects’.39 How do these elements translate into the production and the functioning as semiotic text(ure)s of the most popular Hungarian films of the 1996–​ 2014 period? At least half of the 16 most popular films included in the table emerged from a loose network of interrelated creators, many of whom have direct and indirect links that can be traced to Hollywood film production or distribution. The most obvious case is that of former Hollywood producer Andrew G. Vajna, whose credits include The Terminator series and who also produced Out of order, the most successful post-​1989 Hungarian film (measured in official movie audience numbers).40 Vajna is also affiliated with the Hungarian National Film Fund as a governmental deputy, while the chief executive director of the Fund is Ágnes Havas –​Vajna’s colleague in the Hungarian distribution of Hollywood films in the 1990s and also a producer of A Kind of America 2 (number 13 in my table of most popular 272

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ Hungarian films).41 Their decisions clearly reflect the intention to produce films with a popular appeal, relying on film genre conventions but not ignoring the art-​house tradition either.42 While the Hungarian National Film Fund’s predecessor, The Motion Picture Public Foundation of Hungary was coordinated by creative and policy personnel more supportive of art-​house-​type film practices, much of the current criticism directed at the Hungarian National Film Fund concerns either its members’ explicit involvement with market-​oriented film practice in Hollywood, or their successes in Hungary with the 16 most popular films of the 1996–​2014 period –​which also constitute my table. Not unrelated to the previous aspect of actual ties to Hollywood, these 16 most popular films were predominantly produced in the best studio facilities available in Hungary, which employ a technical personnel acquainted with good or even high-​quality equipment (because of having worked either in advertising or in outsourced Hollywood productions). This is attested to by data, available on the credit lists or the web pages of the films, concerning cameras and optics rented, and/​or the editing and sound-​mixing laboratories used. The films’ websites also proudly provide us with the staff ’s CV’s that reference their work in outsourced/​runaway Hollywood productions; the A Kind of America films or What Ever Happened to Timi? are good examples in this respect.43 In addition, such films make famous Hungarian stage and television series actors and actresses into film stars. This happens not only through the repeated appearance on screen of names such as Sándor Csányi, Kata Dobó, Szonja Oroszlán, Kátya Tompos, Eszter Ónodi, Iván Fenyő or Judit Schell, but also through the specific structuring of the fictive worlds that are created. More often than not these films revolve around show business, reminding one of classical Hollywood backstage musicals in addition to evidently building on the above-​mentioned conventions of screwball comedies. They offer the viewer detailed examinations of how stage appearances, spectacles and (public) star identities are created out of private bodies and persons. Dollybirds and Made in Hungary are retro musicals reminiscent of the 1960s that evidently fall into the category of backstage musical films. Just Sex and Nothing Else revolves around the –​ultimately failed –​theatrical staging of Choderlos de Laclos’ Liaisons Dangereux in its original eighteenth-century milieu. In A Kind of America 1 we watch 273

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe the production of a number of television advertisements and pop video clips, while in A Kind of America 2 we are shown the filming of a ‘typical’ Hungarian art house film which is full of existential angst, and also the production process of a political musical reminiscent of Rob Marshall’s Chicago (2002). SOS szerelem (SOS Love, 2007) is all about staging: the title refers to a firm that stages occasions for heterosexual couplings, at the request of one member of the future couple. Thus we are directly introduced to the pre-​and post production processes of dance evenings, romantic walk scenes, pathetic piano duets and their recordings on various media. Its 2011 sequel, SOS Love takes the story to Los Angeles, where the down-​to-​earth employees of the Hungarian problem-​solving agency perform similar tasks while staying in the house of a famous actress-​auntie interpreted by Daryl Hannah. In Coming Out (2013) the protagonist is a radio journalist who often acts as a stand-​up comedian during his live evening radio show (stand-​up comedy being very popular in present-​day Hungary), while in What Ever Happened to Timi? the title character is a famous international model recently returned home to a Budapest filled with outdoor billboards depicting her. The role of Timi is played by Andrea Osvárt, a Hungarian model and actress with an international, and also a (minor) Hollywood career. Well-​written scripts characterise the film genre traditions to which these popular Hungarian films connect:  screwball comedies and musicals both have ‘fast-​paced narratives’.44 Especially in the former, sudden situation-​and character changes are usually motivated by psychological and emotional instability caused, for example, by being in love but also by the role-​playing the characters are frequently forced into. This might occur either because the film is built around show(ing off) business, as I described previously, or simply because situation comedy governs the plot, as in Out of order. This film has hardly a single character who does not change his/​ her clothes, role and even personality on screen, and several times, too, in this story of how a prime minister’s secret rendezvous in a famous hotel is discovered and simultaneously covered-​up by all interested parties. Due to the forced role-​playing, ever-​present in all the examined comedies, one could characterise this feature as a post-​communist Hungarian variation on the classical screwball comedy genre. 274

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ Mingant also mentions the importance of state-​ of-​ the-art special effects. Hungarian film production belongs to a small national cinema as defined in Hjort and Petrie’s framework, so its biggest budgets are usually below what would be the low-​budget scale in Hollywood.45 Thus, while negotiating their historically ‘unfortunate relationship’ with ever-​ present, mainstream Hollywood cinema, the most popular post-​1989 Hungarian films showcase ‘state-​of-​the-​art special effects’ that are tailored to the possibilities and fantasies of post-​communist, Eastern European, small national film-​producing industries. In the case of the most popular Hungarian films of the period 1996–​2014 this has resulted in the recreation, with minutiae, of the backstage secrets of non-​filmic show businesses –​theatre, music show or advertising –​which constitute the site and context of the fictive stories. Simultaneously, technical-​and star apparatuses are employed that are similar to those used to create non-​reflexive, ‘sincere’ examples of theatre, music show or advertising in market-​driven cultural productions. Yet the interrelations between Hollywood and a small national cinema in post-​communist Eastern Europe do not stop here. In an overview article of post-​transition Russian cinema employing film genre templates (e.g. Aleksey Balabanov’s Brat series), Dimitrij Komm suggests that ‘perhaps English language is an indispensable ingredient of working with film genres’.46 Scanning the 12 lowbrow comedies among the most popular 1996–​2014 Hungarian films, it is clear that this suggestion almost becomes a rule. The famous Üvegtigris 1–​3 (Glass tiger 1–​3, 2001–​2010) series is even nowadays identified in small talk by its Hungarian–​English catchphrases (‘Easyrider, öcsém!’). In A Kind of America 1 everyone attempts to speak American English because the fake Hollywood film producer, Alex Brubeck, arrives to Budapest; while in the 2008 sequel, the three brothers travel to New York, a plot element that also instigates English-​language use in the dialogue. In the credit sequence for Just Sex and Nothing Else, modelled on the structure of webpage searches, some of the words are already in English, recalling internet practice. The most successful 2013 film Coming Out and the 2014–​15 hits Swing (2014) and Argo 2 already encode ‘Englishness’ –​as a suggestion of ‘working with film genres’ and thus of potential popularity in Komm’s sense –​in their titles. 275

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Conclusions In conclusion, I will summarise my results based on the analysis and composition of my table containing the most popular Hungarian films of the period 1996–​2014. Throughout these two decades of the post-​ 1989 era a small proportion of Hungarian feature film audiences have shown a preference for historical epic films –​4 films out of 16 –​and a larger proportion for screwball-​type comedies –​12 out of the 16 most popular films belong to this type. Over time, ever more explicit sexual innuendos, allusions and scenes characterised this latter segment of the corpus.47 These films usually complement the eventful screwball dramaturgy centred on questions of heterosexual coupling and class differences –​with backstage musical and theatrical features –​thus possibly representing a regional and temporal variant of the classical screwball comedy. The love-​hate relationship with Hollywood and American popular culture is articulated both on the level of production processes and as explicitly formulated themes within the fictive worlds. However, a difference may be observed: middlebrow historical films are related to ‘Hollywood’ only through their high quality production and their personnel with experience in Hollywood film-making (both the 2005 Fateless and the 2006 Children of Glory exemplify this). In contrast, while also relying on the finest available production possibilities, the lowbrow, screwball-​type comedies with musical interludes explicitly reflect (on) the Hollywood-​type film genre processes of creating spectacle, glamour and stars, but in parallel with acknowledging the limits imposed by a peripheral and small national film-​making establishment. Such acknowledgement may be considered a must also because of the structure of European and Hungarian film funding, which is much supported by the state. As Karen Diehl observes, ‘[t]‌he support given to commercial films means that they have an edge not only over the US competition but also over other smaller European art house films.’48 Backed by the old supposition that Hollywood’s hegemony can and should be counter-​attacked, popular Hungarian films must be engaged in a ‘negotiation with Hollywood’ on various levels, from production to diegetic world construction. 276

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’

Notes 1. Acknowledgment: This work was supported by a grant from the Romanian Ministry of Education, CNCS –​UEFISCDI, project number PN-​ II-​ RU-​ PD-​2012-​3-​0199 2. Mette Hjort and Duncan Petrie, ‘Introduction’, in M. Hjort and D. Petrie (eds), The Cinema of Small Nations (Edinburgh, 2007), p. 6. 3. A detailed argumentation is presented in Andrea Virginás, ‘A kis mozik fogalma:  román és magyar filmgyártási példák’, Filmszem IV/​ 3 (autumn 2014), http://​filmszem.net/​archivum/​2014-​negyedik-​evfolyam/​ (accessed 17 June 2015). 4. Hjort and Petrie, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–​2. 5. One could cite numberless opinions (scholarly and otherwise) to support such a generalisation: in a recent interview with cameraman Mátyás Erdély, responsible for László Nemes’s Saul fia (Son of Saul, 2015), ‘Hollywood’ (as exemplified by Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List or Michael Bay’s Transformers series) gets mentioned throughout as ‘superficial’, ‘not true/​faithful/​fictionalising’, ‘down one level’, ‘lacking in sensitivity’, ‘the Other’. Bori Bujdosó, ‘Úgy kellett sírni, hogy ne mozogjon a kamera’, VS. Hu (12 June 2015) http://​vs.hu/​magazin/​osszes/​ugy-​kellett-​sirni-​hogy-​ne-​mozogjon-​a-​kamera-​0610#!s0 (accessed 16 June 2015). Throughout this article, all translations from Hungarian are mine, unless otherwise indicated. A. V. 6. Certainly, as the rest of my article demonstrates, this opposition to Hollywood is an imaginary relationship: art-​house cinema competes with it in the exhibition phase, while middlebrow films duplicate Hollywood both production-​ wise and stylistically, but without explicitly acknowledging it. 7. Karen Diehl, ‘A conflicted passion: European film’, in L. Passerini, J. Labanyi, and K. Diehl (eds), Europe and Love in Cinema (Bristol, England–​Chicago, IL, 2012), p. 257. 8. This is the date when background research for this article stopped. 9. The film Son of Saul had a stellar career parallel to the editing phase of this article, starting with the 2015 Cannes-​prize and culminating in the Oscar for best foreign-​language film in February 2016. These events lead to its domestic audience surpassing the 200,000 treshold in the spring of 2016. However, this might be considered an unusual trajectory for a post-communist Hungarian film, both in terms of international prizes and the evolution of domestic audience numbers. The reception trajectory of Son of Saul highlights the importance of transnational recognition in the case of small national art-​house films, but it is a complex phenomenon the analysis of which exceeds the limits of this article. 10. These data originate from the official Facebook-​ feed of Hungary’s leading art-​house film magazine, Filmvilág, posted on 15 June 2015, the source

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe being the Association of Hungarian Film Distributors, https://​www.facebook.com/​filmvilagfolyoirat/​photos/​a.344957365866.197512.29905652086 6/​10153304378640867/​?type=1&theater (accessed 16 June 2015). Also, they may be re-​confirmed from weekly box office data at the portal Pesti Est (http://​ www.est.hu), and statistics of the National Film Office, see footnote 26. 11. Zsolt Pápai and BalázsVarga, ‘Hollywoodon innen és túl: Bevezető a magyar műfaji film összeállításhoz’, Metropolis 1 (2010), p. 15. 12. Tim Bergfelder, ‘The nation vanishes: European co-​production and popular genre formula in the 1950s and 1960s’, in M. Hjort and S. Mackenzie (eds), Cinema and Nation (London-New York, 2000), p. 141. 13. A notable exception is an article by Stefan Soldovieri concerning a 1960 East German–​Polish–​French sci-​fi coproduction, a film which obviously ‘reads’ similar contemporary Hollywood examples. Stefan Soldovieri, ‘Socialists in outer space: East German film’s Venusian adventure’, in A. Imre (ed), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas (Malden, MA, 2012), pp. 201–​23. 14. I thank Dorota Ostrowska for this expression. 15. Hjort and Petrie, ‘Introduction’, p. 18. 16. Ibid., p. 9. 17. Diehl, ‘A conflicted passion’, p. 241. 18. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, in R. Dyer and G. Vincendeau (eds), Popular European Cinema (London-New York, 1992), pp. 1–​14, reference to p. 3. 19. Ibid., p.  4. They continue by adding that ‘[t]‌his is Skwara’s argument in her discussion of the cinema in communist Poland’. 20. Ibid., p. 3. 21. Susan Hayward, Cinema Studies: Key Concepts (London-New York, 2001), p. 93. 22. Gyöngyi Balogh, Vera Gyürey and Pál Honffy, A magyar játékfilm története a kezdetektől 1990-​ig (Budapest, 2004), pp. 13–​65. 23. The Motion Picture Public Foundation of Hungary webpage, https://​web. archive.org/​web/​20090309191434/​http://​w ww.mmka.hu/​object.bbca7c61-​ 2193-​4bbe-​b4fd-​f755ba18f954.ivy (accessed 17 March 2016). 24. Hungarian National Film Fund webpage, http://​mnf.hu/​en/​ (accessed 15 November 2015). 25. ‘On the ideological front, the dominant filmic text in western society revolves round the standardised plot of order/​ disorder/​ order-​ restored. The action focuses on central characters and so the plot is character-​driven. Narrative closure occurs with the completion of the Oedipal trajectory through either marriage or a refusal of coupledom. In any event closure means a resolution of the heterosexual courtship (Kuhn, 1982, p. 34). This resolution often takes the form of the recuperation of a transgressive female into the (social) order

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ (Kuhn, 1982, p. 34).’ Annette Kuhn, Women’s Pictures: Feminism and Cinema (London-Boston, 1982) as quoted in Hayward, Cinema Studies, p. 93. 26. Having emerged after closing this research and as mentioned in note 8, Son of Saul is an evident exception to this pattern. Whether it remains an exception, or it initiates a new type of post-communist small national art-​house creation (that transitions smoothly to global canons thus gathering a respectable domestic audience), is an open question. 27. Barry Langford, Film Genre: Hollywood and Beyond (Edinburgh, 2010), p. 19. 28. National Film Office webpage, http://​nmhh.hu/​filmiroda/​ (accessed 15 November 2015). Statistics available at http://​nmhh.hu/​tart/​index/​1466/​ Statisztika (accessed 15 November 2015). 29. Hungarian National Film Fund webpage, http://​mnf.hu/​en/​ (accessed 15 November 2015). 30. I synthesised tables (containing data on box-​office amount/​running weeks/​ number of copies/​audience numbers for Hungarian films premiered in a given year) prepared by the National Film Office, their data only covering the 2004–​10 period. For the pre-​2004 and the 2011–​14 periods I used data from the webpage of the Hungarian National Film Fund, as well as graphically systematised data from a synthesis article on the Hungarian film industry by Bence Gáspár Tamás. To form a general impression about popular film titles in post-​1989 Hungarian cinema I consulted relevant film criticism (both popular and academic), I examined the list of the 1,000 best Hungarian films (based on number and grading of users) on the free portal gathering film titles distributed in Hungary, Filmkatalógus, cross-​checking the latter with IMDB’s list of film titles under the keywords ‘location matching Hungary’. 31. On the occasion of the Q&A session after the sole public screening of the film in Cluj-​Napoca, Romania, (5 October 2014, Filmtettfeszt), director Attila Herczeg (What Ever Happened to Timi?) characterised having surpassed 100,000 viewers as a fascinating and serious achievement on the part of the film. 32. Paul MacDonald, ‘Formulating an Agenda for Film Industries Research’ (keynote lecture presented at the European Film Cultures. ECREA Film Studies Section Interim Conference, Centre for Languages and Literature, Lund University, Sweden, 8–​9 November 2013). 33. A count of the number of YouTube views per upload period usually re-​confirms the placement of a given film on the list of 16 (the data reflect the July 2015 situation): the correspondence is most evident in the case of Fateless –​449,724 movie viewers and 323,339 YouTube views –​or Just Sex and Nothing Else –​ 406,990 movie viewers and 349,569 YouTube downloads. However, the last film on my list, What Ever Happened to Timi?, signals a different phenomenon: its 104,863 movie viewers are overshadowed by the 2,492,564 YouTube views.

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 34. Györgyi Vajdovich, ‘ “Az egyszerű néző cirkuszi szórakozása”: Az 1931 és 1945 közötti magyar filmek megjelenítése a magyar filmtörténeti monográfiákban’, Metropolis 3 (2009), p. 50. 35. Balázs Varga, ‘Benne lenne? Magyar filmtörténeti toplisták és a kanonizáció kérdései’, Metropolis 3 (2009), pp. 32–​44, reference to p. 38. 36. Gusztáv Schubert, ‘Rejtőzködő évtized:  A  magyar rendszerváltás filmjei’, Metropolis 3–​4 (2002), p. 16. 37. Thomas Schatz observes that ‘The genre derives its identity from a style of behavior (reflected in certain camerawork and editing techniques) and from narrative patterns that treat sexual confrontation and courtship through the socio-​economic conflicts of Depression America’, and is distinguished by ‘narrative pace and concern for class distinctions and attitudes’. Thomas Schatz, Hollywood Genres: Formulas, Filmmaking, and the Studio System (New York, 1981), p. 151. 38. An aspect analysed in detail by Júlia Éva Havas, ‘Magyar romantikus vígjáték a 2000-​es években’, Metropolis 1 (2010), pp. 66–​79. 39. Nolwenn Mingant, ‘A new Hollywood genre: the global-​local film’, in R. Chopra and R. Gajjala (eds), Global Media, Culture, and Identity: Theory, Cases, and Approaches (New York-London, 2011), p. 145. 40. Vajna also helped consolidate the career of Krisztina Goda, who directed two of the most popular Hungarian films of the post-​1989 period, Just sex… (2005) and Children of Glory (2006), the latter also produced by Vajna. Goda is a graduate of American and English film schools. Her frequent partner in scriptwriting, Réka Divinyi, besides having written Goda’s films (and thus being related to Vajna’s professional circle) is also involved with the A Kind of America universe, the two films directed and produced by Gábor Herendi and Gábor Kálomista, respectively (the latter also having produced Goda’s first feature in 2005). Currently, Krisztina Goda and Réka Divinyi serve on the professional jury board of the Hungarian National Film Fund (as of July 2015). 41. Vera Vodál, ‘A boldog pillanatok valahogy kívül rekednek a magyar filmen: Interjú Havas Ágnessel, a Magyar Nemzeti Filmalap vezérigazgatójával’, Filmtett 11 (January 2013), http://​www.filmtett.ro/​cikk/​3251/​interju-​havas-​ agnessel-​a-​magyar-​nemzeti-​filmalap-​vezerigazgatojaval (accessed 18 February 2015). 42. In July 2015 the institution decided to fund four crime films/​thrillers, one road movie, one comedy and one historical film. Anita Libor, ‘Gryllus Dorka és Dobó Kata közös filmben’, Index Cinematrix 20 (July 2015), http://​index. hu/​kultur/​cinematrix/​2015/​07/​20/​het_​uj_​magyar_​film_​keszul/​ (accessed 23 July 2015). 43. The film A Kind of America 2 is presented on their website as an accomplished reference work of Korda Studios, a facility renowned on a regional, Eastern

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The ‘Hollywood Factor’ European level, see http://​kordastudio.hu/​credit/​valami-​amerika-​2/​ (accessed 15 November 2015), while the studio behind What Ever Happened to Timi? and Made in Hungary, FocusFox Studio (http://​www.focusfox.hu/​, accessed 15 November 2015) currently provides the most up-​to-​date technical possibilities in Hungarian film production and postproduction. 44. Schatz, Hollywood, p. 151. 45. Hjort and Petrie, ‘Introduction’, p. 6. 46. Dimitrij Komm, ‘Adósok és hitelezők: Az orosz műfaj’, Metropolis 3–​4 (2002), pp. 82–​90. Translated into Hungarian from the original Russian by Imre Szíjártó. 47. A characteristic that possibly is not independent of the flourishing Hungarian porn/​adult film industry, on which scholarly data are practically nonexistent. 48. Diehl, ‘A conflicted’, p. 253.

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16 The Exhibition of Popular Cinema in the Czech Republic and Slovakia After 1989 Within the Context of the European Union Jan Hanzlík

Since the fall of the Iron Curtain, film production, distribution and exhibition in Czechoslovakia and its successors, the Czech Republic and Slovakia, have undergone significant changes. This chapter focuses on the post-​ 1989 trends in film distribution and exhibition in the Czech Republic and Slovakia and, for the most part, leaves aside film production and the films themselves. The object is not to downplay the role of films but rather to demonstrate that the popularity of cinema-​going and of individual types of films could be explained, at least partly, both by the historical background and socio-​economic situation of individual countries and by the infrastructure that provides spectators with films. Research of popular culture and popular cinema has a long tradition, notably within the paradigm of cultural studies,1 and many authors have attempted to provide a definition of ‘popular’ as a phenomenon.2 Here the term ‘popular culture’ is used to denote both a leisure activity that attracts large portions of society, and films that bring in large numbers of cinema-​goers. My aim is to focus on some factors that augment or curtail the attractiveness of thus understood popular culture. Since 1989 film distribution and exhibition in the Czech Republic and Slovakia has been subject to globalisation, Americanisation (e.g. 282

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema multiplexing) and Europeanisation (e.g. the MEDIA program3). This chapter first attempts to situate cinema-​going trends in the two countries in an international context, specifically, in a particular cultural zone within the EU. Comparisons on a global level would, of course, be prohibitively difficult given amount of data one would need, but the European Union, to which both countries have belonged since 2004, can provide a manageable and useful context. The second part of this chapter will address the overall situation and the most significant changes in film distribution and exhibition in the two countries after 1989, as well as the most popular films shown there. Several authors have addressed the issue of the globalisation of film exhibition in the past two decades. Charles Acland, for example, notes that a ‘movie-​going public seems to be beckoned into a cosmopolitan demeanour. […] Corralling screens across continents into coordinated openings and closings of films paints an image in which the variegated traces of cultural expression connect people to geographically distant and temporally synchronised communities.’4 The global and temporally-​synchronised circulation of the ‘transnational commercial film culture’5 has been facilitated by the introduction of multiplexes and the digitisation of projection in cinemas all around the world, and these transitions also had profound impact on the Czech and Slovak markets. Multiplexes with their many screens and digitisation of cinemas as a means reducing distribution costs6 were initially, at least in Europe, expected to provide audiences with a wider choice of films.7 Many authors have, however, pointed out that rather the opposite seems to be occurring. The dependence of multiplexes on blockbusters8 basically means that the majority of them offer the same set of films and largely ignore more economically fragile ones.9 As Deborah Allison put it regarding the United Kingdom, ‘the escalating number of cinema screens [failed] to significantly expand their [viewers’] viewing choices.’10 All digitised cinemas now have opening-​night access to economically lucrative Hollywood blockbusters, whereas in the past only a certain number of expensive copies on actual film were available. Prior to digitisation, distributors only provided copies of blockbusters to (more lucrative) multiplexes in the first run, and many single-​screen cinemas were forced to show non-​blockbuster productions. Digitisation made blockbusters immediately available to single-​screen cinemas, and this has, allegedly, led to a 283

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe certain homogenisation of the offerings.11 As a consequence, the promise of ‘the paradise of diversity’12 seems to be no longer attainable.13 From this perspective, both multiplexing and digitisation enhance the possibility of economic exploitation of the most popular products to the detriment of less attractive titles. With the infrastructure adjusted to this sort of exploitation and constraints on the dissemination of popular products loosened, one would expect an increase in the numbers of cinema tickets sold and in the popularity of popular films (particularly Hollywood blockbusters). However, developments in the film exhibition sector are not as straightforward as the discussion above may suggest. In order to provide a more in-​depth approach to the study of cinema-​going, I  will employ a more nuanced version of the globalisation theory put forward by the political scientists Ronald Inglehart and Christian Welzel, who claim that ‘despite globalisation the world is not becoming homogeneous, and the imprint of cultural traditions is not disappearing.’14 They write: In recent decades, a simplistic version of globalisation theory gained widespread currency, holding that the globalisation of the mass media and communications networks was producing cultural convergence; we were headed toward a ‘global village’ in which everyone was on the same wavelength. The evidence […] demonstrates that this view is false –​in fact, global trends are moving in exactly the opposite direction. The values of the publics of rich countries are changing rapidly, but those of low-​ income societies are changing much more slowly or not at all.15

Based on their quantitative research of values throughout the world, they have identified several cultural zones at different stages of the shift from materialism (survival values) to postmaterialism (self-​expression values). As they argue, although socioeconomic development tends to bring predictable changes in people’s worldviews, cultural traditions –​such as whether a society has been historically shaped by Protestantism, Confucianism, or communism  –​continue to show a lasting imprint on a society’s worldview. History matters, and a society’s prevailing value orientations reflect an interaction between the driving forces of modernisation and the retarding influence of tradition.16

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema Inglehart and Welzel are concerned with the shift from materialism to postmaterialism in relation to the history and socioeconomic development of individual countries. While this may seem a bit off-topic in the context of cinema, some of the indicators of survival values and self-​expression values relate to cinema-​going as a leisure activity.17 For example, survival values (i.e. materialism) are represented in Inglehart and Welzel’s study, among other indicators, by such statements as ‘Imagination is not one of the most important things to teach a child’ and ‘Leisure is not very important in life’.18 In this sense, it may be expected that cinema-​going (a leisure activity related to imagination) will be more intensive in cultural zones that are more postmaterialist than in zones that are more materialist. Inglehart and Welzel have identified several cultural zones within Europe. A cultural zone, in their conception, consists of several countries with a common cultural historical background and similar contemporary value orientations. Thus, according to the authors, the populations of historically Orthodox-​religious countries (Bulgaria, Greece, Moldova, Romania, Russia, Serbia, Ukraine, etc.) manifest the highest levels of materialism. The populations with a historically Catholic influence (France, Italy, Luxembourg, Spain, etc.) manifest slightly greater postmaterialist value orientations. Historically Protestant countries (Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, Sweden, etc.) manifest the highest postmaterialism scores.19 Also, countries with a communist past tend to score generally lower on postmaterialism as opposed to countries without such a history, which is arguably caused by their relatively lower economic wealth.20 Of course, there are vast differences among the different versions of both Catholicism and Protestantism, and the authors are aware of that. Since their argument cannot be presented here in detail, suffice it to say that their research has clearly demonstrated the tendencies presented above, despite such differences. The cultural zones framework is based on a high level of abstraction and on an interpretation that needs to take into account various potentially significant factors. Bearing this in mind, the framework is applied here to the levels of cinema-​going in individual EU countries in order to examine the relevance of cultural zones for film industry research or, more specifically, for researching tendencies in cinema-​going. From the data presented in Table 16.1, it would appear that the application of cultural zones based on 285

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Table 16.1  Average admissions per capita in 2013 in selected EU countries Romania Bulgaria Slovakia Greece Poland Hungary Czech Republic Lithuania Latvia Portugal Finland Germany Spain Sweden EU 28 average Italy Netherlands Estonia Belgium Denmark UK France

0.5 0.7 0.7 0.8 0.9 1.0 1.1 1.1 1.2 1.2 1.4 1.6 1.7 1.7 1.8 1.8 1.8 1.9 1.9 2.4 2.6 2.9

Source: European Audiovisual Observatory.

historical religious influences may be of some relevance regarding the levels of cinema-​going: historically Orthodox countries (Romania, Bulgaria and Greece) score the lowest with respect to average per capita admissions, while historically Protestant and mixed Protestant/​Roman Catholic countries (Estonia, Denmark, UK, Belgium and the Netherlands) score relatively higher. Also, most post-​communist countries (Romania, Bulgaria, Slovakia, Poland, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Lithuania and Latvia) tend to score lower than countries without such a history, as their economic wealth possibly does not allow for more frequent visits to the cinema. However, as expected, additional factors are at play here as well. Countries with traditionally strong film industries that produce very large numbers of films annually21 (France, Spain and Italy) score relatively higher than, for example, Finland –​despite belonging to the Roman Catholic cultural zone. It also seems to be the case that countries that have adopted relatively more generous cultural policies in relation to the film industry 286

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema (notably Denmark22) manifest higher levels of cinema-​going than those without such advanced cultural policies. In this sense, the cultural traditions (both long-​term and relatively more recent) indeed seem to be a significant factor influencing the popularity of cinema-​going. The economic wellbeing of the individual countries appears to be another significant factor. Certain countries stricken by the economic crisis that began in 2008 (Greece and Portugal) score relatively low in numbers of cinema-​goers. Although a detailed analysis of economic impacts on cultural consumption is not the aim of this text, at least a partial accounting of the influence of individual countries’ economic situation on the popularity of cinema-​ going may be enlightening, as some tendencies are easily observable. For this purpose, the rate of unemployment, one of the prominent indicators of countries’ economic wellbeing, has been chosen for further analysis. The unemployment rates and the numbers of film admissions spanning 2009–​13 in the EU will be examined. These years have been selected primarily because the data for that period are readily available for analysis. While this selection certainly is constrained the scope of the chapter, it may provide some basic insight into changes over a given period of time and further demonstrate the potential of applying cultural zones to analysis of the film industry. The analysis deliberately puts aside various other factors that may also influence levels of cinema-​going. These include, for example, film piracy and the development of the home entertainment market. While such factors certainly may be influential, the relevant data, particularly for the Czech Republic and Slovakia, are not publicly available. Most Western European and Scandinavian countries, such as Belgium, Germany, Ireland, France, the United Kingdom, Denmark and Sweden, all exhibited slightly declining numbers of cinema attendance over the selected five years.23 The trends were very similar among these countries, and I  will pay further attention to them only occasionally, as a point of comparison. Those countries that did seem to form specific cultural zones with shared trends are briefly described below. The Baltic countries have, in relation to Scandinavian countries (and in particular to Denmark and Sweden), relatively low but slightly increasing numbers of admissions as well as decreasing unemployment rates (see Graphs 16.1 and 16.2). In this way the Baltic countries, owing to the less severe impact of the economic crisis, seem to be slowly drawing level with 287

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Unemployment rate (%) 20 15 10 5 0 2009

2010

2011

Estonia

Latvia

2012

2013

Lithuania

Graph 16.1  Unemployment rate 2009–​13 (the Baltics) Source: Based on data provided by Eurostat. Admissions per capita 2

1

0 2009

2010 Estonia

2011 Latvia

2012

2013

Lithuania

Graph 16.2  Admissions per capita 2009–​13 (the Baltics) Source: Based on data provided by European Audiovisual Observatory.

other countries in their (Protestant) cultural zone, thus overcoming the legacy of their communist past –​at least from the perspective of participation in cultural activities. Recent positive economic development in historically Roman Catholic Lithuania is in line with that in Estonia and Latvia (and is not in line either with other historically Catholic European countries or with other post-​communist countries). This seems to indicate that certain shared features (possibly the economic situation and geographic proximity) with other Baltic countries are more influential than the historical background. In the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland and Slovakia development differed from that in the Baltics over the five years in question: the rate of 288

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema Unemployment rate (%) 15 10 5 0 2009

2010

Czech Rep.

2011 Hungary

2012

2013 Slovakia

Poland

Graph 16.3  Unemployment rate 2009–​13 (Central Europe) Source: Based on data provided by Eurostat Admissions per capita 1,5 1 0,5 0 2009 Czech Rep.

2010

2011 Hungary

2012

2013

Poland

Slovakia

Graph 16.4  Admissions per capita 2009–​13 (Central Europe) Source: Based on data provided by European Audiovisual Observatory

unemployment in the former countries rose slightly, while the numbers of cinema admissions declined slightly (see Graphs 16.3 and 16.4). This more or less mirrors the trends in the Western European countries and Sweden and Denmark, though with significantly lower numbers of admissions per capita in the four post-​communist Central European countries. This suggests that while these four countries are developing in line with Western Europe, their post-​communist past still hinders them from approaching the level of cultural consumption adopted in the West. Problems related to the economy, industry and social structures might be among the main factors hindering former communist societies from spending more on cultural goods, given that the shift from a state-​based economy to a market-​ oriented one has often resulted in greatly impoverished societies. 289

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Unemployment rate (%) 30 25 20 15 10 5 0 2009 Bulgaria

2010 Greece

2011 Portugal

2012 Romania

2013 Spain

Graph 16.5  Unemployment rate 2009–​13 (Southern Europe) Source: Based on data provided by Eurostat.

Southern European countries form two different patterns of development. In countries most severely affected by the economic crises (manifested here in the unemployment rates), that is, Greece, Portugal and Spain, admissions declined sharply: by one-fifth to almost one-third. The admissions per capita in Romania and Bulgaria, on the other hand, were so low in 2009 in the European context that they rose over the five-​year span despite the simultaneous rise in unemployment rates (in Bulgaria rather considerably, see Graphs 16.5 and 16.6). Bulgaria and Romania, at the intersection of the Orthodox Christian cultural zone and the post-​ communist cultural zone, saw a constant, albeit slow increase in cinema admissions from 2007 when they entered the EU, but despite that, by 2013 they had not reached even the numbers of severely crisis-​stricken Greece, which had not experienced a communist past. One of the reasons for the increase in attendance may be the MEDIA programme’s support of film distribution and exhibition, which may be a sign of a certain degree of cultural convergence within Europe or of Europeanisation (although, admittedly, new multiplexes in those countries may play a more significant role). It is possible to conclude from the previous discussion that cultural zones within the EU can be seen as having at least some shared characteristics with the film industries of individual countries. It may be possible to further demonstrate the existence of such zones by the various kinds 290

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema Admissions per capita 2,5 2 1,5 1 0,5 0 2009

2010

Bulgaria

Greece

2011 Portugal

2012

2013

Romania

Spain

Graph 16.6  Admissions per capita 2009–​13 (Southern Europe) Source: Based on data provided by European Audiovisual Observatory.

of cooperation among the countries within individual zones (such as the 2015 cooperative agreement for TV and film productions among the Baltic countries24) or by their occasional joint presentation to the outside world (for example, in the collective presentation at the Visegrád Film Festival in Cork, Ireland25). While this issue definitely needs additional research, it at least seems that film exhibition in the Czech Republic and Slovakia shares certain conditions with that in Poland and Hungary and in some ways develops differently from that of other countries of the European Union. Having established, however briefly, an international context within which to place cinema-​going in the Czech Republic and Slovakia, I turn to the development of film exhibition after 1989 in the two countries. Prior to 1989, the numbers of admissions in Czechoslovakia had been fairly high in relation to Western Europe. For example, in the Slovak part of the former Czechoslovakia in 1987 there were 3.7 annual admissions per capita, higher than in most Western European countries that year, for example, France (2.5) and West Germany (1.8).26 As author and film distributor Aleš Danielis has pointed out, the programming of Czechoslovak television was more strictly controlled than the programming of cinemas, and often films that were banned from being broadcast on television were nevertheless available in cinemas. Additionally, the availability of leisure activities (particularly travel abroad) was rather limited before 1989.27 Soon after the 291

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe events of 1989, film admissions began to decline in Czechoslovakia as new leisure activities became available and admission prices consistently rose. This development was further exacerbated when private television broadcasters entered the Czech and Slovak markets in the mid-​1990s.28 In the Czech part of Czechoslovakia admissions in absolute numbers decreased from 51,452,520 in 1989 to 36,361,230 in 1990 and to 8,370,825 in 199929 without substantial changes in the population number. In this sense, admissions in Czechoslovakia (as in other post-​communist countries30) declined to a level similar to those in the West, yet without the West’s economic strength and technically superior cinemas. The distribution of films from capitalist countries was state regulated in Czechoslovakia until 1989 and was limited to 30 per cent of the offerings. After the Velvet Revolution this rule was lifted, and by 1992 the proportion of American films had risen to 77 per cent, reflecting the demand for previously rare but coveted products.31 However, thereafter that proportion declined to a level more common in Europe, apparently due to the increase in numbers of private broadcasters, which dedicate large proportions of their programming to popular American films.32 By the end of the 1990s, the ongoing steep decline in cinema-​going had been averted (see Table 16.2) by multiplexing, as happened in many other countries in North America and Europe.33 The first transnational cinema chains were established in the Czech Republic in 1999 and in Slovakia in 2000, and in each country respectively the numbers of admissions began to rise from those dates onward. The influence of multiplexing on attendance can be demonstrated easily (in the Czech context) by the fact that admission numbers rose significantly only in cities with multiplexes (Prague, Brno, Ostrava, Hradec Králové and České Budějovice), while in cities without such facilities (in the first five years of the 2000s) admission numbers either rose only very slightly (Plzeň and Olomouc) or even declined (Liberec, Ústí nad Labem and Pardubice).34 Also the multiplex cinemas’ share of the admissions in the Czech Republic and Slovakia began rising as soon as the first one was established. In the Czech Republic that share reached 68.5 per cent in 201335 (with 28 multiplex cinemas out of a total of 318 cinemas in regular operations, excluding open-​air and drive-​ in cinemas and establishments offering irregular screenings36). The multiplex share of admissions in Slovakia was 83.8 per cent in 2013 (with 21 292

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema Table 16.2  Cinema admissions in the Czech Republic and Slovakia 1993–​201441

1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014

Czech Republic

Slovakia

21,898,200 12,870,355 9,253,214 8,846,030 9,815,024 9,246,676 8,370,825 8,718,776 10,363,336 10,692,996 12,139,638 12,046,139 9,478,632 11,508,965 12,829,513 12,897,046 12,469,365 13,536,869 10,789,760 11,181,851 11,057,559 11,558,586

8,919,326 6,358,228 5,643,154 4,846,344 4,040,510 4,082,139 3,029,534 2,645,640 2,847,567 3,167,844 2,968,162 2,901,554 2,183,518 3,395,670 2,772,909 3,361,817 4,151,935 3,913,326 3,603,544 3,436,269 3,725,709 3,697,437

Source: Union of Film Distributors,42 Slovak Film Institute.43

multiplexes37 out of 102 cinemas in regular operations, excluding open-​air and drive-​in cinemas and establishments offering irregular screenings).38 While the content of films (and their marketing campaigns) may influence the numbers of people willing to attend cinemas, it is clear that in the case of the Czech Republic and Slovakia the new infrastructure played a significant role in the stabilisation of cinema-​going in the twenty-​first century. Multiplexes were commonly criticised (e.g. in the media) because of their commercial focus and association with imported goods (Hollywood blockbusters, Coke and popcorn);39 yet they were also praised for having comfortable seats, air-​conditioning and overall technical maturity,40 which, together with their location in malls, attracted patrons back to cinemas. The strength of the relationship between the multiplex and the blockbuster is clearly visible in Table 16.2: a widely-​reported shortage of major blockbusters in 2005 explains the decrease in cinema admissions in that 293

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe year, and a comparison with the numbers from other European countries reveals that this was a global swing. I have already mentioned the current trend, in which several high-​ profile films garner a very large proportion of box office earnings. According to Aleš Danielis (writing about Czech film distribution), it is not yet clear whether the digitisation of cinemas is accelerating this trend. In his view, mainstream films are currently losing out to blockbusters,44 while the audiences dedicated to upscale or art-​house films remain relatively stable.45 I will introduce my discussion of what sorts of films are popular in Europe, and in the Czech Republic and Slovakia in particular, with an examination of how popular domestic production performs in individual countries, with a particular focus on the years 2009–​13, as the data for that period are easily obtainable. However, the data (Table 16.3) do not seem to form any identifiable pattern; although, as can be observed in the case of Denmark and France, elaborate and generous cultural policies seem to play a role. (Also, the new film funding legislation and the establishment of the Polish Film Institute in 2005 played a role in an increase in the market share of domestic productions in Poland at that time.) The Czech Republic, despite being a small market and having troubles with the implementation of efficient cultural policies after 1989, has had a relatively high proportion of domestic films in overall admission numbers in recent years. In this context, Balázs Varga has made the interesting point that while Czech films are popular with Czech audiences, they nevertheless rarely win prizes at prestigious film festivals and also rarely enter foreign Table 16.3  National market shares in Central Europe, Denmark and France (%). Denmark and France are included here as the countries with the largest share of domestic films on national markets

France Denmark Czech Republic Poland Slovakia Hungary

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

45.4 33.0 39.6 25.4 15.6 11.4

35.7 22.0 34.8 14.4 2.2 5.3

40.9 27.0 28.5 31.3 10.1 7.2

40.2 28.7 24.3 19 4.8 1.9

33.8 30.0 24.2 20.4 4.4 1.5

Source: European Audiovisual Observatory.

294

295

The Exhibition of Popular Cinema distribution and markets. In contrast, Romanian cinema, which is relatively unpopular with Romanian audiences, is often awarded prizes at prestigious film festivals and also enters distribution abroad.46 During round-tables of film industry professionals at the Karlovy Vary Film Festival in 2014, film producers and distributors expressed the opinion that the popularity of Czech films on the domestic market is declining (see Table 16.4) and that the label ‘Czech film’ no longer works as a promotion in itself, as it once did. Some blamed this on the decreasing quality of Czech films. Yet despite the declining market share of domestic films, recent research commissioned by the Asociace producentů v audiovizi (Audiovisual Producers’ Association, APA) reveals that Czech films are still popular with Czech audiences. Performed by Millward Brown and presented to the public in March 2015, the research also reveals that an overwhelming majority of the Czech population stated that Czech films are unique and of high quality, with a long tradition of film-making and a good name abroad. What Czechs particularly like about Czech cinema, according to this research, is its familiarity and comprehensibility. An absolute majority of the respondents also stated that the quality of Czech films is either constant or improving.47 It is difficult to account for the popularity of domestic films among Czech audiences. Given the reasons provided by the APA research (‘familiarity’ and ‘comprehensibility’ as well as the popularity of domestic film stars), two interpretations may be offered, neither of which is as yet supported by appropriate research and evidence. It may be the case that Czech films truly do construct their topics in a way that Czech audiences find familiar and comprehensible, and this could be seen as a particular achievement of the Czech film industry. On the other hand, the popularity may be a sign of a certain self-​absorbtion and self-​centredness of Czechs, as is occasionally discussed in the Czech press.48 The anthropologist Ladislav Holý has noted, however, that such self-​criticism is a common Czech self-​stereotype,49 so it is difficult to draw any decisive conclusions about the issue at the moment. The relatively lower popularity of domestic films on the Slovak market, in comparison with the situation in the Czech Republic, may be explained, among other things, by the relatively lower number of feature films produced: 17 in Slovakia as opposed to 47 in the Czech Republic in 2013. Nonetheless, this number for Slovak film production is among the highest in the past 20 years, as a state policy specifically designed for funding, 295

296

Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe Table 16.4  Top 10 films by number of admissions in the Czech Republic

Czech films and coproductions US films and coproductions

2006

2007

2008

2009 2010

2011 2012 2013

4

5

5

3

5

3

3

5

6

5

4

7

5

7

7

5

Source: Union of Film Distributors.

Table 16.5  Top 10 films by number of admissions in Slovakia 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 Slovak films and coproductions Czech films without a Slovak coproducer US films and coproductions

0

1

1

2

0

1

0

1

0

1

2

1

2

2

0

0

10

7

2

7

8

7

10

9

Source: Slovak Film Institute and European Audiovisual Observatory.

distributing and promoting national audiovisual production was implemented only in 200450 and the Slovak Audiovisual Fund was established as late as 2009.51 (In contrast, the State Fund for the Support and Development of Czech Cinema,52 despite being permanently underfinanced, was established in the Czech Republic as far back as 1992.)53 Finally, turning to an examination of the top 10 films in terms of admissions (films that could be labelled as ‘popular’) in the Czech Republic and Slovakia, the years 2006–​13 have again been selected due to the availability of data (see Tables 16.4 and 16.5). As in the rest of Europe, Czechs and Slovaks primarily go to cinemas to see American productions or coproductions. These are primarily globally successful, action-​packed blockbusters with huge marketing campaigns that do generally well in international distribution, such as Avatar (2009), Gravity (2013), The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (2013) and Iron Man 3. (2013) Among the domestic films, there seems to be a clear preference by Czechs for comedies. The most successful Czech film in the period under question, Vratné lahve (Empties, 2007), sold 1,254,282 admissions, 296

297

The Exhibition of Popular Cinema surpassing all domestic and foreign films in distribution combined. It clearly conforms to the above-​mentioned notions of ‘familiarity’ and ‘comprehensibility’, and a favourite local star, Zdeněk Svěrák, plays the lead and wrote the screenplay. His son, Jan Svěrák, directed the film. The second most successful film in distribution in the Czech Republic in the years in question was Ženy v pokušení (Women in temptation, 2010), again a comedy with local stars, which surpassed even Avatar in theatrical distribution (as measured by admissions not by profits). While these (as well as other) Czech comedies also did relatively well in distribution in Slovakia, Slovak spectators seem to prefer more dramatic and also relatively more ambitious domestic productions: the most successful domestic films in 2006–​ 13 were the historical drama Bathory (Bathory: Countess of Blood, 2008) with 432,000 admissions, the thriller Lóve (2011) with 122,870 admissions and the drama Pokoj v duši (Soul at Peace, 2009) with 116,818 admissions. Clearly, Bathory: Countess of Blood was an exceptionally popular domestic product in Slovakia, yet it needs to be mentioned that this high-​budget film was made in coproduction with the Czech Republic, Great Britain and Hungary and as such was an exception in many ways.

Conclusion While film distribution and exhibition around the world has been becoming increasingly globalised in recent years, particularly through multiplexing and digitisation, a closer look at the Czech and Slovak markets in the context of the EU shows that their cinema-​going patterns have more in common with Hungary and Poland than with other European countries. The level of popularity of cinema-​going in East Central Europe has been shaped, among other factors, by a shared post-​communist past and the struggle to develop cultural policy (albeit taking different directions in the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland and Slovakia), as well as by the current economic conditions (which are not alike in all the countries of East Central Europe, but all together are distinct, for example from those of the Baltic states and the countries of Southern Europe). Additionally, while Hollywood blockbusters are the most popular films and tend to garner the largest portions of admissions and profits in all European countries, the popularity of domestic productions in individual European countries 297

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe varies significantly, and the differences, especially within the context of East Central Europe, are not easily accounted for.

Notes 1. See, for example, Matthew Tinkcom and Amy Villarejo (eds), Keyframes: Popular Cinema and Cultural Studies (London, 2001). 2. See John Fiske, Understanding Popular Culture (Boston, 1989). 3. The MEDIA program was “an initiative that ran from 2007–​2013 with a budget of €755  million to support projects and activities designed to support the development and distribution of thousands of films, as well as training activities, festivals, and promotion projects throughout the [European] continent.” Available at http://​ec.europa.eu/​culture/​tools/​media-​programme_​en.htm (accessed 29 February 2016). 4. Charles R. Acland, Screen Traffic. Movies, Multiplexes, and Global Culture (Durham, NC, and London, 2003), pp. 239–​40. 5. Ibid. 6. And also, theoretically, unlimited internet distribution of films. 7. For example, in 2006, Deborah Allison noted that “[t]‌he adoption of digital projection reduces the cost to distributors of striking and shipping film prints. This makes viable the provision of specialised product to a larger number of cinemas.” Deborah Allison, ‘Multiplex Programming in the UK:  The Economics of Homogeneity’, Screen, xlvii/​1 (2006), p. 90. 8. See, for example, Mark Jancovich and Lucy Faire, ‘The Best Place to See a Film: The Blockbuster and the Transformation of Exhibition’, in Julian Stringer, Movie Blockbusters (London, 2003), pp. 190–​201. 9. Allison, ‘Multiplex Programming’, pp. 81–​90. 10. Ibid., p. 89. 11. Many articles in Czech newspapers and film press, written by both journalists and film distributors, have pointed this out. See, for example, Přemysl Martinek, ‘Zapomeňte na Jarmusche, jdeme na fotbal /​dnešní alternativa vůči mainstreamu’, Cinepur 70 (July 2010), pp. 6–​9. 12. Laurent Creton, ‘Le devenir des salles d’art et essai: éléments d’économie politique’, in L. Creton and K. Kitsopandiou (eds), Les salles de cinéma. Enjeux, défis et perspectives (Paris, 2013, e-​book edition). 13. For a detailed discussion of this problem, see also, for example, Paul McDonald, ‘Le cinéma numérique, la promesse d’un renouveau culturel?’, in Ibid. Even in the domain of internet distribution the same effect may be observed: according to Laurent Creton, the offer of films provided by the video-​on-​demand platforms is concentrating on highly publicised films rather than on the enlargement of the offer. See L. Creton, ‘Le devenir des salles d’art et essai’.

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema 14. Ronald Inglehart and Christian Welzel, Modernization, Cultural Change, and Democracy. The Human Development Sequence (Cambridge, 2005), p. 4. 15. Ibid., p. 133. 16. Ibid., p. 5 17. The application of Inglehart and Welzel’s conception of cultural zones on the consumption of culture is inspired by Petr Dostál, Eva Kislingerová a kol., Ekonomika kultury. Efektivní metody a nástroje podnikání v sektoru kultury (Prague, 2012), p. 15. 18. Ibid., pp. 55–​6. 19. Ibid., p.  63; Ronald Inglehart and Christian Welzel, ‘Changing Mass Priorities: The Link Between Modernization and Democracy’, Perspectives on Politics viii/​2 (2010), p. 554. 20. Inglehart and Welzel, Modernization, Cultural Change, and Democracy, p. 63. 21. European Audiovisual Observatory, Focus 2014. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2014). 22. For example, ‘In the 1990s, the Danish Film Institute introduced a series of measures to support marketing related activities to support Danish film promotion […]. These measures include the development of a recruited audience screening programme where all films supported by the DFI would benefit from RAS testing, which up to that point had only been available to those films picked up for the international market by the US majors. […] In addition to this, the DFI began to actively promote Danish films in the international marketplace and to develop mechanisms to ensure their domestic success.’ Finola Kerrigan, Film Marketing (Oxford, 2010), p. 77. 23. European Audiovisual Observatory, Focus 2009. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2009); Focus 2010. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2010); Focus 2011. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2011); Focus 2012. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2012); Focus 2013. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2013); Focus 2014. World Film Market Trends (Cannes, 2014). 24. Cineuropa, ‘Baltic film institutions sign a mutual cooperation agreement’ (Brussels, 17 May 2015). Available at http://​cineuropa.org/​nw.aspx?t=newsdet ail&l=en&did=293006 (accessed 13 July 2015). 25. Visegrad Film Festival in Cork. Available at http://​visegradfilmfestival.com/​ (accessed 13 July 2015). 26. Acland, Screen Traffic, pp. 253–​4. 27. Aleš Danielis, ‘Česká filmová distribuce po roce 1989’, Iluminace xix/​1 (2007), p. 58. 28. Ibid., p. 78. 29. Unie filmových distributor (Union of film distributors). Available at http://​ www.ufd.cz/​prehledy-​statistiky (accessed 24 February 2015). 30. See Acland, Screen Traffic, pp. 253–​4. 31. Danielis, ‘Česká filmová’, p. 68.

299

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Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe 32. Ibid., p. 78. 33. For example, the development of multiplexes in France is discussed in a special issue of Géographie et Cultures 53 (October 2005). The development of multiplexes in Ireland is discussed in Kevin Rockett and Emer Rockett, Film Exhibition and Distribution in Ireland, 1909–​2010 (Dublin, 2011), pp. 193–​228. 34. Danielis, ‘Česká filmová’, pp. 88–​9. 35. Unie filmových distributorů. Available at http://​www.ufd.cz/​system/​files/​ clanky/​podilymkina2014.xls (accessed 24 February 2015). 36. Jaroslav Pecka, ‘RE Prosba’ (16 March 2015). Online. Email: [email protected]. 37. Slovak statistics include two-​screen cinemas in a number of multiplexes, while the Czech statistics only count those with four or more screens. 38. Ministerstvo kultúry Slovenskej republiky, ‘Ročný výkaz o audiovízii za rok 2013’. Available at http://​www.culture.gov.sk/​extdoc/​5149/​sumar_​Kult%2011-​ 01_​2013 (accessed 24 February 2015). 39. Multiplexes were the object of criticism for similar reasons in other countries as well. For example, Mark Jancovich, Lucy Faire and Sarah Stubbings noted in the context of the United Kingdom that, ‘while [the] association between the multiplex and the blockbuster has proved financially profitable, and also stimulated renewed interest in cinema-​going as an activity, both remain objects of considerable criticism.’ The Place of the Audience. Cultural Geographies of Film Consumption (London, 2003), p. 197. 40. Jan Hanzlík and Karel Čada, ‘Technické vymoženosti, americké trháky a nezbytný popcorn. Konstrukce kulturní zkušenosti z multikina v českém denním tisku’, Iluminace xix/​1 (2007), pp. 105–​23. 41. Unfortunately, earlier data for Slovakia were not available from the Slovak Film Institute. 42. Unie filmových distributorů. Available at http://​www.ufd.cz/​prehledy-​ statistiky (accessed 1 May 2015). 43. Miroslav Ulman, ‘Re:  dotaz k návštěvnosti slovenských kin’ (24 February 2015). Online. Email: [email protected]. 44. ‘Blockbusters’ are defined by ‘largeness of scale’ in various dimensions: ‘It includes such factors as running time and length, the size of film’s cast, and the nature, scope, and mode of cinematic presentation of the events and situations depicted. These factors are nearly always related to the size of a film’s budget.’ Steve Neale, ‘Hollywood Blockbusters: Historical Dimensions,’ in J.  Stringer (ed.), Movie Blockbusters (London, 2003), p. 48. In the context of the Czech film industry, the term ‘blockbuster’ is used also to denote some domestic films with huge commercial potential (of course, on the domestic market). Mainstream films, on the other hand, are commercial films that cannot be defined by this ‘largeness of scale’.

300

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The Exhibition of Popular Cinema 45. Aleš Danielis, ‘Svět filmu bez perforace. Hrozby a příležitosti digitální filmové distribuce’, Iluminace xxvi/​3 (2013), pp. 98–​9. 46. Balázs Varga, ‘Eyes on the Prize: Hungarian Films and the International Film Festival Circuit’, Screen Industries in East and Central Europe Conference (SIECE), Olomouc, 28–​9 November 2014. 47. Asociace producentů v audiovizi (Audiovisual Producers’ Association). ‘Český film je dobrá značka, která má stále potenciál, říká výzkum APA’ Available at http://​www.asociaceproducentu.cz/​cz/​prispevek/​15 (accessed 1 May 2015). 48. Jan Čulík wrote in 1999, for example, of the self-​absorbtion and self-​centredness of the Czech media. ‘Czech Media and Civil Society: A Survey’, Central Europe Review i/​8 (1999). Available at http://​www.ce-​review.org/​99/​8/​culik8. html (accessed 20 May 2015). 49. Ladislav Holý, The Little Czech and the Great Czech Nation: National Identity and the Post-​Communist Social Transformation (Cambridge, 1996), p. 75. 50. Miroslav Ullman, Správa o stave slovenskej audiovízie v roku 2004 (Bratislava, 2004), p. 7. Available at http://​www.mediadesk.sk/​files/​media-​desk/​spravy/​ sprava_​audiovizia_​2004-​sk.pdf (accessed 1 May 2015). 51. Audiovizuální fond, ‘O fonde’. Available at http://​www.avf.sk/​aboutus.aspx (accessed 1 May 2015). 52. The term ‘cinematography’ is often used incorrectly in the English translations of the title of the fund, where ‘cinema’ would be appropriate. 53. See, for example, Danielis, ‘Česká filmová’, p. 59.

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Bibliography Acland, Charles R., Screen Traffic. Movies, Multiplexes, and Global Culture (Durham, NC, and London, 2003). Adamczak, Marcin, ‘Film Units in the People’s Republic of Poland’, in M. Adamczak, P. Marecki and M. Malatyński (eds), Restart Zespołów Filmowych. Film Units: Restart (Kraków-​Łódź, 2012). ———, Piotr Marecki, and Marcin Malatyński (eds), Film Units: Restart (Kraków and Łódź, 2012). Allison, Deborah, ‘Multiplex Programming in the UK:  The Economics of Homogeneity’, Screen, xlvii/​1 (2006), pp. 81–​90. Altman, Rick, ‘A Semantic/​Syntactic Approach to Film Genre’, in L. Braudy and M. Cohen (eds), Film Theory and Criticism (New York and Oxford, 2009). Anonymous, ‘Biedna głowa ryzykownej “Mali’’’, Film xxi/​130 (1951), p. 14. Anonymous, ‘Prosimy o nowe filmy’, Film xviii/​127 (1951), p. 14. Anonymous, ‘Błyskawiczny wywiad. Kino “Aktualności” w Łodzi daje 7 seansów dziennie’, Film x/​119 (1951), p. 10. Anonymous, ‘Klasyka filmowa na ekranach’, Film viii/​325 (1955), p. 3. Anonymous, Film a doba iii/​3 (1957), pp. 149–​50. Anonymous, 20 lat kultury w Polsce Ludowej dane statystyczne (Warszawa, 1969). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1992 (Prague 1993). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1994 (Prague, 1995). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1995 (Prague, 1996). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1996 (Prague, 1997). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1997 (Prague, 1998). Anonymous, Český hraný film II. 1930–​1945 (Prague, 1998). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1998 (Prague, 1999). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 1999 (Prague, 2000). Anonymous, ‘50 nejsledovanějších pořádů na ČT1 v roce 2000’ (2001). Available at: http://​img.ceskatelevize.cz/​boss/​image/​contents/​sledovanost/​zebricky/​2000_​ celkove/​50_​nejsled_​ct1_​2000.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 2000 (Prague, 2001). Anonymous, ‘50 nejsledovanějších pořádů na ČT1 v roce 2001’ (2002). Available at: http://​img.ceskatelevize.cz/​boss/​image/​contents/​sledovanost/​zebricky/​2001_ celkove/​nejsled_​2001.pdf (accessed 20 May 2015). Anonymous, Filmová ročenka 2001 (Prague, 2002).

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Bibliography ———,​‘A magyar hangosfilm új útjai’, Filmkultúra v/​3 (1932), p. 2. Szerb, Antal, ‘A mozgóképszínház kultúrális jelentősége’, in A. Szerb, Összegyűjtött írások (Budapest, 2000). Tamás, Bence Gáspár, ‘Hiába a támogatás, még mindig nem hasít a magyar film’, 444.hu portal, 22 December 2014. Available at http://​444.hu/​2014/​12/​ 22/​igy-​szerepeltek-​a-​magyar-​filmek-​az-​elmult-​negy-​evben/​ (accessed 18 February 2015). Tárnok, János, A magyar játékfilmek nézőszáma és forgalmazási adatai 1948–​1976 (Budapest, 1978). Tatar, Maria, The Hard Facts of the Grimms’ Fairy Tales (Princeton, 1987). Taussig, Pavel, ‘Kdo smíchem zachází, ten…?’, Scéna xiii/​11 (1988), p. 11. Tille, Václav, ‘Dva filmy’, Literární noviny ix/​6 (1936), p. 7. Tinkcom, Matthew and Amy Villarejo (eds), Keyframes:  Popular Cinema and Cultural Studies (London, 2001). ‘Tři oříšky pro Popelku’. Scénáře a produkční dokumenty, file, The contract between DEFA and Barrandov, BSA, collection. Trotter, David, Cinema and Modernism (Malden and Oxford, 2007). Tunys, Ladislav, Oldřich Nový (Prague, 2011). Ullman, Miloslav, Správa o stave slovenskej audiovízie v roku 2004 (Bratislava, 2004). Available at http://​www.mediadesk.sk/​files/​media-​desk/​spravy/​sprava_​ audiovizia_​2004-​sk.pdf (accessed 1 May 2015). Ulver, Stanislav, ‘Český film včera a dnes,’ Film a doba xli/​2 (Summer 1995), pp. 58–​61. Unie filmových distributorů. Available at http://​www.ufd.cz/​ (accessed 24 February 2015). Unie filmových distributorů, ‘Přehledy, statistiky’. Available at http://​www.ufd.cz/​ prehledy-​statistiky (accessed 19 May 2015). Vajdovich, Györgyi, ‘Az egyszerű néző cirkuszi szórakozása: az 1931 és 1945 közötti magyar filmek megjelenése a magyar filmtörténeti monográfiákban,’ Metropolis (2009), pp. 46–​57. Váradi, Júlia and Bálint András Kovács, ‘A Meseautó esélye. Beszélgetés Király Jenővel’, Filmvilág i (1995), pp. 45−7. Varga, Balázs (ed.), Hungarian Feature Films 1931–​1998 (Budapest,1999). ———​, ‘Benne lenne? Magyar filmtörténeti toplisták és a kanonizáció kérdései’, Metropolis iii (2009), pp. 32–​44. ———, ‘Co-​operation. The Organisation of Studio Units in the Hungarian Film Industry of the 1950s and 1960s’, in M. Adamczak, P. Marecki and M. Malatyński (eds), Restart Zespołów Filmowych. Film Units: Restart (Kraków-​ Łódź, 2012). ———​, ‘Tradition and Modernity. Contemporary Hungarian Popular Cinema’, Images xxii (2013). Available at https://​repozytorium.amu.edu.pl/​jspui/​

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Bibliography bitstream/​10593/​11919/​1/​B alazs%20Varga%20-​%20Tradition%20nad%20 Modernization.%20Contemporary%20Hungarian%20Popular%20Cinema. pdf (accessed 6 May 2015). ———,​‘Eyes on the Prize: Hungarian Films and the International Film Festival Circuit’, Screen Industries in East and Central Europe Conference (SIECE), Olomouc, 28–​9 November 2014. Vaszary, János, Zörgetik az ajtót (Budapest, 2007). Velek, Viktor, “Svatý Václav. První český historický velkofilm” (supplementary book on Svatý Václav DVD release) (Prague, 2010). Vidal, Belén, Figuring the Past:  Period Film and the Mannerist Aesthetic (Amsterdam, 2012). Vincendeau, Ginette, ‘Melodramatic realism,’ Screen xxx/​3 (1989), pp. 51–​65. Virginás, Andrea, ‘A kis mozik fogalma:  román és magyar filmgyártási példák’, Filmszem iv/​ 3 (2014). Available at http://​filmszem.net/​archivum/​2014-​ negyedik-​evfolyam/​ (accessed 17 June 2015). Visegrad Film Festival in Cork. Available at http://​visegradfilmfestival.com/​ (accessed 13 July 2015). Vodál, Vera, ‘A boldog pillanatok valahogy kívül rekednek a magyar filmen: Interjú Havas Ágnessel, a Magyar Nemzeti Filmalap vezérigazgatójával’, Filmtett xi (2013), available at http://​www.filmtett.ro/​cikk/​3251/​interju-​ havas-​agnessel-​a-​magyar-​nemzeti-​filmalap-​vezerigazgatojaval (accessed 18 February 2015). Vorlíček, Václav, ‘Explication of realization and financial conditions of the co-​production Three wishes for Cinderella, undated, Barrandov Studios Archive collection, Scripts and production documents, file: ‘Tři oříšky pro Popelku’. Vovelle, Michel, Ideologies and Mentalities (Oxford, 1990). Waller, Marguerite, ‘What’s in your head. History and nation in Ibolya Fekete’s Bolse Vita: ghetto art’s making the walls come down’, in A. Imre (ed.), East European Cinemas (New York and London, 2005). Wang, Yuejin, ‘Melodrama as historical understanding:  the making and the unmaking of communist history’, in W. Dissanayake (ed.), Melodrama and Asian Cinema (Cambridge, 1993). Wenig, Jan, ‘Film o armádním mládí‘, Národní listy lxxiii/​298 (1938), unpaginated. White, Hayden, The Content of the Form:  Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore, 1987). Williams, David, Writing Postcommunism. Towards a Literature of the East European Ruins (Basingstoke, 2013). Záhonyi, Ábel Márk, ‘A magyar filmes intézményrendszer 1938–​1944,’ Metropolis xvii/​2 (2013), pp. 12–​27. Zajdel, Jakub, ‘Filmowy obraz Polski powojennej’, in T. Miczka and A. Madej (eds), Syndrom konformizmu? (Katowice, 1994).

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Bibliography Załuski, Zbigniew, ‘Agnieszka i krytycy’, Wolność i Lud, 31 January 1965. ———, ‘Agnieszka i rzeczywistość‘, Wolność i Lud, 15 February 1965. Zipes, Jack, The Enchanted Screen. The Unknown History of Fairy-​ Tale Films (New York, 2011). Zarzosa, Augustín, Refiguring Melodrama in Film and Television. Captive Affects, Elastic Sufferings, Vicarious Objects (Lanham, Boulder and New York, 2013). Žižek, Slavoj, The Sublime Object of Ideology (London and New York, 1989). ———​, Living in the End Times (London and New York, 2011).

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Filmography 2x2 néha öt (2x2 are sometimes 5, 1954, Hungary, Dir. György Révész). 2x2 are sometimes 5, See 2x2 néha öt. À bout de souffle (Breathless, 1960, France, Dir. Jean-​Luc Godard). Abenteuer mit Blasius, See Dobrodružství s Blasiem. Accumulator 1, See Akumulátor 1. Adéla ještě nevečeřela (Dinner for Adele, 1977, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Oldřich Lipský). Adventure with Blasius, See Dobrodružství s Blasiem. Affair of Honor, An, See Lovagias ügy. Against all, See Proti všem. Agnieszka ’46 (1964, Poland, Dir. Sylwester Chęciński). Akumulátor 1 (Accumulator 1, 1994, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Svěrák). Áldozat, Az (The victim, 1979, Hungary, Dir. György Dobray). Alibaba and the Forty Thieves (1944, USA, Dir. A. Lubin, released in Polish as Ali Baba i 40 rozbójników). Ali Baba i 40 rozbójników, See Alibaba and the Forty Thieves. Állami áruház (State department store, 1953, Hungary, Dir. Viktor Gertler). Anděl na horách (Angel in the mountains, 1955, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Bořivoj Zeman). Angel in the mountains, See Anděl na horách. Apa (Father, 1966, Hungary, Dir. István Szabó). Ardent heart, An, See Horoucí srdce. Argo 2 (2015, Hungary, Dir. Attila Árpa). Árie prérie (The Song of the Prairie, 1949, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jiří Trnka). artillery sergeant Kalen, The, See Ogniomistrz Kaleń. Ashes, The, See Popioły. Ashes and Diamonds, See Popiół i diament. Avatar (2009, USA, Dir. James Cameron). Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015, USA, Dir. Joss Whedon). Babička (Granny, 1940, Czechoslovakia, Dir. František Čáp). Babička (Granny, 1971, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Antonín Moskalyk). Babovřesky (2013, Czech Republic, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Bartered bride, The, See Prodaná nevěsta. Barwy ochronne (Camouflage, 1977, Poland, Dir. Krzysztof Zanussi). Barwy walki (Battle colours, 1964, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Passendorfer).

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Filmography Bathory (Bathory:  Countess of Blood, 2008, Czech Republic/​Slovakia/​Hungary/​ Great Britain, Dir. Juraj Jakubisko). Bathory: Countess of Blood, See Bathory. Battle colours, See Barwy walki. Baza ludzi umarłych (The depot of the dead, 1958, Poland, Dir. Ewa and Czesław Petelskis). Beauty in Trouble, See Kráska v nesnázích. Beloe solntse pustyni (White Sun of the Desert, 1969, USSR, Dir. Vladimir Motyl). Bicycle Thieves, See Ladri di biciclette. Big Beat, See Šakalí léta. Big Country, The (1958, USA, Dir. William Wyler). Billy the Tough and the giant mosquitos, See Kamenáč Bill a ohromní moskyti. Black barons, The, See Černí baroni. Black Narcissus (1947, UK, Dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, released in Polish as Czarny narcyz). Blue idol, A, See A Kék bálvány. Bolse Vita (Bolshe Vita, 1996, Hungary, Dir. Ibolya Fekete). Bolshe Vita, See Bolse Vita. Bonanza (USA, 1959–​73). Borgias, The (2011–​13, Hungary/​Ireland/​Canada/​USA, Dir. Neil Jordan). Bracia Benthin, See Familie Benthin. Brat (Brother, 1997, Russia, Dir. Aleksey Balabanov). Breathless, See À bout de souffle. Brother, See Brat. Budai cukrászda (The Little Pastry Shop, 1935, Hungary, Dir. Béla Gaál). BÚÉK (Happy New Year!, 1978, Hungary, Dir. Rezső Szörény). Buldoci a třešně (Bulldogs and cherries, 1981, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Juraj Herz). Bulldogs and cherries, See Buldoci a třešně. Burning Bush, See Hořící keř. Byl jednou jeden král (Once upon a time there was a king, 1954, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Bořivoj Zeman). Byl jednou jeden polda (There Once Was a Cop, 1995, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jaroslav Soukup). Byl jednou jeden polda II: Major Maisner opět zasahuje (There Once Was a Cop II: Major Maisner Strikes Again!, 1997, Czech Republic, Dir. Jaroslav Soukup). Byl jednou jeden polda III:  Major Maisner a tančící drak (There once was a cop: Major Maisner and the dancing dragon, 1999, Czech Republic, Dir. Jaroslav Soukup). Caccia tragica (Tragic Hunt, 1947, Italy, Dir. Giuseppe De Santis, released in Polish as Tragiczny pościg). Caesar and Cleopatra (1945, UK, Dir. Gabriel Pascal, released in Polish as Cezar i Kleopatra).

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Filmography Café Moscow, See Café Moszkva. Café Moszkva (Café Moscow, 1936, Hungary, Dir. István Székely). Camouflage, See Barwy ochronne. Car of Dreams (1935, UK, Dir. Graham Cutts). Caravan (1946, UK, Dir. Arthur Crabtree, released in Polish as Cygańska miłość). Carnival in Flanders, See La Kermesse héroïque. Cat prince, The, See Kočičí princ. Catch him!, See Chyťte ho!. Cech panen kutnohorských (The Merry Wives, 1938, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Černí baroni (The black barons, 1992, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Sirový). Cena strachu, See Salaire de la peur, Le. Cezar i Kleopatra, See Caesar and Cleopatra. Chelovek z Bulvara Kaputsinov (A Man from Boulevard des Capucines, 1987, USSR, Dir. Alla Surikova). Chicago (2002, USA, Dir. Rob Marshall). Children of Glory, See Szabadság, szerelem. Children of Paradise, See Les Enfants du paradis. Chłopi (The peasants, 1972, Poland, Dir. Jan Rybkowski). Christian, See Kristián. Chyťte ho! (Catch him!, 1924, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Karel Lamač). Cinderella, See Zolushka. Citizen Kane (1941, USA, Dir. Orson Welles). Civil a pályán (Try and win, 1952, Hungary, Dir. Márton Keleti). Closed court, See Zárt tárgyalás. Colonel Wolodyjowski, See Pan Wołodyjowski. Coming Out (2013, Hungary, Dir. Dénes Orosz). Comte de Monte-​Cristo, Le (The Count of Monte-​Cristo, 1954, France, Dir. Robert Vernay). Conquest, The, See Honfoglalás. Corporal and others, The, See A tizedes meg a többiek,. Cosy Dens, See Pelišky. Council of the gods, See Der Rat der Götter. Count of Monte-​Cristo, The, See Le Comte de Monte-​Cristo. Csak egy kislány van a világon (There is only one girl in the world, 1929–​1930, Hungary, Dir. Béla Gaál). Csak semmi pánik (Don’t panic, please!, 1982, Hungary, Dir. Sándor G. Szőnyi). Csak szex és más semmi (Just Sex and Nothing Else, 2005, Hungary, Dir. Krisztina Goda). Csinibaba (Dollybirds, Hungary, 1997, Dir. Péter Tímár). Csodacsatár, A (The football star, 1956, Hungary, Dir. Márton Keleti). Csúnya lány, A (Ugly girl, 1935, Hungary, Dir. Béla Gaál).

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Filmography ‘Čtyři vraždy stačí, drahoušku’ (Four murders are enough, Darling, 1970, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Oldřich Lipský). Cygańska miłość, See Caravan. Cwał (In Full Gallop, 1996, Poland, Dir. Krzysztof Zanussi). Czarny narcyz, See Black Narcissus. Człowiek z marmuru (Man of Marble, 1976, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Człowiek z żelaza (Man of Iron, 1981, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Dalolva szép az élet (Singing makes life beautiful, 1950, Hungary, Dir. Márton Keleti). Dáma s malou nožkou (The lady with the small foot, 1919, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Přemysl Pražský and Jan Stanislav Kolár). Dangerous Liaisons (1988, USA, Dir. Stephen Frears). Darling, don’t lie, See Nie kłam kochanie. Dark Blue World, A, See Tmavomodrý svět. Deadly Invention The/​The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, See Vynález zkázy. Deadly spring, See Halálos tavasz. Deluge, The, See Potop. Depot of the dead, The, See Baza ludzi umarłych. Déryné (Mrs. Déry, 1951, Hungary, Dir. László Kalmár). Desert Victory (1943, UK, Dir. Roy Boulting and David MacDonald, released in Polish as Zwycięstwo na pustyni). Deserter, The (aka The Devil’s Backbone, 1971, Italy, USA & Yugoslavia, Dir. Burt Kennedy and Niksa Fulgosi). Desire, See Touha. Devil’s elixirs, The, See Elixíry ďábla. Devil’s horseman, See Ördöglovas. Díky za každé nové ráno (Thanks for every new morning, 1994, Czech Republic, Dir. Milan Šteindler). Dinner for Adele, See Adéla ještě nevečeřela. Divided We Fall, See Musíme si pomáhat. Dívka v modrém (The girl in blue, 1940, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Dobrodružství s Blasiem (Adventure with Blasius, 1974, Czechoslovakia-​ East Germany, Dir. Egon Schlegel, released in German as Abenteuer mit Blasius). Dog’s heads, See Psohlavci. Dögkeselyű (The vulture, 1982, Hungary, Dir. Ferenc András). Dollybirds, See Csinibaba. Don’t panic, please!, See Csak semmi pánik. Dovolená s Andělem (Holiday with Angel, 1953, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Bořivoj Zeman). Dr Semmelweis, See Semmelweis –​Retter der Mütter. Dr Zhivago (1965, USA, Dir. David Lean). Dream Car, The, See Meseautó. Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel, See Tři oříšky pro Popelku. Droga na zachód (The road west, 1961, Poland, Dir. Bohdan Poręba).

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Filmography Dvaasedmdesátka (The number seventy-two, 1948, Czechoslovakia, Jiří Slavíček). Dvanáct křesel (Twelve chairs, 1933, Czechoslovakia-​Poland, Dir. Martin Frič and Michał Waszyński, known in Poland as Dwanaście krzeseł). Dwanaście krzeseł, See Dvanáct křesel. Dzieci ulicy, See Sciuscià. Egri csillagok (The stars of Eger, 1968, Hungary, Dir. Zoltán Várkonyi). Egy asszony elindul (A woman takes off, 1949, Hungary, Dir. Imre Jeney, released in Polish as Kobieta wyrusza w drogę). Eisen Hans, Der (Iron John, 1987, East Germany, Dir. Karl Heinz Lotz). Eldorádó (The Midas touch, 1989, Hungary, Dir. Géza Bereményi). Elementary School, The, See Obecná škola. Elixiere des Teufels, Die, See Elixíry ďábla. Elixíry ďábla (The devil’s elixirs, 1972, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Ralf Kirsten, released in German as Die Elixiere des Teufels). Elnökkisasszony (Miss President, 1935, Hungary, Dir. Endre Marton). Emberrablás magyar módra (Kidnapping − Hungarian style, 1972, Hungary, Dir. Zoltán Várkonyi). Empties, See Vratné lahve. Én XX. századom, Az (My Twentieth Century, 1989, Hungary, Dir. Ildikó Enyedi). End of Agent W4C, The, See Konec agenta W4C prostřednictvím psa pana Foustky. End of poets in Bohemia, The, See Konec básníků v Čechách. Enfants du paradis, Les (Children of Paradise, 1946, France, Dir. Marcel Carné). Erkel (1952, Hungary, Dir. Márton Keleti). Everything for Sale, See Wszystko na sprzedaż. Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, The, See Neobychajnye prikljuchenja Mr. Vesta v strane bolshevikov. Fairy tale auto, See Meseautó. Familie Benthin (Family Benthin, 1950, G.D.R., Dir. Slatan Dudow, Richard Groschopp and Kurt Maetzig, released in Polish as Bracia Benthin). Family Benthin, See Familie Benthin. Fanfan la Tulipe (Fearless Little Soldier/​ Fan-​ Fan the Tulip, 1952, France, Dir. Christian-​Jaque). Fan-​Fan the Tulip, See Fanfan la Tulipe. Fantom Morrisvillu (The Phantom of Morrisville, 1966, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Bořivoj Zeman). Fantom operety (The Phantom of Operetta, 1970, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Podskalský). Faraon (Pharaoh, 1966, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Kawalerowicz). Fateless, See Sorstalanság. Father, See Apa. Fearless Little Soldier, See Fanfan la Tulipe. Ferat Vampire, See Upír z Feratu.

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Filmography Fidlovačka (1931, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Svatopluk Inneman). Filosofská historie (Philosophical history, 1937, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Fizessen, nagysád! (Pay up, Madam!, 1937, Hungary, Dir. Ákos Ráthonyi). Flames, See Tűz. Flying gold, See Repülő arany. Föltámadott a tenger (The sea has risen, 1952, Hungary, Dir. Kálmán Nádasdy and László Ranódy). Football Star, The, See Csodacsatár, A. Fotó Haber (Haber’s photo shop, 1963, Hungary, Dir. Zoltán Várkonyi). ‘Four murders are enough, Darling’, See ‘Čtyři vraždy stačí, drahoušku’. Four Steps in the Clouds, See Quattro passi fra le nuvole. From a Night Porter’s Point of View, See Z punktu widzenia nocnego portiera. From Subway with Love, See Román pro ženy. Full steam ahead!, See Teljes gőzzel. Futótűz (Wildfire, 1943, Hungary, Dir. Zoltán Farkas). Gábor diák (Leila and Gábor, 1956, Hungary, Dir. László Kalmár). Gamine, See Uličnice. Gázolás (Hit and run, Hungary, 1955, Dir. Viktor Gertler). General Nil, See Generał Nil. Generał Nil (General Nil, 2009, Poland, Dir. Ryszard Bugajski). Geschichte vom kleinen Muck, Die (The story of little Muck, 1953, East Germany, Dir. Wolfgang Staudte). Gestohlene Schlacht, Die, See Ukradená bitva. Gilda (1946, USA, Dir. C. Vidor, released in Polish as Gilda). Girl in blue, The, See Dívka v modrém. Give Us This Day (1949, UK, Dir. E. Dmytryk, released in Polish as Za cenę życia). Glass tiger, See Üvegtigris Good Day to Die Hard, A (2013, USA, Dir. John Moore). Granny, See Babička. Gravity (2013, USA, Dir. Alfonso Cuarόn). Great Caruso, The (1951, USA, Dir. Richard Thorpe). Gritta von Ratsinourhouse, See Gritta von Rattenzuhausbeiuns. Gritta von Rattenzuhausbeiuns (Gritta von Ratsinourhouse, 1984, East Germany, Dir. Jürgen Brauer). Gyarmat a föld alatt (Underground Colony, 1950, Hungary, Dir. Károly Makk and Mihály Szemes). Guard-​post in the suburbs, See Külvárosi őrszoba. Haber’s photo shop, See Fotó Haber Halálos tavasz (Deadly spring, 1939, Hungary, Dir. László Kalmár). Halló Budapest (Hello Budapest, 1935, Hungary, Dir. László Vajda). Hard life of an adventurer, The, See Těžký život dobrodruha. Happy New Year! See BÚÉK.

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Filmography Heart of Stone, See Das kalte Herz. Hello Budapest, See Halló Budapest. High morning, See V pravé dopoledne. High Noon (1952, USA, Dir. Fred Zinnemann). Hit and run, See Gázolás. Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (2013, USA, Dir. Peter Jackson). Hol volt, hol nem volt (A Hungarian Fairy Tale, 1987, Hungary, Dir. Gyula Gazdag). Holiday makers, See Účastníci zájezdu. Holiday with Angel, See Dovolená s Andělem. Honfoglalás (The Conquest, 1996, Hungary, Dir. Gábor Koltai). Hop Pickers, See Starci na chmelu. Horem pádem (Up and Down, 2004, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Hořící keř (Burning Bush, 2013, Czech Republic, Dir. Agnieszka Holland). Horoucí srdce (An ardent heart, 1962, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Horror Story, See Krvavý román. Hospital at the end of the city after twenty years, See Nemocnice na kraji města po dvaceti letech. Houdini (2014, USA, Dir. Uli Edel). How much does the Trojan horse weigh?, See Ile waży koń trojański? How to Deserve a Princess, See Jak si zasloužit princeznu. Hubal (Major Hubal, 1973, Poland, Dir. Bohdan Poręba). Hudba z Marsu (Music from Mars, 1955, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Ján Kádar and Elmar Klos). Hungarian Fairy Tale, A, See Hol volt, hol nem volt. Hungarian vagabond, See Magyar vándor. Hyppolit, a lakáj (Hyppolit, the Butler, 1931, Hungary, Dir. István Székely). Hyppolit, the Butler, See Hyppolit, a lakáj. I will just marry you, Sir!, See Maga lesz a férjem!. Ifjú szívvel (Young at heart, 1953, Hungary, Dir. Márton Keleti). Igelfreundschaft, Die, See Uprchlík. I’ll Show You!, See Ja wam pokażę! Ile waży koń trojański? (How much does the Trojan horse weigh?, 2008, Poland, Dir. Juliusz Machulski). In the Shadow, See Ve stínu. In Full Gallop, See Cwał. In heaven as it is on earth, See U Pana Boga za piecem. Insel der Silberreiher, Die, See Ostrov stříbrných volavek. Iron John, See Eisen Hans, Der. Iron Man 3 (2013, USA, Dir. Shane Black). Island of the silver herons, See Ostrov stříbrných volavek. It Happened in Europe, See Valahol Európában. Ja wam pokażę! (I’ll Show You!, 2006, Poland, Dir. Denis Delić).

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Filmography Jahrgang 21, See Ročník 21. Jak si zasloužit princeznu (How to Deserve a Princess, 1995, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Schmidt). Jan Hus (1954, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Jan Hus (2015, Czech Republic, Dir. Jiří Svoboda). Jan Roháč z Dubé (Warriors of Faith, 1947, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Vladimír Borský). Jan Žižka (1955, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Jánošík (1935, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Janosik. Prawdziwa historia (Janosik: A True Story, 2009, Poland-​Czech Republic-​ Slovakia-​Hungary, Dir. Agnieszka Holland and Kasia Adamik). Jánošík -​Pravdivá história, See Janosik. Prawdziwa historia. Janosik: A True Story, See Janosik. Prawdziwa historia. Je třeba zabít Sekala (Sekal Has To Die, 1998, Czech Republic-​Slovakia-​Poland-​ France, Dir. Vladimír Michálek). Jesse James (1939, USA, Dir. Henry King and Irving Cummings, released in Polish as Jesse James). Jurassic World (2015, USA, Dir. Colin Trevorrow). Just Sex and Nothing Else, See Csak szex és más semmi. Kalte Herz, Das (Heart of Stone, 1950, East Germany, Dir. Paul Verhoeven). Kamenáč Bill a ohromní moskyti (Billy the Tough and the giant mosquitos, 1971, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Václav Bedřich). Kameňák (2003, Czech Republic, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Kameňák 2 (2004, Czech Republic, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Kameňák 3 (2005, Czech Republic, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Kameňák 4 (2013, Czech Republic, Dir. Ján Novák). Kanał (Kanal, 1957, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Kanal, See Kanał. Karel Havlíček Borovský (1931, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Svatopluk Innemann). Karel Hynek Mácha (1937, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zet Molas). Katzenprinz, Der, See Kočičí princ. Katyń (2007, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Kermesse héroïque, La (Carnival in Flanders, 1935, France, Dir. Jacques Feyder). Kék bálvány, A (A blue idol, 1931, Hungary, Dir. Lajos Lázár). Kid, The (1921, USA, Dir. Charlie Chaplin). Kidnapping − Hungarian style, See Emberrablás magyar módra. Kidnapping of Fux the banker,The, See Únos bankéře Fuxe. Kind of America 1, A, See Valami Amerika 1. Kind of America 2, A, See Valami Amerika 2. King of kings, The, See Král králů. Királyné huszárja, A (The queen’s hussar, 1935, Hungary, Dir. István György). Kis Valentinó, A (Little Valentino, 1979, Hungary, Dir. András Jeles). Knights of the Teutonic Order, See Krzyżacy.

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Filmography Kobieta wyrusza w drogę, See Egy asszony elindul. Kočičí princ (The cat prince, 1979, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Ota Koval, released in German as Der Katzenprinz). Koffer mit Dynamit, See Praha nultá hodina. Kojak Budapesten (Kojak in Budapest, 1980, Hungary, Dir. Sándor Szalkai). Kojak in Budapest, See Kojak Budapesten. Kolja (Kolya, 1996, Czech Republic-​UK-​France, Dir. Jan Svěrák). Kolya, See Kolja. Komedianci, See Les Enfants du Paradis. Konec agenta W4C prostřednictvím psa pana Foustky (The End of Agent W4C, 1967, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Václav Vorlíček). Konec básníků v Čechách (The end of poets in Bohemia, 1993, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Dušan Klein). Korol Lir (King Lear, 1971, USSR, Dir. Grigori Kozintsev). Kőszívű ember fiai, A (Men and banners, 1965, Hungary, Dir. Zoltán Várkonyi). Kouzelné dědictví (Magical heritage, 1985, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Zdeněk Zelenka, released in German as Zauberhafte Erbschaft). Král králů (The king of kings, 1963, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Kráska v nesnázích (Beauty in Trouble, 2006, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Kristián (Christian, 1939, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Krvavý román (Horror Story, 1993, Czech Republic, Dir. Jaroslav Brabec). Krzyżacy (Knights of the Teutonic Order/​Black Cross, 1960, Poland, Dir. Aleksander Ford). Külvárosi őrszoba (Guard-​post in the suburbs, 1943, Hungary, Dir. Ákos Hamza). Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves, 1948, Italy, Dir. Vittorio De Sica, released in Polish as Złodzieje rowerów). Lady with the small foot, The, See Dáma s malou nožkou. law and the fist, The, See Prawo i pięść. Leave it to me, See Nechte to na mě. Leila and Gábor, See Gábor diák. Lemonade Joe, See Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera. Leper, The, See Trędowata. Libáš jako Bůh (You kiss like a god, 2009, Czech Republic, Dir. Marie Poledňáková). Lila akác (Purple Lilacs, 1934, Hungary, Dir. István Székely). Liliomfi (1955, Hungary, Dir. Károly Makk). Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Lemonade Joe, 1964, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Oldřich Lipský). Little Moscow, See Mała Moskwa. Little Pastry Shop, The, See Budai cukrászda. Little Rose, See Różyczka. Local Romance, A, See Žižkovská romance. Lonely Are the Brave (1962, USA, Dir. David Miller).

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Filmography Lotna (Lotna/​Speed, 1959, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Lovagias ügy (An Affair of Honor, 1937, Hungary, Dir. István Székely). Lóve (2011, Czech Republic, Dir. Jakub Kroner). Machita (Machita, 1944, Hungary, Dir. Endre Rodríguez). Made in Hungária (Made in Hungary, 2009, Hungary, Dir. Gergely Fonyó). Made in Hungary, See Made in Hungária. Madonna of the Seven Moons (1944, UK, Dir. Arthur Crabtree, released in Polish as Rosanna siedmiu księżyców). Maga lesz a férjem! (I will just marry you, Sir! 1938, Hungary, Dir. Béla Gaál). Magical heritage, See Kouzelné dědictví. Mágnás Miska (Mickey Magnate, 1949, Hungary, Dir. Marton Keleti). Magnificent Seven, The (1960, USA, Dir. John Sturges). Magyar vándor (Hungarian vagabond, 2004, Hungary, Dir. Gábor Herendi). Maiden Vows, See Śluby panieńskie. Major Hubal, See Hubal. Major Zeman’s thirty cases, See Třicet případů Majora Zemana. Mała Moskwa (Little Moscow, 2008, Poland, Dir. Waldemar Krzystek). Man from Boulevard des Capucines, A, See Chelovek z Bulvara Kaputsinov. Man of Iron, See Człowiek z żelaza. Man of Marble, See Człowiek z marmuru. Martian, The (2015, USA, Dir. Ridley Scott). Megáll az idő (Time Stands Still, 1981, Hungary, Dir. Péter Gothár), Megdönteni Hajnal Tímeát (Whatever Happened to Timi?, 2014, Hungary, Dir. Attila Herczeg). Medvídek (Teddy Bear, 2007, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Men and banners, See Kőszívű ember fiai, A. Men in hope, See Muži v naději. Men without wings, See Muži bez křídel. Merry Wives, The, See Cech panen kutnohorských. Mese a 12 találatról (Tale on 12 points, 1956, Hungary, Dir. Károly Makk). Meseautó (Dream Car, The, 1934, Hungary, Dir. Béla Gál). Meseautó (Fairy tale auto, 2000, Hungary, Dir. Katalin Petényi and Barna Kabay). Miasto bezprawia, See My Darling Clementine. Miasto westchnień, See Whispering City. Mickey Magnate, See Mágnás Miska. Midas touch, The, See Eldorádó. Mikoláš Aleš (1951, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Václav Krška). Milan Rastislav Štefaník (1935, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Ivan Sviták). Milczenie (Silence, 1963, Poland, Dir. Kazimierz Kutz). Miniszter félrelép, A (Out of order, 1997, Dir. András Kern and Róbert Koltai). Miracle in Milan, See Miracolo a Milano.

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Filmography Miracolo a Milano (Miracle in Milan, 1951, Italy, Dir. Vittorio De Sica). Miss President, See Elnökkisasszony. Morski Jastrząb, See The Sea Hawk. Mrs. Déry, See Déryné. Mrs. Szabó, See Szabóné. Murder Czech style, See Vražda po našem. Music from Mars, See Hudba z Marsu. Musíme si pomáhat (Divided We Fall, 2000, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Muži bez křídel (Men without wings, 1946, Czechoslovakia, Dir. František Čáp). Muži v naději (Men in hope, 2011, Czech Republic, Dir. Jiří Vejdělek). My Darling Clementine (1946, USA, Dir. John Ford, released in Polish as Miasto bezprawia). My Twentieth Century, See Az Én XX. századom. Mysterious Castle in the Carpathians, The, See Tajemství hradu v Karpatech. Na tropie zbrodni, See They Met in the Dark. Na tý louce zelený (On the Green Meadow, 1936, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Karel Lamač). Nagyrozsdási eset, A (A remarkable case, 1957, Hungary, Dir. László Kalmár). Napfény íze, A (Sunshine, 1999, Hungary, Dir. István Szabó). Nechte to na mě (Leave it to me, 1955, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Neighbours, See Sąsiedzi. Nemocnice na kraji města po dvaceti letech (Hospital at the end of the city after twenty years, 2003, Czech Republic, Dir. Hynek Bočan). Neobychajnye prikljuchenja Mr. Vesta v strane bolshevikov (The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, 1924, USSR, Dir. Lev Kuleshov). Neporažená armáda (Undefeated army, 1938, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jan Bor). Nestyda (Shameless, 2008, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Never in My Life!, See Nigdy w życiu. Never Strike a Woman…Even with a Flower, See Ženu ani květinou neuhodíš. New fighters shall arise, See Vstanou noví bojovníci. New landlord, See Új földesúr. Nie kłam kochanie (Darling, don’t lie, 2008, Poland, Dir. Piotr Wereśniak). Nieodrodna córka, See So well remembered. Nieuchwytny Smith, See ‘Pimpernel’ Smith. Nigdy w życiu (Never in my life!, 2004, Poland, Dir. Ryszard Zatorski). Noble cowboy Sandy or gamble bride, The, See Šlechtený cowboy Sandy aneb Prohraná nevěsta. Nyom nélkül (Without clues, 1982, Hungary, Dir. Péter Fábry). Nyugati övezet (West zone, 1952, Hungary, Dir. Zoltán Várkonyi). Obecná škola (The Elementary School, 1991, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jan Svěrák).

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Filmography Ogniem i mieczem (With Fire and Sword, 1999, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Hoffman). Ogniomistrz Kaleń (The artillery sergeant Kalen, 1961, Poland, Dir. Ewa and Czesław Petelskis). Once upon a time, there was a king, See Byl jednou jeden král. Ördöglovas (Devil’s horseman, 1943, Hungary, Dir. Ákos D. Hamza). Ostrov stříbrných volavek (Island of the silver herons, 1976, East Germany-​ Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jaromil Jireš, released in German as Insel der Silberreiher). Our folks, See Sami swoi. Out of, See A miniszter félrelép. Pagan Madonna, The, See A pogány Madonna. Pan Tadeusz (Pan Tadeusz: The Last Foray in Lithuania, 1999, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Pan Wołodyjowski (Colonel Wolodyjowski, 1969, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Hoffman). Pancho se žení (Pancho᾽s wedding, 1946, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Rudolf Hrušínský). Pancho᾽s wedding, See Pancho se žení. ‘Pane, vy jste vdova!’ (You Are a Widow, Sir, 1970, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Václav Vorlíček). Panenství (Virginity, 1937, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Pay up, Madam, See Fizessen, nagysád!. Peasants, The, See Chłopi. Pelišky (Cosy Dens, 1999, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Peníze nebo život (Your Money or Your Life, 1932, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jindřich Honzl). Phantom of Morrisville, The, See Fantom Morrisvillu. Phantom of Operette, The, See Fantom operety. Pharaoh, See Faraon. Philosophical history, See Filosofská historie. Piędź ziemi, See Talpalatnyi fold. Pieśń tajgi, See Skazanie o zemle sibirskoy. Pigs, See Psy. ‘Pimpernel’ Smith (1941, UK, Dir. Leslie Howard, released in Polish as Nieuchwytny Smith). Písnickář (The singer, 1932, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Svatopluk Innemann). Poacher’s foster daughter or generous millionaire, The, See Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář. Podróż w nieznane, See Quattro passi fra le nuvole. Pogány Madonna (The pagan Madonna, 1980, Hungary, Dir. Gyula Mészáros). Pokoj v duši (Soul at Peace, 2009, Czech Republic, Dir. Vladimír Balko). Popelka (Cinderella, 1969, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Vlasta Janečková). Popiełuszko. Wolność jest w nas (Popieluszko. Freedom is within us, 2009, Poland, Dir. Rafał Wieczyński). Popiół i diament (Ashes and Diamonds, 1958, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda).

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Filmography Popioły (Ashes, The 1965, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Potop (The deluge, 1973–​4, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Hoffman). Potseluy Meri Pickford (A Kiss from Mary Pickford, 1927, USSR, Dir. Sergej Komarov). Prague at Zero Hour, See Praha nultá hodina. Prague five, See Pražská pětka. Praha nultá hodina (Prague at zero hour, 1962, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Miloš Makovec, released in German as Koffer mit dynamit). Prawo i pięść (The law and the fist, 1964, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Hoffman and Edward Skórzewski). Pražská pětka (Prague five, 1988, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Tomáš Vorel). Princezna ze mlejna (The Watermill Princess, 1994, Czech Republic, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Princezna ze mlejna II (The Watermill Princess II, 2000, Czech Republic, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Private Life of Henry VIII, The (1933, UK, Dir. Alexander Korda). Prodaná nevěsta (The bartered bride, 1933, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Svatopluk Innemann and Jaroslav Kvapil). Protektor (Protector, 2009, Czech Republic, Dir. Marek Najbrt). Proti všem (Against all, 1956, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Otakar Vávra). Proud princess, The, See Pyšná princezna. Przedwiośnie (The spring to come, 2001, Poland, Dir. Filip Bajon). Psohlavci (Dog’s heads, 1955, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Psy (Pigs, 1992, Poland, Dir. Władysław Pasikowski). Psy 2. Ostatnia krew (Pigs 2, 1994, Dir. Władysław Pasikowski). Pupendo (2003, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Purple Lilacs, See Lila akác. Pygmalion (1938, UK, Dir. Anthony Asquith and Leslie Howard, released in Polish as Pygmalion). Pyšná princezna (The proud princess, 1952, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Bořivoj Zeman). Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář (The poacher’s foster daughter or generous millionaire, 1949, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Quattro passi fra le nuvole (Four Steps in the Clouds, Italy, 1942, Dir. Alessandro Blasetti, released in Polish as Podróż w nieznane). Queen’s hussar, The, See Királyné huszárja, A. Quo Vadis (2001, Poland, Dir. Jerzy Kawalerowicz). Rada Bogów, See Der Rat der Götter. Raft’áci (Rafters, 2006, Czech Republic, Dir. Karel Janák). Rafters, See Raft’áci. Rákóczi hadnagya (Rákóczi’s lieutenant, 1953, Hungary, Dir. Frigyes Bán). Rákóczi nótája (The song of Rákóczi, 1943, Hungary, Dir. József Daróczy).

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Filmography Rákóczi’s lieutenant, See Rákóczi hadnagya. Rat der Götter, Der (Council of the gods, 1950, East German-​Poland, Dir. Kurt Maetzig, released in Polish as Rada Bogów). Rebels, See Rebelové. Rebelové (Rebels, 2001, Czech Republic, Dir. Filip Renč). Remarkable case, A, See Nagyrozsdási eset. Repülő Arany (Flying gold, 1932, Hungary, Dir. István Székely). Revenge, See Zemsta. Road west, The, See Droga na zachód. Ročník 21 (Those born in 1921, 1957, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Václav Gajer, known in Germany as Jahrgang 21). Roma, città aperta (Rome, Open City, 1945, Italy, Dir. Roberto Rossellini, 1945, released in Polish as Rzym, miasto otwarte). Román pro ženy (From Subway with Love, 2005, Czech Republic, Dir. Filip Renč). Rome, Open City, See Roma, città aperta. Rosanna siedmiu księżyców, See Madonna of the Seven Moons. Rose, See Róża Rosszemberek (Wrong-​doers, 1979, Hungary, Dir. György Szomjas). Rotation (Rotation, 1949, East Germany, Dir. Wolfgang Staudte). Róża (Rose, 2011, Poland, Dir. Wojciech Smarzowski). Różyczka (Little Rose, 2010, Poland, Dir. Jan Kidawa-​Błoński). Runaway, The, See Uprchlík. Rzym, miasto otwarte, See Roma, città aperta. Saint Wenceslas, See Svatý Václav. Šakalí léta (Big Beat, 1993, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Hřebejk). Salaire de la peur, Le (The Wages of Fear, 1953, France, Dir. Henri-​Georges Clouzot released in Polish as Cena strachu). Sami swoi (Our folks, 1967, Poland, Dir. Sylwester Chęciński). Sąsiedzi (Neighbours, 1969, Poland, Dir. Aleksander Ścibor-​Rylski). Sátántangó (Satantango, 1994, Hungary, Dir. Béla Tarr). Satantango, See Sátántangó. Saul fia (Son of Saul, 2015, Hungary, Dir. László Nemes). Schatz im Silbersee, Der (The Treasure of the Silver Lake, 1962, West Germany, Dir. Harald Reinl). Schindler’s List (1993, USA, Dir. Steven Spielberg). Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot (Snow White and Rose Red, 1978, East Germany, Dir. Siegfried Hartmann). Schreckliche Frau, Eine, See Strašná žena Sciuscià (Shoeshine, 1946, Italy, Dir. Vittorio De Sica, released in Polish as Dzieci ulicy). Sea has risen, The, See Föltámadott a tenger.

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Filmography Sea Hawk, The (1940, USA, Dir. Michael Curtiz, released in Polish as Morski Jastrząb). Sekal Has To Die, See Je třeba zabít Sekala. Semmelweis-​Retter der Mütter (Dr Semmelweis, 1950, East Germany-​Poland, Dir. Georg C. Klaren, released in Polish as Dr. Semmelweis). Shameless, See Nestyda. She picked up the violets with dynamite, See Trhala fialky dynamitem. Shoeshine, See Sciuscià. Shoot Silence, See Milczenie the Pianist, See Tirez sur le pianist. Silence, The, See Milczenie. Singer, The, See Písnickář. Singing makes life beautiful, See Dalolva szép az élet. Sirius, See Szíriusz. Skazanie o zemle sibirskoy (Symphony of Life, 1948, USSR, Dir. Ivan Pyryev, released in Polish as Pieśń tajgi). Šlechtený cowboy Sandy aneb Prohraná nevěsta (The noble cowboy Sandy or gamble bride, 1964, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Emanuel Kaněra). Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jaroslav Mach). Śluby Panieńskie (Maiden Vows, 2010, Poland, Dir. Filip Bajon). Slunce, seno, jahody (Sun, hay, strawberries, 1984, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Slunce, seno, a pár facek (Sun, hay, and a pair of slaps, 1989, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Slunce, seno, erotica (Sun, hay, eroticism, 1991, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Troška). Snow White and Rose Red, See Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot. Snowboard’áci (Snowboarders, 2004, Czech Republic, Dir. Karel Janák). Snowboarders, See Snowboard’áci. Something adrift in the water, See Valamit visz a víz. Somewhere in Europe, See Valahol Európában. Song of the Prairie, The, See Árie prérie. Song of Rákóczi, The, See Rákóczi nótája. Sorstalanság (Fateless, 2005, Hungary, Dir. Lajos Koltai). SOS Love, See SOS szerelem. SOS szerelem (SOS Love, 2007, Hungary, Dir. Tamás Sas). Sose halunk meg (We never die, 1993, Hungary, Dir. Róbert Koltai). Soul at Peace, See Pokoj v duši. Sous les toits de Paris (Under the Roofs of Paris, 1930, France, Dir. René Clair). So Well Remembered (1947, UK, Dir. Edward Dmytryk, released in Polish as Nieodrodna córka). Spring to come, The, See Przedwiośnie.

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Filmography Starci na chmelu (Hop Pickers, 1964, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Ladislav Rychman). Stagecoach (1939, USA, Dir. John Ford). Stand off, See Túsztörténet. Stars of Eger, The, See Egri csillagok. State department store, See Állami áruház. Stolen battle, The, See Ukradená bitva. Story of little Muck, The, See Die Geschichte vom kleinen Muck. Strašná žena (A terrible woman, 1965, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Jindřich Polák, released in German as Eine schreckliche Frau). Sukces Anny Szabo, See Szabóné. Sunshine, See Napfény íze, A. Sun, hay, and a pair of slaps, See Slunce, seno, a pár facek. Sun, hay, eroticism, See Slunce, seno, erotica. Sun, hay, strawberries, See Slunce, seno, jahody. Švanda Dudák (1937, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Svatopluk Innemann). Svatý Václav (Saint Wenceslas, 1929, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jan Stanislav Kolár). Swing (2014, Hungary, Dir. Fazakas Csaba). Symphony of Life, See Skazanie o zemle sibirskoy. Szabadság, szerelem (Children of Glory, 2006, Hungary, Dir. Krisztina Goda). Szabóné (Mrs. Szabó, 1949, Hungary, Dir. Félix Máriássy, released in Polish as Sukces Anny Szabo). Szíriusz (Sirius, 1942, Hungary, Dir. Ákos D. Hamza). Tajemství hradu v Karpatech (The Mysterious Castle in the Carpathians, 1981, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Oldřich Lipský). Tale on 12 points, See Mese a 12 találatról. Talpalatnyi föld (Treasured Earth, 1948, Hungary, Dir. Frigyes Bán, released in Polish as Piędź ziemi). Talpuk alatt fütyül a szél (The wind blows under their feet, 1976, Hungary, Dir. György Szomjas). Tank battalion, The, See Tankový prapor. Tankový prapor (The Tank Battalion, 1991, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Vít Olmer). Teddy Bear, See Medvídek. Teljes gőzzel (Full steam ahead!, 1951, Hungary, Dir. Félix Máriássy). Terminator, The (1984, UK/​USA, Dir. James Cameron). Terrible woman, A, See Strašná žena. Těžký život dobrodruha (The hard life of an adventurer, 1941, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Martin Frič). Thanks for every new morning, See Díky za každé nové ráno. That Mothers Might Live (1938, USA, Dir. Fred Zinnemann). There is only one girl in the world, See Csak egy kislány van a világon. There Once Was a Cop, See Byl jednou jeden polda.

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Filmography There Once Was a Cop II: Major Maisner Strikes Again!, See Byl jednou jeden polda II: Major Maisner opět zasahuje. There once was a cop: Major Maisner and the dancing dragon, See Byl jednou jeden polda III: Major Maisner a tančící drak. They Met in the Dark (1943, UK, Dir. Karel Lamač, released in Polish as Na tropie zbrodni). Thief, but not from Baghdad, The, See Vor, no ne bagdadskij. Third Part of the Night, See Trzecia część nocy. Those born in 1921, See Ročník 21. Three Wishes for Cinderella, See Tři oříšky pro Popelku. Time Stands Still, See Megáll az idő. Tirez sur le pianiste (Shoot the Pianist, 1960, France, Dir. François Truffaut). Tizedes meg a többiek, A (The corporal and others, 1965, Hungary, Dir. Márton Keleti). Tmavomodrý svět (A Dark Blue World, 2001, Czech Republic-​ Great Britain-​ Germany-​Denmark, Dir. Jan Svěrák). Tomorrow, people will be dancing everywhere, See Zítra se bude tančit všude. Touha (Desire, 1958, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Vojtěch Jasný). Tragic Hunt, See Caccia tragica. Tragiczny pościg, See Caccia tragica. Transformers (2007, USA, Dir. Michael Bay). Treasure of the Silver Lake, The, See Der Schatz im Silbersee. Treasured Earth, See Talpalatnyi föld. Trędowata (The Leper, 1936, Poland, Dir. Juliusz Gardan). Trhala fialky dynamitem (She picked up the violets with dynamite, 1992, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Milan Růžička). Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Václav Vorlíček, released in German as Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel). Třicet případů Majora Zemana (Major Zeman’s thirty cases, 1974–​ 9, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jiří Sequens). Try and win, See Civil a pályán. Trzecia część nocy (Third Part of the Night, 1971, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Żuławski). Túsztörténet (Stand off, 1989, Hungary, Dir. Gyula Gazdag). Tűz (Flames, 1948, Hungary, Dir. Imre Apáthi). Twelve chairs, See Dvanáct křesel. U Pana Boga za piecem (In heaven as it is on earth, 1998, Poland, Dir. Jacek Bromski). Účastníci zájezdu (Holiday makers, 2006, Czech Republic, Dir. Jiří Vejdělek). Ugly girl, See Csúnya lány. Új földesúr, Az (New landlord, 1935, Hungary, Dir. Béla Gaál). Ukradená bitva (The stolen battle, 1971, Czechoslovakia-​East Germany, Dir. Erwin Stranka, released in German as Die gestohlene Schlacht).

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Filmography Uličnice (Gamine, 1936, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Vladimír Slavínský). Undefeated army, See Neporažená armáda. Under the Roofs of Paris, See Sous les toits de Paris. Underground Colony, See Gyarmat a föld alatt. Únos bankéře Fuxe (The kidnapping of Fux the banker, 1923, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Karel Anton). Up and Down, See Horem pádem. Upír z Feratu (Ferat Vampire, 1981, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Juraj Herz). Uprchlík (The runaway, 1961, Czechoslovakia-​ East Germany, Dir. Herrmann Zschoche, released in German as Igelfreundschaft). Üvegtigris 1-3 (Glass tiger, 2001, 2006, 2010, Hungary, Dir. Iván Kapitány and Rudolf Péter). V pravé dopoledne (High morning, 1964, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Smetana). Valahol Európában (Somewhere in Europe, 1947, Hungary, Dir. Géza von Radványi). Valami Amerika 1 (A Kind of America 1, 2002, Hungary, Dir. Gábor Herendi). Valami Amerika 2 (A Kind of America 2, 2008, Hungary, Dir. Gábor Herendi). Valamit visz a víz (Something adrift in the water, 1944, Hungary, Dir. Gusztáv Oláh). Ve stínu (In the Shadow, 2012, Czech Republic, Dir. David Ondříček). Version, See Verzió. Verzió (Version, 1979, Hungary, Dir. Miklós Erdély). Victim, The, See Az áldozat,. Virginity, See Panenství. Vor, no ne bagdadskij (The thief, but not from Baghdad, 1926, USSR, Dir. Vladimir Feinberg). Vratné lahve (Empties, 2007, Czech Republic, Dir. Jan Svěrák). Vražda po našem (Murder Czech style, 1966, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jiří Weiss). Vstanou noví bojovníci (New fighters shall arise, 1950, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Jiří Weiss). Vulture, The, See Dögkeselyű. Vynález zkázy (The Deadly Invention/​The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, 1958, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Karel Zeman). Wages of Fear, The, See Le salaire de la peur. Warriors of Faith, See Jan Roháč z Dubé. Watermill Princess, The, See Princezna ze mlejna. Watermill Princess II, The, See Princezna ze mlejna II. We never die, See Sose halunk meg. Well-​mannered Woody, See Zdvořilý Woody. West zone, See Nyugati övezet. Whatever Happened to Timi?, See Megdönteni Hajnal Tímeát. Whispering City (1947, Canada, Dir. Fedor Ozep, released in Polish as Miasto westchnień). White Sun of the Desert, See Beloe solntse pustyni.

344

345

Filmography Wilcze echa (Wolves’ echoes, 1968, Poland, Dir. Aleksander Ścibor-​Rylski). Wildfire, See Futótűz. Wind blows under their feet, The, See Talpuk alatt fütyül a szél. With Fire and Sword, See Ogniem i mieczem. Wolves’ echoes, See Wilcze echa. Woman as good as her word, A, See Slovo dělá ženu. Woman takes off, A, See Egy asszony elindul. Women in temptation, See Ženy v pokušení. Wrong-​doers, See Rosszemberek. Wszystko na sprzedaż (Everything for Sale, 1968, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). You Are a Widow, Sir, See ‘Pane, vy jste vdova!’. You kiss like a god, See Libáš jako Bůh. Young at Heart, See Ifjú szívvel. Your Money or Your Life, See Peníze nebo život. Z punktu widzenia nocnego portiera (From a Night Porter’s Point of View, 1977, Poland, Dir. Krzysztof Kieślowski). Za cenę życia, See Give Us This Day. Zárt tárgyalás (Closed court, 1940, Hungary, Dir. Géza von Radványi). Zauberhafte Erbschaft, See Kouzelné dědictví. Želary (2003, Czech Republic-​Slovakia, Dir. Ondrej Trojan). Zemsta (Revenge, 2002, Poland, Dir. Andrzej Wajda). Ženu ani květinou neuhodíš (Never Strike a Woman… Even with a Flower, 1966, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zdeněk Podskalský). Ženy v pokušení (Women in temptation, 2010, Czech Republic, Dir. Jiří Vejdělek). Zdvořilý Woody (Well-​mannered Woody, 1963, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Ján Roháč). Zítra se bude tančit všude (Tomorrow, people will be dancing everywhere, 1952, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Vladímir Vlcek). Žižkovská romance (A Local Romance, 1958, Czechoslovakia, Dir. Zbyněk Brynych). Złodzieje rowerów, See Ladri di biciclette. Zolushka (Cinderella, 1947, USSR, Dir. Nadezhda Kosheverova and Mikhail Shapiro). Zwycięstwo na pustyni, See Desert Victory.

345

346

Index 2x2 néha öt (2 x 2 are sometimes 5, 1954), 89, 97 À bout de souffle (Breathless, 1960), 210 Acland, Charles, 283, 298–​9 Adamczak, Marcin, 25, 172 Adéla ještě nevečeřela (Dinner for Adele, 1977), 115 Agnieszka ‘46 (1964), 160–​1, 164–​5 Akumulátor 1 (Accumulator 1, 1994), 11 Áldozat, Az (The victim, 1979), 205 Alibaba and the Forty Thieves (1944), 151 Állami áruház (State department store, 1953) 89, 91–​2, 97, 100 Allan, Seán, 197 Allen, Woody, 119 Allison, Deborah, 283, 298 Altman, Rick, 135 Anděl na horách (Angel in the mountains, 1955), 105 András, Ferenc, 198, 206, 211 Anton, Karel (Karl), 17 Apa (Father, 1966), 251 Argo 2 (2015), 275 Árie prérie (The Song of the Prairie, 1949), 108 Avatar (2009), 296–​7 Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015), 264

Babička (Granny, 1940), 31 Babička (Granny, 1971), 196 Babits, Mihály, 50 Babovřesky (2013), 219, 231–​2 Bacsó, Péter, 99 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 124–​5, 132, 223, 231 Balabanov, Aleksey, 275 Balogh, Gyöngyi, 62–​4, 99–​100, 211, 278 Bán, Frigyes, 89, 95, 97–​8, 144, 201 Bános, Tibor, 62–​4 Barański, Zygmunt, 26 Barney, Timothy, 246 Bartošek, Luboš, 46 Barwy ochronne (Camouflage, 1977), 127 Barwy Walki (Battle colours, 1964), 158, 171 Bathory (Bathory: Countess of Blood, 2008), 17, 219, 297 Bathrick, David, 195–​6 Baza ludzi umarłych (The depot of the dead, 1958), 167 Bay, Michael, 277 Beloe solntse pustyni (White Sun of the Desert, 1969), 158–​9 Bem, József, 94 Bendová, Helena, 28, 228 Benjamin, Walter, 127 Beran, Michael, 222 Bergfelder, Tim, 23, 265 Bernard, Jan, 219, 230

346

347

Index Bertin-​Maghit, Jean-​Pierre, 23, 27 Bery, Ary, 253 Big Country, The (1958), 114 Biltereyst, Daniel, 24–​5, 27, 117, 152 Bingham, Adam, 182 Bíró, Yvette, 134–​5 Bitskey, Tibor, 253 Black Narcissus (1947), 141–​2, 151 Blahová, Jindříška, 153 Blažejovský, Jaromír, 230 Blažek, Vratislav, 108, 110 Blessing, Benita, 191, 193, 197 Boček, Jaroslav, 106, 117 Bock, Hans-​Michael, 119 Boczarska, Magdalena, 239 Bohdalová, Jiřina, 116 Bohlinger, Vincent, 171 Bolse vita (Bolshe vita, 1996), 249 Bolton, Lucy, 63 Bonanza (1959-​73), 170 Borgias, The (2011–​13), 266 Borowy, Piotr, 155 Borsos, Árpád, 99 Bourdieu, Pierre, 216, 228 Bowdoin van Riper, A., 171 Brat (Brother, 1997), 275 Braudel, Fernand, 17, 27 Braudy, Leo, 134–​5, 247 Brdečka, Jiří, 103–​4, 108, 110, 113–​16, 118 Brdečková, Tereza, 118 Bren, Frank, 183 Brennerová, Christiane, 197 Brezhnev, Leonid, 158–​9 Brinkema, Eugenie, 178, 183 Brooks, Mel, 119 Brooks, Peter, 238, 240, 246 Brousek, Ondřej, 222 Brown, Millward, 295

Brunt, Rosalind, 228 Bruzzi, Stella, 84 Buczkowski, Leonard, 9 BÚÉK (Happy new year!, 1978), 211 Bugajski, Ryszard, 132 Bujdosó, Bori, 277 Bukowiecki, Leon, 154 Buldoci a třešně (Bulldogs and cherries, 1981), 115 Burgoyne, Robert, 173, 182 Burian, Vlasta, 9, 70 Burt, Jonathan, 174, 182–​3 Buster, Keaton, 124 Byl jednou jeden král (Once upon a time, there was a king, 1954), 185 Byl jednou jeden polda (There Once Was a Cop, 1995), 223 Byl jednou jeden polda II: Major Maisner opět zasahuje (There Once Was a Cop II: Major Maisner Strikes Again, 1997), 223 Byl jednou jeden polda III: Major Maisner a tančící drak (There once was a cop: Major Maisner and the dancing dragon, 1999), 223 Caccia tragica (Tragic Hunt, 1947), 141 Čada, Karel, 300 Caesar and Cleopatra (1945), 151 Café Moszkva (Café Moscow, 1936), 56 Cannarsa, Stefania, 26 Car of Dreams (1935), 61 Caravan (1946), 142 Carné, Marcel, 151 Carpentier Reifová, Irena, 232 Cartledge, Bryan, 61–​2 Cech panen kutnohorských (The Merry Wives, 1938), 19, 31–​2, 35–​41, 43–​4

347

348

Index Černí baroni (The black barons, 1992), 218 Černý, František, 84 Chęciński, Sylwester, 125, 160, 164–​5 Chelovek s bulvara Kaputsinov (A Man from Boulevard des Capucines, 1987), 111 Chevalier, Maurice, 69 Chicago (2002), 274 Child, Francis James 124 Chopra Rohit, 280 Chrzanowski, Zygmunt, 152–​3, 155 Chyťte ho! (Catch him!, 1924), 112 Cinderella (1950), 189 Citizen Kane (1941), 127, 153 Civil a pályán (Try and win, 1952), 89, 98, 100 Clouzot, Henri-​Georges, 146, 167 Coates, Paul, 19, 27, 123, 135, 182 Cohen, Marshall, 134–​5, 247 Coming Out (Coming Out, 2013), 270–​1, 274–​5 Comte de Monte-​Cristo, Le (The Count of Monte-​Christo, 1954), 89 Cooper, Gary, 163 Čornej, Petr, 45 Cornis-​Pope, Marcel, 26 Corrigan, Timothy, 246 Creton, Laurent, 298 Csak egy kislány van a világon (There is only one girl in the world, 1929), 53 Csak semmi pánik (Don’t panic, please!, 1982), 205 Csak szex és más semi (Just Sex and Nothing Else, 2005), 270–​1, 273, 280 Csányi, Sándor, 273 Csinibaba (Dollybirds, 1997), 270–​1, 273

Csodacsatár (The football star, 1956), 92 Csúnya lány (Ugly girl, 1935), 58 ‘Čtyři vraždy stačí, drahoušku’ (Four murders are enough, Darling, 1970), 115 Čulík, Jan, 231, 301 Cunningham, John, 27–​8, 61, 211, 249, 260 Cutts, Graham, 61 Čvoro, Uroš, 171 Cwał (In Full Gallop, 1996), 175 Człowiek z marmuru (Man of Marble, 1976), 127, 130, 169 Człowiek z żelaza (Man of Iron, 1981), 130–​1, 169 Dačický z Heslova, Mikuláš, 32, 36, 38–​43, 46 Dalolva szép az élet (Singing makes life beautiful, 1950), 100 Dáma s malou nožkou (The lady with the small foot, 1919), 112 Daněk, Oldřich, 110 Dániel, Ferenc, 211 Danielis, Aleš, 294, 299–​301 Davidson, John, 193 de Coster, Charles, 46 de Laclos, Pierre Choderlos, 273 De Laurentiis, Dino, 171 De Martino, Ernesto, 13, 26 De Sica, Vittorio de, 253 De Valck, Marijke, 153 Dębnicki, Kazimierz, 155 Deltcheva, Roumiana, 260 Déryné, Róza Széppataki, 95 Déryné (Mrs Déry, 1951), 95, 98

348

349

Index Deserter, The (1971), 171 Desert Victory, 1943, 151 Dévényi, Ildikó, 63 Diehl, Karen, 264, 266, 276–​8, 281 Dieterle, William, 101 Díky za každé nové ráno (Thanks for every new morning, 1994), 230 Dissanayake, Wimal, 247 Distelmeyer, Jan, 119 Divinyi, Réka, 271, 280 Dívka v modrém (The girl in blue, 1939), 72 Dmytryk, Edward, 143 Dobó Kata, 273, 280 Dobreva, Nikolina, 4, 24, 26 Dobrodružství s Blasiem (Adventure with Blasius, 1974, released in German as Abenteuer mit Blasius), 186 Dobrzyński, Zbigniew, 169 Dr Zhivago (1958), 58 Dögkeselyű (The vulture, 1982), 20, 206–​10 Domagarov, Aleksandr, 237 Donutil, Miroslav, 221 Dostál, Petr, 299 Dovolená s Andělem (Holiday with Angel, 1953), 105 Droga na zachód (The road west, 1961), 160, 162 Duka, Dominik, 45 Dvaasedmdesátka (The number seventy-​two, 1948), 27 Dvanáct křesel/​Dwanaście krzeseł (Twelve chairs, 1933), 8 Dvořáček, Jan, 84 Dvořáková, Tereza, 28, 228 Dydtko, Mieczysław, 154–​5

Dyer, Richard, 2, 13–​15, 22, 26–​7, 84, 99, 123, 125, 134, 194, 216, 227, 234–​5, 246, 266–​7, 278 Dymsza, Adolf, 9 Eco, Umberto, 131, 135 Egy asszony elindul (A woman takes off, 1949), 143 Egyed, Zoltán, 53, 59 Eisen Hans, Der (Iron John, 1987), 187–​8, 192 Eldorádó (The Midas touch, 1989), 249, 254–​6, 260 Eleftheriotis, Dimitri, 23 Eliot, Thomas Stearns, 131 Elixiere des Teufels, Die/​Elixíry ďábla (The devil’s elixirs, 1972), 195 Elmer, Greg, 28 Elnökkisasszony (Miss President, 1935), 53, 90 Elsaesser, Thomas, 23 Emberrablás magyar módra (Kidnapping − Hungarian style, 1972), 205 Én XX. századom, Az (My Twentieth Century, 1989), 249 Enfants du Paradis, Les (Children of Paradise, 1945), 151 Enyedi, Ildkó, 249 Eperjes, Károly, 255 Erdélyi, Mici, 58 Erkel (1952), 95 Erkel, Ferenc, 95 Everett, Wendy, 22 Ezra, Elizabeth, 22 Fábry, Zoltán, 98 Fairbanks, Douglas, 118

349

350

Index Faire, Lucy, 298, 300 Falkowska, Janina, 25, 131, 135, 175, 182 Familie Benthin (Family Benthin, 1950), 143 Fanfan la Tulipe (Fearless Little Soldier/​ Fan-​Fan the Tulip, 1952), 89 Fantom Morrisvillu (The Phantom of Morrisville, 1966), 115 Fantom operety (The Phantom of Operetta, 1970), 115 Faraon (Pharaoh, 1966), 17 Fáy, Emese, 64 Fazekas, Eszter, 99 Fehér, Imre, 98 Feix, Karel, 110, 118 Fekete, Ibolya, 249, 260 Fel a fejjel (Keep your chin up! 1954), 98, 100 Fenyő, Iván, 273 Feyder, Jacques, 45–​6 Fiala, Miloš, 118 Fialová, Květa, 116 Fidlovačka (1931), 31 Filosofská historie (Philosophical history, 1937), 31, 34 Fiske, John, 216–​17, 228, 231, 298 Fizessen, nagysád! (Pay up, Madam!, 1937), 53 Fogiel, Aleksander, 162, 172 Föltámadott a tenger (The sea has risen, 1952), 94–​5 Fonda, Henry, 119 Fonyó, Gergely, 270 Ford, Aleksander, 175 Ford, John, 108, 157 Forgacs, David, 14, 26, 228 Forman, Miloš, 103, 118, 132

Forst, Willy, 1 Fotó Haber (Haber’s photo shop, 1963), 204 Fowler, Catherine, 22 Frey, David, 61, 64, 96, 100, 101 Frič, Martin, 105 Friedman, Sam, 118 Fromáčková, Marie, 83 Futótűz (Wildfire, 1943), 95 Gábor diák (Leila and Gábor, 1956), 92, 97 Gajdošík, Petr, 46 Gajjala, Radhika, 280 Gárdonyi, Géza, 96 Garncarz, Joseph, 84 Gasher, Mike, 28 Gawrak, Zbigniew, 139, 153 Gazdag, Gyula, 251, 253 Gázolás (Hit and run, 1955), 93 Gębicka, Ewa, 171 Gelencsér, Gábor, 20, 90, 100, 198, 210 Generał Nil (General Nil, 2009), 238 Georgakas, Dan, 135 Gergely, Gábor, 23, 63 Gerhardt, Jan, 167 Gertler, Viktor, 89–​91, 97–​8, 201 Geschichte vom kleinen Muck, Die (The story of Little Mook, 1953), 185 Gestohlene Schlacht, Die/​Ukradená bitva (The stolen battle, 1971), 195 Gierek, Edward, 133, 170 Gilda (1946), 142 Gillárová, Kateřina, 232 Gilmurd, Eleonory, 28 Giovacchini, Saverio, 153 Give us this day (1949), 143

350

351

Index Giżycki, Jerzy, 154–​6 Gmiterková, Šárka, 19, 67, 83 Goda, Krisztina, 270, 280 Goddard, Michael, 23, 26 Gołas, Wiesław, 164, 167 Gombár, József, 211 Gomułka, Władysław, 138–​9, 158–​60, 165, 171 Good Day to Die Hard, A (2013), 266 Gott, Karel, 118 Gottwald, Klement, 106 Gózon, Gyula, 89 Gráfová, Jitka, 231 Gramsci, Antonio, 26, 217 Gravity (2013), 296 Green, Peter, 135 Greenberg, Clement, 132, 135 Greenhill, Pauline, 194 Griffith, David Wark, 7, 129 Grimm, Jacob und Wilhelm, 188–​90, 195 Gritta von Rattenzuhausbeiuns (Gritta von Ratsinourhouse, 1984), 191 Grossberg, Lawrence, 27, 228 Gryllus, Dorka, 280 Grzelecki, Stanisław, 165 Grzelecka, Zofia, 155 Gürtler, Jaroslav, 195 Gyarmat a föld alatt (Underground colony, 1950), 93 Gyürey, Vera, 62–​3, 99, 278 Hake, Sabine, 193 Halada, Ondřej, 220, 230 Halálos tavasz (Deadly spring, 1939), 54, 56, 59 Halló Budapest (Hello Budapest, 1935), 52

Haltof, Marek, 24–​5, 27, 173, 182, 245–​6 Hames, Peter, 23, 25, 102, 117, 133, 135, 227–​8, 230 Hamza, Ákos, 49, 56–​7, 63 Hanáková, Petra, 4, 230, 246 Hannah, Daryl, 274 Hanzlík, Jan, 4, 21, 282, 300 Haraszti, Miklós, 126, 131, 133–​5 Harries, Dan, 118–​19 Harris, Sue, 23 Harrod, Mary, 23 Hauff, Wilhelm, 185 Havas, Ágnes, 272, 280 Havas, Júlia Éva, 280 Havel, Luděk, 27 Havelka, Jiří, 84, 194 Havens, Timothy, 23, 26, 232 Havlíček Borovský, Karel, 45 Hayward, Susan, 267, 278 Heiss, Gernot, 23 Heltai, Gyöngyi, 100 Hen, Józef, 172 Herczeg, Attila, 270, 279 Herendi, Gábor, 270, 279, 280 Herz, Juraj, 115 Hetényi, Pál, 251 Hevesi, Sándor, 53 High Noon (1952), 114, 158, 163–​4 Hirsch, Tibor, 100 Hitler, Adolf, 37 Hjort, Mette, 12, 26, 263, 275, 277–​8, 281 Hladík, Radim, 232 Hłasko, Marek, 167 Hobbit, The: The Desolation of Smaug (2013), 296

351

352

Index Hoffman, Jerzy, 160, 163–​4, 172–​4, 175, 182 Hofman, Ota, 190, 196 Hol volt, hol nem volt (A Hungarian Fairy Tale, 1988), 249, 251–​4 Holland, Agnieszka, 132, 230 Holoubek, Gustaw, 163 Holý, Ladislav, 295, 301 Homoródy, József, 99 Honffy, Pál, 62–​3, 99 Honfoglalás (The Conquest, 1996), 270–​2 Horem pádem (Up and Down, 2004), 229 Hořící keř (Burning Bush, 2013), 230 Horoucí srdce (An ardent heart, 1962), 196 Horty, Miklós, 19 Houdini (2014), 266 Hrabal, Bohumil, 1, 22 Hřebejk, Jan, 220, 229–​30 Hubal (Major Hubal, 1973), 182 Hudba z Marsu (Music from Mars, 1955), 76–​7, 79–​80 Hulík, Štěpán, 196 Hus, Jan, 33, 35, 39, 42, 44, 46 Hyppolit (Hyppolit, the Butler, 1931), 48, 52, 58 Ibsen, Henrik, 53 Ifjú szívvel (Young at heart, 1953), 100 Igelfreundschaft, Die/​Uprchlík (The runaway, 1961), 186 Ile waży koń trojański? (How much does the Trojan horse weigh?, 2008), 243 Ilf, Ilya, 9

Imre, Anikό, 4, 22–​6, 28, 155, 232, 258, 260, 278 Inglehart, Ronald, 283, 285, 299 Insel der Silberreiher, Die/​Ostrov stříbrných volavek (Island of the silver herons, 1976), 186 Iordanova, Dina, 4, 11, 23, 26, 228, 259, 265 Iron Man 3 (2013), 296 Ivanova, Mariana, 193 Ja wam pokażę! (I’ll Show You!, 2006), 243 Jäckel, Anne, 22, 28, 188, 195 Jahrgang 21/​Ročník 21 (Those born in 1921, 1957), 187 Jak si zasloužit princeznu (How to Deserve a Princess, 1995), 223 Jakubisko, Juraj, 125 Jameson, Fredric, 118 Jan Hus (1954), 43, 46 Jan Hus (2015), 35 Jan Roháč z Dubé (Warriors of Faith, 1947), 8, 34 Jan Žižka (1955), 43, 46 Jancovich, Mark, 298, 300 Jancsó, Miklós, 129, 200 Jánosi, Gyöngyi, 47 Jánošík (1935), 31 Janosik. Prawdziwa historia (Janosik: A True Story, 2009), 17 Jarchovský, Petr, 220–​221, 230 Jávor, Pál, 51, 53–​5, 60, 63–​4, 96, 100 Je třeba zabít Sekala/​Zabić Sekala (Sekal Has To Die, 1998), 17, 230 Jeffers McDonald, Tamar, 247 Jesse James (1939), 151

352

35

Index Jirásek, Alois, 43, 46 John Paul II (Karol Wojtyła), 35 Johnson, Kevin, 246 Judson, Pieter M., 101 Junek, Václav, 83 Kabay, Barna, 270 Kabos, Gyula, 51–​4, 60, 62–​3 Kaczyński, Lech, 247 Kádár, János, 126, 200–​2 Kalmár, László, 89, 92, 97–​8 Kalmár, Melinda, 202, 211 Kálomista, Gábor, 280 Kalte Herz, Das (The Cold Heart, 1950), 185 Kałużyński, Zygmunt, 145, 155 Kamenáč Bill a ohromní moskyti (Billy the Tough and the giant mosquitoes, 1971), 115 Kameňák 1 (2003), 224–​5 Kameňák 2 (2004), 224 Kameňák 3 (2005), 224 Kameňák 4 (2013), 231 Kanał (Kanal, 1957), 17, 130, 133 Karády, Katalin, 58–​60, 63–​4, 100 Karel Havlíček Borovský (1931), 31, 35 Karel Hynek Mácha (1937), 31 Karel, Irena, 169 Karl, Lars, 28, 153, 172, 195 Katzenprinz, Der/​Kočičí princ (The cat prince, 1979), 186 Katyń (2007), 238, 240 Kék bálvány (A blue idol 1931), 53 Keleti, Márton, 89, 97–​8, 201, 271 Kenedi, János, 62 Kennedy, Michael D., 28, 233, 236–​7, 245–​6

Kermesse heroïque La (Carnival in Flanders, 1935), 19, 37 Kern, András, 270 Kerrigan, Finola, 299 Kertész, Mihály (Michael Curtiz), 17 Khatib, Lina, 100 Khodchenkova, Svetlana, 238 Kid, The (1921), 153 Kidawa-​Błoński, Jan, 239 Kieślowski, Krzysztof, 132, 170 Király, Jenő, 63–​4, 100, 211 Királyné huszárja (The queen’s hussar, 1935), 8 Kis Valentino, A (Little Valentino, 1979), 211 Kislingerová, Eva, 299 Kitsopanidou, Kira, 298 Klaczyński, Zbigniew, 130, 135 Klaren, Georg C., 101 Klein, Dušan, 223 Klimeš, Ivan, 19, 23, 28, 31, 44–​6, 119 Klos, Elmar, 117 Kłosiński, Janusz, 167 Knapík, Jiří, 25–​6, 117 Kodet, Jiří, 221 Koffer mit Dynamit/​Praha nultá hodina (Prague at zero hour, 1962), 187 Kojak Budapesten (Kojak in Budapest, 1980), 205 Kolár, Jan Stanislav, 34 Kolja (Kolya, 1996), 217–​18, 220, 225, 230 Kołodyński, Andrzej, 150–​1, 154 Koltai, Ágnes, 211 Koltai, Lajos, 270 Koltai, Róbert, 256, 270 Koltay, Gábor, 270

353

354

Index Komeda, Krzysztof, 164 Komm, Dimitrij, 275, 281 Konec agenta W4C prostřednictvím psa pana Foustky (The End of Agent W4C, 1967), 115 Konec básníků v Čechách (The end of poets in Bohemia, 1993), 223 Kopal, Petr, 46 Kopecký, Miloš, 104, 108, 110, 116 Korda, Sándor (Alexander Korda), 17, 45 Kornai, János, 117 Korol Lir (King Lear, 1971), 125 Kossuth, Lajos, 101 Kostecki, Józef, 168 Kőszívű ember fiai, A (Men and Banners, 1965), 96 Kosztolányi, Dezső, 50 Kowalski, Władysław, 162 Kozintsev, Grigori, 125, 134 Kozloff, Sarah, 247 Kozlov, Denis, 28 Kovács, András, 99 Kovács, Bálint András, 210–​11 Král králů (The king of kings, 1963), 109 Kráska v nesnázích (Beauty in Trouble, 2006), 225, 230 Kredell, Brendan, 153 Kreimeier, Klaus, 127, 135 Krejčíková, A., 196 Křesťan, Jiří, 196 Křička, Jaroslav, 45 Kristensen, Lars, 24, 225, 231 Kristián (Christian, 1939), 73 Kroupa, Vladimír, 229 Krzyżacy (Knights of the Teutonic order/​ Black Cross, 1960), 175

Krvavý román (Horror Story, 1993), 114 Kubik, Jan, 245 Kučera, Jaroslav, 220 Kuhn, Annette, 278–​9 Kuhn, Miroslav, 84 Kuleshov, Lev, 126, 135 Külvárosi őrszoba (Guard post in the suburbs, 1942), 57, 59 Kundera, Milan, 6, 124 Kunicki, Mikołaj, 20, 93, 101, 157, 171–​2 Kutz, Kazimierz, 125, 159 Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves, 1948), 142, 145 Lakatos, Gabriella, 92, 100, 211 Lamač, Karel, 9, 17 Lange, André, 229 Langford, Barry, 279 Langr, Antonín, 84 Laskowska, Halina, 155 Latabár, Kálmán, 89, 91, 100 Lavrentiev, Sergey, 170 Le Rider, Jacques, 6, 24 Leben lang, Ein (A whole life, 1940), 1 Leslie, Esther, 182 Libáš jako Bůh (You kiss like a god, 2009), 219 Libionka, Dariusz, 171 Libor, Anita, 280 Lila akác (Purple Lilacs, 1934), 49, 56 Liliomfi (1953), 92, 97 Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Lemonade Joe, 1964), 102–​4, 108, 110–​15, 118–​19 Linch, Amy, 245 Lincoln, Abraham, 129

354

35

Index Lipský, Oldřich, 103–​4, 108, 110–​11, 114–​16 Liz, Mariana, 23 Loist, Skadi, 153 Lonely Are the Brave (1962), 165 Lotna (1959), 129, 175 Lovagias ügy (Affair of Honor, 1937), 52 Lóve (2011), 297 Lubelski, Tadeusz, 182, 246–​7 Lukeš, Jan, 230 Lustyik, Katalin, 23, 26, 232 McDonald, Paul, 269, 279, 298 McGuigan, Jim, 228 Machita (1944), 59–​60 Machulski, Juliusz, 243 Mackenzie, Scott, 278 McMahon, Laura, 180, 183 Macourek, Miloš, 103, 115–​16 Macura, Vladimír, 45, 196 Mäde, Hans Dieter, 187–​8, 195 Made in Hungária (Made in Hungary, 2009), 270, 273, 281 Madej, Alicja, 171 Madonna of the Seven Moons (1944), 142 Maetziga, Kurt, 143 Maga lesz a férjem (I will just marry you, Sir! 1938), 54 Mágnás Miska (Mickey Magnate), 89, 97, 100 Magnificent Seven, The (1960), 114, 157, 163–​4, 170 Magyar vándor (Hungarian vagabond, 2004), 270–​2 Makk, Károly, 92, 97–​8 Mała Moskwa (Little Moscow, 2008), 237–​9

Malatyński, Marcin, 25, 172 Maltby, Richard, 24–​5, 27, 117, 152 Manchin, Anna, 25, 100 Marciniak, Katarzyna, 27 Marecki, Piotr, 25, 172 Marey, Etienne-​Jules, 174 Máriássy, Félix, 98, 204 Marshall, Rob, 274 Martian, The (2015), 266 Martinek, Přemysl, 298 Marvan, Jaroslav, 105 Marx, Karl, 244 Maskerade (Masquerade in Vienna, 1934), 1 Matrix, Sydney Eve, 194 May, Karl, 159, 171 Mazierska, Ewa, 23–​4, 26, 28, 127, 135, 182, 225, 231, 235, 245–​7 Mecseki, Anett, 204, 211 Medvídek (Teddy Bear, 2007), 225, 230 Meers, Philippe, 24–​5, 27, 117, 152 Megdönteni Hajnal Tímeát (Whatever Happened to Timi?, 2014), 270–​1, 273–​4, 279, 281 Menzel, Jiří, 6, 10, 220 Mese a 12 találatról (Tale on 12 points, 1956), 92, 98 Meseautó (The Dream Car, 1934), 49, 61–​3, 52, 90, 211 Meseautó (Fairy tale auto, 2000), 270–​1 Mészáros, Gyula, 205 Michałek, Bolesław, 125, 134–​5, 182–​3 Mickiewicz, Adam, 125 Miczka, Tadeusz, 171 Mihelj, Sabina, 26 Mikoláš Aleš (1951), 43 Milan Rastislav Štefaník (1935), 31

355

356

Index Milczenie (The Silence, 1963), 171–​2 Miller, Cynthia J., 171 Miller, David, 165 Miller, Toby, 216, 228, 265 Mingant, Nolwenn, 280 Miniszter félrelép, A (Out of order, 1997), 271–​2, 274 Miłosz, Czesław, 6 Miracolo a Milano (Miracle in Milan, 1951), 253 Mirless, Tanner, 28 Mirski, K., 154 Misiak, Anna, 27 Mládek, Jiří, 38 Mocná, Dagmar, 84 Moczar, Mieczysław, 159 Molière, 48 Moran, Albert, 195 Mortimer, Claire, 247 Motyka, Grzegorz, 171 Motyl, Vladimir, 158–​9 Mozart, Johann Wolfgang, 251–​2 Mroz, Matilda, 20, 24, 173, 183 Mrozowska, Zofia, 164 Müller, Dietmar, 172, 195 Munk, Andrzej, 159 Munslow, Alun, 241, 247 Muráti, Lili, 58, 64 Musíme si pomáhat (Divided We Fall, 2000), 220, 230 Muybridge, Eadweard, 174, 182 Muži bez křídel (Men without wings, 1946), 154 Muži v naději (Men in hope, 2011), 219 My Darling Clementine (1946), 142 Na tý louce zelený (On the Green Meadow, 1936), 70

Nagyrozsdási eset (A remarkable case, 1957), 92 Nahlik, Monika, 247 Näripea, Eva, 2, 4–​5, 23–​4, 27, 225, 230–​1 Neale, Steve, 300 Nečas, Petr, 45 Nechte to na mě (Leave it to me, 1955), 81 Nedbal, Oskar, 45 Nejedlý, Zdeněk, 45 Nelson, Cary, 228 Němcová, Božena, 188–​92, 195–​7 Nemes, László, 277 Nemeskürty, István, 61–​3 Nemocnice na kraji města po dvaceti letech (Hospital at the end of the city after twenty years, 2003), 226 Neobychainye priklyucheniya mistera Vesta v strane bolshevikov (The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, 1924), 111 Neporažená armáda (Undefeated army, 1938), 8 Nestyda (Shameless, 2008), 230 Neubauer, John, 26 Neuberg, Josef, 103, 105 Nichols, Ben, 134 Nie kłam kochanie (Darling, don’t lie, 2008), 243 Niemczyk, Leon, 165, 167 Nigdy w życiu (Never in my life!, 2004), 243 Noszty fiú esete Tóth Marival, A, 98 Novák, Jan, 231 Nováková, Krystýna, 222 Novotný, Antonín, 222

356

357

Index Nový, Oldřich, 19, 67–​83, 105 Nowell, Richard, 104, 116–​17 Nyugati övezet (West Zone, 1952), 93 Nyom nélkül (Without clues, 1981), 205 Obecná škola (The Elementary School, 1991), 11, 220 Obsluhoval jsem anglichého krála (I Served the King of England, 2006), 230 Ogniem i mieczem (With Fire and Sword, 2000), 172, 182, 235, 237 Ogniomistrz Kaleń (The artillery sergeant Kalen, 1961), 160–​1, 166–​9 Olmer, Vít, 223 Olszowski, Stefan, 158 Ónodi, Eszter, 273 Opaliński, Kazimierz, 162 Orban, Clara, 21, 248 Ördöglovas (Devil’s horseman, 1943), 94 Orosz, Dénes, 270 Oroszlán, Szonja, 273 Orr, John, 246 Orwell, George, 133 Osiecka, Agnieszka, 164 Ostrowska, Dorota, 20, 25, 27, 136, 153, 156, 278 Ostrowska, Elżbieta, 20, 24, 176, 182, 233, 246 Osuch, Marian, 170 Osvárt, Andrea, 274 O’Ya, Bruno, 169 Páger, Antal, 51 Palacký, František, 37 Pancho se žení (Pancho’s wedding), 112

Pane, vy jste vdova! (You Are a Widow, Sir, 1970), 115 Paczkowski, Andrzej, 153 Pan Tadeusz (Pan Tadeusz: The Last Foray in Lithuania, 1999) 125, 235–​6, 246 Pan Wołodyjowski (Colonel Wolodyjowski, 1968), 172–​4, 176–​81 Panenství (Virginity, 1937), 36 Panofsky, Erwin, 124, 134 Pápai, Zsolt, 57, 63, 64, 211, 265, 278 Papoušek, Jaroslav, 103, 118 Paradjanov, Sergei, 125 Paříková, Marie, 84 Pásek, Pavel, 231 Pasikowski, Władysław, 22, 234 Passendorfer, Jerzy, 158, 171 Passer, Ivan, 132 Pasztor, Maria, 155 Pavlíček, František, 189, 196 Pawlicki, Maciej, 28 Pawlik, Bronisław, 169 Pecka, Jaroslav, 300 Pelišky (Cosy Dens, 1999), 218, 220, 225–​226 Peníze nebo život (Your Money or Your Life, 1932), 112 Peregi, Gyula, 99 Perepeczko, Marek, 169 Perzyk, Adam, 164 Petelskis, Ewa and Czesław, 160, 167 Petényi, Katalin, 270 Petőfi, Sándor, 95 Petrie, Duncan, 22, 26, 263, 275, 277, 278, 281 Petrov, Evgeny, 9 Picasso, Pablo, 132 Pickford, Mary, 118

357

358

Index Pietruski, Ryszard, 163 Pijanowski, Lech, 159, 171 ‘Pimpernel’ Smith (1941), 151 Písnickář (The singer, 1932), 34 Pitassio, Francesco, 20, 153–​5, 215 Pitera, Zbigniew, 154 Plachta, Jindřich, 105 Płażewski, Jerzy, 146, 155 Pogány Madonna (The pagan Madonna, 1980), 205 Pokoj v duši (Soul at Peace, 2009), 297 Polański, Roman, 132 Police Academy (1984), 223 Popelka (Cinderella, 1969), 189 Popiełuszko, Jerzy, 240, 246–​7 Popiełuszko. Wolność jest w nas (Popieluszko. Freedom is within us, 2009), 238, 240 Popioł i diament (Ashes and Diamonds, 1958), 127 Popioły (The Ashes, 1965), 169, 175, 180 Poręba, Bohdan, 160, 162–​3, 182 Portuges, Catherine, 23–​5, 228, 249, 260 Potop (The deluge, 1973–​4), 172, 175, 180, 182 Potseluy Meri Pikford (A Kiss from Mary Pickford, 1927), 111 Powell, Michael, 142 Pražská pětka (Prague five, 1988), 114 Prawo i pięść (The law and the fist, 1964), 160–​1, 163, 172 Presley, Elvis, 164 Pressburger, Emeric, 142 Princezna ze mlejna (The Watermill Princess, 1994), 223, 226, 231

Princezna ze mlejna II (The Watermill Princess II, 2000), 226, 231 Private Life of Henry VIII, The (1933), 19, 36, 45 Prodaná nevěsta (The bartered bride, 1933), 34 Prommer, Elizabeth, 194 Protektor (Protector, 2009), 230 Proti všem (1956), 43, 46 Przedwiośnie (The spring to come, 2001), 235 Przybylski, Jerzy, 163 Psohlavci (Dog’s heads, 1955), 43 Psy (Pigs, 1992), 234 Psy 2. Ostatnia krew (Pigs 2, 1994), 22 Ptáček, Luboš, 230 Pupendo (2003), 218, 220, 226 Pygmalion (1938), 151 Pyšná princezna (The proud princess, 1952), 185 Pytlákova schovanka aneb šlechetný milionář (The poacher’s foster daughter, 1949), 74–​5, 112, 114 Quattro passi fra le nuvole (Four Steps in the Clouds, 1942), 141, 151 Quo Vadis (2001), 235 Ráday, Imre, 51 Rafalska, Dominika, 153 Raft’áci (Rafters, 2006), 225 Rainer, M. János, 211 Rak, Jiří, 44–​6 Rákóczi hadnagya (Rákóczi’s lieutenant, 1953), 95, 97 Rákóczi nótája (The song of Rákóczi, 1943), 94–​5, 101

358

359

Index Rat der Götter, Der (Council of the gods, 1950), 143 Rebelové (Rebels, 2001), 220, 225–​6 Reinl, Harald, 159, 171 Repin, Ilya, 132 Repülő arany (Flying gold, 1932), 49 Révész, György, 97 Reymont, Władysław, 125 Réz, András, 205, 211 Richter, Nicole, 230 Richter, Rolf, 197 Ridley, Scott, 266 Rieuwerts, Sigrid, 134 Rinke, Andrea, 197 Rockett, Emer, 300 Rockett, Kevin, 300 Rogowski, Christian, 84 Roháč, Ján, 117 Roma città aperta (Rome, Open City, 1945), 141–​2, 145 Román pro ženy (From Subway with Love, 2005), 218, 225 Rosselli, Alessandro, 28 Rosszemberek (Wrong-​doers, 1979), 203 Rotation (Rotation, 1949), 154 Rowiński, Jan, 155 Róża (Rose, 2011), 237 Rozenblit, L. Marsha, 101 Różyczka (Little Rose, 2010), 237 Rubenstein, Lenny, 135 Rudolf, Péter, 270 Rutherford, Anne, 179, 183 Rychlík, Jan, 110 Rychman, Ladislav, 102, 116–​17 Saint Wenceslas (Svatý Václav), 19, 31–​5, 40–​4

Šakalí léta (Big Beat, 1993), 230 Sakwa, Richard, 245 Salaire de la peur, Le (The Wages of Fear, 1955), 146, 167 Sandford, John, 197 Sarkisova, Oksana, 100 Sas, Tamás, 270 Sąsiedzi (Neighbours, 1969), 170 Saul fia (Son of Saul, 2015), 264, 277, 279 Sayer, Derek, 45 Schatz, Thomas, 242, 247, 280–​1 Schatz im Silbersee, Der (The Treasure of the Silver Lake, 1962), 114, 171 Schell, Judit, 273 Schenk, Ralf, 197 Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot (Snow White and Rose Red, 1978), 188, 191 Schindler’s List (1993), 277 Schöning, Jörg, 119 Schreckliche Frau, Eine /​Strašná žena (A terrible woman, 1965), 195 Schubert, Gusztáv, 280 Ścibor-​Rylski, Aleksander, 160, 169–​70 Sciuscià (Shoeshine, 1946), 151 Scorupco, Izabella, 237 Sea Hawk, The (1940), 151 Seibert, Katharina, 195, 172 Semmelweis, Ignác, 94, 101 Semmelweis –​Retter der Mütter (Dr Semmelweis, 1950), 143 Seweryn, Andrzej, 239 Shen, Qinna, 193, 196 Sherover, Miles, 153 Short, Sue, 194 Shostakovitch, Dmitri, 125 Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 172–​3, 176, 182 Silbermann, Marc, 193

359

360

Index Šimůnková, Lucie, 193 Sipos, Balázs, 64 Skaff, Sheila, 24 Skazanie o zemle sibirskoy (Symphony of Life, 1948), 146 Skąpani w ogniu (Fire Bath, 1964), 171 Skaper, Brigitta, 62–​4 Sklar, Robert, 153 Skolimowski, Jerzy, 132 Skopal, Pavel, 4, 20, 27–​8, 83, 152–​3, 184, 193–​5 Skórzewski, Edward, 160, 163–​4 Skwara, Anita, 15, 27, 278 Slavíček, Jirí, 27 Slavínský, Vladimír, 105 Šlechetný cowboy Sandy aneb Prohraná nevěsta (The noble cowboy Sandy or Gamble bride, 1964), 115 Slovo dělá ženu (A woman as good as her word, 1952), 75–​6, 79–​81 Śluby Panieńskie (Maiden Vows, 2010), 235 Slunce, seno, erotica (Sun, hay, eroticism, 1991), 231 Slunce, seno, jahody (Sun, hay, strawberries, 1984), 231 Slunce, seno, a pár facek (Sun, hay, and a pair of slaps, 1989), 231 Šmahel, František, 45 Smarzowski, Wojciech, 237 Šmid, Milan, 229 Šmída, Bohumil, 110, 118 Smoljak, Ladislav, 103, 118 Smolka, János, 62 Snowboard’áci (Snowboarders, 2004), 225 So Well Remembered (1947), 141 Sobchack, Vivian, 176, 183

Soldovieri, Stefan, 278 Somlay, Artúr, 250 Sorlin, Pierre, 22, 27, 248, 259–​60 Sorstalanság (Fateless, 2005), 270–​2, 276 SOS szerelem (SOS Love, 2007), 270, 274 Sose halunk meg (We never die, 1993), 249, 257 Sosnowski, Alexandra, 25 Soukup, Jaroslav, 223 Sous les toits de Paris (Under the Roofs of Paris, 1930), 153 Spaak, Charles, 46 Spáčilová, Mirka, 229 Spencer, Bud, 205 Spielberg, Steven, 11, 277 Stagecoach (1939), 108 Starci na chmelu (Hop Pickers, 1964), 14 Stalin, Joseph, 132, 138 Starewicz, Artur, 158, 172 Štěpánek, Zdeněk, 38, 46 Stoor, Mieczysław, 169 Street, Sarah, 23 Stringer, Julian, 300 Stroiński, Maciej, 247 Stroupežnický, Ladislav, 38 Stubbings, Sarah, 300 Sturges, John, 157 Švanda Dudák (1937), 31 Svěrák, Jan, 11, 220, 229–​30, 297 Svěrák, Zdeněk, 103, 118, 220, 226, 297 Svidrony, Gábor, 253 Svitáček, Vladimír, 117 Svoboda, Ludvík, 222 Światło, Józef, 138 Swierdowski, Wacław, 154 Swing (2014), 275

360

361

Index Szabados, Mihály, 256 Szabadság, szerelem (Children of Glory, 2006), 270–​2, 276, 280 Szabó, István, 6, 251, 259 Szabóné (Mrs Szabó, 1949), 143 Szaloky, Melinda, 260 Szczepanik, Petr, 7, 10, 19, 23–​5, 28, 68, 83–​4, 102, 117–​19, 194, 228, 231 Szczepański, Maciej, 170 Szczerbic, Joanna, 164 Székely, György, 63 Székely István, 51–​2, 62 Szeleczky, Zita, 58 Szerb, Antal, 50, 61 Szíjártó, Imre, 281 Szíriusz (Sirius, 1942), 49 Szőnyi, Sándor G., 205 Tajemství hradu v Karpatech (The Mysterious Castle in the Carpathians, 1981), 115 Talpalatnyi föld (Treasured Earth, 1948), 144 Talpuk alatt fütyül a szél (The wind blows under their feet, 1976), 203 Tamás, Gáspár Bence, 279 Tankový prapor (The Tank Battalion, 1991), 218 Tarr, Béla, 259 Tatar, Maria, 196 Taussig, Pavel, 117 Teljes gőzzel (Full steam ahead!, 1951), 204 Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (2008-​9), 272 Těžký život dobrodruha (The hard life of an adventurer, 1941), 112 That Mothers Might Live (1938), 101

They Met in the Dark (1943), 142 Tille, Václav, 46 Tímár, Péter, 270 Timoshkina, Alissa, 23 Tinkcom, Matthew, 228, 298 Tiomkin, Dimitri, 164 Tirez sur le pianiste (Shoot the Pianist, 1960), 210 Tito, Josip Broz, 157 Tizedes meg a többiek, A (The corporal and others, 1965), 271 Tmavomodrý svět (A Dark Blue World, 2001), 218, 220, 230 Toman, Ludvík, 196, 133 Tompos, Kátya, 273 Touha (Desire, 1958), 110 Transformers series (2007), 277 Trávníček, Pavel, 188 Trędowata (The Leper, 1936), 124 Treichler, Paula, 228 Trhala fialky dynamitem (She picked up the violets with dynamite, 1992), 223 Tři oříšky pro Popelku /​ Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973), 20, 184–​5, 188–​9, 191–​3 Třicet případů Majora Zemana (Major Zeman’s thirty cases, 1974–​9), 226 Trnka, Jiří, 108 Troška, Zdeněk, 223–​4, 226, 231–​2 Trossek, Andreas, 2, 4–​5, 23–​4, 27, 230 Trotter, David, 183 Trzecia część nocy (Third Part of the Night, 1971), 133 Tunys, Ladislav, 84 Turaj, Frank, 182–​3 Turay, Ida, 58

361

362

Index Túsztörténet (Stand off, 1989), 249, 253–​4, 260 Tűz (Flames, 1948), 154 U Pana Boga za piecem (In heaven as it is on earth, 1998), 243 Účastníci zájezdu (Holiday makers, 2006), 218–​19, 225 Új földesúr (New landlord, 1935), 8 Újszászi, István, 60 Uličnice (Gamine, 1936), 70 Ulman, Miroslav, 300–​1 Ulver, Stanislav, 230 Únos bankéře Fuxe (The kidnapping of Fux the banker, 1923), 112 Upír z Feratu (Ferat Vampire, 1981), 115 Üvegtigris 1–​3 (Glass tiger 1–​3, 2001–​10), 270, 275 V pravé dopoledne (High morning, 1964), 115 Vachek, Karel, 125 Vachler, Peter, 218 Vajda, Ladislao, 63 Vajdovich, Györgyi, 64, 271, 280 Vajna, Andrew G., 272, 280 Valahol Európában (Somewhere in Europe, 1947), 250 Valami Amerika 1–​2 (A Kind of America 1 and 2, 2002, 2008), 270–​3, 275, 280 Valamit visz a víz (Something adrift in the water, 1944), 54, 59 Van Leeuwen-​Turnovcová, Jiřína, 230 Váradi, Júlia, 211 Varga, Balázs, 19, 25, 57, 63–​4, 85, 211, 265, 271, 278, 280, 294, 301 Varga, Mária, 251

Varga, Zsuzsanna, 1, 19, 47, 210 Várkonyi, Zoltán, 205 Vaszary, János, 58, 64 Vávra, Otakar, 10, 19, 36–​9, 40, 42–​4 Vejražka, Vítězslav, 78 Velek, Viktor, 45 Vermes, Dávid, 251 Verzió (Version, 1981), 211 Vidal, Belén, 177, 183 Villarejo, Amy, 228, 298 Vincendeau, Ginette, 2, 13–​15, 22, 26–​ 7, 57, 63, 194, 216, 227, 266–​7, 278 Virginás, Andrea, 21, 263, 277 Vítová, Hana, 78 Vláčil, František, 44 Vlček, František, 103, 105 Vlk, Miloslav, 35 Vodál, Vera, 280 Von Bach, Alexander, 35 Von Radványi, Géza, 63, 250 Vonderau, Patrick, 23, 117, 194 Vor, no ne Bagdadskii (The thief, but not from Baghdad, 1926), 111 Vorlíček, Václav, 103, 115–​16, 189–​90, 193, 196 Voskovec, Jiří, 70, 108 Vovelle, Michel, 27 Vratné lahve (Empties, 2007), 219, 230, 296 Vstanou noví bojovníci (New fighters shall arise, 1950), 34 Vynález zkázy (The Deadly Invention/​ The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, 1958), 110 Wajda, Andrzej, 10, 125–​6, 129–​31, 134–​5, 159, 169, 175, 182, 240, 246 Waller, Marguerite, 249, 260

362

36

Index Wang, Yuejin, 241, 247 Welzel, Christian, 283, 285, 299 Werich, Jan, 70, 108 Wessely, Paula, 1 Whispering City (1947), 142 White, Hayden, 241, 247 Więckiewicz, Robert, 239 Wilcze echa (Wolves’ echoes, 1968), 160–​1, 169–​70 Wilkening, Albert, 189 Williams, Raymond, 217, 245 Wiśniewska, Ewa, 164 Wright, Julie Lobalzo, 63 Wszystko na sprzedaż (Everything for Sale, 1968), 127 Z punktu widzenia nocnego portiera (From a Night Porter’s Point of View, 1977), 170 Záhonyi, Ábel Márk, 62–​3 Zajdel, Jakub, 171–​2 Załuski, Zbigniew, 165, 172 Zanussi, Krzysztof, 127, 135, 175 Zaorski, Tadeusz, 164 Zárt tárgyalás (Closed court, 1940) 57 Zarzosa, Augustín, 240, 246 Zatorski, Ryszard, 243

Zauberhafte Erbschaft/​Kouzelné dědictví (Magical heritage, 1985), 186 Zdvořilý Woody (Well-​mannered Woody, 1963), 118 Żebrowski, Michał, 237 Želary (2003), 17 Zelenková, Bohumila, 196 Zeman, Bořivoj, 105, 115 Zeman, Karel, 6, 110 Zemsta (Revenge, 2002), 235, 237 Ženu ani květinou neuhodíš (Never Strike a Woman…Even with a Flower, 1966), 110 Ženy v pokušení (Women in temptation, 2010), 219, 297 Żeromski, Stefan, 125 Zhdanov, Andrei, 133 Zinnemann, Fred, 158 Zítra se bude tančit všude (Tomorrow, people will be dancing everywhere, 1952), 14 Žižek, Slavoj, 233, 242, 244–​5, 247 Žizka, Jan z Trocnov, 46 Žižkovská romance (A Local Romance, 1958), 109 Żuławski, Andrzej, 132 Żurek, Lesław, 238

363

364