The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood 9789048542017

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The Barrandov Studios

Eastern European Screen Cultures The series Eastern European Screen Cultures publishes critical studies on the screen cultures that have marked the socialist and post-socialist spaces in Europe. It aims to unveil current phenomena and untold histories from this region to account for their specificity and integrate them into a wider conception of European and world cinema. The series aspires to fill gaps in research, particularly by approaching Eastern European screen cultures in a transnational and comparative framework and exploring previously underrepresented theoretical issues. It considers moving images in all stages and aspects: production, text, exhibition, reception, and education. Eastern European Screen Cultures will also publish translations of important texts that have not been able to travel outside of national and/or regional borders. Series editors Greg de Cuir, University of Arts Belgrade Ewa Mazierska, University of Central Lancashire Francesco Pitassio, University of Udine Advisory Board Anikó Imre, University of Southern California Dina Iordanova, University of St. Andrews Pavle Levi, Stanford University Eva Näripea, Estonian Academy of Arts Dominique Nasta, Université Libre de Bruxelles Elzbieta Ostrowska, University of Alberta Katie Trumpener, Yale University

The Barrandov Studios A Central European Hollywood

Edited by Bernd Herzogenrath

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Logo of the Barrandov Studios. Courtesy of the Barrandov Studios. Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6298 945 0 978 90 4854 201 7 e-isbn doi 10.5117/9789462989450 nur 670 © The Authors / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2023 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may 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 written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

List of Figures

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Acknowledgments 11 Introduction: Once upon a (Central European) Time Bernd Herzogenrath and Kevin Johnson

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I  (Film) History 1. Barrandov and Its Founder, Miloš Havel

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2. The Concept of Regional Poetics of Cinema

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Tereza Czesany Dvořáková

Czech Films of the 1920s and Early 1930s Radomír D. Kokeš

3. Barrandov’s First Fifteen Years

Genres, Stars, Germans, and the Nation Kevin B. Johnson

105

II  Production History 4. Industrial Authorship and Group Style in Czech Cinemaof the 1950s and 1960s

131

5. Marcela Pittermannová: Barrandov Dramaturges as Clients, Brokers, and Patrons

169

6. Ambitious ‘Alien’ Beats Perestroika

193

Petr Szczepanik

Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek

Pražská 5 (1988), Home Video, and Producing Politically Subversive Cinema at Barrandov in the 1980s Jindřiška Bláhová

III  Individual Directors 7. A Documentarian between Genres

219

8. The Loves of a System: Miloš Forman and Barrandov

251

9. Barrandov and Chytilová

271

10. Barrandov Baroque: The Tenacious Artistry of Juraj Herz

297

11. Václav Vorlíček: A Dream within a Dream

317

12. The ‘Vault Films’

339

Jiří Weiss – A Crossover Auteur at Barrandov Lucie Česálková

David Sorfa

Peter Hames

Jonathan Owen

Bernd Herzogenrath

Matthew Sweney

Index 361



List of Figures

Figure 1.1.

Barrandov Hill in 1930. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.51 Figure 1.2. Building of Barrandov Studios, 1932. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.53 Figure 1.3. Official promotional photograph of the A-B Company. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.55 Figure 1.4. Shooting at Barrandov, 1936. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.56 Figures 2.1–2.5. Stills from Vražda v Ostrovní ulici (Murder on Ostrovní Street, 1933, dir. Svatopluk Innemann). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).93 Figure 3.1. Bumbling Czech underdog detective Vincenc Babočka (Vlasta Burian) attempts to communicate with the English-speaking Maharaja. Screen capture from the DVD of Tři vejce do skla (Three Eggs in a Glass, 1937, dir. Martin Frič).114 Figure 3.2. Czech patriots at the barricades against the Austrian military in the streets of Prague – the climactic sequence of Philosophical History. Screen capture from the DVD of Filosofská historie (Philosophical History, 1937, dir. Otakar Vávra).117 Figure 3.3. Bilingual (German and Czech) advertisement for a paper store from the film Skill of Gold. Screen capture from the DVD of Zlaté dno (Skill of Gold, 1943, dir. Vladimír Slavínský).121 Figure 4.1. Karel Feix. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).150 Figure 4.2. Bohumil Šmída. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).150 Figure 4.3. Example of the group style of Feix’s creative unit. Still from Tři přání (Three Wishes, 1958, dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).155 Figure 4.4. Example of the group style of Feix’s creative unit. Still from Zde jsou lvi (Scars of the Past,

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Figure 4.5.

Figure 4.6. Figure 4.7.

Figure 4.8.

Figure 5.1.

Figure 7.1.

Figure 7.2. Figure 7.3.

Figure 7.4.

The Barr andov Studios

1958, dir. Václav Krška). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).155 Example of the group style of Feix’s creative unit. Still from Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Lemonade Joe, or The Horse Opera, 1964, dir. Oldřich Lipský). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).155 Example of the group style of Šmída’s creative unit. Still from Touha (Desire, 1958, dir. Vojtěch Jasný). Screen capture from the DVD of the film.155 Example of the group style of Šmída’s creative unit. Still from Žižkovská romance (A Local Romance, 1958, dir. Zbyněk Brynych). Screen capture from the DVD of the film.155 Example of the group style of Šmída’s creative unit. Postava k podpírání (Joseph Kilian/A Character in Need of Support, 1963, dir. Pavel Juráček and Jan Schmidt). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).155 From the left: dramaturgical group’s secretary Bohumila Šourková, an unknown person, Ota Hofman, Marcela Pittermannová in office of the dramaturgical group in early 1980s (source: Marcela Pitttermannová´s private archive)183 Vstanou noví bojovníci (New Fighters Shall Arise, 1950, dir. Jiří Weiss) at the Festival of Czechoslovak Film in the Soviet Union. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).232 Jiří Weiss shooting Můj přítel Fabián (My Friend the Gypsy, 1953). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).239 Jiří Weiss shooting Punťa a čtyřlístek (Doggy and the Four, 1955) with child actors. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).239 Jiří Weiss used the shooting experience on the battlefields of WWII to make Uloupená hranice (The Stolen Frontier, 1947). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).242

List of Figures

Figure 7.5.

Figure 7.6.

Figure 8.1. Figure 9.1. Figure 9.2.

Figure 9.3. Figure 10.1. Figure 10.2. Figure 10.3. Figure 11.1. Figure 11.2. Figure 11.3.

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Still from Romeo, Julie a tma (Romeo, Juliet and Darkness, 1959, dir. Jiří Weiss). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).245 Anne Heywood and Rudolf Hrušínský in Třicet jedna ve stínu (Ninety Degrees in the Shade, 1965, dir. Jiří Weiss). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).247 The opening shot of Konkurs (Audition, 1963, dir. Miloš Forman). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).257 Eva Bosáková in O něčem jiném (Something Different, 1963, dir. Věra Chytilová). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.275 Karel Novák and Jitka Nováková in Ovoce stromů rajských jíme (The Fruit of Paradise, 1969, dir. Věra Chytilová), a coproduction of Barrandov Studios (Czechoslovakia) and Elisabeth Films (Belgium). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.279 Jiří Menzel and Dagmar Bláhová in Hra o jablko (The Apple Game, 1976, dir. Věra Chytilová), Kratky Film. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.285 Still from Morgiana (1972, dir. Juraj Herz). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.305 Still from Panna a netvor (Beauty and the Beast, 1978, dir. Juraj Herz). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.308 Still from Upír z Feratu (The Ferat Vampire, 1982, dir. Juraj Herz). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.310 Jessie says, ‘I love you’. Still from Kdo chce zabít Jessii? (Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966, dir. Václav Vorlíček). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.326 The shoe fits! Still from Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973, dir. Václav Vorlíček). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.330 Fairy tales – old and new. Still from Arabela (1979–1981, dir. Václav Vorlíček). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.335

Acknowledgments I would like to express my gratitude to Amsterdam University Press for giving us the opportunity to publish this book, to everybody who contributed to this volume, and to Reader 1! Special thanks go out to Louisa Collenberg and Matthew Sweney, for your great help! The last few years have been tough: a friend took his life, some people I love and care about got cancer, and the world as a whole has turned crazier than ever – we all need some hope. I dedicate this book to Janna and Claudia, and to the memory of my brother Frank, and my dear friend Alex. *** A previous version of Petr Szczepanik’s chapter was published in Czech in the magazine Iluminace (February 2014) and in an extended form in Petr Szczepanik, Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 (The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970), 255–295 (Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016). Its revision for foreign readers has been supported by the European Regional Development Fund project ‘Creativity and Adaptability as Conditions of the Success of Europe in an Interrelated World’ (reg. no. CZ.02.1.01/0.0/0.0/16_019/0000734). To our best knowledge, all images reproduced here fall under ‘citation right’ in Dutch law.



Introduction: Once upon a (Central European) Time Bernd Herzogenrath and Kevin Johnson

This book is meant as an introduction. It wants to present to readers not familiar with the subject one of the oldest and crucially important film studios of Central Europe, which also boasts to have been one of the biggest at the time it was founded – the Barrandov Studios in Prague, Czech Republic. Situated on top of the Barrandov Hills, Barrandov Studios functions as a truly Central European Hollywood, explicitly ‘planned as a centre for international production’ (Hames 2000, 64). The studios ‘opened officially in the year marked by the advent of the “talkies” (1931)’ (Iordanova 2003, 24). For their now more than ninety years of existence, the studios have been the location of choice for the production of more than 5,000 Czech and international films. As with its analogous geographical eponyms, such as ‘Hollywood’ or ‘Babelsberg’, the label ‘Barrandov’ encapsules a wealth of connotations that far exceeds the confines of the physical studios themselves. Depending on the context the name can be used to describe a studio complex in the south of Prague, the neighborhood where the film factory is located, or a production company. At the same time, the word is more often than not employed as a general shorthand for the management apparatus that oversaw the state-run film production under communism or for the entire Czech (but not Slovak) film industry and its creative output more generally.1 At a certain point, the concept of ‘Barrandov’ achieves mythological implications that are simultaneously linked to both the Czech national identity and with an internationally attractive technological production standard. While most readers might be familiar with the Czech New Wave (Nová vlna), the institution behind these successes is likely less well-known.2 Its 1 From the postwar era onwards, Slovakia had its own studios. 2 It has to be noted, though, that what is conventionally considered the onset of the Nová vlna, i.e., Slnko v sieti (The Sun in a Net, 1963, dir. Štefan Uher), is a Slovak film, shot in Slovakia. Indeed,

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_intro

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story has so far not been told to an English-speaking readership. This collection aims at correcting this, presenting the studio’s rich history, production culture, and some of its esteemed directors and their films. A word about the phrase ‘Central Europe’. While the diehard connotation of the Czech Republic as being part of Eastern Europe seems to be a default label still alive in the heads of many people (and politicians amongst them as well), it is simply a wrong (and ‘ill-educated’) notion. Being a remnant of both Enlightenment thinking and Hitler’s Kulturpolitik (see Hames 2010, 2, referring to Larry Wolff) still does not make it right. As Martin Votruba has pointed out, from Switzerland to Slovakia and from Poland to Hungary, geography schoolbooks have been teaching children that their country is in Central Europe (going clockwise from the west: Germany, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, and the Czech Republic in the middle). (Votruba 2005, 1)

An important studio, prolific, but little-known beyond its native country (at least in the English-speaking world) – that’s the fate not only of Barrandov, but also other (not only European) studios in the shadow of Hollywood. For a long time, the ‘Dream Factory’ had been the ne plus ultra when it came to film, but for quite some time now, the histories of national (and/ or regional) cinemas have come to the fore and succeeded in ‘breaking the hegemony’ of that monolithic image. The ‘big picture’ is not just Hollywood – other studios have different histories, different structures, and different perspectives (see also, e.g., Filmové ateliéry Koliba (Koliba Studios), Bratislava, Slovakia, formerly known as Slovenská filmová tvorba Koliba, when Bratislava still belonged to Czechoslovakia, etc.). At least since the immense rise of sales figures in Bollywood and Nollywood, non-Hollywood studios could no longer be ignored and excluded from ‘the canon’ (at times, Nollywood has surpassed Hollywood as the world’s second largest movie industry by volume, right behind India’s Bollywood). Film scholars have increasingly put ‘other studios’ on the map – not only ‘historically’ (older studios on the fringes of Hollywood, such as the studios on LA’s ‘Poverty Row’, see, e.g., Weaver 1999), but also geographically (e.g., with regard to ‘genre-specific’ Asian cinema, see Fu 2008). However, there is still work to be done. there has been a plethora of later Slovak filmmakers, working both in Prague and Bratislava (e.g., Juraj Jakubisko, Dušan Hanak, Elo Havetta, etc.).

Introduc tion: Once upon a (Centr al European) Time

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Thus, the aim of the book is to shed a little light on one of those studios. It is not a book (solely) about Barrandov’s studio system (for this, see, e.g., Szczepanik 2016), it wants to introduce the ‘complex entity’ that is ‘the Barrandov Studios’ (an assemblage of [film]historical background, particularities in studio culture, a wealth of dramaturges and directors, etc.). In order to do so, it employs a selection of varied methodologies and strategies – reflected also intentionally in different authorial styles: (film) history, film studies, cinema poetics, production studies, cultural studies, reception studies, etc. This approach also has consequences for the structure of the book: it consists of three parts covering: 1) (film) history, 2) production history, and 3) individual directors – which, of course, are not fields to be seen in their isolated state, but entertain ‘subterranean’ connections with each other. Lastly, it should be noted that we have imposed a ‘time frame’ on the history of Barrandov. While there was a ‘postsocialist’ life after the Velvet Revolution (and the cancellation of state subsidies) in 1989, our introduction ends with that historical rupture: while a point could be made that Barrandov was (and is) still a very successful studio, Peter Hames observed in 2000 that ‘there’s a difference between a successful film industry and a successful national cinema. While the number of films produced at Barrandov averaged 20–30 features, the production of domestic films dropped to only two per year’ (Hames 2000, 71). Still – while during the last thirty years, Barrandov has predominantly been a production facility for international coproductions or Hollywood projects, and although the percentage of Czech films produced there is low, there actually have been a couple of important films that have come out of Barrandov: Martin Šulík’s Slovak-Czech production Zahrada (The Garden, 1995), Petr Václav’s Marian (1996), the work of surrealist filmmaker Jan Švankmajer, and, most notably, Jan Svěrák’s Kolja (Kolya, 1996), which won both the Golden Globe and the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film (see also Hames 2000, 74). *** Let us start with a short overview and timeline of Barrandov Studios. When in 1886, H. H. Wilcox bought an area of Rancho La Brea, which he (or, more precisely, his wife, Daeida) then christened ‘Hollywood’, this particular piece of land became one of the world’s most important ‘dream factories’ to date. ‘Hollywoodland’, as it was known for some time, became famous for its scenery, situated in the canyons, its subtropical climate, and, not least, because of its light.

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A similar epiphany might have occurred to the brothers Miloš and Václav Havel (uncle and father of the later president Václav Havel, respectively). Miloš Havel had been the managing director of the Lucerna cinema in Prague, and had also been involved with his father’s production company, Lucernafilm. In 1921, he formed the production company ‘A-B’, a merger of his two companies, ‘A’ (‘Americanfilm’), and ‘B’ (‘Biografia’), for which he planned the Barrandov Studios, located in the part of Prague called Barrandov, approximately 10 km from Prague’s city center, working hand in hand with the architect Max Urban. Technically speaking, the name did not have any official connection to the sound stages until the late 1940s, when a film production company called ‘Barrandov’ came into being and took over operation of the film studios. Although there were at least three other Prague studios independently competing with the facilities in Barrandov (Host, Foja, and Favorit), the films from this period are generally considered as belonging to the ‘Golden Age of Barrandov’ regardless of which studios they were actually created in. Later, during the communist period, the Barrandov Studios was only one branch under the umbrella state film apparatus, Ústředního ředitelství Československého filmu (Central Office of Czechoslovak Film, ÚŘ ČSF). Many – both in academia and among the general public – tend to ignore the fine bureaucratic distinctions, however, and rely on ‘Barrandov’ to describe the whole of the national film institution and the movies it produced are commonly understood as coming ‘from Barrandov’.3 The speed with which the facility was constructed was, in typical Havel style, staggering – the groundbreaking ceremony took place on 3 Some of the most conspicuous historical examples of entities that are decidedly notBarrandov, but often implicitly implicated under the Barrandov label are: the Krátký f ilm (Short Film) production division during the communist period; other Prague f ilm studios that competed with Barrandov in the 1930s before, in some cases, being absorbed into the Prag-Film company during the Protectorate; and the studio in Gottwaldov (today: Zlín), which was primarily oriented toward animation, but became the site of increasing feature production in the later years of communist era, when it became somewhat of a refuge for filmmakers who did not align with the central party line and could not film in Barrandov. Note: the six volumes of the reference work Český hraný film (1995–2010) always indicate the specific studio where individual films were shot. Worth noting in this context is the German-language volume Zwischen Barrandov and Babelsberg (Roschlau 2008). The scope of this book spans several decades, from the silent period (i.e., predating the very existence of Barrandov) up until the 1980s, with special attention to various trajectories of connection between the Czech and German film industries. Although some of the essays address the actual film studios themselves, the labels ‘Barrandov’ and ‘Babelsberg’ are employed rather as semiotic signposts for ‘Czech’ and ‘German’ cinema, respectively. In this respect, the book contains considerably less scholarship on the Barrandov Studios per se as one might expect from its title.

Introduc tion: Once upon a (Centr al European) Time

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23 November 1931 and the first day of shooting was already scheduled for 25 January 1933. On that day, the filming of Vražda v Ostrovní ulici (Murder on Ostrovní Street), directed by Svatopluk Innemann, kickstarted the brand-new studios. Max Urban, in cooperation with another architect, Vilém Rittersheim, was able to adopt the most current experiences from the construction of foreign film production studios and thus had successfully built what then was the most modern film studio in Europe. Over the course of the 1930s, a number of pictures, which today belong to the golden treasures of Czech cinematography, were created in these studios. The memoirs of Václav Maria Havel, brother of Miloš Havel, may well be the most useful text providing insight into how the studios came into being and the full historical context of that period. Václav Maria was a real estate investor and developer whose entrepreneurial initiative brought into existence the luxurious Barrandov neighborhood on a hitherto remote and empty craggy hilltop south of Prague. It was, in fact, Václav, who we can thank for the very name ‘Barrandov’, which he chose to designate the residential neighborhood that arose from his urban project as a sort of tribute to the French geologist Joachim Barrande, who had carried out groundbreaking researched on the fossils in the area during the mid-nineteenth century. An entire chapter of the memoir is dedicated to the inception and realization of ‘Barrandov’ – in this case, the sprawling high-society urban project, of which his brother’s A-B film studios were only a small part, at least initially. Offering a more scientific approach to the period is Krystyna Wanatowiczová’s 2013 monograph on Miloš Havel. Drawing on an impressive range of archival sources and other materials, Wanatowiczová reconstructs the life story of the father of Barrandov, including detailed accounts of the creation of the studios and the surrounding villa neighborhood, the forced takeover by Third Reich authorities, and Havel’s role in film production under the Protectorate. In its telling, the volume not only offers a historical overview of the first decades of the studios under Havel’s leadership, but also unique personal accounts of daily life in the studios and Czechoslovak film culture more generally. The prose is supplemented, among other things, by a wealth of photographs, reproductions of archival documents, and short biographies of those in Havel’s intimate sphere (Wanatowiczová 2013). The fateful year of 1939 and the Nazi occupation of the Czech lands resulted in the confiscation of Barrandov Studios by the German occupiers, turning it into an ‘alternative centre for German production’ (Hames 2000, 64; see also Heiss and Klimeš 2003; Dvoráková 2008). Guided by the systematic propaganda of Joseph Goebbels, German film production took advantage of the ideally equipped studios in order to make films that suited

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Nazi tastes. In addition to the original stages and old halls already located at Barrandov Studios, the Germans constructed three more sound stages, called the New Halls. Over the course of the war, eighty-two films were produced there. During the Prague uprising in May 1945, Barrandov Studios was fought for as well. In the skirmish, several wooden buildings were damaged and caught fire, but that did not put a stop to the productions that were in progress. After the liberation, the studios were not returned to the original owners. As early as 1944, leftist Czech filmmakers and critics (among them Lubomír Linhart, Vladislav Vančura, and Otakar Vávra) requested that the whole film industry be nationalized. According to the late Antonín J. Liehm, the idea behind this was not so much directly political, but the wish to establish ‘such conditions as cannot be provided by an organization which has commercial profit as its only goal’ (Liehm 1966, quoted in Hames 2000, 69n1). President Beneš, heading the Czech government-in-exile in London, granted this request. After 1945, when Czechoslovakian State Film was nationalized on the basis of a governmental decree, the well-equipped Barrandov, which had remained almost untouched by the war, became the most important foundation for the renewal of a national cinematography. During nationalization, films that were determined to be against national morale or the socialist state order faced rather difficult times. The dissident writer Josef Škvorecký, who also cowrote the screenplay for Evald Schorm’s Farářův konec (End of a Priest, 1969), points out the existence of an ‘Ur-Wave’ – a group of filmmakers (which included Jan Kadár, Vojtěch Jasný, Karel Kachyňa, František Vláčil, and Jaromil Jireš, among others) that before the actual Czech New Wave tried to react against the stifling conditions of nationalization ‘from within’. This included films such as Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos’s Tři přání (Three Wishes, 1958), a satire that did not please the authorities, and, as a consequence, together with other films, such as Jasný’s Zářijové noci (September Nights, 1957), Václav Krška’s Zde jsou lvi (Scars of the Past, 1958), Vladimír Svitáček’s Konec jasnovidce (The End of the Soothsayer, 1958), and Ladislav Helge’s Škola otců (School for Fathers, 1957), were banned and shelved until 1963 (see Hames 2005, 35). In the 1960s, a younger ‘New Wave’ generation came to the forefront of the creative effort and significantly affected European, and, consequently, international, cinematography. This included directors such as Miloš Forman, Věra Chytilová, Jiří Menzel, Pavel Juráček, Jan Němec, and Evald Schorm, who were all recent graduates of the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU), established in 1946. The Barrandov films Obchod na korze (The Shop on Main Street, 1965, dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar

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Klos) and Menzel’s Ostré sledované vlaky (Closely Observed Trains, 1966) received Oscars for Best Foreign Language Film, while Forman’s Lásky jedné plavovlásky (Loves of a Blonde, 1965) and Hoří, má panenko (The Firemen’s Ball, 1967) were nominated for that prestigious trophy. A number of additional European awards increased the visibility of Barrandov Studios and started to lure international crews to Prague – Hollywood productions shot in Barrandov and on location around Prague at the time include The Bridge at Remagen (1969), Slaughterhouse-Five (1972), and Operation Daybreak (1975). In the 1980s such international coproductions were actively sought as a means of providing financial support for the struggling communist economy, which resulted in foreign film crews coming to Prague to shoot such films as Miloš Forman’s Amadeus (1984) and Barbra Streisand’s Yentl (1983) (see Iordanova 2003, 26). 4 However, in the wake of the occupation of Czechoslovakia by the armed forces of the Warsaw Pact countries in 1968, the number of internationally significant domestic productions declined. Several directors, such as Ivan Passer, Miloš Forman, and Jan Němec opted to emigrate to the United States and fashioned a significant reputation for themselves abroad. Films for children and youth and, in particular, fairy-tale films, played a key role in showcasing Barrandov creations. Many of these received prizes at international festivals. German-speaking countries were overwhelmed by Jindřich Polák’s television series Pan Tau (1970–1978) and also broadcasted (and still do) Václav Vorlíček’s Tři ořisky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973) each year at Christmas time. The production of filmed fairy tales for theatrical distribution became a singular European rarity, at which Barrandov excelled. After the revolution in 1989, significant changes took place in the studio. Government subsidies were no longer flowing into film production and the studios at Barrandov were gradually privatized, thus beginning their new era in a newly restored democracy. Following privatization, a number of companies changed places in the management and since 1996 Barrandov Studios has been owned by the joint stock company Moravia Steel (see Hames 2000, 71). So much for a little Barrandov timeline. With regard to the scholarly literature in the Czech Republic relating to Barrandov, the situation presents itself as mixed – due to the fact that, 4 Western money had already been funneled into Barrandov much earlier on, because of the policy that Alois Poledňák (director of the Czech State Film Industry) launched in the 1960s. The international coproduction mentioned belong to a phase when late neo-Stalinist economies struggled to attract Western finance.

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on the one hand, Barrandov’s heyday is over, but, on the other hand, the interest in the national film studios is on the rise again. While there are many compelling studies of specific periods in Barrandov’s past, until now there has not been one book that attempted to trace the overall history of its development since the early 1930s until the present. Indeed, even within the Czech scholarly context, a definitive historical account of Barrandov has yet to be published. Yet, there is a growing body of research being published with the studios as the primary object of investigation or as a case study. On account of the various functions that ‘Barrandov’ has served in Czech(oslovak) and world cinema since its inception, a wealth of thematic approaches and modes of investigation have been applied to it. In recent decades some of the leading discussions about Barrandov have been related to topics such as political control and censorship; (planned) film economy; technology and innovation; and foreign-language or international (co)productions.5 Perhaps the most comprehensive general overview of the studio’s century of existence can be found in a series of four coffee-table books compiled by Pavel Jiras (2010, 2012, 2013, 2017). These lovingly crafted volumes treat the reader to an abundance of behind-the-scenes photographs from film sets throughout Barrandov’s entire history accompanied by basic facts and anecdotes about many of the features shot there. While each book is a compendium of information and images that would appeal to any enthusiast of Barrandov, Jiras does not strive for the same level of academic analysis as the essays collected in the current volume. An earlier analogue to Jiras’s work is Jaroslav Brož and Myrtil Frída’s two-volume Historie československého filmu v obrazech 1930–1945 (History of Czechoslovak cinema in images, 1930–1945, 1966).6 The authors are more analytical in their approach than Jiras, yet their primary focus is neither the production conditions in the studios nor the economic and policy decisions at work in the industry, but rather the thematic and aesthetic content of individual films and cinema 5 This last topic represents a wide range of themes connected to issues of language, national cinema, and the international/global film business, for example: multiple-language versions, foreign companies (e.g., those from Hollywood) shooting in Prague, German film production during the Protectorate, international coproductions, especially during the period of Normalization, etc. 6 A significant difference, though, is that these volumes are not narrowly focused on Barrandov at all, but rather aim to provide a comprehensive overview of the first fifty years or so of cinema in the Czech lands, from 1898 until 1945. Thus, the first volume, which only extends until 1930, does not deal with Barrandov at all. The second volume does include a brief discussion of the cultural and economic conditions that gave rise to the Barrandov Studios and its importance for film production in the 1930s.

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personalities (actors, directors, writers, etc.). Nevertheless, these two volumes remain a valuable documentation of early Barrandov and what preceded it. Until the 1990s, much of the scholarly literature related to Barrandov was similar in spirit and approach to the work of Brož and Frída: chronological accumulations of facts, data, and statistics. The most important writers to document the early decades of Barrandov are Jiří Havelka and Karel Smrž. Havelka’s Kronika našeho filmu 1898–1965 (Chronicle of our film, 1898–1965, 1967) strives to list as much data relating to any and all aspects of cinema in the historical period he is working with (e.g., films produced in Czechoslovakia by both domestic and foreign companies, films distributed in the country, dates and locations of premieres, information on film-related publications, numbers of films made annually by local studios, etc.). In his most important film-historical work, Základní chronologická data vývoje českého a československého filmu (Basic chronological data of the development of Czech and Czechoslovakian film, 1952), Smrž is more attentive to presenting the historical conditions – the industrial, economic, and political contexts – that gave rise to specific films. Later, in the 1980s and early 1990s, two scholars published important works in the same vein. Zdeněk Štábla’s four-volume Data a fakta z dějin čs. kinematografie 1896–1945 (Data and facts from the history of the Czech Republic: Cinematography, 1896–1945, 1990) presents an abundance of information in the form of a month-by-month chronology of important events related to the domestic film industry. Like Brož, Frída, and Smrž before him, Luboš Bartošek’s chronological narrative Náš film: Kapitoly z dějin (1896–1945) (Our film: Chapters from history [1896–1945], 1985) is primary focused on individual films and personalities, while also occasionally taking into account the political and industrial conditions. For example, Bartošek dedicates an entire chapter to the construction of the Barrandov Studios (including the consideration ‘Why Barrandov?’) and the competition it faced from other Prague studios in the 1930s. Curiously, both of these works from the end of the communist era in Czechoslovakia deal exclusively with the period 1896–1945. They conclude (like Brož and Frída) at the end of World War II. This as was typical for the period, the political situation made it difficult and/ or undesirable to examine contemporary or recent historical developments with any level of objective or critical lens. Since the 2000s, when a new generation of researchers trained in postcommunist era academia began to gain broader access to formerly unobtainable archival sources, Czech film scholarship has seen tremendous expansion to the range of thematic subjects and analytical approaches to the local film history, including many studies that specifically deal with the Barrandov

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Studios. The most conspicuous Czech scholarly monograph on Barrandov is Petr Szczepanik’s Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 (The Barrandov factory: The world of f ilmmakers and political power, 1945–1970, 2016), which focuses on a small, twenty-five-year portion of the studio’s history. The volume examines Barrandov as a case-study for analyzing the operation and output of the nationalized and state-socialist studios during this first two and a half decades of its existence. Szczepanik argues that although the Barrandov Studios was subject to strict governmental control, the filmmakers working in it were also afforded a great degree of individual authority and had access to substantial material and symbolic benefits. He devotes particular attention to the day-to-day production practices of the studios, as creators of popular culture, focusing on collaborative production and popular genres, rather than the work of auteurs. The communist period offers rich source material for analyses related to issues of state control, centralized industry, censorship, and individual (or small group collaborative) agency, such as in Szczepanik’s Továrna Barrandov. Also addressing the same general period is Naplánovaná kinematografie: Český filmový průmysl 1945 až 1960 (Planned cinematography: The Czech film industry, 1945 to 1960, 2012) edited by Pavel Skopal, which presents a collection of essays drawing on extensive archival research to explore various facets of the ‘radically new model of film culture’ during the first fifteen years after the end of World War II (1945–1960). (Many of the authors who contributed to this collection also provided texts to the current volume.) While half of the book is dedicated to studies of distribution and exhibition practices, the first five essays focus on film production. Of particular interest in the current context is Pavel Skopal’s essay on coproductions among socialist states, which takes Barrandov as a case study, and Petr Szczepanik’s examination of the top-down structural organization of the state film industry and how it affected production practices, including at Barrandov.7 Versions of both essays were subsequently published in English in the volume Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960 (2015), edited by Lars Karl and Skopal. Although the political situation gradually began to loosen during the late 1950s and into the Prague Spring of 1968, centralized state control never fully disappeared. This period is the focus for Lukáš Skupa’s examination of Barrandov Studios as a case study of censorship in Czechoslovakia during the 1960s in Vadí – nevadí: Česká filmová cenzura v 60. letech (Never mind – It doesn’t matter: Czech film censorship in the 1960s, 2016). Adopting a 7

See also Szczepanik 2013a.

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‘New Film History’ approach, this study considers the constantly shifting negotiational relationships between Barrandov, the central film administration, and the censorship authorities. Similarly to Szczepanik’s monograph, Skupa’s research reveals previously unknown details about the daily routine in the film studios, thereby offering a new perspective that contrasted with most studies until that time, which tended to focus on the aesthetic achievements of individual directors without regard for the conditions in which they arose. Picking up the historical baton from Skupa are two important studies on the period of so-called Normalization that came in the aftermath of the August 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia by Soviet and Warsaw Pact forces: Štěpán Hulík’s Kinematografie zapomnění: Počátky normalizace ve Filmovém studiu Barrandov (1968–1973) (Cinematography of forgetting: The beginnings of Normalization at the Barrandov Film Studios [1968–1973], 2012) and Marie Barešová and Tereza Czesany Dvořáková’s Generace Normalizace: Ztracená naděje českého filmu? (The Normalization generation: The lost hope of Czech film?, 2017). Hulík specifically examines the transformations at Barrandov Studios during the immediate postinvasion period. Drawing on the archives of the Barrandov Studios, which had only recently become accessible at the time, and interviews with people who had worked in the studios between 1968 and 1973, the study aims to reveal how the political changes behind the scenes influenced Barrandov’s production practices and creative output in this crucial moment of transition in the national film history. Barešová and Dvořáková employ methodologies of oral history and cultural history to map the fates of the generation of FAMU students who began their studies during the liberal atmosphere of the 1960s, but began employment at Barrandov Studios during the repressive years of Normalization in the 1970s. In their presentation of semi-structured interviews with fourteen filmmakers, the authors observe two major trends: the careers of this generation shifted away from mainstream production to ‘alternative’ modes such as films for children, documentary, or animation; and due to the charged political environment at the central studios, many of these filmmakers migrated away from Barrandov to the smaller Gottwald Film Studio in present-day Zlín. Of course, research into the influences of political, or even military, power on film production need not be restricted to the communist period of Czech(oslovak) history. The period of German occupation and Nazi control under the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia between 1939 and 1945 offers equally compelling material for such investigations. Notably, in the Czech academic context, this period is less extensively or rigorously examined as the communist period. The most substantial monograph relating to

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Barrandov during the period of occupation by the Third Reich is Tereza Czesany Dvořáková and Ivan Klimeš’s Prag-Film AG 1941–1945 : Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Protektorats- und Reichs-Kinematografie (Prag-Film AG 1941–1945: In the tension between Protectorate and Reich cinematography, 2008), which was published in German and does not yet have a Czechlanguage counterpart. Building on a wealth of archival research, this study describes the monumental changes imposed upon Barrandov during the Protectorate, when the German occupiers took forcible possession of the studios from Miloš Havel and integrated it into the centralized film industry of the Third Reich. Perhaps the most extensive study of Czech cinema in this period to be published in Czech, besides Wanatowiczová’s monograph on Miloš Havel, remains Petr Bednařík’s Arizace české kinematografie (Aryanization of Czech cinematography, 2003) about the Aryanization of the film industry during the Protectorate. In the volume, which examines how the forced processes of ‘de-Jewification’ played out in various branches of the industry, one chapter is dedicated to the film studios, with most attention spent on Barrandov. One of the most recent contributions to research about Barrandov during this period also focuses on Havel but was published in English: Pavel Skopal’s ‘Offers Difficult to Refuse: Miloš Havel and Clientele Transactional Networks in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia’ (2021) in a volume about national cinemas under German occupation, which he also coedited with Roel Vande Winkel. In this essay, Skopal describes how Miloš Havel lost the ‘battles over the Barrandov Studios’ to the German authorities, yet managed to stay afloat during the war years due to his transnational networks and patronage from influential administrators. Much of the most compelling new scholarship on Barrandov can be found in a series of film-focused books published by the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv, NFA) over the past decade. As part of its ongoing mission to digitize the Czech film heritage, the archive has been releasing monographs on recently digitized films, which gather together a wonderful collection of factual data, documentation, interviews, and new scholarly essays related to various aspects of the films.8 In 2017, as part of a ten-film digitization project supported by an EEA Grant from Iceland, Liechtenstein, and Norway, the NFA published a bumper volume of new scholarship that examined the selected films from multiple perspectives (production history, technical innovation, distribution, reception, etc.): Lucie Česálková, ed., Zpět k českému filmu: politika, estetika, žánry a technika/ Czech Cinema Revisited: Politics, Aesthetics, Genres, and Techniques (2017; the 8

See, for example, Batistová 2012; Čechová 2013; Skupa 2014; Skopal 2016.

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volume was published simultaneously in Czech and in English translation). Also of note here are the volumes in the ‘Film Mosaic’ (Filmová mozaika) series published by casablanca in Prague. Similarly to the books from the NFA, this series features ‘collective monographs’ dedicated to individual films (or collection of related films) that present archival documentation and interviews with filmmakers together with analytical studies that approach the film(s) from a diverse range of thematic and critical perspectives. For example, the first book in the series focused on the film Marketa Lazarová (Gajdošík 2009), where among studies about film aesthetics (sound design, cinematography, etc.), and analyses of the filmic depiction of the medieval period or gender roles, we also find chapters such as Tereza Czesany Dvořaková’s presentation of the film’s production history as reflected in the archival materials of Barrandov Studios (‘Marketa Lazarová v zrcadle produkčních dokumentů Filmového studia Barrandov’). Likewise, the interviews with filmmakers offer inside views into the day-to-day operations at the studios and on the production sets (Gajdošík 2009). The current volume seeks to present a historical overview of Barrandov’s heyday, but not as a mere chronological account. While progressing through the studio’s history, each chapter in the book approaches the object of Barrandov from a different analytical or thematic perspective. In the following, we would like to introduce the three main parts of the book.

(Film) History When in October 1918 the First Czechoslovakian Republic was founded, with the philosopher and politician Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk as its first president, Czechoslovakia became one of the most advanced countries in Europe. It was one of the most industrialized countries on the continent, and there had already been notable developments in the local film culture. In fact, ‘[r]egular film production began in Prague as early as 1910 and, by the beginning of the First World War, over a third of the cinemas in Austria-Hungary were based in Bohemia and Moravia’ (Hames 2010, 10). In addition to Miloš Havel’s already mentioned studios ‘A’ (‘Americanfilm’), and ‘B’ (‘Biografia’), there was also the Ateliér Kavalírka in Prague, which operated between 1926 and 1929 (see Fabiánová 2007). Throughout the 1920s, the international profile of Czech film production steadily increased with directors such as Gustav Machatý and Karel Lamač establishing solid reputations in Germany, France, and beyond.

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The first essay in this section by Tereza Czesany Dvořáková situates and contextualizes the ‘founding act’ of Barrandov within the sociopolitical, cultural, and economic parameters of the times. A bit more than ten years into the ‘First Republic’, Miloš Havel established and developed one of the biggest film studios in Central Europe. Despite the national importance of the Czech film industry in the interwar period, local production companies suffered from a lack of professional infrastructure for shooting throughout the 1920s. The young film entrepreneur Havel, a member of a well-known Prague dynasty of developers, devised the ambitious project to construct an expansive and modern film studio complex in Prague’s Barrandov area during a highly disadvantageous time: at the height of the world economic crisis. Nevertheless, thanks to his connections in the banking sector and government, Havel was able to realize his plan in 1933 and even managed to secure state subsidies to do so. The individual sound stages were designed to be large enough to accommodate not only the Czech industry, but also foreign film production. The studio functioned according to this design until the Nazi occupation in 1939, when the German f ilm industry included Barrandov on its list of Czech f ilm companies to be taken over. They achieved this goal in 1940, when Miloš Havel was pressured to sign a contract of sale, turning the studio over to the Germans. In the course of the years 1940–1945, Barrandov Studios was integrated into the Nazi film apparatus, whereby it became a primary site for the production of German films, while Czech film production assumed a position of lesser importance. The studio also developed some of its own German-language f ilm projects under the label ‘Prag-Film’. No longer owner and manager of the studio, Miloš Havel turned his energy to producing Czech films and to diplomatic activities, negotiating between the Czech film community and German film policy off icials. At the same time, contrary to his wishes and despite his best efforts against it, an illegal plan for the nationalization of Czech cinema was developed and approved by the Czech governments in exile in London and Moscow. The studio was taken over by the newly independent Czechoslovak state in summer 1945, and shortly thereafter Miloš Havel was accused of collaboration with the Nazis. It was not until the 1950s that Havel was partially compensated for his loss of property. By this time, he was no longer living in Czechoslovakia, having illegally emigrated to West Germany. As Dvořáková argues, the fate of Miloš Havel and his studio can be read as a metaphor of the shifts in the Czech film industry during the first half of the twentieth century: rising from humble origins as a self-made man, moving through a period of professionalization and internationalization

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before submitting to the authoritarian power of the Nazis, and f inally handing over the film industry to the state apparatus, which was already under communist control in 1945. Before Kevin B. Johnson takes a closer look at Barrandov’s further development, including the ‘Nazi years’, Radomír D. Kokeš’s essay on ‘The Concept of Regional Poetics of Cinema: Czech Films of the 1920s and Early 1930s’ aims at moving towards writing an aesthetic history of Czech cinema from the perspective of the poetics of cinema. Kokeš introduces the methodological background of such research. In a critical debate with existing approaches, he formulates more general hypotheses about the typical features of Czech silent and early sound films, and then presents a more focused case study of the first film shot in theBarrandov Studios. Kokeš also discusses both one particular genre tradition and the thoughtful embedding of the extraordinary technical options of Barrandov into relatively longer-term stylistic continuities Kokeš sketches the possibilities of the concept of regional poetics, which refers to analytical and historical research regarding what is typical for a particular area: as such, it inquires a corpus of feature-length film works, each of which was predominantly made in a specified territory, predominantly in the official language of that territory, and for standard commercial distribution within that territory. Kevin B. Johnson’s essay presents an overview of the first fifteen years of Barrandov Studios, from its construction in 1933 until the communist coup in 1948. During this time, the Barrandov was primarily oriented to the production of popular films intended for a broad audience, whereby the industry relied heavily on the cultivation and promotion of a star system to generate business. Johnson highlights a few examples of the main genres (comedy, detective film, historical drama, melodrama, etc.) for closer analysis, with special attention to how these films imagined Czech identity, particularly in relation to its German-speaking neighbors and with regard to its place on the international, English-oriented stage. A secondary focus of the essay is the exploration of the studio’s balancing act between the promotion of the national cinema and the cultivation of international industrial connections. For historical, political, economic, and geographical reasons, the most important foreign industries for the Czech studios were Germany and Austria. In addition to considering the studio’s efforts to produce films to be marketed to these German-speaking audiences, the essay also examines various ways that these foreign industries invested in and capitalized on production in Prague, particularly during the period of occupation under the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. This examination focuses on four main phases or aspects of Barrandov’s relationship with its Germanic

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neighbors: the production of foreign-language films and multiple-language versions (MLVs); the output of the Prague subsidiary of the largest and most powerful German film company, Ufa; the integration of Barrandov production into the Third Reich film apparatus during the war years; and the postwar period (which saw a distancing between Czechoslovak and German production). In keeping with its primary focus, the essay traces the careers of the major stars and directors of the period as they developed through each of these phases. Although the events of 1938–1939 mark a significant social and political turning point, there is a high degree of continuity in film production at Barrandov in terms of film personnel, generic tropes, and overall cinematic style.

Production History Production studies’ most significant gesture, one might argue, is its insistence on not restricting film analysis to the content on screen. But, in addition, it is also not the directors and producers that this approach takes into focus, but rather the whole network of ‘below the line’ workers, such as camera operators, the editorial crew, grips, gaffers, etc. – all those laborers who turn the process of ‘filmmaking’ into an endeavor beyond ‘auteurial analysis’. Going beyond the analysis of important decisions of media corporations and the forces of national economies, production culture, as John Thornton Caldwell has pointed out in his by now classic text Production Culture: Industrial Reflexivity and Critical Practice in Film and Television (2008), focuses on the fact that studios do not simply produce mass or popular culture (a much-studied perspective for over seven decades), but rather film/TV production communities themselves are cultural expressions and entities involving all of the symbolic processes and collective practices that other cultures use: to gain and reinforce identity, to forge consensus and order, to perpetuate themselves and their interests, and to interpret the media as audience members. (Caldwell 2008, 2)

However, most studies of production culture not only exert a hegemonic framework by suggesting that Anglo-American modes of production (mostly Hollywood) present the default (and thus universal) example, they also tend to forget, as Petr Szczepanik has observed, ‘earlier historical precedents and alternative modes of production’ (Szczepanik 2013b, 113).

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The fall of communism (and with it the decline of state control and censorship), which consequently also led to the accessibility of long-closed archives, made it possible that, as Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal have argued, ‘historians from the region itself [now are able] to ask fresh questions and offer new judgements on their own past’ (Karl and Skopal 2015, 1). Four of those ‘historians from the region itself’ have contributed to this part of the book – Petr Szczepanik, Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, and Jindřiška Bláhová – and their innovative scholarly impulses differ significantly from the prevailing focus on the Czech New Wave and auteurist approach to its filmmakers. The following contributions all address a pivotal issue in dealing with Barrandov: while History (with a capital H) is usually said to move forward by big shifts, the following essays focus on continuity of production culture and production practice, despite and beyond those ruptures, such as the 1939 Nazi takeover, the 1948 communist coup, or the 1968 Soviet invasion. Szczepanik’s essay discusses the conditions for industrial authorship, and group-based creativity and style in the state-socialist production system of Czechoslovakia in the second half of the 1950s and the 1960s. It describes the manner in which collaborative creative activities were organized under a regime which designated the state as the sole official producer. It also looks at the way informal social networks allowed distinct group styles to take shape. Specif ic organizational solutions were introduced in the mid-1950s in an effort to strike a balance between top-down centralized control, on the one hand, and creative freedom as a necessary prerequisite for product differentiation, on the other. The chapter draws on recent theoretical discussions of group style and authorship as well as on Szczepanik’s own previous work, on what he has called the ‘state-socialist mode of film production’, which comprises management hierarchies, and a division of labor and work practices (Szczepanik 2013c). He then moves to his example, Czechoslovak cinema after 1954, when so-called ‘film units’ were re-established at Barrandov Studios as part of the general decentralization of the rigid production system of the early 1950s (characterized by extreme social atomization and disempowerment of the production community). By focusing on the early stage of the transformation process (1955‒1962), when the units ‒ practically substituting for hands-on creative producers ‒ were pushed to innovate and differentiate by building informal collaborative networks with young writers and directors, Szczepanik attempts to uncover the social workings of group styles. The group styles are thus described in their nascent form, before they materialized into the first revisionist film movement of post-WWII

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Czech cinema ‒ socially critical and satirical f ilms movies of the late 1950s, followed by the so-called ‘New Wave’ of the 1960s. In the next essay, Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek take a closer look at a crucial, but often critically overlooked figure in the production process – the ‘dramaturge’. Petr Szczepanik has discussed the specific concept of dramaturge in the Czechoslovak production system at length (see Szczepanik 2013a). He points out how during various reforms in politics and economics in the ‘Eastern Bloc’ during the 1950s consequently effected the establishing of ‘dramaturgical units’ within the production process – decentralized creative groups which were ‘expected to bridge the gap between lower and upper management, and to insure the steady supply of professional-quality screenplays’ (Szczepanik 2013c, 117). These ‘dramaturges’, which existed both in Czechoslovakia and the German Democratic Republic, were basically ‘literary advisors’ who ‘attracted prominent writers and put them in touch with directors’ (119). In their essay, Skopal and Šašek focus on the dramaturge Marcela Pittermannová, and on the routine of the dramaturgical job, with its dynamics and functions in the production system. Pittermannová became a member of a creative group at Barrandov in 1961, and was a dramaturge in the successful area of production of films for children for almost three decades. Working at Barrandov from the 1960s to the end of state-socialist era, her case provides important insights both into a crucial time period and into a significant section of the studio’s production system. As Pittermannová recalls, unpredictability became a part of life at Barrandov since the start of so-called Normalization era. Problems in the production system tended to emerge when instructions delivered by decision-makers in this bureaucratic system failed to adhere to strict rules or to outline clear criteria. Nevertheless, the Children’s Film Dramaturgical Group was one of only two groups to boast high levels of continuity following the purges enacted during Normalization and represented a pocket of continuity and trustworthiness for the coproduction partners, as well as for the studio heads. This stability in part hinged on the exportability of fairy tales, whose stories of good and evil unfolding in non-national fantasy space were seen to resonate cross-culturally. With Jindřiška Bláhová, we zoom in even deeper into the microhistory of production processes and micropolitics of quotidian decision-making. The production history of Czechoslovak films critical of state-socialism in late 1980s Czechoslovakia has so far been mostly linked to the big shifts in economic and political reforms (perestroika) and to a somewhat vague notion of liberalization. Bláhová’s essay, in contrast, suggests to substitute those explanatory frameworks by a more nuanced historiography and

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microhistory of individual films within the macrohistory of Barrandov in the 1980s. Taking as a point in case the 1988 Barrandov-produced film Pražská 5 (The Prague Five), a feature-length compilation of five short films, Bláhová argues that the film might be better understood as a product of tensions between institutional and personal interests, and of industry-level changes at Barrandov. An analysis of historical documents in Barrandov’s archives, the Czech National Film Archive, and Russian archives, alongside media coverage, and interviews conducted with former Barrandov personnel, reveals that a broader range of factors drove the openly critical and mocking elements of Pražská 5: 1) the reorganization at Barrandov, which had only little to do with perestroika, 2) the professional ambitions of key decision-makers, and 3) the emergence of home video as a delivery system paired with a renewed emphasis on young filmmakers. It was the notion of video as experiment that evoked a sense of a margin which facilitated the production of a film that would have otherwise either encountered difficulties and resistance within the state-controlled film industry, or, most likely, would not have been made at all. While Bláhová’s essay focuses on a single film, this is not a case study of just one particular production: the essay rather offers a fresh look at the production of more politically and stylistically daring Czechoslovak films in the 1980s, explores the integration of a new media technology within the state-controlled film industry, and offers an insight into the production culture at Barrandov towards the end of state-socialism in Czechoslovakia.

Individual Directors Since this is not a book about a studio system per se, but about the complex entity called ‘Barrandov Studios’, a book which is also directed at the reader nonfamiliar with this studio and its productions, this part centers on five individual directors that have worked for Barrandov Studios. The choice of these directors aims to cover not only the auteurs of the famous Czech New Wave and their filmic aesthetics, but also lesser-known (but important) directors before and after, ‘nationalizer veterans’ (such as Weiss) and filmmakers working with film genres, who simply fall out of the scope (such as Vorlíček) alike. Lucie Česálková opens this section with an essay on Jiří Weiss. Although not one of the best-known figures of Czechoslovak cinema, Weiss’s career illustrates how Barrandov Studios was influenced by politics, generational linkages, artistic approaches, and international ambitions after the end

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of the Second World War. Already considered at this time a member of the ‘veteran’ generation, Weiss brought to Barrandov continuity with the interwar avant-garde, connections to the West, inspiration from the British film industry, and an interest in international cooperation, while he also played an important role in shaping Czechoslovakia’s version of socialist realism within the political context of the early 1950s. Yet, in spite of the ideological success of a (New Fighters Shall Arise, 1951), and his designation as a ‘documentarian’ and a ‘realist’, Weiss worked at the periphery of socialist realism, without engaging in simplistic agitprop. In her essay, Česálková proposes the term ‘crossover auteur’ to describe Weiss’s position within the Czechoslovak film industry to highlight that his approach to filmmaking made it natural for him to move between genres, similar to the way he moved between documentary and fiction films, and between influences of various cultures and generations. Definitively one of the most well-known (and internationally acclaimed) Czech directors is Miloš Forman. Forman began his career as a filmmaker at Barrandov Studios in Prague in the 1960s and filmed his international ‘blockbuster’ Amadeus with Barrandov in the early 1980s. The contrast between the big-budget historical spectacle of Amadeus and the gently ironic realism of his earlier films from the 1960s could not be more pronounced. In his essay, David Sorfa explores the changes that mark both Forman’s own development as a filmmaker between the 1960s and the 1980s as well as considering the impact of Normalization on Barrandov Studios following the events of August 1968. During the 1960s, aside from its relationship with the young filmmakers of the New Wave, Barrandov supported an extraordinary range of films, from popular to historical epics. Under the directorship of Josef Veselý, Barrandov turned out to be an environment that produced films that were successful with the public, formally experimental, and politically challenging. The situation at Barrandov after 1968 quickly changed, and Forman decided not to return to Czechoslovakia. Forman’s films during the 1970s in the United States brought him a level of international fame and popularity that is unrivaled in the history of Czech cinema but showed a radical departure from the films of the 1960s. This change culminates with Amadeus and Forman’s return to Barrandov. Another icon of the Nová vlna was Věra Chytilová, best known for her 1966 Sedmikrásky (Daisies). In his essay, Peter Hames considers Chytilová’s authorship in proximity to questions of industrial authorship, examining not only her shifting relationship with Barrandov Studios from the 1960s through her departure from the studios in the 1970s, but also her controversial return with Panelstory (Prefab Story, 1979) and Kalamita (Calamity, 1981),

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and her subsequent defense of the studios and the nationalized system in the early 1990s. As one of the most formally experimental directors of the Czechoslovak New Wave, Chytilová was almost bound to experience difficulties with production companies both under communism and subsequently. Her graduation film Strop (Ceiling, 1961) was made from a script that had been disallowed, while her short ‘documentary’ Pytel blech (A Bagful of Fleas, 1962) had its release delayed for over a year. Surprisingly, she has commented favorably on the creative sympathy of the Šmída-Fikar production group at Barrandov when she was working on her first two features, O něčem jiném (Something Different, 1963) and Sedmikrásky. However, this was in the context of the developing creative freedoms that led to the Prague Spring of 1968. The reaction of political critics was rather different, leading to a petition that demanded the banning of Sedmikrásky. The suppression of the critical liberties of the 1960s following the Soviet invasion led to the banning of large numbers of films from the 1960s (well over a hundred) together with many of their directors, some permanently. Notoriously, Chytilová challenged the system, sending a letter to President Husák in 1975 recording the many ways in which she had been prevented from working. The letter was published internationally, notably in English in Index on Censorship (1976), and she returned to features the same year with Hra o jablko (The Apple Game) made by Krátký film Praha (Short Film Prague). This film was not released in Czechoslovakia until 1978, with the authorities unsuccessfully attempting to obstruct its international release. While both Forman and Chytilová were directors at the forefront of the Czech New Wave, their contemporary and fellow Barrandov ‘colleague’ Juraj Herz, a Jewish-Slovakian director predominantly based in Prague, curiously seems to have kept under the radar during this important period. Herz worked at Barrandov throughout the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. He forged an unusually successful and long-standing career at the studio when compared with other talented filmmakers of his generation. Herz was at once audacious, pragmatic, and resourceful: he often pushed against the boundaries of what was permissible while also proving able to make the best of the projects that were offered (or at times imposed on) him. Jonathan Owen’s essay takes Herz’s career one decade at a time. He developed from essentially an apprentice position at Barrandov (an assistant to Zbyněk Brynych and then Kadár and Klos) to directing his own films. However, Herz himself did not partake of the prestige of the Czech New Wave and endured censorship problems on his first two films, realizing his artistic sensibility only at the end of the decade with his occupation-era

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comic horror film Spalovač mrtvol (The Cremator, 1969), benefitting from the freedom of the Prague Spring era. The 1970s saw a return to censorship and ideological control at Barrandov, personified in a newly appointed central dramaturge, Ludvík Toman, but Herz’s career, ironically, thrived at this point, in contrast to that of most New Wave directors. Though his specific plans of continuing in the vein of Spalovač mrtvol were scuppered early on, his output of the 1970s proved accomplished, popular, and often highly distinctive – indeed at times virtually unique amid the caution and dreariness of much Normalization era cinema. Herz’s 1970s films include the baroque psychological melodrama Morgiana (1972) and two fairy-tale films, produced simultaneously, that are essentially works of horror in disguise, Panna a netvor (Beauty and the Beast, 1978) and Deváté srdce (The Ninth Heart, 1978). Herz sought to take advantage of the more relaxed climate of Barrandov in the 1980s by making a (literally) more full-blooded horror film, Upír z Feratu (The Ferat Vampire, 1982), and a yet more subversive spin on the fairy tale, Straka v hrsti (Magpie in the Hand, 1983), though in both these projects he hit against the limits of the studio’s newly ‘liberalized’ status. As Owen shows, Herz was indeed a boundary-pushing director who frequently saw aspects of his work censored both before and after production, and who endured routine directing bans at Barrandov. However, he also suggests that his relationship with the studio was marked by mutual advantage as well as antagonism. Herz’s ability to make popular f ilms made his work valuable to the studio, and this probably gave him a certain protection. The fact that the Barrandov leadership was itself concerned with fostering popular, genre-based material meant that their own aims to some extent matched those of Herz, who had been interested in making genre films from the start. If, in terms of international connections, in the 1950s (and early 1960s), ‘Barrandov and DEFA (formally the Deutsche Filmaktien Gesellschaft), gazed ambitiously towards the West’ (Karl and Skopal 2015, 2–3), the direction changed in the 1970s – WDR (Westdeutscher Rundfunk), the West German broadcasting consortium, now gazed ambitiously to the East, to the fairy-tale movies that were being produced at Barrandov. One of the directors who was most productive in this field was Václav Vorlíček. With titles such as Kdo chce zabít Jessii? (Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966), Dívka na koštěti (The Girl on the Broomstick, 1971), Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973), and Jak utopit dr. Mráčka aneb Konec vodníků v Cechách (How to Drown Dr. Mracek, the Lawyer, 1974), Vorlíček has been one of Barrandov’s most prolific directors and scriptwriters, creating some

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of the classics of Czech (and Czechoslovakian) film and TV (e.g., Arabela, 1979–1981, and Arabela se vraci (Arabela Returns, 1993). After studying directing at FAMU from 1951 to 1956, Vorlíček joined Barrandov, first as an assistant director, and later he became instrumental in the development of a decisively Czech(oslovakian) mode of comedies and – most importantly – fairy-tale films. Vorlíček, it could be argued, translated the avant-garde style and look of the satirical and surrealist fairy tales of the Czech New Wave (e.g., Valerie a týden divů [Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, 1970]) into pop-culture, both on film and TV. Bernd Herzogenrath’s essay traces some of Vorlíček’s best-known films, also from a personal perspective, since his films also coincide with an epoch in which Czech fairy-tale films, because of growing connections and coproductions with both DEFA and, later, WDR, made them ‘household items’ in Western Germany in the 1970s and 1980s. One recurrent theme in Vorlíček’s films is the travel between a dream world/fairy-tale world and the real world. Gilles Deleuze had observed this very trait with regard to the work of Vincente Minnelli. Deleuze even claims this ‘merging of two worlds’ as a trademark of Minnelli’s films, as the very Minnellian ‘film|thought’: his films follow ‘the obsessive theme of characters literally absorbed by their own dream, and above all by the dream of others and the past of others’ (Deleuze 1986, 118–119). Herzogenrath’s essay highlights the different ways Vorlíček’s films play on these ‘two worlds’. In a coda, Matthew Sweney looks back at the so-called ‘vault f ilms’. ‘Trezorové filmy’ (in Czech) is the name given to the group of Czechoslovak studio films which were taken out of circulation, left in the can and not released, or left unfinished due to the political changes in Czechoslovakia subsequent to the invasion of Warsaw Pact troops in August 1968. The trezorové films are treasures. Recognition of their intrinsic worth at the time was such that the films were not destroyed, but instead spirited away and archived, put into hibernation to await the light of a new day. It took a generation – until the Velvet Revolution of 1989 – for them to be seen – and discussed – again, or in some cases for the first time. Those discussions were part of the necessary national healing process in the aftermath of totalitarianism. Films which had been earlier declared subversive acts by specific personalities against the state were reclaimed as shared national cultural capital. The films discussed here are Všichní dobří rodáci (All My Compatriots, 1969, dir. Vojtěch Jasný; Best Director, Cannes, 1969), Spalovač mrtvol (The Cremator, 1969, dir. Juraj Herz), Skřivánci na níti (Larks on a String, 1969, dir. Jiří Menzel; cowritten by Menzel and Bohumil Hrabal; Golden Bear, Berlin,

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1990), Kladivo na čarodějnice (Witchhammer, 1970, dir. Otakar Vávra), Ucho (The Ear, 1970, dir. Karel Kachyňa), and Případ pro začínajícího kata (A Case for the New Hangman, 1970, dir. Pavel Jurácek). *** After the Velvet Revolution, at the beginning of the 1990s, there was not yet any indication of a rapid decline in production due to the free market environment. The Barrandov logo appeared, for example, in projects from the director Irena Pavlasková, who continued with her bold themes in the film Corpus Delicti (1991), Jan Svěrák, who demonstrated his universal talent with Obecná škola (The Elementary School, 1991), and Jiři Menzel, who symbolically welcomed the new times with his update of Žebrácká opera (The Beggar’s Opera, 1991). Barrandov’s first major international contract of the 1990s was The Perfect Husband from Argentinean director and screenwriter Beda Docampo Feijóo, who set his story (inspired by a work by Dostoyevsky) in Prague at the turn of the century. He was followed a few years later by Nikita Michalkov’s The Barber of Siberia (1998), which opened the Cannes festival in 1999. The first blockbuster after the fall of the Iron Curtain was the 1996 American film Mission: Impossible, directed by Brian De Palma and starring Tom Cruise. This film attracted other big-budget productions to Barrandov and such films as Les Miserables, Snow White: A Tale of Terror, My Giant, Ravenous, and Plunkett & Macleane were produced there. From the mid-1990s Barrandov began to enjoy the favor of foreign productions, particularly from America, and since 2000 many world-famous blockbusters such as From Hell with Johnny Depp, A Knight’s Tale with Heath Ledger, Hart’s War with Bruce Willis, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen with Sean Connery, the Bond film Casino Royale, Shanghai Knights, xXx, Blade 2, Bad Company, Alien vs. Predator, Hellboy, Van Helsing, Oliver Twist, G. I. Joe, The Chronicles of Narnia, and more were created there. In 2006 Barrandov expanded with the addition of the new MAX studio with unique demountable soundproof walls, making it possible to divide the total area of 4,000 m² into three separate studios (Studios 8, 9, and 10) or a combination of these. Towards the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century, a decline in foreign filmmaking occurred at Barrandov due to an absence of film incentives in the Czech Republic. Foreign film crews began to return to Barrandov after 2010, when incentives for filmmakers were finally introduced there. The establishment of incentives was a key step forward not only for

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Barrandov Studios, but also for the entire Czech film industry. Since these incentives were put in place, Barrandov has gradually begun to attract major foreign productions, which required changes in terms of the way in which offers of services work and an investment in new technology for their production, something which Barrandov has taken on by investing in modern filmmaking facilities, new equipment for its buildings, and expanded inventories in the Costume and Props Department. Since 2010, foreign f ilmmakers have once again been making use of Barrandov Studios, with the largest interest in filming in the Czech Republic coming from creators from the United States and Western Europe. Films such as Red Tails, Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol, A Royal Affair, Snowpiercer, The Man Who Laughs, The Last Knights, Child 44, Unlocked, Emperor, The Mountains and the Stones, Anthropoid, The Visitors 3: Bastille Day, Underworld: Blood Wars, and more have been produced. Barrandov also continues to be linked with the production of major Czech film projects – In the Shadow, Burning Bush, Colette, Three Brothers, Fair Play, Lost in Munich, Wilson City, and Devil’s Mistress. Among upcoming film premieres, Masaryk, An Angel of the Lord 2, Ice Mother, and Knightfall should be mentioned. Building upon its extraordinary history, Barrandov Studios continues to attract foreign and domestic filmmakers alike. This volume is not only a valuable contribution to English-language scholarship on Barrandov and Czech cinema, but is also something that is unique even in the context of Czech academic literature (not merely a collection of rehashings or translations of previous works, but new scholarship). There have indeed been many others who have assessed the signif icance of Barrandov, not only for Czech cinema, but also for world cinema. While many writers capitalize on the mythical associations with the Barrandov label to present all manner of stories from Czech film history, an increasing number of scholars have been exploring deeper into Barrandov as a political, technological, industrial, and creative entity. The current volume marks an important milestone in this growing body of critical scholarly literature.

Bibliography Barešová, Marie, and Tereza Cz Dvořáková. Generace Normalizace: Ztracená naděje českého filmu? Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2017. Bartošek, Luboš. Náš film: Kapitoly z dějin (1896–1945). Praha: Mladá fronta, 1985. Batistová, Anna, ed. Hoří ma panenko. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2012.

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Bednařík, Petr. Arizace české kinematografie. Praha: Nakladatelství Karolinum, 2003. Brož, Jaroslav, and Myrtil Frída. Historie československého filmu v obrazech 1930–1945. Praha: Orbis, 1966. Caldwell, John Thornton. Production Culture: Industrial Reflexivity and Critical Practice in Film and Television. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008. Čechová, Briana, ed. Všichni dobři rodáci. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2013. Česálková, Lucie, ed. Zpět k českému filmu: politika, estetika, žánry a technika. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2017. English translation: Lucie Česálková, ed. Czech Cinema Revisited: Politics, Aesthetics, Genres, and Techniques. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2017. Český hraný film/Czech Feature Film. 6 vols. Praha: Národní f ilmový archiv, 1995–2010. Czesany Dvořáková, Tereza, and Ivan Klimeš. Prag-Film AG 1941–1945: Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Protektorats- und Reichs-Kinematografie. München: edition text + kritik, 2008. Czesany Dvořáková, Tereza. ‘Marketa Lazarová v zrcadle produkčních dokumentů Filmového studia Barrandov. ’ In Petr Gajdošík (ed.). Marketa Lazarová. Studie a dokumenty. 51-75. Praha: Casablanca, 2009. Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 1: The Movement Image. Translated by Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986. Fabiánová, Kristýna. ‘“Lamač Košíře – rosteme do šíře”: Historie filmového ateliéru Kavalírka v Praze’. BA thesis, Masaryk University, 2007. Fu, Poshek, ed. China Forever: The Shaw Brothers and Diasporic Cinema. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2008. Gajdošík, Petr, ed. Marketa Lazarová. Studie a dokumenty. Praha: casablanca, 2009. Hames, Peter. ‘Czech Cinema: From State Industry to Competition’. Canadian Slavonic Papers/Revue Canadienne des Slavistes 42, no. 1/2 (2000), 63–85. Hames, Peter. The Czechoslovak New Wave. 2nd ed. London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2005. Hames, Peter. Czech and Slovak Cinema. Theme and Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010. Havel, Václav. Mé vzpomínky. Praha: Nakladatelství Lidové noviny, 1993. Heiss, Gernot, and Ivan Klimeš. Bilder der Zeit: Tschechischer und österreichischer Film der 30er Jahre. Prag: Národní filmový archiv, 2003. Hulík, Štěpán. Kinematografie zapomnění: Počátky normalizace ve Filmovém studiu Barrandov (1968–1973). Praha: Academia, 2012. Iordanova, Dina. Cinema of the Other Europe: The Industry and Artistry of East Central European Film. London and New York: Wallflower, 2003. Jiras, Pavel. Barrandov I: Vzestup k výšinám. 2nd expanded ed. Praha: Ottovo nakladatelství, 2010.

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Jiras, Pavel. Barrandov II: Zlatý věk, 1933–1939. 2nd expanded ed. Praha: Ottovo nakladatelství, 2012. Jiras, Pavel. Barrandov III: Oáza uprostřed běsů, 1939–1945. 2nd expanded ed. Praha: Ottovo nakladatelství, 2013. Jiras, Pavel. Barrandov a zahraniční flim. Praha: Knižní klub, 2017. Karl, Lars, and Pavel Skopal, eds. Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960. New York: Berghahn Books, 2015. Owen, Jonathan L. Avant-garde to New Wave: Czechoslovak Cinema, Surrealism and the Sixties. New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2011. Portuges, Catherine, and Peter Hames, eds. Cinemas in Transition in Central and Eastern Europe after 1989. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2013. Roschlau, Johannes. Zwischen Barrandov and Babelsberg. München: edition text + kritik – Richard Boorberg Verlag, 2008. Škvorecký, Josef. All the Bright Young Men and Women. Toronto: Peter Martin Associates, 1971. Skopal, Pavel. ‘Offers Difficult to Refuse: Miloš Havel and Clientele Transactional Networks in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia’. In Film Professionals in Nazi-Occupied Europe: Mediation between the National-Socialist Cultural ‘New Order’ and Local Structures, edited by Pavel Skopal and Roel Vande Winkel, 21–42. Palgrave Macmillan, 2021. Skopal, Pavel, ed. Naplánovaná kinematografie: Český filmový průmysl 1945 až 1960. Praha: Academia, 2012. Skopal, Pavel, ed. Tři ořišky pro Popelku. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Skupa, Lukáš. Vadí – nevadí: Česká filmová cenzura v 60. letech. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Skupa, Lukáš, ed. Ostře sledované vlaky. Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2014. Smrž, Karel. Základní chronologická data vývoje českého a československého filmu. Praha: Československý státní film, 1952. Štábla, Zdeněk. Data a fakta z dějin čs. kinematografie 1896–1945, 4 vols. Praha: Československý filmový ústav, 1990. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘Aby režiséři nenosili nos nahoru’. In Kultura a totalita, edited by Ivan Klimeš and Jan Wiendl, 227–249. Praha: Filozofická Fakulta Univerzity Karlovy, 2013a. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘The State-Socialist Mode of Production and the Political History of Production Culture’. In Behind the Screen: Inside European Production Cultures, edited by Petr Szczepanik and Patrick Vonderau, 113–133. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013b. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016.

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Votruba, Martin. ‘Historical and National Background of Slovak Filmmaking’. KinoKultura: New Russian Cinema, Special Issue 3: Slovak Cinema (2005), 1–18. http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/3/votruba.shtml. Wanatowiczová, Krystyna. Miloš Havel – český filmový magnát. Praha: Knihovna Václava Havla, 2013. Weaver, Tom. Poverty Row Horrors: Monogram, PRC and Republic Horror Films of the Forties. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1999. Wolff, Larry. Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994.

About the Authors Bernd Herzogenrath is professor of American Literature and Culture at Goethe University of Frankfurt/Main, Germany. He is the author of An Art of Desire: Reading Paul Auster (Rodopi, 2001), An American Body|Politic: A Deleuzian Approach (Dartmouth College Press, 2010), and editor of two books on Tod Browning, two books on Edgar G. Ulmer, and two books on Deleuze and Ecology. Other edited collections include The Farthest Place: The Music of John Luther Adams (Northeastern University Press, 2012), Time and History in Deleuze and Serres (Continuum, 2012), media|matter (Bloomsbury, 2014), Film as Philosophy (University of Minnesota Press, 2017), and The Films of Bill Morrison (Amsterdam University Press, 2017). He is also (together with Patricia Pisters) the main editor of the media-philosophical book series thinking|media with Bloomsbury. Kevin B. Johnson currently resides in Prague, Czech Republic, where he is Academic Director for CET study abroad programs in the city, including a film production program at FAMU. He specializes in Central European cinema, culture, and literature of the twentieth century, with particular attention to points of intersection between Czech and German culture. He has published several articles on Czech and German cinema of the 1930s and 1940s, including ‘Central European Accents: Gustav Machatý, Karel Lamač, and German Cinema’ (in Iluminace: Journal for Film Theory, History, and Aesthetics) and ‘Foreign Attractions: Czech Stars and Ethnic Masquerade’ (in Hales, Petrescu, and Weinstein, eds., Continuity and Crisis in German Cinema 1928–1936). In addition, he was primary translator (from Czech and German) for Anděl and Szczepanik, eds., Cinema All the Time: An Anthology of Czech Film Theory and Criticism, 1908–1939 (2008).

I (Film) History

1.

Barrandov and Its Founder, Miloš Havel Tereza Czesany Dvořáková Abstract: This chapter focuses on the early development of Barrandov Studios, as well as on the distinct personality of its founder, Miloš Havel. Havel, a member of a well-known Prague family of developers, built the expansive and modern film studio complex during a highly disadvantageous time of the Great Depression. During the occupation, the studio was integrated into the Nazi film apparatus. In the summer of 1945, Barrandov was taken over by the Czechoslovak state, and shortly thereafter Havel was accused of collaboration with the Nazis. The fate of Miloš Havel and his studio can be read as a metaphor of the shifts in the Czech film industry during the first half of the twentieth century. Keywords: Czechoslovak cinema industry; Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia; Nazi cultural policy; film production studies; screen industries

This study will look into the motivations that led to large-scale investment in Barrandov Studios: How was it possible that the film studios were built at the time of the Great Depression? What were the visions of its founders – especially the film magnate Miloš Havel? And how would those visions turn out in comparison to the actual results achieved in the first years of the studios’ existence? It will also focus in detail on the increasing influence of the Nazis on Barrandov and how Havel himself dealt with their pressure during the period of German occupation. For this study, Miloš Havel and his family are the key to understanding Barrandov’s position during its early years.

Czech Cinema without Large Studios The Czech part of Czechoslovakia, a state which emerged in 1918 as one of the successors to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, was one of the most

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch01

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industrialized parts of the former empire, with about 70 percent of the former empire’s entire industrial output being centralized there. Although the film industry had been developing from the period of early film in connection with Vienna and Berlin, this process was significantly slower and for a much longer period of time, less stable. Like in many other branches of culture, the rise of an independent state brought a strong (and positively viewed by Czechs) impulse to advancement of the film industry. Following World War I, a wave of Czech cinemas were founded, which offered spectators a range of attractive films of largely foreign provenance, thanks to the growth of the international film industry.1 Just like elsewhere in Europe, a new generation of large and small town citizens had grown up, for whom regular visits to the cinema had become an important part of their lifestyles.2 At this time, the vast majority of national film production was centralized in the capital city of Prague. However, we cannot speak of Czech film production as a developed one until the mid-1920s. The first generation of Czech film producers were focused largely on quick and cheap productions for local spectators in the 1910s, and for the most part failed to sell their films abroad. The Czech market was too small, and they were not able to create a long-term economically functional model for film production, and most of the production companies folded after a few months or years. However, in this period, these companies had already created the first Czech film stars and gradually filmmakers who proved able to create nationally important as well as internationally respected works in the second half of the 1920s. Informal creative and producing clusters arose around certain creative and production individuals.3 To some degree, these clusters could be seen as the forerunners of bigger future film companies and the creative groups in their studios. The young state perceived Czech film primarily as private entrepreneurship and used its growing popularity mainly as its own financial resource – for collecting taxes on entertainment. The first important connection 1 Although German productions dominated Czech cinemas in 1922, by 1924 American films had taken the lead. Out of the approximately 600 titles which premiered in Czechoslovakia after a year, more than 300 were from the United States during the years 1924–1928 (Havelka 1967). 2 Hundreds of cinemas appeared primarily in Bohemia, while the situation in the industrially and economically underdeveloped Slovakia and Subcarpathian Ruthenia was much more complicated for film. Although by the end of 1937 there were 1,642 cinemas in operation in the Czech part of the country, there were only 196 in the Slovak part and in Subcarpathian Ruthenia, only 12 (Havelka 1938, 61). 3 Among them were Alois Jalovec, Svatopluk Innemann, Václav Binovec, Karel Lamač, and the Degl Brothers (Večeřa 2017).

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of film with the public interest came in the beginning of the 1920s, when the state began to grant cinema licenses, which were necessary for the operation of a cinema, preferentially to publicly beneficial associations or unions (Klimeš 2016, 140–150). Ordinary entrepreneurs were constrained by this policy as it influenced the future development of the entire industry by preventing, among other things, the possible centralization of cinemas and the completion of vertical integration in the 1930s (Večeřa 2018, 91). Between 1923 and 1925, the first crisis of Czech production arose, caused by the postwar economic crisis as well as the oversaturation of the domestic market with foreign films. Production of Czech feature films fell from almost thirty to eight to sixteen titles per year. As a result, the Czechoslovak state introduced the first indirect measure supporting Czech film production: the Ministry of the Interior (Ministerstvo vnitra) imposed an obligation on cinemas to screen at least five Czech films annually which had premiered in that year.4 In the history of Czech film, the years 1925–1929 are generally regarded as the moment when the Czech film industry finally achieved its advancement. Directors such as Gustav Machatý, Karel Lamač, Přemysl Pražský, and Martin Frič shot some of the most important works of the Czech silent period, some of which even had the ambition to cross the borders of the Czech periphery, and the number of international coproductions and engagements with foreign directors increased. Czech cinema had, at least at this peak, reached the same level of quality as European cinematography. Soon after the end of World War I, the Czech film industry confronted the problem of where to shoot scenes which required the facilities to be found in a professional studio. In the first half of the 1920s, high inflation in the neighboring German-speaking lands allowed Czech filmmakers to shoot there. Historically documented among these, for example, are the Czech films shot in the recently built film studios in Germany and Austria: the EFA-Atelier am Zoo and the Johannisthaler Filmanstalten (Jofa) film studios in Berlin and the Dreamland Film Studio in Vienna (Brož and Frída 1959, chapter ‘Natáčení v zahraničních ateliérech’). In 1921, the first small, but stable and professionally run film studio in Czechoslovakia was founded by the A-B Company in Prague on Korunní Street. The circumstances of its origin can be considered the direct predecessors to Barrandov Studios. In 1926, a second small film studio was opened for reasons of capacity on the grounds of the baroque farm estate Kavalírka in the Košíře 4 In 1931 this amount was increased to eight. The film historian Jiří Havelka associates this measure with the support of Czech culture in majority non-Czech areas (German Sudetenland, Hungarian southern Slovakia) (Havelka 1967, 26 and 43).

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neighborhood, where a wooden exhibition pavilion stood in a large garden. The main instigator of the atelier’s opening was the Czech film director, actor, and businessman Karel Lamač. The creation of the studio was supported by the firm of the Degl Brothers, who also worked with the Havel family, and part of the project included a simple film laboratory. However, the Kavalírka Atelier, in which more than forty Czech films were shot, had a very short history – in the winter of 1929, it completely burned down. Despite attempts to restore it, this did not come to pass due to financial reasons and the Czech film industry found itself experiencing an acute shortage of spaces for filming (Brož and Frída 1959, chapter ‘Natáčení v zahraničních ateliérech’).

Miloš Havel and His International Visions Vácslav Havel belonged to a successful generation of Czech businessmen who entered into public life in the last decade of the nineteenth century. Although he came from humble origins, thanks to his business and architectural sense, in the course of a few years, Havel became a very influential and wealthy builder and developer, one who influenced the transformation of Prague into a metropolis. The interests of Vácslav Havel and his wife, Emilie, were not limited in a purely entrepreneurial direction, as the family also systematically built its social capital along the lines of famous politicians and persons in the f inancial as well as artistic worlds. The Havels joined the Prague elite and they held on to this position for several of the following turbulent decades. This also was true of their descendants (Havel 2018, 128; Wanatowiczová 2013, 22–23; Horníček 2000, 7–8), who sat among the famous personalities of Czech culture and, like their parents, maintained close personal contacts primarily with politicians on the side of the National Democratic Party and the Castle wing (Wanatowiczová 2013, 50–54). From 1907 to 1911, Vácslav Havel built a modern, multiuse complex on Wenceslaus Square in the very center of Prague, which he named Lucerna Palace (Jelínek n.d.). Part of this ambitious building included, besides various restaurants and entertainment facilities, a cinema. So, in 1909 the Havel family became active in film (Chmelíková 2010, 44–46). In 1912 Vácslav Havel and his wife, Emilie, along with her half-brother (and director of the Lucerna cinema) Richard Baláš (Chmelíková 2010, 94–96), founded the company Lucernafilm, whose aim was to create and distribute films (Schwippel and Lachman 2008, iii). Approximately four years later, Vácslav

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Havel bought film equipment from the bankrupt firm Kinofa and began to shoot films – newsreels, documentary reportage, and, also later, feature films. In 1917, following Richard Baláš’s financial discrepancies (Havel 2018, 114–115) in the family’s film activities, the builder’s younger son – a mere eighteen years old – Miloš Havel (born 1899) replaced him, perhaps unexpectedly quickly. This very young, and certainly very active man first became the manager of the Lucerna cinema, and, from the beginning of 1918, one of the owners of Lucernafilm. Although activities of the production company had been suspended in November 1918, and ownership was sold to the firm of the Degl Brothers, at least Lucernafilm was not liquidated (Schwippel and Lachman 2008, iv–vi; Horníček 2000). Young Miloš Havel very quickly increased the commercial success and the prestige of the Lucerna cinema,5 whose reputation he systematically built up as an extraordinary, premier cinema in the heart of Prague, which was visited by many famous guests.6 Throughout the interwar period, Lucerna Palace maintained its favored position among cultural and social places in Prague. In the 1920s, following the death of his father (and later his mother as well), the transformation of the companies around the palace into the Havel Brothers-Lucerna Company, Miloš Havel7 further strengthened his business influence in the field of cinema. Despite the aforementioned legal obstacles, Havel managed to create a network of five Prague cinemas,8 which – as we shall see later – were integrated in parallel into his commercial activities. At the same time as filming stopped at Lucernafilm, Miloš Havel quickly focused on another segment of the film industry – the distribution of films and the international film trade. In the first weeks after the end of the World War I, Havel took advantage of the unfulfilled demand for films, and thanks to his connections, he obtained a diplomatic passport and took his family capital to Paris to negotiate an exclusive agreement for the distribution of American films in Czechoslovakia and other Central and Eastern European countries (Havel 2018, 116). In 1919, twenty-year-old Miloš Havel and his 5 The cinema had achieved the best commercial results for the period of its existence in 1918 (Wanatowiczová 2013, 30). 6 Besides the delegations of filmmakers and the crème de la crème of Prague, in the course of the 1920s and the 1930s Bio Lucerna welcomed visits from the first and second Czechoslovak presidents Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk and Edvard Beneš, as well as the star Marlene Dietrich (Chmelíková 2010, 51–53). 7 The co-owner was Miloš Havel’s brother Václav Maria. For more information, see Havel 2018, 121 and 631–632. 8 This includes Lucerna, Kotva, Alma, Roxy, and Belvedere (Chmelíková 2010, 55–56).

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associates9 formed the American Film Company, which became the sole representative of the Hollywood studio Universal, with offices in Vienna, Budapest, Zagreb, Belgrade, Warsaw, Arad (Romania), Sofia, and Bucharest. However, the company only profited for a few years before its influence fell and Hollywood studios began to create their own distribution branches (Wanatowiczová 2013, 39; Horníček 2000, 15–17). In these early dealings with the film industry we can notice an important fact, namely that the ambition and vision of this young businessman extended automatically beyond the borders of the newly formed Czechoslovakia. From his childhood onwards, Havel often enjoyed traveling abroad, learning languages and gradually established important personal and commercial relationships outside of Czechoslovakia. It was not only business but also his bohemian lifestyle which often led him to the large European metropolises, which he felt was a natural part of his milieu. This ‘European’ way of thinking and truly expansive and ambitious entrepreneurial style led Havel to the bold idea of building studios at Barrandov. In the spring of 1920, Miloš Havel initiated the formation of the new film subject, the A-B Company. The founders of this (soon-to-be) important Czech film enterprise were the distribution firms American Film Company and Biografia, together with their management (the name A-B was an acronym for the two companies). Officially, the company, with its founding capital of several million crowns, was created in November 1921 and its shareholders were, besides the aforementioned companies, Miloš Havel, Jan Reiter, Eduard Svoboda, František Páša, Adolf Krýsa, Václav Pštros, Julius Schmitt, Josef Zavřel, and Osvald Kosek. As the film historian Jiří Horníček points out, among the owners of A-B, Miloš Havel was the key figure, controlling almost a third of its shares through the American Film Company, and his practical influence grew – as shall be explained later – during the Great Depression that started at the end of the 1920s (Horníček 2000, 24). Among the activities of the company were the operation of studios and laboratories, the trading of film materials and other film and photo-technical needs, alternatively the further use of cinematographic inventions (Kalašová 2012, iv). There were two basic goals of the A-B Company: the first was building up the strength of production subjects, and the second was to build up the professional infrastructure for the creation of their own as well as outside films. Film historians agree that Miloš Havel focused primarily on the

9

The director of the company was the experienced Czech producer Jan Reiter.

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latter goal and that he did not focus on the production of films themselves during this period. As previously mentioned, in 1921 the A-B Company began to operate the first, and for a decade the largest, professional film studio in Prague on Korunní Street. The studio was constructed in a previously existing pavilion in the courtyard, and from this arose modern shooting stages of about 400 m 2 , laboratories which included subtitling machines, and auxiliary workrooms. It was thanks to the existence of these studios that the production boom of Czech f ilm came about in the beginning of the 1920s (Brož and Frída 1959, chapter ‘První velké filmové ateliéry’; Wanatowiczová 2013, 38). However, in the mid-1920s, the previously mentioned crisis in film production arose and brought with it great financial problems for the A-B Company. The firm temporarily halted production on several of its own films, reduced its share capital, and, in the end, even rented its studios to a third party.10 Czech film’s economic situation was still not quite stable. During the boom in the second half of the 1920s, A-B gradually renewed all of its activities, and once again, planned closer cooperation with foreign producers; Miloš Havel was behind these plans. At the time of the liquidation of the American Film Company from 1928 to 1929, Havel acquired a two-thirds control of A-B thanks to his purchase of shares, and became the majority owner of the company (Havel 2018, 500; Horníček 2000, 42). From this point on, the decisions of A-B can be equated with Miloš Havel’s own ideas. His purchase was not obvious at the time, since it took place during a period in which Havel did not have the requisite disposable funds, and his debt grew to 12 million crowns, an impressive sum for a mere mortal to reach. Havel, of course, was allowed the liberty of this financial speculation thanks to his ownership of the prosperous Lucerna Palace and other family businesses and properties (Wanatowiczová 2013, 39). We can only speculate as to what role Havel’s risky management played in the entrance of sound film, in which Havel fervently believed, according to various testimonies, as is evidenced by the rapid transition to sound in his cinemas.11 This moment is crucial in the life of the thirty-year-old film entrepreneur – he had gone from a young cinema operator and distributor and to gradually becoming a film magnate. Havel’s ideas of the importance of a European film market 10 He was film entrepreneur Antonín Vlas (Horníček 2000, 40). 11 On 13 August 1929, Lucerna cinema became the first regularly programmed sound cinema in Czechoslovakia. After Lucerna, Havel installed a sound system in his second cinema, Kotva, in 1929 (Chmelíková 2010, 56–62; Havel 2018, 117).

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were gradually fulfilled, and throughout the 1930s Havel only strengthened his position in the Czech film industry. In the following year, the A-B Company also invested in and installed sound systems in their film stages. As mentioned, it was thanks to Miloš Havel that the systematic production of sound films in Czechoslovakia had begun in 1930 (Brož and Frída 1959, chapter ‘Nástup zvuku’). However, despite the modernization of the studio on Korunní Street at the end of the 1920s and beginning of the 1930s, the facilities had ceased to be adequate in terms of capacity and work safety; the end of the lease with the building’s owner was also fast approaching, and the question of building an entirely new film complex was immanent. Since Havel was once again the main architect of these plans, the construction of a film factory on the highest European level was contemplated.

Let’s Build a Film Factory on Barrandov! Thus far we have omitted the figure of Miloš’ brother, Václav M. Havel,12 who, following his father’s example, entered the civil engineering business. Václav M., was connected with Miloš not only through co-ownership of Lucerna Palace, but also through his general interest in Prague’s cultural and social life, and connections in the highest places. Like his father, Václav M. Havel was a developer, and from the mid-1920s he had been preparing a residential project on a cliff on the Vltava river on the southern tip of Prague, which he named ‘Barrandov’.13 Incidentally, this project was also financed through a bank loan, which Václav M. Havel had guaranteed through Lucerna and other family property (Havel 2018, 478). It was probably Václav M., who realized that the site, a future quarter of villas, would be very well-suited for producing films. The landscape horizon was not disturbed by any buildings, making it easy to shoot exterior scenes. The combination of projects was economically advantageous for both sides – the construction of the studios accelerated the building speed and increased the quarter’s attractiveness. In addition, the previously prepared developmental project of the villa quarter ensured that certain basic infrastructures were already arranged, such as access roads, connections to power sources, the sewage system, and so on 12 Václav Maria Havel was father of former Czechoslovak and Czech president Václav Havel (in office from 1989 to 2003). 13 This area was named after a French geologist Joachim Barrande. For more details on the construction of the villa quarter on Barrandov, see Havel 2018, 499ff.

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Figure 1.1. Barrandov Hill in 1930. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

(Havel 2018, 465–467 and 499). However, it is also likely that the emerging Great Depression, which hampered the construction of residential buildings at Barrandov, also played a significant role in Václav M. Havel’s decision to sell off some of the land intended for his development process.14 The key question which we must consider in connection with the building of the studios at Barrandov is: How it was possible that the film studios, which cost 14 million crowns to build, were built during the time of the Great Depression, the decline of construction activity, and also the destabilization of the film industry through the advent of sound film? Here, Miloš Havel’s relationships with important representatives of the establishment play a key role, especially in the ranks of the urban-orientated and economically liberal National Democracy Party. As Krystyna Wanatowiczová notes, Havel’s excellent contacts included, among other family friends, the mayor of Prague, Karel Baxa; Minister of Industry, Trade and Crafts Josef Matoušek; and a prominent official in the same ministry, Josef Piskač; as well as bank and insurance directors Jaroslav Priess and Vladislav Klumpar. Havel successfully argued in support of the new national area of industry, and certainly also about the logic of building to reduce peak unemployment at a time 14 Václav M. Havel mentions in his memoirs that part of the property needed to be transferred to municipal property due to financial difficulties (Havel 2018, 501–504).

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of certainly unprecedented state support. Thus a bank loan for 5 million crowns was guaranteed by the state.15 Moreover, this step took place in the spring of 1932, a period when the Ministry of Industry, Trade and Crafts (Ministerstvo průmyslu, obchodu a živností) – not only under Miloš Havel’s influence – favored the production of Czech films over those of foreign importation by its own excessively protectionist measures. Certainly, as we shall soon see, this helped the A-B Company to develop its film studios the most (Klimeš and Heiss 2003, 310, 401). The state’s protection of A-B aroused many emotions, and was perceived by many filmmakers and entrepreneurs in other fields as an opaque, or even unfair, arrangement (Wanatowiczová 2013, 77). At this moment hatred began to germinate in some people, which in the future would prove to have dire consequences for Miloš Havel the film magnate. But let us return to the period of preparation for the construction. In mid1931, the director of A-B (and Havel’s right-hand man in matters relating to the building and future operation of the studios), Lavoslav Reichl, undertook several international trips, during which he observed the innovations in operations of other European film studios, which could be applied to the Prague project (Horníček 2000, 57). This also reveals the European ambitions for the studios. In December of 1931, A-B purchased around 50,000 m 2 of land from Václav M. Havel and other owners of the estate in question and began with the preparations for construction.16 The main designer of the Barrandov Studios was Max Urban – a well-known Czech architect as well as a formerly successful film producer, who had experience in the field of film production and architecturally participated in the villa quarter. Construction commenced at the end of 1931, and in such a hurry that it began ahead of the necessary official permits. Miloš Havel was able to overcome this problem, as well as the fact that this private building stood on a parcel of land intended for the construction of public buildings, with the help of exceptional contacts in high places (Horníček 2000, 61). In early 1933, provisional trial use of the facility was officially permitted. The final approval took place after much official urgency from the authorities in the end of February 1934, in a period when studios were normally filming (Horníček 2000, 62). The reason for this hurry was, undoubtedly, financial. As the historian Ivan Jakubec shows, the Havel Brothers were, at this time, substantially in debt, and if a quick return on their investment did not 15 The loan was granted in June 1932 (Wanatowiczová 2013, 74–76). 16 The purchase of the land was allegedly approved by a special committee to prevent conflict of interest (Havel 2018, 500–501; Wanatowiczová 2013, 72–73).

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Figure 1.2. Building of Barrandov Studios, 1932. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

appear, the family’s assets could be forfeited to the banks (Jakubec 2006, 155–157). The second, no less substantial, reason was the aforementioned protectionism, which brought with it a boom in domestic film production; A-B needed to open the larger film studios in order to start earning money as soon as possible from this situation, which was unsustainable in the long run. A small detour: this protectionist measure was connected with the criticism of the dominant position of American film at the end of the 1920s, which resulted in a wave of protectionist measures in European nations. In Czechoslovakia, the Havel-favoring Ministry of Industry, Trade and Crafts introduced a series of measures between April and November 1932, initiating and gradually tightening the so-called contingency system, which required that for the importation of a certain amount of foreign films (seven, then later six and five), not only was it necessary to pay an import tax, but also to shoot a domestic film. The system functioned until November 1934, when it was replaced by a much milder registration system. As a result of this policy, the number of domestic feature-length films nearly doubled (from twentyfour titles examined by the censors in 1932 to forty-four in 1933); however, many of these were cheaply made exploitation titles. Hollywood firms, by way of the MPAA, even boycotted the Czechoslovak market for several months. On the other hand, the measure strengthened German production in the Czechoslovak market, which was at its height between 1932 and 1935 (Szczepanik 2011, Klimeš and Heiss 2003, 310–314, 401–405). It is no wonder that the situation was very harshly criticized by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Film historian Ivan Klimeš has published in his book an internal

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‘Memorandum on the Czechoslovak Film Situation’ from November 1933, in which Jindřich Elbl (a clerk at the Ministry of the Interior and a future well-known functionary in the nationalized film industry) clearly identifies this unsustainable situation with the contingent favoring the A-B Company and Miloš Havel (Klimeš 2016, 184–185 and 454–465).

How to Sustain the New Central European Film Center Since 1933, the largest Czechoslovak film studio17 has been located in a beautifully constructed building at the end of the Barrandov villa quarter, and is ranked today among the most important works of Czech functionalist architecture. In addition to its administrative facilities, it has two shooting halls (2 x 640 m2 in area, with a height of 11 m – both can also be combined into a single hall) at its disposal, as well as changing rooms, storage rooms, hotel rooms, editing and projection rooms, engine rooms and a power station, and machine shops. When creating the laboratories, special emphasis was placed on domestically manufactured equipment. The film complex on Barrandov was not only considered modern because of its architecture, but also its equipment, which was the best in Europe. Its declared capacity of 40 films per year (Klimeš 2016, 457; Horníček 2000, 55) reveals that it was not only intended solely for Czech film production, as Miloš Havel did not just think locally. He and the other shareholders of A-B certainly counted on the fact that they would also film foreign coproductions and commissions, and that Barrandov would become an important center of Central European film production alongside the German Babelsberg or Viennese Rosenhügel studios. In future years, Miloš Havel would also be criticized for the fact that the studios on Korunní Street and also eventually in those at Barrandov were equipped by him with ‘German’ sound technology from Tobis-Klang (Horníček 2000, 60; Klimeš 2016, 459). Strong anti-German sentiments among the Czech populace grew as the foreign political situation worsened in connection with Adolf Hitler’s rise to power in 1933. The fact that the vast majority of money spent on licensing fees flowed through the German branch of Tobis-Klang to its Dutch mother company was not much considered. 17 In 1932 the smaller Host studios were opened in Hostivař in Prague, and in 1937 the Foja studios in Radlice started operation. And last but not least, in the mid-1930s the shoe concern Baťa opened film studios in Zlín. A-B led a competitive fight against both Prague companies (Horníček 2000, 67–71).

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Figure 1.3. Official promotional photograph of the A-B Company. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

The reason, why Havel chose the Tobis-Klangfilm system for his studios in the spring of 1930 is not clear. However, it is possible to assume that the reason related to Havel’s earlier experience with the Western Electric sound system.18 During this time Havel pragmatically strengthened his international contacts, not only in Germany, but also in France and other European countries. In 1934, when it was already obvious that the domestic film boom would subside, Miloš Havel embarked on further expansion of his social capital and founded the Film Production Association (Svaz filmové výroby), which was by no means the only film industry association in Czechoslovakia. Havel acted as both its representative and as a private individual – over the objections of some officials – on the importation commission of the Ministry of Industry, Trade and Crafts and later, as a member of the Film Advisory Council (Filmový poradní sbor), the body which granted state financial support for Czech film production. Havel also worked, more or less, as an official negotiator for international film agreements with Germany, France, and the United States, and participated in prestigious international political representations relating to the film industry. In the mid-1930s, he also was 18 Lucerna played an unpleasantly important role in the patent war between both companies in Central European territory. This dispute also involved actions directly against cinema owners (Chmelíková 2010, 61–61).

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Figure 1.4. Shooting at Barrandov, 1936. Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

also one of the important Czech delegates to meetings of the Nazi-initiated International Film Chamber (Horníček 2000, 72). Alongside of his natural ambition, the reason for this broadening of Havel’s international contacts served to obtain foreign commissions for Barrandov Studios at the highest levels of the European film industry. In addition to dozens of Czech films, between the years 1933 and 1936, Barrandov Studios filmed three famous European coproductions, each of which were connected to French companies: Volga en flammes (Volga in Flames, 1934, dir. Viktor Tourjansky), Port Arthur (1936, dir. Nicolas Farkas), and The Golem (1936, dir. Julien Duvivier). In the early 1930s, A-B produced three to six feature films per year, but after the opening of the new studios at Barrandov it chose not to expand production. Instead, A-B focused on renting its premises to other producers and on increasing its distribution activities by presenting its own productions, as well as those of other Czech and international firms, in Czech cinemas (Horníček 2000, 67; Havel 2018, 117; list of the films produced and released by A-B). In the mid-1930s, Miloš Havel could be described without a doubt as the most powerful person in Czech cinema. However, he was also a person who, thanks to his unorthodox business practices as well as his own successes, had gradually acquired opponents, not only among his international

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competitors, but also in the strong emerging generation of left-oriented filmmakers, as well as officials and functionaries in the film world. These entered the scene in the 1930s and began to promote the concept of the nation’s cinema industry as a cultural resource, one which should be in the future independent from private interests and whose development should be guaranteed or directly coordinated by the state (Czesany Dvořáková 2011, 26ff.).

Prewar and Wartime Intermezzo In the second half of the 1930s, political tensions between democratic Czechoslovakia and the Third Reich increased, culminating at the end of September 1938 with the Munich Agreement, in which foreign powers, without the involvement of the Czechoslovak government, agreed to hand over the border regions of the democratic state with great numbers of German inhabitants to the Reich. Thus arrived the period of the ‘Second Republic’ (November 1938–March 1939), and the political situation was naturally reflected in the film industry. A-B joined the wave of antiwar films with the production of the leftist picture Svět patří nám (The World Belongs to Us, 1937, dir. Martin Frič). Certainly, the loss of a third of its film market was a tough blow for Czech film producers; moreover, in this period, Barrandov had to face increasing competition from two other Prague film studios (in Hostivař and in Radlice), and began experience a decline in commissions (Wanatowiczová 2013, 111–116). Miloš Havel regarded the situation in the Second Republic more pragmatically than most of his companions, and in a period when it was not possible to secure French or other Western European commissions, he did not resist cooperation with other film circles in Nazi Germany. After all, Havel had already worked with German film circles from the 1920s, as well as on the cultural and political level since 1934. In the summer of 1938, at the height of the diplomatic crisis between the two countries, Havel traveled on his own initiative to Berlin, where he visited the Reich Film Chamber and the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda and officially negotiated the distribution of Czech films, and probably commissions for Barrandov as well (Wanatowiczová 2013, 115–116). Havel’s respect for German cinema was perhaps also related to the great institutional development and economic success which it began to achieve in these years in the newly structured field in Nazi Germany under the supervision of Joseph Goebbels (Spiker 1975; Welch and Vande Winkel 2007, 6–24). Although negotiations for the

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distribution of Czech films collapsed, Havel was able to obtain commissions from Bavaria-Film for A-B, and in 1939 the firm was already shooting at least three films at Barrandov.19 Shortly after the occupation of the Czech lands on 15 March 1939, it became apparent that the goal of the occupiers was not only to control Czech film production, but also to secure its film infrastructure to benefit German cinema. Their basic interest lay in the use of the studios, which seemed to be ideal for the immediate production of German films for several reasons: their modernity, closeness to Berlin, the low cost of film production, but also the assumption of financially advantageous conditions due to political pressure. This goal began to be fulfilled very quickly. At the end of July 1939, the German Treuhänder (trustee) Karl Schulz was appointed under the pretense to correct the presence of a person of Jewish origin (Osvald Kosek) on the Barrandov managing board.20 As an administrator, Schulz had such broad powers that he effectively controlled the whole company. The studios were immediately opened wide to the Reich’s film companies for shooting – of course, at the expense of Czech films. In July 1939, the Reich Protector’s Office offered to buy out Miloš Havel’s shares. Havel refused. The Germans threatened to increase the share capital by 200 percent, which would have stripped Havel of his majority, but again Havel did not yield to this pressure. The deadlocked situation was not resolved, even with the personal intervention of Goebbels’s main film manager, Max Winkler, in Prague. The German side was reluctant to pay more than a nominal share price for the studios, which, according to Havel, did not correspond to the real value of the investment. Havel accepted the idea of selling under pressure, but demanded 25 million crowns for the sale of 51 percent of the shares, and 10 million in compensation from the Protectorate government. Negotiations continued until April 1940 and ended in a compromise (Bednařík 2003, 52–77). We do not know what exactly made both parties compromise. For Havel, certainly personal threats played a role, since, as a homosexual, he could hardly flee.21 But the entrance of the Protectorate regime into the negotia19 These f ilms were: Irrtum des Herzens (working title Der 24. Dezember, 1939, dir. Bernd Hofmann and Alfred Stöger), Verdacht auf Ursula (1939, dir. Karlheinz Martin), and Seitensprünge (1939, dir. Alfred Stöger) (Střechová 2008, iv–v). 20 On 29 March 1939, the order of the Reich Protector known as ‘Lex Barrandov’ or ‘Lex Havel’ came into force, which retroactively corrected the deadline for transfer of Jewish property to 15 March 1939 (Bednařík 2003, 41–42). 21 Homosexuality was criminalized under Czechoslovak Criminal Code and also under § 175 of the German Criminal Code.

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tions was also important for him. In April 1940, a purchase agreement was signed between Miloš Havel and the Reich’s transformation company Cautio Treuhand for the purchase of 51 percent of the shares at the nominal value of 765,000 crowns, for a total price of 6,885,000 crowns.22 Besides this, Havel obtained studio reservations for shooting at least five Czech films annually, at financially advantageous conditions. According to another contract concluded on the same day, the Protectorate government also joined the joint stock company. The shares of individual owners were: 51 percent for Cautio, 20 percent for Miloš Havel, and 29 percent for the Protectorate government. Furthermore, the Protectorate government also paid Havel compensation of more than 8 million crowns (Bednařík 2003, 52–77). In a similar way, albeit much more cheaply and easily, the Germans bought out the remaining Prague studios (Bednařík 2003, 57–60). In July 1941, the German-controlled general meeting of the company increased the share capital of A-B tenfold, and as a result, the government’s and Havel’s shares fell to a negligible 2 percent to 2.9 percent. The German management no longer counted on the influence of the Czech side. In September 1941, A-B was transformed into Prag-Film AG (Dvořáková and Klimeš 2008, 45–47). Prag-Film fulfilled three main roles: it primarily functioned as the manager of all Prague studios, it provided studio services to other Nazi producers, and occasionally also to Czech producers. For wartime development at Barrandov, it is necessary to mention that in the years 1942 to 1944, Germans massively invested in Barrandov. The studio complex was expanded with two wooden halls of 446 m2 and 776 m2, as well as the ‘new halls’ with three shooting halls (two of 1,200 m2 and a third of 2,000 m 2), warehouses, the Fundus costume department, dressing rooms, production spaces, workshops, projection spaces, and other related operations. The laboratories received, among other things, color film technology. Its canteen could accommodate up to 900 diners (Dvořáková and Klimeš 2008, 70–72). During the years of 1942 and 1943, Prag-Film also developed its own unique production activities, and for propaganda reasons, systematically involved Czech celebrities in the production of f ilms. Prag-Film – much like its predecessor A-B – also entered into film distribution in the territories of the Protectorate (Dvořáková and Klimeš 2008, 52–55; Bednařík 2003, 65–71). In January 1942, Prag-Film – like Ufa, Bavaria, Terra, Wien-Film and other Nazi film firms – became part of the new umbrella organization for the German 22 At this time, the nominal share price was signif icantly lower than the real price of the property.

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film industry, UFI. Like other Reich film producers, Prag-Film’s gross profit grew: in 1942 this amounted to 2.7 million reichsmarks, and in 1943 it was 4.5 million reichsmarks (Spiker 1975, 189). Over eighty German films were filmed at Barrandov while it was under German control, including big-budget films like Paracelsus (Georg Wilhelm Pabst, 1943), and selected scenes from Veit Harlan’s Jud Süß (1940). Interest in filming in Prague among German firms mainly grew after 1943, because Prague, unlike Berlin or Munich, lay outside of the area of Allied bombing. According to internal reports, in 1944 the proportion of usage of the film studios in Prague amounted to 33 percent of the entire UFI concern. At this time, the studios of Prag-Film reportedly exceeded the capacity of the biggest Ufa studios in Babelsberg and Berlin (Czesany Dvořáková 2018, 31–49). On the other hand, if we look at the number of Czech films produced, we find that they fell, from thirty to forty premieres yearly to three years with only ten titles per year. In the second half of the Occupation, only two companies were allowed to shoot (and also distribute) their own Czech feature films: Nationalfilm and Lucernafilm, whose activities Miloš Havel had resumed in 1937. The occupiers also left the Czech Protectorate government the possibility of financially supporting Czech film production, and Czech films became a highly respected tool for Czech politicians in strengthening Czech culture. Budgets for Czech films increased, as similarly did their state support, and the quality of Czech film grew as did the Czech public’s interest in them. Between 1939 and 1945, Lucernafilm (under the leadership of Miloš Havel) produced nearly forty feature films, many of which today are included to canonical titles of Czech cinema.23 However, the position of Miloš Havel himself during the Protectorate is considered much more ambivalently today than the results of his work would suggest. On the one hand, with his f ilms, he strengthened Czech film culture and helped many people in need, and thanks to his political connections, he was able to get some political prisoners out of Nazi prisons. 24 On the other hand, he was willing to adapt to the new political reality and intensively socialized with the representatives of the 23 These are, among others: Dívka v modrém (1939, dir. Otakar Vávra), Eva tropí hlouposti (1939, dir. Martin Frič), Ohnivé léto (1939, dir. František Čáp and Václav Krška), Babička (1940, dir. František Čáp), Hotel Modrá hvězda (1941, dir. Martin Frič), Noční motýl (1941, dir. František Čáp), Šťastnou cestu (1943, dir. Otakar Vávra), and Tanečnice (1943, dir. František Čáp). 24 Miloš Havel financially supported many writers and other artists and he offered employment to some of them, thus he saved them from forced labor for the Reich. According to the postwar testimony of well-known poet Vítězslav Nezval, Havel was able to get him out of the Gestapo prison in 1944 (Wanatowiczová 2013, 225–228, 253–254, 307–308).

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occupying regime. In the broader context, his behavior can also be seen as his consistent need to be at the forefront of the cinematic-political world of European significance.

The Nationalization of Czech Cinema and the End of a Film Magnate The concept of a state-controlled f ilm industry began to crystallize in Czech film associations as early as the mid-1930s, and the expropriation of Czech film infrastructure (studios, production companies, distributors, and also many cinemas) into German hands made the process much easier and quicker. The nationalization of Czech cinema was prepared illegally in several waves by left-oriented Czech and Slovak filmmakers, officials, and publicists since the beginning of the war. Over the course of several years, the concept was refined and came to a consensus that all film operations across the board would be nationalized. Exiled political representatives in London and Moscow also consulted on the plan. Immediately after the liberation of Czechoslovakia, the spontaneous seizure of cinemas, production and distribution companies, and, of course, studios, took place; this act was consecrated in August 1945 via the publishing of a decree by the president of the republic to nationalize Czech film production (‘Jak byl znárodněn čs. Film’ 1965). Barrandov Studios, as well as Lucernafilm and its cinemas, were transferred to state ownership. During the Protectorate, Miloš Havel, for the first time in his career, found himself in a situation where not only could he not make any decisions about his work, but he could not even influence which decisions were made. He was undoubtedly informed about the preparations for the nationalization of the film industry, but apparently only partly. The memoirs of Jindřich Elbl give evidence to this, as Havel came up with his own ideals about nationalizing cinema in May 1945, but this only proved his ignorance of how far along the preparations for nationalization really were (Elbl 1965, 396–399). At this time, Havel was apparently reconciled with the nationalization of his former and present property. However, he had counted on remaining an important personage in Czech film, and he certainly did not expect to be one of those punished as an example. However, in June 1945, a very severe campaign erupted, accusing Miloš Havel of collaborating with the Nazis, which culminated in his arrest and brief incarceration. Havel was opposed by a number of people with whom he had worked during the war, and whom he had helped. The disciplinary

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council of the newly established trade Union of Czechoslovak Film Workers (Svaz československých filmových pracovníků) expelled Havel from the profession in the autumn of 1945 (Wanatowiczová 2013, 323–331). In the autumn of 1946, proceedings began against Miloš Havel before the Special People’s Court (Mimořádný lidový soud), which were suspended for lack of evidence in the autumn of 1948 (Wanatowiczová 2013, 346–349). After the Czechoslovak coup d’état in February 1948 the Communist Party seized power in the state. Lucerna Palace was taken from the Brothers Havel and nationalized, but they were not forgiven the outstanding debts associated with the property and had to pay them. Václav M. Havel had to pay them for many more years. The family was also gradually evicted from their private flats and villas. In the summer of 1945, Miloš Havel unsuccessfully attempted to emigrate to the Federal Republic of Germany, and for this, he was sentenced to two years in prison – the most severe punishment allowed (Wanatowiczová 2013, 360–365). Miloš Havel returned from prison a sick and broken man. Yet, once again, in August 1952, he tried to emigrate, and this time he was successful (Wanatowiczová 2013, 393–397). He lived in West Germany on the money, among other things, which he received from the liquidation of the UFI concern to remedy wartime injustices, but he never again achieved any real professional success (Wanatowiczová 2013, 402–412), and died in 1968 in Munich. Thus, tragically and unfairly, ended the career of the man who managed, among his other business activities in interwar Czechoslovakia, to create a fully vertically integrated film company, an achievement comparable with that of the founders of other large global companies. Unlike its founder, however, the war strengthened Barrandov Studios and allowed it to flourish in the following years, ensuring that it would be a key component of the nationalized cinema industry in postwar Czechoslovakia.

Conclusion The beginnings of the greatest Czech film studio are inherently connected with the figure of Miloš Havel, who can be described beyond a doubt as the most significant Czech film entrepreneur of the twentieth century. His career is not only closely linked to the existence of Barrandov Studios, but also personally with the development of the Czech film industry, especially from the 1920s to 1940s. His own personal fate – similarly to that of the German producer Erich Pommer (Jacobsen 1989) – can be taken as a metaphor for the development of the entirety of national cinematography in the area

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of Central Europe during the interwar democratic period and during the arrival of Nazi, and later socialist, totalitarianism. In the economically difficult turn of the 1920s and 1930s, Havel and other investors were able to realize at first sight what was perhaps an impetuous and rash idea – they built one of the most modern European film studios ‘on a green field’ on the outskirts of Prague. However, their plan was built on an undoubtedly sound business foundation: Miloš Havel and other investors believed among other things that the studios could be profitable, because they would offer their services to foreign producers. With the construction of Barrandov Studios, this group of entrepreneurs, in a fundamental way, crossed the horizon of the Czech film periphery, which was the predominant mode of thinking among the Czech film entrepreneurs who were focused on only the domestic market in the 1920s. Today it is difficult for us to judge whether Miloš Havel was able to foresee what a long-term step for Czech film he inaugurated. The construction of Barrandov significantly influenced not only the specifics of production practice of Czech cinema, but also the entire development of an (artistic) industry.

Bibliography Bednařík, Petr. Arizace české kinematografie. Praha: Karolinum, 2003. Brož, Jaroslav, and Myrtil Frída. Historie československého filmu v obrazech 1898–1930. Praha: Orbis, 1959. Chmelíková, Kristina. ‘Bio Lucerna. Historie pražského kina 1909–1945’. MA thesis, Univerzita Karlova, 2010. Czesany Dvořáková, Tereza. ‘Idea filmové komory. Českomoravské filmové ústředí a kontinuita centralizačních tendencí ve filmovém oboru 30. a 40. let’. PhD diss., Univerzita Karlova, 2011. Czesany Dvořáková, Tereza. ‘Říše, Evropa, protektorát a film. Prag-Film v kontextu krystalizace a realizace nacistické filmové expanze’. Iluminace 30, no. 4 (2018): 31–49. Dvořáková, Tereza, and Ivan Klimeš. Prag-Film AG 1941–1945. Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Protektorats- und Reichs-Kinematografie. München: edition text + kritik, 2008. Elbl, Jindřich. ‘Jak byl znárodněn československý film’. Film a doba 11, no. 8 (1965): 396–399. Filmový přehled. ‘AB’ [List of the films produced and released by A-B], n.d. https:// www.filmovyprehled.cz/cs/person/114216/ab.

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Havel, Václav M. Mé vzpomínky. Praha: Knihovna Václava Havla, 2018. Havelka, Jiří. Čs. filmové hospodářství IV. Rok 1937. Praha: Knihovna Filmového kurýru, 1938. Havelka, Jiří. Kronika našeho filmu 1898–1965. Praha: Filmový ústav, 1967. Horníček, Jiří. ‘Miloš Havel a český filmový průmysl’. MA thesis, Univerzita Karlova, 2000. Jacobsen, Wolfgang. Erich Pommer. Ein Produzent macht Filmgeschichte. Berlin: Argon Verlag, 1989. ‘Jak byl znárodněn čs. film. Svědectví a dokumenty I–V’. Series of interviews. Film a doba 11, nos. 2–12 (1965). Jakubec, Ivan. ‘Ekonomické pozadí podnikání bratrů Havlových ve třicátých letech 20. století’. Iluminace 18, no. 4 (2006): 155–157. Jelínek, Tomáš. ‘Historie Paláce Lucerna’. n.d. http://www.lucerna.cz/cz/6_historie. Kalašová, Marcela. Prag-Film A. G. (A-B, akciové filmové továrny, a. s.) 1920–1958. Archival fond inventory. Hradištko pod Medníkem: Národní filmový archiv, 2012. Klimeš, Ivan. Kinematografie a stát v českých zemích 1895–1945. Praha: FF UK, 2016. Klimeš, Ivan, and Gernot Heiss. ‘Kulturní průmysl a politika. Československé a rakouské filmové hospodářství v politické krizi třicátých let./Kulturindustrie und Politik. Die Filmwirtschaft der Tchechoslowakei und Ősterreichs in der politischen Krise der dreißiger Jahre’. In Obrazy času. Český a rakouský film 30. let./Bilder der Zeit. Tschechischer und österreichischer Film der 30er Jahre, edited by Ivan Klimeš and Gernot Heiss, 17–48. Prague and Brno: Národní filmový archiv et al., 2003. Schwippel, Jindřich, and Tomáš Lachman. Lucernafilm s.r.o. 1912–1955. Archival fond inventory. Hradištko pod Medníkem: Národní filmový archiv, 2008. Spiker, Jürgen. Film und Kapital. Der Weg der deustchen Filmwirtschaft zum nationalsozialistischen Einheitskonzern. Berlin: Verlag Volker Spiess, 1975. Střechová, Lucie. Bavaria Filmkunst GmbH (pražská kancelář) 1938–1958. Archival fond inventory. Hradištko pod Medníkem: Národní filmový archiv, 2008. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘Hollywood in Disguise: Practices of Exhibition and Reception of Foreign Films in Czechoslovakia in the 1930s’. In Cinema, Audiences and Modernity, edited by Daniel Biltereyst, Richard Maltby, and Philippe Meers, 149–165. London and New York: Routledge, 2011. Urbanová, Eva, and Blažena Urgošíková, eds. Český hraný film II, 1930–1945/Czech Feature Film II, 1930–1945. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 1998. Večeřa, Michal. ‘Jen pro pár kin a hodně lacino. Hrané filmy v obchodních plánech pražských výroben mezi léty 1911 a 1915’. Iluminace 29, no. 1 (2017): 5–27. Večeřa, Michal. ‘Na cestě k systematické filmové výrobě. Rozvoj produkčního systému v českých zemích mezi lety 1911–1930’. PhD diss., Masaryk University, 2018.

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Wanatowiczová, Krystyna. Miloš Havel – český filmový magnát. Prague: Knihovna Václava Havla, 2013. Welch, David, and Roel Vande Winkel. ‘Europe’s New Hollywood? The German Film Industry under Nazi Rule, 1933–45’. In Cinema and Swastika: The International Expansion of Third Reich Cinema, edited by Roel Vande Winkel and David Welch, 1–24. Hampshire and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007.

About the Author Tereza Czesany Dvořáková is currently a head of the Department of production at FAMU Prague, and an Assistant Professor in the Film Studies Department at Charles University, Prague. She worked as head of the section for nonaudiovisual collections, research, and information at the National Film Archive in Prague between 2012 and 2016. She has participated in various research projects (including ‘The FAMU Studio: History of a Film School’, ‘How Much Did Czech Films Cost?’, or ‘La Storia in Television’). She has coauthored the monograph publications Prag-Film AG 1941–1945. Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Protektorats- und Reichs-Kinematografie (München: edition text + kritik 2008) and Generace normalizace. Ztracená naděje českého filmu? (Praha: Národní filmový archiv, 2016). She has also written numerous studies on the history of Czech and German cinema, contemporary film practice, film policy, and, last but not least, two successful children’s books on cinema. In addition, she has worked as a member of the Committee of the Czech Film Fund.

2.

The Concept of Regional Poetics of Cinema Czech Films of the 1920s and Early 1930s Radomír D. Kokeš

Abstract: The chapter has two aims. First, it wants to move towards writing an aesthetic history of Czech cinema from the perspective of the poetics of cinema. The first section of the chapter introduces the methodological background of such research. In a critical debate with existing approaches, the second section formulates more general hypotheses about the typical features of Czech silent and early sound films. The third section is then a more focused case study of the first film shot in Barrandov Studios. This analytical part also discusses both one particular genre tradition and the thoughtful embedding of the extraordinary technical options of Barrandov Studios into relatively longer-term stylistic continuities. Second, the chapter aims to sketch the possibilities of its concept of regional poetics, proposing and illustrating with an example of Czech cinema in the period preceding and immediately following the opening of Barrandov Studios in 1933. The notion of regional poetics refers to the analytical and historical research regarding what is typical for a particular area: as such, it inquires a corpus of feature-length film works, each of which was predominantly made in a specified territory, predominantly in the official language of that territory, and for standard commercial distribution within that territory. Keywords: Czech cinema, regional poetics, silent cinema, poetics of cinema, research program, film narrative, film style

Since this chapter aims to be methodological and contribute to the discussion of the aesthetic history of Czech cinema (and cinema in general), the establishment and beginnings of filmmaking in the AB Barrandov Czech

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch02

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film studios in 1933 will be the broader horizon of my inquiry, rather than its center. For as will be explained, although the emergence of Barrandov Studios is a turning point in the history of the Czech film industry, we are far from fully understanding not only its role in the aesthetic history of Czech cinema, let alone the aesthetic history of Czech cinema itself. An aesthetic history does not only include the study of exceptional directors, filmmaking styles, film genres, or artistic movements. Such a history also involves recognizing, describing, and explaining why, how, and under what conditions certain aesthetic solutions to certain artistic problems in Czech cinema were preferred over others and when and where they came about. This cannot be achieved without first asking about the principles according to which films were constructed, by which films achieved a wide range of purposes, and to which the available techniques and technology were functionally adapted.1 An aesthetic history of Czech cinema as defined above, which should be based on firsthand detailed research of audiovisual material consisting of a representative corpus of films and understanding them in appropriate contexts and within a historical continuum, does not yet exist in any shape.2 It is therefore reasonable to try to answer – at least tentatively – what it means to write such a history, and how to head towards it. Why does an aesthetic history of Czech cinema in particular need to be written – and why should such a history be of interest to the international community of film scholars? Aside from the socio-cultural value of knowing Czech traditions, Czech cinema holds a position in world cinema history which we can consider as atypical in more than one respect (none of which are aesthetically evaluative). To begin with, with more than two-thirds of Czech silent fiction films preserved, it appears to be one of the world’s best-preserved national cinemas (cf. Cherchi Usai 2019, 206–208). Hence it is possible to draw a relatively plausible picture of its aesthetic history without relying on information derived from a preserved group of possibly unordinary and/or incomplete films. Second, since the mid-1920s, Czech cinema has had stable annual production and a standard national commercial 1 In my characterization of the aesthetic history of cinema, I draw on Allen and Gomery 1985, 37; Bordwell 2008, 23; Baxandall 1985, 14–15, 69–70. 2 Thanks to the long-term and careful research work of Petr Szczepanik (e.g., Szczepanik 2009), Ivan Klimeš (e.g., Klimeš 2016), Michal Večeřa (e.g., Večeřa 2019), Pavel Skopal (e.g., Skopal 2019), Lucie Česálková (e.g., Česálková 2012; Česálková and Skopal 2017), and Tereza C. Dvořáková (e.g., Dvořáková 2011), we now have a reliable awareness of the political, production, economic, and cultural history of Czech cinema before 1945. In contrast, we still know very little about the history of Czech films as an art form and as the results of artistic creativity.

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distribution. Third, compared to many European countries, Czech cinema domestic productions throughout its history seem to represent an unusually high share of the annual national distribution offer (cf. Thompson 1985, 136). Therefore, the long-term rather strong presence of Czech cinema production in the local distribution scene and its implications is something to consider. Although international influences and trends have impacted Czech filmmakers, they were and are also motivated to present an alternative to what the distributed foreign films offer. Simultaneously, due to the low export power of Czech cinema and its relatively small national market, filmmakers were not encouraged to standardize their films in ways exercised in other national cinemas with rather big markets and significant cinematic export. Thus, Czech cinema’s aesthetic history might represent an example of an alternative development of narrative and stylistic norms in international cinema history. Additionally, understanding the aesthetic history of Czech cinema can become a useful comparative tool for examining other national cinemas with similar characteristics. According to the above, research on the aesthetic history of Czech cinema aims to provide credible knowledge within the outlined parameters which needs to be derived from a single form of analysis of a cohesively defined set of films chosen on the basis of rigorous criteria. But how to constitute the corpus and select the sample so that we can finally understand the aesthetic history of Czech cinema? After all, Czech film production includes a diverse body of works that can hardly be captured and explained as a coherent whole by a single form of analysis. This problem stays at the forefront of the methodological section of this chapter (named ‘An Approach: A Regional Poetics of Cinema’) in which I will address it in the research tradition of the poetics of cinema. As a critical step, I will propose the concept of regional poetics. This concept encompasses a theoretical tool, a research perspective, and one dimension of the analyzed problem. The opening section also will serve as an introduction to the two expository sections to follow – in both of which the concept of regional poetics will be expounded using Czech cinema as an example. In each of these two sections I begin from a different point of departure, asking different research questions, and using different lines of argumentation regarding the beginnings of Barrandov Studios. First, the section named ‘A Discussion’ deals with the issue of writing an aesthetic history in relation to the concept of regional poetics. As I will demonstrate, the establishment of Barrandov Studios in 1933 provided a strong framework for the technical stability of some aspects of film production. From the perspective of the industrial history of cinema, it was an important step towards a ‘studio mode’ of film production and the beginning

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of a long-lasting studio continuity. How does this continuity connect to other conceivable continuities of film style and narrative, creative problems, potential solutions, and hypothetical choices? I want to explain why this question cannot be correctly answered by using a single established system of stylistic and narrative norms, or international stylistic and narrative tendencies. I will present arguments as to why I consider it important to start writing and understanding the (history of) regional poetics in order to understand its own rules and continuities, rather than seeing it through the lens of existing stylistic histories. Second, while the previous section applies a top-down approach to the role of Barrandov Studios in the history of style and narrative of Czech cinema, the following expository section – ‘An Analysis’ – uses a bottom-up method. I will bring to the fore the first film ever made in Barrandov Studios: Vražda v Ostrovní ulici (Murder on Ostrovní Street, 1933).3 As I will demonstrate, AB Barrandov officials’ statements in the press of the time seemed to advertise and build a public image of Murder on Ostrovní Street as their hallmark film, a demonstration of the unprecedented technical potentials of the studios and a ‘showreel’ feature film. In my analysis of film I will answer the following question: To what measure and in what ways is Murder on Ostrovní Street a project representing a stylistic continuity or discontinuity with films made in previous years? In this case, however, I am again aiming at a more general observation as to why the continuities of aesthetic history cannot be simply inferred from the knowledge of production history. 4

An Approach: A Regional Poetics of Cinema As it has been said earlier, this study’s approaches to the aesthetic history of cinema and the research project it represents adhere to the research tradition of poetics. The science historian Larry Laudan understands the concept of a research tradition as ‘a set of general assumptions about the entities and processes in a domain of study, and about the appropriate methods to be 3 I refer to many films in my text and it would be confusing for a reader without a knowledge of Czech if I kept referencing their original titles only. For this reason, I always give the English translation of the film title according to the Czech National Film Archive database in parentheses, followed by the production year. I will only refer to the film by the English translation of the title in the text further on. The database is available online: https://www.filmovyprehled.cz/ en/databaze (accessed 3 July 2021). 4 This text was prepared simultaneously in two versions: a Czech-language article for the academic journal Iluminace (Kokeš 2020) and as this chapter.

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used for investigating the problems and constructing the theories in that domain’ (Laudan 1977, 81). In the case of poetics, we may speak of a traditional connection with a study of the construction and formation of works of art ‘individually and in particular historical or typological assemblies’ (Macura 1977, 281). In his Occidental Poetics, Lubomír Doležel characterized this research tradition by two general premises: ‘(1) literature is the art of language produced in the creative activity of poiesis; (2) poetics is a cognitive activity governed by the general requirements of scientific inquiry’ (Doležel 1990, 4). If we agree that the core of the first premise consists of an emphasis on the artistic form spawn from a creative activity of poiesis, we may consider extending this research tradition into the domain of cinema as well. After all, David Bordwell approached his proposal of a poetics of cinema in this vein: [A] poetics of cinema aims to produce reliable knowledge by pursuing questions within two principal areas of inquiry. First is what we might call analytical poetics. What are the principles according to which films are constructed and through which they achieve particular effects? Second, there’s historical poetics, which asks, How and why have these principles arisen and changed in particular empirical circumstances? (Bordwell 2008, 23)

Although Bordwell subscribes to the research tradition of poetics in this statement, he also presents his own theory of what this poetics should particularly try to achieve and what questions it should ask.5 However, if we make our point of departure the above quoted general premise of a poetics of cinema, it will be necessary to a priori reject, or at least very critically examine an across-the-board application of those premises, categories, or methods acquired by analysis of certain artistic material to works of any given context.6 In order to understand principles related to the aesthetic 5 Bordwell has been working on his poetics project for over thirty-five years. His first systematic proposal can be found in a study where he makes an explicit connection with ideas of the Russian Formalist school of literary criticism (Bordwell 1983, 14–16). He added a second powerful methodological source later, the concept of norms developed by the Czech aesthetician Jan Mukařovský (see especially Bordwell et al. 1985, 4–6, and Mukařovský 1978, 49–56). For a discussion on this project during the 1970s and 1980s, see Kokeš 2019. 6 As Laudan writes: ‘Every research tradition has a number of specific theories which exemplify and partially constitute it; some of these theories will be contemporaneous, others will be temporal successors of earlier ones. […] Many of the theories within any evolving research tradition will be mutually inconsistent rivals, precisely because some theories represent attempts, within the framework of the tradition, to improve and correct their predecessors’ (Laudan 1977, 78, 81, emphasis in the original).

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history of Czech cinema, we must begin with an original analysis of its own material and thus develop its own premises, categories, and methods. Only after we understand these principles and explain them in specific empirical conditions will it become possible to compare them with results acquired by someone else or by an analysis of a different phenomenon within the domain of poetics. But what is the material of Czech cinema? And what is Czech cinema in terms of material? There are many criteria to demarcate Czech national cinema. One can ask whether the inclusion of films into an aesthetic history of Czech cinema is determined by their type, length, nationality of their makers, distribution platform, critical status, etc. Each of these angles can individually be considered problematic, and yet collectively they represent intuitively acceptable criteria. Moreover, depending on the point of view, any particular group of works conforming to one part of this criteria can be considered as a part of Czech (national) cinema.7 So we are faced with a dilemma. On one hand, giving preference to any of these parameters will raise this legitimate objection that the resultant findings have overlooked other parts of Czech cinema. On the other hand, if we include all these parameters, the aggregated body of the films will be relatively better representative of Czech cinema in its diversity. Still, such a set of audiovisual works will be so diverse, heterogeneous, and incoherent – in terms of type, production, or purpose – that would dramatically and effectively reduce or even foreclose the possibility of writing the aesthetic history or poetics of Czech cinema from the above-stated positions and based on the abovementioned parameters. To solve this problem, I propose moving from rather an essentialist detection of the material of Czech national cinema to a consciously arbitrary, pragmatic, and purposive definition of a central research corpus regarding what is typical. Analytical investigation and explaining of such a corpus’s principles and conventions can serve in the future as an effective comparative background for plausible understanding and explaining such materials and such phenomena that this corpus does not account for. It is a corpus of feature-length film works, each of which was predominantly made in a specified territory, predominantly in the official language of that territory, 7 Of course, as Ivan Klimeš has shown, an intuitive definition of Czech cinema via the concept of a nation (Klimeš 2013, 10–23) or a state (Klimeš 2016) faces a number of challenges. Where should we place auteurs who identified themselves with other than a Czech national identity when we define the stylistic history in national terms? What criteria do we apply in our selection of films from an era when the Czechoslovak state did not exist when we understand the stylistic history in terms of a state?

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and for standard commercial distribution within that territory. In our case, it is a set of feature-length films, each of which was predominantly made in the territory of the Czech lands, predominantly in the Czech language, with the intention of being presented in theaters through the standard Czech commercial distribution system in cinemas. Following the research tradition of poetics introduced above, I refer to analytical or historical inquiry of this corpus as a (Czech) regional poetics. Of course, regional poetics does not represent Czech national cinema as a whole. Indeed, considering Czech national cinema as an internally diversified, heterogeneous multiplicity of industrial, manufacturing, national and cultural influences, interests, and contexts (cf. Higson 1989, 42–44), which produces many types of films, it refers only to a specific area of its production, i.e., its particular region. It is a purely functional, multi-criteriadefined region in which the chosen phenomena occur coherently, regardless of the other phenomena. As such, I assume that the selected corpus of films represents a consistently dominant part of Czech national cinema and also that understanding Czech regional poetics is necessary to understand the aesthetic history of Czech national cinema in its complexity. In other words, if we proceed in our study in accordance with a logically defined concept of regional poetics, many essentialist challenges will become irrelevant, and we find ourselves with a coherent, representative set of materials. Does it mean that we block out questions related to the national identity, state influence, language versions or coproductions? No, it does not; but these questions should only be addressed when they are relevant to answering those questions which are formulated on the basis of a regional poetics research (cf. Jakobson and Tynjanov 1980). Simultaneously, Czech national cinema in its complexity is a background for understanding and for causal explanations of why Czech regional poetics is the way it is. As has been written earlier, the concept of regional poetics encompasses a theoretical tool, an analytical and historical research perspective, and one dimension of the analyzed problem (since it refers to a specific set filmmaking practices in a certain time, place, and under particular conditions). But let us return to the requirement of poetics not to apply in our efforts to understand our material those assumptions, categories, or tools achieved through the analysis of other artistic material than the corpus of our research. This is not as self-evident as it may seem. Let us take, for example, Jaakko Seppälä’s meticulously performed analytical research published as a long study of style in Finnish silent cinema (Seppälä 2016, 51–80). On the one hand, Seppälä presents the impressive sum of his quantitative as well as qualitative findings; on the other hand, though, his original findings

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are explained by the top-down applied premises, categories, methods, and explanations produced by other researchers based on their studies of primarily American, German, and Swedish cinemas. In consequence, if we want to learn something about the regional poetics of Finnish cinema, Seppälä’s otherwise quite impressive text does not give us many clues, as it speaks mainly about the applicability of these external categories (such as tableau staging and the cinematic expressivity concept) on the material of Finnish cinema. As a result, it says more about the similarities and differences of Finnish silent films with a set of norms and international stylistic trends (such as cutting rates, staging in the depth of field, and means of analytical editing) in comparison, rather than Finnish cinema’s own principles.8 It is necessary to work with general aesthetic premises, categories, and concepts, of course. But these categories should give a rational shape to a research perspective in harmony with the issues being resolved and questions asked. We may presuppose that, for example, the structure of a film narrative can be divided into segments consisting of smaller units that we may conventionally call scenes, sequences, acts, or large-scale parts. But we should not be looking for scenes, sequences, acts, or large-scale parts as they have been recognized, described, and explained in relation to Hollywood film (as in, for example, Bellour 1976; Thompson 1998, 1999, 27–36). The poetics of cinema may presuppose, for example, that films were made in relation to some norms as shared sets of preferred solutions to specific artistic problems in certain time, place, and under particular conditions.9 But we should not be a priori looking for systems of norms already described elsewhere (such as in Hollywood films) or search retrospectively for the first signs of highly evaluated norms that cinema eventually developed or even should developed in the course of its evolution (which is symptomatic for Škapová [2002]). In other words, a research of principles must begin from the material, and it must be constantly reworked in harmony with new findings. As Boris Eichenbaum writes, ‘we posit specific principles and adhere to 8 Although it is not explicitly stated in the text, Seppälä’s contextualization of his findings arguably follows the concerns of the collective monograph on Finnish cinema in transnational contexts, of which they are a chapter. On the other hand, the degree of analytical work invested in a large sample of the specific material is disproportionate to what particular things it ultimately says about that material. 9 The concept of (aesthetic) norm was formulated by Mukařovský 1978, 49–56; cf. Kokeš 2019. However, in my formulation of the notion of aesthetic norm, I extended his idea regarding the problem-solution model; cf. Gombrich 2005 (orig. 1960); Baxandall 1985; more generally Burnett 2008 and Burnett 2013; in relation to George Kubler’s concept of series (Kubler 1965), see Tybjerg 2016.

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them insofar as the material justifies them. If the material demands their refinement or change, we change or refine them’ (Eichenbaum 1965, 103). Only then will we be able to truly understand the regional poetics of Czech cinema – and consequently its aesthetic history.10 We may now proceed to two more concrete expository sections, which will be in harmony with the proposed principles of such research.

A Discussion: Barrandov, Dual Continuity, and the Problem of Explanatory Backgrounds A problem of a different continuity of a stylistic history in relation to other, usually dominant continuities finds its salient expression in the context of Barrandov. As it is not my intention to critically revise the existing production history, I will move from linear historical narratives to explanations offered by researchers of new film historicism. These researchers explain the establishment of Barrandov Studios as nonlinear, at the intersection of many influences, and in the context of the coming of sound film at a time of struggles in the cinema as an institution viewed from the outside, as well as from within. External challenges included the economic depression, business uncertainties, political pressures, and growing social tensions related to the growth of nationalism. Internal challenges were connected with issues of growing expenses in filmmaking, development of a quota system, patent-related conflicts over the introduction of sound systems, technical issues with sound during shooting and screening, and, generally, the changing expectations of audiences (Klimeš 2016, 176–181; Szczepanik 2009, 25–96).11 10 There are two projects in the history of the Czech film criticism which may be considered a part of the poetic research tradition: Jaroslav Boček’s articles in the book Kapitoly o filmu (Chapters on film) (Boček 1968), and the analytical essays of film theorist and editor Jan Kučera written at the same time (Kučera 2016). Boček’s articles are rather systematized critical insight than meticulous historical research, while Kučera’s are mainly detailed analyses of particular films made in the 1960s plus more generally aesthetic writings. Although both serve as inspiration rather than sources, they present a contribution to our aesthetic understanding of Czech cinema. 11 Petr Szczepanik considers further important nonlinear frames, especially the role of sound cinema and production in the context of the media industry itself in the 1930s. He links the film industry to electric companies in Chapter 4 (Szczepanik 2009, 179–243) and the recording industry in Chapter 7 (Szczepanik 2009, 328–416; for a parallel in the French media environment, cf. O’Brien 2005). Michal Večeřa’s dissertation is important in relation to transformations in the film industry in the 1920s (Večeřa 2019), where he presents a different point of view than Szczepanik and suggests that a transformation of the Vinohrady studios in 1930 was one of the

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From the point of view of the industrial history, however, the opening of Barrandov Studios was a culmination of long-lasting but relatively inconsistent national efforts to establish production facilities (for a longterm perspective, see Večeřa 2019; in relation to Barrandov, see Štábla 1983, 121–152). It created conditions for the gradual entry into an industrial stage that can be described as a studio mode of production in the context of the production practice of Barrandov Studios. Capitalizing on Janet Staiger’s concept, this means a joint operation of mutually influencing, internally hierarchical components of creative forces, means of production, and financial sources (cf. Bordwell et al. 1985, 87–97). It is true that individual production companies that rented services from Barrandov Studios were changing, but the permanent crew technicians and some of the creative employees, too, remained.12 Their services were thus independent of individual projects.13 The influence exercised by individual production companies renting the studios could also be weakened on the level of above-the-line professions. We find long-lasting continuities of filmmaking tandems or groups across individual production companies until the late 1960s.14 transitory steps in the effort to achieve state-of-the-art studio production conditions. Krystyna Wanatowiczová’s detailed study of Miloš Havel’s career covers this historical line of development from the perspective of a single strong personality (Wanatowiczová 2013). 12 Over two-thirds of the 300+ Czech-language films shot between 1930 and 1945 were made under the patronage of a mere ten production companies. Until 1940, the production company Lucernafilm was a sister company of AB, connected by the personage of Miloš Havel. Lucernafilm gained independence and began to produce films actively after the German occupation and the takeover of AB by a German company. Thus, if we regard the production of both companies as that of a de facto single subject – which was proprietarily tied to Barrandov Studios – this company was behind over one-fifth of all feature films made. On the other hand, twenty-one of the remaining thirty-two active production companies only made one or two films. 13 As was remarked by Peter Krämer in our personal correspondence, this model ‘may be closer to post-divorcement Hollywood than to Hollywood from the 1910s to the 1940s’, especially from the 1950s. This seems to be a noteworthy suggestion. If someone would like to derive the general idea of studio mode of production from that of Hollywood, there seems to be no reason not to include Barrandov’s strategy under the studio mode (source: the author’s email correspondence with Peter Krämer, December 2019). There are, however, other versions of the studio production mode than just Hollywood, such as the Weimar one, cf. Garncarz 2004; Thompson 1993, esp. 392–396. 14 A continuity of collaboration among filmmakers to a certain degree can be found in the silent film era (cf. Večeřa 2019, 98–101). Večeřa wrote to me in a personal message concerning his text that in his opinion, this creative continuity across projects made by various companies became effective together with the arrival of rentals into the production process in the early 1930s. He said he found an archival document from the early 1930s which included a list of cinematographers’ services to be rented for prices divided into several groups based on their salaries (source: the author’s email correspondence with Michal Večeřa, October 2019).

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A question arises as to what extent can we use the possibilities of comparative historiography based on these stabilized conditions, or, in other words, assess differences, shared features, and relationships between production at Barrandov Studios and alternative systems of norms (cf. Ther 2003)? I will return to this question at the very end of this chapter, but for now I intend to explain my position in relation to two more general comparative models that I propose to be abandoned; two kinds of explanatory backgrounds that usually serve as starting points of Czech regional poetics. I will also briefly introduce some of the directions that the concept of regional poetics may take, what questions it may ask, and what research findings it may reach. Single system of norms. The first model of applying an explanatory background consists in the use of one, closed, system of historically bound aesthetic norms. Various movements in the history of film, such as German expressionism, French impressionist cinema, Russian montage cinema, and Italian neorealism may serve as background. Similarly, modernism of the 1950s–1970s may be used, although it is often seen as a single stylistic phenomenon despite its connectedness with individual directors’ styles and national movements (Kovács 2007). It is Hollywood cinema, however, that is applied most often as a background of this type. This is often used intuitively due to the widespread general knowledge of Hollywood cinema. Yet, I will focus on the case of a comparative work to Hollywood cinema, which is based on its rigorous research and a deep knowledge of its principles. Such an approach is present in the works of David Bordwell, Edward Branigan (for example, Branigan 1976, 1992), and Kristin Thompson (for example, Thompson 2005), who write about classical Hollywood cinema as an explanatory background: I consider it one of the most pervasive and helpful backgrounds against which we can examine many films. Historically, the type of filmmaking associated with Hollywood from the mid-1910s to the present [1988] has been widely seen by audiences and widely imitated by other filmmaking nations all over the world. (Thompson 1988, 24)15

Petr Szczepanik applied this model to capture and explain some aspects of the impact on Czech cinema of introducing sound (Szczepanik 2009). In his book, as in his later research projects, he does not primarily analyze 15 Thompson (1985) depicts and explains the gradual incursion of the Hollywood cinema into European markets.

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a film style but rather focuses ‘on an “extratextual” history of cinema as a cultural and industrial form’ (Szczepanik 2009, 59).16 On the one hand, he can really briefly characterize some stylistic techniques of early Czech sound films (Szczepanik 2009, 59); on the other hand, he turns to Hollywood cinema as an explanatory background when attempting to provide their historical explanation: ‘In Czech film, too, principles of compensation and functional equivalence were applied. These principles were discovered by David Bordwell in his analysis of the developmental transformations of the Hollywood style: framing of the picture and the montage had the same narrative functions as in silent film, but they used different techniques to achieve them’ (Szczepanik 2009, 59). In other words, he assumes that in case these techniques seem to be equivalent to some techniques in early Hollywood sound films, a validity that may be provisionally assumed of some historically causal explanations and functional equivalences, as described by Bordwell (Bordwell et al. 1985, 298–308).17 This is a minority argument in the context of the aims and the general argument of the whole, groundbreaking chapter, which describes the complex effects of the coming of sound on all areas of film life cycles in Czech film culture.18 What matters is that no matter how much his methodological aside seemed obvious for the reasons given above, its application is eventually not plausible. Why? In the case of Czech cinema, the sound era with its methods does not prove to be functionally equivalent to preferred methods of the silent era to such a degree. The two production modes under comparison are functionally nonequivalent, too. One of the important features of the Hollywood studio system is a highly effective link between an organized model of production and filmmakers’ artistic demands (Bordwell et al. 1985, esp. 243–261). The fact that according to this claim, the system of film production and the system 16 In his following book, Szczepanik approaches film style (in the sense of a systematic and significant employment of techniques in film works) in a fashion which we could call negative specif ication. He again analyses sets of external conditions against f ilm works. A style determined by the industry could be the logical effect of these conditions (Szczepanik 2016, 255–295). He writes in the context of production at Barrandov Studios in the 1950s and 1960s: ‘I do not subsume under the concept of style only an audio-visual style in the narrow sense, but a general conceptual and creative approach. […] From the perspective of the theory of style, this wide, pragmatic, and creative practice based view could be labelled with the term of a stylistic frame or mode’ (Szczepanik 2016, 283). 17 At the same time, Szczepanik problematizes much of Bordwell’s explanation regarding the later discussion of the arrival of sound (Szczepanik 2009, 98–100). 18 Szczepanik weakens this claim when he openly writes that an evaluation of stylistic transformations would require a special research which would be far beyond the scope of his book (Szczepanik 2009, 59).

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of stylistic norms are interlinked on both sides in the Hollywood studio system, makes up only one part of the equation. The other consists in the fact that both these systems were established together and, once again, with mutual relations (Bordwell et al. 1985, 157–240; cf. also Keil 2002). According to Bordwell, Staiger, and Thompson, these systems further developed in parallel, adopting new influences, accommodating new technical conditions, and maintaining stable relations between them over the decades that followed.19 In other words, the studio and stylistic continuities of the Hollywood production mode were established, transformed, and influenced each other in parallel. The Czech studio mode of production begins to form together with the founding of Barrandov Studios, which is in accordance with what has been just said. As has been pointed out, technicians and some of the creative workers did not work for particular production companies that rented Barrandov’s studios, thus providing independent professional services and a studio continuity. The parallel with the Hollywood model ends here, however, and both systems diverge from now on. When we study the studio continuity in Czech cinema since the 1930s onwards, its stylistic continuity reaches back to the mid-1910s and early 1920s; it transformed, diversified, and mutated independently of the studio continuity. It is true that existing continuities of artistic groups, creative teams, and loose work collectives created links that connected projects and production companies (and later, studios) of the studio production in the 1930s and in some cases, even the 1940s. But these work groups were not established in the 1930s but much earlier, in the late 1910s and early 1920s. In other words, studio requirements for systematic work and standardization of techniques in the 1930s were confronted with the practices, preferences, and sets of aesthetic norms from periods when filmmakers adopted them in an unsystematic way and with no externally prescribed standards. An explanation of relationships between the production mode and stylistic preferences requires a description and understanding of this dual continuity from its roots. Otherwise, we are condemned to repeat parallels with American, German, French, Swedish, or any other studio systems which will only lead us to dead ends of implausible explanations not only in the case of Czech cinema but also in cases of other cinemas with a similar dual continuity. 19 Not all historians of American film agree with the authors in the issues of the stability of these links and unity of aesthetic norms. Cf. Altman 1994, 169–180; Lastra 2000, 154–179; Cowie 1998, 178–190.

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For example, consider the use of the moving camera in the pre-Barrandov period of coming of sound film. This example is based on my analysis of 33 percent of films made each year.20 It may seem that the very first Czech all-talkies – C. a K. polní maršálek (Imperial and Royal Field Marshal, 1930) and Fidlovačka (1930) – moved the camera only marginally in comparison to later Czech sound films. The camera moves in 9 percent of the shots in Imperial and Royal Field Marshal and only 8 percent of the shots in Fidlovačka. These figures are surprising when compared to Czech all-talkies made in the following two years, when the average use of the moving camera grew rapidly, reaching as much as 28 percent in 1931 and 1932. What seems to be a logical explanation of this in regards to the history of American film? Czech filmmakers first had to deal with the limitations of early sound technology while they were waiting for arrival of ‘full-fledged sound equipment’ instead of ‘provisional sound equipment’ in 1930. As soon as the full-fledged technology arrived in March 1931 (Szczepanik 2009, 47–48), they quickly restored the stylistic techniques they had been used to promoting in the peak of the silent film era. This seems to be suggested by the explanatory parallel with the historical trajectory of the coming of sound in Hollywood, as outlined above. Moving camera and dynamic shots became an inseparable component of the classical Hollywood style, one that was imported from Europe (Bacher 1978, 20–33; Keating 2019, 15–54). But if we go back in our analysis of Czech films to the time before the coming of sound, this explanation turns out to be surprisingly wrong. This is because Czech filmmakers may have adopted the moving camera in 1930 and 1931 as one of the preferred ways of guiding the spectator’s attention and creating space, but the very same filmmakers displayed no serious ambition to work with this method before 1930. Judging from the basis of a so-far limited sample of analyzed films from the last years of the silent era, I have measured that these films included on average 11 percent dynamic shots in 1929, and only 4 percent in 1928. The larger number of dynamic shots in 1929 were in some prominent cases motivated by production constraints. The spy film Horské volání S.O.S. (Mountains Calling SOS, 1929) may serve as an example. It was shot in the open air on mountain ridges. Based on the film itself we may thus guess that its creators needed a shot of pristine snow cover in some cases. They 20 In my research, I do analyze 33 percent of the regionally defined Czech production in each year, consisting of 20 percent randomly generated samples, and 13 percent samples supplemented by other qualitative parameters (generic diversity, representation of production companies, the highest attended film of the year, and films awarded at festivals).

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could not afford to use several camera setups or multiple takes, and they could only rely on one long moving take. In some cases, they filmed from a distance a group of people walking on a snowy plain in an extreme long shot, so they had to deal with footprints and other impressions in the snow as well as issues with coordinating divided shooting necessities. It is ironic that we may speak of said functional equivalence in a case like this one, because the dynamic framing was used as a substitute for more standard techniques. In contrast, the extremely expensive feature film Svatý Václav (St. Wenceslas, 1929), which was meant as a demonstration of the artistic possibilities of the Czech national cinema at the end of the silent film era, had to make do with merely 8 percent moving shots.21 In other words, the first ‘static’ sound films were not a departure from the preferred techniques of the peak of the silent film era. And conversely, the following rapid growth of moving shots from 1931 onwards was not the return of an interrupted continuity. Rather, it was a surprisingly discontinuous inclination towards a preference for technique with no functional equivalence of the ways of its use in the previous era. Czech filmmakers joined their American or French contemporaries of the early 1930s in this different respect very quickly, from a solely statistical point of view.22 It probably happened for reasons which were caused by yet unknown factors23 and which cannot be inferred from parallels with existing stylistic histories. It is nevertheless a potential starting point for the (likely) typical Barrandov emphasis on an intricate interplay between movements of frames and movements of actors developed in the following decades. All these problems raise questions that yet need to be answered. Only meticulous 21 Martin Kos studies it as an example of, among others, a national film that may be put into a wider context of European ‘super-productions’ of this kind (Kos 2020). 22 My measurements show that the moving camera is even more frequent in the Czech films than in many American and French films of the first half of the 1930s, although this comparison cannot be seen as being representative. The sample consisted of several dozen randomly chosen French and American films, http://www.douglaskokes.cz/pdz/mfs (accessed 2 October 2019). 23 One of the possible partial explanations is that 1) sound cameras were never closed inside sound boxes in Czech studios, because Josef Šlechta invented silent studio cameras with sound insulation in 1929: ‘The silent operation of the camera was achieved by installing the camera itself into a second, insulated metal box’ (Hůrka 1991, 148). According to Miloslav Hůrka’s f indings, Šlechta’s camera quickly spread throughout the whole of Europe and was ‘used by cinematographers at Tobis, Sirius-Farben Film, Fox Movietone and others’ (Hůrka 1991, 148; cf. Smrž 1931). At the same time, 2) the reason could be that the camera’s movement was no longer combined with the necessity to crank it by hand, which made the whole enterprise easier. Still, it is not clear why the technique of a moving frame was so quickly adopted by the same community of filmmakers that had not employed it, despite having been familiar with it before.

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research in the field of analytical and historical regional poetics of cinema may provide the answers.24 Comparative applicability of one system of historically determined aesthetic norms, one which is alien to the material in question, will always be limited, to say the least. It may certainly help to explain a particular film or the poetics of a filmmaker who consciously related themselves to such a system of norms, selectively employing some of its aspects and avoiding others. My example has shown, however, how misleading it may be to use a similarly complex explanatory background in an attempt to understand another complex system of film production. If nothing else, it is so because it directs our research focus towards a top-down search of patterns and explanations that we already know, instead of bottom-up discoveries of patterns and explanations in accordance with the maxims of cinema poetics explained above. International stylistic and narrative norms. This brings me to the second imaginable model of working with an external explanatory background, which I consider inappropriate for the pursuit of regional poetics – international stylistic and narrative tendencies. Why? First, a knowledge of these tendencies based on an analysis usually springs from assumptions about aesthetic norms within cinemas where film export is a massive force.25 Second, the very concept of an international style signifies such tendencies of internal structures of film works that are rather independent of those traditions, schemata, topics, and preferences that shapes regional poetics.26 But cinemas such as Czech, but perhaps also Polish and Hungarian, had a relatively low export force on the one hand, but a high import ratio of strong international cinema production, especially in the 1920s (Thompson 1985; Štábla 1992, 5–48; Klimeš 2016, 182–188). This brings us again to the concept of a dual continuity – the continuity of the studio production mode (preferring internationally comprehensible norms) and the stylistic continuity of long-lasting creative collaborations often determined by an alternative logic.

24 After all, the greatest value of the concept of a classical Hollywood f ilm as an aesthetic norm lies exactly in its rigorous empirical grounding, a careful analysis of particular techniques, principles, and conditions, and explanations based on these pieces of evidence. 25 An international history of style is addressed especially in Salt 2009; in relation to staging in the depth of space, see Bordwell 1997, 158–271. More specific stylistic history related to the French cinema, for example, is included, especially in Crisp 1993; O’Brien 2005, 82–106. 26 I use the concept of schema according to Gombrich, 2005 (orig. 1960).

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As we know from a number of testimonies,27 Czech filmmakers were active cinemagoers and they were inspired by a lot of procedures of handling film narratives and styles they observed in films from foreign productions. A community of filmmakers around Karel Lamač and Jan Stanislav Kolár, for example, consciously adopted Hollywood narrative techniques (Kos 2019; Kokeš 2016a, 2018). Their slightly exaggerated interpretation of the international norms of crime films even stood as a regional poetics’ tradition for a long time – a tradition that would reappear once in a while until the late 1940s – and it included films like Murder on Ostrovní Street (or Sedmá velmoc [The Seventh Power, 1933], made in the same year as Murder). These films, however, never became conventional regional productions. Critics and audiences saw them as ‘alienish’28; at the same time, these films could hardly compete with foreign movies of the same genre – although their creators’ international careers were eventually quite successful (including Lamač, Karel Anton, and the cinematographer Otto Heller). Yet they may be seen as regional modifications of a typically American, or French, model, which paradoxically makes them rather visible in the context of the international history of style. In this respect, these explicitly genre films are very similar to films that would be at the other end of the ‘aesthetic spectrum’ in the eyes of traditional historians. I mean the case of regional poetics’ stylistic responses to various avant-garde movements as in, for example, the films Batalion (Battalion, 1927), Erotikon (Eroticon, 1929), Takový je život (Such Is Life, 1929), Tonka Šibenice (Tonka of the Gallows, 1930), and Extase (Ecstasy, 1932). In their case, too, we can speak of their belonging to already identified international trends as making them visible to the international history of style, although they do not represent an ordinary or typical production in terms of regional poetics. Crucially, we only learn very little about the contexts of cinematic norms of a given regional poetics in this way. Techniques that are typical for internationally recognizable models of (studio) production gain prominence at the expense of the techniques typical for regional poetics. This may paradoxically put an emphasis on those techniques that may be rather atypical for the given regional poetics. This holds true also for films made by the above-mentioned group around Karel Lamač and Jan Stanislav Kolár, whose techniques of film narrative were quite common internationally, but rather atypical for the regional poetics of the Czech silent cinema. 27 Interviews with witnesses are stored in the Collection of Sound Recordings of the Oral History Department at the National Film Archive in Prague. 28 Cf. National Film Archive (NFA), Collection Kolár, Jan Stanislav, K. 6, sign. III. b) Literární činnost; 3) Divadelní a rozhlasové hry, inv. number 80 – Vzpomínka na V. Wassermana.

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So what patterns of a narrative development of feature films dominated Czech regional poetics before Barrandov Studios was founded? There were cyclical narratives (Dvojí život [A Double Life, 1924]), episodic narratives (Battalion), multistrand or multiprotagonist narratives (Šachta pohřbených ideí [The Shaft of Buried Ideals, 1921], Šest mušketýrů [The Six Musketeers]), and various combinations of patterns that changed over several reels (Syn hor [The Son of the Mountains, 1925]). Standards of work with the narrative process were similarly abundant: there were narratives with a large number of lead characters (Kříž u potoka [The Cross at the Stream, 1921]), narratives without a dramatic arc (Adam a Eva [Adam and Eve, 1922]), narratives developing a single situation in a spiraling fashion (Jedenácté přikázání [The Eleventh Commandment, 1925]), and narratives suppressing dramatic conflicts (Do panského stavu [Into the Genteel State of Life, 1925]). This does not mean that it is impossible to observe a narrative norm. It means that there were several dominant parallel systems of feature film narrative norms that did not tend towards unification. They follow a different creative logic than in the case of international norms. Moreover, such regional narrative norms are somewhat invisible aberrations from the perspective of international norms, and so are regional poetics’ tendencies to alter stylistic techniques with each next film – and sometimes even with each next scene. For example, the makers of The Cross at the Stream applied essential shifts of style to distinguish between different stages of the narrated story. These shifts may seem rather confused and unsystematic from today’s perspective, but a closer analysis will discover elaborate decisions and a concept behind these seemingly inconsistent choices, which may differ from the expected (internationally shared) creative solutions of such creative problems. These systems of mutually parallel narrative and stylistic norms need to be studied and explained in detail. But questions may be raised at this point as to whether a certain level of alternative, heterogeneous, and inconsistent attitude toward style and narrative is not to a certain degree systematically determined. Was this not a result of attempts to find ways to make the local film production different from imported international films with high production values?29 Filmmakers’ tendencies to follow international norms of genre, narrative, and style could paradoxically be the cause of the 29 In this context, the long-lasting effort of a certain segment of the Czech filmmaking community needs to be taken into consideration. The community tried to assert official, state-based support of the filmmaking industry, which took the shape of compulsory quotas of Czech films shown in movie theaters from 1924, in the form of the state support for the film St. Wenceslas, exceptional tax relief, and especially in the introduction of the contingency system in 1932–1934 (Klimeš 2016, 176–178).

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invisibility of their own works on the local market.30 Nevertheless, much more empirical work has to be carried out before we can begin to draw conclusions about differences in norms and about the conditions in which each set of norms emerges. We may claim with certainty that if we approach this dynamic system of interrelated alternatives in Czech regional poetics from extraneous positions of international stylistic and narrative norms or by applying the norms of Hollywood films, we will, first of all, never understand it, and second, we will not be able to explain it in the context of the Czech film production practices and procedures.31 It is, therefore, necessary to fundamentally change our perspective and start all over again. I hope that by bringing closer some features of the regional poetics of Czech silent and early sound cinema, I have succeeded in strengthening the argument with which I ended the previous section of this chapter. It held that analytical and historical poetics research on Czech cinema must crucially fully discover and explain the artistic solutions, principles, norms, and long-term continuities within this regional poetics – and within the systems of the cinema as institution, of which the poetics is both a product and a component. The aim is not to discover what makes Czech regional poetics exceptional or unique, but to understand why Czech regional poetics is the way it is.

An Analysis: Murder on Ostrovní Street, Stylistic Eccentricity, and Issues of (Dis)continuity A statement by the Barrandov Studios technical director Antonín Pětník will be our starting point. Pětník published a laudatory article about Barrandov Studios titled ‘Kus historie Barrandova: Léta poctivé a nenáročné práce’ (‘A piece of Barrandov History: Years of solid and undemanding work’) in the 30 This could work in the opposite direction, too, of course, when adherence to international norms helped a film to get to the international market. Although we may only speak of exceptional cases in the 1920s, export was more successful in the 1930s (see Klimeš 2016, 179–180). This probably resulted from a standardized sound technology and, more generally, a growing emphasis of the studio production mode on the creation of a standardized ‘package’ of norms. Yet, this also remains an issue to be researched. 31 It may seem that I am committing paralepsis. Someone would say that by my explanations of why we should not use these explanatory backgrounds I am, in fact, using them. I hope I am not employing this rhetorical paradox. In my explication, I do not use the system of the classical Hollywood film nor an imaginary set of international stylistic tendencies. I merely argue against those modes of thinking about them as a way to comparatively gain knowledge of the analytical and historical regional poetics.

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journal Filmová politika (Film politics) in 1934. The role he ascribes in his article to Murder on Ostrovní Street, historically the first film ever made at Barrandov Studios, is crucial: We were determined to prove to everyone firsthandedly that the work we have created [Barrandov Studios] is truly perfect! This is why the A-B Company was the first to take the risk and invest into making the first technically perfect sound film Murder on Ostrovní Street at Barrandov Studios to convince every producer that they may invest their money into Czech film securely and confidently. (Pětník 1934, 5)

In other words, judging by this statement, Murder on Ostrovní Street represented a showcase project for AB Barrandov, which the company used to demonstrate its unprecedented technical abilities and production conditions in its newly opened studios. The validity of this assumption is further supported by a press release made by AB Company director Julius Schmitt in 1933. Regarding the nearly finished Murder on Ostrovní Street, Schmitt said in the journal Český filmový zpravodaj (Czech film herald): Freedom of movement in a large studio helps to speed up work without reducing its quality. We have gained an extra day of shooting thanks solely to the new studio. Sound checks of all scenes are flawless, as we have heard. Light racks, a new large fleet of them, may be moved quickly: this system enables the rational use of time that used to be necessary for moving them around. We have not made a final decision about music, because Murder on Ostrovní Street will first need to be edited, and only then will background music be added into the mix. (Quoted in Kujal 1933a, 2)

While these statements could be valuable for our understanding of the role of Murder on Ostrovní Street in the context of the industrial history of cinema, this chapter will study the role of this film in inquiries from the outlined perspective of the poetics of cinema. The basic research question of this last section of my study could be formulated as follows. Let us begin with the assumption that Murder on Ostrovní Street was a showcase project of AB Barrandov to demonstrate the technical and artistic abilities of their modern studios. How did the stylistic methods applied in the film, then, develop or inhibit stylistic tendencies used by Czech filmmakers in the previous years? And how is the shift to a higher level of the professional filmmaking environment present in the film? In other words, to what measure and in

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what ways is Murder on Ostrovní Street a stylistically continuous and/or discontinuous project within its diachronic line of development? It would seem that the answers to these questions are much more difficult to generalize than the answers to the questions posed in the previous sections of this chapter. Even behind the analytical account of Murder on Ostrovní Street, however, there is an effort to support an important thesis of research on Czech regional poetics. The long-term continuities of aesthetic film history cannot be derived from the continuities of industrial film history – even if, as in the case of the opening of Barrandov Studios, this seems appropriate. The subject matter of the film could serve as a point of departure in our considerations of the level of continuity and/or discontinuity of the existing Czech Cinema traditions. In a sense, Murder on Ostrovní Street continues unequivocally in the relatively minor, but regularly reappearing domestic tradition of trying out crime film motifs and patterns of development. This approach was typical primarily for the above-mentioned community of filmmakers surrounding Karel Lamač. It can be found in films such as Dáma s malou nožkou (The Lady with the Small Foot, 1919), Otrávené světlo (The Poisoned Light, 1921), Drvoštěp (The Lumberjack, 1922), Únos bankéře Fuxe (The Kidnapping of Fux the Banker, 1923), and Bílý ráj (White Paradise, 1924). These filmmakers returned to their knowable and slightly ironic, yet not ridiculing, approach to crime film in the 1930s: Lelíček ve službách Sherlocka Holmesa (Lelíček in the Service of Sherlock Holmes, 1932), the above-mentioned The Seventh Power (1933), and Krok do tmy (A Step into the Darkness, 1938). Other filmmakers and creative teams displayed a similar approach to crime film: Šílený lékař (The Mad Doctor, 1920), Krásná vyzvědačka (The Beautiful Spy, 1927), Mountains Calling SOS, Pancéřové auto (Armored Car, 1929), and Záhada modrého pokoje (The Mystery of the Blue Room, 1933), which was made shortly before Murder on Ostrovní Street. Crucially, although Murder on Ostrovní Street also develops a knowledgeable, slightly ironic yet not ridiculing approach to the crime film genre, it is different from other films of this sort in one significant feature. It places a typical great detective into the center of the narrative without treating him ironically.32 The detective interrogates suspects, he passes through different 32 In a relatively pure genre form, the character of the great detective appears in the films mentioned above only in the three-reeler The Mad Doctor. Still, the detective does not enter the narrative until halfway through the film (in its reconstruction from the 1950s). Of the others, the great detective appears only in three cases, either in an explicitly parodic form (The Lady with the Small Foot, The Kidnapping of Fux the Banker) or in a connoisseurly ironic form, in which he does not actually investigate anything (Lelíček in the Service of Sherlock Holmes). So, the narrative function of the investigator is usually delegated to other types of characters,

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environments, and performs a reconstruction of the crime as it happened at the end. This rather innovative choice in the realm of established narrative schemata provided the makers of the film with possibilities to find narrative motivations for the application of stylistically eccentric techniques with relative ease, such as various environments (set design and camera movements), shifts of ambience (lighting), emotionally charged dialogue (editing procedures), and directing the spectator’s attention on various details of significance to the story (camera angles). The filmmakers, in relation to all these aspects, on the one hand, continually developed existing techniques, and, on the other hand, applied them to perform artistically motivated eccentric functions to demonstrate the possibilities of the new studio. Strangely enough, the sound techniques seem to be the least involved, functional (for the narrative), and historically continuous. This is because sound was the only real novelty at Barrandov Studios, enabling the unprecedented mixing of multiple audio tracks. On the one hand, it offered smoother transitions between shots and working with spatial modulation of the sound quality; on the other hand, it led to the greater incorporation of nondiegetic background music, which plays nearly the whole time. It will only be possible to assess the role of choices made by the creators of Murder on Ostrovní Street in the history of working with sound after a study of the norms that were established later and with a better understanding of mic operation.33 Therefore, I will primarily focus on the visual aspects of style in Murder on Ostrovní Street. As outlined earlier, Murder on Ostrovní Street, as a showpiece film of Barrandov Studios, emphasizes certain possibilities in the field of working with visual style, primarily in the following areas. First, it is work with shot space, which serves to point out multilayered set decorations and complex movements of an unchained camera. Second, the filmmakers are working with highly varied patterns of studio lighting, from a classically lighted scene on the basis of three-point lighting, to selective lighting of some parts of the scene emphasizing the layered nature of the space, to highly expressive such as engineers, businessmen, or race car drivers, in the other crime films mentioned. It is noteworthy in this respect that, according to Michal Jareš and Pavel Mandys, ‘if Czech detective fiction contributes anything to the world’s, it is primarily in ironizing, parodying and generally subverting the authority of the so-called Great Detective’ (Jareš and Mandys 2019, 16). 33 Possible further research developments in the context of studying the establishment of sound mixing models are presented in Müller 2003; in relation to microphones in Altman 1985, 1986; and working with space in Altman 1992. I thank Petr Szczepanik for these incentives: for many aspects of technical introductions of sound technology and possibilities of interpreting techniques of working with sound, cf. Szczepanik 2006a, 2006b, 2008, 2009.

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low-key lighting. Third, they use an unusual variety of angles to record dialogue, while the impressiveness of the chosen angles is superordinate to the smooth spatial continuity of the editing. We cannot say that the filmmakers did not employ a technique that had not been used in the preceding years in any of the three areas – but we may speak of a highly self-conscientious eccentricity in the mode or function of their employment in all of these areas. The expository narrative section will serve as an illustration. It takes fourteen and a half minutes, and consists of seven scenes with rich internal structuring. Although it is a relatively enclosed dramatic unit, it is this part of the film that most distinctively illustrates the tension between the inward and outward functions of the style – a tension which lies at the core of our interest.34 Inward functions direct the spectator’s attention to the narrated story denotatively, and to its characters, expressively. Optical transitions, lighting effects, and whip pans of the camera are used to mediate the housekeeper’s subjectivity. Whip pans away from her startled face to the space in front of her with a clock and the murdered victim represent her mental unrest due to the fact that she must guard an apartment with a dead woman inside. An interesting stylistic variation takes place at the moment when the housekeeper’s attention is seized by an expensive ring on a table and she forgets about the dead woman. Instead of whip pans, this expressive plane is suddenly realized with a series of long cross-fades and changes in the picture tonality. The ring seems to shine into the darkness as if were controlling the housekeeper’s mind. We can observe similar functions of style in the case of Zachar, the murdered woman’s husband. His growing nervousness is expressed through such techniques like high and low camera 34 For better orientation, let us quote the plot summary from Czech Feature Film II, 1930–1945: ‘The private businessman Zachar finds his wife murdered. The police discover that this testimony is inconsistent. Everything points to Zachar’s guilt, only detective Klubíčko has his doubts. The trail leads to the family of a high official whose son Vláďa pawned a family ring at Zachar’s to pay off his debts and was at Mrs. Zachar’s the day of the murder. Also, Zachar’s friend Friedmann presents himself as a witness, but the interrogation does not produce convincing results. Klubíčko f inds out that some man wanted to bribe a police off icial to allow him to examine the correspondence that was taken as evidence at Mrs. Zachar’s. This trail leads to Friedmann’s former wife, who admits that she wanted to obtain a letter with which the murdered woman had been blackmailing her. Mrs. Friedmann sued for divorce on grounds that her husband was at fault, and if her former husband got his hands on this letter he could use it against her. Klubíčko is convinced of her innocence and when he discovers that the letter is not in the correspondence, he turns his attention to Friedmann who wants to disappear from Prague. He discovers that Friedmann has the letter. Klubíčko succeeds in reconstructing the crime and proving Friedmann guilty of murder’ (Urbanová and Urgošíková 1998, 423).

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angles, expressive close-ups of his exasperated face, and the unexpected staging of an actor’s performance directly into the camera. Slow dollies and panoramic pans are reserved for the representation of the detectives’ professional work. They help to emphasize how they coldly describe, note, and examine the crime scene despite the presence of the murdered woman. Dollies help to establish spatial relations in the complex interior of the house: they lead us to the corridor, the space in front of an apartment door, the hall in the victim’s apartment, her living room and bedroom – and a bathroom next to the hall. Murder on Ostrovní Street, however, employs functions of all these aspects that had been employed by comparable means in a number of other films in previous years. Malostranští mušketýři (The Musketeers of Malá Strana, 1932) contains a similarly complex establishment of an interior space; Před maturitou (Before Graduation, 1932) applies similar techniques of subjectivization. I have mentioned the filmmakers’ growing tendency to move the camera. Murder on Ostrovní Street statistically fits this trend together with other films from 1932 and 1933 without any major discrepancies. Moving shots make up 32.5 percent of all shots in the film, adding up to 51.4 percent of screen time (not counting the opening credits). According to my measurements, the 1933 season average was 27 percent of moving shots per film, with an average of 44.3 percent of the total film duration.35 Although Murder on Ostrovní Street is located at the top positions of these curves, it does not take top honors: these go to the films U svatého Antoníčka (At St. Anthony’s, 1933) with 35.2 percent moving shots per the film’s total number of shots; and Revizor (The Inspector, 1933), making up 61.5 percent of the total film duration. The stylistic eccentricity of Murder on Ostrovní Street does not reside in the proportion of the techniques, but in their multipurposed employment. This is because outward functions gain prominence alongside the inward ones, which have been described. Outward functions enable the film to self-conscientiously refer to itself on the level of the aesthetic nature of a film work, while referring to the unprecedented technical possibilities of the studios on the level of the film as a product. The director Svatopluk Innemann formulated it quite openly for the Czech Film Herald in the context of shooting the film at Barrandov Studios in 1933: ‘It is possible to use the moving camera more than in the previous studio because there is enough space to create large scenes to 35 See my online database, Film-Shot-Counter: http://www.douglaskokes.cz/pdz/mfs (accessed 2 October 2019).

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be shot by a camera on a dolly and build related interiors within a single complex’ (cit. in Kujal 1933b, 2). If we stick to the opening narrative section of the film, this quote may serve as a fruitful starting point, as it accurately describes some of the important features of the outward work with style. The film achieves this by, first, pointing out its own decorative functions, thus making the spectators realize and admire the virtuosity of individual solutions, and second, emphasizing craftsmanship qualities of the film, its technical possibilities and production values. The very first shot begins with a close-up of the scared housekeeper. It invokes the application of a narrative schema suggested by the title: we are watching a murder. Yet, this is not the case, as the next virtuoso pan shot shows when it follows the housekeeper and Zachar on their way across a large set decoration representing a corridor with a high stairwell (fig. 2.1). The camera movement begins as a pure pan to the left, which then combines with a short dolly and shifts to the right – and this complex movement is then supplied with another, parallel diagonal upward movement. This is not a tracking shot or panning, but a more impressive crane shot.36 What follows is a discreet match-cut with a light change of the camera position when both characters enter the apartment – but instead of a cut into the apartment, we can hear a dialogue behind the door, which is dampened – an effect that is achieved by using the modern sound technology of Barrandov Studios. A cut to the housekeeper inside the apartment follows after Zachar’s departure from the door and out of the frame. The use of the crane is prominent in the opening scene and it has decorative features, yet it would be an exaggeration and analytically unjustif ied to consider it solely as the promotion of ref inements in studio technology. Its function to establish space is too obvious. It is an unconventionally long static take of the closed apartment door, behind which we can hear a dialogue that is much more self-conscientious and in conflict with conventions. As a matter of fact, the filmmakers’ strategy is much more elaborate than that: they prep the spectator for using the crane by employing it in the very opening scene, and while this technology may be captivating, it is not absolutely exceptional. This way, they have elegantly established the space, but they ‘enter’ the interior of the apartment decoration with a cut. 36 The camera crane was important for the studio status; the purchase of a new, large crane by Barrandov Studios in 1935 was gloriously announced in several periodicals (for example, Vodička 1935; Menčík 1935). In this context, we can really observe comparable strategies in the Hollywood production mode (see Keating 2019, 59–61).

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An escalating variation on this shot becomes all the more impressive in the opening of the third scene, where Zachar returns to the apartment with the police. While the first crane shot (number two) in the corridor lasted seventeen seconds, this shot (number seventeen) is seventy-five seconds – it is by far the longest take of the film. And it is not an ordinary shot, because it ‘outbids’ the previous one in every aspect: it further develops the already introduced corridor decor, the moving camera itself is much more impressive, and the shot is a lavish demonstration of the possibilities of the set design and fleet of lighting racks at Barrandov Studios. It begins, once again, with a view of the stairwell in the dark with a spotlight. The setting lights up after several seconds to show that we and the camera are ‘standing’ in the place that is not just lower but also perpendicular to the previous position. The set decoration was quite opulent in the earlier shot already, but now it also contains the whole ground floor and the corridor there (fig. 2.2). Zachar enters the house with the police. The camera backs up and ascends (as before), while turning 90 degrees to capture the profiles of characters climbing the stairs. A side tracking shot of their profiles follows the characters all the way to the door which we know already and which Zachar unlocks. A cut does not follow this time. What follows is another move to the right ‘through’ the decoration, and a pan reframing to the left to capture the characters’ entrance. The hall set decoration is, like the corridor, filled with complex lighting, with a lot of formed shadows that strengthen the spatial depth effect (fig. 2.3). Characters go to the right and the camera goes there with them. And again, the camera passes ‘through’ the decoration into the living room, this time all the way to the housekeeper sitting at the table where we left her earlier. Thanks to precision lighting, we can clearly see a door in the second plane that is on the other side of the room. The door is ajar and leads to a bedroom, also effectively lit (fig. 2.4). The camera does not stop with a slight reframing as before, but it follows through the depth of the space – only then does it turn towards the door through which Zachar and the police enter. The shot is still not over because Zachar introduces the housekeeper, and the police leave the frame on the right at both sides of the table, thus emphasizing even more the depth of the scenic space of the set construction (fig. 2.5). This explicitly virtuoso shot alone could be understood as an advertisement for the possibilities of Barrandov Studios (which also include simultaneously playing nondiegetic background music mixed with the accompanying sounds of Zachar walking and the police).

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Figures 2.1–2.5. Stills from Vražda v Ostrovní ulici (Murder on Ostrovní Street, 1933, dir. Svatopluk Innemann). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

We can find several similar sequences in the film emphasizing its complex set design. The camera moves to the sides in the space and it is followed by cuts from various angles to show all sides of the three-dimensional set, which is rich architecturally and lit with abundant lights. For example the sixteenth scene, where an absent-minded accidental witness gives a statement in the detective’s office. These small-scale interior decorations alter with the opulent decorations of corridors in official buildings and large aristocratic villas, which are captured from above in order to emphasize their size and variability. The lighting is not only a means to create space, but it steps into the foreground itself. This is achieved by simple effects such as showing characters’ silhouettes and in making the scene more dramatic. A more intricate example of such an effect can be found in a hotel room scene where the light shines through a nightgown, so that we can see the erotic silhouette of the nude female body underneath. Last but not least, the light gains prominence by selective lighting effects in expressionist scenes with Zachar in prison. These lighting effects are initially compositionally motivated, but they begin to attract attention whenever the stream of narrative information stops, and then the self-conscientious interactions of various stylistic aspects begin to play out. In other words, detailed decorations and the number of employed lights are not necessary for the narrative development, so they also refer to themselves – as a means of estrangement and as proof of the filmmakers’ technical virtuosity. The work with dialogue is somewhat more complicated, especially when it involves Zachar’s interrogations. The logic behind the use of camera angles,

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camera distances, and the order of these shots in the editing composition is not entirely clear. A combination of constructive and analytical editing does not fully follow either of these traditions.37 Individual shots overlap too much to belong to the constructive editing tradition, while creating a space that is too incoherent and full of small mismatches to be purely analytical. An explanation of this is obvious from the perspective of stylistic virtuosity: the film makes a point of using a large variety of camera setups achieved by employing a large number of cameras (especially involving movements to the side)38 and individual takes. But is this really such a sophisticated game? Is it not just an inability to deal with spatial principles of editing? In order to find the answer, we need to go back to previous years – particularly, to another joint project of director Innemann and cinematographer Václav Vích: The Musketeers of Malá Strana from 1932. The editing is slightly slower (the average shot length of The Musketeers of Malá Strana is twelve seconds, while the average shot length in Murder on Ostrovní Street is eleven seconds)39 and camera setups are less variable. The dialogue captured in this film is spatially clear and regular despite the presence of a variety of characters, dialogue, and different types of settings. Therefore, it can be assumed that if the same filmmakers had mastered these techniques a year earlier, there is no reason to consider the remarkably eccentric work with camera setups and angles in their Murder on Ostrovní Street as a symptom of their dilettantism but rather to think of it as part of the game. Anyway, its double function (the inward and the outward) is less effective on first sight than in the case of the other techniques mentioned earlier. If the outward role of editing points to the technical possibilities of the studios, what might be the inward role of similarly self-conscious dialogue capture? A more general look at the aesthetic norms of the Czech crime film in the following decades may serve as a lead. According to my findings, if there is any long-lasting stylistic tradition involved, then it is a tendency 37 By analytical editing, I mean a technique by which the establishing shot of the scene space is followed by shots breaking this space into closer framings of its parts, for example, of particular faces, gestures, or props. By constructive editing, I mean a technique which ‘manages to suggest that characters are interacting with other characters or with objects while never including all the relevant visual elements in the same frame’ (Bordwell 1997, 17). 38 For more about multiple-camera shooting in Hollywood f ilms, see Bordwell et al. 1985, 304–308; Crafton 1997, 244–248; for more about the practice in Czech film, see the footnote in Szczepanik 2009, 59. 39 See my online database, Film-Shot-Counter: http://www.douglaskokes.cz/pdz/ (accessed 2 October 2019).

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to self-consciously confound expectations related to dialogue capture. I assume that a generally understandable generic narrative schema of an ‘interrogation’ is present so many times in each crime film that it presents an artistic problem for the filmmakers. How could its capture be innovated in comparison to the usual way of capturing dialogue (see Kokeš 2016b, 121–122)? It is thus possible that Innemann and Vích proceeded in a similar fashion in the scenes with Zachar. If this was so, then they applied this self-conscious approach within a ‘virtuoso style with a double function’ as well as in the context of playing with conventions of the genre. In my analysis of Murder on Ostrovní Street, I showed that although the film was supposed to perform the function of a ‘stylistically eccentric’ showcase of technical possibilities of the new Barrandov Studios and it did perform this function, it did so within the continuity of standardized techniques of Czech films and filmmakers from previous years. With the exception of a slightly discontinuous linking of various camera setups during the interrogation scene footage, which may still be explained against a background of generic traditions, the filmmakers subjected all their eccentric stylistic choices to a double function. The inward function serves the film as a work of art, while the outward function points to the technical possibilities of the new production facilities. In other words, the filmmakers, on the one hand, continually developed existing techniques in relation to compositional requirements of the film work as an artistic system. On the other hand, they applied them to perform artistically motivated eccentric functions to demonstrate the technological possibilities of the new studios. If we interpret this method as a rhetorical tactic of AB Barrandov itself, then they managed to address filmmakers not with a discontinuous message, saying, ‘With us, things will be different’, but rather, with a continuous claim, ‘With us, things will be better’.

Some Final Remarks In this chapter, I followed two aims. First, I wanted to move towards writing an aesthetic history of Czech cinema from the perspective of the poetics of cinema. The first section of the chapter introduced the methodological background of such research. In a debate with existing approaches, the second section of the chapter formulated some more general hypotheses about the typical features of Czech silent and early sound films. The third section of the chapter was a more focused case study of the first film shot in the Barrandov Studios. This analytical section made it possible to discuss

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both one particular genre tradition and the thoughtful embedding of the extraordinary technical options of the Barrandov Studios into rather longerterm stylistic continuities. Second, I aimed to sketch the possibilities of the concept of regional poetics, illustrated with an example of Czech cinema in the period preceding and immediately following the opening of the Barrandov Studios in 1933. I proposed moving from rather an essentialist detection of the material of Czech national cinema to a consciously arbitrary, pragmatic, and purposive definition of a central research corpus regarding what is typical – and thus effectively comparable. It is a corpus of feature-length film works, each of which was predominantly made in a specified territory, predominantly in the official language of that territory, and for standard commercial distribution within that territory. I refer to this analytical or historical exploration of the corpus through its rigor and cohesive sampling as regional poetics. Since each of the sections of this chapter had its own conclusion, let me end with a somewhat more general reflection on the further applicability of the proposed concept: How can the approach introduced here also contribute to a more general insight into an aesthetic history of cinema? As the example of Czech cinema illustrates, the concept of regional poetics can offer novel ways of understanding aesthetic norms and filmmaking traditions of those national cinemas, which might be described as small and/or peripheral (Szczepanik 2021, 15–25). As Petr Szczepanik explains concerning research of media markets, ‘smallness should not be confused with peripherality, because the two pertain to different parameters: size and resources in the first case, economic and cultural power in the second. Small countries (such as Denmark) might achieve a more central position in transnational flows than larger peripheral countries (such as Poland)’ (Szczepanik 2021, 19; regarding smallness, see Hjört and Petrie 2007). Nevertheless, even though ‘different forms of innovative, internationally oriented collaborative film practices that turn small-market limits into creative opportunities have since flourished across the continent, […] the export performance of small-nation productions lags far behind the European big-five producing countries’ (Szczepanik 2021, 22). Following not only these findings (based mainly on research on contemporary cinema) seems to be plausible to suppose that many or even most small/peripheral cinemas’ films have been released only on domestic markets and for domestic audiences. Moreover, the film industry of such small/peripheral cinemas has long been made up of a more or less interrelated community of filmmakers who know (about) each other, share technical backgrounds and experience – and compete not only for comparable funds but also for comparable audience groups.

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Suppose we want to approach smallness and peripherality from a poetics studies perspective? In that case, the key questions should be similar as this chapter put into the discussion concerning the aesthetic history of Czech cinema. The first step, which has not yet been taken, is to understand the intrinsic aesthetic tradition of each of these small/peripheral cinemas. But not concerning previous research practices, where smallness and peripherality have been explained with respect to core-periphery models that reflect cinemas in relation to globally shared aesthetic trends. Instead, small/peripheral cinemas need to be understood in their particular historical trajectories, traditions, conventions, and norms. In this way, it is not the exceptional or atypical that will come to the fore, but the ordinary and the typical, in their respective historical contexts. And, as explained, such knowledge we can reach correctly through the concept of regional poetics. In other words, although some knowledge of such small/peripheral cinemas’ stylistic and narrative traditions has already been achieved (cf. Fullerton 1994), such projects have regarded them mostly as a part of a unified or monolithic phenomenon at an international level, as research projects on art cinema (cf. Bordwell 1985), modernist cinema (cf. Kovács 2007), or paramodernist art cinema (Colin Burnett’s concept)40 carried out. However, research on regional poetics aims at quite different goals; namely, to explore and explain the aesthetic peripherality of these cinemas in terms of diversity and multiplicity. Moreover, as in the case of the already existing and ongoing comparative exploration of the history of peripheral media industries (cf. Szczepanik 2021), a comparative understanding of regional poetics of small/peripheral cinemas may be on the horizon of our scholar endeavor, too. If the individual small/peripheral cinemas are recognized, described, and explained in their own historical trajectories, traditions, conventions, and norms, there will be no need to generalize the regional poetics of each of them only against the backdrop of global poetics. We will finally be able to begin to understand these regional poetics in their mutual parallels, which certainly relate to transnational poetics in various ways, but at the same time, remain distinctive. These regional poetics might be partly different and partly similar, but each of them will be an unmistakable contribution to the comparative knowledge of the history of cinema in its richness. 40 I refer here to Colin Burnett’s lectures series ‘Impure Harmonies: A New Poetics of Global Art Cinema’ at the Department of Film and Audiovisual Culture at Masaryk University in Brno (December 2016), in which he introduced and explained his concept of paramodernist art cinema.

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The achievement of such knowledge is still a long way off, indeed. Still, as explained in the introduction to this chapter and as should be evident from its sections, research into Czech regional poetics seems to be a significant step towards such knowledge. It is not because Czech film is so international, but on the contrary, that it has been not very international for most of its history. 41 Translated by Tomáš Kačer

Bibliography Allen, Robert C., and Douglas Gomery. Film History: Theory and Practice. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1985. Altman, Rick. ‘Sound Space’. In Sound Theory/Sound Practice, edited by Rick Altman, 46–64, 255–257. New York and London: Routledge, 1992. Altman, Rick. ‘The Technology of the Voice. Part 1’. Iris 3 (1985): 3–20. Altman, Rick. ‘The Technology of the Voice. Part 2’. Iris 4 (1986): 107–120. Altman, Rick. ‘What It Means to Write the History of Cinema’. In Towards a Pragmatics of the Audiovisual: Theory and History, edited by Jürgen E. Müller, 2 vols., vol. 1, 169–180. Münster: Nodus Publikationen, 1994. Anton, Karel, dir. Do panského stavu [Into the Genteel State of Life]. 1925; Czechoslovakia. Anton, Karel, dir. Tonka Šibenice [Tonka of the Gallows]. 1930; Czechoslovakia. Anton, Karel, dir. Únos bankéře Fuxe [The Kidnapping of Fux the Banker]. 1923; Czechoslovakia. Bacher, Lutz. The Mobile Mise en Scene: A Critical Analysis of the Theory and Practice of Long-take Camera Movement in the Narrative Film. New York: Arno Press, 1978. Baxandall, Michael. Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1985. Bellour, Raymond. ‘To Analyze/To Segment’. Quarterly Review of Film Studies 1 (1976): 331–353. Binovec, Václav, dir. Adam a Eva [Adam and Eve]. 1922; Czechoslovakia. 41 The chapter is part of my research project GA22-23827S Before Barrandov: The Narrative and Stylistic Poetics of Czech Film until 1933. I would like to thank Jaromír Blažejovský, Tereza Frodlová, Bernd Herzogenrath, Ramin S. Khanjani, Ivan Klimeš, Janka Kokešová, Martin Kos, Peter Krämer, Ondřej Pavlík, Pavel Skopal, Petr Szczepanik, Jan Šotkovský, Michal Večeřa, and Petr Zejda for their advice in my research in general and/or their comments to earlier drafts of this study. I am grateful to Tomáš Kačer for his selfless work on a translation of my condensed text. Last but not least, I am indebted to Ramin S. Khanjani, and especially Matthew Sweney for their proofreading.

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Boček, Jaroslav. Kapitoly o filmu. Prague: Orbis, 1968. Bordwell, David. ‘Lowering the Stakes: Prospects for a Historical Poetics of Cinema’. Iris 1 (1983): 5–18. Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985. Bordwell, David. On the History of Film Style. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1997. Bordwell, David. Poetics of Cinema. New York and London: Routledge, 2008. Bordwell, David, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson. The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style & Mode of Production to 1960. London: Routledge, 1985. Branigan, Edward. Narrative Comprehension and Film. London: Routledge, 1992. Branigan, Edward. ‘The Space of Equinox Flower’. Screen 17, no. 2 (1976): 74–105. Burnett, Colin. ‘Hidden Hands at Work: Authorship, the Intentional Flux, and the Dynamics of Collaboration’. In A Companion to Media Authorship, edited by Jonathan Gray and Derek Johnson, 112–132. Maiden: Wiley Blackwell, 2013. Burnett, Colin. ‘A New Look at the Concept of Style in Film: The Origins and Development of the Problem-Solution Model’. New Review of Film and Television Studies 6, no. 2 (2008): 127–149. Česálková, Lucie. ‘Cinema outside Cinema: Czech Educational Cinema of the 1930s under the Control of Pedagogues, Scientists and Humanitarian Groups’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 3, no. 2 (2012): 175–191. Česálková, Lucie, and Pavel Skopal, eds. Filmové Brno. Dějiny lokální filmové kultury. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2017. Cherchi Usai, Paolo. Silent Cinema. London: BFI, 2019. Cikán, Miroslav, dir. Záhada modrého pokoje [The Mystery of the Blue Room]. 1933; Czechoslovakia. Cowie, Elizabeth. ‘Storytelling: Classical Hollywood Cinema and Classical Narrative’. In Contemporary Hollywood Cinema, edited by Steve Neale and Murray Smith, 178–190. London and New York: Routledge, 1998. Crafton, Donald. The Talkies: American Cinema’s Transition to Sound, 1926–1931. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1997. Crisp, Colin. The Classic French Cinema, 1930–1960. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993. Doležel, Lubomír. Occidental Poetics: Tradition and Progress. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1990. Dvořáková, Tereza. ‘Idea filmové komory a Českomoravské filmové ústředí’. PhD diss., Charles University, 2011. Eichenbaum, Boris. ‘The Theory of the “Formal Method”’. In Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays, edited by Lee T. Lemon and Marin J. Reis, 3–24. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965.

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Frič, Martin, dir. Krok do tmy [A Step into the Darkness]. 1938; Czechoslovakia. Frič, Martin, dir. Revizor [The Inspector]. 1933; Czechoslovakia. Fullerton, John Andrew. ‘The Development of a System of Representation in Swedish Film, 1912–1920’. PhD diss., University of East Anglia, 1994. Garncarz, Joseph. ‘Art and Industry: German Cinema of the 1920s’. In The Silent Cinema Reader, edited by Lee Grieveson and Peter Krämer, 389–400. London and New York: Routledge, 2004. Gombrich, E. H. Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation. London: Phaidon, 2005. Higson, Andrew. ‘The Concept of National Cinema’. Screen 30, no. 4 (1989): 36–47. Hjört, Mette, and Duncan Petrie. ‘Introduction’. In The Cinema of Small Nations, edited by Mette Hjört and Duncan Petrie, 1–19. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007. Hůrka, Miloslav. Když se řekne zvukový film: kapitoly z historie a současnosti zvukového filmu. Prague: Český filmový ústav, 1991. Innemann, Svatopluk, dir. Fidlovačka. 1930; Czechoslovakia. Innemann, Svatopluk, dir. Malostranští mušketýři [The Musketeers of Malá Strana]. 1932; Czechoslovakia. Innemann, Svatopluk, dir. U svatého Antoníčka [At St. Anthony’s]. 1933; Czechoslovakia. Innemann, Svatopluk, dir. Vražda v Ostrovní ulici [Murder on Ostrovní Street]. 1933; Czechoslovakia. Jakobson, Roman, and Juri Tynjanov. ‘Problems in the Study of Language and Literature’. Poetics Today 2, no. 1a (1980): 29–31. Jareš, Michal, and Pavel Mandys. Dějiny české detektivky. Prague: Paseka, 2019. Junghans, Carl, dir. Takový je život [Such Is Life]. 1929; Czechoslovakia. Keating, Patrick. The Dynamic Frame: Camera Movement in Classical Hollywood. New York: Columbia University Press, 2019. Keil, Charlie. Early American Cinema in Transition: Story, Style and Filmmaking, 1907–1913. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002. Klimeš, Ivan. Kinematografie a stát v českých zemích 1895–1945. Prague: Filozofická fakulta Univerzity Karlovy, 2016. Klimeš, Ivan. Kinematograf! Věnec studií o raném filmu. Prague: Casablanca, 2013. Kokeš, Radomír D. ‘Česká kinematografie jako regionální poetika. Otázky kontinuity a počátky studiové produkce’. Iluminace 32, no. 3 (2020): 5–40. Kokeš, Radomír D. ‘Filmové herectví, česká němá kinematografie a otázky studia stylu’. Iluminace 30, no. 2 (2018): 31–57. Kokeš, Radomír D. ‘Kinematografický výskyt Josefa Švejka aneb Osudy románových taktik ve třech českých adaptacích s jednou britskou zacházkou’. In Fikce

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Jaroslava Haška, edited by František A. Podhajský, 273–293. Prague: Ústav pro českou literaturu AV ČR, 2016a. Kokeš, Radomír D. ‘Modré stíny coby zdrženlivá detektivka. Zdůrazňování, potlačování a tradice kriminální fikce’. Iluminace 28, no. 4 (2016b): 97–124. Kokeš, Radomír D. ‘Norms, Forms and Roles: Notes on the Concept of Norm (Not Just) in Neoformalist Poetics of Cinema’. Panoptikum 29, no. 2 (2019): 52–78. Kolár, Jan S, dir. Kříž u potoka [The Cross at the Stream]. 1921; Czechoslovakia. Kolár, Jan S, dir. Svatý Václav [St. Wenceslas]. 1929; Czechoslovakia. Kos, Martin. ‘Ochránit křesťanskou ideu proti čachrům židovské kšeft-kliky. Svatý Václav jako střet ambicí, představ a zájmů’. Iluminace 32, no. 1 (2020): 97–124. Kos, Martin. ‘Reel by reel: Jan Stanislav Kolár’s narrative poetics in the context of transition to feature-length format in Czech silent cinema’. Journal of Screenwriting 10, no. 3 (2019): 279–294. Kovács, András Bálint. Screening Modernism: European Art Cinema, 1950–1980. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2007. Krňanský, Miroslav Josef, dir. Krásná vyzvědačka [The Beautiful Spy]. 1927; Czechoslovakia. Kubásek, Václav, dir. Dvojí život [A Double Life]. 1924; Czechoslovakia. Kubásek, Václav, dir. Jedenácté přikázání [The Eleventh Commandment]. 1925; Czechoslovakia. Kubler, George. The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1965. Kučera, Jan. Poetika českého filmu. Prague: NAMU, 2016. [Kujal, Quido]. ‘Co nového v českém filmu’. Český filmový zpravodaj 13, no. 8 (559) (25 February 1933a): 2–3. [Kujal, Quido]. ‘Co nového v českém filmu’. Český filmový zpravodaj 13, no. 13 (564) (1 April 1933a): 2–3. Lamač, Karel, dir. Bílý ráj [White Paradise]. 1924, Czechoslovakia. Lamač, Karel, dir. C. a K. polní maršálek [Imperial and Royal Field Marshal]. 1930; Czechoslovakia. Lamač, Karel, dir. Drvoštěp [The Lumberjack]. 1922; Czechoslovakia. Lamač, Karel, dir. Lelíček ve službách Sherlocka Holmesa [Lelíček in the Service of Sherlock Holmes]. 1932; Czechoslovakia. Lamač, Karel, and Jan S. Kolár, dirs. Otrávené světlo [The Poisoned Light]. 1921; Czechoslovakia. Lastra, James. ‘Standards and Practices: Aesthetic Norm and Technological Innovation in the American Cinema’. In Sound Technology and the American Cinema: Perception, Representation, Modernity, edited by James Lastra, 154–179. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000.

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Laudan, Larry. Progress and Its Problems: Toward a Theory of Scientific Growth. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977. Machatý, Gustav, dir. Erotikon [Eroticon]. 1929; Czechoslovakia. Machatý, Gustav, dir. Extase [Ecstasy]. 1932; Czechoslovakia. Macura, Vladimír. ‘Poetika’. In Slovník literární teorie, edited by Štěpán Vlašín, 281–282. Prague: Československý spisovatel, 1977. Marten, Leo, and Vladimír Studecký, dirs. Horské volání S.O.S. [Mountains Calling SOS]. 1929; Czechoslovakia. Menčík, J. A. ‘Obrovský jeřáb pro filmování na Barrandově’. Filmová politika 2 (6 December 1935): 43. Mukařovský, Jan. Structure, Sign, and Function. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978. Müller, Corinna. Vom Stummfilm zum Tonfilm. München: Wilhelm Fink, 2003. Myzet, Rudolf, and Antonín Ludvík Havel, dirs. Šachta pohřbených ideí [The Shaft of Buried Ideals]. 1921; Czechoslovakia. O’Brien, Charles. Cinema’s Conversion to Sound: Technology and Film Style in France and the US. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2005. Pětník, Antonín. ‘Kus historie Barrandova: Léta poctivé a nenáročné práce’. Filmová politika 1, no. 2 (28 January 1934): 5. Pražský, Přemysl, dir. Šest mušketýrů [The Six Musketeers]. 1925; Czechoslovakia. Pražský, Přemysl, dir. Batalion [Battalion]. 1927; Czechoslovakia. Pražský, Přemysl, dir. Sedmá velmoc [The Seventh Power]. 1933; Czechoslovakia. Pražský, Přemysl, and Jan S. Kolár, dirs. Dáma s malou nožkou [The Lady with the Small Foot]. 1919; Czechoslovakia. Randolf, Rolf, dir. Pancéřové auto [Armored Car]. 1929; Czechoslovakia. Salt, Barry. Film Style and Technology: History and Analysis. London: Starword, 2009. Seppälä, Jaakko. ‘Finnish Film Style in the Silent Era’. In Finnish Cinema: A Transnational Enterprise, edited by Henry Bacon, 51–80. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Škapová, Zdena. ‘Cesty k moderní filmové poetice’. In Démanty všednosti. Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně, edited by Stanislava Přádná, Zdena Škapová, and Jiří Cieslar, 11–44. Prague: Pražská scéna, 2002. Skopal, Pavel. ‘Barrandov’s Co-productions: The Clumsy Way to Ideological Control, International Competitiveness and Technological Improvement’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 89–106. New York: Berghahn Books, 2015a. Skopal, Pavel. ‘Going to the Cinema as a Czech’. Film History 31, no. 1 (2019): 27–55. Skopal, Pavel. ‘The (Restored) Practice of DEFA Co-productions with the “Normalized” Czechoslovak Film Studio in the 1970s’. Images: The International Journal

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of European Film, Performing Arts and Audiovisual Communication 13, no. 22 (2013): 189–199. Skopal, Pavel. ‘Risk and Trust in State-Socialist Co-Production Practice: DEFABarrandov Collaborations of 1970s and 1980s’. Iluminace 27, no. 3 (2015b): 23–35. Slavínský, Vladimír, dir. Syn hor [The Son of the Mountain]. 1925; Czechoslovakia. Smrž, Karel. ‘Šlechtova kamera “Cinephon” na natáčení zvukových filmů’. Kino 1, no. 1 (1931): 11–12. Štábla, Zdeněk. Rozšířené teze k dějinám čs. kinematografie 1919–1939. IV. část. Prague: Čs. filmový ústav, 1983. Štábla, Zdeněk. ‘Vývoj filmového obchodu za Rakouska-Uherska a Československé republiky (1906–1939)’. Filmový sborník historický 3 (1992): 5–48. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘The “Birth” of Cinema History: Coming of Film Sound and Media Inventing Their Own Past’. In MLVs: Cinema and Other Media/Versioni multiple Cinema e altri media, 29–52. Pasian di Prato: Campanotto, 2006a. Szczepanik, Petr. Konzervy se slovy. Počátky zvukového filmu a česká mediální kultura 30. let. Brno: Host, 2009. Szczepanik, Petr. Screen Industries in East-Central Europe. London: BFI, 2021. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘Sonic Imagination, or Film Sound as a Discursive Construct in Czech Culture of the Transitional Period’. In MLVs: Cinema and Other Media/ Versioni multiple: Cinema e altri media, 87–104. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2008. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘Speech and Noise as the Elements of Intermedia History of the Early Czech Sound Cinema’. In MLVs: Cinema and Other Media/Versioni multiple: Cinema e altri media, 175–190. Pasian di Prato: Campanotto, 2006b. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Ther, Philipp. ‘Beyond the Nation: The Relational Basis of a Comparative History of Germany and Europe’. Central European History 36, no. 1 (2003): 45–73. Thompson, Kristin. Breaking the Glass Armor: Neoformalist Film Analysis. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. Thompson, Kristin. Exporting Entertainment: America in the World Film Market 1907–1934. London: BFI, 1985. Thompson, Kristin. ‘Early Alternatives to the Hollywood Mode of Production: Implications for Europe’s Avant-garde’. Film History 5 (1993): 386–404. Thompson, Kristin. Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood: German and American Film after World War I. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005. Thompson, Kristin. ‘Narrative Structure in Early Classical Cinema’. In Celebrating 1895: The Century of Cinema, edited by John Fullerton, 225–238. London: John Libbey, 1998.

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Thompson, Kristin. Storytelling in the New Hollywood: Understanding Classical Narrative Technique. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1999. Tybjerg, Casper. ‘Artifacts, Series, Solutions’. In A History of Cinema without Names: A Research Project, edited by Diego Cavalotti et al., 73–81. Milano: Mimesis Edizioni, 2016. Urbanová, Eva, and Blažena Urgošíková, eds. Český hraný film II, 1930–1945/Czech Feature Film II, 1930–1945. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 1998. Vančura, Vladislav, and Svatopluk Innemann, dirs. Před maturitou [Before Graduation]. 1932; Czechoslovakia. Večeřa, Michal. ‘Na cestě k systematické filmové výrobě: Rozvoj produkčního systému v českých zemích mezi lety 1911–1930’. PhD diss., Masaryk University, 2019. Vodička, František. ‘Obrovský jeřáb pro filmování na Barrandově’. Pressa. Filmová tisková služba 7 (5 December 1935): 344. Wanatowiczová, Krystyna. Miloš Havel: Český filmový magnát. Prague: Knihovna Václava Havla, 2013. Želenský, Drahoš, dir. Šílený lékař [The Mad Doctor]. 1920; Czechoslovakia.

About the Author Radomír D. Kokeš is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Film Studies and Audiovisual Culture at Masaryk University in the Czech Republic. Since 2022 he is also the head of the international study program “Culture, Media and Performative Arts” at Masaryk University. Primarily he examines the history of film style and narrative of Czech cinema through 1933; the spiral narrative as an innovative schema of audiovisual storytelling; and features of seriality in fictional worlds. His main research areas are therefore historical poetics, narratology, and film style analysis. He has published two books in Czech – Rozbor filmu (Film analysis, 2015), which addresses techniques of systemic film analysis, and Světy na pokračování (Worlds to be continued: Analysis of the possibilities of serial storytelling, 2016), in which he introduces his own serial fiction poetics. Since 2011 he has chaired ‘Brno Narratological Circle’ (BRNK), an independent scholarly society.

3.

Barrandov’s First Fifteen Years Genres, Stars, Germans, and the Nation Kevin B. Johnson Abstract: This chapter presents an overview of the first fifteen years of the Barrandov Studios, from its construction in 1933 until the communist coup in 1948. The chapter highlights some examples of the main genres for closer analysis with special attention to how these films imagined Czech identity, particularly relative to its German-speaking neighbors and with regard to its place on the international, English-oriented stage. A secondary focus is an exploration of the studio’s balancing act between promoting the national cinema and cultivating international industrial connections. In addition to considering the studio’s efforts to produce films to be marketed to German-speaking audiences, the essay also examines various ways that foreign industries invested in and capitalized on production in Prague. Keywords: English language; genre; German language; multiple-language version (MLV); national identity; popular film

Although the Barrandov Studios is perhaps most fondly remembered in film scholarship for the high artistic achievements connected with the Czechoslovak New Wave of the 1960s, the studio’s first fifteen years must be thought of primarily in terms of popular cinema. Most early English-language scholarly accounts of Czech cinema from the interwar and World War II period frame these films and their makers looking forward to the major developments that came later.1 The early decades of Czechoslovak cinema are typically treated as merely a preamble foreshadowing the creative boom of the New Wave, as a prehistory that must be briefly established before moving on to the main topic of interest. Given this common frame 1

See, for example, Škvorecký (1971), Liehm and Liehm (1977), and Hames (2005).

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of reference, many early scholarly assessments invariably highlight and champion those films from the 1930s and early 1940s that were socially or politically engaged and those that were linked with the progressive artistic movements of the period. At the same time, many accounts downplay or outright dismiss the popular films that dominated the industry at the time as purely capitalist endeavors to produce simple entertainment. The latter sentiment is, of course, also echoed in most of the scholarship on the period written in Czechoslovakia during the communist period. The lingering impression of such canonical overviews of the period is that production prior to 1948 was, apart from a few exceptions, overwhelmingly substandard or insignificant and thus hardly worth mentioning. There has yet to be a comprehensive scholarly reassessment of Czech (or Czechoslovak) cinema of the precommunist era. The current chapter seeks to provide a general overview of the film culture that characterized the Barrandov Studios during the first fifteen years of its existence, from its construction in 1933 to the communist takeover in 1948. Closer attention is paid to several individual feature-length narrative films from this period, which are analyzed in the context of the political, industrial, and cultural conditions in which they were made.2 This is just a small step towards creating a much more complete, and therefore complex, view of Czech cinema during the interwar and World War II period. The approach of this chapter is informed by and builds upon the recent turn in cinema studies that focuses on popular cinema in Central and Eastern Europe (most notably Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe [Ostrowska et al. 2017]). The chapter also highlights the connection between popular film production and conceptions of national identity: ‘One element which has sustained the cultural production in East Central Europe is the close connection between cinematic art and 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’ (Ostrowska et al. 2017, 8). The first seven years of Barrandov Studios’ existence were dominated by a sort of pragmatic nationalism, whereby there was a marked dependence on foreign film industries, especially in Germany and Austria, to sustain the production of Czech national cinema. The impulse to define and depict the national identity was a key thread running through the Czech(oslovak) production in Barrandov throughout the 1930s. After the German occupation 2 While short films, documentary/newsreels, advertising spots, and animated works were also important for the period, they are beyond the scope of this chapter.

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in 1938–1939, depictions of the national character became all the more vital, while at the same time necessarily more subtle given the political climate of the Nazi-administered Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia.3

Prague’s Hollywood on the Cliffs: Directors, Genres, Stars Before the construction of the studios on the Barrandov cliffs, a large-scale urban development project initiated by Václav M. Havel – father of the future president of the same name and brother to Miloš Havel – gave rise to numerous modernist mansions that housed Prague’s rich and famous, including Miloš Havel himself, the mastermind behind the Barrandov Studios. A prominent feature of Václav M. Havel’s project was the Barradov Terraces complex, which contained a restaurant with viewing tower and outdoor seating overlooking the Vltava river, other social meeting spaces, and even a pool. The Terraces opened in 1929 and quickly became a hot destination for Prague’s socialites and celebrities, a cosmopolitan playground for movie stars and jazz musicians. 4 The new luxurious neighborhood between the studios and the Vltava river can be thought of as a sort of local ‘Beverly Hills’ to accompany the ‘Hollywood of the East’ taking shape within the new film production facilities. The development of Barrandov not only distinguished Prague with some of the most modern film studios on the continent, but the local film industry now had a geographic center that synthesized capital and celebrity, the labor of movie production and the glamour of the modern film lifestyle. Naturally, most public enthusiasm for cinema was fueled by the industry’s star system, which provided the foundation of most film marketing. The field of male actors was dominated by the great comedian performers Vlasta Burian, Hugo Haas, Oldřich Nový, and the duo Jiří Voskovec and Jan Werich. Other well-known names at the time were Theodor Pištěk, Otomar Korbelář, and Ladislav Pešek. This period also witnessed the early careers of Karel Höger, Zdeněk Štěpánek, and Rudolf Hrušinský, who all went on to become major forces during the 1950s and 1960s, and beyond. The ranks of the leading 3 The current discussion focuses exclusively on issues of Czech identity since there were practically no Slovak films produced in the period. Furthermore, between 1938 and 1945, Slovakia no longer played any role in Prague f ilm production, having declared itself an independent fascist state allied with Nazi Germany. 4 A wonderful sequence from Gustav Machatý’s 1933 film Ecstasy (Ekstase) depicts stylish urbanites dancing on the terraces to the strains of the popular German ensemble Comedian Harmonists.

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female stars of the period were populated almost exclusively with very young women, most prominently: Lída Baarová, Věra Ferbasová, Nataša Gollová, Zita Kabátová, Adina Mandlová, Jiřina Štepničková, and Hana Vítová, all of whom turned twenty around the time Barrandov started production. The great Czech starlet of the 1920s, Anny Ondráková (or Anny Ondra, as she was known outside of her homeland), was still active in cinema during the Barrandov period, however, by that time, her career had predominantly shifted to Germany.5 Among the most prolific directors in the 1930s were Martin Frič, Karel Lamač, Vladimír Slavínský, Miroslav Cikán, Otakár Vávra, František Čap, and J. A. Holman. Of this group, Frič, Lamač, and Slavínský had begun their careers during the silent era and were established talents by 1933. Cikán, primarily a director of run-of-the-mill comedies, made his directorial debut that very year. The others of this later ‘Barrandov generation’ (whose careers began after the construction of the studios) – Vávra, Čap, and Holman – each displayed a predisposition toward more artistic, psychologically driven dramas, often employing German expressionist aesthetics (much like Gustav Machatý before them). All three of them rose to prominence during the Protectorate period.6 The dominant genre in Czech film of the 1930s and 1940s was, without a doubt, comedy. As was common at the time, Czech comedies often incorporated a pronounced musical element, in the form of popular songs or jazz-inspired numbers. Romantic dramas were also very prevalent, especially after 1939. Historical films that depicted the Czech past to evoke patriotic and nationalist sentiment were quite common, especially prior to 1939, as were literary adaptations of works by well-known Czech authors, which also typically inspired feelings of patriotism, due to their subject matter or their simple function as cultural carriers for the nation. Detective and crime films were also a common genre, whose Czech iterations were often humorously self-reflexive and parodic.

Foreign-Language Film Production before 1939 The purpose of Barrandov was not only to create a central facility for Czechoslovak cinema, but also to establish Prague as a major European 5 For more on Ondra’s and Baarová’s international careers in this period, see Johnson 2016. 6 Lamač and Machatý were by far the most internationally known Czech directors of the pre-Barrandov period. For a more detailed analysis of their careers, see Johnson 2013.

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film production hub that attracted foreign investment. Thus, in their first years the studios produced several international coproduction films with German or French as the spoken language. Also, the studios were committed to the coproduction of multiple-language version (MLV) films shot in Czech and German, and to a much lesser extent in French. Although some of these foreign-language films did play in Czechoslovak cinemas, they were targeted primarily for export markets. The most notable films shot exclusively in foreign languages (without Czech-language counterparts) were Volga in Flames (Volga en flammes, 1934), The Golem (Le Golem, 1936), and Port Arthur (1936).7 With their high production values and A-level international stars and directors, these films aimed to attain a ‘European level’ of quality, thereby demonstrating Barrandov’s professional aptitude. Volga in Flames was directed by Viktor Tourjansky, who had fled the Soviet Union and established a solid career in France, while The Golem was directed by prominent French director Julien Duvivier. Both were shot exclusively in French with French stars in lead roles, although postsynchronized versions of Volga in Flames were also created in Czech and German to achieve broader international distribution.8 Port Arthur, directed by Nicolas Farkas, was shot simultaneously in both French- and German-language versions, with famous German actor Adolf Wohlbrück playing the lead role in both versions.9 Notably, all of these foreign-language productions shot at Barrandov featured a distinctive division of labor whereby the directors and the majority of the cast were exclusively foreign, but much of the production crew and perhaps some supporting actors were local Czechs. These technical positions were filled by some of the top filmmakers in Prague and included important jobs such as: camera operators (Vacláv Vich, Jan Stallich, Otto Heller, Jaroslav Tuzar); editors (Jiří Slavíček, Antonín Zelenka); production design/art direction (Štěpán Kopecký); sound (Josef Zora, Bedřich Poledník); and composer 7 Two other foreign-language films shot in Barrandov in the period before 1939 are Her Highness Dances a Waltz (Hoheit tanzt Walzer, 1935/Valse éternelle, 1936) and The Hackney Driver’s Song (Liebe im ¾ Takt aka Der letzte Wiener Fiaker, 1937). The former was made in both German and French versions, shot by the same director (Max Neufeld), but with entirely different casts. The latter was made only in a German version. These were much smaller projects and appear to have been planned as MLV projects, but Czech versions were never made. 8 Like Tourjansky, the actor Valéry Inkijinoff in Volga in Flames was also a Soviet émigré, who had made his career in French cinema. 9 Soon after the film’s release, Wohlbrück emigrated to England, where he managed a successful career under the name Anton Walbrook, most famously in the Powell and Pressburger films The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943) and The Red Shoes (1948). He later appeared in Max Ophüls’s French films La Ronde (1950) and Lola Montès (1955).

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(Otakar Jeremiáš). One of the highest positions filled by a local Czech was that of assistant director for Port Arthur, which was fulfilled by J. A. Holman, who went on to be a prominent director of both Czech and German films during the Protectorate. This production setup, in fact, foreshadows what would become the norm for film production during the Protectorate, when Barrandov became a primary producer of German-language films for the Third Reich. This foreign-domestic division of production labor also has its analogue in the many international films shot at Barrandov since the 1990s, which involve Hollywood producers and other foreign companies bringing their own directors, actors, and other creative talents to shoot in the Prague studios, where they rely on the local workforce for the more technical jobs. One of the prime vehicles that Czechoslovak cinema used to foster economic ties with its Germanic neighbors was the production of Germanlanguage versions of Czech films. These versions not only secured funding from German sources that could be used for their Czech-language counterparts, they also opened access to expansive markets in Germany and Austria. Although a few French-language films were made as part of an MLV project, the number pales in comparison with the number of German films. There were a number of factors, which lent priority to German productions, including geographical proximity between Czechoslovakia, Germany, and Austria; overlapping history and common Central European cultural traits; and the fact that – due to the recent history with Austria-Hungary – there were far more local actors that could speak German than French. Although different language versions often had completely different casts, it was far more advantageous if one or more of the lead actors could play in both versions. This was most notably the case with actor Vlasta Burian, who was involved all together in five Czech-German MLV projects, in which he performed the lead in both language versions. Likewise, the bilingual Anny Ondra performed in both Czech and German versions for three MLV projects in the 1930s, one of which saw her performing opposite Burian – Meet the Sister (On a jeho sestra/Er und seine Schwester, 1931). Other notable Czech actors who performed in both versions of Czech-German MLVs are Rolf Wanka and Walter Taub. The MLV practice had been a feature of Czechoslovak cinema since the very beginning of sound film production in the country in 1930, which saw the postsynchronization of Tonka of the Gallows (Tonka Šibenice, 1930) in German, and French, as well as Czech and the German version of the Vlasta Burian vehicle The Imperial and Royal Field Marshal (C. a k. polní maršálek/ Der falsche Feldmarschall, 1930). Czech-German MLV projects remained a consistent feature of production in Barrandov from its inception in 1933

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until 1938. Of the eighteen such MLVs made in this period, all but one were shot in Barrandov. By contrast, there were only two French-language MLV films after 1933, one of which was made in Barrandov. The studio remained involved in German MLV production until just a few months before the First Czechoslovak Republic ended with the Reich’s annexation of the Sudetenland in October 1938. Just about one year after the last Czech-German MLV was shot in Barrandov, German-language filming was resumed in the studios, but then as part of exclusively German productions under the new Protectorate administration.

Ufa in Prague In addition to MLV coproductions, the German film industry was actively involved in the production Czechoslovakian cinema in another notable area. In 1933, the same year that Barrandov Studios began operation, the local Prague subsidiary of the largest and most powerful German film company, Ufa, launched an initiative to produce Czech-language films. The German film giant undertook this endeavor as a means to contend with the quota system instituted by Czechoslovak authorities in 1932 as a protective measure for the domestic industry. The quota stipulated that German companies would be able to import five of their films for every one film they produced locally.10 Thus, the local Ufa branch, which had existed since the 1920s as an office for distributing its products in Czechoslovakia, was now compelled to produce Czech-language films in order to maintain access to the local market. Ufa created a total of fifteen Czechoslovak films between 1933 and 1940, when the Reich assumed control over all film business (both Czech and German) in Bohemia and Moravia. All but one of these was shot in the Barrandov Studios with entirely Czech casts and crews. The vast majority were comedies that included performances by top Czech comic actors such as Hugo Haas (four films) and Vlasta Burian (two films). Ufa’s engagement with Czech cinema in the 1930s marks an important, yet rarely noted point of connection between the Third Reich film industry and the Barrandov Studios that predates the Protectorate. In a sense, this turn to production on the part of Ufa’s Prague office laid the foundation for the company’s eventual takeover of the Barrandov Studios and all domestic production. In addition to establishing a strong German 10 For more on the quota system and its impact on Czechoslovak film production, see Klimeš 2011.

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presence within the Czech industry, the production activity of the Prague Ufa branch also provided an in-route for Czech talent into the German industry. For example, young actress Lída Baarová came to the attention of German producers after appearing in several of the early Ufa-Prague films and was subsequently invited to Germany in 1935 where she briefly became a leading star of Third Reich cinema until she was banned from work on German films in 1938 after her scandalous affair with Joseph Goebbels. Ufa’s production work in the 1930s also established personnel connections between the German and Czech cinema that would later be exploited during the Protectorate. Of the four directors who made Czech films for Ufa, three of them would be engaged to work on German-language productions for the Third Reich-administered Prag-Film company in the 1940s: Vladimír Slavínský, Miroslav Cikán, and Martin Frič. Likewise, many actors who appeared in these Czech-language Ufa productions were later compelled to perform in German for Prag-Film productions.

Czech Popular Film and National Identity on the Eve of Occupation This section takes a closer look at two very different films from 1937. The first of these, Three Eggs in a Glass (Tři vejce do skla, 1937),11 was produced by Ufa and was one of many successful collaborations between director Martin Frič and comic Vlasta Burian. It is a prime example of the specifically Czech iteration of the detective film genre with its overtly self-referential and cosmopolitan attitude, which situates Czechoslovakia within an international network of commerce and cultural exchange. The whimsical approach to the genre is announced immediately at the start with a title card informing the audience that this film does not aim to thrill, like the great detective stories, but merely to make them laugh. A subsequent title card declares ‘Every great nation, every great era – has its great detective’, followed by a sequence introducing three non-Czech, larger-than-life fictional detectives: Monsieur Lecoq (French), Nick Carter (American), and Sherlock Holmes (English) with text panels and filmed sequences. In the scene with Holmes, the master-detective muses, in English without Czech subtitles, whether there will be a suitable successor when he dies, leading his assistant, Dr. Watson, to declare that such a person would have to be a ‘detective, whose actions are as sharp as any knife and infallibly 11 The film’s title is sometimes translated as Three Boiled Eggs.

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lead to their intended goal’. The film then cuts to Vincenc Babočka, the Czech detective ‘hero’ of the film, whose silly behavior starkly contrasts with the cunning skills of the legendary fictional crime fighters. With these highly self-reflexive opening minutes the film succinctly sets up a comedic reading of Babočka and establishes a parodic approach to the detective genre. As was not uncommon in Czech comedies of the era, the English language has a prominent role on the film’s soundtrack. As mentioned above, English is heard in the opening moments in the film (even preceding spoken Czech on the soundtrack) as Sherlock Holmes speaks with Watson. This not only emphasizes their foreignness, but also reinforces the prominence of the English language as a generic trope. Later, a central figure known only as the ‘Maharaja of Yohir’, speaks exclusively in English, also without translation. The filmic narrative thus pays homage to its inspiration in foreign, primarily British spy novels and adventure films while also situating Czech culture firmly in a network of international travel and trade, in which English is the lingua franca. Although Babočka works for the Prague police and the film’s opening is set in the Czech capital, most of the action takes place in the spa town of Karlovy Vary, which teems with a lively cosmopolitan and multicultural vibe. A jazz ensemble and a Spanish flamenco dancer perform for the patrons of a large outdoor café. In addition to the aforementioned maharaja, there are also Russian guests at the main hotel – for whose benefit Babočka intones a humorous rendition of the folk song ‘Dark Eyes’, while masquerading as a Russian prince. One of the hotel rooms is decorated with a small statue of an Asian figure, whose nodding head inspires a comedic exchange with Babočka. The maharaja’s diamonds are protected by a cobra, which can only be soothed by the melody of a traditionally clad snake charmer’s flute, and the diamonds are purchased with a $200,000 check issued by ‘The Chemical Nation Bank of New York’. This film thus depicts this small Czech spa town as a crossroads of cosmopolitan influences and international signifiers. In another move typical for domestic Czech films taking on established, international genres, Three Eggs in a Glass also offers a somewhat selfdeprecating wink to the audience, reminding them that Czech culture is merely a tiny part of this cosmopolitan field and occupies a tenuous sort of outsider position in relation to it. This is highlighted by the fact that the Czech underdog detective Babočka cannot speak English, instead spouting a nonsensical mixture of German and Czech words intermingled with English-sounding syllables whenever forced to interact with the maharaja. Nevertheless, despite his bumbling demeanor and often superficial

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Figure 3.1. Bumbling Czech underdog detective Vincenc Babočka (Vlasta Burian) attempts to communicate with the English-speaking Maharaja. Screen capture from the DVD of Tři vejce do skla (Three Eggs in a Glass, 1937, dir. Martin Frič).

understanding of events, Babočka manages to outwit the criminals via a series of absurd plot twists and coincidences. Just as the opening sequence places this bumbling, diminutive Czech on the same level as Sherlock Holmes and other international detectives for comedic effect, the f ilm’s f inale suggests that this ‘little Czech’ is a very different kind of hero – his successes are more the result of sly trickery and good luck than steady rationality and superhuman skill. Three Eggs in a Glass is typical for the parodic mode of the crime or detective genre common in Central Europe. It reinforces the position of Czechs as players on the world stage, even if in lesser roles, who manage to succeed with their unconventional, often playful approach. This and other films from the period lay the template for later classic Czech parodies of the genre such as The End of Agent W4C (Konec agenta W4C prostřednictvím psa pana Foustky, 1967) and Adela Has Not Had Supper Yet (Adéla ještě nevečeřela, 1977). Likewise, a similar self-reflexively humorous approach can be seen in the Edgar Wallace and Sherlock Holmes adaptations that Karel Lamač made in Germany between 1931 and 1937. A starkly different f ilm from the same year, the decidedly serious Philosophical History (Filosofská historie, 1937), looks to history to reinforce

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patriotism and recall the resilience of Czechs in the face of crisis.12 This is a perfect example of a phenomenon of interwar Czech cinema that Ivan Klimeš describes as the redeployment of ‘national historical mythologies in the service of contemporary political agendas’ (Klimeš 2017, 32). The film premiered in November 1937, as the country was entering a period of crisis that culminated in the Munich Agreement in 1938 and the eventual German occupation of all of Bohemia and Moravia in 1939. Unlike the overt political allegory of the more well-known antifascist films from the same year The White Disease (Bílá nemoc, 1937) and The World Belongs to Us (Svět patří nám, 1937), which incited Nazis to protest (Hames 2005, 19), Philosophical History is more oblique in its critique of the political situation of its day. Unlike the contemporary feel of these two films, which are set in a sort of parallel present, Philosophical History depicts a fictionalized account of the events surrounding a key historical moment in the Czech National Revival – the Prague Uprising of 1848. The film was written and directed by Otakar Vávra, an auteur director who ‘doubled up’ as a popular genre filmmaker (Ostrowska et al. 2017, 10), as one of the first solo efforts for this director who would become one of the most prolific and significant Czech directors of the twentieth century. The source material for Vávra’s screenplay is the 1878 novella of the same name by Alois Jirásek, a key figure of the Czech National Revival. One of the first panels in the opening title sequence highlights the connection to the author stating: ‘Dedicated to Alois Jirásek’s immortal memory’.13 The overt invocation of Jirásek is not merely a matter of duly noting the film’s narrative source, it is a subtle call-to-arms for the Czech audience to remember the nation-building work of previous generations and to continue defending the national culture and identity in the face of current oppression. The filmmakers thus position themselves within the lineage of the Czech National Revivalists and imagine their own work as a continuation of the ongoing struggle for the nation. Just as Jirásek instrumentalized a historical moment from the early days of the National Revival to embolden his Czech readers a generation later, Vávra and his team breathed new life into Jirásek’s account to energize their contemporary citizens, as the nation once again confronted German oppression. It is not a difficult task to identify the implications of the filmic narrative for the contemporary situation of the Czech nation in the late 1930s. The plot centers on the political and romantic activity of four young male students 12 The title is sometimes translated as A Philosophical Story. 13 ‘Věnováno nesmrtelné památce autora Aloise Jiráska’.

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at the Philosophical Institute in the Bohemian town of Litomyšl before and during the revolutionary events of 1848. This period is marked by rising opposition to the Habsburg monarchy and increasing demands for more rights for the Czech nation. As depicted in the film, this led to a general confrontation between German-oriented supporters of the Austrian Empire and Czech patriots, who embraced the National Revival and sought to expand the national consciousness, primarily by promoting the Czech language.14 Both spoken Czech and German are heard on the film’s soundtrack, whereby all characters thus marked as ‘German’ are clearly identified with negative stereotypes; they are conservative and oppressive, in contrast to the progressive Czechs, who desire liberty. This conflict of identities permeates the filmic action and is a precondition for all interpersonal relationships between the characters. In addition to being the home of this now defunct philosophical school run by the Piarist order, Litomyšl is well-known as the birthplace of Bedřich Smetana, the pioneering composer of the National Revival. With his fusion of Czech folk melodies and rhythms with established European classical idioms, Smetana consciously worked toward establishing a distinctive national style and was the first to gain international recognition for serious Czech music. The film capitalizes on the synergy of nationalist energy associated with the composer and his home town by incorporating adaptations of Smetana’s song ‘Pochod studentských legií’ (‘March of the student legions’) on its soundtrack. In addition to the dedication to Jirásek, the opening titles further set the patriotic tone by overtly name-checking Smetana and highlighting that exterior location filming was done directly in Litomyšl. Like the characters in the f ilm, Smetana had also been an active revolutionary, who fought at the barricades in the streets of Prague against Habsburg forces in 1848. The film’s climactic scenes depict these moments of armed confrontation between Czech patriots and Austrian soldiers, whereby one main character is martyred to the cause – a typical generic trope for such politically charged historical films. Although made for audiences in 1937, the historical conditions depicted in Philosophical History ultimately resonate more with the situation of Czechs after the inception of the Protectorate in 1939, which saw the active suppression of patriotic sentiment and a new armed f ight for national sovereignty. In fact, the climactic sequence depicting barricades in front of the Charles Bridge eerily prefigure the barricades once again erected in 14 For more on the complex interplay of politics, language, and identity in the period of the National Revival, see Cohen 2006 and King 2005.

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Figure 3.2. Czech patriots at the barricades against the Austrian military in the streets of Prague – the climactic sequence of Philosophical History. Screen capture from the DVD of Filosofská historie (Philosophical History, 1937, dir. Otakar Vávra).

Prague streets during the uprising against the German occupiers in early May 1945 – which Vávra himself thematized a few years afterwards in Silent Barricade (Němá barikáda, 1949).

Barrandov in the Service of the Swastika The years 1937 and 1938 mark the high point of Czech film production in Prague, with forty-eight films being shot in 1937 and forty-five in 1938, the majority of which in Barrandov. However, the events of next years brought a dramatic shift to the course of film production in the studios. Since it was spared the ravages of war on the part of both Nazi forces and the Allies, Prague gradually assumed a major role in German film production during this period as ‘the preferred place for war-weary film professionals’ (Hake 2002, 67), while Czech production assumed secondary importance and drastically declined. Unlike the massive brain drain that dramatically altered the makeup of the German and Austrian film industries after the Nazi takeover, Czech

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cinema saw a high degree of continuity in terms of personnel. The duo Voskovec and Werich as well as cinematographer, editor, and experimental filmmaker Alexander Hackenschmied were compelled to leave the country on account of their leftist political activism. Director and actor Hugo Haas, cinematographer Otto Heller, and the young director Jiří Weiss also fled due to their Jewish identity. In addition, Karel Lamač went into exile in Great Britain where he and Heller made documentaries for the Allied war effort among other films. Besides these individuals, nearly all other prominent filmmakers stayed in the Protectorate and remained active in the industry. Despite the significant continuity of personnel, though, film production in Prague was undeniably altered during the occupation. Obviously, anti-German sentiment such as that displayed in Philosophical History completely vanished, while any expressions of Czech national pride became muted and more subtle. Practically any filmic adaptation of Czech classic literature, such as the 1940 version of Božena Němcová’s novel Babička (Grandmother, 1855) or the biography of nineteenth-century Czech composer František Kmoch That Was a Czech Musician (To byl cesky muzikant, 1940), was received as manifestations of patriotic sentiment, even if devoid of overt political content. Despite the wartime conditions, Prague was very much a cinema boomtown during the years of the Protectorate, albeit primarily for German film. Immediately after the occupation, the German industry began taking advantage of the modern, well equipped, and spacious studios in Barrandov, as well as the smaller studios in Hostivař and Radlice.15 Already within two months of the inception of the Protectorate, in May 1939, the Bavaria-Film AG was shooting Suspicions about Ursula (Verdacht auf Ursula, 1939)16 in Barrandov – the first in a long line of German-language films shot in Prague by German companies belonging to the Ufa-Film conglomerate. Over eighty German feature films were shot in the Prague studios or on location around the city between 1939 and 1945.17 By 1944 the so-called ‘Prague bunker’ in Barrandov was even beginning to overshadow Berlin’s Babelsberg Film Studio in terms of its importance for the Reich’s film production (Kreimeier 1996, 338–339). When Goebbels visited Barrandov in November 1944 he 15 For a more details overview of the structural and organizational measures implemented by the Protectorate authorities, see Klimeš 2011, 116–125. 16 In Deutsche Tonfilme, Ulrich Klaus (1988–2006) lists the specif ic date of production as beginning on 19 May. 17 According to the information offered by Ulrich Klaus (1988–2006) in Deutsche Tonfilme, a total of eighty-five German films were shot in Prague between 1939 and 1945. This does not include productions underway in the studios at the end of the war, which were never completed.

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declared Prague a ‘German film metropolis of the future’ (Kreimeier 1996, 339). Meanwhile, as German-language production in Prague steadily increased, Czech-language production experienced rapid decline, as German films were given priority in the allotment of Prague studio space. While 1939 and 1940 marked a period of intense transition in which production numbers were still relatively high, 1941–1945 saw the lowest annual numbers of Czech films since World War I. The average number of Czech productions in this period was around ten, while 1943 only produced eight films.18 This was all part of the general strategy of the Nazi administration to cultivate Prague as a German film capital, while also gradually suppressing the local Czech culture, with the eventual goal of ‘Germanizing’ the region. Eva Fools Around (Eva troupí hlouposti, 1939) premiered on 10 November 1939, during the period of transition between Czech autonomy and the full takeover of Barrandov by the German industry in 1941. This ‘crazy comedy’ (‘bláznivá komedie’), directed by Martin Frič, is one of the highlights of Barrandov’s output during its first fifteen years. The title role is performed by Nataša Gollová in one of her first starring roles. Gollová masterfully holds her own against seasoned comedy performers such as Oldřich Nový, who plays Eva’s brother Michal. The film’s simple plot serves rather as a basic framework for the construction of a series of comedic situations than as a foundation for narrative depth or character development. The film employs many staples of physical humor from the slapstick genre – characters slamming their heads into doors, falling down stairs, and wantonly destroying everyday objects (cars, flowerbeds, vases, etc.) – and features many moments of nonsensical dialogue. Furthermore, the caricature of the upper class and motif of masquerading identities as various characters sneak around a mansion are reminiscent of the films of the Marx Brothers (notably Animal Crackers and Duck Soup) and other absurdist Hollywood comedies of the period. The influence of Hollywood is also evident in the film’s heavy use of spoken English, when Michal assumes the identity of an English count named ‘John Camel’ in the effort to impress the mother of his love interest. As in Three Eggs in a Glass, the language is used here to comedic effect, when Michal, who cannot actually speak English beyond a few phrases, attempts to pull off this masquerade. In contrast to the Burian film, though, the 18 According to Urbanová and Urgošíková (1998), the annual numbers of Czech-language films during the years of the Protectorate are as follows – 1939: 39; 1940: 32; 1941: 19; 1942: 11; 1943: 8; 1944: 10; 1945: 2.

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imperfect intonation of English here is aimed less at mocking the shortcomings of the speaker than the class-obsessed mother, who places such high esteem in the character’s purported aristocracy, without realizing that his words are pure nonsense. This also taps into another common trope of Czech film of the 1930s: the ‘rich American uncle/friend’, who returns to Prague, serving as the catalyst for a series of schemes to gain access to his fortune.19 Although the character in Eva Fools Around is marked as British, the American association is still present in his assumed surname ‘Camel’ inspired by a package of the US-made cigarettes seen as he struggled to come up with a moniker. In addition, the film’s score is comprised of breezy, American-style jazz numbers that evoke the swinging optimism of the interwar period in Czechoslovakia, far removed from the new reality under the Third Reich at the dawn of World War II. Thus, despite the changed conditions of the German occupation, the film displays strong continuity with many prewar movies that sought to establish a space for Czech identity on the cosmopolitan (often English-speaking) world stage. Under the Protectorate, Martin Frič continued to be one of the most prolific directors in Barrandov. Likewise, Vladimír Slavínský and Miroslav Cikán remained reliable creators of light genre entertainment as before 1939, while Otakar Vávra created some of his best remembered social dramas during this period, including The Magic House (Kouzelný dům, 1939), May Fairy Tale (Pohádka máje, 1940) and Turbine (Turbina, 1941). Meanwhile, newcomers František Čáp and J. A. Holman achieved the pinnacle of their careers with a number of films acclaimed for their artistic qualities. In addition to the aforementioned Grandmother, Čáp directed the rural romance Jan Cimbura (1941) and the erotically charged drama Nocturnal Butterfly (Noční motýl, 1941), which was lauded at the Venice Film Festival. Holman gained much attention in the 1940s for his psychological melodramas The Blue Veil (Modrý závoj, 1941) and The Glove (Rukavička, 1941), as well as the social drama Big Dam (Velká přehrada, 1942). Although there is a strong sense of continuity in Czech cinema prior to 1939 and under the Protectorate, especially in popular entertainment genres, there is one visual element that marks a clear divide between films made before and after the German occupation. In many post-1939 Czech films the mise-en-scène features public signage written bilingually – in both Czech and German. Examples range from large boards marking construction sites (Big Dam, The Blue Veil), to the names of towns on train station platform 19 Other prominent films that employ this trope include Don’t Make Grandpa Angry (Nezlobte dědečka, 1934) and Forbidden Love (Milování zakázáno, 1938).

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Figure 3.3. Bilingual (German and Czech) advertisement for a paper store from the film Skill of Gold. Screen capture from the DVD of Zlaté dno (Skill of Gold, 1943, dir. Vladimír Slavínský).

displays (Station Master [Přednosta stanice, 1941]), to signs promoting businesses on city streets (Skill of Gold [Zlaté dno, 1943], The Glove), to warnings on office doors that ‘entrance is forbidden’ or that hospital hallways must remain silent (The Blue Veil). Although the spoken language is Czech and personal communications such as letters and telegrams are seen purely in Czech, public space is conspicuously marked as a hybrid Czech-German cultural-linguistic environment. This subtle attribute of filmic mise-en-scène mirrors the transformation that was occurring in the real world outside the cinemas, as the Protectorate administration enforced the return to dual-language public signage that had been a feature of Bohemian and Moravian public life under the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The opening sequence of Vávra’s postwar film Silent Barricade visually emphasizes the end of the Protectorate with scenes of shop owners painting over the German words on their storefronts and other public markers in German language being ripped down. The images of written German recorded in the films of the period, however, linger on as a linguistic stamp that serves as a subtle, albeit clear reminder of the conditions in which they were made. Nocturnal Butterfly and The Blue Veil are also particularly noteworthy, because both were singled out for postsynchronous German dubbing

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and distribution in Reich cinemas. The former premiered in Germany in March 1943 under the title Nachtfalter, while the latter did not appear in German cinemas until September 1944 under the name Der blaue Schleier. Both were distributed as essentially German films, rather than overdubbed Czech products. With Nachtfalter, the Czech actresses Hana Vítová and Adina Mandlová were identified in the titles and distribution materials by the newly adopted pseudonyms Hanna Witt and Lil Adina, respectively. These Germanized stage names were intended to mask the actresses’ Slavic origins in order to facilitate their assimilation into German cinema. While both actresses still performed under their regular names in Czech-language films, they were known in German cinema exclusively by these new monikers. In addition to this dubbed feature, both played roles in films shot exclusively in German: ‘Lil Adina’ in the Terra-Film production I Entrust My Wife to You (Ich vertraue dir meine Frau an, 1943) opposite Heinz Rühmann; and ‘Hanna Witt’ in Friends (Freunde, 1945), a Wien-Film production shot in Barrandov, and The Second Shot (Der zweite Schuss, 1943), which was produced under the banner of the Protectorate’s new company, Prag-Film. Prag-Film was the entity that oversaw and administered all German film production in the city. The production company came into being on 21 November 1941, when the Nazi administration announced the official rechristening of ‘AB-Filmfabrikations AG’ as ‘Prag-Film AG’ after it had gained full control over Miloš Havel’s former company and the Barrandov Studios.20 While the entity primarily organized studio space and local film crews for German companies shooting in Prague, it also produced a number of German-language films during its few years of existence, which was brought to an end when the Protectorate collapsed. The company made a total of twelve films between 1942 and 1944, with two films left incomplete as German film personnel fled Prague in the spring of 1945. All but four of these films were shot in the Barrandov Studios.21 As stated earlier many directors who had previously shot films with Ufa in the 1930s returned to German-language production under the aegis of Prag-Film: Martin Frič, Miroslav Cikán, and Vladimír Slavínský each directed two films with the company. In addition, the young J. A. Holman was entrusted with directing the very first Prag-Film production, Love, Passion, and Suffering (Liebe, Leidenschaft und Leid, 1943). Although Prag-Film movies typically featured 20 Eventually, the other two Prague studios (in Radlice and in Hostivař) also came under aegis of Prag-Film. 21 Liebe, Leidenschaft und Leid; Himmel, wir erben ein Schloss!, Die Jungfern vom Bischofsberg, and Das schwarze Schaf were all shot in the Hostivař studios.

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German and Austrian actors in all the main speaking roles, the company also engaged local Czech actors to play small parts and in some cases starring roles. Notably, it was only female Czechs who garnered the most important parts, namely Hana Vitová, Nataša Gollová, Anny Ondraková – who had starring roles in one feature each – and Zita Kabátová – who performed supporting roles in two films. Male actors Bedřich Veverka and Raoul Schranil also played very minor parts in one film each. With the exceptions of Ondraková and Kabátová, all of these actors had worked on Czech-language Ufa films in the 1930s. As with Vitová and Mandlová, described above, all Czech filmmakers – except for Holman and Ondraková, who appeared under her already established international name Ondra – were forced to assume Germanized pseudonyms for their work with Prag-Film. Thus: Martin Frič became Martin Fritsch, Miroslav Cikán – Friedrich Zittau, Vladimír Slavínský – Otto Pittermann, Nataša Gollová – Ada Goll, and Zita Kabátová – Maria von Buchlow. This process of renaming demonstrates the Reich’s motives to appropriate local talent for the German film industry, while simultaneously whitewashing all traces of Czechness attached to these individuals. Prague and all of Bohemia and Moravia were being imagined as reclaimed Germanic territory, whose inhabitants needed to be integrated into the body of the Reich, or eliminated. Thus, iterations of Slavic identity and language were being actively sidelined and slowly covered up – a process that is clearly evident in the local film industry.

After the War: Nationalization, Retribution, and Reflection With German forces gone, Czechs regained sovereign control over the film industry, although in a radically different form than before the Protectorate. Within a few months of liberation, on 11 August 1945, the film industry became centralized under the control of the reinstated Czechoslovak government. The newly nationalized cinema would receive operation funds directly from the state. This unshackling of the industry from free market concerns marked a shift away from the production of mere entertainment and popular genres towards more culturally and artistically relevant films. Since the state now held the money purse for film production, this also meant that it had direct control over what types of films would be made. This would have serious implications for the industry after the putsch of February 1948, after which the Communist Party became the sole voice in state government, thereby subjugating all Czechoslovak film production to strict socialist doctrine.

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The body of filmmaking personnel in the state also experienced radical changes, which altered the nature of the industry even more than the imposition of the German Protectorate had. Immediately after the war, many of Czech cinema’s leading stars and directors who were active during the Protectorate came under intense scrutiny and accusations of collaboration with the Nazis. This persecution intensified after 1948 as the communists used these accusations as a tool to eliminate opposition. The actresses Mandlová and Baarová as well as the directors Čap and Holman all emigrated from Czechoslovakia due to the persecution against them. Gollová, Vitová, and Burian all remained, but their reputations were irreparably damaged and their film activity became extremely limited. Miloš Havel’s successful attempt to flee the country in 1952 signified the final symbolic end to the Barrandov’s first decade and a half of existence.22 Of those filmmakers who fled the Nazi occupation in 1939, very few returned to their homeland after the war – the primary exceptions being comedian Jan Werich and director Jiří Weiss, who both maintained solid careers in the new communist Czechoslovakia. In 1947 Weiss directed one of the first feature films to thematize the recent events of the war, The Stolen Frontier (Uloupená hranice), which depicts the German infiltration of a Czech-speaking town in the Sudetenland in 1938. That same year another film presented a humorous take on life under the German occupation. Nobody Knows Anything (Nikdo nic neví, 1947), directed by Josef Mach, was a slapstick comedy about a Nazi SA soldier, who accidentally dies during a struggle with a Czech woman, and the high jinks of a bumbling pair of tram drivers who try to help her get rid of the body. Both Weiss and Mach were relative newcomers as Czech feature film directors. Before emigrating to Britain, Weiss had only worked on short documentaries. Mach was active during the Protectorate primarily as scriptwriter and directing assistant; Nobody Knows Anything was only his second directing effort. With so many former directors emigrated or discredited, young directors such as these would primarily define the national cinema of the postwar years. Although Frič and Cikán remained productive into the 1960s, Vávra was the most important director of the previous generation to indelibly put his stamp on Czechoslovak cinema of the communist period. His 1948 film Silent Barricade adopts a similar patriotic mode as Philosophical History in its depiction of recent history as a response to contemporary conditions. What is notably different here is the film’s overt political agenda in mythologizing the role of the communist movement in liberating Prague from German 22 For more on Havel’s postwar persecution, see the chapter by Dvořáková in this volume.

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domination and thereby legitimizing the new political regime – a mode of state-serving filmmaking that would permeate Vávra’s later career and much of Czechoslovak cinema in the subsequent decades. The end of World War II also marked the end of Germany’s influential role in Czechoslovak cinema. The forced expulsion of ethnic German citizens between 1945 and 1948 effectively eliminated their presence in the country, reducing the prewar population of over three million to just a few thousand. Consequently, Czech-German bilingualism gradually disappeared from the state. Furthermore, the collapse of the German industry and the division of Germany and Austria into zones of occupation – and later two distinct countries in the case of Germany – together with the generally insular nature of industry in the socialist states meant that interactions between German-Austrians and Czechoslovaks were minimal moving forward. Although the Protectorate imposed drastic structural and political changes to operational procedures, in its f irst f ifteen years Barrandov displayed a high degree of continuity in terms of its filmmaking personnel and the content of the genre films it produced. In a certain sense, the occupation can be understood as merely intensifying the role of the German industry that was already quite prominent in Czech film production, e.g., in coproductions of German-language MLVs and the Czech-language Ufa productions. Furthermore, although the Germans controlled the studios, Havel remained a figure of great influence on the day-to-day business and general nature of production. The events between 1945 and 1948 signified a much more drastic break in continuity, due in no small part to the state control of the industry and the persecution of leading filmmakers. Notably, the state of affairs in Barrandov after 1989/1993 saw the return of many features that def ined the studios in their f irst f ifteen years: a reliance on foreign investment to sustain a national cinema in crisis, increased production of popular entertainment genres, and international companies utilizing the studios and local labor to create films in foreign languages aimed primarily at audiences outside of the country.

Bibliography Cohen, Gary B. The Politics of Ethnic Survival: Germans in Prague, 1861–1914. 2nd ed. West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 2006. Frič, Martin, dir. Tři vejce do skla [Three Eggs in a Glass]. Filmexport Home Video, 2005. DVD. Hake, Sabine. German National Cinema. London and New York: Routledge, 2002.

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Hames, Peter. The Czechoslovak New Wave. 2nd ed. New York: Wallflower Press, 2005. Johnson, Kevin. ‘Central European Accents: Gustav Machatý, Karel Lamač, and German Cinema’. Iluminace 25, no. 4 (2013): 41–61. Johnson, Kevin. ‘Foreign Attractions: Czech Stars and Ethnic Masquerade’. In Continuity and Crisis in German Cinema, 1928–1936, edited by Barbara Hales, Mihaela Petrescu, and Valerie Weinstein, 210–229. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2016. King, Jeremy. Budweisers into Czechs and Germans: A Local History of Bohemian Politics, 1848–1948. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005. Klaus, Ulrich. Deutsche Tonfilme – Lexikon der Abendfüllenden deutschprachigen Spielfilme (1929–1945). 15 vols. Berlin: Ulrich J Klaus Verlag, 1988–2006. Klimeš, Ivan. ‘Czech Historical Film and Historical Traditions: The Merry Wives (1938)’. In Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe: Film Cultures and Histories, edited by Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, and Zsuzsanna Varga, 31–46. London and New York: I. B. Tauris, 2017. Klimeš, Ivan. ‘A Dangerous Neighbourhood: German Cinema in the Czechoslovak Region, 1933–45’. In Cinema and the Swastika: The International Expansion of Third Reich Cinema, edited by Roel Vande Winkel and David Welch, 2nd rev. ed., 112–129. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Kreimeier, Klaus. The Ufa Story. New York: Hill and Wang, 1996. Liehm, Mira, and Antonín Liehm. The Most Important Art: Soviet and Eastern European Film after 1945. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977. Ostrowska, Dorota, Francesco Pitassio, and Zsuzsanna Varga, eds. Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe: Film Cultures and Histories. London and New York: I. B. Tauris, 2017. Škvorecký, Josef. All the Bright Young Men and Women: A Personal History of the Czech Cinema. Toronto: Peter Martin Associates, 1971. Slavínský, Vladimír, dir. Zlaté dno [Skill of Gold]. Prague: Filmexport Home Video, 2006. DVD. Urbanová, Eva, and Blažena Urgošíková, eds. Český hraný film II, 1930–1945/Czech Feature Film II, 1930–1945. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 1998. Vávra, Otakar, dir. Filosofská historie [Philosophical History]. Prague: Filmexport Home Video, 2014. DVD.

About the Author Kevin B. Johnson currently resides in Prague, Czech Republic, where he is Academic Director for CET study abroad programs in the city, including a film production program at FAMU. He specializes in Central European

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cinema, culture, and literature of the twentieth century, with particular attention to points of intersection between Czech and German culture. He has published several articles on Czech and German cinema of the 1930s and 1940s, including ‘Central European Accents: Gustav Machatý, Karel Lamač, and German Cinema’ (in Iluminace: Journal for Film Theory, History, and Aesthetics) and ‘Foreign Attractions: Czech Stars and Ethnic Masquerade’ (in Hales, Petrescu, and Weinstein, eds., Continuity and Crisis in German Cinema 1928–1936). In addition, he was primary translator (from Czech and German) for Anděl and Szczepanik, eds., Cinema All the Time: An Anthology of Czech Film Theory and Criticism, 1908–1939 (2008).

II Production History

4. Industrial Authorship and Group Style in Czech Cinemaof the 1950s and 1960s Petr Szczepanik

Abstract: The chapter discusses the conditions for group-based creativity and style in the state-socialist production system of Czechoslovakia in the second half of the 1950s and in the 1960s. It describes the manner in which collaborative creative activities were organized under a regime which designated the state as the sole official producer. It also looks at the way informal social networks allowed distinct group styles to take shape. The chapter draws on recent theoretical discussions of group style and authorship as well as on the author’s previous work, on what he calls the ‘state-socialist mode of film production’, which comprises management hierarchies and a division of labor and work practices. Keywords: Czech film production in the 1950s, Czech New Wave, statesocialist mode of production, industrial authorship, group style

Film history has always given priority to individual filmmakers and films, or to sorting them into different genres and movements. In the past thirty years, however, it has expanded its scope to a number of contexts: industrial, socio-cultural, and political conditions of the functioning of cinema as a complex institution. But one aspect remains surprisingly ignored, perhaps because it lies between these two research frameworks, i.e., between the individual creator and the institution: the fact that films are not thought up and made by isolated individuals, nor by nations, nor by companies, but rather by particular groups or networks of coworkers. In the film industry, however, we will find different types of groups and group work. A small team (a producer, screenwriter, director, and sometimes a script editor) can develop a project for several years. Then, a relatively large crew from ten to hundreds of members shoots the film at a rapid

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch04

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pace. In the final postproduction stage, the team is once again smaller, and is concentrated around the director, editor, and producer (including sound designers, special effects creators, and so on). It is possible to work on a small independent film in a more egalitarian, almost familial manner, while global networks of large-scale Hollywood productions are characterized by a strict hierarchy and can include subteams from different continents that never meet in person. Groups also vary in the length of their existence: project-based networks break up as soon as a film is completed (DeFillippi and Arthur 1998); at the same time, smaller informal groups of more or less permanent collaborators can operate within these networks, usually centered around important members or department heads (director of photography, production designer, etc.), traveling like journeymen with the supervisor from one project to another (Blair 2001). Under the surface of bureaucratic, top-down crew management, even the rigid state-socialist production system (Szczepanik 2013c) that developed in Czechoslovakia at the turn of the 1940s and 1950s to some extent tolerated the existence of informal networks of collaborators associated by generational and sociocultural proximity, long-term trust, and understanding. Time and time again informal ties have proved to lead to better results than those ties enforced from above, and that personal antipathy can bury even the very best planned and checked project. Film historiography has not yet asked even the most fundamental questions about groups and networks: How are they formed? What types of roles and relationships determine their internal functioning? What is their standing in wider institutional structures? How do they change over time? And, ultimately, the most difficult: How does their style of work influence the style of the resulting films? Answering these questions could lead to a deeper understanding of one of the most enduring problems of film history: What is the relationship between art and industry, between the product and production conditions, and between the text and the context of its origin? Film history seen through the prism of groups helps us to redefine authorship and style as mediated by specific systems of collaboration characterized by more or less formal, hierarchical, enduring, and dense social relationships. Such a relational approach centered on collaborative practice conceives authorship and style not only as formal or thematic features of cinematic works, but also as a set of shared practices and beliefs of those who produce them in a specific industrial and social context. And precisely this second, less visible aspect of authorship and style is the subject of this chapter, which examines the conditions and social processes of the emergence of authorship and style under specific historical conditions – in the period of gradual

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decentralization, after the establishment of so-called ‘creative units’.1 Ideally, the chapter would be conceived as a revisionist contextualization of a more traditionally conceived formal analysis of a representative sample of Czech films from the 1950s and 1960s.2 Since such an analysis does not yet exist, my work does not proceed based on empirically documented stylistic norms and conventions (whose social conditions and processes I would describe later), but simply on preliminary working categories of group styles. I have derived these categories primarily from period discourse, especially declarations of key parties, i.e., functionaries of the state-run studios on the one hand, and filmmakers on the other, and secondarily from film criticism and film-historical literature. The following two sections briefly summarize the main points of theoretical debates on the topic from the last thirty years (largely focused on American and British cinema), which can serve the analyses of industrial authorship and group styles of Czech films of the 1950s and 1960s: the issue of authorial positions and authority over the text; the role of producer as a facilitator of authorship (rather than an author in the usual sense); and finally the question of the relationship between production practices and stylistic norms. The subsequent descriptive-analytical section applies these three theoretical frameworks of thinking about group creativity to the development of ‘creative units’ after 1955. I will ask the question: Who was the key initiator or facilitator of authorship and style in the individual stages of their development (more on the term ‘facilitation’ below)? As the field of film production gradually began to break free from the direct influence of the field of political power, these positions shifted from the level of top management of the nationalized film industry to the level of units and their leaders; in parallel with this, the role of competition within the professional community and the resulting differentiation of creative practices have become stronger. Creating conditions for a group style, however, did not necessarily mean its actual creation – a group style formed around some creative units and informal networks of coworkers, but not around others (specific reasons would have to be explored in a separate comparative work). In contrast, ‘industrial authorship’ was a status given by the possession of authority to assign authorial positions, or due to a permanent property of the nationalized film industry or its production division. 1 For the phenomenon of ‘units’ and their role in the ‘state-socialist mode of production’, see Szczepanik 2013c. 2 Time specification: the core of my research, which this chapter is based on, concerns the years 1954 to 1962.

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‘Genius of the System’: Industrial Authorship Recent discussions about authorship as group collaboration may have rejected the romanticizing perception of (selected) films as self-expression of authorial personalities (i.e., of their directors), however, they still remain quite distant from the real industrial context of film production and betray an adherence to traditional concepts of artists and works (Gaut 1997; Carringer 2001; Sellors 2007; Stollery 2009). Indeed, in the studio system, struggles for meaning and authorial power take place largely before the production teams even meet, and long after they have been dissolved. The responsibility for planning, approval, as well as the structure and composition of the teams themselves, goes far beyond the control of a narrow core of key creators. So we are not only presented with the question of the plurality of authorial positions, but also the chronological sequence of individual authorial acts and power influences within a broader institutional framework. This question was first posed by television theorist Jonathan Gray in his study ‘When Is the Author?’ where, building on the poststructuralist concept of text as a never-ending signifying process, he formulated the concept of a neverending authorship process (Gray 2013). Authorship is no longer limited to the one-off physical production of a text as a final work. Instead, it develops at all stages of the work’s ‘life cycle’, including circulation, interpretation, and rewriting in a variety of contexts. Gray attributes the position of ‘author’ to all those who have sufficient authority to give a text certain meanings and functions. The position of ‘author’ is thus grouped together into ‘clusters’ which can mutually interact and refute each other. At the same time, Gray asks: Who gives these clusters of authorial positions their authority over the text? and Who restricts or entirely denies them that authority? How can participants in certain institutional frameworks claim, take, cumulate, share, and transfer authority? Put simply, Gray understands authorship through the relationships of power: as the ‘management’ of authority over a text. Both steps of Gray’s theoretical reasoning can well serve the understanding of industrial authorship in the state-socialist mode of production: they make it possible to shift the emphasis from works themselves to the conditions of their creation, and from authors in the narrower sense to those who give them their authority and who are ultimately responsible for ‘managing’ that authority. The purpose of this chapter is not to blur and relativize the concept of authorship, or even to reject the privileged role of the director (the influential position of directors was a constant of Czech cinema from the 1920s to the early 1990s), but rather to formulate historically specific

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concepts of industrial authorship that correspond to the characteristics of the state-socialist mode of production. The question of the ‘authorship’ share of the state institution (the nationalized film industry and its political supervisors) and of the organizational units to which the state-producer delegated creative decision-making must logically play an important role. Industrial authorship in Czech cinema of the late Stalinist era (1948–1953) had a different structure and dynamics than authorship after 1954, because the relationship between filmmakers and political power changed. It changed because the middle management level, i.e., so-called creative units (CU), was restored within the structural vacuum which had been created between the state-producer and creators due to centralization after the coup of February 1948. These creative units played the role of ‘subproducers’, actually or seemingly fulfilling the aims of the producerstate through chief ‘dramaturges’ (script advisors or editors)3 and heads of production, who further delegated partial creative decisions to ordinary unit dramaturges, screenwriters, directors, and film crews. 4 This chapter focuses on the authorship share of the chief dramaturges and heads of the newly created creative units. Although the idea of the producer or even the studio itself as an author, and the related discussions on institutional or industrial authorship are in direct contradiction with traditional auteur criticism (which considers the producer, representing the studio’s economic interests, to be the main opponent of the auteur-director), they are not new. These ideas and discussions have already appeared in a range of works about the strong producer personalities of classic Hollywood (Schatz 1988), and they also increasingly concentrate on the use authorship in marketing (Tzioumakis 2006) and in television series creation, where ‘showrunners’ can play the role of initiators and ‘brands’, backed by a team of several executive producers and screenwriters.5 In a study with the somewhat misleading title ‘The Producer as Auteur’ Matthew Bernstein demonstrates that if we want to expand the question of the authorship of producers beyond a narrow group of exceptional personalities such as David O. Selznick, Walt Disney, or Val Lewton, we will have to reformulate the traditional concept of the 3 For the concept of ‘dramaturgy’ and the crucial role of dramaturges and dramaturgical planning in the state-socialist mode of production, see Szczepanik 2013c. 4 The degree of producer power in units changed over the history of the state-socialist mode of production; units from 1945 to 1948 and from 1962 to 1969 most closely resembled producer units. 5 Fragmentation of authorship, reinforced by the systemically marginalized position of the director, is particularly evident in transmedia projects such as Lost (Mann 2009).

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auteur (Bernstein 2008). Instead of personal visual style and sensibility, it should refer to a style of negotiation, a balancing of opposing forces, and a combination of economic and creative resources. Producers did not usually seek authorial self-expression in the usual sense, but, within the institutionally given bounds, they encouraged their collaborators to give unique authorial performances. They acted rather as ‘facilitators’, supporters of an authorial vision, than as their direct creators.6 This does not mean, however, that producers can be described a priori as selfless nurturers of authorial talents. As Thomas Schatz points out in his frequently cited observation: ‘studio filmmaking was less a process of collaboration than of negotiation and struggle ‒ occasionally approaching armed conflict’ (Schatz 1988, 12). Although enlightened producers allowed authorial self-expression (as a variation of the institutional authorship of the studio), that does not mean that they would cease to defend corporate interests: their primary function was to ‘translat[e] fiscal policy into filmmaking practice’ (Schatz 1988, 12). Post-Stalin decentralization and liberalization reforms reopened space for a type of authorial control over a text that was simply not possible in the preceding six years. The structurally given possibility of a new type of authorship, however, did not mean its automatic fulfillment ‒ this could only happen through coordination between specific participants equipped with the appropriate motivation, habit, and position within the production community.

Group Style and Style ‘in the Making’ If traditional auteur criticism measured the value of artistic vision primarily by the courage and consistency of personal style (particularly in the field of so-called mise-en-scène), then we must ask ourselves what the relationship between industrial authorship and style is ‒ in this case it is logically not a personal style, but rather a group style or ‘house style’. Awareness of the ‘corporate art’ (Christensen 2008) of individual Hollywood studios has, of course, been shared by contemporary commentators since the 1930s, but the notion of group film style only came to the center of research attention under 6 Reflections on the institutional authorship of the state cultural policy also appear in literature, partly in a negative sense: films that have undergone the process of applying for public aid bear its traces of institutional authorship, which may complicate their status as works of art and goods on the market.

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the influence of David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson’s The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style & Mode of Production to 1960 (1985). In the book, Bordwell et al. attempt to describe the classical Hollywood film in its ‘standard’, conventional manifestations, and not through the prism of exceptional authorial personalities, as auteur criticism did in the 1950s and 1960s. Janet Staiger then introduces the stylistic and narrative standards of classic Hollywood film into a mutual relationship with the principles of the Hollywood mode of production, especially with the development of the division of labor, which helped to introduce and maintain stylistic standards, but which was also influenced by their own development. This chapter does not intend to construct a model of a ‘classical’ Czech film of the 1950s,7 but rather of the industrial and social conditions which paved the way for the emergence of two distinct group styles shaped through mutual differentiation and competition against the backdrop of receding socialist realism of the early 1950s. This set of conditions cannot be understood simply as determinants for the development of new stylistic standards. Put more precisely, the production system evolved in interaction with changing stylistic standards. As the demand for increased quantity and quality of films grew stronger at the end of a profound film production crisis in the f irst half of the 1950s, and as the f ield of f ilm production became partially emancipated from central political power, the autonomous dynamics of a generational exchange and the related departures from existing standards, as described in the sociology of art, began to reappear (Bourdieu 1996). The effects of such deviations could be realist (for example, by shifting towards the urban periphery and social outsider characters), aesthetic (lyrical camera in the films of Vojtěch Jasný or Karel Kachyňa) or genre-forming (a wave of socio-critical satire or musical genres). The tension that was transferred back to the production community and everyday creative practice with this emerging aesthetic change called for further adjustments to institutional conditions: more flexible dramaturgical supervision, quicker approval and, above all, decentralization of the creative work management system, so that directors or screenwriters could join forces with dramaturges and production managers with similar tastes and personal leanings, to help them realize their visions. Changes 7 This was attempted by Zdena Škapová, who, however, considers the principle of pre-New Wave classicism of the second half of the 1950s to be valid a priori and looks at the whole corpus of contemporary production from a homogenizing and reductive perspective (her sample consists of only eight films selected on the assumption that they do not show ‘excessive concessions to contemporary schematism’) (Škapová 2002, 11–44).

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in stylistic and narrative standards were not, therefore, unidirectionally determined by the reorganization of studio production from above: group styles and production systems interacted in a ‘circular’ fashion, as Staiger writes (Bordwell et al. 1985, 90). Unlike the paradigm of classic Hollywood cinema, the group styles of Czech cinema of the 1950s (we should speak about them in plural form) formed as less coherent, less stable, and lasting trends. Their volatility was the result of several structural and developmental factors that have characterized the Czech production system since at least the 1930s: a small, import-dependent national market and an industrial base; a lower degree of autonomy in the field of film production with respect to political power; and, finally, the hybrid nature of production practice and stylistic traditions contingent on the two previous factors (Szczepanik 2009, 2016). The last factor includes a partial imitation of the German industrial model (cartelization, state subsidies for domestic production, the idea of ‘central dramaturgy’) and, after the war, Soviet cinema (centralization following the example of heavy industry); adaptation of conventions and sources of Czech popular literature and theater, partly based on the traditions of Austrian-German popular culture8; to a lesser extent, attempts at sociocritical or lyrical films with a delay imitating the progressive currents of European cinema; after the war, there were also the implanted dogmas of Andrei Zhdanov’s aesthetics. The group styles of the 1950s and 1960s were therefore more embryonic in nature: they were shaped partly as successors of these fragmented and interrupted traditions, and partly as short-lived trends, strongly conditioned by historical circumstances, lasting just a few years. Drawing on my conception of the state-socialist mode of production, the following sections of this chapter outlines the social and industrial conditions of the formation of these group styles. It analyzes style-creating institutionalized practices, production preconditions of the ‘revisionist’ films of the 1950s and the Czech New Wave of the 1960s, and the social spawn for innovation at the group style level – that is, a style ‘in the making’ before it materializes into formal properties of finished films.

8 Jaroslav Boček attempted to capture some genre traditions from the 1910s to the 1930s that persisted in Czech film until at least the 1950s and 1960s and which showed ‘a not only territorial, but also mental Austro-Hungarian birth certificate’ (especially ‘pseudo-folk comedies’) in a journalistic nutshell in the study called ‘Traditions of Pre-War Film and the Postwar Czechoslovak Cinema’ (Boček 1968, 138–146).

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Group Creativity in the State-Socialist Mode of Production The specificity of group creativity in Czech film of the 1950s stems primarily from the very nature of the state-socialist mode of production. Within this mode of production, the only legitimate producer was the state and its representatives among cultural policymakers as well as in the management of nationalized cinema. After experimenting with absolute central control, they found that in order to maintain viable film production, they had to delegate supervision of everyday creative work to hands-on middle managers, to the benefit of whom they actually gave up part of their power. The task of these ‘subproducers’ was to mediate between heteronomous political power and the production community. They alone had sufficient social and cultural capital to counterbalance central control with a necessary degree of creative freedom that they assigned to screenwriters, directors, and their crews. To a large extent, they worked in a similar manner to the presidents of production in private production companies before 1945. They knew that without (limited) creative freedom and risk-taking, it would not be possible to achieve continuous differentiation and innovation as a precondition for success in any cultural industry (Hesmondhalgh 2002, 17–22). They also gradually discovered that if they wanted to succeed in the eyes of the strategic management, the professional community of filmmakers and the audience, they would need to develop efficient tactics; these tactics included selective concealment of information and various evasive maneuvers on the one hand, and a soft and distributed form of control on the other. In the first phase of their post-Stalinist renaissance, these tactical managers, i.e., the ‘creative units’, followed on from the ‘production units’ of 1945 to 1948. Former ‘capitalist producers’ of the era of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia and the later heads of the postwar ‘production units’, Karel Feix and Zdeněk Reimann were appointed the first heads of these restored units. In the period between the re-establishment of the units in 1955 and the next, even more radical decentralization in 1962 (which, in literature, is inaccurately considered to be a one-off organizational step which opened up space for the arrival of the so-called ‘New Wave’ generation [see, e.g., Lukeš 2013, 113]), the basis of group collaboration was shaped; without it, the Czech New Wave as we know it would not have come to be. This new mode of group creativity can be considered a key set of social conditions that allowed for differentiation between group and individual styles, therefore giving modern Czech cinema its characteristic face. From a developmental perspective, what I call group creativity here also covers social a priori of group styles of the second half on the 1950s and the 1960s, i.e., a set of

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conditions in the stage at which the first revisionist tendencies of Czech film after 1945 were just forming. In literature, this is termed ‘the first antischematic initiative’ (Žalman 1993, 10), ‘the ur-wave’ (Škvorecký 2010, 43–62) or ‘the first wave’ (Hames 2005, 29), which was closely associated with the ‘generation of 1956’ (Liehm 2001, 166.), or, rather, 1957 (Boček 1968, 189–197) ‒ understood in all cases in a teleological sense as a precursor to the more successful Czech New Wave of the 1960s. In order to properly assess the benefits of the renewed units, we have to remember the atmosphere of alienation from the Stalinist period, which prevented filmmakers from building social ties in terms of group belonging and long-term creative collaboration. This is illustrated by period testimonies of frustrated directors who were unable to work on their dream projects. Feelings of extreme isolation and a lack of opportunities and feedback were repeatedly expressed, for example, by Jiří Krejčík. In 1951, he complained about the difficulty of setting up teams with the creative staff of the Czechoslovak State Film organization, where young directors in particular were forced to accept arbitrarily selected crew members who were ‘incompetent’ and who none of the more established directors wanted; at the same time, he boldly compared the practice of the canceled production units from the pre-1948 period to the existing central management: For some time now I have been missing cooperation with a team of creative people who would help me to deal with even the most complex creative problems and prospective plans. I remember the team created by comrade [Vladimír] Kabelík in the so-called era of production chiefs [from 1945 to 1948]. He brought people together, mostly young beginners and enthusiasts, who discovered a rare human and also creative relationship with each other; through a mutual knowledge of an individual’s creative focus and a sincere seriousness in its work, that team helped us to develop our talents and abilities. At the same time, it also critically examined our shortcomings and attempted to keep us from making mistakes and blunders in good time. […] In the new arrangement of the Barrandov Studios, I recommend remembering the possibility of close coexistence of some creative workers with the team.9

In that situation, the benefit of the renewed units must have been enormous. Although formed as part of a reorganization managed from above that was 9 National Film Archive (NFA), f. Československý film (ČSF), k. R9/B1/4P/4K, Zápis aktivu tvůrčích pracovníků ČSF, 21 December 1951.

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not aimed at liberalization, but simply at increased production through more efficient screenplay development, it quickly became clear that a less formal environment around the units would bring about a fundamental change and unplanned consequences, including a subversive impact of socio-critical works.

Marek and Hofman: Strengthening the Relative Autonomy and Internal Competition of the Film Field In a retrospective interview, Jiří Marek (1914‒1994) identified himself as the initiator of the renewal of creative units. In July 1954, he succeeded Oldřich Macháček as the director general of the Czechoslovak State Film organization, and launched a campaign of gradual decentralization: From the very beginning of my work in f ilm, I began to think about reorganization. I talked to experienced practitioners – to Karel Feix and Vladimír Kabelík, but also to Lubomír Linhart, and collected information and advice from them. Yes, I decided that reorganizing dramaturgy was the most important thing. Because, at that time, it was created by just four people. It was not even possible for them to read all the screenplays, let alone develop them well dramaturgically. […] I decided to abolish the Central Dramaturgy and to replace it with dramaturgical-production units. (Marek in Taussig 1984, 247, 250)

The main conditions for reorganization were the incipient political changes following Stalin’s death, the introduction of the ‘New Course’ in culture (Knapík 2006, 239–243) and, above all, the unbearable internal crisis of the centralized production system and the pressure to tackle it. However, Marek’s personal contribution was truly undisputable, especially between 1954 and 1956, when he simplified the approval process by abolishing the politicized Film Council (the central approval body), and established and gradually strengthened unit dramaturgy and the position of president of Barrandov Studios. Marek’s above-cited references to the two senior production chiefs Feix and Kabelík (with experience from the 1930s) are not coincidental ‒ both were key managers of the so-called production units (1945–1948), and Feix even initiated them.10 Especially in its beginnings, 10 The importance of consulting the old production bosses of Feix and Kabelík’s generation, and a conscious effort to return to the well-functioning units of 1945 to 1948 are confirmed by Marek in an interview with Stanislav Zvoníček, 28 August 1981, NFA, Sound recording collection.

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Marek’s reorganization therefore purposefully returned to the time before the 1948 communist putsch, which he ultimately explicitly admits in the above-cited text from early 1955, where he refers to the new units as a return ‘to old practice’ (Marek 1955, 4). Unlike his advisers, the writer and editor in chief of the journal Svět sovětů (Soviet world), Marek did not have any management experience. Up to that point he had only collaborated on a few films and his only qualifications ‒ if we disregard his connections to the political elite ‒ were his work on the central committee of the Union of Czechoslovak Writers (SČSS) as the head of its ‘Film Commission’ and the fact that he had broad contacts in the literary community. An unsuccessful attempt to connect writers and film production by the SČSS may be one of the reasons for appointing the head of its Film Commission to lead the Czechoslovak State Film organization. The hope was that Marek could fulfill the original mission of the commission from inside the film production community. Marek undoubtedly succeeded in this task during his first two years as manager, among other things because, as a writer, he recognized the crucial importance of careful screenplay development and individualized dramaturgical work at a unit level: It is no coincidence that the best films are those which had the most complicated ‒ however very creative ‒ negotiations over the screenplay. […] That is why I believe that the main problem remains dramaturgical work, creative work within units, that deep discussional and working leaven, from which a true work of art can grow, and that approval from a higher instance is not important. (Marek in Konference 1956, 6–7)

Marek recruited his former literary colleagues to work in film and regularly read ‘literary screenplays’11 which had been submitted for approval and gave competent notes, but he did not interfere too much with the units’ powers. In addition, he achieved other, more fundamental changes: under his management, the field of film production (in the sense of Pierre Bourdieu’s field theory [Bourdieu 1996]) regained part of its lost autonomy in relation to heteronomous political power, while internal competition (between creative units) also developed within the field. Archival sources provide evidence that Marek repeatedly rejected or at least slowed down command 11 For the role of ‘literary screenplay’, a Soviet-inspired screenwriting format supposedly fixing a film’s meaning prior to production, in the approval processes of the state-socialist mode of production, see Szczepanik 2013b.

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interventions of the Ministry of Culture and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (ÚV KSČ) into controversial projects.12 If we compare Marek to other managers of Czechoslovak film, he comes across as the strongest advocate of the interests of the filmmaking community, a community which, as a writer and screenwriter, was close to him professionally. Although his successor, Alois Poledňák, held the position in an era of greater cultural liberalization and a boom of authorial styles, in negotiations with political power, including the ÚV KSČ and state censorship, which at that time interfered with filmmaking more intensively than in the 1950s, he showed greater permissiveness.13 Marek’s exceptionality stands out even more against the rest of his predecessors and successors. Marek’s style of strategic management was not authoritative or interventional, but rather supervisory, diplomatic, and representative, while keeping a distance from everyday studio problems (he even stipulated the right to continue his literary work). After the first two or three years, his real influence on production decreased in favor of the new director of Barrandov Studios, Marek’s peer, Eduard Hofman (1914‒1987), who was also primarily a creator ‒ at that time he was already a successful director of animated films. At first, Hofman might have come across to his employees as another official appointed for political reasons,14 however, he assumed his managerial functions primarily as a practical, interventionist manager, who pushed hard for production growth, austerity measures, and higher quality gauges.15 He took over the initiative from Marek for further decentralization reforms 12 Evidence of Marek’s actions are preserved in the archives, such as, for example, his attempts to defend the film Silvery Wind (Stříbrný vítr, 1954, dir. Václav Krška) against a ban on its distribution. He wrote the following statement in the film’s defense to Minister of Culture Ladislav Štoll: ‘Any such case in which a film is not screened receives a very bad response from film workers. It must be borne in mind that there are thousands of such people and that, in their working environment, many distorting rumors can easily occur. These do not give them peace of mind in their other creative work’ (NFA, ČSF, k. R18/B2/1P/2K, Marek to Štoll, 25 December 1954). 13 For an assessment of Poledňák’s negotiations with the ÚV KSČ and the employees of the Central Press Supervision Off ice (Hlavní správa tiskového dohledu, HSTD), see Skupa 2016, 130–132. 14 Before his appointment, Hofman had little to do with feature films, though since liberation he was a committed communist. He was transferred to feature film production at the order of Minister of Culture Václav Kopecký and with the support of Barrandov’s Communist Party cell (see Eduard Hofman in an interview with Stanislav Zvoníček, 14 December 1981, NFA, Sound recording collection). For more on Hofman’s involvement in the action committee, see also NFA, f. ČSF, k. R4/A1/1P/7K. 15 In a commemorative interview, Hofman summarized his production program in two points: doubling production volume and halving average production costs. See Hofman in an interview with S. Zvoníček, 14 December 1981.

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and – unlike Marek – interfered in the day-to-day management of creative work. He made authoritative decisions on screenplays and units based on significantly strengthened managerial power; during his term in office, the position of studio manager became the strongest since nationalization: it merged decision-making powers in economic, operational, and creative matters, including the approval of ‘literary screenplays’ and production budgets, as well as green-lighting production. Hofman attended meetings of creative units and became involved in their submissions to ‘dramaturgical plans’, the f irst, content-oriented stage of centralized studio planning. He also introduced more flexible ‘production planning’ (the second, more practical planning stage), freeing it from the rigid Soviet-style directives and ‘production norms’ of the early to mid-1950s,16 and more active searching for and training of young talent, especially graduates of the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU). His era also marked the f irst wave of coproductions, first with countries of the Eastern Bloc, later also with Western European producers.17 Hofman’s organizational approach to units consisted, among other things, in strengthening equal competition for places in dramaturgical plans and for the resources resulting from these plans. Units did not have a secure budget in the first phase, and money was only allocated to them on the basis of approved story material. The more successful they were, the more positions in the dramaturgical plan they gained than the less successful units. Under Hofman, the number of creative units was stabilized at five, each of them headed jointly by a head of production and a chief dramaturge: 1. CU Karel Feix ‒ František Daniel 2. CU Bohumil Šmída ‒ Vladimír Kabelík 3. CU Jiří Šebor ‒ Miloš Kratochvíl 4. CU Ladislav Hanuš ‒ Josef Träger (known as the ‘children’s unit’) 5. CU Bedřich Kubala ‒ Ladislav Novotný (known as the ‘army unit’)18 16 For the role of the Soviet ‘production norms’ in the Czech production system, see Szczepanik 2016, 104. 17 For more on the economic and creative principles of coproductions promoted by Hofman, see Hofman 1957. 18 Marek appointed Frič, Vávra, Feix, and Reimann to the positions of CU leaders on 8 February 1955, even though the units themselves were formed in Autumn 1954 (NFA, f. ČSF, k. R9/ A1/5P/8K, directive I-65: Organisační řád tvůrčích skupin, 8 February 1955; oběžník 9/55: Změny v tvůrčích skupinách, 1 December 1955).

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From then on, creative units would no longer be led by senior directors, which would not only distinguish them from their domestic predecessors, but also from their equivalents introduced during the 1950s in Poland, the USSR, Hungary, and other countries of the Eastern Bloc (Szczepanik 2013b). All units would be led by a head of production who would form a more or less equal tandem with a ‘chief dramaturge’, with two names being fixed in the names of the units in the order of the production dramaturge. The question as to the extent to which Marek and Hofman codetermined the dramaturgical program of the units and their production practices can only be hypothetically answered. Marek primarily made a strategic decision to establish the units, and encouraged equal competition and differentiation between them through staffing. He also had a strong influence on the limitation of the big-budget spectacles favored by Otakar Vávra, the reduction of average budgets, expanding the number of authors writing for film, and increasing the proportion of so-called ‘contemporary subjects’.19 This new economic-ideological tendency was then able to have an unforeseen effect on the film style of the second half of the 1950s by creating a new framework of institutional conditions for filmmaking: Of course, big spectacles of this type couldn’t be made any more, and so filmmakers resorted to making cheaper films such as A Local Romance [Žižkovská romance, 1958] and the like. Basically, when I watched it, I said to myself, ‘Damn, this is developing the same way as in Italy. When they didn’t have studios, they started creating neo-realism’. Because they didn’t have enough studio space to make them. And not having much money and wanting to make a larger number of films, because we had a range of screenplays which were really worth it, we simply had to force the directors to reduce their budgets. And, surprisingly enough, that new generation, the Brynychs and others, really did reduce their budgets, and creators such as Frič and Vávra, of course, found themselves pulled along […] because they were still spending big money and they were used to it.20

In contrast, Hofman, who had already crossed the line between strategic and tactical management, promoted specific production standards and steps 19 He thereby responded to the Tenth Congress of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia in 1954, which officially ended the wave of post-February historicism, when it became apparent that historical spectacles functioned as a space for escape. 20 J. Marek in an interview with S. Zvoníček, 28 August 1981.

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encouraging differentiation and innovation in the level of style. Looking back twenty-five years later, he summed up his approach as follows: Above all, we tried to make sure that as many contemporary subjects as possible were covered, and that truly cinematic and filmable story materials were filmed, rather than some kind of filmed theater, everything that, I would say, was already very old-fashioned and outdated. And there were a number of directors who were very inclined towards making films in that style. We tried to make sure that the moving camera was used and that there was real attention to detail. You could write a book about the whole range of little details that this program included, but it was about genuinely striving for a contemporary and modern dramaturgy.21

This does not mean, however, that we should perceive Hofman as an author in the traditional sense. His contribution to industrial authorship consisted in opening space for differentiation, even at the cost of political risk, which he thereby took upon himself. This is well illustrated by a statement that he made at one meeting, where he admitted that he felt ‘like he was in Monte Carlo’: ‘I bet on a certain horse (screenplay) which can win. On certain acting, directing or genre values’.22 It is no coincidence that the comparison of the filmmaking business to gambling is a well-known metaphor used by Hollywood producers. ‘Bets’ on acting, directing and genre values allow for a specialization and differentiation of an entirely different kind to the central ‘thematic’ (purely ideological) planning of the preceding era; and Hofman even urged units to develop projects which were ‘tailored’ to specific actors. Because he realized that the quality of a film could not be predicted based on the screenplay alone. On the other hand, this method carried a smaller degree of certainly as regards the outcome, especially face to face with ideological and aesthetic control and censorship. In a stark contrast with the early 1950s, Hofman embodies a stage where the quantity, and to a large extent the quality, of screenplays had already begun to be considered sufficient, collaboration with writers had ceased to be invoked as the sole salvation of national cinema, and the emphasis of reform efforts had shifted from screenwriting to production, especially direction and a new generation of directors. The Stalinist doctrine of ‘fewer but better films’ was replaced by a strategy of quality emerging from quantity. 21 E. Hofman in an interview with S. Zvoníček, 14 December 1981. 22 Barrandov Studios Archive, f. BH, k. 1958, Mimořádná porada umělecké rady o skupinových dramaturgiích, 1958.

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At the same time, Hofman promoted the policy of so-called ‘first-rate films’, articulated in 1958, when he allowed units to select one to two of the most promising projects in their portfolio each year, regardless of the theme or genre. These films were then supposed to be given priority in development and approval, as well as more generous resources for production, but without dismissing other, more average screenplays in the process. First-rate films were expected to become a sort of flagship of the units, the truest expression of their artistic programs.23 Internal development and competition of units between 1955 and 1958 led to the strengthening of the directors’ position in creative decision-making as primary authors, although their authorial styles did not become fully visible from the outside until the early 1960s. From the very beginning of the renewed units, directors were expected to cooperate in the development of screenplays from the very beginning, i.e., from the first story idea (Libora 1955). The administrative assignment of screenplays to the directors was to be replaced in the units by ‘grouping by artistic temperament’ (Síla 1955). The strategy of Hofman and Marek brought unprecedented successes, which gave them the decision-making power to reinforce reform tendencies. Between 1956 and 1957, production increased by eight films a year (an increase of one-third). This also opened the door for the new ‘generation of 1957’: an unprecedented wave of débuts, not only in directing, but also in other professions. The emergence of a new generation and the changing position of filmmakers within the field, due partly to official recognition and partly to an informal reputation within the production community, were an important prerequisite for further differentiation of group styles.

Šmída versus Feix: Specializations and Differentiation in the Collaborative Practice of Creative Units The arrival of dozens of new studio employees created potential for the development of collaborative practice from below, in response to top-down reorganizations. In the studio, networks of coworkers were able to develop on several levels: – Creative units as basic organizational structures for managing creative work consisted of a production head, a chief dramaturge, and four rankand-file dramaturges (in some cases also screenwriters and lecturers) 23 Ibid.

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– Under the supervision of the units, work was performed by the core creative teams responsible for the development of projects: a dramaturge, screenwriter, director, and, if need be, the author of the source material – A larger or smaller, more fixed or freer ensemble of writers and directors formed around the units as candidates for future projects – In some cases, other key crew members became bound to the groups, gathering around the production manager or the director, creating the effect of semi-permanent crews, although most positions could change within those crews Expressed in numbers, the average composition of a unit around the year 1958 looked like this: six unit members gathered about fifty potential authors around them and managed sixty story ideas at various stages of development. For example, in 1956, Šmída’s unit assessed sixty projects from a dramaturgical perspective, began actually developing fifteen of them, then made six of those into films (‘Naše anketa’ 1957, 152). As a result of Hofman’s initiative, all units were put under the pressure of competition and the need to prove to themselves, to their competitors and the studio management (which allocated slots in the dramaturgical plan and therefore also allocated money) that they could follow a coherent creative program which was different from that of other units, and which complied with the requirements of the Communist Party’s cultural policy and, increasingly, the expectations of audiences. In internal discussions, the competition was exaggeratedly referred to as ‘the free market’,24 but in reality it had a nonmarket, intraorganizational nature. It was implemented in two basic ways which were characteristic of the production system of the period 1956 to 1962: competition for a promising story material, for writers, and for directors (where the individual quality of these three factors often determined their combination), and competition for slots in the studio’s 24 ‘Because neither screenwriters nor authors have fixed places within creative units, and it becomes necessary to seek out materials and authors on the “free market”, competitiveness and care […] increases. It is equally important, however, that the “free market” system is also used to obtain directors. A unit which possesses stronger material will also obtain a higher-quality director. Therefore, the creative units do not only offer screenplays to the organizational units of Barrandov Film Studios (the Ideological-Artistic Council, etc.), but also directly to creators. This then guarantees double checks, a doubled ideological-artistic selection. However, these checks also work retrospectively. Units do not offer their material to just anyone. They can choose their director, and of course they try to choose prudently. The better directors are then sorted from the less good during the creative process itself, and those who are not up to the task become more and more marginalized’ (NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, k. R12/A1/3P/9K, Hodnocení tvůrčích skupin FSB, 1960).

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dramaturgical plan; it was only secondarily that the units strived for high attendances or festival prizes. In a series of internal program statements written at Hofman’s request in late 1956, all units without exception declared a preference for ‘contemporary subjects’ and ‘new talent’.25 It is only by looking more closely at the manner in which the units reflected their existing work and their goals, and by comparing this with the corpus of their production at that time, that we can get a more precise idea of how they specialized and differentiated themselves: – On the basis of official guidelines and external conditions: CU KubalaNovotný was initially tasked with shooting films on two military topics per year, while CU Hanuš-Träger was primarily expected to produce f ilms for children and youth. In both cases, however, the program statements take great pains to emphasize plans to develop projects outside these a priori delimitations. – Programs were based on informal collaborative networks that formed around units. The second type of specialization is best illustrated by the example of two units that perceived themselves as the main competitors: the oldest and most productive creative units, Feix-Daniel and Šmída-Kabelík. If, in the second half of the 1950s and the first half of the 1960s, there was a clear quasi-capitalist competition between any of the units, then it was precisely in the relationship between the two experienced production heads Bohumil Šmída and Karel Feix. Both began working in the film industry in the 1930s, and both advanced their careers in the era of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, however, they set out far from the same starting positions. Feix, nicknamed ‘Grey Wolf’ at Barrandov, was admired as the most efficient and respected Czech film producer even at the time of the Stalinist purges at the turn of the 1940s and 1950s, and by the top corporate management at that. This is well illustrated by Šmída’s recollection of the late 1940s, when he unexpectedly reached the top of the corporate hierarchy at Barrandov Studios after the abolition of the production units: I worshipped Karel Feix from the very beginning. I wanted to become his equal in his excellence, in his authoritative manner of negotiating, and in his swift decision-making as quickly as I could. But the problem was that Karel was an indisputable personality, whereas I was not. (Šmída 1980, 97) 25 NFA, f. ČSF, k. R18/B2/1P/2K.

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Figure 4.1. Karel Feix. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

Figure 4.2. Bohumil Šmída. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

Although Feix lost his position as production head for six years in the wake of February 1948, his informal reputation did not suffer. Ultimately, even after the political screenings following the notorious conference in Banská Bystrica in February 1959,26 when the committee could not overlook his share in the criticized ‘revisionist’ films which had been created by his unit, his removal from office was short and rather just for show. Even so, he never reached the same heights in the hierarchy of the nationalized cinema as his pupil and protégé of 1945 to 1947,27 Bohumil Šmída (1914‒1989), peer of Marek and Hofman, who descended from the top manager’s office to the leadership of one of the post-Stalinist units. He quickly built an influential position for his unit, gathered capable dramaturges and a network of loyal external collaborators, so that after just two years he was able to declare 26 At this conference, the Central Committee of the Communist Party (speaking through the minister of culture) subjected several Czechoslovak films of the late 1950s to devastating criticism which had consequences for a number of filmmaking careers. See Klimeš 2004, 136–137. 27 Šmída’s beginnings in nationalized film production are inextricably linked to Feix. From late 1945, he worked in Feix’s production unit as the so-called economic manager (carrying out economic supervision of individual films), and from 1946 he worked directly in the crews of the unit as production manager.

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that ‘the majority of directors consider work for the unit to be permanent’ (‘Naše anketa’ 1957, 150). Šmída gained the new position of the unit head after a delay, when he replaced the late Zdeněk Reimann in the Reimann-Kabelík unit in June 1955. He therefore initially strived to gain ground on Feix, especially in terms of building his own talent pool. The rivalry between the two most productive and ambitious units even became the main point of Šmída’s program declaration, written in a letter to the studio manager from May 1956 (that is, after six months of Šmída’s leadership), as a contribution to the studio plan for the following year: It has clearly been my ambition from the beginning to catch up with and even overtake this unit in terms of quantity and quality, but I still need more time for that. Karel Feix is certainly a respectable rival, a worker full of enthusiasm, ideas, experience, and goodwill, with whom it is worth competing. In addition, he set up his unit at a time when, honestly speaking, he had no major and serious competition in other units, especially where progressiveness and quantity of work are concerned. And so he was able (multiplied by his personal qualities) to create a very dominant position among directors, production crews, and primarily among writers. I therefore found myself in a situation which was unfavorable for the new unit, when there were no available directors or authors, and when we started building our creative workshop and people’s trust almost from scratch.28

A personality profile also almost certainly played a role in Šmída’s repeated delineation against his older colleague: his contemporary witnesses mentioned his competitiveness and touchiness. Feix and Šmída were also connected by unfulfilled creative ambition: Feix wrote screenplays with little success, while Šmída played (in a semi-amateur manner) supporting roles29 and wrote song lyrics. It is therefore no surprise that they both went beyond their tasks as production heads and contributed significantly to the creative profiles and style of dramaturgical work in their units, which brought them closer to what is today sometimes called a ‘creative producer’.30 28 NFA, f. ČSF, k. R18/B2/1P/2K, Šmída to Hofman, 25 May 1956. 29 This occurred often in the films of his unit, which led to the suspicion that directors had to buy his favor in that manner. See Marek in an interview with S. Zvoníček, 28 August 1981, and Karel Cop in an interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 8 February 2002, NFA, Sound recording collection. 30 I realize the paradoxical danger here that the revision of the traditional concept of authorship may result in the monumentalization of the producer. I offer a solution in the concept of an authorship facilitator. I only refer to personality profiles to illustrate the rivalry between the

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Šmída’s style of group work management and building a group identity for his unit can therefore be understood as a specific reaction to the competitive environment. If, with his high professional reputation and thanks to the earlier start of his unit, Feix soon built an internal team of experienced screenwriters and dramaturges and an external circle of prestigious writers, Šmída had to rely upon younger collaborators and to search among lesser-known writers. He risked more and bet more on the artistic vision of directors when putting together his talent pool than on well-proven dramaturgical and genre patterns, which, conversely, was Feix’s domain. The identity of Šmída’s unit was initially less obvious and less certain, but he tried all the more to profile and present it as a ‘creative workshop’ born of an originally random grouping as a ‘team of people who are like-minded and who feel the same way’. A unit in which ‘the responsibility of the unit leader begins […] to have opponents in the collective reason of the artists associated with it’. Supported by a network of associated directors and writers, this ‘creative workshop’ was then supposed to create not just ‘Barrandov films’, but also ‘films of our unit’ (‘Naše anketa’ 1957, 154). Šmída’s typical procedures (also partially applied by competing creative units), as documented in correspondence and minutes from his unit’s meetings, can be simply summarized in six points: 1. A departure from the top-down ‘thematic plans’ to flexible unit-level producer planning: the units mapped and tested promising talents and story materials on the basis of only very loose thematic and genre guidelines such as ‘contemporary subjects’ or ‘socially important issues’. 2. Cultivation of a pool of writers, directors, and sometimes other crew members; a gradual move away from administrative procedures to informal networks. 3. A blurring of the sharp boundary between so-called ‘literary preparation’ (screenplay development) and execution: directors were increasingly drawn into the development process from its early stages as initiators, partners, and cowriters. 4. The gradual transition from ‘group’ to ‘individual’ dramaturgy, allowing for a more intimate relationship between the dramaturge assigned to a given project, on the one hand, and the screenwriter, author of the original story material, and the director, on the other; this change in dramaturgical work started in Šmída’s unit, but by around 1960, it two most prominent production managers, which is more relevant to the topic in question than the personalities of Šmída or Feix themselves.

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had likely become standard practice, as evidenced by an increase in previously unusual opening titles with the name of the dramaturge.31 5. A gradual transition from extensive to intensive dramaturgy (1956–1957) after the units managed to quickly overcome the screenwriting crisis typical of the early 1950s in the f irst stage of their existence; they found that the time had come to turn away from an extensive search for story ideas to intensive work on developing the most promising of them, in close collaboration with writers and especially with directors, throughout the development and production process. 6. A shift of emphasis from writers to directors gradually led to a growing importance of the visual style at the expense of the literary and ideological values of the screenplay; the screenplay ceased to be the basis of the film,32 as the units insisted on rewriting them more frequently and involving more screenwriters in the preparation than before (five or six were no exception, including dialogue specialists, even though this contradicted pay rules). During self-evaluation, units more often emphasized film style, especially in cases where the initial version of the screenplay received a negative assessment by the Artistic Council. Of the above principles, dramaturgical work management had particular importance for the unit’s distinctiveness. Václav Nývlt joined Šmída’s unit in 1956 and dramaturgically participated primarily in films made by directors of the ‘generation of 1956’, such as School of Fathers (Škola otců, 1957, dir. Ladislav Helge), A Local Romance (Žižkovská romance, 1958), Desire (Touha, 1958, dir., Vojtěch Jasný), and Five in a Million (Pět z milionu, 1959). In the 1960s he then worked mainly on adaptations of works by Bohumil Hrabal. He remembered not only how his boss had built a pool of budding directors in the second half of the 1950s, but also how he had adapted the unit’s internal division of labor to them: Šmída understood that contact between dramaturges such as Břetislav Kunc or Jan Libora and people like Vojtěch Jasný, Karel Kachyňa, Ladislav Helge, or Zbyněk Brynych was not exactly one hundred percent, and so two dramaturgical pairs were formed in the unit. There was the duo of 31 The f irst cases where the dramaturge was credited were Václav Nývlt (CU Šmída-Kunc) ‒ Desire (Touha), A Local Romance (Žižkovská romance), A Road Back (Cesta zpátky) (all 1958), and Five in a Million (Pět z milionu, 1959). Other dramaturges began to receive their own credits in 1960 (František Kožík) and particularly from 1961 (Jan Libora, Jiří Fried, František Pavlíček, Věra Kalábová, and others). 32 For the semantic subordination of f ilm to the screenplay in the Soviet bloc production systems of the late Stalinist era, see Szczepanik 2013b.

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Břetislav Kunc and Jan Libora, while I was joined by Zdeněk Bláha. He was a dramaturge in Vinohrady, a very hard-working man, but he was so distracted in his hard work, because he had a great deal of commitments. However, as a pair we complemented each other very much. […] In other words, two dramaturgical pairs were suddenly created at the same time, one for the old men and one for the young men who were launching projects which Břetislav Kunc would have been somewhat shy about at first. But, because we weren’t well-versed in all those censorship disciplines, what was and what wasn’t welcome, we did things more liberally than he did. And this also created a certain distribution of story materials. Thanks to this, I came into contact with people like Vojtěch Jasný and Zbyněk Brynych, which was unusually beneficial for my dramaturgical entrance.33

The quote illustrates Šmída’s role as a facilitator and the part he played in the cocreation of the group style through the well-considered delegation of powers and the association of related creative and generational types. Although there is no room here for stylistic microanalysis, the following section outlines, at least with a simple enumeration and a few illustrations, the main features of the group styles of Feix’s and Šmída’s units. At the same time, the concept of style here does not only include audiovisual style in the narrow sense, but also the overall creative and production approach, including the selection of creators, types of story materials, narrative structures, and genre patterns. In terms of style theory, this broad, pragmatic, practice-derived concept could be termed a stylistic framework or mode.34 Table 4.1. Parameters of the Group Styles of Karel Feix’s and Bohumil Šmída’s Creative Units Feix’s CU: 1955–1969 chief dramaturges: Jiří Síla → František Daniel → Miloš Brož

Šmída’s CU: 1956–1968 chief dramaturges: Vladimír Kabelík → František Břetislav Kunc → Ladislav Fikar

classical dramatic structure experienced directors, genre specialists: Martin Frič, Miroslav Cikán, Jiří Weiss, Václav Krška, Karel Steklý, Jiří Krejčík, Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos, Miroslav Hubáček, and Miloš Makovec

visual-cinematic approach younger generation (1950s), ‘generation of 1956’, followed by the modernist aesthetics of the New Wave (1960s): Jiří Sequens, Václav Gajer, Bořivoj Zeman, Karel Kachyňa, Vojtěch Jasný, Vladimír Čech, Jaroslav Balík, Ladislav Helge, Ladislav Rychman, and Věra Chytilová

33 Václav Nývlt in an interview with Eva Strusková, 3 July 1998, NFA, Sound recording collection. 34 For this suggestion, I thank Radomír D. Kokeš.

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Feix’s CU: 1955–1969 chief dramaturges: Jiří Síla → František Daniel → Miloš Brož

Šmída’s CU: 1956–1968 chief dramaturges: Vladimír Kabelík → František Břetislav Kunc → Ladislav Fikar

group dramaturgy and in-house screenwriters popular genres, ‘commercial’ film: comedy, parody, revue, musical; references to Czechoslovak First Republic actors and genres (portraits and compilation films); second branch: moralizing, psychological and social dramas; adaptations of classic novels and plays conservative ‘classic realism’ and classicist style, or conversely, fairy-tale stylization

individual dramaturgy without in-house screenwriters individual directing styles and experiments; second branch: crime series, coproductions from exotic countries and travel documentaries

‘contemporary’, ‘everyday’ and ‘authentic’ types of story materials, or alternatively a ‘poetic’ imagination and stylization

4.3

4.4

4.5

4.6

4.7

4.8

Figure 4.3. Example of the group style of Feix’s creative unit. Still from Tři přání (Three Wishes, 1958, dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv). Figure 4.4. Example of the group style of Feix’s creative unit. Still from Zde jsou lvi (Scars of the Past, 1958, dir. Václav Krška). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv). Figure 4.5. Example of the group style of Feix’s creative unit. Still from Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Lemonade Joe, or The Horse Opera, 1964, dir. Oldřich Lipský). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv). Figure 4.6. Example of the group style of Šmída’s creative unit. Still from Touha (Desire, 1958, dir. Vojtěch Jasný). Screen capture from the DVD of the film. Figure 4.7. Example of the group style of Šmída’s creative unit. Still from Žižkovská romance (A Local Romance, 1958, dir. Zbyněk Brynych). Screen capture from the DVD of the film. Figure 4.8. Example of the group style of Šmída’s creative unit. Postava k podpírání (Joseph Kilian/A Character in Need of Support, 1963, dir. Pavel Juráček and Jan Schmidt). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

Neither Šmída nor Feix were outstanding artistic or intellectual personalities (comparable with the chief directors of Polish units), which was reflected not only in their own below average artistic creations, but also, for example, in

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their lukewarm relationship to the New Wave of the 1960s. Šmída’s narrow intellectual horizons are illustrated by his memoirs, where he dismissively sums up the aesthetics of the New Wave in just three words: ‘symbols, naturalism, and estrangement’ (Šmída 1980, 213). While he acknowledges the role of a ‘well-meant polemic of one generation with our other filmmaking trends’ in the groundbreaking manifestation of emerging authorial styles in Pearls of the Deep (Perličky na dně, 1965), he does not forget to indifferently add that it was a ‘typical experiment’ without a wider audience response. It is nevertheless clear from other sources that his unit played an important role in the creation of the film, particularly due to the close relationship of the dramaturges Fikar and Nývlt to Bohumil Hrabal (subsequent adaptations of Hrabal’s stories were also developed under Nývlt’s dramaturgical supervision).35 Šmída and Feix did not play the role of originators of an authorial style, authors in the traditional sense, but rather participants in industrial authorship, ‘facilitators’ in Bernstein’s sense: creative work managers who enabled and supported the development of authorial styles which emerged in the second half of the 1950s as part of a vaguely defined group identity of the units in order to undergo an even more radical differentiation into more personalized styles of individual authors in the 1960s. They can only be considered cocreators of group styles if we shift our attention from the style of the resulting works to the style of the work in the making: the style created by decisions to link particular story materials to particular screenwriters, directors, and crews, as well as how to develop projects and to take care of their production. To Šmída, 1958 was an unforgettable peak in the history of his unit, which had produced more than a hundred fiction films over the years of its existence.36 In that year, the progressive work of the ‘generation of 1956’ was put to good use. From the annual portfolio, he most highlighted Jasný’s Desire and Brynych’s A Local Romance, which represent two aspects of his unit’s group style that distinguished it from Feix’s unit at that time: an allusive visual poetry and a civilist picture of everyday life in the workingclass suburbs. Šmída’s ideas about group style at that time are summarized in a survey on the dramaturgical plans of the units. It presents an almost exclusive focus on contemporary subjects which, however, had to exhibit cinematic qualities or what he called ‘f ilm appeal’. This for him meant ‘f ilming human fates and life, not political problems and theses’, and 35 Nývlt in an interview with Strusková, 3 July 1998, NFA, Sound recording collection. 36 For a complete list of productions by Šmída’s and Feix’s creative units, see the longer Czech version of this chapter in Szczepanik 2016, 292–294.

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abandoning the ‘ever-preserved and yet incomprehensible thoroughness, which explains too much in our screenplays and rigidly conditions them’. Šmída suggested to ‘put more trust in the power of the image and the actors’ performances and less in their words’ (‘Naše anketa’ 1957, 152–154). Both of these films were described by the unit and by the studio head Hofman as ‘first-rate’ in the sense of the aforementioned selectively preferential production strategy. The dramaturge of both films was the then twentyeight-year-old Václav Nývlt, whom Šmída had earmarked within the unit for working with the young directing generation and whose significant contribution to the successful result was confirmed by the introduction of the position and name in the opening credits, which was not customary at the time.

The Czech New Wave’s ‘Creative Workshops’ The above-specified principles of group dramaturgy relate primarily to the period up to the early 1960s; after 1962, the dramaturgical practice became even more individualized, with the establishment of ‘artistic councils’ (that replaced the central Artistic Council) in individual units giving them greater autonomy of decision-making, intellectual weight, and internal plurality. According to the dramaturge of Šmída’s unit, Pavel Juráček, at that time the dramaturgical practice also retreated from a detailed, so-called ‘page-by-page’ dramaturgy.37 The move away from the bureaucratic and formalized regime continued, leading, among other things, to the absence of more detailed records from units’ meetings of the time (if compared to the excessively detailed records of the 1950s). By the end of the 1960s, the units had already built a reputation as producers with their own work methods. As Jan Procházka, the most famous of the chief dramaturges at the time, declared: ‘We continue to talk about a singular “dramaturgy” and somewhat forget that each of our creative units has its own dramaturgy. Fikar works differently to Bor, Kubala works differently to Kunc, I work differently to Brož, and so on’. According to Procházka, however, this did not mean that the units followed a single style or genre line. The 1960s, on the other hand, brought about a greater differentiation within the units themselves, made possible by the ‘democratic space’ which opened up under the influence of 37 According to Pavel Juráček, other units soon followed Fikar’s example, and ‘page dramaturgy’ returned with renewed demands for approval procedures in the Normalization period dramaturgical units (see Juráček 2003, 707).

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a broader range of opinions and perspectives, mediated, among others, by the units’ ideological-artistic councils (K situaci 1968, 8). In his memoirs, Šmída describes the 1960s as a less successful era for his unit, which, however, saw some of the boldest works of the Czech New Wave (especially by Věra Chytilová and Pavel Juráček) (Šmída 1980). Although the author’s evaluation – given the time of the book’s publication (1980) – may have been and probably was influenced by self-censorship, other sources also evidence Šmída’s partial retreat into the background, especially in comparison to his predatory competitive approach in the previous decade. The role of the main group style facilitator was gradually taken over by the unit’s new chief dramaturge, Ladislav Fikar (1920–1975). Fikar was a poet and translator with a broad knowledge and intellectual influence, as well as a sense of modernist aesthetics.38 In June 1960, he replaced the unimpressive František Břetislav Kunc, who was personally overshadowed by his production head, and who was promoted to the renewed position of central dramaturge for the studio. At Barrandov, Fikar quickly won respect among f ilmmakers and functionaries, as evidenced by the fact that in 1963, he occupied a place on the studio’s Communist Party Committee.39 He stayed with Šmída until the summer of 1968, and a major share in the cultivation of the unit’s network of collaborators, as well as the collective style of the New Wave can be attributed to him. 40 He renewed the emphasis on screenwriting and cooperation with young writers in the unit dramaturgy, building on his deep understanding of contemporary literature, a demand for original stories from the present, and a will to compete with the world’s most accomplished filmmakers.41 Under his influence, the profile of Šmída’s unit became even more different from Feix’s which, in the second half of the 38 In a way, Fikar was forced to make the transition into film dramaturgy. In 1959, he had to quit the position of director of the Československý spisovatel publishing house in connection with the publication of the novel The Cowards (Zbabělci) by Josef Škvorecký. Shortly before leaving Barrandov Film Studios, Fikar was reappointed to his original position in the publishing house in 1968. Even after that, however, he also served as the head of the artistic council of the successor Kučera-Juráček creative unit. See the Literary Archive of the Museum of Czech Literature, f. Ladislav Fikar. 39 Needless to say, Fikar was an active communist (from 1947) and met other head dramaturges in the company-wide Communist Party Committee, including Miloš Brož from Feix’s creative unit. See Prague City Archives, f. 010/2-5, KSČ – obvodní výbor Prague 5, fasc. 21, i. č. 109, Předsednictvo OV KSČ Prague 5, 23 January 1963. 40 For memories of Fikar’s distinctive personality and his work in Šmída’s unit, see, e.g., Juráček 2003, 289–292. 41 Fikar summarized his opinions on contemporary screenwriting at the conference of the Union of Czechoslovak Dramatic and Film Artists in February 1962, at a time when the repressive crackdowns of 1959 were still reverberating (‘Z diskusních příspěvků’ 1962).

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1960s, concentrated almost exclusively on box office genre titles, especially comedies, crime parodies, and musicals. 42 Under Fikar, Šmída’s unit also became a place of passionate intellectual debates, and clashes of personalities with different generational and opinion profiles. Šmída’s original team consisted of one of the most experienced Barrandov dramaturges and reliable literary craftsman, Jan Libora (b. Emilian Kocholatý in 1906), Václav Nývlt (b. 1930), closely linked to the ‘generation of 1956’, and television and theater dramaturge Zdeněk Bláha (b. Klocperk in 1925), who began his film career in the era of centralization of the late 1940s. In 1959, the team was joined by the screenwriter of A Local Romance, Vladimír Kalina (b. 1927), and in 1960 and 1961, by commencing screenwriters Miloš Macourek (b. 1926) and (the youngest) Pavel Juráček (b. 1935), both original, but entirely opposing creative personalities. In the mid-1960s, positions in the unit’s ideological-artistic council were held by the following: novelists Jan Otčenášek and Jaroslav Putík; poet František Hrubín; film publicists František Vrba and Jan Hořejší; theater dramaturge, director and manager of Vinohrady Theatre Luboš Pistorius; editor in chief of Odeon Publishing House Jan Řezáč; and economist Radoslav Selucký, author of debated reflections on consumerism and leisure time in the socialist economy, as well as author of the most comprehensive proposal for an economic reform of the film industry, for which he won the annual television and filmmaking award from FITES (Svaz československých filmových a televizních umělců, Union of Czechoslovak Film and Television Artists). Their great reputation went far beyond the film industry and exceeded most of the rival councils (with the possible exception of Feix’s council), which were formed to a greater extent than in this case by Barrandov employees. 43 It allowed Šmída and Fikar to maintain the unit’s position for a few more years, a unit which ‒ in the words of Pavel Juráček from 1960 ‒ ‘has the best reputation and is a sort of elite among the others’ (Juráček 2003, 207). This does not mean, however, that the unit’s position was unshakeable. As Lukáš Skupa ascertained in his work on censorship in the 1960s, Šmída’s unit was the most censored at that time, unlike Feix’s unit, which steered relatively clear of censorship sanctions (Skupa 2016, 130). The seven- to eight-member ideological-artistic councils practically began to operate in the summer of 1962, following the dissolution of the studio’s 42 For more on the orientation of CU Feix-Brož toward box off ice titles and the explicitly postulated goal of increasing attendances, see, e.g., Fiala 1969c. 43 See the list of members of the ideological-artistic councils of the creative units from 1965 (NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, k. R5/A1/1P/3K, sl. 2).

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central Ideological-Artistic Council, and their composition was chosen by the unit leaders themselves, though formally approved by the management of Barrandov Studios. The nature of the councils’ resolutions was short general evaluations and recommendations regarding literary screenplays, sometimes based on more detailed reviews. The ideological-art councils met approximately once every one or two months, separately from unit meetings (though attended by the unit’s head dramaturge, the dramaturge responsible for the particular project, and screenwriters), effectively acting as screenplay reviewers and approvers. However, more detailed work with story materials and screenplays, as well as overall dramaturgical planning and supervision of the production process, was still left to the units themselves and their weekly meetings. 44 The internal dynamics of Šmída’s unit, which had established itself as the most productive and artistically successful over the preceding years, but which also found itself in its first more serious crisis after 1959, was therefore transformed by shifting informal authority from the production chief to the head dramaturge. The new distribution of power and Šmída’s lack of understanding of the modernist line of the New Wave resulted in an open rupture in the second half of the 1960s, and ultimately led to Fikar’s departure from the unit and film industry in general. 45 Some filmmakers perceived the tense situation in Šmída’s unit as it split into two branches, where Šmída’s approach was considered outdated and inadequate with regard to filmmaking trends. 46 Fikar was replaced as head dramaturge by Pavel Juráček, a dramaturge in Šmída’s unit from 1960, who surrounded himself with generational companions. Instead of Šmída, however, the position of production chief was assumed by young FAMU graduate Jaroslav Kučera, whom Fikar had chosen as his future partner. From Šmída’s unit, Zdeněk Bláha and Václav Nývlt remained, and the unit was then completed by the actor and theatrical dramaturge Leoš Suchařípa. Šmída’s original unit, or more precisely its more progressive part, was therefore taken away from him, and he was able to briefly continue in a de facto new unit, paired with conservative dramaturge František Daniel, Feix’s partner from the 1950s (who later became famous as a screenwriting guru in the United States) (‘O skupinách a lidech’ 1968, 1; Juráček 1968, 1). 44 See NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, k. R10/A2/5P/7K, Hodnocení činnosti IUR tvůrčích skupin, 23 September 1966. 45 Šmída especially links his dispute with Fikar to tempestuous debates over the rough cuts of Daisies (Sedmikrásky, 1966, dir. Věra Chytilová) (Šmída 1980, 226, 267). 46 Jiří Krejčík criticized Šmída and defended Fikar at the FITES conference in March 1968 (Krejčík 1968).

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Fikar’s legacy, which Juráček would build on, became a symbol of unit dramaturgy of the New Wave. If we wanted to find a manifesto of creative units as creative producers in period commentaries, the closest thing would undoubtedly be Fikar’s article ‘Units ‒ Creative Workshops’ (Fikar 1961). The new head dramaturge refers to the term ‘creative workshop’ as a contemporary designation of ideal group creativity and critically compares it with the actual practice which, rather than a consistent ‘creative approach’, employs a ‘customary style, catching up with unfinished scripts, improvisation and randomness, a lack of demands in the choice of collaborators, and a little work of the team on itself as a whole and on its members’. Units therefore lose their unique character and their purpose is being reduced to organizational support. Fikar opposes this randomness by requiring units, through more demanding selection of story materials and collaborators, to strive for ‘artistic crystallization and refinement’, in order to cultivate ‘a principled understanding of a writer, director, and dramaturge’ and to translate their creative concepts into year-round production: This means knowing what we want to express through our films, what themes, what thoughts and questions, being clear about whom we want to make our films, how, with whom and for whom. If we want to shoot ten films, then this ensemble must be given an intellectual and artistic aim, a genre and thematic composition, and a unifying sense. We should not conceal marginal and irrelevant materials in it or include utterly random projects that came to us incidentally. The whole unit must live and breathe these ten films from the very first proposal. (Fikar 1961)

Here, Fikar sees the tools for realizing his maximalist vision in three strategies: 1. To search for further demanding writers, who units should treat more sensitively, give them more credit, and take into account ‘their disposition and their personal specificity’. 2. To cultivate a lasting alliance with a circle of directors who ‘would take care about what the unit works on, about its success and failure […] so that the directors feel a piece of their artistic land, and their creative and human background within the unit’. In the current situation, directors often feel lonely and ‘left on the shelf’, ‘without a dramaturgical ally’. 3. To require a dramaturge’s participation in the entire creative process, including the production phase between the approval of a literary screenplay and the final cut.

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The last point clearly emphasizes the producer-like approach to dramaturgy, which is characteristic of the whole New Wave period, especially after the central Ideological-Artistic Council was replaced by the councils of individual units, which in actual fact took over the approval function: Work overload and haste seem to reconcile us to the fact that the film ends for the dramaturge the day or a few days after the [central] IdeologicalArt Council approves the screenplay. But if the unit is to be a creative workshop, then filmmakers must feel that right now, when the letter is transformed into an image, when an intention is transformed into a film work, that they are not on the set alone. That is to say that there is a unit and a dramaturge who follow and experience the emerging shape with them and who, right now, are exacting and comradely advisers and critics. Just watching dailies and visiting the shooting location every once in a while is simply too little. (Fikar 1961)

Of course, Fikar’s maximalist vision differed considerably from real practice, where many decisions were made ad hoc based on the need to fill a genre gap in the dramaturgical plan, to take advantage of free staffing capacity, to accommodate an associated director or writer, to adhere to a coproduction agreement, to catch up with the success of the competition, etc. In the late 1960s, the chief dramaturges, for example, had to face ‒ not entirely without reason ‒ the criticism that ‘there was no unit that would not want ‘its’ young’ and that the advent of the New Wave was associated with a kind of ‘fashion’ and ‘sectarian politics’ (K situaci 1968, 11). From the film portfolios of units at that time, it is clear that the authorial personalities of the New Wave were truly more or less evenly distributed, with the exception of the ‘commercially’ oriented CU Feix-Brož. Similarly to the late 1950s, Šmída’s unit (Chytilová, Juráček, Menzel) held a dominant position in the notional rankings of artistic prestige, followed by Šebor’s unit (the trio Forman, Passer, Papoušek) and Novotný’s unit (Schorm, Máša), while Jan Němec, Jaromil Jireš, and Hynek Bočan gradually migrated from CU Švabík-Procházka to a number of others. An extensive collection of story materials, cultivation of their own pools of directors and writers, an effort to capture upcoming trends manifested in the growing orientation towards young FAMU graduates, formation of wellcoordinated subteams (dramaturge-author, dramaturge-author-director), or the use of evasive tactics in relation to approval and evaluation bodies were not, of course, the exclusive domain of Šmída’s unit. When, in the spring of 1969 – that is, towards the end of their existence when most of the six

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units had dozens of titles to their names – the units were approached by the communist newspaper Rudé právo with a request for a kind of retrospective self-portraits, it became apparent just how strategically and competitively their leaders thought (or at least wanted to present themselves that way). For example, veteran Karel Feix and dramaturge Miloš Brož formulated the credo of the box office film, which is built on popular genres and experienced directors. Among examples of their success, they specified the comedies and parodies Lemonade Joe, or The Horse Opera (Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera, 1964, dir. Oldřich Lipský), The King of Kings (Král králů, 1963, dir. Martin Frič), You Don’t Strike a Woman Even with a Flower (Ženu ani květinou neuhodíš, 1966, dir. Zdeněk Podskalský), Murder Czech Style (Vražda po našem, 1966, dir. Jiří Weiss), The Last Rose from Casanova (Poslední růže od Casanovy, 1966, dir. Václav Krška), and Strictly Secret Premieres (Přísně tajné premiéry, 1967, dir. Martin Frič), and the musicals The Hop-Pickers (Starci na chmelu, 1964, dir. Ladislav Rychman) and The Lady of the Lines (Dáma na kolejích, 1966, dir. Ladislav Rychman). As a former ‘capitalist’ producer, Feix did not neglect to emphasize that ‘the unit’s work represents 12 to 15 percent of Barrandov and Koliba studios’ production, but in cinemas and exports it represents a whole third’ (Fiala 1969c). The unit of Ladislav Novotný and Bedřich Kubala had distinctive roots. In 1956, they came to Barrandov Studios from the Czechoslovak Army Film Studio, where they had formed a base of long-term collaborators such as directors Karel Kachyňa, Vojtěch Jasný, and František Vláčil, and cameramen Jaroslav Kučera, Jan Čuřík, and Josef Vaniš. Under an agreement to join Czechoslovak State Film, the unit had to make one film with a military theme each year. This led to the creation of titles such as September Nights (Zářijové noci, 1957, dir. Vojtěch Jasný), At That Time, at Christmas (Tenkrát o vánocích, 1958, dir. Karel Kachyňa), and Smugglers of Death (Král Šumavy, 1959, dir. Karel Kachyňa). In the 1960s, however, the unit abandoned army themes and opened itself to existential materials of the New Wave (these were primarily shot by Antonín Máša and Evald Schorm) (Fiala 1969b). A kind of opposite to Feix’s unit and a competitor of Šmída’s unit was CU Jiří Šebor – Vladimír Bor, which became famous primarily for ‘discovering’ Miloš Forman and his collaborators Ivan Passer and Jaroslav Papoušek 47; the courage to take risks with the débuts of other directors; as well as for ‘recruiting’ prominent writers Jan Procházka, Josef Škvorecký, Zdeněk Mahler, Ladislav Fuks, and Vladimír Páral for film. Nevertheless, Šebor and Bor also pointed out the pitfalls of attempting to pigeonhole filmmakers and films by units: 47 For more on the dramaturgical work of the unit on films of Forman and Passer, see Bor 1967.

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At various meetings we were to announce our program, and every unit was looking for a ‘face’. And then you find out, almost with a feeling of inferiority, that you are missing a distinctive face. […] [W]e are attracted and satisfied by working with a wide range of people, subjects, and genres, simply because the material and process do not repeat themselves here, and because the different nature of the projects assumes different creative abilities. (Fiala 1969a)

The quotation illustrates that the identity of creative units can be understood rather as the result of changing personal alliances and the sum of more or less successful and mutually influencing decisions than as a narrow thematic or genre specialization. What is more, when analyzing the historical significance of the units, we have to remember a number of projects which, due to internal decisions or external interventions, did not make it into production, but still represented the current creative goals in the minds of the unit members. For example, from the monthly activity reports in 1966, it is clear that there were approximately seven films in production, ten screenplays under discussion, fourteen treatments, ten synopses, and seven collected story ideas per unit. 48 In over a hundred titles from Šmída’s or Feix’s units, you will not find a unified ‘creative concept’ in the sense of thematic, opinion, or stylistic unity in the narrow sense of the word. The one thing that unified these expansive corpora, in some stages more than in others, was certain dominant tendencies that could not be identified by average values, but rather by examples of ‘firstrate’ films, a kind of unit flagships in the dramaturgical plans, 49 in producer strategies and personal networks and, as the case may be, in symptomatic failures and crucial conflicts. The historical meaning of all these aspects is only evident in the context of the mutual competition between both units.

Conclusion Group creativity was recognized by the state-run studio as a key issue as early as the mid-1950s. A specific creativity discourse developed around it, using positively charged terms such as ‘creative workshop’ (an ideal type of creative collaboration), ‘creative discussion’ (a useful confrontation of competitive 48 NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, k. R5/A1/1P/6K, sl. 3 – Tvůrčí skupiny. 49 Even in the 1960s, the units themselves named one or two ‘leading’ or ‘most important’ films of the year in their dramaturgical plans, and possibly also ‘experimental’ films or, conversely, ‘box office’ films.

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stances), ‘creative leaven’ (an atmosphere which encourages innovation), ‘personal responsibility’ of leaders (as opposed to bureaucratic decisionmaking), etc. These were opposed by negative terms such as ‘schematism’ and ‘phraseism’ (in the 1950s) or later, after 1962, ‘equalization’, or blurring of distinctions in an economic and aesthetic sense. Equalization, often linked to the impact of the central Ideological-Artistic Council (introduced after the Banská Bystrica conference in 1959), was understood as the main barrier to the development of authorial styles and competition between units (Kunc 1962; Selucký 1966; Jireš 1967). Between 1954 and 1956, strategic managers (Marek and partially Hofman) carried out a series of steps targeted at fostering group creativity: they decentralized the production system and strengthened the autonomy of production teams and promoted informal networks and intraorganizational competition, thus forming a new type of industrial authorship: a set of conditions which allowed for specialization and differentiation of group styles. Tactical managers, that is, unit heads under the leadership of Hofman, took over the role of facilitators from Hofman and Marek and responded to these new conditions with competitive tactics and alterations in the style of creative work management that subsequently affected changing stylistic standards. The majority of the newly established units did not develop a distinctive group style. The exception was the strong competition between the two most productive and most experienced units, Šmída’s unit and Feix’s unit, which led to probably the most evident example of group styles in Czech postwar cinema. These group styles can be largely explained as opportunistic, eclectic, and relational, resulting from the competitive relationship between the two longest-existing and most successful units. In the mid-1960s, two of the most significant international achievements of Czechoslovak cinema became symbols of the competition between Šmída and Feix: the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film for The Shop on Main Street (Obchod na korze, CU Feix-Brož) in 1966 and the same award for Closely Watched Trains (Ostře sledované vlaky, CU Šmída-Fikar) in 1968.

Bibliography Bernstein, Matthew. ‘The Producer as Auteur’. In Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader, edited by Barry K. Grant, 180–189. New York: Blackwell, 2008. Blair, Helen. ‘You’re Only as Good as Your Last Job: The Labour Process and Labour Market in the British Film Industry’. Work, Employment & Society 15, no. 1 (2001): 149–169.

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Boček, Jaroslav. Kapitoly o filmu. Prague: Orbis, 1968. Bor, Vladimír. ‘Formanovský film a některé předsudky’. Film a doba 13, no. 1 (1967): 49–50. Bordwell, David, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson. The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style & Mode of Production to 1960. New York: Columbia University Press, 1985. Bourdieu, Pierre. The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996. Carringer, Robert L. ‘Collaboration and Concepts of Authorship’. PMLA 116, no. 2 (2001): 370–379. Christensen, Jerome. ‘Studio Authorship, Corporate Art’. In Auteurs and Authorship: A Film Reader, edited by Barry K. Grant, 167–179. New York: Blackwell, 2008. DeFillippi, Robert J., and Michael B. Arthur. ‘Paradox in Project-Based Enterprise: The Case of Film Making’. California Management Review 40, no. 2 (1998): 125–139. Fiala, Miloš. ‘Vizitky tvůrčích skupin FSB (2)’. Rudé právo, 13 March 1969a. 5. Fiala, Miloš. ‘Vizitky tvůrčích skupin FSB (3)’. Rudé právo, 20 March 1969b. 5. Fiala, Miloš. ‘Vizitky tvůrčích skupin FSB (4)’. Rudé právo, 3 April 1969c. 5. Fikar, Ladislav. ‘Skupiny ‒ tvůrčí dílny’. Film a doba 7, no. 5 (1961): 305–307. Gaut, Berys. ‘Film Authorship and Collaboration’. In Film Theory and Philosophy, edited by Richard Allen and Murray Smith, 149–172. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Gray, Jonathan. ‘When Is the Author?’ In A Companion to Media Authorship, edited by Jonathan Gray and Derek Johnson, 88–111. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2013. Hames, Peter. The Czechoslovak New Wave. New York: Wallflower, 2005. Hesmondhalgh, David. The Cultural Industries. London: Sage, 2002. Hofman, Eduard. ‘Naše filmová koprodukce’. Film a doba 3, no. 7 (1957): 445–447. Jireš, Jaromil. ‘Co je “nový film?”’. Film a doba 13, no. 6 (1967): 284. Juráček, Pavel. Deník (1959‒1974). Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2003. Juráček, Pavel. ‘Příliš mnoho sudiček’. Filmové a televizní noviny 2, no. 12 (1968): 1. Klimeš, Ivan. ‘Filmaři a komunistická moc v Československu. Vzrušený rok 1959’. Iluminace 16, no. 4 (2004): 129–138. Knapík, Jiří. V zajetí moci. Kulturní politika, její systém a aktéři 1948–1956. Prague: Libri, 2006. Konference filmových tvůrčích pracovníků Studií hraného filmu v Praze a Bratislavě dne 7. prosince 1956. Prague: ČSF, 1956. Krejčík, Jiří. ‘Zamýšlel jsem se.…’. Filmové a televizní noviny 2, no. 7 (1968): 5. ‘K situaci. Hovoří dramaturgové’. Film a doba 14, no. 1 (1968): 6–13. Kunc, F. B. ‘Dramaturgický plán Studia 1963’. Záběr 12, no. 14 (1962): 1. Libora, Jan. ‘Něco o práci v tvůrčích skupinách’. Záběr 7, no. 3 (1955): 4–5. Liehm, Antonín J. Ostře sledované filmy. Československá zkušenost. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2001.

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Lukeš, Jan. Diagnózy času. Český a slovenský poválečný film (1945–2012). Prague: Slovart, 2013. Mann, Denise. ‘It’s Not TV, It’s Brand Management TV: The Collective Author(s) of the Lost Franchise’. In Production Studies: Cultural Studies of Media Industries, edited by Vicki Mayer, Miranda J. Banks and John T. Caldwell, 99–114. New York: Routledge, 2009. Marek, Jiří. ‘Za lepší dramaturgickou přípravu’. Film a doba 1, no. 1–2 (1955): 4. ‘Naše anketa: Jak pracují tvůrčí skupiny’. Film a doba 3, no. 3 (1957): 149–154. ‘O skupinách a lidech’. Filmové a televizní noviny 2, no. 11 (1968): 1. Schatz, Thomas. The Genius of the System: Hollywood Filmmaking in the Studio Era. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988. Sellors, C. Paul. ‘Collective Authorship in Film’. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 65, no. 3 (2007): 263–271. Selucký, Radoslav. Poznámky k návrhu na novou ekonomickou organizaci Československého filmu. Prague: ČSF, 1966. Síla, Jiří’. ‘O tvůrčích skupinách a jedné zvlášť’. Záběr 7, no. 1 (1955): 8. Škapová, Zdena. ‘Cesty k moderní filmové poetice’. In Démanty všednosti. Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně, edited by Stanislava Přádná, Zdena Škapová, and Jiří Cieslar, 11–44. Prague: Pražská scéna, 2002. Skupa, Lukáš. Vadí – nevadí. Česká filmová cenzura v 60. letech. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Škvorecký, Josef. Nejdražší umění a jiné eseje o filmu. Prague: Books and Cards S. G. J. Š., 2010. Šmída, Bohumil. Jeden život s filmem. Prague: Mladá fronta, 1980. Stollery, Martin. ‘Technicians of the Unknown Cinema: British Critical Discourse and the Analysis of Collaboration in Film Production’. Film History 21, no. 4 (2009): 373–393. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘How Many Steps to the Shooting Script? A Political History of Screenwriting’. Iluminace 25, no. 3 (2013b): 73–98. Szczepanik, Petr. Konzervy se slovy. Počátky zvukového filmu a česká mediální kultura 30. let. Brno: Host, 2009. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘The State-Socialist Mode of Production and the Political History of Production Culture’. In Behind the Screen: Inside European Production Cultures, edited by Petr Szczepanik and Patrick Vonderau, 113–133. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013c. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Taussig, Pavel. ‘Spisovatelův filmový život. Rozhovor s Jiřím Markem’. Film a doba 30, no. 5 (1984): 246–247, 250.

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Tzioumakis, Yannis. ‘Marketing David Mamet: Institutionally Assigned Film Authorship in Contemporary American Cinema’. Velvet Light Trap: A Critical Journal of Film & Television 57 (2006): 60–75. Žalman, Jan. Umlčený film. Kapitoly z bojů o lidskou tvář československého filmu. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 1993. ‘Z diskusních příspěvků’. Film a doba 8, no. 4 (1962): 182–183.

About the Author Petr Szczepanik is an associate professor at Charles University (Prague, Czech Republic), and his research focuses on East-Central European screen industries. He has written books on Czech media industries of the 1930s (Konzervy se slovy, 2009) and on the state-socialist production mode (Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970, 2016). He has edited or coedited six books on the history of film thought, including Cinema All the Time: An Anthology of Czech Film Theory and Criticism, 1908–1939 (2008). He also co-edited Behind the Screen: Inside European Production Culture (Palgrave, 2013) and Digital Peripheries: The Online Circulation of Audiovisual Content from the Small Market Perspective (Springer, 2020). His latest book is Screen Industries in East-Central Europe (Bloomsbury, 2021). Between 2020 and 2023, he was leading a joint research project with the Czech public service television, focusing on its online strategy, and he is a member of the Global Media and Internet Concentration Project (GMICP, https://gmicp. org). He has been engaged in public policy development and writing industry reports for various public institutions, including the Czech Film Fund.

5.

Marcela Pittermannová: Barrandov Dramaturges as Clients, Brokers, and Patrons Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek

Abstract: Marcela Pittermannová became a member of a creative group at Barrandov in 1961. After its previous head, Jan Procházka, was made persona non grata in 1970, the group was run by Ota Hofman until 1982, then by the writer Stanislav Rudolf from 1982 to 1984, and finally by Pittermannová until 1990. She was a dramaturge in the successful area of production for children for almost three decades. In effect, an analysis of her position, decisions, and negotiations in relation to both the indigenous bureaucracy and to foreign coproduction partners can help to understand dynamics of the structure-agency relationship at Barrandov since the 1960s to the end of state-socialist era. This chapter focuses on the role of clients, patrons, and brokers in the dramaturgical job to understand its dynamics and functions in the production system. Keywords: state-socialist cinema; patronage; film production; Barrandov; film dramaturgy; structure and agency

This chapter intends to provide a specific perspective on Barrandov’s production history across three decades, from the 1960s to the 1980s. The story is mediated through a personality who is not recognized by the canonical version of Czech cinema history, but who undoubtedly was an effective member of the production machine and who significantly contributed to the reputation of Czech children’s cinema: the dramaturge1 Marcela 1 I.e., a person responsible for screenplay development and supervision of a project. For a historical and conceptual explication of dramaturgy in the Czech cinematic and theatrical tradition, as well as for its application in state-socialist cinema, see Szczepanik 2013c.

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch05

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Pittermannová. She joined film production at Barrandov in October 1961 at the age of twenty-eight to work in the Švabík-Procházka creative group, and stayed on in Barrandov’s dramaturgy of children’s films as a respected practitioner for three decades, from 1961 to 1991.2 After twenty-three years in the position of an ordinary dramaturge, she became the head of the creative-dramaturgical group3 for children’s films in September 1984, leaving her position in 1989, and Barrandov Studios in 1991. 4 To focus on her as agent who was influencing the standards and norms of children’s cinema for thirty years provides a unique opportunity to understand some of the practices of state-socialist cinema and its dramaturgy as they were applied at Barrandov Studios. This chapter scrutinizes the dynamics of everyday routine, power negotiations, and individual decisions as they were made in the milieu of state-socialist economics and culture. First and foremost, we have the ambition to explain to what extent was the specific position of children’s films at Barrandov associated with personal contacts and negotiations, individual ambitions, or idiosyncratic strategies. Referring to Sheila Fitzpatrick’s use of the concepts of patronage, we are retelling the story of Barrandov’s children’s films as a story of capacities and ambitions, long-time strategies and short-term tactics, attempts to sponsor persons and projects, or to gain advantages as clients. Although this chapter is limited to one of Barrandov’s units, the role of patronage in the state-socialist cinema industry was extensive and needs to be researched in detail. We seek to analyze the way personal connections and individual sources interacted with – and were able to change – structural conditions for one segment of production: films for children. The choice to make Marcela Pittermannová the focal point of this chapter has two essential reasons: firstly, her long career, spanning from regular dramaturge to the head of the dramaturgical group, gives us the chance to study the interaction between the resources available to the agent on one side, and the structural conditions of the production on the other side.5 Secondly, to study the informal system 2 Up until recently, she was advising and commenting on new projects, including Hořící keř (Burning Bush), the award-winning HBO TV series from 2013. 3 The creative groups were first replaced by dramaturgical groups in 1970, and subsequently by dramaturgical-production groups in 1982, for reasons which will be explained. 4 Karel Vejřík, Řešení základních otázek a problematiky tvůrčích skupin ve Filmovém studiu Barrandov. Materiál pro kolegium ÚŘ ČSF, 13 November 1989, National Film Archive (NFA), k. R13B16P7K; Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019. 5 The concept of human resources is used here in the sense as it is applied by the historian William H. Sewell (2005), i.e., as knowledge and skills available to the person.

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of patronage is difficult because of the fact that it was informal and there was rarely any written evidence from institutions or individuals left6 – under these conditions, the interviews Pittermannová willingly gave to us (as well as to other previous interviewers) became an essential source, triangulated by archival materials whenever they were available. To familiarize readers with the milieu Pittermannová was working in from 1961, we need to take a brief look at the history of the postwar cinema production in the sector focused on f ilms for children and youth. The Administration for Children’s, Cartoon, and Puppet Films (Správa studií dětského, kresleného a loutkového filmu) was established at Barrandov in October 1953 and that was followed by the Ladislav Hanuš – Josef Träger creative group in 1956. The children’s films produced by Barrandov Studios received strong international recognition and many awards at festivals, especially in the 1960s.7 Although its reputation did not fully protect the group from the structural and personnel changes enforced at the start of Normalization,8 the continuity between the newly established ‘fourth’ dramaturgical group and the previous creative group was stronger than in the other cases. Despite the fact that the last chief dramaturge of the creative group, Jan Procházka, was made persona non grata and forced to leave, Procházka managed to hand the unit over to Ota Hofman, an experienced author and screenwriter and one of the group’s members. Hofman kept his position until 1982, when another personnel and organizational crisis struck the unit and an author of children’s books with no experience in film production, Stanislav Rudolf, was talked into leading the group from 1982 to 1984. After Rudolf’s resignation, Pittermannová took over the lead position in the group until 1989. As this description implies, Pittermannová’s professional life as a dramaturge was significantly shaped by two breaks, the first of which in 1970 was related to changes both in the studio management and politics, while the second in 1982–1984 was limited to changes in management. The next sections will divide her career into three stages and will strive to analyze relevant continuities and discontinuities in the professional and social milieu and system of patronage applied at 6 For a reflection on the problems with researching patronage, see Tomoff 2002, 34. 7 A report prepared by the Children’s Film Dramaturgical Group in 1980 lists no less than seventy-four international awards for Czechoslovak children’s films in the period 1951–1970. See Československý hraný film pro děti – údaje a čísla, 1980, Marcela Pittermannová’s private archive. 8 Normalization, as it was known, was the period in the history of Czechoslovakia that followed the Soviet-led invasion of the country in 1968. The conservative turn in politics that Normalization brought with it signif icantly affected the national cultural policy and had a strong impact on cinema culture.

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the group in Barrandov Studios which prevailingly (although, in the 1960s, not exclusively) focused on children’s films.

A Young Dramaturge and ‘the President’s Friend’ Pittermannová’s competence allowed her to be hired as a dramaturge even though she did not come from either of the two typical career paths of dramaturges: she did not study dramaturgy at the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU), where the subject has been taught since its first academic year 1946/1947, nor was she a creative person – neither a writer, playwright, nor director. She studied Russian and Czech at the Faculty of Arts at Charles University and after graduation in 1955, she taught officials at the school of the Czech national trade union center Revolutionary Trade Union Movement (Revoluční odborové hnutí). In parallel to her studies and first job, she pursued her interest in cinema, and in addition to lectures on cinema given at the school, she entered into cooperation with Barrandov as professional reviewer of children’s film projects. It was this executive experience which served as the professional background for her employment as a dramaturge in 1961 in the Erich Švabík-Jan Procházka group, which she entered as its youngest – and the only female – member.9 Pittermannová entered a milieu where the experienced practitioners František Pavlíček, Josef Träger, and Milan Pavlík met with authors in the early stage of their careers, including Jan Procházka, a writer with a quickly rising reputation, and the future ‘star’ of Czech cinema and children’s literature, Ota Hofman. It was already an established, recognized, and self-confident unit, appreciated in an internal evaluation of Barrandov’s creative groups in 1960 as a group which might demand some enforcement to meet its obligations (shooting films representing the life of Czechoslovak Pioneers – Socialist Youth Organization children – to be one of them), but which, on the other hand, had no ‘obvious flop on its bill’ and which was able to produce successful films such as Holubice (The White Dove, 1960), Práče (The Slinger, 1960), Případ Lupínek (Little Lupin’s Investigation, 1960), etc. At the same moment, chief dramaturge František Pavlíček left the group because of his time-demanding engagement at the progressive 9 Eva Strusková, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 12 June 1997, NFA, oral history collection, 307, unpaginated transcription.

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Prague theater Na Vinohradech, replaced by the thirty-one-year-old writer Jan Procházka.10 In March 1962, a structural change important for the unit’s creative freedom and productivity came when the central Ideological-Artistic Council (Ideově-umělecká rada) was dissolved, replaced by separate ideologicalartistic councils. These were established individually for each of the five creative groups and appointed according to the choice made by the group’s heads. The board within the Švabík-Procházka group consisted of the writers Ludvík Aškenazy, Jan Skácel, and Jana Štroblová, film directors Karel Kachyňa and Břetislav Pojar, actor Radovan Lukavský, and, as a political nominee, Ilona Pietropaolová, who represented the Central Committee of the Czechoslovak Youth Organization (Ústřední výbor Československého svazu mládeže). Later on, Pojar and Kachyňa were replaced by other film directors, Eduard Hofman and František Vláčil, and the board was extended by the introduction of camera operator Josef Vaniš.11 Pietropaolová, the only board member of a noncreative profession, was nominated to the board to execute ideological control. According to Pittermannová, however, she was ‘a very reasonable woman’ who did not mediate any significant ideological pressure on the group’s decisions (see Hulík 2011, 301–302). Still, despite the supportive function of the councils, whose boards met once or twice a month, the main creative hub was the group meeting usually on a weekly basis. From the moment she entered the unit, Pittermannová’s linguistic education at Charles University suited the established pattern: two of the creative group’s dramaturges studied at the Faculty of Arts at Charles University (František Pavlíček and the theater critic Josef Träger), two graduated in dramaturgy from FAMU (Ota Hofman and Milan Pavlík), while the other two were self-taught persons (before he published his first book in 1956, Jan Procházka worked as a manager of a state-owned farm and an official of a youth organization; Ivan Urban used his talent without any formal education as well, starting as an author in broadcasting to become a screenwriter of animated films). However, there is one aspect which made Pittermannová exceptional: she did not pursue a creative career of her own.12 No later than 1964 had Pittermannová became the most prolific dramaturge of the group, 10 Hodnocení tvůrčích skupin FSB, NFA, f. Ústřední ředitelství Československého filmu (ÚŘ ČSF), k. R12A13P9K. 11 ÚR ČSF, k. R19A15P3K; ÚR ČSF, k. R5/A1/1P/3K. See also Szczepanik 2016, 97, 288. 12 Although Träger had a very limited output of subjects or scripts and was closer to Pittermannová’s position than that of the authors with advanced parallel careers, he was publishing biographies of f ilm actors and theater history as well as writing scripts for f ilm portraits of actors.

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often working on over half of the group’s output, which fluctuated between four to twelve films a year throughout the period from 1963 to 1980.13 Although Pittermannová soon specialized in fairy tales and children’s films, two of the first projects she worked on as a dramaturge were Pavel Hobl’s crime comedy Ztracená tvář (The Lost Face, 1965), and an emblematic film of the Czechoslovak New Wave, Jan Němec’s modernist allegory O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and the Guests, 1966).14 The fact that the group had the chance to make provocative, ambitious films was caused by the liberalization of the cultural sphere during the 1960s, by the reputation of the group, and, last but not least, by the authority of the group’s head, Jan Procházka. Although widely perceived as an extraordinary talent, Procházka’s exclusive position was based not only on his good name as an author, but also on his connections to top Communist Party officials as well.15 Procházka, himself a candidate for the Communist Party Central Committee membership, had a friendly relationship with the first secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and Czechoslovak President Antonín Novotný, at least for a time. According to an interview,16 it was Novotný himself who, after a long confidential talk with Procházka, defended 13 Pittermannová worked, e.g., on three out of five projects in 1964, four out of seven in 1966, ten out of twelve in 1972 (six of them were Pan Tau stories), and seven out of eleven in 1978. 14 The unit fully focused on productions for children no earlier than 1970. During the 1960s productions addressing children prevailed, but some of the most significant films of the ‘Czech film miracle’ were part of its production, including Démanty noci (Diamonds of the Night, 1964), Ať žije republika (Já a Julina a konec veliké války) (Long Live the Republic! Me and Julina and the End of the Great War, 1965), Markéta Lazarová (1967), Kočár do Vídně (Carriage to Vienna, 1966), and Ucho (The Ear, 1970/1990). 15 The film O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and the Guests, 1966, dir. Jan Němec) received some cautious reviews (and one that was unforgivingly negative), and film historian Jan Bernard justifiably concludes that the only reason for the unusual decision to continue with the project was Procházka’s political connections. Although Procházka could not prevent Novotný’s angry reaction to the finished film, he was, at least according to Jan Němec’s recollections, still able to save Němec from prison: ‘Novotný banned the film and called the Minister of the Interior to arrest me. Procházka informed me about the situation by phone and promised to do his best to mitigate the situation. He pulled strings to keep me out of prison’ (Bernard 2014, 196–198, 232). 16 The interview’s subtitle provides an excellent summary of the multiple roles Procházka was perceived in during the heyday of his career: ‘Son of a “Kulak”, member of the Communist Youth organization, the most hardworking writer, a friend of Novotný’s, a mouthpiece for the people’. According to Procházka’s recounting in the interview (Soeldner 1968, 3), the president mixed up the writer with a namesake, an employee of Czechoslovak Television, when he ordered him in for a talk. But charmed by Procházka’s personality during the accidental encounter, Novotný supported the group’s productions until the decisive moment of the Fourth Congress of the Czechoslovak Writers’ Union in June 1967, when the writers broke with the implicit consensus with the Communist Party’s conservative functionaries (see, e.g., Kaplan 1997).

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the controversial film Ať žije republika (Já a Julina a konec veliké války) (Long Live the Republic! Me and Julina and the End of the Great War, 1965) against its critics, including the Soviet ambassador. From the context of these examples, we can reasonably define Procházka’s position as one of a broker. The analysis of a patron-client relationship in the Stalinist USSR provided by historian Sheila Fitzpatrick can be applied productively beyond the original geographical and temporal framework: ‘Political patrons could assist intelligentsia clients in a number of ways. […] [T]hey could intervene on behalf of a client in professional disputes. This was a service that clients often requested, and it meant that the incidence of “state” and “party” intervention in cultural affairs was even greater than it would otherwise have been’. When certain leading members of the cultural professions represented a whole group of clients in dealing with highly placed patrons, they ‘assumed this broker function because of their professional stature and position […] and their established connections with various government leaders’ (see Fitzpatrick 2000, 111–112; Fitzpatrick 1998, 35–53).17 To be supported by Novotný made Procházka a patron much in demand by others. His daughter Iva Procházková recollects his situation as follows: ‘People loved him and perceived him as a supporter. Thanks to his good contacts to Novotný, they often asked him for help. He energetically defended, for example, the film directors Věra Chytilová and Miloš Forman. He felt himself to be a mediator between politics and culture’ (see interview in Nuslauer 2017).18 Novotný’s disgrace, which Procházka felt throughout 1967, did not rid Procházka of his authority and brokering capacity: consequentially to the fact that the political situation radically changed, it was rather the other way around. Novotný resigned from his first secretary position in January 1968 and from his presidential function in March 1968, while Procházka’s political capital increased, thanks to the political changes of Prague Spring. The above-quoted interview with Procházka published in August 1968, two weeks before the invasion of the Warsaw Pact armies into Czechoslovakia, concludes with the following comments from the interviewer: ‘His name resonates highly. His talks are welcomed with interest and approval. In addition to f ilm production, Procházka is highly active in the Writers’ Union, he is a member of the Literární listy [Literary pages] editorial board, and has little time to write’ (Soeldner 1968, 3). However, from the start of 17 Kirill Tomoff gives following definition of a broker as a middleman: ‘Brokers straddled the cultural and political fields because they had relevant authority in both’ (Tomoff 2002, 45). 18 See also the television documentary Příběhy slavných. V žáru moci (Jordi Niubó, 2001).

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the Normalization processes Procházka became a victim of a defamation campaign and the film unit lost its effective broker. Fortunately, Hofman and Pittermannová secured a certain continuity of personal networks, know-how, and creative practices, including the idea of a collective dramaturgy which was taking shape since the early 1960s.19 This collective approach towards the dramaturgical process survived, with an enthusiastic retrospective reception of the group’s members, into the dramaturgical group headed by Hofman, and later on by Pittermannová.20 It was Ota Hofman, thanks to his creative capacities and personal contacts, who took over the role of broker.

An Experienced Dramaturge and a Legend of Children’s Cinema As we have already implied, the processes of Normalization caused organizational changes in film production. All of Barrandov’s creative groups were dismantled in March 1970 and replaced by seven dramaturgical groups and four production groups, with the goal to divide the dramaturgical processes from production and get better control over them by the higher levels of administration. The Švabík-Procházka group was transformed to the Fourth Dramaturgical Group (Children’s Film Dramaturgical Group) and we can guess that much of its creative potential was devastated by the deaths of Josef Träger and Jan Procházka in 1971 and by the fact that František Pavlíček was banned from publishing, as well as from working at Barrandov. The previous head of production, Erich Švabík, was allowed to stay on at Barrandov only in the position of an accountant. In addition to the organizational changes and personnel losses, Normalization influenced the studio’s dramaturgy by a significant increase of unpredictability. According to Pittermannová’s recollections, ‘in contrast to the 1960s, receiving approval of a script by a dramaturgical group meant nothing in the 1970s. […] The final word came from the new director general of Czechoslovak State Film, Jiří Purš. He was 19 Especially in the ideas of Ladislav Fikar, the head dramaturge in the Šmída-Fikar production group (see Szczepanik 2016, 286–294). For a continuation of the practice, see, for example, Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Pavla Frýdlová, 26 June 2008, 2, NFA, Oral history collection, OS 1323: ‘The dramaturgy was a collective one. Each person had their own material, but they were circulating. At each level of screenwriting we evaluated the versions collectively, while meeting, I think, once a week’. 20 In the mid-1970s, the group had its rules for circulation of script copies between the group’s members, with the goal to secure that the script would be read by everybody as soon as possible. See Zápis z porady dramaturgie skupiny filmů pro děti a mládež, 27 May 1974, and Zápis z porady dramaturgie DS Oty Hofmana, 27 March 1975, NFA, f. Marcela Pittermannová.

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influenced by conspirators and advisors’. When Pittermannová was asked if it was possible to foresee which projects were likely to be green-lighted, she responded thusly: ‘Quite the contrary. There were no rules. You had no idea what the outcome would be’ (Hulík 2011, 313–314). Nevertheless, the Children’s Film Dramaturgical Group was one of the two groups that were able to maintain a significant level of continuity after the purges enacted during Normalization. Ota Hofman was installed by the central dramaturge to the position of the dramaturgical group’s head. The new organizational order at Barrandov assigned the dramaturgical groups the task to ‘search for ideologically and artistically valuable topics and secure their processing until the moment of final approval of the literary scripts’.21 All steps of the dramaturgical process, from synopsis to the final script, had to be approved by the central dramaturge. This rigid system of control, which slowed down productivity and produced unpredictability of the results of the creative process, was only liberalized in January 1987, when a new directive authorized the head of the dramaturgical-production group to approve proposed projects (with the obligation to submit the literary script to the studios’ artistic director). One year later, in July 1988, the creative groups were restored to replace the dramaturgical-production groups.22 In the unpredictable production milieu of the Normalization era, Ota Hofman’s group represented a pocket of continuity and trustworthiness for the coproduction partners, which resulted in intensive and mostly successful international projects. The relative stability of the group hinged on the high exportability of fairy tales and children’s films – the prime examples would be Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973) and the Pan Tau series, which were coproduced with East and West Germany, respectively. The credit for keeping the stability and international recognition of the group went mostly to the group’s head, Ota Hofman: he kept his autonomous position and personal contacts, which made the cooperation with the East German state-owned studio DEFA (Deutsche Film Aktiengesellschaft) and the West German dramaturge Gert Müntefering possible and which resulted in extraordinary commercial and critical successes (for details on the coproduction projects, see Skopal 2017, 184–197). However, the unit’s personal continuity with the era of 1960s was limited, and besides Hofman and Pittermannová, only Ivan Urban and Milan Pavlík 21 See Změna organizačního řádu, NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, R19/A2/4P/7K. 22 Řešení základních otázek a problematiky tvůrčích skupin ve Filmovém studiu Barrandov, Materiál pro kolegium ÚŘ ČSF, 13 November 1989, NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, R13/B1/6P/7K; ak, Kolegium ústředního ředitele. Zpravodaj československého filmu 14, 12 (1988): 28.

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carried on in the reorganized system from 1960. Consequently, many newcomers entered the group, including Albert Mareček, whose previous job experience was in broadcasting and who was arguably nominated to the group as a guardian of the group’s loyalty to the new ideological arrangement. Pittermannová vividly remembers him as ‘almost a psychopath’ who wrote worthless reviews of scripts in illegible handwriting and whom Hofman finally fired from the group after catching him in the act of rummaging through Hofman’s desk (Hulík 2011, 154, 309). Although a comparison of the professional and educational background of newcomers allows recognition of a few similarities, differences are still obvious. Of the eight new members of the Fourth Dramaturgical Group, four graduated from the Faculty of Arts, Charles University, one from FAMU, one from both of the schools, and two had an education from another faculty. The new dramaturges faced the essential requirements to build up their own networks and circles of authors.23 This meant the dramaturges had the choice to build up a network of new authors, or to keep contact with writers already working for Barrandov Studios. The second strategy had on occasion been complimented by the practice of ‘fronting’ for authors under someone else’s name. The screenwriters who were blacklisted were occasionally working on scripts under a colleague’s name, a practice which demanded a high level of mutual trust between the author and the ‘front’. František Pavlíček and Jan Procházka, two of the previous heads of the creative group, had not been allowed to work for Barrandov since 1970 and as a consequence, they wrote screenplays under the names of their colleagues. Pavlíček authored screenplays for Tři oříšky pro Popelku, Ostrov stříbrných volavek (Island of the Silver Herons, 1976), and Princ Bajaja (Prince Bayaya, 1971), which were fronted by screenwriter and dramaturge Bohumila Zelenková, dramaturge Věra Kalábová, and playwright Eva Košlerová, respectively; and Procházka for Už zase skáču přes kaluže (Jumping over Puddles Again, 1970) and Páni kluci (Boys Will Be Boys, made in 1975, four years after Procházka’s death), signed by Ota Hofman in the first instance, and by film director Vít Olmer in the second.24 23 Pavla Frýdlová reflected on her strategy of building a network of authors: ‘I explicitly focused on FAMU graduates. When a dramaturge enters a group, the available authors are already adopted by other dramaturges. […] I had to search for new authors’. Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Pavla Frýdlová, 26 June 2008, 5, NFA, Oral history collection, OS 1323. 24 See, e.g., the interview with Marcela Pittermannová (in Hulík 2011, 321). Illustratively, the central dramaturge Ludvík Toman, unaware of the fronting, published an article in 1972 attacking Jan Procházka and celebrating the film Už zase skáču přes kaluže as one of the few films of the production year 1970 which ‘keep their artistic and conceptual value’ (Toman 1972, 452).

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The conspiracy demanded rules of secret cooperation,25 and the official authors, although they usually handed their fee to the real author, faced the morally ambivalent situation of getting recognition and appreciation for someone else’s work. The whole situation of the involvement of banned authors in the fairy tales and children’s films that won festival prizes and were widely exported raises the obvious question: Were the rules of conspiracy so effective, or were the officials who were supposed to enforce the personal sanctions more interested in the effectiveness of the production and, consequently, motivated to behave as patrons of certain authors and to divert their disclosure? On one hand, the practice of fronting for banned authors certainly was not tolerated systematically at all levels of the control apparatus: Pittermannová remembers being questioned by the State Security because of their unsubstantiated suspicion that the script for the film Jakub (1976), signed by Katarína Slobodová, was in fact written by the dramaturge and dissident Jelena Mašínová. On the other hand, at least one example confirms that protection played an important role in this strategy of fronting for banned authors: Antonín Kachlík, although having fully conformed to the new political establishment of the Normalization era, was motivated to cooperate with the Hofman group in general, and to work on Princ Bajaja, a fairy tale written by the already banned František Pavlíček, in particular. Despite his knowledge of this front, he directed the film and protected the project.26 For the milieu of the group led by Hofman and endowed with relative autonomy, loyalty, solidarity, and mutual confidence, the newcomers might have represented a certain threat and, consequently, they might have faced a demand to prove their trustworthiness. Pavla Frýdlová, entering the group in 1974, for example, was perceived with suspicion. After graduation, she was employed at the Central Directory of Czechoslovak State Film, that is, at the enterprise headed by her distant relative Jiří Purš, who sponsored her. Thanks to Purš’s mediation, she studied at the Gerasimov Institute of Cinematography (VGIK), the film school in Moscow, for six months and, after returning to Prague, Purš installed her into the Hofman group.27 Frýdlová’s recollections contrast with the memories of kindness and helpfulness Pittermannová met as a newcomer in the early 1960s. However, the reputation Frýdlová built up after a while was not one of a conformist dramaturge, 25 For a description of conspiratorial strategies, see Steffen Retzlaff’s interview with Bohumila Zelenková (in Retzlaff 2015, 18–19). 26 See Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019. 27 Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Pavla Frýdlová, 1–2.

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rather the other way around: she had the reputation of somebody who was willing to promote potentially problematic topics, as she had both courage and an influential patron.28 It was the productivity, international contacts, and excellent results which qualified the head of the group, Ota Hofman, to become a patron of the unit’s members and collaborators. His exceptional position in the film studios’ management can be anecdotally illustrated by the way he communicated with the dreaded, notoriously arrogant gray eminence and chief dramaturge at Barrandov, Ludvík Toman. In December 1973 Hofman sent him a letter of complaint regarding a miscommunication with a prominent coproduction partner, the East German studio DEFA: DEFA is disconcerted by the situation […] and I feel like Alice in Wonderland as well. […] Find out who should be blamed for the fact that nobody in DEFA knows that Vorlíček has walked away from the project. […] Both you and I are losing the trust of our foreign partners, which is so hard to build up. I demand an investigation into the situation, because other coproductions could be put into danger in the same way. I would not like to be in that situation again. I felt deep shame in front of our friends from the cinema industries who are close to us and with whom we intend to cooperate.29

The following insight by Pittermannová explains aptly why Hofman was such an effective broker between the group on one side, and the higher levels of the studios’ management on the other side: Ota was motivated to work together with the West Germans, and such cooperation excluded any strong opposition towards Toman. On the other hand, Toman knew well that those coproductions with West German partners brought him advantages, including travel to West Germany. […] Ota skillfully avoided extremes on both sides – he never made politically committed films, but an oppositional attitude adopted by the directors Fero Fenič or Jiří Svoboda was beyond his capacity. […] He also never made any political declaration supporting the regime, and Toman tolerated 28 Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019. Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Pavla Frýdlová, 26 June 2008, NFA, Oral history collection, OS 1323, 1–2. 29 Letter from Ota Hofman to Ludvík Toman, 17 December 1973; Barrandov Studios Archive (BSA), sbírka Scénáře a produkční dokumenty – Dobrodružství s Blasiem.

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this political passivity. It was a deal of a kind. […] Without that, the group would never have enjoyed the same level of creative freedom.30

Also, Pittermannová had certain resources at her disposal which were valuable for Toman, including her fluency in Russian: ‘Toman needed me because of the scripts delivered from the USSR – from Belarusfilm, Kazakhfilm, and other studios. They proposed coproductions and Toman always sent the scripts via his personal driver to be read and evaluated by me by the next morning. No one else was available to read the scripts as quickly as me. As I was useful for him, he behaved rather well to me’.31 Nevertheless, these competencies, although making life somehow easier for Toman, were not essential for Toman’s career and, consequently, did not motivate him to support Pittermannová as effectively as he had supported Hofman. An important component of Hofman’s steady position was the fact that he never accepted such a high level of risk as Jan Procházka did in the 1960s (for example, in the case of the film O slavnosti a hostech). The fact might even provoke a negative response from those unit members who had a lower capacity to compromise with ideological demands: the dramaturge Jana Knitlová blamed him for not carrying out any ideologically controversial projects and keeping a pragmatic relationship with the studio’s top management.32 But even Knitlová herself retrospectively appreciated Hofman’s ‘high reputation’ that he had at his disposal and which gave him the capacity ‘to shelter the group. Thanks to it, the other dramaturges did not enter into direct conflicts’.33 The 1979 film Julek, portraying the childhood of a legend of the communist movement, Julius Fučík, who was executed by the Nazis in 1943, serves as an example. Instead of heavy-handed mythmaking, the film focused on Fučík as a child star of the theater and his little adventures. This somehow unorthodox approach was the reason that Fučík’s widow Gusta strived to stop the project, but she did not succeed (interview with Marcela Pittermannová in Hulík 2011, 317). Two cases have been highlighted by Knitlová and Pittermannová as examples of planned projects’ unsuccessful sheltering. For the first of them, the above-mentioned head of Krátký film (Short Film), Kamil Pixa, thwarted a project which Hofman energetically supported, a film combining live actors 30 Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 18 December 2018. 31 Ibid. 32 Ibid. 33 Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Jana Knitlová, 16 July 2008, unpaginated transcription, NFA, Oral history collection, 1353 OS, 1/4.

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with animation. Břetislav Pojar, the screenwriter and intended director of the film, entitled Motýlí čas (The Time of Butterflies), was an employee at Krátký film. Pixa was not willing to let his own client work for another enterprise (i.e., for Barrandov Studios) with the consequence that the film, although in preproduction since 1979, could not be made earlier than 1990.34 The second example of intrusion into a project can be seen in Cukrová bouda (The Little Sugar House, 1980), a story situated in the first months after WWII in the Czechoslovak borderlands. Although the script had not been changed substantially, the dramaturge Jana Knitlová recollected that ‘they’ (i.e., the studios’ higher management) pushed through one significant shift: they forbade one of the characters, a German antifascist who survived a concentration camp, to commit suicide – a case which Knitlová interprets as a rare example of Hofman’s failure in sheltering the unit from external intrusions.35 We can conclude that it was the combination of Hofman’s reputation as a creative author, his relative conformity to the regime’s values,36 and the prestige and economic results of the projects with the West German coproducer that provided him with the capacity to straddle the cultural sphere of the dramaturgical group and representatives of the studios’ higher management. The reorganization that took place in 1982 ruined this mechanism. Although Hofman was not fired, ‘just’ moved from his position of the unit’s head to the position of the head of the screenwriting department, he was embittered by this demotion and made the decision to leave Barrandov.37 During this period from 1970 to 1982, Pittermannová was Hofman’s principal aide and his deputy at the group. As a dramaturge, she worked on more projects than any other member of the group, including those based on Hofman’s scripts. However, when Hofman left the unit after the reorganization, neither Pittermannová nor any other member of the group was nominated to be head. Instead, an author of teenage romance novels, 34 See an interview with Marcela Pittermannová (in Hulík 2011, 315). Stav rozpracovaných látek k 31. 8. 1981, NFA, f. Marcela Pittermannová. 35 Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Jana Knitlová, 16 July 2008, unpaginated transcription, NFA, Oral history collection, 1353 OS, 1/4. 36 Conformity of his behavior, as well as of his oeuvre. As Helena Srubar points out, the Pan Tau television series has its subversive tones, which were, however, attacking bourgeois values, a target not programmatically defended by Communist Party functionaries (see Srubar 2008). 37 According to Pittermannová, he was asked soon afterwards to return to the position of the group’s head – a recollection that confirms he was valued highly by the studio’s top management (see Hulík 2011, 326).

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Figure 5.1. From the left: dramaturgical group’s secretary Bohumila Šourková, an unknown person, Ota Hofman, Marcela Pittermannová in office of the dramaturgical group in early 1980s (source: Marcela Pitttermannová´s personal archive)

Stanislav Rudolf, was installed. Interestingly enough, Ludvík Toman was also dismissed, and his position of central dramaturge was replaced by the functions of artistic director and coordinating dramaturge.

The Crisis Manager The strand that resonated the most in the group’s production was dependent on Hofman’s roles as an author and a networker. Between 1970 and 1982, the unit made twelve features and six medium-length films based on his scripts (in contrast, Rudolf worked in the same period on several television projects, but wrote no more than one script for Barrandov Studios). Even more profitable than his own scripts were Hofman’s personal contacts, including those in West and East Germany. In the case of Rudolf, however, neither his creative authority, nor his political power endowed him with the capacity to be an effective broker able to create a safe, stimulating creative space,38 and Hofman carried the profitable cooperation with the 38 Pittermannová complained that ‘when Rudolf left, a hole in the projects was left behind him, because authors discontinued their cooperation with the group and Rudolf disagreed with many authors and directors. An abrupt gap was opened, with no authors or scripts at our disposal’ (Eva

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West German producer Gert Müntefering over to Czechoslovak Television. Paradoxically, this critical moment in the unit’s history was a side effect of a limited rehabilitation of the pre-Normalization practices: after a twelveyear-long period when production was provided centrally and detached from the dramaturgical group, the reform in 1982 brought production and dramaturgy closer again and the dramaturgical groups and production groups were reunited into combined dramaturgical-production groups. The brief era of Stanislav Rudolf as the unit head has been widely perceived by the unit’s members as a period of crisis. Frýdlová claims that she left this group for another one because she disliked Rudolf,39 and Pittermannová described him as an incompetent, disrespected person with no insight into film production mechanisms. 40 One conflict highlights the discontinuity between Hofman’s era and Rudolf’s era and the essential role of Hofman for cooperation with WDR (Westdeutscher Rundfunk), the West German broadcasting consortium: in 1981, before Hofman left the group, a conflict between Barrandov Studios and Czechoslovak Television flared up over the distribution window for a planned project. After this experience, WDR announced that it was willing to cooperate exclusively with Barrandov, not with Czechoslovak Television. Despite this reservation expressed by WDR, after Hofman’s leave, the super-productive cooperation between the West German company and the creative partnerships Hofman-Polák and Macourek-Vorlíček moved to Czechoslovak Television.41 Pittermannová tried to reconstruct the broken connections with authors and directors and she succeeded in bringing Karel Kachyňa back into collaboration.42 Nevertheless, the fact that Hofman brought his contacts and his own projects and scripts over to television opened a gap too wide to be bridged. 43 Strusková, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 12 June 1997, NFA, Oral history collection, 307, unpaginated transcription). Rudolf left the group at his own request. See Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019, NFA, f. ÚŘ ČSF, k. R13B16P7K. 39 Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Pavla Frýdlová, 26 June 2008, 11, NFA, Oral history collection, OS 1323. 40 Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 18 December 2018. 41 Zápis z porady o stavu rozpracovaných látek dramaturgické skupiny Oty Hofmana, 10 September 1981, NFA, f. Marcela Pittermannová. 42 After Kachyňa’s disillusioned break of contact with the group caused by Rudolf’s arrival in the group. See Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019; Kateřina Lachmanová, interview with Pavla Frýdlová, 26 June 2008, NFA, Oral history collection, OS 1323. 43 When Hofman returned to the group he previously headed to work on a project there as a screenwriter: it was for the highly self-reflective Pan Tau feature. The film, telling the story of an actor whose career was made by the Pan Tau role but who became an alcoholic, was a flop and reached a mere 76,000 viewers (see Březina 1996, 283).

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Rudolf resigned from his position in the unit, but who should replace him was far from clear. The option to propose Pittermannová as the group’s head was complicated by the fact she was ‘struck out’44 of the Communist Party when the Normalization era purges started. That she had been married to the poet and literary theorist Miroslav Červenka who was persecuted during Normalization did not make her position any better. 45 The fact she had not been a party member lowered her capacity to become the head of the group and raised the demand to gain ideological support from a patron. This role was taken over by the film director Jindřich Polák, a member of Barrandov’s committee of the Communist Party and the director of many of Hofman’s scripts, including the Pan Tau series. Polák was professionally motivated to keep the unit working and his guarantee of Pittermannová’s ‘reliability’ was accepted.46 The Barrandov art director Jiří Plachý also had his own motivation to keep the group with an excellent portfolio of successful films alive, and when all of the previous candidates declined the offer, he moved to persuade Pittermannová to accept the position. In a manner that says much about the way the hierarchy worked in personal contacts, Plachý phoned Pittermannová during her holiday and ordered her to come to his cottage, where he attempted to convince her. 47 The changes forced from higher management to the well-balanced milieu of the unit did damage the quality of its output, rather than the quantity. The group kept up its high productivity and during the period 1983–1988 produced forty-three films, that is, seven films a year on average48; only one of the six active groups at the time had a higher average output. Nevertheless, according to other criteria, the group’s results were barely mediocre: although it had the second highest average expenses per film, the box office receipts 44 Which was a weaker sanction in the party penalty system in comparison to ‘exclusion’. 45 According to Pittermannová’s recollections, the head of the sixth dramaturgical group, Karel Valtera, who joined Barrandov in 1970 and was fired in 1982, used to ask Pittermannová about her husband, a question which was supposed to be interpreted as a reminder of her vulnerable position. Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 18 December 2018; Hulík 2011, 183. 46 Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 18 December 2018. 47 Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019. According to Pittermannová’s perception of this still clearly hierarchically established situation, Plachý remembered her as a schoolmate at the Faculty of Arts and used this shared experience as an excuse to pretend an informal, confidential relationship during the process of persuading her over a ‘plate full of cakes’. 48 The standard output in Hofman’s era was a bit lower: in the decade from 1970 to 1980, the group produced sixty-seven features, i.e., six movies a year. See Diskuzní příspěvek DS Oty Hofmana pro hodnotící konferenci tvorby FSB za r. 1980, NFA, f. Marcella Pittermannová.

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per f ilm were the lowest and, more signif icantly in comparison to the previous era, three groups had a higher income from export. The children’s films’ group had fewer flops than other units, but also fewer hits. In 1983 and 1984, the fairy tales Tři veteráni (Three Veterans) and S čerty nejsou žerty (Don’t Play Around with Devils) were the fourth and the third most attended Czech films, respectively; in 1988, the fifth position was taken by Horká kaše (A Hot Problem), a film dealing with the social problems of youth in a Prague suburb and set in the subculture of metal music fans – a characteristic indicating a shift in the group’s profile and a move away from the specialization in children’s films established firmly in the early 1970s and preferred by Pittermannová herself. Pittermannová acknowledges that, from time to time, she was not able to take over the function of a patron authority, protecting all of the group’s projects from ideological influences, as the case of Náhodou je príma! (On the Contrary, He Is Great!) in 1987 illustrates. The head of Czechoslovak State Film, Purš, insisted that a film had to be made according to a script which won an award at a competition. 49 While the original script, a love story between the son of a Communist Party official from a village and the daughter of a lawyer, has a certain subversive touch in its interpretation of early 1950s village life, a historian from the Institute of Marxism-Lenism, Jaroslav Matějka, demanded significant changes to have the propagandistic message clearly pronounced.50 In certain cases, the group still was able to avoid heavy-handed propaganda in the projects which were made on prescribed topics, as it happened with the film Bloudění orientačního běžce (The Lost Orienteer, 1986): while assigned to promote the Spartakiáda, the regime’s mass gymnastics event celebrating the nation as a physically fit collective body, the film rather presents the emotional confusion of a clumsy teenager banned from participating in the event. Still, Pittermannová herself remembers Náhodou je prima! with bitterness because of her impotence to thwart ideological deformation of the story51 and mentions another example, Bota jménem Melichar (Melichar the Boot, 1983). The script was written with a touch of an allegorical critique of socialist society, and the director who 49 Eva Strusková, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 12 June 1997, NFA, Oral history collection, 307, unpaginated transcription. 50 The fact that the movie’s director, Radovan Urban, praised Matějka as the person who made the movie possible by sheltering it personally indicates how complex and layered the acts of protection often were. See Blažejovský 2014, 185. 51 Eva Strusková, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 12 June 1997, NFA, Oral history collection, 307, unpaginated transcription; Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019.

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was supposed to shoot the film, Jaroslava Vošmiková, shared her doubts about the possible political slant of the script with the assistant director of Czechoslovak State Film, Jaroslav Beránek. He banned the project, and only thanks to the support from Jaroslav Gürtler, the director of Barrandov Studios, was the film made. Gürtler’s support was conditioned, however, by his demand to implement the project as a cheerful film for children with no recognizable reflection of social problems.52 However, these examples are rather idiosyncratic and, as we have already pointed out, neither Hofman was always able to save the unit from politically motivated interventions. It was something else which made the unit’s profile less shiny – it did not have a steady creative team after 1982. What made Pittermannová so effective as a dramaturge and what worked superbly in the 1960s and 1970s, that is, that she had no ambitions as an author and focused on dramaturgical routine, turned into a weakness after Hofman’s leave. The projects for small children, which Pittermannová perceived as the core mission of the group, were marginalized in the late 1980s and she gradually lost control over the group’s profile. As a result of this dissatisfaction, Pittermannová resigned on 31 December 1989. In 1990, Dušan Kukal was awarded the position of the unit’s head out of a number of applicants; the group was renamed ‘Rarášek’, and Kukal initiated a shift in the group’s poetics, as well as termination of cooperation with some of the group’s regular partners, the recent returnee Karel Kachyňa included. Barrandov Studios was on the verge of bankruptcy and its new director, Václav Marhoul, gave notice to almost two-thirds of its employees – Pittermannová got her notice with the date of leave in November 1991.53 Leaving Barrandov after thirty years, she continued in her dramaturgical work for Gottwaldov/Zlín Studios and for Czechoslovak Television, as well as for private companies.

Conclusion During the three decades of Pittermannová’s career as a dramaturge at Barrandov Studios, the structure of the production system went through 52 Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 18 December 2018; Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019; Eva Strusková, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 12 June 1997, NFA, Oral history collection, 307, unpaginated transscription. 53 Pavel Skopal and Michal Šašek, interview with Marcela Pittermannová, 30 May 2019; for the situation at Barrandov Studios in the early 1990s, see, e.g., a set of interviews in Iluminace 19, no. 1 (2007): 153–190.

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three substantial changes: the creative groups, closely associated with the heyday of Czech cinema in the 1960s, firstly changed to dramaturgical groups and, secondly to dramaturgical-production groups, just to return back to creative groups at the end of the era of state-socialist film production. Although the structural conditions significantly affected production and the creative capacity of the film industry during the respective periods, it is striking that the unit focused on children’s films was able to keep a comparatively high creative standard despite the main structural change in 1970. Their success was influenced by the capacity to keep certain practices and contacts cultivated in the 1960s into the following decades – but far from being an explanation of the unit’s specific position, this feature opens new questions: How did it happen that certain features of the previous structure were, at least in the case of this unit, transferred to the following models? The story of Marcela Pittermannová and her colleagues-dramaturges provides a revealing insight into the dynamics of the structure-agents relationship in general, and into the role of clients, patrons, and brokers in the state-socialist cultural sphere in particular. The writer and the unit head in the 1960s, Jan Procházka, was endowed with extraordinary political capital, which made him vulnerable to the radical transfer of sources during the Normalization era. As Ota Hofman’s sources were less of the political and more of the creative kind, he was able to reconstruct some personal contacts and get new patrons despite significant redistribution of resources among the relevant individuals. He left the institution of state film for administrative and personal reasons which did not rid him of his sources and which were then exploited by an institution which often was more a competitor than a partner of Czechoslovak Film – Czechoslovak Television. After Hofman’s leave and the destructive interlude of Rudolf as the unit’s head, Marcela Pittermannová, an excellent professional, efficient dramaturge, and recognized expert on children’s cinema (she wrote an analysis of children’s cinema production, presented speeches, gave many interviews on her own or together with Hofman),54 did not fully succeed in her effort to re-establish the profile of the unit as a creative hub with a level of independence and perspective to shelter its authors from ideologically motivated intrusions. Nevertheless, as we have seen, neither was Hofman able to provide full protection for the authors. Besides, in contrast to the 1960s, ideologically provocative films did not 54 In the 1970s and 1980s, besides giving speeches in the professional milieu of seminars and conferences, she published a collection of essays on children’s cinema and gave interviews on the topic for journals and newspapers (Rudé právo, Film a doba, Tvorba, Záběr, etc.).

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create a part of the unit’s profile in the 1970s. The problem was, rather, the absence of a creative ‘engine’ and authorities (as they were represented by Procházka and Hofman in the previous two decades) who would provide the group with a steady output of scripts, make the autonomy of the group stronger, its members worth sponsoring, and, consequently, bring other talented authors and prospective projects into the unit. In addition, the group’s situation in the 1980s was affected by the tough competition of its recent allies: Hofman and Müntefering, together with the directors Jindřich Polák and Václav Vorlíček and the screenwriter Miloš Macourek, made some of the most successful European television series of the era. We would like to thank to Marcela Pittermannová for her unreserved willingness to share her memories with us. We also would like to thank the National Film Archive in Prague, namely Tomáš Lachman, for his effective research support, as well as Radomír D. Kokeš and Jaromír Blažejovský for their insights and valuable comments on the chapter. This text has been supported by the Faculty of Arts, Masaryk University.

Bibliography Bernard, Jan. Jan Němec: enfant terrible české nové vlny. Díl I., 1954–1974. Prague: AMU, 2014. Blažejovský, Jaromír. ‘Účtující f ilmy po pětadvaceti letech’. In Film a dějiny 4. Normalizace, edited by Petr Kopal, 177–205. Prague: Casablanca – ÚSTR, 2014. Březina, Václav. Lexikon českého filmu: 2000 filmů 1930–1996. Prague: Cinema, 1996. Fitzpatrick, Sheila. Everyday Stalinism. Ordinary Life in Extraordinary Times: Soviet Russia in the 1930s. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Fitzpatrick, Sheila. ‘Intelligentsia and Power: Client-Patron Relations in Stalin’s Russia’. In Stalinismus vor dem Zweiten Weltkrieg. Neue Wege der Forschung/ Stalinism before the Second World War: New Avenues of Research, edited by Hildermeier Manfred and Elisabeth Müller-Luckner, 35–53. München: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1998. Hulík, Štěpán. Kinematografie zapomnění. Počátky normalizace ve Filmovém studiu Barrandov (1968–1973). Prague: Academia, 2011. Kaplan, Karel. ‘Všechno jste prohráli!’: (co prozrazují archivy o IV. sjezdu Svazu československých spisovatelů 1967). Prague: Ivo Železný, 1997. Nuslauer, Ondřej. ‘Už zase skáču přes kaluže: Film Karla Kachyni v žánrovém diskurzu filmů s dětskou tematikou’. BA thesis, Charles University in Prague, 2017.

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Retzlaff, Steffen. 3 Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel: Die Winterausstellung zum Kultfilm zuf Schloss Moritzburg. Dresden: Sandstein Verlag, 2015. Sewell, William H. Logics of History: Social Theory and Social Transformation. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2005. Skopal, Pavel. ‘The Czechoslovak-East German Co-production Tři oříšky pro Popelku/ Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel/Three Wishes for Cinderella: A Transnational Tale’. In Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe: Film Cultures and Histories, edited by Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, and Zsuzsanna Varga, 184–197. London: I. B. Tauris, 2017. Skupa, Lukáš. ‘Children’s Films: Between Education, Art and Industry’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 205–226. New York: Berghahn Books, 2015. Soeldner, Ivan. ‘Jak se máte, pane Procházko? Syn kulaka, svazák, nejpilnější autor, přítel Novotného, tribun lidu vypovídá. Ivan Soeldner představuje osobnosti našeho filmu (8)’. Kino 23, no. 16 (1968): 2–3. Srubar, Helena. Ambivalenzen des Populären. Pan Tau und Co. Zwischen Ost und West. Konstanz: UVK Verlagsgesellschaft mbH, 2008. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘The State-Socialist Mode of Production and the Political History of Production Culture’. In Behind the Screen: Inside European Production Cultures, edited by Petr Szczepanik and Patrick Vonderau, 113–133. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013c. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Toman, Ludvík. ‘Problematika dramaturgie českého filmu’. Film a doba 18, no. 9 (1972): 452–460. Tomoff, Kirill. ‘“Most Respected Comrade …”: Patrons, Clients, Brokers and Unofficial Networks in the Stalinist Music World’. Contemporary European History 11, no. 1 (2002): 133–165.

About the Authors Michal Šašek studies at the Department of Film Studies and Audiovisual Culture at Masaryk University in Brno, Czech Republic. He was the Executive Director of the Filmák International Film Festival between 2004 and 2006. He is the Program Director (since 2008) and Executive Director (since 2017) of the Juniorfest International Film Festival.

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Pavel Skopal is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Film Studies and Audiovisual Culture at Masaryk University in Brno, Czech Republic. In 2010–2012 he was a visiting researcher at the Konrad Wolf Film and Television University in Potsdam, Germany, for a research project supported by the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. He has coedited anthologies devoted to the Czechoslovak and East-German film industries in the 1950s (Cinema in Service of the State, Berghahn Books, 2015) and to the film industries in countries occupied by Nazi Germany (Film Professionals in Nazi-Occupied Europe, Palgrave Macmillan, 2021) and in 2014 published The Cinema of the North Triangle (in Czech), a book of comparative research on cinema distribution and reception in Czechoslovakia, Poland, and the German Democratic Republic in the period 1945–1970. He is researching and publishing on international coproductions, local cinema history, history of film distribution and reception, and cinema culture in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. His recent articles have been published in journals such as Film History and the Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television.

6. Ambitious ‘Alien’ Beats Perestroika Pražská 5 (1988), Home Video, and Producing Politically Subversive Cinema at Barrandov in the 1980s Jindřiška Bláhová Abstract: In June 1989, The Prague Five (Pražská 5) was released in Czechoslovakia, quickly gaining cult status as a film openly treating the communist regime ironically. Despite being subversive, the f ilm was indeed a product of the state-controlled industry. In line with existing scholarship, it might be tempting to posit perestroika as the explanatory framework for the existence of this politically daring film. This, however, was not the case. Its production was shaped not so much by Kremlin politics but by industry-level changes at Barrandov, the ambitions of key decision-makers, and the emergence of video. Stressing the necessity to assemble microhistories of individual f ilms and production units situated within a macrohistory of Barrandov, the chapter illuminates the production culture at Barrandov towards the end of state-socialism, a period of the history of Czechoslovak cinema that still remains the least understood. Keywords: home video, perestroika, film production, production culture and state-socialism, 1980s Czechoslovak cinema culture

The 1988 Barrandov-produced The Prague Five (Pražská 5) – a featurelength compilation of five short films – depicted a visibly drunk communist bureaucrat next to a gradually withering carnation, the most socialist of all flowers, lecturing people on the importance of progressive art and the need to incorporate young artists into socialist culture. His speech interconnected the five shorts that experiment with subject matter, form, style, and genre, and presented the poetics of five theatrical troupes that were amongst the

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch06

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most progressive on the 1980s Prague alternative scene.1 Each segment was quite distinctive: they included modern dance, a conceptual play of color, and a parody of 1950s Stalinist dramas. Together they offered an absurdist mosaic of performance art, a mockery of the parameters of socialist realism, and an unusually pointed criticism of state-socialist society. After its release in June 1989, The Prague Five (dir. Tomáš Vorel) quickly gained cult status as a film openly treating the communist regime ironically. In line with existing scholarship on Czechoslovak cinema of the 1980s, it might be tempting to posit the impact of glasnost and perestroika as explanatory frameworks for the presence of such material on the cultural landscape of socialist Czechoslovakia. After all, these accounts have tended to employ socio-symptomatic, auteurist, and semiotic approaches to suggest the gradual liberalization of the Czechoslovak film industry and ‘more relaxed perestroika atmosphere’ (Jaroš 2016, 171) enabled some creative personnel to fashion recuperative visions of some of the more troubling aspects of state-socialism in the 1950s and beyond (Jaroš 2016; Blažejovský 2016; Ptáček 2016). These accounts focus mainly on films as texts (as political allegories or reflection of ideological concepts of perestroika). Mostly leave aside or underexplore the system and conditions under which such films were produced, as well as the overall shift within the audiovisual terrain towards (some) principles of the free market economy. In those accounts, films are perceived as a historical source that documents and (re)constructs historical realities. Rather than approaching The Prague Five as a document of sociopolitical changes and as a result of a newly gained freedom to be more critical of the socialist regime driven by changes in the Soviet Union under the leadership of Mikhail Gorbachev, this chapter argues that such a film might be better understood as a product of tensions between institutional and personal interests and of industry-level changes at Barrandov. An analysis of historical documents housed at Barrandov’s archive, at the Czech National Film Archive, and Russian archives, alongside media coverage and interviews conducted with former Barrandov personnel, makes it clear that a broader range of factors drove the openly mocking and subversive elements of The Prague Five. To be precise, I argue that we might benefit from greater 1 Barrandov Studios Archive (hereafter BSA), Barrandov History Fond (hereafter BH), 1988 C24, Martínek, Karel, Lektorský posudek literárního scénáře T. Vorla, D. Vávry, Č. Sušky, L. Tučka, M. Cabana, T. Hanáka a J. Burdy Pražská pětka/verze ‘videomédia’ – květen 1987. The chapter partially revisits and considerably reframes some of the findings of my essay ‘Finding a Suitable Home for Video: Video and the State in 1980s Czechoslovakia’, Post Script 35, no. 3 (2016): 69–81.

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consideration of three important industrial developments: 1) a reorganization at Barrandov that had little to do with perestroika per se, 2) the professional ambitions of key decision-makers at Barrandov, and 3) the emergence of home video as a delivery system paired with a renewed emphasis on young filmmakers at Barrandov. In drawing our attention to these largely overlooked developments, the chapter sheds new light on how production of more politically and stylistically daring Czechoslovak films during perestroika was shaped not so much by Kremlin politics but by the pursuit of economic sustainability, international creative relevance, a felt need to bring cinematic output closer into line with perceived consumer expectations, and a pursuit of personal ambitions facilitated by marginalized spaces within Barrandov’s production system. While the chapter singles out one f ilm, it is not a case study of one particular production. Emphasizing the necessity to avoid generalizations and a broad-strokes history, it explores the integration of a new media technology within the state-controlled film industry and it offers an insight into the production culture at Barrandov towards the end of state-socialism in Czechoslovakia, a period of the history of Czechoslovak cinema that still remains the least understood.

Rhetorical and Substantive Change at Barrandov in the 1980s In order better to appreciate the production and content of a film like The Prague Five, it is important to consider the nature, causes, and most importantly the limits of Barrandov’s reorganization throughout the preceding decade. In particular, we need to take account of how this process effected dramaturgy – screenplay development and supervision – and distribution of power as the state-controlled industry tentatively responded to the view that film output had become anachronistic. By the early 1980s, most interested cultural elites had concluded that the Czechoslovak film production sector was very much behind the times, with the trade and popular press both lamenting a perceived crisis of creativity and relevance (Purš 1980, 246–247).2 At this time, journalists and representatives of Czechoslovak State Film (Československý státní 2 For instance, director of the Czechoslovak film monopoly Jiří Purš highlighted the ‘closed circle of filmmakers’, a ‘preferential treatment to certain artists’, and ‘generational closure’ as the main stumbling blocks of Czechoslovak cinema of the 1970s.

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film, hereinafter ČSF or the Czechoslovak film monopoly) began to notice that – in comparison to the celebrated and later condemned cinema of the 1960s, which began to be destigmatized in the second half of the 1980s – few domestically produced films were being distributed internationally, whether to theaters or to film festivals. They also damned the output for being increasingly reliant on formulae over distinctive visions, and worried about a decrease in audience attendance of such fare (gf 1979; Beránek 1981, 364). Even Soviet film representatives stationed in Czechoslovakia reported to Moscow that: Czechoslovak films at international film festivals are few and far between – and if Czechoslovakia is represented at all, then it is by films made by directors of the 1960s. So-called ‘entertaining films’ are on the rise, even though they do not entertain anyone, and those directors who should already have retired are making expensive historical epics. The entire disconnect between official praise and audience preferences manifests in empty auditoriums and empty box offices.3

For some of Barrandov’s top brass, this malaise was a by-product of the purges and reorganization of the 1970s. Within two years following the Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968, Barrandov’s new management had closed a number of creative units, including those responsible for the New Wave films that Communist Party officials had branded ideologically subversive (see Hulík 2011). In fact, the entire production system had been reorganized in such a way as to take creative control away from ‘unreliable’ creative units and nip any ‘revisionist’ tendencies in the bud (see Szczepanik 2016; Skupa 2016). Not unlike East Germany’s state-owned f ilm studio DEFA (Deutsche Film Aktiengesellschaft), Czechoslovakia now boasted a centralized system of production, with the Communist Party exerting tighter ideological control over projects, scripts, and development. Units were mandated by the state to develop films. Each was led by a head who coordinated usually four dramaturges, a deputy head of production, and an accountant. Each was also allocated a budget and developed projects in accordance with the centrally coordinated plan. Approved films were shot at Barrandov, which provided facilities, services, and equipment. Here, authority was concentrated in the hands of the central dramaturge, Ludvík Toman, who fashioned a system that one Barrandov deputy for production 3 Rossijskij Gossudarstvenyij Archiv Litteratury i Isskustva (hereafter RGALI), Goskino, f. 2944, op. 16, ed. ch. 100, 1986, l. 9–16, Zpráva o situaci čs. kinematografie od G. Kompaničenko.

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contemporaneously dubbed ‘entirely subjective management’.4 High levels of protectionism, opacity, and corruption were thus seen to have led to a spate of mediocre films and to the marginalization of any distinctive voice threatening this culture of groupthink. Suggestions to reorganize the production system and curtail the power of the central dramaturge surfaced towards the end of the 1970s, but began to take a more concrete shape in 1982. Crucially, though, while Barrandov management was clearly receptive to medium-term change, and while it embraced from 1986 onwards the rhetoric of perestroika to back up some of those changes, it is clear that any kind of immediate rapid, substantial transformation that could create fertile ground for questioning, progressive cinema (akin to that found in the Soviet Union) did not happen in Czechoslovakia. In 1987, during his visit to Moscow, the central director of the Czechoslovak film monopoly, Jiří Purš, complained to his Soviet counterpart that ‘many people in power do not want any changes in Czechoslovak cinema in the manner of the developments in Soviet cinema’.5 Symptomatically, Purš was one of the leading figures tightening ideological control at Barrandov in the 1970s. Ever an opportunist, in the second half of the 1980s, he began to position himself as a liberal, properestroika voice within the Czechoslovak film industry. The view that a culture of stagnation at Barrandov in the 1970s was responsible for the struggles of Czechoslovak cinema thus ushered in a period of moderate change at the studio, as the perceived necessity to reform the system competed with the inbuilt tendency within the creative community to maintain the status quo – not least because many creative personnel and bureaucrats worked in the criticized system during the 1970s and had little desire to embrace change. Granted, throughout the decade, some power was transferred back to the units in an effort to make production more efficient and to increase both the artistic merit and the commercial potential of domestic films.6 The moderate reorganization of Barrandov, which was intended to stimulate film production by decentralizing power, can be seen to have 4 BSA, BH, Různé 1988, Referát náměstka pro tvorbu na hodnotící aktiv tvorby 1987 v Paláci kultury. 5 RGALI, Goskino, f. 2944, op. 16, ed. ch. 100, Zpráva o setkání Jiřího Purše s předsedou Goskino A. I. Kamšalovem v Moskvě a o podpisu plánu spolupráce v oblasti filmu mezi ČSSR a SSSR, 13 January 1987, l. 1–2. 6 BSA, BH (unprocessed), Druhé pracovní setkání nového vedení úseku tvorby, konané dne 8. února 1982. See also BSA, BH, Různé 1988, Materiál pro kolegium ÚŘ ČSF 1989, Řešení základních otázek a problematiky tvůrčních skupin ve Filmovém studiu Barrandov, 13 November 1989.

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unfolded across several stages, all of which remind us that these steps were intended to temper as much as affect change. The first stage began in 1982 when the all-powerful central dramaturge was replaced by a ‘coordination dramaturge’. He was, alongside newly appointed heads of units, responsible for drawing up and supervising the ‘ideological-thematic plan’ – a binding quota of films that Barrandov was committed to produce annually in line with the Communist Party’s ideological aims, and in doing so fulfill the ‘cultural-political agenda’.7 There were six, or respectively, five (dramaturgy) production units (dramaturgicko-výrobní skupiny, DVSs) at Barrandov in the second half of the 1980s (in 1988 they were renamed ‘creative’ units).8 Another step towards decentralization was a proposal to reorganize along the lines of the 1960s so that unit heads would have a high degree of autonomy in terms of green-lighting, development, and talent relations. However, this was deemed to be far too radical, precisely because it risked ostensibly abdicating control over the ideological dimensions of output and evoked the 1960s Prague Spring reforms. The Communist Party identified the 1960s reforms as an attack on socialism and considered their vilification as a benchmark of its policy (Czaban 2018). While a return to the 1960s model was unfeasible, Barrandov management tried to re-energize output by establishing, in 1983, a new unit called Creative Youth (Tvůrčí mládí). Following the example of a Soviet unit called Debut, Creative Youth was intended to cultivate a new generation of filmmakers by backing mainly work by recent graduates of the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU) and guiding them through making their first feature film. In doing so, such a unit would rejuvenate Barrandov’s output and make it more attractive to the youth demographic. Some authority was handed back to the heads of the units in 1986 whereby they could approve film stories, and only literary scripts were vetted by the director general of the Dramaturgy Board.9 The next step was to hand even more control to the units through the introduction within each unit of a dramaturgy board responsible for planning production. In June 1988, 7 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Referát náměstka pro tvorbu na hodnotící aktiv tvorby 1987 v Paláci kultury; BSA, BH, Druhé pracovní setkání nového vedení úseku tvorby. 8 BSA, BH, 1987 D24, Návrh kádrového obsazení jednotlivých dramaturgicko-výrobních skupin a scénáristického oddělení, 10 February 1982. The new heads of units were 1. DVS Jiří Blažek, 2. DVS Josef Císař, 3. DVS Václav Erben (abolished in 1984), 4. DVS Stanislav Rudolf, 5. DVS Miroslav Vydra, and 6. DVS Jan Vild. All heads of units were Communist Party members. 9 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Referát náměstka pro tvorbu.

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the position of coordination dramaturge and the Dramaturgy Board were eliminated and replaced by the College of the Director General (Kolegium generálního ředitele). Creative units were directly answerable to the director general. The goal was to eventually establish fully self-contained units that, as Barrandov’s deputy director declared in 1988, ‘should be […] really […] fully responsible for the film and its results [in cinemas]’.10 The gradual reorganization of Barrandov would become increasingly offset after 1987 by wrapping studio conduct in the seductive language – if not the policies – of perestroika. This rhetorical shift served conceptually to replace ideological suitability with economic profitability as a structuring principle driving the studio. Initiated by Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev in 1985, these economic and cultural reforms sought to reinvigorate statesocialism by marrying a ‘pluralism of opinions’ to what the political scientist Seweryn Bialer has called ‘market socialism’ (Bialer 1988). Within this line of thinking, it was expected that Eastern Bloc politicians would be inspired by Moscow’s reforms, leading perestroika and glasnost to spread to all areas of life in Soviet satellites like Czechoslovakia, including the film production sector. ‘Gorbachev has swept away decades of homage to collectivism’, wrote the political scientist Thomas Remington, ‘seeking to unleash personal interest as a motive force in production and trade, and to improve quality and performance through competitive pressure both in economic and political spheres’ (1989, 276). The adoption by Barrandov top brass of the economic vocabulary of perestroika can be seen in internal memos which became littered with references to market forces, increased autonomy, individual responsibility, and economic accountability. However, in practical terms, little really changed on the systemic level before the regime change in 1989, as only at a later date was it anticipated that the studio’s production units would be handed full autonomy over budgets, be permitted to invest unused production budgets as they saw fit, and be expected to take full responsibility for their films’ commercial successes and failures. It was forecast that by 1991 the units would become financially self-reliant and their staff awarded monetary bonuses based on the profits they had helped generate.11 While embracing the rhetoric of perestroika, Barrandov management stopped short of taking up glasnost – Gorbachev’s policy of increasing state transparency while tolerating increased free speech and freedom of 10 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Řešení základních otázek. 11 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Řešení základních otázek; BSA, BH, Různé 1988, Referát náměstka pro tvorbu.

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information – thereby ensuring that new Czechoslovak films would not be as critical of the status quo as their Soviet counterparts. This position is understandable, as it echoed that of the Czechoslovak Communist Party’s already existing rift over perestroika and the inability of the more liberal faction to dissuade hardliners from resisting pressures to adopt glasnost (Štefek 2012; see also McNair 1991; Bogomolov 1994; Pulman 2011). Consequently, Barrandov did not put in place conditions to democratize production and content per se, with structures retaining much of their rigidity and many individuals remaining reticent to accept personal responsibility for bold content lest they be subjected to critique, censure, or dismissal.12 This in-between atmosphere, on one hand, prevented any radical systemic change or radical content being produced en masse. On the other, however, a heightened anticipation of short- to mid-term change within the industry towards bigger units’ autonomy created an atmosphere that was a conduit to technological and creative experimentation and to pursuits of ambitious insiders who understood the system and were in a position of power to try to ‘bend it’ in order to advance their careers and push through bolder creative visions – insiders such as Karel Czaban, who was behind The Prague Five.

Personal Ambitions In the state-controlled film industry, the abstract state is still generally perceived as the main force (see, for instance, Karl and Skopal 2015). It dictates cultural policy, economic policy, and ideological mandate. Governmental documents that outline policies and intentions, however, offer only a partial explanation of historical processes within the film industry. Individual agency and ambitions, for which official policies provided a structuring framework that could be navigated and exploited, are also key. Karel Czaban was amongst the powerful Barrandov insiders in the second half of the 1980s. A FAMU graduate transferred to Barrandov in 1979 from Czechoslovak Television, he spent several years as an assistant to Barrandov’s director general, František Marvan. In this mostly administrative position, he was tasked to evaluate different models of dramaturgy at Barrandov since its establishment in the 1930s as it was felt at the time by the studio’s top brass that a reorganization of dramaturgy was needed in order to stimulate the stagnating cinematic output. As a part of reorganization, Czaban proposed 12 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Bilanční projev ředitele Barrandova, 1986.

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a new position of coordination dramaturge to be created, who would be in charge of putting together an overall production annual plan that would be in line both with Barrandov’s economic needs and the government’s cultural policy. This meant that the heads of the units submitted their scripts and planned projects to the coordination dramaturge, who operated as a middleman between them and the director general by preselecting the final film’s outline that was later approved for production. It was Czaban himself who was appointed coordination dramaturge, and he remained in that position until June 1988 (Czaban 2019). The coordination dramaturge was relatively high in Barrandov’s hierarchy. The studio was helmed by the director general, with an artistic director serving as his closest advisor. Below him were the coordination dramaturge and the production supervisor. And below them, the heads of six units that developed projects. In, principle, the director general had the final word, but he often relied on the opinions and recommendations of his direct subordinates who served in advisory capacities – including veteran heads of units such as Miloslav Vydra and the coordination dramaturge. The established chain of command governed film production at Barrandov and its approval for theatrical release. To shoot a film, the project had to be suggested by the head of the unit, vetted by the coordination dramaturge, and approved by the director general and his Dramaturgical Board that served in an advisory capacity and evaluated stories and literary scripts.13 To make the film consequently available for theatrical release, it had to be approved again by the head of the unit and by a Barrandov committee before being submitted to the central director of the Czechoslovak film monopoly and his committee that comprised, among others, representatives of the Communist Party. Heads of units, sometimes accompanied by directors, presented their films and defended them in those instances when there was some issue – for example, some of the content was felt to be antisocialist and the formal elements not in line with the criteria applied to socialist cinema (i.e., too experimental, abstract). The system was, importantly, anchored in self-censorship, whereby filmmakers knew or learned which topics were preferred, acceptable, or unacceptable and often adjusted the scripts and films accordingly. ‘We could not be overtly political. Everybody internalized the rules and knew what to propose to get approved and what would meet a brick wall’, explained Karel Czaban (2018). Crucially, while the film production, including project evaluations, was generally well documented, 13 BSA, BH, Řešení základních otázek. In the period under examination, directors general and artistic directors were appointed directly by the Communist Party.

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the final verdict of the film’s un/suitability for distribution was often verbal, leaving no paper trail. Czaban was seen as influential and divisive figure. While he could not veto or green-light a film on his own and the heads of units could use Barrandov backchannels to push their projects forward (Vávra 1996, 303),14 according to Jan Vild, the head of the Creative Youth unit, ‘he wielded an incredible power to say that this project was not possible this year […], but we may be able to finance it next year’.15 Many also saw him as taking over responsibilities from an incompetent bureaucrat, Jiří Plachý, Barrandov’s artistic director at the time. On one hand, Czaban was perceived by some as ‘an alien’, a young, ambitious ‘television man’ who came to film from a medium where ‘things were done differently’16 but had gained the ear of the director general. ‘There were extreme animosities at Barrandov’, explained Vild, ‘some people hated Czaban, because they felt that some of the director general’s decision were in reality driven by him, pursuing his own agenda’.17 On the other hand, others considered him a creative partner (unlike Plachý) with whom they could discuss their projects.18 They also recognized his ability to navigate the Barrandov system and knowing ‘how to defend a project’.19 This duality of Czaban’s position, on one hand, foregrounds the competitive dimension of production culture at Barrandov in the 1980s, which was most likely accelerated by the ongoing shift towards a free market economy (a development that is beyond the scope of this chapter). On the other hand, it gestures to the fact that while Czaban was in a position of power at Barrandov, there were limits to his (real or perceived) powers, stemming from the relative rigidity of the system and the interests of other strong agents – be they heads of the units or directors such as Jiří Svoboda, from 1987 the newly appointed chairman of the Union of Czechoslovak Dramatic Artists (Československý svaz dramatických umělců, SČDU) who was a harsh critic of Czaban.20 It also needs stressing that Czaban is not singled out here 14 Barrandov veteran directors such as Otakar Vávra were often well-connected politically and operated as ‘free agents’ outside the film units with significant power to renegotiate a film production and to have it approved. 15 National Film Archive (hereafter NFA), Oral History Fund, NO441-01-01-ROZ-T, Vild Jan, 1321 OS Jan Vild, 3/3, 5. 16 NFA, NO441-01-01-ROZ-T, Vild, Jan, 4. 17 NFA, NO441-01-01-ROZ-T, Vild, Jan, 4. 18 NFA, 1318 OS Martin Mahdal, 2/3, 15. 19 NFA, NO441-01-01-ROZ-T, Vild, Jan, 4. 20 Jiří Svoboda lambasted Profil in an extensive report in 1988. He felt that Profil was diverting money from ‘real’ units and ‘real’ films. See BSA, BH, 1988 and earlier, various. Důvodová zpráva.

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as an oppositional voice at Barrandov, a maverick within the system. He was very much part of the system in flux that reluctantly tolerated initiative and unorthodox impulses. Coordinating the annual plan and assisting the director general gave Czaban unprecedented insight into the inner workings of the Barrandov organism. He was familiar with the creative pool, production intentions, cultural policy, ideological demands, economic needs, approval processes, and priorities in terms what was missing from the annual plan, as well as bureaucratic technicalities that were built into the system. For instance, that a film was or was not made sometimes did not reflect ideological bias or progressive tendencies, but simply a necessity to meet the annual plan. Not meeting it questioned the efficiency of the film monopoly and affected top management’s bonuses. In other words, if, towards the end of the calendar year, it turned out that Barrandov was a few films short to meet the plan, it made the management more open to quickly approve additional projects (Czaban 2019). To push a project at an opportune time, thus increased its chances to be made – even if it was otherwise a less desirable one. By all accounts, Czaban was an ambitious, young professional – he was thirty when he arrived at Barrandov – whose aim was eventually to transfer from technically an administrative post to film production. ‘I created the position [of coordination dramaturge] basically for myself, because I just wanted to get a foot in the door of the creative process at Barrandov’, admitted Czaban (2019). In 1986, he saw yet another opportunity to further his goal, when Jiří Purš tasked Barrandov to respond to the booming home video market by incorporating video technology. Czaban realized that video could allow him to ‘switch careers’ from an administrator with creative oversight to a dramaturge and a head of a production unit. When a new production unit called Profil was formed at Barrandov in February 1986 (it was dismantled in 1990), charged with exploring whether the new format could be used to offer consumers a variety of content beyond feature-length films, Karel Czaban offered to serve as its head. The relatively disorganized early years of video under Prof il would ultimately open up a semi-supervised space in which opportunistic and ambitious personnel could fashion content somewhat critical of life under state-socialism. Thus, the pivotal factor we need to consider when accounting for the content, style, form, and the very existence of The Prague Five was a culture of structured experimentation born out of Barrandov’s reaction to a new audiovisual format. 3 November 1988.

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Home Video Communist elites’ views on home video underwent a profound change in the mid-1980s that would lead the party to instruct an unprepared and ambivalent ČSF to integrate home video into its operations.21 In the first half of the decade, these stakeholders were unified in their reluctance towards home video. Where the Kremlin feared unregulated circulation would expose citizens to unwanted Western values, the ČSF initially dismissed the commercial potential of home video before ultimately deeming the format a threat to the conventional theatrical market it controlled via the Central Film Distribution company (Ústřední půjčovna filmů, ÚPF) (Bláhová 2016; Hájek 1987; Hájek 1988; Míšková 1988). Throughout the early 1980s, it was maintained that the best use for video was as a practical recording device and educational tool in industries such as medicine and engineering. By 1985, however, it was clear that home video was a new force in Czechoslovak audiovisual culture that communist elites needed to take seriously (Kyncl 1986, 18). By this time, the Kremlin had sent a strong message to its satellites by making an about-face on the new format; now considering home video a potentially useful vehicle for its own ideological agenda (Kyncl 1986, 18). Against this policy-changing backdrop, a buoyant Czechoslovak black market flooded with erotic and Hollywood films, smuggled mainly from the West, indicated both high levels of demand for home viewing and a felt need to regulate the type of material being consumed. ‘The attitude of the authorities towards [the boom of video]’, reported Index on Censorship in 1986, ‘has generally been one of uncertainty about its full implications, fear, and suspicion’ (Kyncl 1986, 18). Despite its obligation to become actively involved in home video, Barrandov management was initially reticent to do so and unsure about how to do so, based on a combination of creative and economic concerns, plus organizational ones. ‘Nobody at Barrandov believed that video would be creatively and commercially viable. There was, however, a political demand communicated though the director of the film monopoly “to do something with video”, so something had to be done’, remarked Czaban (2018). Barrandov management was unsure of how to tailor video content for an audience living under state-socialism. ‘Nobody at Barrandov’, read Profil’s first production report, ‘had any experience with that type of work’.22 The official party line 21 State National Archive (NA), Prague. Usnesení předsednictva vlády Československé socialistické republiky o koncepci rozvoje moderních audiovizuálních prostředků v ČSSR. Prague, 6 March 1985. 22 BSA, BH, 1986 B10, Výrobní zpráva videopořadu Hyberniáda.

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advocated audiovisual material be less a commercial entertainment form than an educational one geared to fostering social engagement, especially for young people, for whom the state had already set up video clubs to enable collective consumption. Initially, Barrandov had elected to serve these clubs with programs of shorts, as opposed to Western feature films; however, these attracted little audience interest and as such boasted little commercial potential, thereby undoing every incentive for the very solution management had formulated in response to questions of what to produce.23 Organizationally, Barrandov management was concerned about a backlash from the heads of the other production units over budget reallocations needed to fund a new video content production unit.24 Some of them also felt that a new unit could potentially present unwelcome competition. Cementing Barrandov’s misgivings about video was a period of poor planning and misfortune, which would lead management to become indifferent to the nature of its video content production. First, the ČSF had not provided Barrandov with market research and had failed to allocate funds to support video content production (Hudský 1988).25 Second, distribution was hamstrung by the availability of official cassettes being limited to one Prague store, offering as few as fifty titles by July of 1986, with only fifteen new stores opening during the next two years (Anon. 1986a; Anon. 1986b). Third, the Czechoslovak government’s attempts to flood the market with 500,000 domestically manufactured affordable video cassette recorders per annum fell significantly short when its supplier,26 the Czechoslovak-Dutch concern AVEX, established in 1987, proved incapable of fulfilling orders.27 The shortage of video recorders and videocassettes on the market mirrored the situation at Barrandov, which did not have production and postproduction hardware, and was consequently required to rent equipment and to outsource services to third parties such as Czechoslovak Television and the record label Supraphon.28 23 BSA, BH, Podklad pro jednání s. nám Plachého na gremiální poradě náměstka ÚŘ ČSF, 9 June 1988. It was felt that Profil should most likely target video clubs and youth and professional organizations with formats other than feature-length films, such as educational, DIY, music videos, and encyclopedia production. 24 Czaban 2018. Profil posed a potential challenge because its mandate was less clearly demarcated and it could eventually encroach on other units’ agendas by poaching scriptwriters and directors. 25 BSA, BH, Podklad pro jednání. 26 RGALI, Goskino, f. 2944, op. 16, ed. ch. 100, Zpráva korespondenta TASS, 1 August 1987. 27 BSA, BH, Podklad pro jednání. 28 BSA, BH, 1986 A5, Smlouva o koprodukci videopořadu Přehlídkové bloky, 15 March 1986; BSA, BH, 1986 A5, Dopis řediteli ČST, 17 March 1986; BSA, BH, 1986 A5, Přemysl Pražský výrobnímu náměstkovi Karlu Vejříkovi, 24 September 1986.

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Barrandov thus reluctantly responded to political demands by establishing the Profil unit to produce video content, but exposure to the challenging conditions outlined above led management to adopt a fairly hands-off approach to its supervision. Management’s lack of interest in the new unit is demonstrated by its allocation of a CZK 1.4 million budget at a time when the average annual budget for existing units stood at CZK 40 million. The number of personnel was also limited. Profil cooperated only with two external dramaturges, who worked free of charge. Further publicly devaluing Profil was Barrandov’s branding of the new unit as an ‘experimental unit’ that was not mandated to produce featurelength films, thereby implying it was both different from the established units and potentially a short-lived exercise.29 Studio management might well have been engineering the marginalization of the ČSF-imposed unit, but Profil’s actual marginalized position in the mid-to-late 1980s enabled the unit to operate somewhat outside the supervisory infrastructure of Barrandov. The following section outlines Profil’s operations and explores the strategies mobilized to legitimize them, before moving on to show how notions of video experiment and youth facilitated the making of The Prague Five.

Profil and The Prague Five Upon its founding, Profil had no production concept, no sense of target audiences and distribution channels, and no vision of video’s potential as a creative tool. Projects were created randomly, depending on immediate availability of funds, talent, and opportunities.30 Karel Czaban spent the first two years of the unit’s existence on the offensive: countering criticism of the unit’s redundancy within the system by emphasizing the bright future of home video (Mauer 1988, 15),31 questioning the quality of some Barrandov feature films,32 and imbuing Profil’s disparate output with a sense of creative logic that could help to project a notion of an otherwise nonexistent clear-cut agenda.33 29 BSA, BH, 1986 B10, Výrobní zpráva Videotvorba 1986, 10 August 1987. 30 BSA, BH, Profil, Informace o činnosti, návrh koncepce a plán tvorby skupiny Profil/FSB, 7 October 1988. 31 BSA, BH, Profil, Informace o činnosti. 32 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Podklad pro jednání s. nám. Plachého na generální poradě náměstka ÚŘ ČSF s. dr. Pravdy, 9 June 1988. 33 BSA, BH, Profil, Informace o činnosti.

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Profil’s very first production – a recording of the film monopoly’s fortieth anniversary exhibition accompanied by several sketches and music videos called Hyberniáda – illustrates that Barrandov’s top brass were not so much interested in testing new formats and in bringing new impulses, but to use video to serve the feature film industry. This position echoed both the early 1980s perception of video as a service tool and the contemporaneous discourse of scientific-technological progress in socialist Czechoslovakia that saw new technologies being integrated into production to optimize it (Bláhová 2016, 70–71).34 This led to three types of programs that Profil initially produced: 1) promotional materials for the Czechoslovak f ilm monopoly (Hyberniáda),35 2) showcases of Barrandov services (such as its stunt department, Kaskadéři [Stuntmen, 1986]),36 and 3) the making-of format for feature films (for example, Jak se dělal Discopříběh [How They Made Discostory], Videobásníci [Videopoets, not finished], Kamarád [Friend], and Anděl se vrací [The Angel Returns]).37 There was also a more pragmatic reason for choosing to record existing projects instead of developing new material – Profil’s limited budget. Parallel to that, Profil attempted to pursue some more creative avenues. It began to develop short documentary and medium-length live action films. Those were primarily concerned with the experiences of socialist youth. For instance, a story of apprentice female shop keepers in the Czechoslovak supermarket Prior (Prodavačky v Prioru [Prior Shopgirls]) was among the topics.3839 Those types of projects were, however, soon abandoned as out of fifteen in development, none ever materialized. Either because the talent moved on to work for ‘proper’ production units or it was unclear what the added value of video actually was.40 As video rental stores singled out music films and music videos as in-high-demand content, Czaban pragmatically shifted focus to music programs, music videos, and recordings of performances of alternative theater scenes. A puppet version of Prodaná nevěsta (The Bartered Bride) performed by DRAK Theatre and the program Šapitošou 34 BSA, BH, 1988 A3, Hlavní úkoly FSB v roce 1988, 14. 35 BSA, BH, 1986 B10, Výrobní zpráva Videotvorba 1986. 10 August 1987. 36 Ibid. 37 The listed programs relate to the features Discopříběh (Discostory, 1987), Jak básníkům chutná život (How Poets Taste Life, 1987), Kamarád do deště (Friend for a Rainy Day, 1988), and Anděl svádí ďábla (Angel Seduces Devil, 1988). BH 1990 A4, Stav literární přípravy k 30. listopadu 1988. 38 39 BSA, BH, 1990 A4, Návrh pro poradu ředitele Filmového studia Barrandov, 30 December 1988. 40 BSA, BH, 1990 A4, Návrh pro poradu; BSA, BH, Odpisy, 30 December 1988.

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(Big Top Show) documenting plays by a renowned experimental theater from the city of Brno, Divadlo na provázku, were made in 1986. The music program Modrá tráva (Blue Grass) documented the country festival Intercountry in 1987 and Rockfest 87 and Rockfest 88 documented Prague rock festivals. 41 Importantly, this step was further motivated by the fact that those types of programs invited association with two notions that Czaban rhetorically mobilized to legitimize Profil’s existence – experiment and youth. 42 While Barrandov management branded Profil derogatively as an experimental unit, Czaban employed experiment as a positive marker – as an aesthetic and formal category that allowed f ilmmakers to try new approaches inexpensively and that also allowed the use of video as a ‘fast’ technology that brought a sense of authenticity (for comparison, see Newman 2013, 63). In this ideal scenario, he claimed, Profil was to saturate the alleged growing demand among young audiences for other programs than those that were offered by conservative Czechoslovak Television. 43 The idea of experiment was thus closely intertwined with youth. Rejuvenation of the production was a dominant discourse at Barrandov in the 1980s. Integrating a new generation of filmmakers became a hot topic towards the end of the previous decade. It was felt that including young directors and scriptwriters should help address the issues of crisis of creativity and anachronistic output, as discussed in the first section. The Creative Youth unit was envisaged to accelerate young filmmakers’ career paths. The contemporaneous Barrandov praxis stipulated that film school graduates had to spend several, often ten years, assisting established directors before being given an opportunity to debut. Only a few young directors, however, entered the system in the first half of the 1980s. Like their East German counterparts in the case of DEFA studios, FAMU graduates became frustrated by the lack of opportunities offered to them at Barrandov (Allan and Sandford 1999, 17). Barrandov earned a reputation of an unwelcoming institution to the new generation of talent (Cieslar 2018; Marhoul 2018). 44 This was partly due to the resistance of the older generation of directors who allegedly put pressure on Barrandov’s director general to maintain their status (Czaban 2018). The young directors 41 BSA, BH, 1988 and earlier, various. Podnikovy reditel FP Karlu Czabanovi, 28 January 1988. Pořady DS Profil v distribuční síti ÚPF, 3 January 1988. 42 BSA, BH, 1988, various, Podklad pro jednání; BSA, BH, Profil. Informace o činnosti (Czaban 2018). 43 BSA, BH, Profil. Informace o činnosti. 44 Some young directors debuted in other units, for instance, Cieslar in the fourth Unit for Children’s Films.

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who began to work at Barrandov, such as Zdeněk Troška and Fero Fenič, often soon ran into problems due to the content of their f ilms. Troška quickly moved on to ideologically safer comedies. The situation changed somewhat, however, in the second half of the 1980s. Bringing new blood to Barrandov was seen as pivotal to answer the Communist Party demand to produce youth-oriented films that would communicate authentically with young audiences who, the government felt, were growing increasingly alienated from socialism (Daniel 2013). Moreover, such fare would address Barrandov’s most important demographics at a point in time when the theatrical attendance decline was one of the film monopoly’s pressing issues (Šteindler 2018).45 Nowhere was the change in perception more evident than in the case of Irena Pavlásková, a female director who debuted in 1989 with a psychological drama (Čas sluhů [Time of the Servants]). The Barrandov committee that evaluated young filmmakers disregarded the rule of an extensive apprenticeship. Despite protests from the Communist Party representative, the committee made the unheard-of decision to allow Pavlásková to go to the head of the line because of her ‘distinctive talent’.46 Such a step underscores the existence of the climate in which playing the ‘youth’ card represented a viable strategy. Czaban evoked youth vis-à-vis Profil in two ways – in terms of audience address and to argue that Profil represented a unique training ground for young directors. Filmmakers at the beginning of their careers could allegedly hone their craft within Profil without risking Barrandov’s funds that were required for a ‘proper’ debut and without pressure (Czaban 2018). Video technology was cheaper, the unit did not demand a budgetary increase, and experimenting was encouraged. In reality, filmmakers of all generations worked for Profil: directors past their prime such as Vladimír Sís, hopeful up-and-comers such as Miloš Zábranský, as well as beginners like Václav Křístek and Zdeněk Tyc. For some, like Tyc, Profil provided a stepping stone to standard production units and feature-length films. In one case, however, such a training exercise eventually evolved into a stand-out feature-length film – the only one that Profil ever produced. In line with Profil’s advertised conception of music formats production, The Prague Five began its life in 1987 as a series of music videos (Vorel and 45 One such project was Šteindler’s debut, Vrať se do hrobu! (Ready for the Grave!) made in 1987 in the first production unit (Šteindler 2018). 46 BSA, BH, Zápis ze zasedání hodnotící komise režisérů, 24 March 1988. See also BSA, BH, Řešení základních otázek a problematiky tvůrčních skupin ve Filmovém studio Barrandov, 13 November 1989.

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Dvořák 2018, 111). Czaban approached recent FAMU graduate Tomáš Vorel to make several music videos for Profil. Czaban was tipped off about Vorel’s FAMU films and his involvement with Prague amateur theatrical ensembles collectively known as The Prague Five, particularly Sklep Theater, which represented a bona fide phenomenon on the Prague alternative theatrical scene. Vorel suggested that he would make five shorts instead, each showcasing the poetics of the five experimental performance troupes: Sklep Theater, Křeč, Vpřed, Kolotoč, and Mimoza. Czaban backed the project. As coordination dramaturge he included The Prague Five, still as a series of shorts, into the annual plan and introduced it to the general and artistic directors at Barrandov, who approved it. The accelerated approval process illustrates some of the surprising benefits to the otherwise devalued position of Profil as an ‘experimental unit’. Because Profil was tasked with producing shorts, it was not subject to what could otherwise be the lengthy process of approval that the other units experienced with feature film projects. 47 While still included into the overall plan, short- and medium-length formats were only submitted to Barrandov’s artistic director and director general. The approval process for Profil’s output was simplified because those films were considerably cheaper than features and not intended for theatrical release, which meant lower risk and easier management of potential problems on an ideological basis. Contributing to that was also the fact that many of Profil’s projects were recordings and documentation of pre-existing cultural productions that had already been part of sanctioned culture. And while one might be tempted to dismiss this matter given the ninety-minute running time of The Prague Five, the film was considered by Barrandov to be a series of shorts. When Vorel, eager to make a debut, suggested to connect the videos into one feature-length film, Czaban seized the opportunity to make the transition from short formats into feature-length production (Czaban 2018). To turn five short stories into a feature-length film, Czaban mobilized his position within, and his knowledge of, the Barrandov system. Firstly, he presented The Prague Five as an omnibus film, a format traditionally favored by Barrandov management to test young filmmakers (instead of a solo debut, each director contributed a shorter story into a feature-length 47 BSA, BH, 1988 C24, Martínek, Karel. Lektorský posudek literárního scénáře. Czaban proposed a different regime for Profil in terms of production planning. He wanted to forgo literary scripts and advocated that the only limit should be budget. Profil’s production was to be planned annually to enable expedient shooting and a timely choice of topics. His proposal was rejected (BSA, BH, Podklad pro jednání s. nám Plachého na gremiální poradě náměstka ÚŘ ČSF, 9 June 1988).

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film). The Prague Five was eligible as a collaboration of five scriptwriters. Furthermore, he pushed the project through at the opportune time towards the end of the year, when it became clear that the production plan was a couple of projects short. Conveniently, the film also fit into the 1987 Barrandov management’s call for a diversification of the production portfolio, including experiments. 48 Upon seeing the five stories shot on video, the director general green-lit their reshoot on film and allocated a budget of CZK 4 million to produce a feature. The Prague Five did not begin life with the intention of mocking socialist society, as such a challenge would likely have led to the project being rejected. It was initially envisaged as an experiment in form, with elements of critique and parody integrated into it during production in the hope they would be tolerated in the context of its artistic credentials (Bláhová 2016, 78; Czaban 2016). Vorel attributed the fact that they were allowed to include highly provocative segments featuring the drunk communist bureaucrat to the ongoing liberalization when ‘nobody knew what was correct and what was allowed’ (Vorel and Dvořák 2018, 111). 49 While this was likely a contributing factor, it was ultimately the marginalized position of the video unit that created fruitful conditions for more critical work: ‘We were always perceived as doing some video’, explained Czaban, ‘The Prague Five was made within the state-controlled institution but somewhat on the side’ (Czaban 2018). The negative reactions of some of the members of the central director’s approval committee indicated that The Prague Five crossed the line of acceptability in socialist Czechoslovak cinema. The movie was not banned outright, but temporarily shelved (Ševčíková 1989). Nevertheless, at the end of 1988, it found its way on videocassette to the Youth Festival in the Slovak city of Bratislava, caused a sensation, and the Czechoslovak film monopoly was left with no choice but to release it theatrically.

Conclusion Measured by quantity, Profil could be seen as a failure, a systemic cul-de-sac. The unit produced only one feature film and around ten other programs.50 48 BH 1988, various. K hodnocení barrandovske tvorby roku 1987. 49 Milan Šteindler, who played the drunk communist, recalls that his segment was improvised and created somewhat ad hoc (Šteindler 2018). 50 Profil started to develop three other feature-length projects before 1989 – the musical comedy Karmen (Carmen) by Tomáš Vorel and Tomáš Hanák; Mazaný Filip (A Cunning Phillip), a Phillip Marlow-Raymond Chandler parody based on a play by Sklep Theater and prepared by Václav

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Most of them had never been widely distributed, if shown at all. The unit did not define new video aesthetics, nor did it establish new trends in video production. If, however, seen from a different perspective, Profil represents an intriguing case that sheds new light on the inner workings of Barrandov towards the end of the 1980s. Prof il was associated with experimental cinematic output, but the most interesting experiment turned out to be the unit itself. The notion of video as experiment evoked a sense of the margin, which facilitated production of a film that would have otherwise either encountered difficulties and resistance or most likely would not have been made at all. While popular music and television in the 1980s state-socialist Czechoslovakia have become relatively recently areas of considerable scholarly interest (Ryback 1992; Mitchell 1992; Vaněk 2010; Reifová 2006; Bren 2010; Houda 2014; Reifová 2015; Husák 2017), Czechoslovak cinema in that period has only begun to attract scholarly attention. In opposition to the well-explored, vibrant 1960s and the stagnant 1970s that together offer an appealing conflict between the dramatic promise of liberalization and similarly dramatic tightening of ideological control (Liehm 1981; Lukeš 1997; Liehm 2001; Hames 2005), the 1980s seemingly lack any conflict and are characterized by stagnation. In cinema, the 1980s are traditionally seen as a indistinct appendix to the draconian 1970s when many filmmakers’ careers were destroyed and cinema was led into a state of a creative torpor by mediocre yet unscrupulous bureaucrats. Many of those bureaucrats, after all, continued their careers throughout the 1980s with a little desire for change. As the case of The Prague Five and Prof il reveal, however, the 1980s Czechoslovak f ilm industry was full of drama and unexpected twists within the context of the slowly changing Barrandov production system. While Barrandov production units never gained the same measure of autonomy and creative and political independence as, for instance, film units in socialist Poland (Ostrowska 2012), many Barrandov employees navigated the system, counting on cultural obscurity and/or personal connections to make decisions that resulted in critical and thematically bolder films such as drama (Proč? [Why?], 1987, dir. Karel Smyczek) and Marhoul and Tomáš Vorel; and Zdeněk Tyc’s first feature, Vojtěch řečený sirotek (Vojtěch Called Orphan). Karmen was halted by a clash of interests among the members of the Sklep Theater who were to be cast in it and who decided to work with Věra Chytilová instead. Mazaný Filip was postponed because of Marhoul’s illness. It was eventually made in 2003 by Marhoul’s production company, Silver Screen. Vojtěch Called Orphan was produced by a different unit to which it was transferred in order to secure more favorable financial conditions. The film premiered in 1989.

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generational satire (Vrať se do hrobu! [Ready for the Grave!], 1989, dir. Milan Šteindler).51 This chapter has showed that the production of The Prague Five, one of the ‘progressive’ Czechoslovak films of the 1980s, was closely intertwined with an ongoing reorganization at Barrandov and with the introduction of the video format. In doing so, it problematizes the broadly accepted notion that more critical f ilms were a result of vaguely def ined sociopolitical liberalization in Czechoslovakia during perestroika. As the history of Barrandov and of Czechoslovak cinema culture in the 1980s remains a substantial research project, this chapter foregrounds a microhistory of individual films, production trends, and production units situated within a macrohistory of Barrandov’s broader reorganization as a productive avenue of film historiography. The development of this macrohistory will lead to a better and much needed understanding of Barrandov’s production culture, operations, and output towards the end of state-socialism in Czechoslovakia. This publication is a result of the project ‘Video, the Czechoslovak Film Monopoly, and Politics, 1985–1989’ that was supported by the Ministry of Education, Youth and Sports – Institutional Support for Long-term Development of Research Organizations – Academy of Performing Arts in Prague in 2018.

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Liehm, Antonín J. ‘Thaws, Booms and Blacklists’. Index on Censorship 10, no. 4 (1981): 9–12. Lukeš, Jan. ‘Jak nastupovala v českém filmu normalizace’. Iluminace 9, no. 1 (1997): 113–155. Lukeš, Jan. ‘Pád, vzestup a nejistota. Český f ilm 1970–1996’. Iluminace 9, no. 1 (1997): 53–81. Marhoul, Václav. Personal interview. 17 October 2018. Mauer, Pavel. ‘Pusťme si video (II. – Profil Profilu)’. Tvorba (1988): 15. McNair, Brian. Glasnost, Perestroika and the Soviet Media. London and New York: Routledge, 1991. Míšková, Věra. ‘Je vino jen video? Rozhovor s ředitelem Ústřední půjčovny filmů’. Rudé právo, 23 September 1988. 5. Mitchell, Tony. ‘Mixing Pop and Politics: Rock Music in Czechoslovakia before and after the Velvet Revolution’. Popular Music 11, no. 2 (1992): 187–203. Newman, Michael Z. Video Revolutions: On the History of a Medium. New York: Columbia University Press, 2013. Ostrowska, Dorota. ‘An Alternative Model of Film Production: Film Units in Poland after World War Two’. In A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas, edited by Anikó Imre, 453–465. John Wiley & Sons, 2012. Přádná, Stanislava, Zdena Škapová, and Jiří Cieslar. Démanty všednosti. Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně. Prague: Pražská scéna, 2002. Ptáček, Luboš. ‘Dvakrát nevstoupíš do stejné kinematografie. Defektnost alegorických prvků v českých filmech z období přestavby’. In Film a dějiny 5. Perestrojka/ přestavba, edited by Petr Kopal, 206–225. Prague: Casablanca and Ústav pro studium totalitních režimů, 2016. Pulmann, Michal. Konec experimentu. Přestavba a pád komunismu v Československu. Prague: Scriptorium, 2011. Purš, Jiří. ‘Naše hraná tvorba v roce 1979’. Film a doba 26, no. 5 (1980): 246–247. Reifová, Irena. Synové a dcery Jakuba skláře II: příběh opravdového člověka. Prague: 2006. Reifová, Irena. ‘Watching Socialist Television Serials in the 70s and 80s in the Former Czechoslovakia: A Study in the History of Meaning-making’. European Journal of Communication 30, no. 1 (2015): 79–94. Remington, Thomas. ‘A Socialist Pluralism of Opinions: Glasnost and Policy-Making under Gorbachev’. Russian Review 48, no. 3 (1989): 271–304. Ryback, Timothy. Rock around the Bloc: A History of Rock Music in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. Ševčíková, Renata. ‘Pražská pětka’. Film a doba 9, no. 35 (1989): 524–526. Skupa, Lukáš. Vadí-nevadí. Česká filmová cenzura v 60. letech. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016.

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Štefek, Martin. ‘Proces přestavby a proměny nedemokratického režimu v ČSSR’. Časopis pro humanitní a společenské vědy 25 (2012). Šteindler, Milan. Personal interview. 14 October 2018. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Vaněk, Miroslav. Byl to jen rock’n’roll? Prague: Academia, 2010. Vávra, Otakar. Podivný život režišéra. Obrazy vzpomínek. Prague: Prostor, 1996. Vorel, Tomáš, and Jan Dvořák. Rejža Vorel. Prague: Vorel Film, 2018.

About the Author Jindřiška Bláhová is a researcher at the Film and Television Faculty of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (AMU), where she is also a head of the Centre for Doctoral Studies. Before transferring to AMU, she was an Assistant Professor at the Film Studies Department, Charles University in Prague. She is also a film critic for a leading Czech weekly Respekt and an editor-in-chief of cinema magazine Cinepur. As a research-active film historian, she specializes in the relationships between Hollywood and Eastern Europe, film culture under communism and post-communism, and film festivals. She was awarded a Charles University Bolzano Award in Humanities for her dissertation A Tough Job for Donald Duck: Hollywood, Czechoslovakia, and Selling Films behind the Iron Curtain. In addition to having published widely in her native Czech, and having served as a guest editor of the Czech academic journal Iluminace: Journal for Film Theory, History, and Aesthetics (issues on postfeminism, banned films in Eastern European cinemas, and film festivals), her English-language articles on the relationships between distribution, reception, and politics have been published in the Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, Film History, Studies in European Cinema, and Post Script. She is an editor of a first academic book on pre-1989 history (Intertwining Worlds. The International Film Festival Karlovy Vary during the Cold War) of the International Film Festival Karlovy Vary (Národní filmový archiv, 2023). She is currently working on a project on post-1989 history of Karlovy Vary.

III Individual Directors

7.

A Documentarian between Genres Jiří Weiss – A Crossover Auteur at Barrandov Lucie Česálková Abstract: In the postwar period, Jiří Weiss came to Barrandov as a documentary filmmaker who had experience of the interwar avant-garde and war-commissioned documentary production in exile in London. In the conditions of state-socialist cinema, his personality was important as a bearer of generational continuity, a link between creative and administrative tasks of the Barrandov Studios, proponent of socialist realism, connected to international circles, and seeking for a coproduction project, and at the same time foreshadowing some of the New Wave methods, such as casting nonactors and focusing on social issues and everyday life. His crossover authorship, bridging or merging some of the seemingly disparate aspects of postwar Czech cinema, therefore makes it possible to explain some of the paradoxes, ambivalences, and (dis)continuities of state-socialist film practice. Keywords: Jiří Weiss, documentary f ilm, socialist realism, casting, coproduction, auteur

I wasn’t interested in the documentary as such. – Jiří Weiss, 19831

Jiří Weiss’s work in the Czech film industry following the end of the Second World War was full of paradoxes. Although he was considered a documentarian, having been part of the team that established a documentary 1 Jiří Weiss in an interview with Zdeněk Štábla and Václav Merhaut, 11 June 1983, National Film Archive (hereafter NFA), Sound recording collection.

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch07

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group at the A-B Company’s film studios before the war,2 and having gained experience unmatched by any of his colleagues as a wartime director of informational and documentary films for the British government’s The Crown Film Unit, Weiss did not make many documentary films after the war. In fact, his involvement in the restructuring and development of documentary filmmaking as part of Czechoslovakia’s nationalized film industry was quite limited. However, Weiss’s work in fiction film carried a number of documentary elements while still embracing stylized techniques and exploring a variety of genres. Thanks to his wartime activities, Weiss was relatively well connected abroad. His ease with English and other languages made it possible for him to rub elbows at various international film festivals, and he was certainly not short of international ambitions. During the 1950s he developed a number of international projects, without much success, and it was only in the mid- and late 1960s that he found international partners to coproduce the feature film Třicet jedna ve stínu (Ninety Degrees in the Shade, 1965) and the made-for-television film Spravedlnost pro Selvina (Justice for Selwyn, 1968). Weiss emigrated from Czechoslovakia twice: first in 1939 to Britain and then in 1968 to the United States. In both cases he emigrated for political reasons – the first time as a Jew escaping the Nazis and the second time as an artist who refused to collaborate with a political system with which he no longer agreed. Nevertheless, he had agreed with the system earlier, when he had worked in the state film industry during the Stalinist era and held several leadership positions at Barrandov Studios. During this period he was criticized sharply for ideological reasons for the film Poslední výstřel (The Last Shot, 1950), but in the same year he released Vstanou noví bojovníci (New Fighters Shall Arise), a film based on a novel by Antonín Zápotocký, the then prime minister of Czechoslovakia and the country’s future president. Jiří Hendrych, a key Communist Party ideologue of the era, described Weiss’s work on New Fighters Shall Arise as the filmmaker’s atonement for earlier errors and his embrace of socialist realism (Hendrych 1950). In spite of the contradictions presented by these two films, Weiss’s creative work retained a significant level of integrity on a number of levels: thematic, motivational, conceptual, and creative. Although Weiss is not one of the best-known figures of Czechoslovak cinema, his career reflects how Barrandov Studios was influenced by politics, generational linkages, artistic approaches, and international ambitions 2 The documentary group was actually a cultural film department inspired by the German f ilm studio Ufa and its Kulturabteilung (cultural section), which worked on cultural f ilms intended to inform and educate their audiences. See more later in the text.

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after the end of the Second World War. Already considered at this time a member of the ‘veteran’ generation (Szczepanik 2015), Weiss brought to Barrandov continuity with the interwar avant-garde, connections to the West, inspirations from the British film industry, and interest in international cooperation. Weiss played an important role in shaping Czechoslovakia’s version of socialist realism within the political context of the early 1950s, yet in spite of the ideological success of New Fighters Shall Arise, and his designation as a ‘documentarian’ and a ‘realist’, he worked at the periphery of socialist realism, without engaging in simplistic agitprop. Thematically, the films made by Weiss in the early 1950s followed the convention of Czechoslovak socialist realism, but his specific approach was more closely aligned with the wartime tradition of British social realism. Weiss’s long-term interest in the everyday struggles of ordinary people, which is also reflected in his work from the early 1950s, was much closer to the modernist tendencies of the late 1950s. His work was enriched with the same elements that would later be used by filmmakers of the Czechoslovak New Wave: a focus on ordinary people’s lives, psychological analysis, the use of nonactors, and the confrontation of historical events big and small. Unlike filmmakers of the New Wave, however, Weiss was not as radical in his treatment of these subjects, especially in terms of formal experimentation, aiming instead (in his own words) for ‘audience appeal’ and ‘dramatic, epic cinema’ (Weiss 1965, 9). In this chapter I want to assess how Weiss’s unique position as a documentary filmmaker with international experience intersected with the post-war development of the Barrandov studio.

The Documentary Film at Barrandov When Jiří Weiss came to Barrandov in 1935, he became the studio’s first director of documentary films. He joined the cultural department of A-B Barrandov, which was just being founded and whose manager and creative director was Weiss’s peer, the then twenty-two-year-old Karel Kohout (Štábla 1990a, 499). At this time, Kohout, Weiss, and other members of their group, such as the director Jiří Lehovec and cinematographer Václav Hanuš, were considered by Barrandov to be young amateurs. In spite of this, they created the first professional documentary group in the history of Czech cinema, defining the division of labor and the relationships between creative professionals on a documentary filmmaking team – the lead producer, director, cinematographer, and music composer. The documentary group developed entirely new processes, ones that were different from processes

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used in the rest of Barrandov. This, together with Jiří Lehovec’s experience3 and the influence he exerted on the work of the documentary group and the development of documentary filmmaking in Czechoslovakia, positioned the young men as the standard-bearers of avant-garde trends in Czechoslovak film (Bregant 1992). In spite of this, their positions at Barrandov were akin to those of useful apprentices of the craft, shaping the development of a group whose establishment had been seen as a prudent management step by A-B Barrandov. The A-B Barrandov documentary group was inspired by the cultural section of the German film studio Ufa (Kreimeier 2005), its role intended to help diversify the work of Barrandov Studios, which until then had focused on fiction films only. Their goal was to ensure the production of cultural and promotional shorts, which from 1939 were required to be included in all official film screenings. 4 The group made it possible for A-B Barrandov to link short films that were made in-house to the studio’s feature-length films, thus ensuring complete control over content as part of a vertically integrated system (Česálková 2009). This was not, primarily, about supporting experimental art films, but about taking a pragmatic step in response to new legislation, a step that had not been well considered on the financial side. As the documentary group’s main director, Jiří Weiss was one of the key critics of this model, complaining that the group’s generational delineation led to their work being undervalued: ‘Those whose work carries any value prefer to make feature films, so we only have young people, outsiders or contract workers working on short films. In other words – not artists. And that explains everything. In other countries short films are made by famous directors – for example W. Ruttmann’ (Weiss 1937, 33). Weiss saw engagement in short film as an economic necessity for young artists, because those who were more experienced did not find the work financially rewarding. While working with the cultural section at A-B, Weiss directed several short films that served to develop his future capabilities in directing. The films Dejte nám křídla (Grant Us Wings) and Přístav vzdušného moře (Harbor of the Air) focused on aeronautics and enabled Weiss to shoot on location and to film airplanes. The first film was unequivocally emotive and intended to communicate an antiwar message, while also featuring decidedly patriotic 3 Lehovec was a member of the Left Front (Levá fronta), with many years of experience in making military documentaries at the Military Technical Institute under the tutelage of Jiří Jeníček, a pioneer of military filmmaking. 4 Although this obligation has been in force since 1939, negotiations on its introduction have been conducted since 1936, when the Commission for Cultural Promotional Films was established at the Film Advisory Council (Česálková 2009, 149–150).

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propaganda. Both films helped to establish Weiss, still in the first two years of his professional career, as a director capable of directing action-packed events involving large crowds and transportation equipment on location. As a result, in 1938 he was invited to codirect location scenes for Jan Bor’s film Undefeated Army (Neporažená armáda), scenes that depict soldiers marching and in battle and are stylistically very different from the rest of the film (Štábla 1990b, 38; Anon. 1938). Weiss’s ability to create naturally dramatic yet visually appealing battle scenes was later applied in his work with the British Royal Air Force and work on postwar films like Uloupená Hranice (The Stolen Frontier, 1947) and Poslední výstřel (The Last Shot, 1950). His films Cesta ze stínu (Journey from the Shadows), about social services provided by the City of Prague, and Píseň o smutné zemi (Song of a Land of Sorrows), about Carpathian Ruthenia, foretold of Weiss’s interest in social issues and his ability to portray the poetic, humorous as well as tragic details of everyday lives of the poor, the elderly, and children. Weiss also directed the documentary Naše země (Our Homeland), made to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the founding of Czechoslovakia. The film was released in October 1938, one month after the signing of the Munich Agreement, which greatly strengthened its patriotic appeal. Weiss returned to documentary filmmaking immediately after his return from war-time exile in Britain, although he no longer worked exclusively at Barrandov Studios. As a filmmaker with international connections, he focused on projects intended particularly for international audiences. For the Information Service of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs he directed the documentary Věrni zůstaneme (Faithful We Shall Remain, 1945) about Czechoslovak soldiers on the fronts of the Second World War. He also worked with František Sádek for the emerging documentary arm of Czechoslovak State Film (Československý státní film) on Dopis z Prahy (A Letter from Prague, 1945), which was conceived as a documentary series to inform people abroad about the postwar situation in Prague, and more broadly in Czechoslovakia. Although Barrandov Studios has been long known for its work on featurelength fiction films, its portfolio also included documentaries. After the war, however, following the nationalization of the film industry, this was an anomaly of sorts. Beginning in 1945, all documentary films, weekly newsreels, popular science films, and animation films gradually moved to units outside Barrandov, generally referred to as Short Film.5 As the name suggests, Short 5 In 1945 these f ilms were made under the auspices of Czechoslovak Film Chronicle (Československá filmová kronika) and the Czechoslovak Film Institute (Československý filmový ústav); in 1946–1947 under the auspices of Short Film and Newsreel Film (Zpravodajský film);

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Film Prague focused on producing short-length productions, often commissioned by the government and other institutions. Short Film did produce some feature-length films, such as Jan Kučera’s Píseň míru (Song of Peace, 1947), but this was not the norm. Nevertheless, a few years later the Artistic Documentary Group (ADG, Skupina uměleckého dokumentu) was established for the express purpose of producing feature-length documentaries, and from 1951 the group worked directly from Barrandov Studios.6 The group was led by Jiří Lehovec, Weiss’s peer and colleague from the prewar cultural section of A-B Barrandov. The formation of ADG was preceded by the establishment of the national Association of Documentary Film (Sbor pro dokumentární film), which was initiated at the recommendation of a committee of the World Union of Documentary Films that met in Prague in April 1949 (Lovejoy 2022). Czechoslovakia was represented at the meeting by Elmar Klos, an experienced filmmaker from Baťa Film Studios (Baťovy filmové závody) (Česálková 2011). Klos, Lehovec, and Weiss symbolized continuity with the prewar avant-garde and as leading filmmakers they seemed at first glance a more paradoxical than logical choice for leading ADG. Their experience, however, combined with their willingness to be part of the state film industry even after the political changes of 1948, worked in their favor. Lehovec hoped that the establishment of ADG would raise the standard of domestic documentary filmmaking. He believed that unlike Short Film, which had long been overstretched by too many commissions and the pressure to produce quantity over quality, his new group would advance the development of the documentary film both in terms of content – to make it more socially relevant – and in terms of form and technique. Lehovec trusted that this would propel the Czech documentary to ‘once again reach European standards’.7 To this end, Lehovec worked hard to ensure that the group’s plans for thematic coverage would be driven by the creative plans of directors and writers who chose to collaborate with the group.8 and in 1947–1948 under Short Film, Newsreel Film, and Animated and Puppet Film (Kreslený a loutkový f ilm). Puppet Film became its own unit in 1949, and 1950 saw the establishment of independent studios (Studio of Documentary Film, Studio of News Bulletin Film, Studio of Animated Film, and Studio of Puppet Film). Besides Prague, similar units existed in Zlín/ Gottwaldov (Česálková 2014, 52–53). 6 NFA, f. ČSF, k. (box) R8/AI/2P/4K, folder ‘Umělecký document’ [Artistic Documentary]. 7 NFA, f. ČSF, k. (box) R8/AI/2P/4K, folder ‘Umělecký document’ [Artistic Documentary], Letter from Jiří Lehovec to the director of the state cinematography administration, Oldřich Macháček, 20 December 1953. 8 NFA, f. ČSF (unprocessed), k. (box) R8/AI/2P/4K, folder ‘Umělecký document’ [Artistic Documentary], Jiří Lehovec, Návrh organisace Uměleckého dokumentu [Recommendation to establish the Artistic Documentary Group], 20 July 1952.

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Over the coming years some eighteen documentary films were made by ADG, but none matched the ambitions that Lehovec had when he took on the leadership role. The key challenge was simply the lack of suitable staff, coupled with intrusive oversight from the top, which led to revisions of the group’s thematic plans. Lehovec imagined that ADG would be an elite unit, one that would engage directors who were experienced and accomplished, capable of conceptual thinking and innovation, as well as cinematographers ‘who had an artistic vision yet were flexible, unafraid to work with a handheld camera and undaunted by discomfort and the sometimes challenging conditions one experiences outside the studio’.9 There were not many experienced director-documentarians in Czechoslovakia, however, and the best among them were already working on fiction films – just like Jiří Weiss. Thematic plans were regularly changed by people at the top, who replaced the filmmakers’ proposed ideas with other material. The ADG thus found itself in the same situation as Short Film – it worked on commission, and Lehovec had a difficult time finding quality creative staff for commissioned projects. The result were productions that had been foreshadowed to some extent by Weiss’s Píseň o sletu (Sokol Festival Song): the most common subjects included events full of pomp and ritual: youth congresses – Setkání v Bukurešti (Meeting in Bucharest) and sport championships – Olympiáda Helsinky (The Helsinki Olympics); sport subjects in general – Emil Zátopek, Vzhůru sportovci (Upwards Athletes) and Mistři zimních sportů (Masters of Winter Sports); national development – Rok stalinské epochy (A Year of Stalin’s Era), Povážské stupně (Cascades on the River Vah); and history and arts – Betlémská kaple (Bethlehem Chapel), Barevný svět Otakara Nejedlého (The Colorful World of Otakar Nejedlý), and Staletá krása (Centuries-Old Beauty). The portrayal of these subjects was rather routine. The collective leadership of Barrandov Studios saw ADG quite differently from Lehovec – for them the group was an on-hand instrument for documenting ‘socialist progress’. In terms of subject matter, the group was to explore the same topics as would be covered by fiction films made in the style of socialist realism, but it was expected to cover these topics sooner. After all, the initial idea that drove Barrandov’s collective leadership to establish ADG was captured in the following words: ‘Before we can present socialist progress through the artistic/dramatic form, we should capture it in the form of the artistic documentary’.10 9 Ibid. 10 NFA, f. Československý film (ČSF), k. (box) R19/AII/3P/2K. Zápis 11. pracovní porady Kolektivního vedení [Minutes of the eleventh meeting of the collective leadership], 24 March 1952.

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Barrandov established the Artistic Documentary Group at the same time the Ministry of National Defense, under the leadership of the new Minister Alexej Čepička, established a special film unit called Czechoslovak Army Film (CAF, Československý armádní film). The special film unit was housed under the Ministry of Defense and functioned outside the structure of Czechoslovak State Film (CSF) (Lovejoy 2015, 61). As Alice Lovejoy writes, CSF and CAF saw each other as rivals, especially as CAF wanted to produce fiction films with a military theme (Lovejoy 2015, 65–68; Szczepanik 2016, 102). Consequently, the establishment of ADG, together with the appointment of Jiří Lehovec in the leadership position, held strong symbolic meaning at that time. A veteran of Czechoslovak documentary filmmaking, Lehovec was regarded as a member of the interwar avant-garde who was active after the war in international documentary film organizations (such as the World Union of Documentary Films), and developed, both theoretically as well as in practical terms, the body of work that came out of Short Film. Furthermore, prior to the war Lehovec had taken part in the early development of Czechoslovak military films, and as a cinematographer he had influenced the style of Jiří Jeníček’s key films (Lovejoy 2015, 41–45; Česálková 2014, 228–232). In its work, ADG was meant to connect the artistic documentary to the doctrine of socialist realism, both institutionally and conceptually, and this idea was legitimized through the involvement of leading prewar documentary filmmakers. For members of the group this represented a significant departure from the idealistic expectations they held at the end of the war. Czech documentarians shared the vision that documentary films could be a tool to disseminate awareness and understanding among different cultural and ethnic groups – as the ideas that had given rise to the violence of the Second World War were among other things rooted in cultural and ethnic hatred – and thereby help to prevent similar scenarios in the future. In line with the international documentarian movement, they saw the documentary film as an instrument of peace and a peaceful exchange of ideas. The role of the documentary film was strengthened significantly in the postwar period in response to general mistrust in the aestheticization of politics, a tool that had been used by fascism. The documentary presented itself as an ideal medium to document the impacts of war and a useful form for capturing evidence of the devastation of Europe and the existence of mass graves and concentration camps. These ideas gave rise to efforts to create an international organization of documentarians and to promote international exchanges of documentary films with a view to their informational and educational potential.

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Even the early postwar period in Czechoslovakia turned out to be ideological in nature, however, and the emphasis it placed on authenticity did not lead to a shift towards observation and reportage. As will be later shown in greater detail, the typical documentary of the time had a hybrid format where social actors appeared in staged scenes in which they were not representing themselves directly, but rather a certain social type. Interestingly, in postwar Czechoslovakia all these characteristics were transformed into a new type of creative format, one that followed the essence of classic documentary traditions, but took on completely different functions and meanings within the context of communist ideology and the doctrine of socialist realism. As shown by the example of the Artistic Documentary Group, the distorted interpretation of documentary filmmaking within the construct of social realism did not work out well. Its meaning became slowly lost, and by the second half of the 1950s, after the group ceased to exist, Barrandov ceded documentary filmmaking to Short Film and Czechoslovak Army Film.

Multiple Realisms, Multiple Approaches Weiss departed from documentary filmmaking at a time when Czechoslovak cultural circles were embroiled in a critical debate about the notion of realism, a time when the style of his fiction films began to be characterized as ‘documentary’ and Weiss was being labeled a ‘realist’ of Czech filmmaking. In his 1948 essay ‘Real and Fake Realism’ (‘O realismu pravém a nepravém’), Zdeněk Nejedlý presented socialist realism as the only acceptable form of realism for Czechoslovak artists to pursue (Nejedlý 1948). However, while dogmatically promoted, the doctrine of socialist realism was never thoroughly defined as a holistic creative approach or a value system. It was more of a programmatic construct to be adapted into the artistic sphere. As Evgeny Dobrenko argues, socialist realism understood a work of art as an object at the intersection of aesthetics and politics. In this construct, the artistic and the political merged with the everyday, as the goal of politicized art and/ or aestheticized politics was to transform reality into socialism. According to Dobrenko, ‘one of the distinctive peculiarities of socialist realism is the elusiveness of its boundaries: a socialist realist artifact is always located in a moveable zone of intersection between aesthetic intentions and political vested interest, between artistic function and propaganda’ (Dobrenko 2007, xiv). As the artistic, the political, and the everyday mutually converged in the spirit of borderless socialist realism, the functions of traditional

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communication media and art forms converged as well, making it easier to transfer or adapt themes and approaches across different types of works. As a result, documentary and fiction films often covered similar topics, documentary film formats worked with staged drama, and fiction films were at times suffused with documentary techniques. In the Soviet tradition, from which socialist realism emerged, the intertwining of documentary and fictional elements was rooted in a specific genre for which the Russian literary theorist Viktor Shklovsky formulated the term ‘factography’. Promoted by the Novyi Lef group between 1925 and 1928, factography involved ‘hybrid prose forms which combined journalism’s respect for material with narrative or compositional techniques which could most expressively organize that material’ (Kolchevska 1983, 453). Many films made by Czechoslovakia’s Short Film in the postwar period were built on this model – they were based on real situations but placed emphasis on dramatization, working with social actors as characters. As in the case of factography, the role of these films was primarily educational and informational, covering topics like developments in industry, agriculture, and services. However, Czech documentarians did not define the specific approaches used in these films on the basis of Soviet models only. Their opinions were formed in close association with international developments taking place along the East-West divide. Socialist realism in Czechoslovak documentary filmmaking thus reflected the specific experiences of a generation of filmmakers who had joined the film industry before the Second World War and found inspiration not only in the Soviet Union, but also in Britain, France, and the Netherlands, among other places. At first glance, Jiří Weiss seemed an ideal proponent of socialist realism. Dedicated to topics rooted in everyday reality, Weiss directed his actors to act authentically and naturally, and liked involving nonactors. He began his work in the state-run film industry full of enthusiasm for bridging the artistic and educational roles of the documentary film medium (Weiss 1945). In spite of the outward similarities, the foundation for Weiss’s work did not originate in the Soviet Union, but in Britain. Having worked there with The Crown Film Unit, Weiss was accustomed to commissioned work, and as a patriot returning to Czechoslovakia during the liberation of Europe, he regarded working for the state film industry as a similar type of service. Working from the thesis that art had always been subsidized by the elites and was often created to challenge the status quo, he wrote as follows: ‘Short films are sometimes art, sometimes propaganda, and sometimes both. But today we need propaganda the most’ (Weiss 1945). With these words, however, he was referring more likely to films made by Humphrey Jennings and Basil Wright, insisting that he was interested in ‘social realism’

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of the British cut (Noháč 1945). Realism in British postwar film built on the documentary filmmaking tradition of the 1930s, which had significantly influenced Weiss on a conceptual level (Davies 2000, 112–113). Nevertheless, as noted by David Forrest: ‘Post-war social realist cinema can be seen to maintain the formal elements of the wartime drama, while departing from its hegemonic objective’ (Forrest 2013, 20). Weiss’s first postwar film, Věrni zůstaneme (Faithful We Shall Remain), is notable for its emphasis on the values of the national collective. The title of the film recalls the words spoken by President Edvard Beneš at the funeral of Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, words that were also used for the name of an anti-Nazi resistance group active in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia in the years 1939–1942. Faithful We Shall Remain was made for the Information Service of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs while Weiss was still based in Britain, and was put together from footage taken by British, French, American, and Soviet wartime cinematographers, as well as footage from Czechoslovak archives and Weiss’s own completion footage. The film focuses on the history of the Second World War, beginning with the death of T. G. Masaryk, through to the events of the 1938 Munich Agreement, the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, and the service of Czech soldiers in the British Royal Air Force, a subject dear to Weiss’s heart. Weiss chose documentary-dramatic techniques specifically for the scenes involving Czech pilots, and staged the moments during which a commanding officer awaits the return of his aircrew. The staged scenes are rather an exception in the overall composition of the film, and signal Weiss’s future direction. In 1948 Weiss accepted an offer to provide documentary coverage of the Eleventh Sokol Festival.11 The two-part full-color documentary spectacle called Píseň o sletu (Sokol Festival Song) was filmed by fourteen cinematographers and represented the greatest synchronization in Czech film at the time, yielding more than 70,000 meters of color film. The film project was preceded by a radio callout to Sokol members who were encouraged to share their stories of the festival. According to period observers, the incorporation of stories from actual Sokol members was meant to underscore ‘the film’s veracity’ (Sluka 1949). Framed by wartime events and postwar reconstruction and development, the film was imbued with collectivist 11 Sokol [Falcon] is a Czech athletic association with a long tradition. The association was founded in 1862 and from 1882 it began to organize periodic athletic festivals called Všesokolský slet (literally, Festival of All Sokols). Sokol was most popular as a national athletic movement during the interwar period. It continued to function after the communist takeover of 1948 under the watchful eye of the Communist Party, but in 1956 its activities were banned. The movement was renewed in 1990.

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and nationalist rhetoric. The festival was presented as an event of national unity, one bringing together Sokol members from all corners of the land. With the help of selected music and thoughtful placement of cameras, images of individual Sokol members are merged together into one seamless ornament, one unified athletic body. The body is presented in the film as a body of the postwar era, a renewed body focused on the development of the future. The festival’s choreography arranges athletes into fields of crosses representing war casualties, and the entire rehearsal exudes the spirit of voluntary collaborative work and rebuilding. The idyllic and celebratory tone of the film is at once apolitical. The camera ignores the political leaders who are present at the event, focusing primarily on the athletes and the ordinary members of the audience. In doing so, however, it ignores the festival’s obvious political character. The Eleventh Sokol Festival took place on 18 June 1948, several months after the coup d’état and the Communist Party’s takeover of government, and eleven days after Edvard Beneš’s abdication from the office of the president. The film suppresses any political controversies linked to the festival, such as the chanting of the names of Edvard Beneš and T. G. Masaryk, or Sokol members turning their heads as they marched past the tribune at which heads of the party and the state were seated. Weiss focused instead on aesthetics and documentary direction, placing cinematographers in strategic locations across Prague in order to create impressive artistic compositions (e.g., cameras under the stone hoofs of the horse of St. Wenceslaus, behind a transparent flag, or next to a convex traffic mirror). In addition to panning over the spectacular marching of the masses, the camera zooms in on commonplace details like children in the audience. Clearly, Weiss made Sokol Festival Song in the ‘British spirit’, presenting the festival as a social subject, a nationwide/society-wide event that joined people from all walks of life into a unified whole through a perfect synchronization of athleticism. The one explicitly political element in the film is a stylistically disparate montage showing several minutes of footage from around the world – street unrest, demonstrations, and violence perpetrated against working people – accompanied by a laconic commentary titled ‘Peace 1948’ (‘Mír 1948’). It is this sequence that fundamentally changes the overall tone of the film, creating a key rhetorical bridge for comparing the nation against the rest of the world in the spirit of the Cold War dichotomy of peaceful Czechoslovakia on one end and Western imperialism on the other. Thanks to this sequence, film distributors could claim that the film was ‘the most compelling answer to the false claims made about Czechoslovakia by imperialist agitators, the best promotion to the world of our beautiful homeland, our goals, and our ideas

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of peace’ (Anon. 1949). At the same time, the sequence brought Weiss closer to the position of a socialist realist filmmaker, a position bolstered to a great extent by his work of the early 1950s. This covered topics that were typical for socialist realism, such as the challenges of the reconstruction (Raptors, Dravci, 1948), the role of the working masses in the liberation struggle (The Last Shot), the advancement of the working class (New Fighters Shall Arise), and the (re)education of a socialist citizen (Můj přítel Fabián [My Friend the Gypsy, 1953]). Although they cover socialist realist subject matter, these films cannot be unequivocally considered as works of the socialist realism. Weiss’s work allows us to look at socialist realism through the lens of a director whose work on New Fighters Shall Arise made him (in the view of the party as well as Barrandov leadership) a proponent of socialist realist work, yet who was – as evident in this film – on the movement’s periphery. Weiss did not stand outside it, nor did he unequivocally embrace it. New Fighters Shall Arise won Weiss the highest state prize, sending him as the main delegate and presenter to the Week of Czechoslovak Film in the Soviet Union. The widely distributed film complemented other media versions of Antonín Zápotocký’s novel (theater performances, radio plays). It soon found its way into the school curriculum (Česálková 2018, 51) and was considered an exemplar of a historical film focused on the labor movement. Despite its success, the film defies several traditional features of socialist realist work by focusing on the way of life at the end of the nineteenth century and avoiding a simplistic depiction of characters. Although one of the key themes of the film is the class struggle, much more attention is focused on the everyday life and complex social relations of the village of the late nineteenth century. Weiss’s work on this film demonstrates how socialist realism was defined through the collective work of filmmakers who also aimed for their own expression, often emerging from the continuity of the interwar avant-garde. It is also possible that these filmmakers did not either fully understand the politically framed, aesthetic doctrine of socialist realism, or did not follow it consciously. The fact that socialist realism was, as a politically defined set of values, delineated separately from the world of art is aptly reflected in a discussion that took place in the spring of 1950 between members of the Association of Documentary Film (to which Jiří Weiss belonged) and the Soviet documentarian and SovExport film representative Alexei Alexeyevich Lebedev. At the meeting, Lebedev gave a presentation on the development of Soviet film and, in the discussion that followed, the Czech documentarians who were present queried the prestigious filmmaker not about ideological questions, or the socialist realist method, but about operational matters

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Figure 7.1. Vstanou noví bojovníci (New Fighters Shall Arise, 1950, dir. Jiří Weiss) at the Festival of Czechoslovak Film in the Soviet Union. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

relating to organizing different fields of cinema (fiction films, documentary films, popular science films), remuneration in filmmaking, and differences in these areas. This differentiation, which entered Czechoslovak cinema through the creation of specialized short film studios, was the key issue

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of concern for Czech documentarians of the early 1950s, together with the issue of filmmakers transitioning from documentary to fiction film. The frequent movement of documentary filmmakers to fiction film was considered, just as in Weiss’s case, a drain of talent and a loss of prestige to the documentary profession. Contrary to his Czech colleagues, Lebedev did not consider these issues to be significant and was the only person present who referred to socialist realism: ‘This question of method is not so important in the Soviet Union, because there is only one common method to all our art: socialist realism’.12 In turn, Czech filmmakers continued to focus on differences between reportage, documentary film, and fiction film, demonstrating a closer ideological connection to a discussion initiated by the World Union of Documentary Films at a festival in Mariánské Lázně (Marienbad) a few years earlier (where the present filmmakers defined the postwar documentary) than to the ideas of socialist realism. Similarly to other members of the interwar creative avant-garde, they were not working directly in line with socialist realism, nor against it (Clybor 2012). Yet the appeal of the documentary for both Lebedev and the Czech documentarians rested in something that was very similar. Early Soviet interest in the documentary medium, def ined as the ‘documentary moment’ by Elisabeth Papazian, became the determining inspiration for the majority of artists working in the postrevolutionary era. The documentary had two key characteristics that allowed for a new delineation of the relationship between art and politics, as well as a delineation of the relationship between the artist, the world, and the audience (Papazian 2009, 14). According to Papazian, the key characteristics were ‘the promise of objectivity and the promise of instrumentality’ (ibid.). The first of these appealed for the possibility to overcome representational uncertainty by placing emphasis on undistorted reality, and the second for the fact that in its instrumental nature, the documentary came close to science, politics, and technology as an instrument of social and global change. Papazian explores in detail how the primary preoccupation with reality and the possibilities that presented themselves for documentation prompted the government to pursue the socialist realist project. She further claims that the promise of these possibilities was also present in its very foundations. Thus, while socialist realism is primarily linked to works of fiction, it cannot be understood separately from instrumentally perceived documentary work. The fluid demarcation of socialist realism thus meant, 12 NFA, f. ČSF, k. (box) R5/BII/1P/5K. Záznam o schůzi sboru pro dokumentární film [Minutes of a meeting of the Association of Documentary Film], May 1950.

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among other things, that some artists – Weiss included – created both inside and outside the movement. Within the Czech context, an important aspect of this situation was also the fact that while socialist realism was being promoted, and works were being evaluated through its lens, individual filmmakers were focused on other issues, such as those linked directly to documentary praxis, and paid little attention to the concept as such. Theorizing about the boundaries between documentary and fiction film played a much more important role in their thinking, and they explored this primarily through the method of re-enactment. The re-enactment method was discussed by the director Alan František Šulc at a meeting of the Association of Documentary Film, where Šulc claimed that: ‘Where we have no record of facts, or where facts alone would not support the overall composition of a body of work, or even distract from its realistic impact (through its naturalism or lack of dramatic effect), that is the place for re-enactment’.13 According to Šulc, the advantage of reconstruction is the augmentation and dramatization of reality in terms of aesthetics and meaning. Several years later, in 1953, the then starting director Vojtěch Jasný mused similarly about the possibilities of the documentary as he worked on distinguishing between reportage, staged documentary, and what he referred to as “organized filming”. Jasný, who by then had worked with Karel Kachyňa on the documentaries Není stále zamračeno (It Is Not Always Cloudy, 1949), Neobyčejná léta (Extraordinary Years, 1952), and Lidé jednoho srdce (People of One Heart, 1953), used his own experience as well as concrete examples to explain why he felt that the staged documentary was closer to a fiction film than a documentary, and why he believed that a combination of reportage and organized filming was the best approach for a documentarian to take. In this sense, Jasný assessed his own film Extraordinary Years as problematic precisely because the staged documentary format often resulted in social actors being treated as real actors. This went against the principles of documentary filmmaking, and resulted in artistically unbalanced outcomes (Jasný 1953). By contrast, Jasný’s method of “organized filming” was based on a thorough reconnaissance of filming locations and interviews with social actors, allowing him to think through and prepare individual scenes, in particular from the perspective of composition and dramatic potential. In this sense, the director did not 13 NFA, f. ČSF, k. (box) R5/BII/1P/5K. A. F. Šulc, Potřeba rekonstrukce v dokumentárním filmu [The need for re-enactment in documentary film] (text of the lecture), Záznam o schůzi sboru pro dokumentární film [Minutes of a meeting of the Association of Documentary Film], 24 February 1950.

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direct the protagonists’ individual actions, only their context. In his comments, Jasný was clearly reflecting on Czech cinema of the late 1940s and early 1950s, when many documentary films were made with the staged documentary format. Although these films worked with nonactors, they were made according to literary screenplays and inspired by literary works, and were therefore often far from authentic. By contrast, Jiří Weiss’s work in Czech cinema represented primarily what Jasný called the ‘artistic-documentary film’ – in other words, a fiction film that took advantage of documentary approaches. As Weiss himself reflected, he was not interested in the ‘documentary as such’.14 He looked primarily for stories rooted in authentic (historical) circumstances that revealed how people acted in liminal situations representing a moral dilemma. Weiss’s aim to achieve authentic and natural interpretation, which was considered to be in line with the requirements of socialist realism in the late 1940s and early 1950s, was not what earned him the label of Czech cinema’s realist and documentarian. On the contrary, his film The Last Shot was viewed very critically on the basis of the party line. According to Jiří Hendrych, Weiss ‘had found himself a captive of civilism,15 presenting his characters in unimportant, marginal situations, afraid of expressing human emotions’ (Hendrych 1950, 1074). Socialist realism saw preoccupation with civilism as ‘captivity’; focusing on the everyday and the ordinary did not align with socialist realist aspirations towards an idealized future. As noted by Vera Dunham, socialist realist intentions allowed only negative characters to move clumsily through the present moment. A positive hero, Dunham contrasted, ‘comes from the gap between the real and the ideal, his character revealing itself in confrontation not with the ideal but with real problems. And these problems provide a channel through which reality impinges. The idealized elements of the positive hero and the futuristic component in his makeup have more to do with his thoughts than with his actions’ (Dunham 1990, 30). Weiss embraced this ‘realistic’ interpretation of the positive hero in his treatment of the figure of Ladislav Budečský, the lead character in New Fighters Shall Arise. Budečský was modeled on the father of Antonín Zápotocký, the then prime minister and later president of Czechoslovakia (1953–1957). Zápotocký was the author of the novel on which the film was 14 Jiří Weiss in an interview with Zdeněk Štábla and Václav Merhaut, 11 June 1983, NFA, Sound recording collection. 15 In the Czech context, ‘civilism’ is most often used to describe the work of Walt Whitman and later efforts to present everyday problems of ordinary people/society within the developing city landscape (Vlašín 1983, 31–34).

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based, a novel that explored the beginnings of the labor movement in Kladno. The direct link to Zápotocký and his book was probably the reason why Weiss’s film became a classic in the socialist realism tradition. The film itself does not present Budečský as a hero, nor does it oversimplify his character; rather, his character is used as a vehicle for describing life in the nineteenth century. Weiss’s rendition of Budečský aligns with the way Czech documentarians of the day perceived a documentary film hero – a character who, in the words of Alan František Šulc, ‘bears witness to class, era, and historical circumstance’.16 And so, although Weiss’s realism reflected a number of modernist traits, his work never reached the experimental quality with which filmmakers of the Czechoslovak New Wave later embraced documentary film techniques in fiction films, in part because he did not rebel against social realism in any significant way.

Casting Authenticity In stories inspired by real events or based in real settings, Weiss placed emphasis on details of everyday life, interpersonal relationships and social issues. His characters were not traditional heroes, let alone heroes of socialist realism; they were ordinary people. One of the key features of Weiss’s realism/ civilism, or more specifically its documentary aspects, was his casting approach and his collaboration with actors. From Weiss’s directing style, published memoirs, as well as period and oral history interviews, it is clear that in each of his films Weiss paid special attention to the selection of actors, especially actors for the main roles. Throughout his directing career, Weiss employed the full spectrum of casting methods: he worked with nonactors (children, amateur actors, or ordinary people with no acting experience), emerging actors, experienced actors, and foreign film stars. With his work he explored not only the possibilities that were available to a director working in a state-run film industry, but above all constantly reassessed how one could best influence a piece of work through specific casting. When reflecting on the casting process for his first fiction film, The Stolen Frontier, Weiss wrote that he ‘instinctively distanced himself from casting theater actors, a practice of the Protectorate era’ (Weiss 1995, 96). He 16 NFA, f. ČSF, k. (box) R5/BII/1P/5K. A. F. Šulc, Potřeba rekonstrukce v dokumentárním filmu [The need for re-enactment in documentary film] (text of the lecture), Záznam o schůzi sboru pro dokumentární film [Minutes of a meeting of the Association of Documentary Film], 24 February 1950.

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brought a number of young actors to the film, and cast the National Theater’s comedic star Saša Rašilov in the tragic role of a financier. Weiss developed his work with nonactors primarily in the early 1950s, in the early days of his transition to fiction film, his motivations at the time being twofold. On the one hand, he was looking for authenticity, and, on the other, responding to the prevailing circumstances around engaging actors in film. In his talk on working with nonactors, which he gave at a discussion meeting of the Association of Documentary Film, he reflected on his experience in preparing for the film The Last Shot, where he had ruled out casting only professional actors in the interest of creating authentic characters to represent workers from the Vítkovice ironworks. According to Weiss, ‘nonactors play well if the story is part of their lived experience, but they are not able to play scenes that require the use of emotions that are not well known or unknown to them, or scenes that depend on strong psychological delivery’.17 Weiss felt that 50 percent of an actor’s performance was the work of the director. In his view, directors had to adjust filming schedules in such a way that action scenes with nonactors would be shot first and emotional scenes only at the end, and to vary the psychological approaches used when directing. At the same time, Weiss felt strongly that ‘there can be no one better than a truly professional actor, one who knows his or her role, has studied the environment, and is a collaborator and cocreator of a film’.18 There was a scarcity of good actors in Czechoslovak cinema, Weiss pointed out, because the vast majority of good actors were already engaged in theater work, or in radio, and did not have the time to prepare well for a role, in particular a role reflecting the social reality of the day (compare Gmiterková 2018). Thanks partly to his leadership role in production units, Weiss was able to devote a relatively large amount of time to casting in the preparation for many of his films. Especially in the early 1950s, Weiss made films with a significant share of nonactors or emerging actors, and his selection process was quite elaborate. Work with nonactors was welcomed ideologically during the Stalinist era, and was lauded in the press as an example of collaboration between filmmakers and members of the working class. When casting nonactors, Weiss would always choose from specific groups: one time it was miners, another time members of the Roma community, and in the third case a group of boys aged seven to ten who had a dog. In the 17 NFA, f. ČSF, k. (box) R5/BII/1P/5K. Jiří Weiss, O práci s neherci ve f ilmu [About working with nonactors in the film] (text of the lecture), Záznam o schůzi sboru pro dokumentární film [Minutes of a meeting of the Association of Documentary Film], 20 January 1950. 18 Ibid.

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case of the earlier mentioned The Last Shot (1950), which takes place at the end of the Second World War in the Vítkovice ironworks, Weiss selected from among 1,500 amateur actors and then worked with several dozens of them on a trial film. When looking for actors for his later film My Friend the Gypsy (1953), Weiss and the writer Ludvík Aškenazy, who penned the story on which the film is based, scouted for actors in areas of Ostrava that had a large Roma population. As there were no Roma amateur theater troupes in Czechoslovakia at the time, the two drove around the country to search for actors in centers with a large Roma community. The main child protagonist was selected from among 3,000 Roma children, and adult roles were filled with nonactors who knew how to sing or play the cimbalom.19 Weiss also collaborated with students in the Roma evening school located in the Hloubětín neighborhood of Prague. Casting for his film Punťa a čtyřlístek (Doggy and the Four, 1955) took Weiss to schools in Prague and Pilsen, where he looked at more than 10,000 children, chose the nine most successful ones for auditions, and cast five of them in the main roles. An additional forty children then filled supporting roles. In the case of this film, Weiss did not record trial auditions as he would have done with his other films, creating instead a selection process that consisted of several stages. For each stage he gave the children a new challenge, one that did not require the children to know the story or lines from the film. First, children were asked to tell the filmmakers one of their favorite fairy tales, and those who made it through that stage were told to impersonate a character from their tale with improvisation. The next stage tested their imagination: ‘Children were asked to imagine, for example, that they were at home alone and suddenly the lights went out. With the room fully lit, they had to pretend they were moving around a dark space – looking for things, bumping into furniture and trying to avoid obstacles with care’ (Weiss 1955). In the final stage children had to demonstrate an improvised interaction with a four-legged friend, all of this in city streets, where the film takes place. In this last test children did not work with a real dog; they had to imagine that one was present. While doing this, the children were asked to imagine simple scenarios, which were meant to reveal ‘the child actors’ sense of humor, originality and perceptiveness’ (ibid.). In his work with actors, Weiss was partly influenced by his experience in British cinema (Weiss 1946) and partly, undoubtedly, by the techniques of the 19 In the end, the selected child actor (Dušan Klein from Bratislava) was mainly of Jewish and only partly of Roma heritage. In the same year, Klein acted in Josef Mach’s musical Rodná zem (Homeland). He later became a film director.

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Figure 7.2. Jiří Weiss shooting Můj přítel Fabián (My Friend the Gypsy, 1953). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

Figure 7.3. Jiří Weiss shooting Punťa a čtyřlístek (Doggy and the Four, 1955) with child actors. Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

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Soviet montage theory and the principle of ‘typage’, developed particularly by Vsevolod Pudovkin (Pudovkin 1960). In the 1950s, typage was one of the few, if not the only, theoretical models for working with nonactors. As noted by Pamela Robertson Wojcik, within the framework of typage a nonactor ‘represents a social type, characterized by social class and social role. The individual serves a stand-in for a class or a caste and is meaningless for himself’ (Wojcik 2003, 232). Although typage presented an ideal model for Czechoslovak socialist realism (Schmarc 2017), for Weiss it was more of a basic guideline. His motivation was not ideological – it was not his intention to fill his roles with ordinary people only to spotlight the skills and craft of the working class. He worked with nonactors primarily because they imbued films with the authenticity of their physical presence and/or expressions tied to a specific social group, and he valued their lack of inhibition and their spontaneity. Although he recreated cultural stereotypes when, for example, he cast Roma musicians for some of the secondary roles in My Friend the Gypsy, his characters were not intended to represent a social, cultural, or ethnic collective, but to perform as themselves. My Friend the Gypsy was based on the story ‘The Two Gabors’ (‘Dva Gáboři’) by the author Ludvík Aškenazy. When reflecting on the development of the screenplay for the film, Aškenazy explained that the starting point for the authors was the intimate relationship between the two main protagonists, a father and his son. He further noted that the team had decided to set the story at a construction site because they had wanted to show the depersonalized nature of such setting and to drive home the point that construction engineers in high positions should understand the human dimension of construction site relations, to understand the individual stories playing out in these settings. As Aškenazy wrote, ‘it should be a film about the art of engaging with people’ (Aškenazy 1953, 609). Weiss worked with nonactors the same way he would with actors. His nonactors did not feature as social actors representing themselves; they played a specific character based on a script, saying the character’s lines and playing their part. As regards (non)acting, Weiss’s ‘documentary approach’ was therefore always illusive. His films may have related to specific historical events, but they were always stories of fiction, featuring fictitious characters. And while even documentaries often, or perhaps most of the time, feature nonactors in what is called a representation mode, in a manner that favors the narrative illusion inherent to a fiction film (Waugh 1990), the key difference that remains is that nonactors in Weiss’s films did not represent their lives or roles. Despite his focus on working with nonactors in the early 1950s, in his casting Weiss tended to choose among ordinary

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people – be they amateur actors, workers, members of the Roma community, or children – fresh faces that showed promise in being able to be directed in acting. Pamela Wojcik distinguishes between Russian typage and Hollywood typecasting by noting that the first approach defines characters socially (and draws from a pool of nonactors), while the second approach defines them psychologically (and draws from a pool of actors). Weiss’s method was neither. His typing was psychological-social, and the demands he made on his actors were primarily artistic and aesthetic, and only secondarily social. In his films Weiss always aimed for a balance between the banal and the fateful, directing his nonactors to deliver both everyday scenes as well as emotions. The casting of nonactors therefore explains only partly why Weiss’s films have a documentary feel. Another important reason was Weiss’s ability to stage scenes in authentic settings, and war battle scenes were his specialty in this area. When working on British documentary films Weiss was already thinking about composition and aesthetics, and he emphasized the rhythm of an action as well as capturing meaningful details. He relied on the classic narrative structure, which made it possible to portray the deeper psychology of his characters in edgy storylines of moral drama. His realism and documentary approach did not lead to experimentation with storytelling, nor formal or stylistic defamiliarization, but they made his stories more authentic. Jonathan Owen wrote that ‘one of the great virtues of the Czechoslovak New Wave is commonly considered to be its “realism”’ (Owen 2011, 104). He defined this type of realism as pure modernist, one based on the avantgarde gesture of defamiliarization. Just like other new waves of the 1960s, the Czechoslovak New Wave was inspired in its ‘realism’ by documentary filmmaking techniques. This trend was most often referred to as a comparison to cinema verité. Indeed, it was under the cinema verité label that Czechoslovak State Film promoted to foreign distributors films like Miloš Forman’s Konkurs (Talent Competition, 1963), Věra Chytilová’s Strop (Ceiling, 1961) and Pytel blech (A Bag of Fleas, 1963), and Jaromil Jireš’s Sál ztracených kroků (The Hall of Lost Steps, 1960) (Anon. 1963). As a former documentarian, by the 1950s Jiří Weiss had begun to adopt techniques similar to those that would later be developed and radicalized by filmmakers of the New Wave: engaging nonactors, working in authentic locations, sometimes challenging formal conventions (for example with the expressive framing in Taková láska (Appassionata, 1959). This notwithstanding, Weiss remained squarely within the limits of the structure of the classical drama. From the second half of the 1950s onwards, he returned to the same themes and motifs, varying primarily genres. Although he continued to get closer to ordinary heroes

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Figure 7.4. Jiří Weiss used the shooting experience on the battlefields of WWII to make Uloupená hranice (The Stolen Frontier, 1947). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

and their everyday struggles, and had left behind stories of the workplace (so typical for socialist realism) in favor of personal dramas playing out in a space framed by only a few protagonists, Weiss did not come to favor a more relaxed narrative structure. More than formal experimentation, he was drawn to the possibilities of genre cinema.

A Crossover Auteur Weiss’s work from the second half of the 1950s brought ‘individualism’ to Czech cinema. Much criticized by commentators of the day, individualism showed that the decisions of individual characters could be motivated by their feelings, rather than by collective and public interest. Hra o život (Life Is at Stake, 1956), Vlčí jáma (Wolf Trap, 1957), Appassionata, and Romeo, Julie a tma (Romeo, Juliet and Darkness, 1959) were psychological dramas whose individual situations and characters served – in some cases quite simplistically – to test the moral character of the protagonists. Weiss explored the same

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themes and subject matter (love, significant age difference in a relationship, cowardice, or courage in hiding a refugee) through various genres, including contemporary drama (Appassionata), war drama (Life Is at Stake; Romeo, Juliet and Darkness; Zbabělec [The Coward, 1961]), historical drama (Wolf Trap), fairy tale (Zlaté kapradí [The Golden Fern, 1963]), detective story with a touch of film noir (Ninety Degrees in the Shade), and crime comedy (Vražda po našem [Murder Czech Style, 1966]). In the mid-1950s he explored working on children’s productions: in addition to his own film Doggy and the Four, he collaborated on the screenplay for Jaromír Pleskot’s Robinsonka (The Girl Robinson, 1956). Weiss’s approach to filmmaking made it natural for him to move between genres, similar to the way he moved between documentary and fiction films, and between influences of various cultures and generations. At Barrandov he worked mainly as a director, but he also wrote story ideas and scripts for films directed by other filmmakers. He was active as a publicist, led production groups/creative collectives, and served on Barrandov’s action committee (Szczepanik 2015, 73–74; Weiss 1995, 121–122). Although many of Weiss’s fiction films explored the subject of war and occupation, his film Wolf Trap was set in the nineteenth century, films such as Appassionata and Ninety Degrees in the Shade in contemporary times, and The Golden Fern in the timeless world of fairy tales. Next to quintessentially Czech themes, he focused on Slovak partisans in The Coward and collaborated with Czechoslovak Television on the black comedy coproduction Justice for Selwyn. He made films that were realistic and stylized (e.g., a fairy tale, as in The Golden Fern; film noir, as in Ninety Degrees in the Shade; or absurd drama, as in Justice for Selwyn). However, when crossing boundaries – whether between cultures, institutions, or genres – Weiss did not experiment. His crossover approach to creativity was rooted in the pull between innovation and conservatism. In spite of absorbing various inspirations and crossing into areas that seemed at first glance contradictory – from amateur and avant-garde films, to wartime commissions, socialist realism, modernism of the 1950s, and finally genre cinema of the 1960s – the style of his films was not eclectic. Weiss followed the classic narrative structure, and especially during the 1960s he strived for what he called a ‘dramatic and epic actors’ cinema’ (Weiss 1965, 9), which he felt to be lacking in Czechoslovak filmmaking. And so he tried to find it through international coproductions. One of the first indications of a possible international commission came with Weiss’s trip to Guinea, which had gained independence from France in 1958. Decolonization was politically topical in socialist Czechoslovakia, used as a critique of the exploitation of the Third World by Western nations. Weiss traveled to Guinea to explore the possibility of making a film on the

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African continent, presumably a Czechoslovak-Guinean coproduction. Documentary films resulting from collaboration between Czechoslovakia and international partners were being made more frequently during the 1950s, usually involving ‘friendly nations’ or Third World countries. Weiss, however, did not plan to make a documentary film about decolonization, he wanted to make a fiction film. And after several years of working primarily with actors, he was looking forward to once again working with ordinary people – nonactors. As a subject matter he was interested in looking at the role of women in Guinean society, and he worked on a story about a woman who refuses female circumcision. Even in revolutionary times, however, this topic was considered too progressive for Guinean society and the Guinean side put a halt to the project (Weiss 1960; Weiss 1995, 135–137). Regardless of its lack of success, Weiss’s experience in Guinea heralded a time in which Barrandov began to more actively negotiate coproduction opportunities outside the traditional territory of the Eastern Bloc. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Weiss belonged to an older generation of Czechoslovak f ilmmakers who were beginning to be recognized by international audiences. In 1960, his film Romeo, Juliet and Darkness (1959) won the main prize at the San Sebastian Film Festival. One of the first successes of a Czechoslovak fiction film at an international film festival circuit, Romeo, Juliet and Darkness established Weiss as an experienced artistic filmmaker from the Eastern Bloc. Continuing with the theme of international cooperation, in his next film The Coward (1961) Weiss cast the German actor Wilhelm Koch-Hooge in the role of the German commander Schmolka and the Russian actor Oleg Strizhenov in the role of a Soviet partisan. The film was not a coproduction, so casting of these two actors next to the lead couple played by Dana Smutná and Ladislav Chudík was a strictly artistic decision. It should be noted, however, that Weiss’s long-term aim was to work on international coproductions, and he was particularly interested in engaging foreign actors. Weiss placed great value on actors, be they nonactors or professionals, and he derided the fact that the Czechoslovak film industry was unable to create its own star system: Our cinema has so far not counted on actors. In ’45 we threw the baby out with the bathwater, and now we have few mature and ageless actors and actresses. And yet actors like Kačer, Müller, and Kvietik, and actresses like Brejchová, Chadimová, Smutná, and Vašáryová, show a lot of promise, but their development has not been supported economically, and I would even say neglected artistically. […] People go crazy when someone like

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Figure 7.5. Still from Romeo, Julie a tma (Romeo, Juliet and Darkness, 1959, dir. Jiří Weiss). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

Claudia Cardinale visits, all because she is Italian. If her name were Karla Kněžourková, her sex-appeal would be an issue, her bosom considered ‘unCzech’. […] Evidently, our actresses cannot be stars and simultaneously self-publicists in the best sense of the word. (Weiss 1965, 9)

In the early 1960s, Jana Brejchová, Karla Chadimová, and Dana Smutná were in their twenties and thirties, while Magda Vašáryová was just starting out. Weiss worked with all of them as young talents in whom he saw the potential of international stardom. He felt, however, that the Czechoslovak film industry did not engage with them as stars. The scarcity of quality actors, coupled with insufficient support for the development of a star system, was in Weiss’s view a direct reflection on the state of Czechoslovak cinema in the 1950s and 1960s. According to him, this situation significantly hindered the potential of the earlier mentioned ‘dramatic and epic actors’ cinema’, with which he personally identified. He believed this was one of the reasons why Czechoslovak film was known abroad mainly for its special effects (Karel Zeman) and ‘intellectual’ experimentation (Czech New Wave), which may have brought success at a film festival, but did not appeal more broadly to international audiences. This was also a reason why Weiss considered the film Ninety Degrees in the Shade an excellent opportunity. Coproduced in collaboration with Britain and involving the London-based producer Raymond Stross, the film could count on casting Stross’s wife, Anne Heywood, in the lead role, and on engaging the excellent dramatist David Mercer as screenwriter.

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The film that was to renew, after a hiatus of many years, coproduction collaboration between the Czechoslovak film industry and the West, was not an easy film to make. The British side requested that two language versions be created and there were other problems: Weiss had frequent disagreements with Stross and Heywood was often absent from filming, which led not only to financial losses, but also to related organizational obstacles. By postproduction, specifically during the recording of the two language versions, the director and the British producer were no longer communicating. Sensitive to the nuances of an actor’s delivery, Weiss was not happy with how focusing on speaking in a foreign language took away from the actors’ expressiveness. Inexperience with coproductions on both sides meant that the project was over budget and over time, and there was no agreement on the production plan or its approval. Working with the dominant Stross was a very important lesson for the Czech team in relation to future coproductions, which had become, after an analysis of the import/ export policies of Czechoslovak State Film and following a directive from the central committee of the Czechoslovak Community Party, a growing focus for Czechoslovak Filmexport (Skopal 2014, 49). The coproduction work on Ninety Degrees in the Shade was typical of Weiss’s crossover approach to filmmaking. Weiss combined topics of ordinary life, different genres, engagement of nonactors, and work with a professional international cast, partly motivated by artistic aims, partly by international ambitions, and partly by the political and practical circumstances of working in a state-run film industry. In the early 1950s, Weiss’s role in Czechoslovak cinema was that of an ambivalent representative of the prewar leftist avantgarde, who (just like others similar to him) helped to legitimize socialist realism (Clybor 2012). In his case, this role was strengthened by his contacts in the West, especially in Britain. It was thanks to these contacts that Weiss was considered a reliable correspondent from socialist Czechoslovakia, a defender of the situation in his home country. Writing in the international press, Weiss played down the creative freedom limitations experienced by a director working in the state film industry by noting that the only real limitation was the state leadership’s disapproval of films ‘which glorify gangsters and paranoiacs’, and described the scarcity of new creative talent as the state system’s key challenge.20 He wrote this at about the same time that he, as a creative leader, voted together with Otakar Vávra in the 20 The text for The New Central European Observer was partly reprinted in the magazine Czechoslovak Film. The article did not have a title and author, but referred directly to Weiss’s text (Anon. 1950).

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Figure 7.6. Anne Heywood and Rudolf Hrušínský in Třicet jedna ve stínu (Ninety Degrees in the Shade, 1965, dir. Jiří Weiss). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

Barrandov staffing purges that took place after the communist takeover in 1948 (Weiss 1995, 121). This notwithstanding, he became in many ways a moderate pioneer in areas that were later explored by others in greater detail. In Czechoslovakia, just as elsewhere in the world, postwar tendencies towards realism strengthened the position of the documentary within broader cinema, and enriched fiction films stylistically with documentary techniques that came to be fully utilized by filmmakers of the Czechoslovak New Wave. Inspired for many years by documentary filmmaking techniques, Jiří Weiss was throughout the whole of the 1950s a bearer of modernist artistic tendencies, although at times some of his practices, in particular his work with nonactors and his focus on social issues and themes, were for ideological reasons aligned with socialist realism.

Bibliography Anon. ‘The Competition’. Czechoslovak Film 16, no. 6 (1963): 2. Anon. ‘The New Central European Observer’. Czechoslovak Film 3, no. 3 (1950): 10. Anon. ‘Píseň o sletu’. Filmová kartotéka 11, no. 36 (1949): 10. Anon. ‘Režie filmu neporažená armáda’. Pressa 10, no. 231 (1938): 2. Aškenazy, Ludvík. ‘O problematice filmu Můj přítel Fabián’. Film a doba 2, no. 5 (1953): 607–609. Bregant, Michal. ‘Avantgardní tendence v českém filmu’. Filmový sborník historický 3 (1992): 137–174. Česálková, Lucie. Atomy věčnosti. Český krátký film 30. až 50. let. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2014.

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Česálková, Lucie. ‘Libretista baťovského mýtu’. In Černobílý snář Elmara Klose, edited by Jan Lukeš, 29–46. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2011. Česálková, Lucie. ‘Oběť ve státním zájmu. Kulturně-propagační dodatek a filmová politika 30. let’. Iluminace 21, no. 2 (2009). 135–155. Česálková, Lucie. ‘Pohyblivý obraz a socialistický žák. Výzkumy filmové recepce v pedagogickém dispozitivu v 50. a 60. letech’. Iluminace 30, no. 1 (2018): 45–62. Clybor, Shawn. ‘Laughter and Hatred Are Neighbors: Adolf Hoffmeister and E. F. Burian in Stalinist Czechoslovakia, 1948–1956’. East European Politics and Societies 26, no. 3 (2012): 589–615. Davies, Alistair. ‘A Cinema in between: Postwar British Cinema’. In British Culture of the Postwar: An Introduction to Literature and Society 1945–1999, edited by Alistair Davies and Alan Sinfield, 110–124. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Dobrenko, Evgeny. Political Economy of Socialist Realism. New Haven and London: Yale University, 2007. Dunham, Vera. In Stalin’s Times. Middleclass Values in Soviet Fiction. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1990. Forrest, David. Social Realism: Art, Nationhood and Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013. Gmiterková, Šárka. ‘Herec mezi divadlem a filmem (úvod k edici)’. Iluminace 30, no. 2 (2018): 98–101. Hendrych, Jiří. ‘Směleji vpřed k socialismu’. Tvorba 19, no. 45 (1950): 1073–1074. Jasný, Vojtěch. ‘Inscenace a reportáž v dokumentárním filmu’. Film a doba 2, no. 5 (1953): 699–705. Kolchevska, Natasha. ‘Toward a Hybrid Literature: Theory and Praxis of the Faktoviki’. Slavic and East European Journal 27, no. 4 (1983): 452–464. Kreimeier, Klaus. ‘Ein deutsches Paradigma. Die Kulturabteilung der Ufa’. In Geschichte des dokumentarischen Films Deutschland. Band 2. Weimarer Republik 1918–1933, edited by Klaus Kreimeier, Antje Ehmann, and Jeanpaul Goergen. Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam jun. GmbH & Co., 2005. Lovejoy, Alice. Army Film and the Avant Garde: Cinema and Experiment in the Czechoslovak Military. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015. Lovejoy, Alice. ‘The World Union of Documentary and the Early Cold War’. boundary 2 49, no. 1 (2022): 165–193. Nejedlý, Zdeněk. ‘O realismu pravém a nepravém’. Var. List pro kulturní otázky 1, no. 8 (1948): 225–232. Noháč, M. ‘K premiéře českého válečného dokumentu Věrni zůstaneme. Z rozhovoru s Jiřím Weissem’. Filmová práce 1, no. 21 (1945): 3. Owen, Jonathan L. Avant-garde to New Wave: Czechoslovak Cinema, Surrealism and the Sixties. New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2011.

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Papazian, Elizabeth Astrid. Manufacturing Truth: The Documentary Moment in Early Soviet Culture. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2009. Pudovkin, Vsevolod. Film Technique and Film Acting. New York: Grove Press, 1960. Schmarc, Vít. Země lyr a ocele. Subjekty, ideologie, modely, mýty a rituály v kultuře českého stalinismu. Prague: Academia, 2017. Skopal, Pavel. Filmová kultura severního trojúhelníku: filmy, kina a diváci českých zemí, NDR a Polska 1945–1970. Brno: Host, 2014. Sluka, M. ‘Jak jsme filmovali Píseň o sletu’. Kino 4, no. 9 (1949): 120. Štábla, Zdeněk. Data a fakta z dějin čs. kinematografie 1896–1945. Sv. 3. Prague: Čs. filmový ústav, 1990a. Štábla, Zdeněk. Data a fakta z dějin čs. kinematografie 1896–1945. Sv. 4. Prague: Čs. filmový ústav, 1990b. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘“Veterans” and “Dilettantes”: Film Production Culture vis-àvis Top-down Political Changes, 1945–1962’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 71–88. New York: Berghahn, 2015. Vlašín, Štěpán. Slovník literárních směrů a skupin. Prague: Panorama, 1983. Waugh, Thomas. ‘Acting to Play Oneself: On Performance in Documentary’. In Making Visible the Invisible: An Anthology of Original Essays on Film Acting, edited by Carole Zucker, 64–91. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1990. Weiss, Jiří. ‘14 dní v Africe’. Kultura 4, no. 35 (1960): 10. Weiss, Jiří. Bílý mercedes. Praha: Victoria Publishing, 1995. Weiss, Jiří. ‘Doggy and the Four’. Czechoslovak Film 8, no. 2 (1955): 6–7. Weiss, Jiří. ‘Krátký film – umění nebo propaganda’. Kulturní politika 1, no. 6 (1945): 5. Weiss, Jiří. ‘O dodatcích a vůbec’. Kinorevue 4, no. 2 (1937): 32–33. Weiss, Jiří. ‘Třicet jedna ve stínu a jiné problémy’. Filmové informace 16, no. 3 (1965): 8–9. Weiss, Jiří. ‘Živí lidé na plátně’. Kino 1, no. 3 (1946): 42. Wojcik, Pamela Robertson. ‘Typecasting’. Criticism 45, no. 2 (2003): 223–249.

Acknowledgements This chapter was written on the basis of institutional support for long-term conceptual development of a research organization provided by the Ministry of Culture.

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About the Author Lucie Česálková is an Associate Professor at the Department of Film Studies, Faculty of Arts, Charles University. She also works as an editor and researcher for the National Film Archive, Prague. She focuses on nonfiction, documentary, and advertising film, as well as on the issues of film distribution, exhibition, and reception. Her research has appeared in journals such as Film History, Memory Studies, and The Moving Image, as well as in edited volumes, including Films That Sell: Moving Pictures and Advertising (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017); Rural Cinema Exhibition and Audiences in a Global Context (Palgrave Macmillan, 2018); and The Routledge Companion to New Cinema History (Routledge, 2019). Atoms of Eternity: Czech Short Film of the 1930s–1950s (Národní filmový archiv, 2014), her book-length study of Czech state-sponsored informational cinema, won an award for the Best Book in Czech Film Studies in 2015. Together with Kateřina Svatoňová, she published The Dictator of Time: (De)contextualizing the Phenomenon of Laterna Magika (Národní filmový archiv, 2019), a book on the world’s first multimedia theater, Laterna Magika.

8. The Loves of a System: Miloš Forman and Barrandov David Sorfa

Abstract: Miloš Forman began his career as a filmmaker at the Barrandov Studios in Prague in the 1960s and filmed Amadeus with Barrandov in the early 1980s. The contrast between the high-budget historical spectacle of Amadeus and the gently ironic realism of his 1960s films could not be more pronounced. During the 1960s, aside from its relationship with the young filmmakers of the New Wave, Barrandov supported an extraordinary range of f ilms, from popular movies to historical epics. The situation at Barrandov after 1968 quickly changed and Forman decided not to return to Czechoslovakia. The films Forman made during the 1970s in the United States brought him a level of international fame and popularity that stands unrivaled in the history of Czech cinema but were a radical departure from the films he made in the 1960s. This change culminates with Amadeus and his return to Barrandov. Keywords: Miloš Forman; Barrandov Studios; existential revolution; realism; production history

Miloš Forman began his career as a filmmaker at the Barrandov Studios in Prague with his f irst scripted f ilm, Štěňata (Puppies, 1957), directed by Ivo Novák. Forman went on to direct his four most famous New Wave films at Barrandov: Konkurs (Audition, 1963), Černý Petr (Black Peter, 1963), Lásky jedné plavovlásky (Loves of a Blonde, 1965), and Hoří, má panenko (The Fireman’s Ball, 1967), before emigrating to the USA. Forman returned to Prague and to Barrandov to film Amadeus in the early 1980s, and the contrast between the high-budget historical spectacle of Amadeus and the gently ironic realism of his 1960s films could not be more pronounced. Here I will consider each of Forman’s Barrandov films in turn to tease out

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch08

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developments in his filmmaking style. Since the films of the 1960s were mainly shot outside of the studios themselves, relying on small crews and largely amateur casts, my emphasis will be on the style and meaning of the films themselves rather than on production detail and history, but incorporating this when necessary. During the 1960s, aside from its relationship with the young filmmakers of the New Wave, Barrandov supported an extraordinary range of films from popular comedies like the pastiche Western Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera (Lemonade Joe, or The Horse Opera, 1964, dir. Oldřich Lipský) to historical epics such as Marketa Lazarová (1967, dir. František Vláčil). Under the directorship of Josef Veselý, Barrandov created an environment that produced films that were successful with the public, formally experimental, and politically challenging. Forman says of this period: ‘The system that [Veselý] created and that was followed at Barrandov, starting with the original idea down to the finished film, is probably the best I’ve ever seen for stimulating and setting in motion a real cinematography, with everything that that entails. I’ve never yet found a better sense of proportion between commercial and artistic film production’ (Forman in Liehm 1975, 41). The situation at Barrandov after 1968 quickly changed and Forman decided not to return to Czechoslovakia, although other filmmakers of his generation did stay and continue to work with more or less success. Forman’s films during the 1970s in the USA brought him a level of international fame and popularity that is unrivaled in the history of Czech cinema but showed a radical departure from the films of the 1960s. This change culminates with Amadeus and his return to Prague and Barrandov in 1981, which he uses as a studio venue and for technical support. Where Barrandov used to employ Miloš Forman, Forman now paid to use its facilities, becoming its de facto employer. I trace the way in which Forman’s own aesthetic sensibility intersected with the strictures and supports that underpinned the studio system of Barrandov. Even as his budgets increase massively, there is a certain loss of freedom in the 1970s and 1980s and we can see in Amadeus, both as film and as production, a parable of exploitation and decadence that mourns the creative possibilities of the 1960s.

Early Career Forman’s early life and career are relatively well documented by himself in various interviews and in his autobiography, but also by the émigré Czech author Josef Škvorecký, in his early overview of the development

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of Czech cinema, All the Bright Young Men and Women: A Personal History of the Czech Cinema, written in exile in Toronto in 1971. Škvorecký was friends with many of the Czech and Slovak New Wave filmmakers and had known Forman since he was a small boy as they both, for a time, lived in the northern town of Náchod. Forman was born and had lived in Čáslav in the Central Bohemian Region until his parents’ arrests and subsequent deaths in Auschwitz and Buchenwald in the 1940s, although in 1964 Forman learned that his real father had been a Jewish architect (Forman 1994, 145–147). Forman then moved around various uncles and family friends before being sent to a boarding school in Poděbrady, where he met both Ivan Passer, his longtime friend and collaborator, and Václav Havel, the future president of the postcommunist Czech Republic. In 1949 Forman left Poděbrady to live in Prague and pursue a career in the theater. However, in the summer of 1950 he was rejected by the Theatre Faculty of the Academy of Dramatic Arts in Prague (Divadelní fakulta Akademie múzických umění, DAMU) but, as a fallback, took the entrance exams for the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU) and, almost by chance, wound up on the screenwriting program. While a student at FAMU he took on part-time work as the presenter of a television f ilm show introducing a range of cinema, including Czech, Italian and obligatory Soviet films. In the mid-1950s, Forman was introduced to the legendary Czech director Martin Frič, who then directed Forman’s script for Leave It Up to Me (Nechte to na mně, 1955). This was Forman’s first encounter with Barrandov Studios, which ‘had no illusions about the film, so they kept everything simple. It was just another job’ (Forman 1994, 90). He then worked as second assistant to Alfred Radok on Grandpa Automobile (Dědeček automobil, 1956) which led to Barrandov discussing Forman’s script for Puppies (Štěňata), which was directed by Ivo Novák in 1957, even though Forman reports that, when asked who should direct his script, ‘I would have, of course, ideally wanted to direct the screenplay myself, but there was absolutely no chance of this’ (Forman 1994, 96). Puppies, according to Škvorecký, was ‘a gentle and humorous story of young people, offering here and there a few glimpses into the real life of young people’ (1971, 71). While this clearly foreshadows Forman’s later films, his work with Alfred Radok led to further involvement with him on the ‘mixed-media’ (perhaps what would now be called ‘multimedia’ or even ‘intermedial’) production Laterna Magika and their task was ‘to create a showcase piece about Czechoslovakia, a propaganda coup de théâtre that would put the country on the map at the World Expo ’58 in Brussels’ (Forman

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1994, 102–103). Forman describes the Laterna Magika show (a version of which still runs in Prague today) as offering ‘glimpses of Czechoslovakia and impressions of its culture’ (114) but which fundamentally had nothing to say. Forman recalls of the Brussels extravaganza: There were moments in the show when you watched a cinematic projection and, suddenly, the actress leaped out of the screen and had a talk with her cinematic shadow, which remained there, when the piano player disappeared in midnote with his whole instrument or a line of chorus girls suddenly burst into an empty space on stage. The show’s style and wit brought flocks of people to our pavilion. Even Walt Disney stopped by to tell us that he admired our work. (Forman 1994, 114)

The Czechoslovak presentation was given the best pavilion award and this encouraged the communist government to fund a second iteration which, however, fell foul of the increasing emphasis on socialist realism. The deputy prime minister, Václav Kopecký, was in attendance at the first Prague preview, and, according to Forman, damned the show thus: This here is your Jewish expressionism. […] Where are the power plants? […] Where is that brand-new power plant on the river Elbe? The one that our workers had completed ahead of the plan? How if I were creating this show […] I’d put that power plant right at the top of it. And I’d show all those atoms circling inside there, too, that’s what I’d show. (Forman 1994, 116–117)

While Radok and Ivan Passer, who had been running the technical board for the show, were dismissed, Forman himself admits that he was not brave enough to resign himself as he ‘would have been branded a dangerous nonconformist’ (117). This perhaps understandable lack of courage in the young Forman may give us some insight into his explorations of muted rebellion in the 1960s Czech films and his overt celebration of revolt in the USA in the 1970s and beyond. In any case, after traveling with the second Laterna Magika to London and eventually divorcing his wife, Jana Brejchová, Forman was dismissed. Referring to his infidelity and his frequent visits to the American pavilion in Brussels, the new director, Boris Michajlov, pointed out: ‘You, comrade, are politically unreliable’ (122). So ended Forman’s multimedia career and he moved back into working with Barrandov on what were to become some of the most famous Czechoslovak films of the 1960s.

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Audition In the hiatus after losing his job at the Laterna Magika, Forman worked with Škvorecký on an eventually unrealized screenplay, which they billed as an ‘antifascist musical comedy’ (Škvorecký 1971, 72–73). However, their plan for The Band Won (Kapela to vyhrála) was stymied by the various revisions required by the state’s Arts Council (Umělecká rada), which oversaw the development of any such proposed productions (see Szczepanik 2015, 72–77; Szczepanik 2016, 94–103). Set during the Nazi-controlled era, Forman says that the ‘Barrandov script people didn’t think our screenplay’s politics were progressive enough’ (1994, 123). By the end of the 1950s, following a period of relative liberalization, the Congress of Socialist Culture in 1959 ‘marked a demonstrative culmination in efforts to tighten the conditions of cultural and artistic life’ (Knapík 2015, 61). Following the First Festival of Czechoslovak Film in Banská Bystrica in the same year, the minister of education and culture heavily criticized recent films which were then withdrawn from distribution (Knapík 2015, 61). Soon after the head of Barrandov Studios was replaced and the ‘Ministry of Education and Culture once again strengthened its role in the process of approving new films, restoring the political leadership to the position it had occupied at the end of the 1940s and start of the 1950s’ (Knapík 2015, 62). Evidently Forman and Škvorecký had fallen foul of this change in ideological outlook and in the structure of the Barrandov Studios. Forman spent his spare time in the early 1960s at Prague’s Semafor Theatre founded by the well-established acting duo Jiří Suchý and Jiří Šlitr. Having bought a 16 mm camera, he offered to make a documentary about the theater (Škvorecký 1971, 75). While experimenting with the East German camera, Ivan Passer introduced Forman to Miroslav Ondříček, an assistant cinematographer at Barrandov, who subsequently worked on almost all of Forman’s films both in Czechoslovakia and the USA (Forman 1994, 134). During their time at the Semafor, Forman became fascinated by the open auditions for singers: ‘I couldn’t believe the power of the microphone over the girls. They stepped up to it as if it were a magic wand that would endow them with a great voice and beauty. This foot of fat wire got homely young women to vamp shamelessly, tone-deaf singers to wail away at the top of their voices, shy neurotics to put themselves through the torture of public scrutiny’ (Forman 1994, 134). These themes of playacting, ambition, and delusion would become central to all his future work. Also importantly for his filmmaking career during the 1960s, Forman teamed up with Jiří Šebor and Vladimír Bor, the so-called Šebor-Bor production unit, whom he had

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first encountered during the making of Puppies (Liehm 1975, 15). Barrandov Studios organized all their film productions using two-person units consisting of a production head and a lead dramaturge. In 1965, for instance, there were five such units at Barrandov and each duo worked consistently with around seven or eight directors. These were Bohumil Šmida and Ladislav Fikar, Karel Felix and Miloš Brož, Erich Švabík and Jan Procházka, Ladislav Novotný and Bedřich Kubala, and, of course, Jiří Šebor and Vladimír Bor (Szczepanik 2016, 288). In many ways this production structure was not far from the model adopted by the major studios in Hollywood during the 1930s and 1940s (Schatz 1988). Barrandov agreed to provide a small budget for Audition (Konkurs) and Forman decided to add a fictional story line to the ‘bogus audition’ (1994, 135) that he had called at the Semafor. In the fabricated story a singer for a rock band (played by Věra Křesadlová, who would marry Forman in 1964) loses her nerve when she sees another woman fail miserably at the audition. The shooting of the film was particularly arduous and Forman writes: Tough Barrandov pros put in hours of unpaid overtime to help us stay within the budget. Míla Hájek, our editor, was so taken by our material that he buried himself in the footage and worked on the film around the clock, crashing right there in the editing room. […] We didn’t even have a clap board, so all we could hand over to him were reams of unreferenced f ilm and reams of unreferenced magnetic tape. […] Nevertheless, he single-handedly saved the project. (Forman 1994, 136)

The main problem was that the final cut that Hájek produced was fifty minutes long and was thus too short to count as a feature and too long to play as a short. The threat of cutting the film short inspired Forman to add a ‘complementary piece about young people and the kind of music the communists liked, the brass bands’ (Forman 1994, 136). Forman had to shoot this additional film during weekends because he was already working on his first feature film proper, Black Peter (Černý Petr), and it now appears as the first part of Audition titled If There Was No Music (Kdyby ty muziky nebyly), sometimes translated as If Only They Ain’t Had Them Bands. The film begins with a shot that speaks to the tension between modernity and tradition so typical of Forman’s later films (fig. 8.1). In the foreground, a scrappy field of trees and bushes leads to an array of large electricity pylons, while in the background looms the shadowy silhouette of Prague’s Castle District (Hradčany). It is in the shadow of the castle and of the St. Vitus Cathedral that we see a group of amateur motorcyclists racing against each other

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Figure 8.1. The opening shot of Konkurs (Audition, 1963, dir. Miloš Forman). Courtesy of the Czech National Film Archive (Národní filmový archiv).

as other youths sit and watch. One of these is Vláda (Vladimír Pucholt), who will be the main protagonist of this section as he and his friend Vašek (Vaclav Blumenfeld) are members of different brass bands who decide to skip music performances to attend a professional motorcycle race. They are both fired but each then successfully applies for the other’s position. The section is tightly edited and switches between the two bands rehearsing, the motorcycle race, and eventually the bands performing with the two players exchanged. We then move onto Part II, the audition. Here the film switches from shots of the crowds waiting to enter the Semafor Theatre, the discussions and instructions of the auditioners, various singers auditioning, and shots of the contestants watching others perform. Many of the shots are in close-up and there is little sense of the spatial composition of the theater, which adds to the claustrophobic anxiety of the situation. The rock singer’s fictional story is woven in relatively imperceptibly with little to mark this strand of the narrative out as anything other than a natural part of the documentary. The comic ending of Part I contrasts with the low stakes tragedy of Part II. Two young men follow their insignificant passions and come out on top, while a young woman loses her nerve and returns to her menial job. Audition

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maintains a gentle respect for all its awkward participants and is neither exploitative nor leering. The film is a celebration of unnoticed victories and a sympathetic observer of unexpected failure. The novelty, glamour, and youth of popular music intersect with the traditional milieu of folk bands but both the old generation and the new are shown as vulnerable and empathetic. There are no clear winners or losers. Nevertheless, Forman acknowledges the cruelty inherent in any process of auditioning: When the film was first released, people said it was cruel and cynical. But the cruelty that comes across to us from the movie screen is built into any audition; it is of its essence and has nothing to do with the good or evil intentions of those who organize an audition or those who film it. On the contrary, to film an audition and remove its cruelty is to remove its very essence. The audition is not yet the real battle: it is only the induction process. (Liehm 1975, 36)

Forman’s coming-of-age film is full of a strange nostalgia for a time when things are still possible, the time just before and during an audition. Perhaps that is the rock singer’s more positive achievement, a challenge to the command to succeed. Her refusal to audition echoes Bartleby the Scrivener’s ‘I prefer not to’. Black Peter Miloš Forman’s next f ilm continues his gentle exploration of youth culture in Czechoslovakia as well as introducing one of his important collaborators, the sculptor and author Jaroslav Papoušek. Papoušek’s novella Černý Petr was given to Forman in manuscript form sometime in late 1962 or early 1963 (the book itself was not officially published until 1965). Papoušek, Ivan Passer, and Forman then worked on the screenplay in the spring of 1963. Josef Veselý was then the head of Barrandov Studios and he had introduced the production unit system, ‘he was the one’, Forman says, ‘who destroyed the whole foundation of the top-sergeant, watchdog structures’ (Liehm 1975, 41; see also Szczepanik 2016, 97).1 Veselý supported the production of Black Peter when the project was brought to him by Šebor and Forman praises Veselý for his approach to changing production practices at Barrandov: 1 For a fuller account of Josef Veselý’s complex involvement with Barrandov, communism and the Nazis, see Liehm 1975, 170–172. Liehm erroneously refers to him as ‘Jan’ Veselý.

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The system that he created and that was followed at Barrandov, starting with the original idea down to the finished film, is probably the best I’ve ever seen for stimulating and setting in motion a real cinematography. with everything that that entails. I’ve never yet found a better sense of proportion between commercial and artistic film production. (Liehm 1975, 41)

Papoušek’s original story was set in 1947 and Forman found this date agonizingly distant since ‘[n]othing in the everyday life around us looked at all as it had in fifteen years earlier’ (Liehm 1975, 42) and so decided to rewrite the screenplay in their contemporary era. They had to remove references to the politics of immediate postwar Czechoslovakia and to lose the main character’s emphatic ‘admiration for his local football team’ (42), mainly because football was of no personal interest to Forman himself. Black Peter tells the story of a vaguely disaffected youth who begins to work as an inept security guard in a Kolín supermarket. Peter is played by Ladislav Jakim who also appeared in Audition and would go on to act in a few more films, notably Papoušek’s own directorial debut set in Prague’s sculpture academy, The Most Beautiful Age (Nejkrásnější věk, 1968), before training as a lawyer and dying of a heart attack at the age of forty-six. Peter’s awkwardness is at the center of the film as he goes on a date with Pavla (Pavla Novotná) and has various unresolved encounters with his sort-ofnemesis, Čenda (Vladimír Pucholt). However, the film’s central dynamic is the relationship between Peter and his father, played by the amateur actor Jan Vostrčil, who also appears as one of the brass band leaders in Audition. Forman’s use of nonactors for the roles of the father and mother (Božena Matušková) went against Barrandov practice, but was eventually allowed. The episodic nature of the film is typical of Forman’s style during the 1960s and its satire of a society that had little to offer a new generation is leavened by its comic styling. When we showed the film, something happened that made all the difference: people laughed. And in the eyes of the prophets, laughter makes things less serious. Those who were viewing it stopped judging the movie as a reflection of reality or as reality itself and simply took it as a little joke. (Liehm 1975, 47)

Thus the film escaped any political censure although it could easily be read as a nihilistic critique of 1960s Czech politics and social mores. A. J. Liehm, in a 1964 review of Black Peter, describes the Petr of Papoušek’s original story

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as ‘no young revolutionary, but a very impressionable, still unspoiled, human sapling who has not yet been internally conditioned by hypocrisy and the “the facts of life”. He can grow up one away or another depending mainly on whether his environment answers the questions in his eyes’ (Liehm 1975, 51). We will see that this focus on hypocrisy and innocence will become one of the major themes of Forman’s later films but also succinctly introduces Forman’s quasi-existentialist view of the human condition. The young person is unformed but does not really have the responsibility of choice thrust upon them. Their choices will be governed by their circumstances and ‘[he] can grow up one way or another depending mainly on whether his environment answers the questions in his eyes’ (Liehm 1975, 51). It is tempting to attribute this lackadaisical worldview to Forman himself since his career could be understood as mainly reactive rather than active. On the back of Black Peter’s popular and critical success, Forman made his first trip to the USA as the film had been picked up by the New York Film Festival, and so we might hazard that his later move to America was predicated by this chance invitation rather than a course fervently sought out by Forman himself. But let us move on quickly from the pitfalls of equating a director’s psychology to that of his fictional characters. Loves of a Blonde In the early 1960s, a new generation of filmmakers, slightly younger than Forman, began their studies in Prague at FAMU and started to produce the films that would become known as the Nová vlna (the Czechoslovak New Wave). This history of these filmmakers has been comprehensively covered by Peter Hames in The Czechoslovak New Wave, first published in 1985 with a second edition appearing in 2005, and while Miloš Forman should certainly be considered as part of this wave, his films developed somewhat separately from the close knit group of Jiří Menzel, Jan Němec, Věra Chytilová, and, of course, Ester Krumbachová.2 Hames, in fact, groups Forman, Papoušek, and Ivan Passer together in their own category: ‘The Forman School’ (Hames 2005, 106). Whatever the merits of ascribing catchy titles to more or less disparate groups of people working in sometimes related and sometimes distinct ways and networks, it was with Loves of a Blonde (Lásky jedné plavovlásky, 1965) that Forman achieves a pinnacle of sorts. The film manages to balance the gentle realism of Black Peter and 2 For a full discussion of Ester Krumbachová’s important, if not central, role in the development of the Czechoslovak New Wave, see Sorfa 2015.

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Audition with the light absurdism of The Firemen’s Ball without descending into farce or whimsical nostalgia. Set in the factory town of Zruč, Andula (played by Hana Brejchová, the sister of Forman’s first wife, Jana Brejchová) is a young woman working in a shoe factory and living in an all-female dormitory in a town that is mostly populated by women workers. A battalion of elderly, to Andula and her friends’ eyes at least, soldiers arrive and a dance is organized to give the women a chance of meeting eligible men. Three middle-aged and married soldiers make an ineffectual attempt to seduce Andula’s group but what could have been a disagreeable scene of more or less forced intimacy is leavened by the hapless good nature and careful direction of the soldiers played by two old school friends of Forman’s, Ivan Kheil and Jiří Hrubý, and by the professional actor Vladimír Menšik, who would go on to become one of the best-known comic actors of the following three decades. Andula eventually spends the night with the young piano player from Prague, Milda (we once again meet Vladimír Pucholt in this role). Andula assumes that this one night stands for something more and soon packs her things and heads for Prague where she eventually spends an uncomfortable evening with Milda’s parents. The film ends with a tour de force of agonizing comedy as Milda shares his parents’ bed before Andula slips out and returns to Zruč and her life in the factory. Petra Hanaková gives a rather harsh, but probably correct, explanation for the film’s sexual politics when she argues that: ‘Andula can be seen as an “inverted” heroine, not actively moving the community towards a (political) change, but rather passively accepting the social practices of sexual exchange and exploitation and reinscribing them into acceptable romantic fantasies’ (Hanaková 2011, 155; see also Sorfa 2013, 141–142). This accurately and clinically sums up the film and Forman presents a world that is undoubtedly oppressive in many ways, but, again in a quasi-existentialist mode, shows that oppression, lack of choice, and, crucially, hypocrisy are the conditions of an absurd life, but that it is the understanding of the absurdity of this situation that gives some small hope of a humanism to come. We may be tempted to provide a longer analysis of this film in terms of Václav Havel’s discussion of ideology in ‘The Power of the Powerless’ in which he famously uses the example of a greengrocer who unthinkingly displays a poster in his shop window proclaiming, ‘Workers of the World Unite!’ In what Havel calls a ‘post-totalitarian system’, everyone in such a society has internalized the oppressive structure of a malevolent ideology, ‘for everyone in his own way is both a victim and a supporter of the system’ (Havel 1978/2018, 366). This then results in an ‘auto-totality of society’ (366). Havel then imagines that

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the greengrocer suddenly decides not to put up the poster and to reject all the hypocrisies of his situation, and he ‘discovers once more his suppressed identity and dignity. He gives his freedom a concrete significance. His revolt is an attempt to live within the truth’ (Havel 1978/2018, 367). The characters in Loves of a Blonde have lost any sense of what Havel might call ‘responsibility’ and have ‘been seduced by the consumer value system, whose identity is dissolved in an amalgam of the accoutrements of mass civilization, and who [have] no roots in the order of being, no sense of responsibility’ (Havel 1978/2018, 371). Nevertheless, Havel and Forman’s films offer a route out of such bleak impossibility with a call to a certain sort of everyday banality that we might call the condition of being human, especially since we know only ‘too well that the question of whether one or several political parties are in power, and how these parties define and label themselves, is of far less importance than the question of whether or not it is possible to live like a human being’ (Havel 1978/2018, 376). Loves of a Blonde is not merely a reflection of ideological oppression, nor an open attack offering some other utopian vision, but rather a call to empathy and to a celebration of small moments of happiness. While such a thought may smack of an internalized political quietism, Havel reverses the usual mode of revolutionary fervor when he argues that a ‘better system will not automatically ensure a better life. In fact, the opposite is true: only by creating a better life can a better system be developed’ (Havel 1978/2018, 377). Thus we may think of Loves of a Blonde as a film that invokes not revolution, but at least the possibility of ‘creating a better life’, whatever that might look like. Less abstractly, that does seem to be have been one of the outcomes of the film. Forman reports that on its release the ‘authorities claimed they were already having enough difficulties recruiting girls to work in these factories and now, after we’d shown the situation on the screen in such a dismal light, nobody would want to take such a job’ (Liehm 1975, 66). A further unexpected consequence of the film was that, on its release, large groups of young men traveled to Zruč to see whether it was indeed true that so many available young women were living out their lives desperate for male companionship. Barrandov, however, was unconcerned with accusations of the film’s immorality, especially since ‘it turned out to be one of the commercially most successful movies in the history of Czech cinematography’ (Liehm 1975, 68). It was also featured in a number of international film festivals and Loves of a Blonde was bought by the producer Maurice Ergas who, significantly, worked for Carlo Ponti, the Italian producer of filmmakers such as Federico Fellini and Vittorio de Sica. Ponti plays an important role in the production of Forman’s next film.

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The Firemen’s Ball After the successes of his first three realist films (Audience, Black Peter, and Loves of a Blonde) Miloš Forman began to work on The Firemen’s Ball which is more grandly allegorical and absurdist, while still maintaining an everyday realism. As usual, Papoušek and Forman went off together to write a script which did not seem to be sticking until they saw a poster for a ‘dance being given by the local firemen’ (Liehm 1975, 82). A full screenplay based on their experiences at that dance in the small mountain town of Vrchlabí quickly materialized. In 1966, Forman was in discussions with Ergas and Ponti about producing another film (the unrealized The Americans Are Coming), but Ponti agreed to finance The Firemen’s Ball first, to the tune of $80,000. While the film was still produced by Barrandov, this money allowed Forman to shoot the film in color, ‘simply because it brought the film another step closer to reality’ (Forman 1994, 160). They were also able to buy a sophisticated dolly and crane which allowed them to shoot the dance and crowd scenes with more ease. Once again, Forman used mainly amateur actors from Vrchlabí who still had to work during the day and so came to set after they had finished their shifts and the shoot took place between 4 pm and midnight for seven weeks. Forman showed a rough cut to Carlo Ponti, who then decided that the film wouldn’t be ‘good for business’ and, on the other hand, the communists in Czechoslovakia thought that the film was mocking the working classes. Both the producers and the political bureaucrats, Forman says, agreed about The Fireman’s Ball because ‘neither of them knew anything about how regular folks lived and thought’ (Forman 1994, 162). Ponti’s $80,000 continued to haunt the production since Ponti had been pressuring Czech Filmexport and Barrandov to return the money. The studios quickly identified Forman as the sole culprit in this financial disaster and ‘if Barrandov was going to pay Ponti back, there was going to be a scapegoat. I would be accused of causing “economic damages to the state”, a criminal offense that carried a mandatory prison sentence of up to ten years’ (Forman 1994, 165). Forman flew to London and begged Ponti to forgive the debt, to no avail. Soon after this unsuccessful attempt to save himself, Forman went to the Annecy Film Festival, which had programmed a special section on the Czechoslovak New Wave, where he met Claude Berri and François Truffaut and organized a screening of the film for them in Paris via Pavel Juraček. The French directors managed to raise the money to pay Carlo Ponti and Berri distributed the film around the world. The film was chosen for the competition at the Cannes Film Festival in May 1968 and Forman describes going swimming with

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Orson Welles and the Beatles, after which, inspired by the political fervor of May ’68 in France, the filmmakers indulged in some ersatz revolutions of their own: ‘In the afternoon a big car drove up and took us to Cocteau Hall, to make a revolution. Everybody applauded us. Then we drove back to the hotel. Like true revolutionaries, we had the chauffeur stop the car on the way back, and we tore down the French flag’ (Liehm and Forman 1973, 129). Forman was in Cannes with Jan Němec and while Jean-Luc Godard and the rest of the French New Wave brought Cannes to a standstill, the Czechs were still hoping that their f ilms would be screened. Forman was certain that The Fireman’s Ball would win that year but Cannes was canceled in May, the Warsaw Pact tanks rolled into Prague in August 1968 in order to stop the dangerous trend towards liberalization, and Forman left for America to make Taking Off (1971), One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975), and Hair (1979). All these f ilms celebrate revolution in one way or another, but Forman always remained slightly bitter that it was revolution that had made sure that The Fireman’s Ball did not win at Cannes in 1968. The Fireman’s Ball sticks very closely to the original events of the dance in Vrchlabí: ‘Our screenplay was firmly grounded in what we had seen at the ball and built on those situations. An elderly fireman watches over disappearing raffle prizes, a beauty contest for their homely daughters excites mostly the mothers, who put heavy pressure on the judges, a fire starts in town’ (Forman 1994, 160). If the film has central theme then it is centered around ideas of pretense and performance, both within the diegesis (the firemen are not professionals, the beauty contest is a shambolic copy of one seen in a magazine) and in Forman’s use of the people of Vrchlabí to act as versions of themselves. Once again, the humor of hypocrisy is at the center of the film.

Interlude Following the success of The Firemen’s Ball, Forman spent 1967 and the f irst part of 1968 mostly in New York, talking to Paramount about possible new projects, including a quickly discarded idea of an adaptation of Franz Kafka’s Amerika. In the spring of 1968, he moved back to Prague to enjoy the liberalization sweeping the nation under Alexander Dubček’s reforms and the promise of ‘socialism with a human face’ (see Wheeler 1973, 126–150). In August Forman went to Paris to continue writing the screenplay for what would become Taking Off (1971). On 21 August 1968,

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Soviet tanks and other Warsaw Pact troops entered Prague and instituted the era of Normalization that was to lock Czechoslovakia down until the Velvet Revolution of 1989. Forman’s second wife, Věra Křesadlová, and their children were still in Prague. Forman organized his French friends, Claude Berri and Jean-Pierre Rassam’ to pick them up in a Citroën borrowed from Truffaut and drive them to Paris. In a story that is echoed in Paweł Pawlikowski’s Poland-set Cold War (Zimna wojna, 2018), this escape was short-lived: ‘Věra was not happy in Paris. […] In Prague she had a blooming career at the Semafor Theatre as an actress and singer. She was afraid that she’d wind up an alcoholic housewife if she emigrated. Our marriage was out of its romantic phase by then, too, and she was miserable for a few months. Finally, one evening, she told me she couldn’t live outside Czechoslovakia any longer. She was going back. I told her I was going back to my movie, back to America’ (Forman 1994, 175). And so Křesadlová returned to Prague and Forman went to the USA, where he made the films for which, apart from Amadeus, he is probably best known, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Hair. Amadeus Paul Shaffer’s play Amadeus began its first performance run at London’s Royal National Theatre on 26 October 1979. It starred Paul Scofield as Antonio Salieri and Simon Callow as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and was directed by Peter Hall. Miloš Forman was taken to see the play sometime in early 1980 while he was in London for a casting call during preproduction on Ragtime (1981). He met with Schaffer a few weeks later in New York and Shaffer agreed to adapt the play for the film version. In 1981, Forman and Shaffer began to work earnestly on the adaptation and they decided to present the main story of the film through a series of flashbacks via Salieri’s written confession at the end of his life (Forman 1994, 259). There were a number of difficulties in finding funding to produce the film, however, as Forman explains: ‘The project had four strikes against it: it was a costume movie; it was about classical music; it dealt with the past in a remote corner of Europe that no one gave a damn about; and it was an expensive production. […] Peter and I finally wound up sitting down to work under the auspices of an independent producer – my old collaborator Saul Zaentz’ (Forman 1994, 259). Zaentz was a film producer, financed primarily by his earlier music career producing and distributing Creedence Clearwater Revival, who had funded the production of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest under the auspices of Fantasy Films.

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Forman had decided that he wanted to shoot Amadeus in Prague since ‘the idea of coming back to the old country after ten years abroad to shoot a big American movie strongly appealed to my vanity’ (Forman 1994, 26) but also because Mozart had known Prague and had been fond of the city. It was also useful that Prague had not been substantially modernized and that ‘in the early eighties, these [ancient] streets ran for blocks on end in moving shabbiness, untouched by wars, unspoiled by commercialism’ (Forman 1994, 206). Forman, however, had been refused entry into Czechoslovakia since 1977, when he had taken US citizenship. He contacted Jiří Purš, who had been involved in the Ministry of Culture since the 1950s and where Forman had come across him during the various Laterna Magika productions. As a reward for his collaboration with the Soviets in 1968, at least according to Forman, Purš had been made the director of Czechoslovak State Film (Československý státní film, ČSF) and as ‘the head of Barrandov Studios, in charge of all movie production and distribution, Purš had no blood on his hands; he had protected most of the filmmakers from the rabid Stalinists. But while he had kept many of them on the payroll for years, he had, at the same time, completely snuffed out the promise of the Czech New Wave’ but that ‘he saw Amadeus as a chance to redeem himself a bit, to undo some of the damage he had done to Czech cinema’ (Forman 1994, 263–264; see also Hulík 2012, 377). On the understanding that Forman would make no attempt to contact any dissidents like Václav Havel during his time working on the film in Czechoslovakia, Purš agreed in 1980 that the production could go ahead. Amadeus was shot mainly in actual locations in Prague and only heads of the various production departments and the actors came over from America or Britain and ‘so the majority of the people on our set were Czechs. We realized that some of them were informers, though their job wasn’t to report on us as much as it was to report on the Barrandov employees on our production’ (Forman 1994, 273). The relationship with Barrandov was certainly fractious, even coming down to a disagreement about whether the production would be allowed to provide food for the crew since the tradition at the studio was that workers would bring their own lunches. Initially only agreeing that the production could feed the foreign members of the crew, Saul Zaentz stepped in to prevent Barrandov splitting the crew into ‘haves and have-nots and [destroying] the fine working morale on our set. It took an ultimatum or two, but in the end, the Barrandov bosses gritted their teeth and allowed us to feed all the people working on Amadeus’ (Forman 1994, 274). Even though the filming disrupted life in Prague for many weeks, the official policy of the communists was to not report on this at all. Forman recalls:

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As it had to be in socialist Prague, the spirit of Franz Kafka presided over our production. Amadeus was a big deal in Czechoslovakia, the biggest movie production ever to take place in the country. We touched lots of lives in Prague, closed down a lot of streets, attracted a lot of onlookers, wreaked havoc with the traffic. Everyone in the city knew about our production, but not one word about the film or about any of us got printed in the newspapers or uttered on radio or television. The Communist government had a rule stating that no émigrés were ever to be mentioned by name. I was an émigré; therefore we occupied a massive blind spot in the Czech media. (Forman 1994, 276)

Despite these petty disagreements and inconveniences, the film was finally completed and became an international success on it release in 1984, winning eight Oscars in 1985.

Conclusion Amadeus is undoubtedly the last highlight of Forman’s filmmaking career. His later American biopics, The People vs. Larry Flynt (1996) and Man on the Moon (1999), seem to take on subjects with no special relevance to Forman apart from the fact that their subjects, the pornography publisher Larry Flynt and the comedian Andy Kaufman, were iconoclasts in their fields and the films celebrate their resistance to the norms of the day. His European-set films, Valmont (1989) and Goya’s Ghosts (2006), are more or less forgotten, with Valmont overshadowed by the success of Dangerous Liaisons (Stephen Frears, 1988), both films being adaptations in one way or another of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’s 1782 novel Les Liaisons dangereuses. The Spanish-set Goya’s Ghosts was an expensive and sprawling failure presenting a fictionalized tale of the painter Francisco Goya set in 1792. Here, the main interest seems to be a historical period marked by brutal revolution and vicious suppression. The large scale and success of Amadeus seemed to have made it impossible for Forman to return to the smaller stories of his 1960s works, but it is perhaps fitting that his final work involved a return to his theatrical roots with a production in 2007 in Prague of the play A Walk Worthwhile (Dobře placená procházka), written originally by Jiří Suchý and Jiří Šlitr for the Semafor Theatre in 1965 and adapted for Czech television by Forman in 1966. The theater production was filmed and released in 2009 and Forman said of the production, ‘It is a moralistic fairy tale saying that money spoils people. However, it originated in the 1960s, when no one had money. It is

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therefore even more relevant nowadays’. This may be as good an epitaph for Forman’s filmmaking career as any, but it may be worth recalling the final line of Václav Havel’s ‘The Power of the Powerless’: For the real question is whether the brighter future is really always so distant. What if, on the contrary, it has been here for a long time already, and only our own blindness and weakness have prevented us from seeing it around us and within us, and kept us from developing it? (Havel 1978/2018, 408)

Whatever the faults and failures of the Barrandov Studios production system, it did support the creation of a series of extraordinary films, not only those of Miloš Forman, during the 1960s in Czechoslovakia.

Bibliography Forman, Miloš, and Jan Novák. Turnaround: A Memoir. London: Faber and Faber, 1994. Hames, Peter. The Czechoslovak New Wave. 2nd ed. London and New York: Wallflower, 2005. Hanáková, Petra. ‘From Mařka the Bricklayer to Black and White Sylva: Images of Women in Czech Visual Culture and the Eastern European Visual Paradox’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 2, no. 2 (2011): 145–160. Havel, Václav. ‘The Power of the Powerless’. Translated by Paul Wilson. East European Politics and Societies and Cultures 32, no. 2 (1978/2018): 353–408. Hulík, Štěpán. Kinomatografie zapomnění. Počátky normalizace ve Filomovém studio Barrandov (1968–1973) [Cinematography of oblivion: The beginnings of Normalization in Barrandov Studios (1968–1973)]. Prague: Academia, 2012. Knapík, Jiří. ‘Czechoslovak Culture and Cinema, 1945–1960’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 39–68. New York: Berghahn, 2015. Liehm, Anonín J. The Miloš Forman Stories. White Plains, NY: International Arts and Sciences Press, 1975. Liehm, Antonín J., and Miloš Forman. ‘Miloš Forman’. International Journal of Politics 3, no. 1/2 (1973): 117–132. Schatz, Thomas. The Genius of the System: Hollywood Filmmaking in the Studio Era. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988. Škvorecký, Josef. All the Bright Young Men and Women: A Personal History of the Czech Cinema. Translated by Michael Schonberg. Toronto: Peter Martin, 1971.

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Sorfa, David. ‘Beyond Work and Sex in Czech Cinema’. In Work in Cinema: Labor and the Human Condition, edited by Ewa Mazierska, 133–150. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Sorfa, David. ‘Ester Krumbachová’. In Women Screenwriters: An International Guide, edited by Jill Nelmes and Jule Selbo, 253–262. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Steiner, Peter. The Deserts of Bohemia: Czech Fiction and Its Social Context. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘“Veterans” and “Dilettantes”: Film Production Culture vis-àvis Top-down Political Changes, 1945–1962’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 71–88. New York: Berghahn, 2015. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Wheeler, George Shaw. The Human Face of Socialism: The Political Economy of Change in Czechoslovakia. New York: Lawrence Hill, 1973.

About the Author David Sorfa is a Senior Lecturer in Film Studies at the University of Edinburgh and editor in chief of the journal Film-Philosophy. He has written on Michael Haneke, Jan Švankmajer, and Czech cinema, as well as on a broad range of other film subjects. He has particular interests in film-philosophy, phenomenology, Existentialism, and film adaptation.

9. Barrandov and Chytilová Peter Hames Abstract:As one of the most formally inventive directors of the Czechoslovak New Wave, Věra Chytilová was almost bound to experience difficulties with production companies both under communism and subsequently. This chapter examines her shifting relationship with the Barrandov Studios from the 1960s through her departure from the studios in the 1970s, her letter to President Husák regarding her treatment, to her controversial return with Panelstory (Prefab Story, 1979) and Kalamita (Calamity, 1981). It also discusses the environment of creative sympathy she experienced while working on her first two features, O něčem jiném (Something Different, 1963) and Sedmikrásky (Daisies, 1966) during the period of creative freedom leading to the Prague Spring of 1968 and her later defense of the nationalized system. Keywords: Barrandov Studios, censorship, gender and film, Normalization, Věra Chytilová

Věra Chytilová stated in many an interview that she demanded absolute freedom to create films according to her own conceptions. There is no reason to doubt this but it is also evident that it is a privilege granted to only a few filmmakers, and that the work of such ‘auteurs’ is usually achieved within generic or narrative convention. Yet films such as Chytilová’s Sedmikrásky (Daisies, 1966) and Ovoce stromů rajských jíme (The Fruit of Paradise, 1969) make even the work of a Godard or Antonioni seem somewhat normal. Even her later films, despite political constraints, found ways of breaking with the molds for which they had been created. It would be difficult to imagine Chytilová working in a fully commercial system and, in fact, she was only able to complete four feature films outside the protection of a nationalized industry in the fourteen years between 1992 and her last feature film in 2006. The supposed ‘discipline’ of the market

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch09

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imposes limitations that – if rigorously applied to other art forms – would prove equally restrictive. Yet the individuality of Chytilová’s films in the 1960s did not come from nowhere – they had to be nurtured and supervised by producers, authorized by the management of the Barrandov Studios, and approved by the Communist Party’s ideological commission. They were also subject to censorship and distribution of the final product had to be approved. The extraordinary determination of one woman and a succession of ‘accidental’ decisions cannot provide the only explanation for her achievements.

The Golden Sixties ‘The Golden Sixties’ – to use the title of Martin Šulík’s television series Zlatá šedesátá in which Jan Lukeš interviewed the surviving film makers of the Czechoslovak New Wave, was a time when, it has been retrospectively recognized, ideology was in retreat. As Jan Švankmajer observed (Švankmajer in Šulík 2011),1 it was a time when art had a tangible impact on society and was perceived as a significant activity. In retrospect, he noted that it was one of the brighter periods of the twentieth century. Given the movement towards the Prague Spring and Czechoslovakia’s tradition of a liberated (if suppressed) culture, it is not too difficult to see that developments that would have been interpreted as counter-revolutionary or subversive in the years of High Stalinism could now be seen as nonthreatening or even ‘progressive’ in intent. Furthermore, the younger directors of the ‘New Wave’, as products of the socialist system, were officially encouraged. Nonetheless, it is interesting that many older directors were soon contributing to the new developments and that two of the first younger directors to make an impact – Věra Chytilová (b. 1929) and Miloš Forman (b. 1932) – were both old enough to have experienced both the Second World War and the worst years of Stalinism. Petr Szczepanik has pointed to the significance of the system of production groups at the Barrandov Studios. Re-established at Barrandov in 1955 as part of a decentralization process, they were encouraged both to compete with each other and differentiate their output (Szczepanik 2017, 109). While younger directors were encouraged as products of the socialist system, he argues that they did not compete with the older generation but respected 1 Jan Švankmajer, interviewed by Jan Lukeš in Martin Šulík, dir., Zlatá šedesátá (The Golden Sixties).

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prewar figures such as Otakar Vávra and Martin Frič as masters of their craft. He suggests that FAMU (Filmová fakulta Akademie múzických umění, the Prague Film School)) and FITES (Svaz československých filmových a televizních umělců, the Union of Czechoslovak Film and Television Artists) created an intergenerational platform together (Szczepanik 2015, 81). Both of Chytilová’s first features were produced by the Bohumil Šmída – Ladislav Fikar group (and they initially approved her third). Their other credits included the ‘New Wave’ tribute to Bohumil Hrabal Perličky na dně (Pearls of the Deep, 1965), which included Chytilová’s Automat Svět (At the World Cafeteria), Menzel’s Ostře sledované vlaky (Closely Observed Trains, 1966) and Rozmarné léto (Capricious Summer, 1967), Juráček and Schmidt’s Postava k podpírání (Josef Kilián/A Character in Need of Support, 1963) and in 1968, Vojtěch Jasný’s Všichni dobři rodáci (All My Good Countrymen) and Jaromil Jireš’s Žert (The Joke). Describing them as ‘creative years’, Chytilová later commented that ‘those people were civilized and cultivated’ and ‘really helpful’ (Chytilová in Šulík 2011).2 Film projects were approved both by individual production groups but also formed part of the overall production plan of Barrandov Studios.3 They were then subject to approval by the authorities responsible for censorship, namely the Central Press Supervision Off ice (Hlavní správa tiskového dohledu, HSTD) and the Ideology Department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party (Ideologické oddělení ÚV KSČ). In a recent article examining the production context of Chytilová’s 1960s work in detail, Lukáš Skupa suggests that filmmakers were by no means defenseless victims. Suggestions could be made by the various bodies and individuals which might alter the meaning of a work but would not necessarily have a negative impact (Skupa 2018, 234). While the criteria may have differed, the parallels with the commercial industries are striking. Chytilová’s career began with two medium-length films, Strop (Ceiling, 1961), her graduation film, and the ‘documentary’ Pytel blech (A Bagful of Fleas, 1962), which was produced by Krátký film Praha (Short Film Prague), the short film studios. While neither conformed to original expectations, and the second came in for especial criticism, both were sent to international festivals and received foreign acclaim. This was no doubt one of the reasons for the eventual release of the films as a double bill under the title of U stropu je pytel blech (There’s a Bagful of Fleas at the Ceiling, 1963). Her obvious talent 2 Věra Chytilová, interviewed by Jan Lukeš in Šulík, dir., Zlatá šedesátá (The Golden Sixties). 3 The films produced by the Šmída-Fikar group comprised a wide variety of genres and work by well over thirty directors during the 1960s.

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and relatively minor sins, one assumes, indicated a risk worth taking. One can also assume that the fact that she had studied under Otakar Vávra was not a disadvantage. (While he initially disapproved of Ceiling, he liked the way it was edited [Chytilová in Šulík 2011].) Chytilová’s first feature film and, consequently, the first to be produced by Barrandov was O něčem jiném (Something Different, 1963), derived from Fikar’s offer to direct a film inspired by the life of the champion gymnast, Eva Bosáková. The original script was intended to present Bosáková’s sacrifice of a normal life in a negative light and contrast it with the life of a young housewife. While Chytilová usually began work with a detailed screenplay, she also used it as a point of departure subject to improvisation and modification, making allowance for new insights during editing. Indeed, as Juraj Jakubisko noted when working as her assistant on Ceiling, she was constantly dissatisfied with what she had shot and frequently changed her mind (Jakubisko in Liehm 1974, 357–358). ‘For me, the script is but one element. True it must be prepared in the best possible way, but it is only the first idea of the film, the basis of the shooting’ (Chytilová in Nogueira and Zalaffi 1968, 14). This was clearly part of her working method rather than an attempt to outwit the censors – although this was frequently the outcome in her later work. In the first stages of production, it was normal for a ‘literary’ script to be submitted for approval. In the case of Something Different, however, as Skupa points out, no literary script was submitted to the Central Press Supervision Office (Skupa 2018, 237). This was unusual but justified by the production group on the grounds that the film would be documentary in nature. This suggests that the group was already aware of Chytilová’s approach. A shooting script was finally approved in 1962 but with reservations. The approach to Bosáková’s eventual championship triumph was said to be too ‘heroic’ (Skupa 2018, 237). Nonetheless, one might observe that the formal beauty of Jan Čuřík’s cinematography and precise cutting is contrasted with images such as the cleaning ladies practicing on the bar and Bosáková’s own interview in which she reveals that she had been searching for ‘something else’. Rather than present a simple morality, Chytilová’s approach is multileveled. Nonetheless, her overall approach – presenting and intercutting a documentary story with a virtually unrelated fictional narrative – was subject to criticism and lengthy debate by critics and others. Yet again, Chytilová was favored with international success, when the film won the Grand Prix at Mannheim in 1963. Shortly after this, she began work on a second film for the Šmída-Fikar group entitled Rajče Matylda (Tomato

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Figure 9.1. Eva Bosáková in O něčem jiném (Something Different, 1963, dir. Věra Chytilová). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

Matylda). The story concerned a young student actress who is expelled from school for inappropriate behavior and sent to work in a factory in Ostrava for re-education. It was apparently based on the real-life experience of Helga Čočková (who had played the lead role in A Bagful of Fleas). It was developed together with the novelist Ludvík Aškenazy, who had recently collaborated with Jaromil Jireš on his debut film Křik (The Cry, 1963). The project was apparently stopped on instruction from ‘higher authorities’ (Skupa 2018, 239). The project had a central place in the studio’s plans for 1964 and was intended to show the younger generation’s conflict with ‘social hypocrisy’ in the context of the ‘distortion of socialist ideology’ – a direction of travel not incompatible with the objectives of reform socialism. Various reasons have been given for its cancellation, including the fact that Chytilová had intended to use Čočková in the lead role. Skupa suggests that it was most likely linked to the controversy surrounding the release of Evald Schorm’ s Každý den odvahu (Everyday Courage, 1964) and Juráček and Schmidt’s Postava k podpírání (Josef Kilián/A Character in Need of Support, 1963), which had been off icially condemned as presenting false pictures of socialist society. As a result, the head of Czechoslovak State

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Film canceled a number of similar of f ilms with critical themes (Skupa 2018, 239). Daisies was not initially perceived as a problematic film. The original script, written by Chytilová and Juráček, had had more conventional objectives. The story concerned two young girls who engaged in various pranks and adventures at the expense of mainly older men. Juráček was unhappy with the changes and modifications made by Chytilová. In her comments on the film, she suggests that it would not attempt a realistic portrayal but would instead be a ‘grotesque philosophical documentary’, demonstrating a ‘futile way of life’ by means of a bizarre comedy. In his account of the film’s development, Skupa points out that the original ‘literary script’ of Daisies was not favorably received by either the Central Press Supervision Office or the party. In a private letter to Pavel Auersperg, head of the Ideology Department, the director general of Barrandov (Alois Poledňák), pointed out that Chytilová’s script should only be seen as an underlying plan. She was nonetheless asked to specify the heroines’ characters and describe the social and personal elements leading to a specific group of teenagers ‘indifference and lack of understanding of the values of life’. There were apparently constant script pressures during preproduction with the final script subject to Poledňák’s approval. According to Skupa, various scenes were omitted from the literary script (e.g., a scene with potential lesbian overtones, the criticism of voluntary work) (Skupa 2018, 241). It seems likely that the film probably went ahead on the strength of Poledňák’s assurances that the final result would be satisfactory. One of the major differences between the final version and the original script relates to the final scenes. In the scene where they are ducked in the water like witches, they were supposed to be approached by a steamboat with dancing holidaymakers and a ‘man in black’. The man admonishes them but when they shout out that they don’t want to be bad anymore, he says that they cannot join the party. Only good and hard-working people can join them and that they must first put right what they have done. The Central Press Supervision assessment apparently criticized this sequence for showing an uncaring society. It was hardly surprising that the final version of Daisies differed substantially from the shooting script as the whole project privileged an approach based on improvisation. As Chytilová later said: ‘We decided to let ourselves be bound by nothing. Absolutely nothing. We would free ourselves of all the implications of the story and keep only the dialogue, very precise and very evocative’ (Chytilová in Delahaye and Rivette 1968, 54). Originally conceived by Chytilová and her husband (and cinematographer), Jaroslav Kučera, as

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a film that would use the full range of film language, they subsequently worked with Ester Krumbachová as writer and designer. ‘We gave space to each other with no limits’ (Chytilová in Šulík 2011). The film was finally passed for exhibition in July 1966. Skupa suggests that since it had already been sold for export, this is very likely to have been a factor in its approval. However, it was not clear in what ways it would be distributed and in May 1967, it became the subject of protests in parliament. A speech in the National Assembly by Deputy Pružinec and supported by twenty-one others stated: We are convinced that the two f ilms we have seen, and which should be released this month, show a road of our cultural life on which no honest worker, farmer, or intellectual would like to embark. The two f ilms, Sedmikrásky (Daisies) and O slavnosti a hostech (The Party and the Guests), made in the Czechoslovak studios at Barrandov, have nothing in common with our republic, socialism, and the ideals of communism. […] We ask the directors, Němec and Chytilová, what political lessons and entertainment value these films can offer to the working people in factories, in fields, and on construction sites? We ask these cultural workers: How long will they poison the life of working people? How long will they ridicule our political achievements. […] Why do you think we maintain the Border Guard which fulfills its fighting duty to prevent the penetration of the enemy into our country? Why do we, Comrade Minister of Defense and Comrade Minister of Finance, pay big sums to our domestic enemies and let them destroy, Comrades of Agriculture, the fruits of our work? We request all responsible news media to take up the matter and prevent these few individuals, who are understood by just a few other individuals and for whom we are not building socialism, from poisoning our lives. […] To the responsible managers of our film industry, we direct the following question: What kinds of films are you making these days? They are all essentially as bad as those we named above. These are the films: Mučedníci lásky (Martyrs of Love), Znamení Raka (The Sign of Cancer), and Hotel pro cizince (Hotel for Foreigners). We request that showing these films to our public be stopped and that you take your duties more seriously in the future. (Škvorecký 1982, 99)4 4 Jan Němec’s The Party and the Guests and Martyrs of Love were both coscripted by Ester Krumbachová, and the second featured a ‘guest appearance’ by the girls from Daisies. Hotel for

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Despite the protests, Daisies was not banned but it was passed for limited distribution only. In 1967, Chytilová’s name was linked to a project in which she was supposed to collaborate with Zdena Škvorecká,5 but she also received a new script from Krumbachová – The Fruit of Paradise. This was planned as a coproduction with Canada and arrangements had been made prior to completion of the script. Originally approved under the aegis of the Šmída-Fikar group, it was rejected by the Canadians. They were replaced by Elisabeth Films (Brussels), headed by the Polish-born Bronka Ricquier and a new Barrandov production group headed by Pavel Juráček and Jaroslav Kučera (not Chytilová’s husband). The literary script was approved as early as January 1968 although it is generally assumed that obstacles would not normally be placed in the way of coproductions with foreign producers. It was understood from the start that the script was only a guide to the f inal version of the f ilm, which would be the director’s responsibility. The film was premiered in July 1970 and, according to Chytilová, avoided censure because nobody understood it – or indeed, its hidden meaning. Like Daisies, it is essentially an audiovisual exercise beyond any conventional or literal interpretation. Iveta Jusová and Dan Reyes have suggested that it is an exercise in feminist film style (2014), while Felicity Gee has linked it to the work of the Czech surrealists as well as to the international avant-garde and Stan Brakhage’s concept of the aura (Gee 2019). Yet Chytilová, Krumbachová, and Kučera were making the film at the time of the Soviet invasion in 1968. Consequently, its underlying moral theme – the theme of ‘truth’ and the impossibility of attaining it – is given political overtones. The scenes between Robert – a murderer who is also a seductive foreigner and the devil – and Eva emphasize the issues of truth and friendship. More particularly, the final scene where Eva kills Robert with his own gun, takes place on an area of land resembling the Czech border. It was not obviously clear even to eagle-eyed would-be censors Foreigners was a mystifying ‘Marienbadesque’ comedy. The Sign of Cancer was the feature film debut of Juraj Herz. All showed ‘avant-garde’ influences. 5 Zdena Škvorecká (Zdena Salivarová) worked as a singer and actress in the 1960s and studied screenwriting at the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (FAMU). She married the novelist Josef Škvorecký, with whom she emigrated to Canada in 1969. She played main roles in Jan Němec’s The Party and the Guests and Evald Schorm’s Farářův konec (End of a Priest, 1968). The author of several novels, she and her husband founded the émigré publishing house 68 Publishers in Toronto, which published banned literature during the Normalization years.

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Figure 9.2. Karel Novák and Jitka Nováková in Ovoce stromů rajských jíme (The Fruit of Paradise, 1969, dir. Věra Chytilová), a coproduction of Barrandov Studios (Czechoslovakia) and Elisabeth Films (Belgium). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

searching for the smallest hint of subversion. However, it seems unlikely that such interpretations would not have been noted. Many films authorized in 1968 did not appear on screens until 1969 and, in the case of The Fruit of Paradise, 1970. It was not until mid-1969 that the Barrandov Studios was effectively reorganized.

Normalization In 1970, the managing directors of both the Barrandov Studios and the Koliba Studios (Bratislava) were sacked and the autonomous production groups and script advisory boards abolished. The production plan for 1970 was canceled and FITES was dissolved. The director of the studios, Alois Poledňák, who had been appointed following their reorganization after the Banská Bystrica conference of 1959,6 was arrested for ‘antisocialist activities’. He was held without trial until the summer of 1971 when he was sentenced to years in jail for ‘endangering state secrets’. However, according to Antonín Liehm, Poledňák served only a few months of the sentence before he appeared on television, where he ‘commended the behaviour of the police and prison 6 The conference at Bánska Bystrica led to the banning of films by Václav Krška, Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos, and Vladimír Svitáček. The minister of culture criticized a lack of optimism and ‘remnants of bourgeois thought’.

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personnel, and turned against his former friends and allies of the 1960s and denounced them’ (Liehm 1975, 169). Writing from Canadian exile in 1971, the novelist Josef Škvorecký noted that, according to press reports, Chytilová was then working on Tvář naděje (The Face of Hope), a screenplay about the nineteenth-century writer Božena Němcová, author of the groundbreaking novel Babička (Grandmother, 1855) and a pioneer campaigner for women’s rights. According to Skupa, the screenplay was completed in 1972. As Chytilová herself has noted: ‘The screenplay about the life and work of Božena Němcová was first of all approved and then dropped’ (Chytilová 1976, 17). The reason given was that the film ‘might destroy the viewers’ illusions about Božena Němcová’ (Chytilová 1976, 17). She noted that she had prepared some five screenplays in 1970–1975 as well as a project for the Laterna Magika Theater, none of which she had been allowed to realize. Skupa refers to The Face of Hope, Smrt na inzerát (Ad of Death, 1973), Jak se státi mužem (How to Become a Man, 1973), to be made in association with Zdeněk Svěrák and Miloň Čepelka of the Jára Cimrman Theater. However, the fact that most of her projects were developed in association with colleagues at Barrandov and initially approved suggests that Chytilová’s enforced silence was the result of decisions by higher authorities. In fact, it is noticeable that many other directors were effectively silenced during the same period of time (e.g., Jiří Menzel and František Vláčil). However, in order to situate the position of f ilmmakers at Barrandov in the 1970s, it’s necessary to recall the draconian nature of the government’s suppression of the Prague Spring. It was insuff icient to remove the leading politicians such as Alexander Dubček and Josef Smrkovský and there was also a thorough purge of reformist elements within the Communist Party. The policies of Normalization that followed the Soviet invasion took the extreme form of resurrecting the totalitarian system that had prevailed before the reforms of the 1960s. Between 1968 and 1970, it was estimated that 170,000 people left the country. In order to ‘purge’ the Communist Party of reformist elements, it was calculated that 70,000 were expelled and a further 100,000 ‘removed’ from the list of members (Kusin 1978, 85–87). Departments of Marxism-Leninism in the universities were reconstituted together with a loss of 60 percent of their staff. Reform communism was to be uprooted wherever it had flourished. In his seminal study, The Restoration of Order, Milan Šimečka pointed out that Normalization inside the party was not designed to create a right-minded membership. On the contrary, the objective was to turn the

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membership into what it used to be ‘a political conglomerate of the most varied concealed denominations, united only by obedience and a readiness to fulfill its role as a trustworthy receiver of instructions and directions’ (Šimečka 1984, 37). The screening boards were made up primarily of those described as the ‘healthy core’ – those anxious to demonstrate their loyalty to the top-down system. If this was true of the Communist Party itself, it was entirely logical that similar techniques would be applied throughout society, especially in the professions, the arts, and the media. An atmosphere of mistrust and suspicion was created. ‘[T]he ruling party of existing socialism became the vanguard of mediocrity, obedience and fear’ (Šimečka 1984, 37). This situation would apply equally to the decision-makers (often the least qualified) and to those who received their instructions. Jan Čulík notes that, as a result of the screenings at Barrandov, which included 330 members of the Communist Party, 187 were expelled (Čulík 2018, 210). Chytilová herself was subjected to political screenings in 1972. To keep one’s job, accommodation on many levels was clearly necessary. It might be sufficient to express contrition, denounce one’s previous work, or undertake an approved (and procommunist) project. Antonín Máša noted that one line in the assessment questionnaire related to the Soviet invasion. ‘In these screenings, everyone knew how crucial the attitude toward the Soviet Union was and any opinions on the occupation of Czechoslovakia by the Warsaw Pact armies. It had to be clearly formulated in writing. There was a specif ic line for it in the questionnaire – “Your opinion about the entry of the armies” – was how they phrased it’ (Máša in Buchar 2004, 16). If the screening were to be passed, an expression of approval was the only possible answer. According to Máša, some employed lawyers in order to find an appropriate formula for saving face (2004, 16). It appears that, in Chytilová’s case, she was not technically banned from f ilmmaking, and that her projects were ‘theoretically’ approved. In the case of her next f ilm, Hra o jablko (The Apple Game, 1976), she notes that production was approved – but that she was not informed. Here it is worth quoting some of the off icial statements on the f ilm industry that were made available both nationally and internationally. The chief dramaturgist at Barrandov, Vojtěch Trapl, made the following assessment of the 1960s: The film art of the crisis-ridden period anticipated way back in 1963 by the so-called Kafka Conference Era has appealed with ever increasing

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sophistication to the lower depths of human psychology, […] the region of dark instincts, uncontrolled desires, the domain of petit bourgeois egotism. This premeditated strategy was designed to build up a climate of scepticism, cynicism, vulgarity and hysterical emotions. (Trapl in Jaroš 1990, 11)

According to the chief literary advisor, Ludvík Toman, the second half of the 1960s had overstressed ‘formal experiments and modernness’ and successes at foreign film festivals had been overrated. This he blamed on the film critics. I do not want to judge whether ‘l’art pour l’art’ is of any value at all. Definitely not in films, however. A film that is not well received when screened is definitely of no value. […] We are interested in art that rejects and criticises scepticism, feelings of alienation, desperation, inconsiderate sexuality, egoistic bourgeois individualism. We want to support by our films those properties which strengthen our society and not those which break it up. (Toman 1972, 6–7)

The director of Czechoslovak State Film from 1969 to 1987, Jiří Purš, noted that he would welcome films celebrating ‘a hero of our times, […] a man who has a clear target, [a] positive attitude to society and to the construction of socialism’ (Purš 1973, 2–4).7 Basically, this indicated a return to the socialist realist dogma as defined by Andrei Zhdanov. The f ilms of the 1960s were progressively banned and this finally totaled over a hundred titles. The reasons were various – undesirable themes, authors, and incomprehensible imagery. In the final analysis, official policies reflected those of the party bureaucracy. As Jan Jaroš put it, the film critic became ‘a spokesman of the invisible “normaliser” hiding in the security of the supreme party apparatus’ (1990, 12). While censorship had been theoretically abolished in June 1968, it was now exercised through direct control by party hardliners. A new coproduction agreement with the Soviet Union had been signed as early as February 1970. Faced with a situation in which she was unable to start any of her projects, Chytilová fought back with letters to the studio, the minister of culture (Milan Klusák), and finally President Gustav Husák himself. This final

7

Jiří Purš, interviewed in Práce, reprinted in Film News (Prague) 8 (1973), 2–4.

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letter was dated October 1975 and appeared in English translation (via the Palach Press) in Index on Censorship in the summer of 1976. It is worth considering her letter in greater detail. Apart from The Face of Hope, Chytilová also gives details on the rejection of The Apple Game. She quotes from a letter sent to Toman by his colleagues in February 1974: ‘We believe that, in all its complexity, the submitted screenplay is one of the most important attempts to date to create a truly contemporary film with genuine human interest. It will help to fill a considerable gap in our production’ (Chytilová 1976, 17). The intricacies of the Barrandov conspiracies have been revealed elsewhere. Miloš Forman, for instance, has suggested that the main opposition to his retaining his Czech citizenship came from fellow filmmakers seeking to capitalize on his absence. They also opposed his return to Prague to film Amadeus (1984).8 Similarly, Škvorecký notes that a petition was sent to the Central Committee of the Communist Party by a group of film directors arguing that Chytilová’s ‘formalist’ excesses constituted a political mistake and could lead to the path to another Prague Spring (Škvorecký 1982, 14–15). Menzel notes that it was a caucus of directors and party members who were often responsible for making adverse decisions and that Toman was a willing instrument.9 Chytilová was prevented from attending various film festivals devoted to the work of women filmmakers – New York, Paris, Italy, Caracas. In the latter case, she was informed that the party organization at Barrandov was opposed to her going. It seems likely therefore that projects were simply countermanded by Toman and/or the party timeservers who came to prominence in the postinvasion years. Her letter followed the ‘complex assessment’ that she received in 1975 which, she notes, was intended as a summation of the ‘political screenings’ that she had received in 1972 and reached the conclusion that her contract with the studio should be terminated. It said that I had done no work for five years, that my films were experimental by nature, uncommitted and pessimistic, that I had contacts with

8 Forman mentions Jiří Sequens, Vladimír Čech, and Antonín Kachlík as among those who attempted to prevent him returning to Prague to film Amadeus (1984). For Jiří Purš, however, the economic arguments for its production prevailed (see Forman and Novák 1991, 264). 9 Jiří Menzel, interviewed in Buchar (2004, 39). He refers to directors such as Jiří Sequens, Jaroslav Balík, Václav Matějka, and Václav Vorlíček as seeking ‘to bury all those who were successful’.

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people connected with National Artists Jiří Trnka10 and Jan Werich,11 that my international prizes came chiefly from western festivals, that I had presided at the Mannheim Festival, had adopted an elitist stance, that I had a minimum of audience response, that my films had been overvalued by the critics, and that ‘it did not appear’ that I had ‘understood the contemporary cultural policy of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia’. (Chytilová 1976, 18)

She gives a verbatim account of her assessment meeting, which was clearly a prime example of absurdist theater. One of the women members of the panel had clearly not seen any of her films while another suggested that she might have forgotten how to make films. The director of the studio, Miloslav Fábera, was asked to join the meeting and observed that she could start shooting the following week if she amended her behavior (i.e., ignoring the committee’s formal proposal for her dismissal). The chairman of the Party organisation, comrade Leiter, then said: ‘There are times when the Party can do anything’. Someone sitting next to him added: ‘And not even a thousand Purš’s and Klusáks will help her’. (Chytilová 1976, 19)

Throughout the letter, of course, Chytilová declares her commitment to socialism, pointing to both the morality and ‘engaged’ nature of her work. Despite their complexity, of course, this is not inaccurate. More to the point, perhaps, is the fact that she had not engaged in any incriminating activity during the Prague Spring. Nonetheless, the party representatives were probably correct in assuming that the simple moral tales then favored by Barrandov would be adapted to create a more complex and ambiguous reality. As Chytilová said in another context, the communists were hypocrites – she tried to hold them to their professed morality. The offer to make The Apple Game for Krátký film had already been made at the time of her letter, and she noted that the management of the short film studios had already agreed with the proposal and was cooperative. However, she points out that in order to proceed, materials needed to be authorized by ‘the feature film people’ (Chytilová 1976, 19). 10 Jiří Trnka (1912–1969) painter, illustrator and a pioneer of puppet cinema. His final film Ruka (The Hand, 1965), in which a potter is terrorized by a ‘totalitarian’ hand, was banned for many years. 11 Jan Werich (1905–1980). A legendary actor and writer known, in particular, for his prewar theater collaborations with Jiří Voskovec for Osvobozené divadlo (The Liberated Theatre).

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Figure 9.3. Jiří Menzel and Dagmar Bláhová in Hra o jablko (The Apple Game, 1976, dir. Věra Chytilová). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

As Škvorecký noted: ‘For Open Letters like that people go, under various pretexts, to jail in Czechoslovakia’ (Škvorecký 1982, 13). However, that did not happen. Škvorecký surmised that, as the head of Krátký film, Kamil Pixa, had significant links with State Security, he enjoyed a privileged position and may have calculated that Chytilová’s film was more likely to attract foreign acclaim than the routine Barrandov production. While, in many ways, the authorities were happy for the world at large to forget Czechoslovakia, they were nonetheless susceptible to claims that culture was dead and that it was a land where a ‘Biafra of the spirit’ (Louis Aragon) prevailed. The film was made in 1976 but that was not the end of the story. In 1977, it was both entered and then withdrawn from the Berlin Film Festival and an invitation to the London Film Festival was rejected. It was banned after completion and not released in Czechoslovakia until 1978, and then only at a single cinema in the Prague suburbs. Škvorecký noted that, despite the lack of coverage in the Czech press and media, there were queues around the block (Škvorecký 1982, 15). In her letter, Chytilová describes The Apple Game as treating the problems of ‘responsible parenthood, unnecessary abortions, and the moral as well as material aspects of female equality in our society’ (Chytilová 1976, 17). This is not inaccurate in that its principal narrative concerns a philandering doctor who seduces a nurse and makes her pregnant, together with a wide-ranging criticism of sexual behavior. There is also an assertion of

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female agency over male when the nurse decides to have her baby outside of wedlock. However, the film is in no way heavy handed. It is, rather, a spirited and comic view of the battle of the sexes that convinces through its irreverence, female perspective, and, for its time, unusually free approach to film form. Many of those international critics who had been less than responsive to her ‘experimental’ work considered it to be her best film. In an interview following its American premiere, Chytilová commented on her control of editing. Commenting that most of her colleagues approached editing the way they had been taught, she argued, ‘I want to give new meaning to a f ilm with my editing – I want to put things together in a new way. […] We live in a dark time, a film should be a little flashlight’ (Chytilová in Polt 1978, 43). The reluctant acceptance of The Apple Game, which won awards in Chicago and Miami, led to Chytilová’s return to Barrandov for Panelstory aneb Jak se rodí sídliště (Panelstory or the Birth of a Settlement, 1979). This time, she experienced further diff iculties since the f ilm stands out as one of the most critical of the Normalization years. A portrait of life on a contemporary housing development, it presents a multilevel portrait of families and individuals that is quite unrelenting. It opens with shots of a building site and of a couple grappling on a bed in a high-rise apartment. The sun rises from behind the estate as a bright abstract globe and an opening montage of scenes from life on the estate is accompanied by music that is determinedly abrasive. A teenager gets pregnant to the despair of her mother (only to overhear her mother being seduced alongside a discourse on morality), an old woman looks forlornly through a window with her only accompaniment a tape recorder, a worker wishes he was able to sleep at night, a child destroys everything he can find. Grafted on to this are smaller observations – the woman who sorts through the garbage complaining about what people throw away, the need to give bribes to get children into day care, competition for attention in the doctors’ waiting room, the house painters who make love to their clients, the petty theft of a baby carriage, the cutting off of the water supply just before lunch, problems of pregnancy, the lack of motivation. If this wasn’t sufficient to cause official concern in its own right, Chytilová’s visual style both emphasized the script points and established its own abrasive counter balance. As Alice Lovejoy points out, the editing is characterized by abrupt transitions and the soundtrack features sudden nondiegetic sounds that punctuate the narrative. The camera appears unable to establish a stable perspective (Lovejoy 2018, 253).

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It is impossible to see the film as anything other than an allegory about the development (or rather failures of) contemporary socialism. While the authorities are providing ‘ideal’ accommodation for the populace, they are simultaneously ignoring the inefficiency of the process and the human consequences. Set during the ongoing construction of the South City (Jížní město), the largest housing estate in the Czech Republic, it could have been a paean of praise to socialist progress like many other films from the period. Its fate was worse than that of The Apple Game. This time, it was not allowed to escape to the West and remained difficult to see for many years. Domestically, it was initially shown only outside of Prague and was not shown there until 1987. In the case of Kalamita (Calamity, 1981), Chytilová undertook a project that she was expected to refuse (on the grounds that it required a Winter shoot). The simple story about Honza, a young man who returns to his hometown and becomes an engine driver and is subsequently trapped in an avalanche, is apparently straightforward. However, if perceived as allegory – an activity that Czech audiences were more than willing to practice – it provides yet another subversive portrait, this time of the characters in the small town or village that constitutes the film’s setting. Chytilová’s account of its genesis is instructive. The story was offered to her by the studio (Toman) but when she asked what ideas or philosophy lay behind it, Toman replied that he didn’t know and would leave it up to her. It was based on an American news story where passengers on a train were caught in an avalanche and rescued by helicopter. However, helicopters were out of the question in any Czech representation as this would have been linked to the Soviet invasion. ‘I said, “Let me tell you what I want this film to be about. I want this film to be about a vertical calamity and a horizontal calamity, and how these two calamities converge, overlap”’ (Chytilová in Buchar 2004, 65). This is how she constructed the film and it is hardly surprising that it should have been received as an allegory on existing socialism. In a recent study, Luboš Ptáček suggests that the local railway station provides a portrait of social and technological decline while the characters are undergoing an existential crisis in which they rarely establish meaningful connections (Ptáček 2018). As Ptáček points out, the female characters, far from fighting for women’s rights, exploit the gender stereotypes expected by men. All three set their sights on Honza (Boleslav Polívka), who provides the film’s nominal focus. It was Chytilová’s first collaboration with Polívka that she was to continue with Šašek a královna (The Jester and the Queen, 1987) and her final three features.

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In a sense, Calamity is little more than a portrait of society without the rose-tinted lens of socialist realism, but its critical edge stands out from the simplified narratives of the era, and the straightforward messages that audiences were intended to receive. The authorities tried to stop the film in mid-production,12 it was banned after completion, prompting her to write further letters of protest, and finally released in a re-edited version. According to Chytilová, the film could not be advertised and there was no poster displayed. As Ptáček summarizes: ‘At the time, the Czechoslovak spectator searched in the mainly non-political themes of Chytilová’s films for allegorical criticism of the communist regime’ (Ptáček 2018). Chytilová characterized her relationship with the studio as one of constant and tedious struggle in which she deliberately played the ‘role’ of a hysterical woman. When asked by Robert Buchar if the legend that she threatened to throw herself out of the window at Barrandov were true, she replied: There is another story that general manager Jiří Purš jammed me between the doors. It wasn’t like that, the opposite is true, I was opening drawers looking for Ludvík Toman. I was looking for Toman in Purš’s office desk, making a hysterical scene, pretending that he was hiding from me. They all hid from me, in rest rooms and so on, because I kicked doors and opened windows threatening to jump out. (Chytilová in Buchar 2004, 65)

For her next two f ilms, Faunovo velmi pozdní odpoledne (The Very Late Afternoon of a Faun, 1983) and Praha – neklidné srdce Evropy (Prague, the Restless Heart of Europe, 1984), Chytilová again sought refuge in the short film studios. The Very Late Afternoon of a Faun was unusual in two respects. In the first instance, it was only her second film to be based on a literary source (the first had been her adaptation of Bohumil Hrabal’s At the World Cafeteria). This time it was a short story by Jiří Brdečka, author of the legendary Limonádový Joe (Lemonade Joe), which he had adapted as an extremely successful film, directed by Oldřich Lipský in 1964. He had further collaborated with Lipský on some of the most successful commercial ventures of the 1970s such as Adéla ještě nevečeřela (Adela Hasn’t Had Supper Yet, 1977) and Tajemství hradu v Karpatech (The Mystery Castle in the Carpathians, 1981). It was presumably considered to be a ‘safe’ exercise. The second unusual factor was Chytilová’s collaboration on the script and set design with Ester Krumbachová, who had otherwise been banned from working post-1969. 12 Chytilová, interviewed in Blažević (2004).

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Like Calamity, the film focuses much more on a central character than her previous work although, unlike Brdečka’s original, Chytilová’s Faun (played by Leoš Suchařípa) is less than magnetic. The story of a ‘determined erotic’ in his mid-fifties who preys on younger women, Chytilová finds some predictable targets. However, her portrait of the gap between desire and reality is not wholly unsympathetic. The young girls who provide the focus for his amorous intentions are, like those in Daisies, far removed from his fantasy ideal. Their shallow perceptions, casual attitude to sex, chewing of gum, refusal to shut the lavatory door, and other unladylike habits echo their predecessors in A Bagful of Fleas and Daisies. On the surface, a commercial if slightly unconventional comedy, Chytilová employs a consistent and disconcerting use of Jan Malíř’s subjective camera. Set in Prague in the autumn, using multiple exteriors, the close-ups of decaying leaves and the foliage of the season provide an apt analogy for her hero’s hopes and reminiscences. It won the Czech critics award in 1985. With Prague, the Restless Heart of Europe, Chytilová continued her collaboration with Malíř in an intentionally experimental film that was very clearly the work of the director of Daisies. It was made as part of a series on European cities by the Italian broadcaster RAI and constitutes a visual collage recording the history of Bohemia and Czechoslovakia via its buildings. As Jan Čulík puts it: ‘The visual material is, again, highly subjectivised by Jan Malíř’s restless camera: there are again frequent fast pans, zooms and even pixilation of images’ (Čulík 2018, 213). Her voiceover commentary ‘becomes akin to a chant and frequently consists of quotations from various Czech poems’. The historical images are juxtaposed with those of contemporary Prague. The film ends with images from the nation’s mass gymnastics event, the Spartakiáda, ‘where the Czech nation has been transformed from a community of individuals into a giant antlike crowd of automated beings’ (Čulík 2018, 214). Čulík considers that it marks the culmination of her work from the Normalization period. Not for the first time, Chytilová ran into difficulties and the film was not released until 1987. In her interview with Robert Buchar, she recounts how she confronted Miroslav Müller at the Ministry of Culture, asking why her film had been banned. Müller acknowledged that it was his decision: ‘What did I do? I glorified Prague’. ‘You know very well’. It was because I manipulated the end of the film using the footage from Spartakiads. Well, it was like this from one film to the other, fight, fight, fight. It was an interesting struggle. (Chytilová in Buchar 2004, 66)

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It is often observed informally that the mid-1980s showed a loosening of the restraints that had applied in the 1970s. Indeed, it was then frequently argued that self-censorship and lack of ambition was the principal problem. However, as Jan Jaroš has pointed out, there was also a change in official attitudes towards the 1960s. Jiří Purš had somewhat revised official attitudes in his 1985 statement: The films made after 1963 were characterised by new and more selective creative strategies, by the use of new expressive resources. […] The original premise was a well-timed critical offensive [that] […] could provide a wholesome corrective to the unhealthy climate then prevailing in our society. It is incontestable that many of the criticised film-makers adopted this attitude quite spontaneously, without pursuing any other ulterior motives and that their film projects were implemented without malice and with good intentions. (Jaroš 1990)13

In fact, by the summer of 1989 (before the ‘Velvet Revolution’), the constraints were beginning to be eased. Miloš Forman’s Hoří, má panenko (The Firemen’s Ball, 1967) was back in the cinemas, Karel Kachyňa’s Ucho (The Ear, 1970) was shown for the first time at a retrospective of his work (albeit to a restricted audience), and release of the other proscribed films was announced. In 1986, Chytilová returned to Barrandov for Vlčí bouda (Wolf’s Hole). Cowritten with the novelist and children’s writer Daniela Fischerová, it recounted the story of a group of teenagers who go on a skiing course in the mountains. There they meet a leader and two instructors who take them to an isolated cabin on the slope of the mountain. The leader (‘Dad’, played by Miroslav Macháček) informs them that he and the instructors are, in fact, extraterrestrials who have come to examine the thesis that the earth’s inhabitants are prepared to exterminate each other. Chytilová gives full reign to her concerns with moral issues as the two ‘civilizations’ confront and test each other. After working on this relatively ‘safe’ project (it won two awards at the festival of children’s film in Gottwaldov [i.e., Zlín]) in 1987), her next film was The Jester and the Queen, based on the mime play by Boleslav Polívka. The film deals with two opposing attitudes to life. The Queen (played by Polívka’s then-wife Chantal Poulain) finds gratification in power and money while 13 Jiří Purš (1985), quoted in Jan Jaroš (1990), translated from Obrysy vyvoje cs. Znárodnené kinematografie (Patterns of development in Czechoslovak nationalized cinematography) (Prague, 1985).

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the Jester prefers nature and human understanding. There is a comparison between their reality in the Middle Ages and in the present. Again, Chytilová supplements the extraordinary mime performances with disorienting camerawork. In some ways, particularly in her work with innovative actors and a particular experimental style, it marks a continuation of her earlier approaches. Her last film at Barrandov was Kopytem sem, kopytem sam (A Hoof Here, a Hoof There aka Tainted Horseplay aka Snowball Reaction, 1988). This film took her analysis of irresponsible sexual relations to a new level. Three disillusioned young men with potential careers are concerned only with enjoying life through their sexual liaisons. The end result of their behavior is that one of them contracts HIV, but nobody knows who. In fact the film was marketed in very much these terms as the first film about AIDS. However, this would be a misrepresentation as it is primarily about behavior. The main formal device is the omnipresent television screen (which the protagonists ignore) but with which they enter a dialectical relation. Yet again, Chytilová was working with an experimental theater group – Sklep (The Cellar), and used texts from their work. Its actors – Tomáš Hanák, David Vávra, Milan Šteindler (who won awards at the Moscow Festival the following year) – would very soon become familiar faces on Czech screens. The film received an overwhelmingly positive response. A retreat into the personal sphere was one of the consequences of being denied agency in public life and a further consequence was an indulgence in ‘dangerous liaisons’. In a message that could still be relevant, Chytilová suggests that recreational sex outside of emotional or family responsibility provides a route to self-destruction only. In a recent study, Kateřina Kolářová points out that, aside from demonstrating a dysfunctional society, Chytilová maintains gender stereotypes. While her three male protagonists are far from conventional and sometimes grotesque, ‘female bodies are defined only through their “mere” materiality’ (Kolářová 2014, 250–251).

Capitalism In 1990, Tainted Horseplay was shown at the Brighton Festival in the United Kingdom. Asked about her future plans, Chytilová stated that she was working on a film about rape (the obvious origin of her later production Pasti pasti, pastičky (Traps, 1998). She saw no problems for the future of the Czech film industry, which she felt could achieve international success by

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producing ‘national’ films (Hames 1990). It was the same year, of course, that the government chose to pull the plug on the national industry through cutting the state subsidy for the Barrandov Studios by 75 percent. Costs were expected to double and 2,100 employees received redundancy notices. Film directors, screenwriters, cinematographers, were to become freelance. Chytilová’s plans to film The Face of Hope at Barrandov were canceled yet again and attempts to find alternative financing in 1991 came to nothing. Given the success of Tainted Horseplay, one might have anticipated a more positive response. In 1991, the studios and the laboratories were sold to the Cinepont company (later renamed AB Barrandov). Since Barrandov effectively ceased independent production, it marked the end of Chytilová’s association together with that of most other filmmakers. Her remaining feature and documentary films were made in association with other companies. Significantly, the majority of ‘New Wave’ filmmakers and previous generations were opposed to the changes. Václav Marhoul was appointed director of the studios in October 1990 having been asked by representatives of FITES to assume responsibility after the ‘Velvet Revolution’ of 1989. They did not expect him to respond with the elimination of their jobs. The Association for the Foundation of Czech Cinematography, under the leadership of Věra Chytilová, opposed his plans, arguing that the pressure to attract foreign (that is, Western) productions with large budgets would remove the incentives to makers of indigenous films. Chytilová saw the whole process as politically motivated. The government had undertaken a maneuver to outflank filmmakers who had been creative under the communist regime. ‘We stand accused of making films that added to the fame of the regime, though actually they were critical and avant-garde’ (Chytilová in Gott 1994). In 1992, Chytilová compiled another ‘open letter’, this time together with Jiří Menzel, addressed to Prime Minister Petr Pithart (expressing the concern that Barrandov might be sold as real estate) and, in March 1992, there was a petition opposed to privatization. Although seventy-five filmmakers were opposed to the idea, the industry was finally privatized in 1993. Here it should be recalled that the nationalization of the film industry in 1945 had preceded the communist takeover in 1948. Czechoslovakia had a tradition of public support for the arts and, given the fact that its cinema would be limited in appeal by its minority language, government support was entirely logical. However, in the immediate postcommunist period, state support was seen as a kind of crypto-communism. The achievements of Czech and Slovak cinema – even in the 1960s – were routinely ignored and the 1970s and 1980s characterized by the worst products of the Normalization

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period.14 Jindřiška Bláhová notes that there was a generation divide and that, unlike the older directors, the younger ones – Petr Zelenka, Jan Hřebejk, Jan Svěrák, Irena Pavlásková – did not sign the petition protesting against privatization (Bláhová 2019). However, since many of them drew inspiration from the work of the 1960s, this is unlikely to have been due to any support for the more primitive conceptions of capitalism. Nonetheless, there was a seeming reluctance to admit that anything good could have emerged from the past.

Conclusion Viewed in retrospect, the conditions under which filmmakers worked at Barrandov in the 1960s can be seen as privileged. The constraints of the market scarcely applied, the art of film was respected and promoted at Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (FAMU), attitudes within the industry were often sympathetic and, of course, production costs were low. The fact that the resources of a major studio could be devoted to experimental works such as Daisies and The Fruit of Paradise was arguably unique. In fact, British director Lindsay Anderson suggested that working conditions were potentially the best in the world (Liehm 1974, 413). For one reason or another and, despite the protestations of Deputy Pružinec, the subversion was essentially one of form – albeit one that gave greater force to social and political criticism. However, in the context of the post-1968 suppression of free speech and a free culture, all such manifestations were regarded as among the factors that had led to the Prague Spring reforms. While Chytilová still sought to stretch the boundaries of film form in the 1970s and 1980s, her main concern was to hold the communists to their professed morality – ‘to tell the truth’, to echo the theme of The Fruit of Paradise. In the postcommunist era in which the role of Barrandov changed significantly, with the studio mainly providing services to international productions, she continued in this vein, albeit with only four feature films and less commercial and critical success. Like many of her fellow filmmakers, 14 The publication of Stanislava Přádná, Zdena Škapová, and Jiří Cieslar, Démanty všednosti. Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně did not take place until 2002 while Zlatá šedesátá (The Golden Sixties), produced by Čestmír Kopecký and directed by Martin Šulík, did not appear until 2011.

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she was drawn increasingly to documentary, notably with Vzlety a pády (Flights and Falls, 2000). Could she have produced her 1960s work without Barrandov or within a commercial framework? It’s difficult to give a definitive answer. While one can point to the relative success of independent women filmmakers such as Agnès Varda and Chantal Akerman, Chytilová’s kind of formally radical cinema has remained at the margins.

Bibliography Bláhová, Jindřiška. ‘“Before I Fought Ideology, Not Money”: Věra Chytilová and the 1990s Transformation of Czech Cinema Culture’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 10, no. 1 (2019): 39–54. Blažević, Jasmina, dir. Cesta [A Journey]. 2004. Buchar, Robert. Czech New Wave Filmmakers in Interviews. Jefferson, NC, and London: McFarland, 2004. Chytilová, Věra. ‘I Want to Work’. Index on Censorship 5, no. 2 (1976). Čulík, Jan. ‘In Search of Authenticity: Věra Chytilová’s Films From Two Eras’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 9, no. 3 (2018): 198–218. Delahaye, Michel, and Jacques Rivette. ‘Le Champ Libre: entretien avec Věra Chytilová’. Cahiers du Cinéma 198 (1968). Forman, Miloš, and Jan Novák. Turnaround: A Memoir. New York: Villard Books, 1991. Gee, Felicity. ‘Věra Chytilová’s The Fruit of Paradise (Ovoce stromů rajskych jíme, 1969): Radical Aura and the International Avant-Garde’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 10, no. 1 (2019): 3–21. Gott, Richard. ‘Making Money, Not Movies’. The Guardian. 3 November 1994. Hames, Peter. Unpublished interview with Věra Chytilová and Bohumil Hrabal. 16 May 1990. Jaroš, Jan. ‘A Retrospect’. In The Banned and the Beautiful: A Survey of Czech Filmmaking, 1963–90, edited by Oldřich Černý and Gerald O’Grady. New York: The Public Theater, 1990. Jusová, Iveta, and Dan Reyes. ‘Věra Chytilová’s Fruit of Paradise: A Tale of a Feminine Aesthetic, Dancing Color, and a Doll Who Kills the Devil’. Camera Obscura 29, no. 3 (2014): 65–91. Kolářová, Kateřina. ‘The AIDSed perestroika: Discourses of Gender in Negotiations of Ideological Consensus in Late-Socialist Czechoslovakia’. In The Politics of Gender Culture under State Socialism: An Expropriated Voice, edited by Hana Havelková and Libora Oates-Indruchová. London: Routledge, 2014. Kusin, Vladimír V. From Dubček to Charter 77: A Study of Normalisation in Czechoslovakia, 1968–78. Edinburgh: Q Press, 1978.

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Liehm, Antonín J. Closely Watched Films: The Czechoslovak Experience. New York: International Arts and Sciences Press, 1974. Liehm, Antonín J. The Miloš Forman Stories. Translated by Jeanne Nemcova. New York: International Arts and Sciences Press, 1975. Lovejoy, Alice. ‘“A World Eternally under Construction”: Věra Chytilová and LateSocialist Prague’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 9, no. 3 (2018): 250–261. Nogueira, Rui, and Nicoletta Zalaffi. ‘Meeting with Věra Chytilová’. Film 51 (Spring 1968). Polt, Harriet R. ‘A Film Should Be a Little Flashlight: An Interview with Věra Chytilová’. Take One (November 1978). Ptáček, Luboš. ‘“Calamity”: The Small Town and Railway as Allegory’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 10, no. 1 (2019): 55–67. Purš, Jiří. Interview. Film News (Prague), 1973. Šimečka, Milan. The Restoration of Order: The Normalization of Czechoslovakia. Translated by A. G. Brain. London: Verso, 1984. Skupa, Lukáš. ‘Perfectly Unpredictable: Early Work of Věra Chytilová in the Light of Censorship and Production Reports’. Studies in Eastern European Cinema 9, no. 3 (2018): 233–249. Škvorecký, Josef. Jiří Menzel and the History of the Closely Watched Trains. Boulder: East European Monographs, 1982. Šulík, Martin, dir. Zlatá šedesátá [The Golden Sixties]. 2011. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘Postwar Czechoslovak Comedy: The Autonomisation of Parody, and Lemonade Joe (1964)’. In Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe: Film, Cultures and Histories, edited by Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, and Zsuzsanna Varga, 102–119. London: I. B. Tauris, 2017. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘“Veterans” and “Dilettantes”: Film Production Culture vis-àvis Top-down Political Changes, 1945–1962’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 71–88. New York: Berghahn, 2015. Toman, Ludvík. ‘Czech Feature Films: Variety of Forms and Subjects’. Czechoslovak Film 1–2 (1972).

About the Author Peter Hames is Visiting Professor in Film Studies at Staffordshire University. His books include The Czechoslovak New Wave (1985, second edition, 2005, also translated into Czech in 2009 and Polish in 2011), Czech and Slovak Cinema: Theme and Tradition (2010), Best of Slovak Cinema 1921–91 (2013/2018), and, as editor, The Cinema of Central Europe (2004), The Cinema

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of Jan Švankmajer: Dark Alchemy (2008), and Cinemas in Transition in Central and Eastern Europe after 1989 (with Catherine Portuges, 2013). He has also contributed to the edited collections Marketa Lazarová: Studie a dokumenty (2009), Screening Neighbours: Eastern European Cinema and Postcolonial Theory (2014), Beyond the Border: Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context (2014), Marx at the Movies (2014), Fairy Tales Beyond Disney (2015), Tschechoslowakische Neue Welle (2018), and 1968 and Global Cinema (2018). His articles have appeared in Sight and Sound, Vertigo, Studies in Eastern European Cinema, KinoKultura, and Kinoeye.

10. Barrandov Baroque: The Tenacious Artistry of Juraj Herz Jonathan Owen

Abstract: This chapter discusses Slovak-born director Juraj Herz’s communist-era productions at Barrandov Studios. Surveying Herz’s career through the lens of his relationship with the Barrandov apparatus, the chapter reveals Herz as a prolif ic, versatile, and unusually consistent filmmaker who produced artistically striking work in often-unpropitious circumstances. Tracing Herz’s artistic apprenticeship at Barrandov and detailing the liberalized f ilm industry of the 1960s that gave rise to Herz’s best-known f ilm, Spalovač mrtvol (The Cremator, 1969), this chapter also examines how his work managed to retain its gothic, macabre sensibilities during the Normalization era – a time usually associated with conformity and mediocrity, personified in the figure of Barrandov’s central dramaturge, Ludvík Toman. Yet this chapter does not neglect the routine interferences, complications, and confrontations Herz also faced at the studio. Keywords: Juraj Herz, Ladislav Fuks, Ludvík Toman, horror, fairy tale

Slovak-born filmmaker Juraj Herz could easily have ended up as Czechoslovak cinema’s great ‘might-have-been’, forever denied the status he deserved. Though he began his film career in the 1960s, a decade widely acknowledged as the most favorable and thus the richest in Czech and Slovak film history, Herz spent much of that era on the fringes of its key developments, at arm’s length from the internationally prestigious New Wave. When he broke into feature production in the second half of the 1960s, the results were promising but not fully realized, the victim in part of compromises enforced by the Barrandov apparatus. The Cremator (Spalovač mrtvol, 1969) – Herz’s third feature and his breakthrough as a powerful, assured, and original film

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch10

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artist – coincided with the 1968 Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia, which brought in its wake a ruthless refreezing of cinematic culture that could have either destroyed his fledgling career or doomed it to mediocrity. As it happens, though, Herz forged one of the most consistently successful careers (artistically and commercially speaking) in the Czechoslovak cinema of the 1970s and 1980s, proving one of the brightest sparks amid what was often a dull, dispiriting climate for national cinema. Essential to his success was the approach Herz took to the authorities at Prague’s Barrandov Studios, a mix of defiance and adaptability, provocation and pragmatism. It would be easy to argue that Herz accomplished what he did in spite of Normalization-era Barrandov, with which he undoubtedly had his difficulties: censorious cuts and temporary directing bans were routine, and, ever anxious to keep working, Herz was compelled several times to seek opportunities elsewhere, say in television or at Slovakia’s Koliba Studios. But any assessment of Herz’s oeuvre – most of which, before 1989, was indeed produced at Barrandov – must note, too, that the relationship between the studio and even such a seemingly ‘intransigent’ director as Herz was one of mutual advantage as well as antagonism, and that the aims of both not only clashed but also sometimes coincided.

Herz at Barrandov in the 1960s: From Apprenticeship to Mastery By circumstance if not by design, Juraj Herz’s career often seems closer to the model of the classic Hollywood studio director than to that of the European auteur, and this is true of his very origins as a filmmaker. Where most of Herz’s contemporaries in the Czechoslovak New Wave had been educated at the celebrated Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU) – in common with other formally trained film movements of the 1960s and 1970s – Herz’s cinematic apprenticeship was more traditional and hands-on. Trained already in photography and puppetry, Herz was refused a place at FAMU by a state unwilling to support him through a third educational institution, and he made his way into film through acting work at the Semafor Theatre (Herz and Kopaněnová 1967, 377). He made his screen acting debut in Every Good Crown (Každá koruna dobrá, 1961) for director Zbyněk Brynych, who then employed the enthusiastic novice as an assistant. Herz then became an assistant director for Brynych and later for Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos, involving himself in many aspects of film production while continuing to act in small roles. Thus, to a greater extent

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perhaps than for most New Wave directors, Barrandov provided a formative environment for Herz: as he would later write, ‘Brynych and Kadár were my professors’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 145). Helped by Kadár, who vouched for Herz to the director of Barrandov, Herz ‘graduated’ to directing his own films in 1965, with The Junk Shop (Sběrné surovosti). Herz made this short film after being invited (by Jaromil Jireš) to contribute to the anthology film Pearls of the Deep (Perličky na dně, 1965), a kind of New Wave manifesto comprising adaptations of Bohumil Hrabal’s stories by the era’s up-and-coming f ilmmakers. But the f ilm was never shown as part of Pearls of the Deep, being one of two contributions that were excised entirely from the final anthology due to excessive overall length. Notwithstanding that Herz, by his account, was the one who volunteered to cut his film, this excision typifies Herz’s relation to the New Wave – affiliated but always apart. In the same way, as one of the most vivid and indeed ‘Hrabalian’ contributions to Pearls of the Deep, The Junk Shop both equals the New Wave on the latter’s own terms and displays what would later become recognizable individual traits. Though Barrandov director Vlastimil Harnach mildly rebuked the f ilm for the ‘ugliness’ of its cast, Herz actually honors Hrabal’s appreciation for the beauties and the minor miracles found in waste, decrepitude, and the grubby corners of everyday life. This is conveyed in images that anticipate the baroque, uncanny, and macabre profusions of Herz’s mature work – a risqué erotic fantasy, a strange mechanical musical contraption with dancing cats, the vaguely alarming sight of religious statues ‘decapitated’ and sawn into pieces. Herz’s feature debut was The Sign of Cancer (Znamení Raka, 1966), adapted from a novel by Hana Bělohradská. A hospital murder mystery that is also a barbed portrait of misdemeanors among the medical staff, this debut already signals Herz’s interest in genre material and reminds us of one tentative, often-overlooked tendency in Czechoslovak cinema in this period: the effort, in the wake of 1960s liberalization, to foster a native popular cinema along ‘Western’, genre-based lines. Writing of the film as a positive example of that trend, Antonín J. Liehm, in a 1967 article, describes The Sign of Cancer as one of the few ‘popular films’ (divácké filmy – more literally ‘viewer’s films’) of this era that did not bring ‘shame’ to Czechoslovak cinema (Liehm 1967, 423). In an early sign that Herz wished to hold true too to the more lurid elements of genre, and thereby test the boundaries of local screen acceptability, the film included scenes of sex, rape, and masturbation that an industry approval committee ordered to be removed (though when the Greek-Italian producer Moris Ergas, associate and ‘right hand’ of the

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legendary Carlo Ponti, conversely insisted on reinserting the sexual material for the film’s Italian release, Herz chose to reshoot it in Rome). The official cuts to The Sign of Cancer may have left the film basically unharmed, but it was similar interference that, in Herz’s view, essentially ruined his second feature, The Limping Devil (Kulhavý ďábel, 1968). In this musical comic fantasy, a demon, played by Herz, strives to lure an innocently romantic young man into promiscuity and vice by whisking him through a variety of historical scenarios in a manner strangely reminiscent of Stanley Donen’s virtually contemporaneous Peter Cook-Dudley Moore vehicle Bedazzled (1967). For Herz himself, the fact that Barrandov’s director and the film’s production group vetoed him from actually showing the vice around which the story revolves all but negated the project. He would later claim that he made the film under compulsion, explaining that, given the way a director at Barrandov was ultimately an employee, he was compelled to follow his superiors’ orders (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 170). Studio interventions aside, this highly whimsical film is enjoyable if undeniably slight. This slapstick-tinged work indicates the path that Herz first wanted to take, as a comic actor-director playing a recurring character à la Jacques Tati’s Monsieur Hulot, but the diabolical theme, though played for laughs here, also gives us a glimmer of Herz’s later horror work (Herz and Kopaněnová 1967, 376; Šimera and Kříž 2014, 27). Herz took a bold new direction in his next film, The Cremator, adapted from Ladislav Fuks’s novel. The Cremator is perhaps Herz’s defining film, and it remained his own favorite of his works. Not coincidentally, Herz has also indicated that this was the only film (at least during the state-socialist period) over which he enjoyed complete creative control. The Cremator is a product of the liberalized and emboldened climate of its era. By this point the film industry itself had undergone significant liberalization and decentralization, with production now organized into individual ‘creative units’ that enjoyed a large degree of ‘intellectual and organizational autonomy’ (Szczepanik 2015, 83). The 1960s film units were permitted to ‘establish their own “ideological-artistic boards”’, on which many ‘revisionist writers’ sat, rather than being subject to a ‘central advisory board’ (Szczepanik 2015, 83). The Cremator was made within the ‘famed’ unit run by Jiří Šebor and Vladimír Bor, which was strongly associated with the New Wave and known for supporting young directors (Szczepanik 2012, 301). As Herz later wrote, ‘The group gave me an absolutely free hand to do whatever I wanted’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 180). Another possible advantage of working for this group was that – as Václav Šašek, then a dramaturge at the group, has contended – it tended not to attract censorship measures from outside, being

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less given to ‘scandalous’ content than other groups (Šašek in Skupa 2016, 130). In any case, in a clear reflection of Dubček-era reformism, censorship was officially abolished at Barrandov on 24 March 1968. The Cremator could likely not have been made in the years immediately before or after 1968. The story of crematorium owner Karl Kopfrkingl, an ascetic crank and seemingly model humanitarian who becomes an enthusiastic Nazi collaborator and murderer, is a plunge into the psychotic inferno that drags the viewer helplessly down with it. The film’s atmosphere of derangement is as pervasive as Rudolf Hrušinský’s inescapable Kopfrkingl, ever present onscreen and unceasingly holding forth in his even, purring intonation. Herz and cinematographer Stanislav Milota approximate Kopfrkingl’s interior world in the ‘formalism’ of the distorted fish-eye shots and in artful segues from scene to scene that mimic the seamlessness of the character’s interior descent. It is in this film that Herz, propelled by Fuks’s own dark imagination, also first fully indulges his feel for the macabre and for the uncanny confusions between the living and the dead, the animate and inanimate. Such confusion is boldly exploited in a gruesome carnival set piece in which Herz has real actors play performing automata, but it is also subtly present in Kopfrkingl’s compulsive attentions to the living and the dead alike, his habit of stroking and combing his living family members as well as the dead bodies in his crematorium (are the living like inanimate objects to be handled and arranged? Or are the dead rather like living beings still fit to be groomed and fondled?) Added to these provocations are the film’s political implications, with Kopfrkingl’s conformism and his highly ironic calls to adopt a healthful and positive attitude easily readable as a satire on the world of communism. The film’s shooting actually straddled the 1968 invasion, a turn of events that inspired Herz to add a new and blatantly politicized ending. This would have featured a beaming Kopfrkingl who has returned to Czechoslovakia ‘with the Russian army’, no less at home in the deadened climate that followed the invasion than he was amid real dead and lifeless beings (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 192–193). According to Herz, the director of Barrandov took fright at the new ending and ordered its removal (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 194). The Cremator premiered in Czechoslovakia in March 1969, and was seen by over half a million domestic viewers that year (Egermajer 2019). It was also successful internationally, being sold to a number of foreign countries, screening at various film festivals, and winning prizes for cinematography, acting (Hrušinský) and best film at the Sitges Film Festival in 1972. But it soon came to attract hostility from the forces of renewed repression, being attacked by the arch pro-regime filmmaker and newly installed Barrandov

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functionary Vojtěch Trapl for suggesting that the Nazi gas chambers were the invention of a ‘Czech collaborator’ (!), and condemned as ‘disgusting’ by the vice-president of the Association of Czechoslovak Dramatic Artists (Lukeš 2013,187; Egermajer 2019). On 6 April 1973, the film was withdrawn from domestic distribution. While still making The Cremator Herz had begun work on another daring project, an adaptation of Alfred Jarry’s 1902 novel Supermale (Le Surmâle, roman moderne), for Pavel Juráček and Jaroslav Kučera’s production group. Dubbed a ‘crazy comedy drawing material from sexual themes’, this project, according to Herz, made it to the production plan in 1969 but was canceled at the insistence of Harnach, who claimed the resulting film would be ‘pornography’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 196).1 A planned adaptation of another novel, Of Mice and Mooshaber (Myši Natálie Mooshabrové, 1970), went the same way. Herz recalls that at this time nobody at Barrandov was interested in his making anything at all, with the success of The Cremator even working to his institutional detriment (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 196). His response was to turn to television, first making Kitten (Kočka) for Czechoslovak television, and then, when the latter film was itself banned, taking up an invitation from Slovak television to direct a Maupassant adaptation, which resulted in the excellent and popular Sweet Games of Last Summer (Sladké hry minulého léta, 1969). Herz would repeat this strategy of leaving Barrandov for alternative institutions during the 1970s, a decade marked by further great difficulties and challenges at the studio as well as by some of his most celebrated Barrandov-produced works.

Herz at Barrandov in the 1970s: Greetings from a Distant Time Through 1969–1970, as part of the process of Normalization that followed the invasion, Barrandov underwent a thorough reorganization intended to halt the supposed excesses, deviations, and ‘antisocialist’ elements of the 1960s cinema, and to restore a rigorous level of ideological control under politically loyal (if not necessarily professionally competent) administrators. Mass screenings of Barrandov employees were held to investigate their political 1 An alternative account suggests that Herz and his cowriter, Miloš Macourek, actually submitted the script of this project, translated as Nadsamec, for assessment in March 1970, and thus after Barrandov’s reorganization in the early Normalization era (and after Harnach had been replaced as director). According to this account, Herz and Macourek resubmitted the script in 1973 with a politically shrewd caption added, claiming that this was a critique of the ‘Western, bourgeois concept of sex’. Again, though, the project was rejected (see Gruntorád 2018, 23n150).

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allegiance, resulting in countless expulsions from the party and the studio. Towards the end of 1969, leading positions began to be replaced and the studio was basically recentralized, with the creative units dissolved and replaced by separate dramaturgical and production groups, a system that severed previously established relations between the different professional spheres of filmmaking (Szczepanik 2016, 104; Gruntorád 2018, 15). Production was essentially now made subservient to the decisions of Barrandov’s newly appointed central dramaturge, Ludvík Toman. A notoriously ‘autocratic’ and doctrinaire figure, reputedly protected by powerful connections (including, so some alleged, to the KGB), Toman emerges here as the key antagonist in the struggles of Herz and many others to get their films made (Hulík 2011, 175). Among filmmakers of his stature who had made bold, banned work in the 1960s, Herz’s career was somewhat exceptional in this difficult decade. He was able to return to making films at Barrandov at the beginning of the 1970s, in contrast, say, to Chytilová or Juráček (who was fired from the studio in 1971). Neither did he have to submit to the kind of ‘Faustian deal’ (in Štěpán Hulík’s phrase) into which Jireš and Menzel were compelled by the studio, in which the return to filmmaking was conditional on a display of political loyalty, whether through the making of an assigned piece of quasi-propaganda or, as in Menzel’s case, through the humiliating ‘admission’ of past political errors (Hulík 2011, 190). Herz possibly benefitted from the fact that he did not have a film as politically overt and sensitive as Menzel’s Skylarks on a String (Skřivánci na niti, 1969) to his name; nor, apparently, did he express direct criticism of the Soviet occupation, such as Juráček was punished for. Moreover, the powerful Toman, determined to crush the legacy of the 1960s, focused his ideological ire on the New Wave particularly, and thus Herz’s very separateness from that movement might actually have proven an advantage. By his own account, though, Herz did begin the 1970s in disappointment. Clearly determined to continue in the macabre mold established by The Cremator, to the extent of planning to adapt every one of Fuks’s new novels, Herz proposed two successive Fuks projects to the ‘tough’ new Barrandov administration, but both were rejected (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 210). Compensation, however, came from dramaturge and screenwriter Václav Šašek, who invited Herz to read a script he had adapted from Jaroslav Havlíček’s 1935 novel Oil Lamps (Petrolejové lampy). No matter the specifics of Herz’s intended path, the 1971 film he made of Oil Lamps remained true to the course set by The Cremator, and so, to an even greater extent, did its follow-up, the Alexander Grin adaptation Morgiana (1972), though this was yet another project proposed to Herz by a writer-dramaturge (Vladimír Bor).

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Oil Lamps and Morgiana are virtually unique among Czechoslovak films of the early 1970s. As Hulík has written, ‘they remain […] quite untouched by the Normalization that was then fully operative’, and, amongst the other domestic films of their era, they appear like a ‘greeting from some very distant and long-lost time’ (Hulík 2011, 202). Both stories are of course literally set in the past – a fact Herz has said he consciously embraced as a means to avoid dealing with the politicized present (Herz and Košuličová 2002). Set in an ornate turn-of-the-century environment that Herz would make a repeated haunt, these stories, though undoubtedly less provocative than The Cremator, are similarly steeped in an atmosphere of morbidity and decadence. Oil Lamps is the morose tale of Štěpa (played by Iva Janžurová), a tender and spirited woman at odds with her conservative provincial backdrop and seemingly doomed to unfulfilled spinsterhood. Štěpa marries her cousin Pavel, a wastrel ex-soldier who turns out to have contracted syphilis, and the film charts their loveless, sexless marriage as accompanied by Pavel’s harrowing mental and physical deterioration – arrestingly incarnated by Petr Čepek as another Herzian antihero on a downward spiral. Morgiana is an even more striking work, a Gothic melodrama with the lurid and uncanny air of a horror film. Iva Janžurová appears as twin protagonists who are fairy-tale opposites of one another – the virtuous Klára, fair-haired and often shown in white lace outfits, and her scheming and murderous sister Viktoria, a witchlike apparition in jet-black wig, dark finery, and garish makeup. Morgiana is a baroque work of saturated colors and lurching camera moves – the latter embodying the viewpoint of omnipresent cat Morgiana, who seems to serve as a kind of adjudicator or even a mysterious influence over the action. Barrandov’s new regime did make its presence felt through prohibitive interventions into both projects. In the case of Oil Lamps, Herz was ordered to remove from the f ilm’s script a planned opening scene showing a group of off icers leaving a brothel, which served to indicate how Pavel had contracted syphilis. But the changes required of Morgiana were more fundamental and, for Herz, more damaging. In a deviation from Grin’s original story, Herz had intended to close the f ilm with the revelation that Viktoria, the ‘evil’ sister, did not exist but had only been imagined by the heavily schizophrenic Klára (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 222). According to Herz, this ending was attacked by Toman personally, on the grounds that schizophrenia was ‘a bourgeois illness and Czechoslovak cinema will not make anything about it’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 223). The removal of this f inal revelation soured Herz on the whole project.

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Figure 10.1. Still from Morgiana (1972, dir. Juraj Herz). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

He shot the revised script without interest, treating the project merely as a technical exercise – ‘a piano lesson, to stop myself from forgetting how to play’ (Herz in Hulík 2011, 359). Despite Herz’s understandable aggravation about the lost twist in the tale, the idea of psychological duality, if not schizophrenia, arguably remains implicit anyway in the f inished f ilm, thanks to Janžurová’s dual casting, the use of mirrors as a key visual motif, and an overall dreamlike atmosphere that sustains ‘psychological’ interpretations. This is another way in which Morgiana achieved the near impossible by importing the subversive qualities of 1960s cinema into the hostile context of the 1970s. Herz recalls his experiences of an authorization screening for Morgiana – attended, as was usual, by Barrandov dramaturges, representatives of the party’s Central Committee and the Ministry of Culture, among other ‘potentates’ – and notes that the gathered officials saw ‘only the worst’ in the finished film. After the screening Toman announced to Herz that he was banned from directing at Barrandov since he had produced a ‘sadomasochistic film’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 233–234). Compelled once again to look for work elsewhere, the ever enterprising director returned to the theater, directing opera and drama, and then produced two television films: Butterfly’s Touch (Dotek motýla, 1972), made for the Krátký film studio, is a mystery with something of the romantic, baroque flavor of Oil

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Lamps and Morgiana; and Wandering Engelbert (Toulavý Engelbert, 1973), for Czechoslovak television, is a pop musical set in medieval times. Herz’s reputation was redeemed at Barrandov, ironically enough, by a delegation of officials from the Soviet film studio Mosfilm, who had been informed of a film adapted from a Russian writer – Morgiana – and had then seen and enjoyed Herz’s film (Herz in Hulík 2011, 359–360). The director was now approached by Barrandov’s central director Miloslav Fábera and told that his ban would be lifted, on condition that he make a film set in ‘a blue-collar environment’ (Herz in Hulík 2011, 360). (In a later version of these events from Herz’s autobiography, it was writer Miloš Macourek who approached him and Jiří Purš, the head of Československý film, who lifted the ban and set the condition [Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 256].) At this point Herz could easily have succumbed to the kind of proregime, socialist realist cinema he was resolved to avoid, but Girls of Porcelain (Holky z porcelánu, 1974), though hardly vintage or typical Herz, is a light, factory-set comedy distinguished by lively musical sequences and the charm of its cast (which includes Dagmar Havlová [Veškrnová] in her debut role). Re-established at Barrandov, Herz continued with two more fairly anonymous works: A Girl Fit for Killing (Holka na zabití, 1975) is a mix of crime mystery, comedy, and drama, its only recognizably ‘Herzian’ touches perhaps the slightly giallo-esque scenes of a black-gloved but otherwise unseen killer, and Day for My Love (Den pro mou lásku, 1976), a tragic and sentimental though tastefully directed story about the death of a young child. These titles may hold a relatively undistinguished place in Herz’s filmography, but they all proved successful with domestic audiences. Girls of Porcelain was seen by 817,000 viewers in the year of its release, and A Girl Fit for Killing by 423,000 (for comparison, Štěpán Hulík notes that other Czech crime or detective films of the 1970s and 1980s generally received between 150,000 and 200,000 viewers) (Hulík 2011, 203). Hulík explains that it was Herz’s very capacity to make films that were ‘attractive to viewers’, in spite of his not being a strictly ‘commercial’ director, that interested ‘the Normalizers’ (Hulík 2011, 203). This may well have provided Herz with a certain degree of protection, ensuring that throughout his various struggles with Barrandov his relationship with the studio was never truly severed (at least not until he voluntarily chose to break it upon emigrating). Being able to make popular films was especially desirable given the steady decline in cinema attendance in Czechoslovakia during the 1970s (Gruntorád 2018, 16). Archival data gathered by Tomáš Gruntorád even shows that, for all the preoccupation with ideological issues, popularity with viewers was an explicit concern of the Barrandov leadership from the

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outset of Normalization. A draft of the studio’s dramaturgical plan for 1971 argues for the necessity of renewing ‘the rich diversity of genres in our films’ and of focusing predominantly on ‘so-called viewers’ films’, as this was a way of winning viewers’ ‘trust’ (BSA in Gruntorád 2018, 16). Moreover, as Gruntorád notes, the necessity of producing better ‘entertainment’ films was not only a matter of interesting (and influencing) the domestic viewer but also of making internationally attractive products that could bring all the benefits of export sales (Gruntorád 2018, 17). It probably did not go unnoticed that Herz’s films were relatively successful in the West and that they continued winning prizes and plaudits at a time of low international status for Czechoslovak film (Oil Lamps, for instance, was the last Czechoslovak film to compete at Cannes, and Morgiana and the later fairy-tale films all won awards at American or West European festivals). Herz was thus as much an asset to the studio as a thorn in its side. Yet Herz’s successes in this period did not free him from the familiar pressures, and he recalls hearing intimations, after the release of Day for My Love, that ‘even Herz should now finally make a political film’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 274). Desperately casting around for some alternative, nonpolitical project, Herz found ‘salvation’ in the writer and dramaturge Ota Hofman, who headed a dramaturgical group devoted to children’s films and who offered Herz the chance to direct a film of Beauty and the Beast (based on a theatrical version of the story by František Hrubín). Ironically, it is at this point, when ducking some enforced propaganda project and finding sanctuary in a children’s fairy tale, that Herz made a full-blooded return to macabre form. Beauty and the Beast (Panna a netvor, 1978) was a huge investment by the standards of the time. Set designer Vladimír Labský – one of a team of regular collaborators that had established itself around Herz on his previous film – used the studio’s biggest soundstage to create an enormous, multipurpose construction that comprised the entire set of the Beast’s castle and extended to the insertion of real trees and an artificial swamp (Šimera and Kříž 2014, 28). Treated by the press at the time as ‘something exceptional for Barrandov conditions’, these ‘monumental’ sets took a whole three months to build, ‘instead of the usual one’ (Šimera and Kříž 2014, 28). In view of these expenses, the studio decided to economize by insisting that Herz make another film using the same sets. A second fairy-tale project, The Ninth Heart (Deváté srdce), happened to be at hand, and thus Herz shot both this and Beauty and the Beast concurrently, happy that he could use the inevitable waiting time on one project to work on another (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 276).

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Figure 10.2. Still from Panna a netvor (Beauty and the Beast, 1978, dir. Juraj Herz). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

In this somewhat fortuitous manner, then, Herz produced two of his best films in 1978. Beauty and the Beast and The Ninth Heart are dark, baroque fantasies that tend to be appreciated more as horror films than as fairy tales – a genre in which Herz admitted he had little interest. To that extent they are a case of ‘secret’ generic (and institutional?) subversion, with Herz taking the officially popular and acceptable form of the fairy story and remaking it in the rather less acceptable image of the horror genre. Beauty and the Beast comes the closest of the two films to horror techniques and aesthetics. With its images frequently drowned in darkness, its color palette muted and its soundtrack heavy with Gothic organ music, the film’s prevalent mood is eerie, ominous, and oppressive. Herz creates suspense in the classic manner with predatory point-of-view shots and by delaying and building up the appearance of the ‘monster’. It is telling that Herz replaced the word ‘zvíře’ (meaning ‘beast’) in the story’s title with the word ‘netvor’, which means ‘monster’ – an indication of what might be considered his desire to ‘estrange’ the given story, restoring a sense of fear and strangeness that has been dulled by the tale’s familiarity. His key masterstroke in that respect was the decision to transform the Beast itself from the familiar leonine or mammalian figure into a menacing crow-headed creature. This central change of imagery adds to the surrealist flavor that Rudolf Šimera and Michal Kříž have discerned throughout the film, most obviously evoking the

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bird-human hybrids that preoccupied Max Ernst. Herz further extends the marriage of horror and surrealism by using a modern surrealist painter, Josef Vylet’al, whose somber, spectral, and dreamlike images illustrate the film’s credits and appear in the Beast’s castle. The credits are a signal that the film belongs to the same ‘psychological’ territory as Morgiana or The Cremator, with the Beast constantly tormented by an externalized inner voice. The Ninth Heart, which unlike Beauty and the Beast was not derived from a classic fairy tale, adheres more to the formula of the Czechoslovak fairy-tale films of the time. It contains a suitably ‘proletarian’ hero in its young itinerant protagonist, who gets involved first with a group of traveling players and then with an enchanted princess whom he undertakes to cure. In other ways, though, the film contains even more daring sequences of horror. The long middle section of the film involves a Dantean boat journey to a land of the dead ruled over by the evil magician Count Aldobrandini, who has developed an elixir of life using human hearts. The sequence boasts a morbidly beautiful candlelit ball of the living dead and climaxes with the count’s graphic physical decomposition once his powers are defeated and his immortality reversed. Aided by striking effects and props by Jan Švankmajer (a friend of Herz and a former classmate in puppetry), Herz penetrates to that kernel of horror that is an essential if often-submerged feature of the classic fairy-tale tradition, and these scenes contain a dark power that withstands the cuts Herz was obliged to make at the script assessment stage, which concerned the depiction of ‘revived corpses’ and the ‘surgically naturalistic’ manner detailing how the hearts were extracted (Gruntorád 2018, 54). Herz recounts another negative official screening for the finished versions of these films, after which he was angrily told that he had ‘tricked’ the studio by promising fairy stories but actually delivering horror films. Unlike with Morgiana, though, the disapproval did not this time translate into any ban or penalty – a consequence, in Herz’s view, of the more relaxed climate that began to prevail at Barrandov at the end of the 1970s. Indeed Herz closed the decade with another daring work of a quite different nature, the realist family drama Fragile Relationships (Křehké vztahy, 1979), which to Herz’s surprise was accepted and left untouched by Barrandov despite featuring a ‘hippie’ protagonist and several sex scenes (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 296–297).

Herz at Barrandov in the 1980s: Unpackaged Provocations At the start of the 1980s Barrandov Studios underwent a second, ‘long prepared’ reorganization in response to declining audience f igures,

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Figure 10.3. Still from Upír z Feratu (The Ferat Vampire, 1982, dir. Juraj Herz). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

stagnated production, low working morale, and an unhealthy climate of self-censorship and excessive caution (Gruntorád 2018, 15). This overhaul was in some ways a reversal of the centralizing and authoritarian measures of the previous decade, with the reign of the ‘dreaded’ Ludvík Toman brought to an end, and his function of central dramaturge dissolved, on 31 August 1981 and a system of six dramaturgical-production groups established (reversing the former split between dramaturgy, or script development, and the production process) the following year (Skupa 2018, 214; Gruntorád 2018, 16). Keen to take advantage of this trend towards greater liberalization, Herz undertook two of his most provocative projects in the 1980s. Following an excursion into the crime caper with his mafia comedy Bulldogs and Cherries (Buldoci a třešně, 1981), Herz embarked on his plan to make a ‘real’ horror film, one without any of the deceptive packaging of his 1970s ‘fairy tale’ films. The result was The Ferat Vampire (Upír z Feratu, 1982), a story with both horror and sci-fi elements about a racing car believed to run on human blood.

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This was a project that had been around since the mid-1960s, long predating Herz’s involvement, and had been developed by the sci-fi and fantasy writer Josef Nesvadba. The project survived, in different manifestations, through the Normalization era, when it integrated well into the ongoing concern to foster a more entertainment-oriented, genre-based cinema. Though it seems the Barrandov leadership, including Toman himself, were enthusiastic about the project, Gruntorád reveals throughout the development process a degree of confusion and discrepancy as to the project’s conception and significance. For Toman, for instance, the value of the story lay in its critique of the destructive automobile-mania of the rich capitalist world, as well as in the fact that this critique was being delivered in an entertaining and potentially popular form (while avoiding being a ‘typical horror film’, as he noted in his assessment of an earlier version of the script). But for Herz, once attached to the project, what mattered was strengthening the story’s horror aspects, and not its capacity for social critique. This preproduction history might serve, on the one hand, to illustrate the struggles of the maverick or independent-minded director, at odds with the aims of the studio apparatus. But it also reveals the ‘productive’ as well as ‘destructive’ contributions of the studio in Herz’s case, the extent to which its leaders and dramaturges cultivated appropriate projects, as propelled by a shared orientation to ‘popular’ and (in this case) fantastical material, whatever the studio’s ultimate political motivations. It reveals the supportive role played by dramaturges and well-placed writers, including Miloš Macourek, who also favored turning the story into a flat-out horror film and recommended Herz as the one capable of doing this. It even suggests the regard in which Herz was held by Toman himself, for it was that fearful and soon-to-be-deposed central dramaturge who decided to appoint Herz to the film in place of a previously assigned director, with the commendation that Herz was a filmmaker ‘well-proven in his professionalism, originality and talent’ (Toman in Gruntorád 2018, 46). The final ‘literary’ script of The Ferat Vampire, based on an earlier draft by Jan Fleischer that Herz (working with Nesvadba) supplemented with more overt horror and sexual material, entered Barrandov’s dramaturgicalproduction plan with the enthusiastic blessings of Toman, ‘convinced of the above-average outcome of any film based on this script’ (Gruntorád 2018, 48). But this outcome proved a shock to the studio’s functionaries, and cuts were demanded to the completed film. Most regrettable to Herz was the cutting of the ‘greater part’ of a dream sequence, a scene of almost Cronenbergian horror in which the insides of the vampiric car are revealed to display an organic interior, with a pulsating heart and veins. This ‘trick’

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sequence was again the work of Jan Švankmajer, who had achieved the grisly effect with real cow innards. In the version of the scene that we see, we get only a brief glimpse of the organic gristle inside the car, and yet the sequence retains some of its outrageousness and its icky appeal. It preserves a sense of the uncanny melding of organic matter and machine, as the car’s metal surfaces turn disturbingly soft and permeable, and it still climaxes with the spewing of blood that drenches Jiří Menzel’s protagonist, Dr. Marek. Blood appears in another scene that proved ‘problematic’, a sex scene between Marek and the sister of the mysteriously deceased (or is she?) racing driver Luisa Tomášová in which they inadvertently cover themselves in blood from smashed medical jars. Herz recalls that this scene had to be shortened, and yet it is perhaps more remarkable that it was permitted at all, its blood-smeared nude bodies a none-too-subtle expression of the connections between sex and death and a twist on the deathly eroticism inherent to vampire mythology. In spite of the imposed cuts and the film’s parodic elements (with Herz himself appearing at one point as a vampire in a vintage movie pastiche), Herz mostly achieved his aims in producing what was at that point the most overt horror ‘vehicle’ of his career. Herz’s next project, again at Barrandov, was Magpie in the Hand (Straka v hrsti, 1983), his boldest and most defiant work. This project originated with a script by a ‘forbidden’ writer, Antonín Přidal, that was passed on to Herz by Evald Schorm (Herz and Košuličová 2002; Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 322). Adapted from ‘the oldest Czech traveling play’, the script was essentially a medieval fairy tale, and Herz, now bored with fairy tales, decided to experiment by transplanting ‘the Middle Ages into the future’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 312). He got the project accepted at Barrandov under the cover of a fairy-tale film while writing his own script ‘on the quiet’ (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 313). A scandal broke out when photos of intertwined nude male extras were sent to the State Security service and ultimately reached the desk of Czechoslovak president Gustáv Husák. Herz was then rebuked by the Barrandov leadership for producing a work of ‘pornography’, ‘which even comrade Husák has seen’, and the film was banned outright (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 324). It is unsurprising that the administration was shocked by the film, which, with its bleak setting, garish steampunk aesthetics, and oblique, jumbled narrative, adds up to the most experimental of Herz’s films, if hardly the best. It might look as though Herz definitively burnt his bridges with Magpie in the Hand, but remarkably – following his recourse to the Slovak film industry and the making of Sweet Worries (Sladké starosti, 1984), a gentle comedy – he

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succeeded in returning to Barrandov and to the helm of the ‘most expensive’ and ‘politically most important’ film project of the year (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 334). This was a film about Jožka Jabůrková, a communist journalist and Prague councilor who had died in the Ravensbrück concentration camp. Passionately interested in the project since first reading about it, Herz naturally asserted his right to direct the film on the basis of his own experience in the Ravensbrück camp as a child. Herz recounts having a ‘free hand’ while preparing the film, with the bizarre exception that he was not allowed ‘to cast Jewish women’ as concentration camp inmates or even to have anyone in the film ‘speak about Jews’. The ‘Barrandov leadership insisted’ that he focus only on ‘how communists suffered’ in the camps (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 342). Herz did strive to avoid any of the stridently procommunist elements that were in the original script (by Jaromíra Kolárová), and yet in some ways the resulting film, ultimately called The Night Overtook Me (Zastihla mě noc, 1985), was one of his most ‘orthodox’ films, dramatically if not politically speaking. Emphasizing the selfless benevolence of its protagonist as she suffers in the camp, with flashbacks that detail the earlier torments of an illegitimate and loveless childhood, the film is a rather one-dimensional portrait of a boundless and veritably saintly idealism, a heartstring-tugging melodrama that lacks the redeeming artifice of Morgiana. On the other hand, the film is uncompromising in its harsh camp sequences and striking in its at times surreal and expressionistic imagery, with effective use of color tinting, distorted space, and Herz’s signature device of using the same performers in different roles (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 345). In a complete reversal of his previous Barrandov experience, The Night Overtook Me was well-received by the studio leadership and officialdom in general, winning the Klement Gottwald State Award and the personal commendation of Gustáv Husák (though Herz states that the award was dedicated collectively to the film’s key talents and not to him individually, to avoid the embarrassment of giving the award to someone who was not a party member (Herz and Drbohlav 2015, 349–350). Yet by now Herz had already decided to leave Czechoslovakia, and with added irony used his Gottwald award prize money to fund his departure. Upon emigrating to the Federal Republic of Germany in 1987, Herz essentially closed the chapter on his career as a director in a communist film industry. Though for the next twenty years of his life he would continue producing films and series for the Czech film and television industry, and would ultimately return to the new Czech Republic at the turn of the millennium, he would have little future dealing with Barrandov. The studio’s

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postcommunist transformation was perhaps more absolute a barrier for him than any of the former leaders’ explicit bans. *** In summing up Herz’s relationship with Barrandov, we must weigh the obvious difficulties he faced with censorship and prohibitive intervention against the cuts and bans he endured in other sectors of communist-era media. Herz himself noted that Czechoslovakia’s television industry, for instance, suffered from an even tighter ideological stranglehold than film, directly supervised as it was by the party’s Central Committee (Herz in Hulík 2011, 369). On the other hand, considered precisely as typical of a communist, state-funded film industry, the Barrandov of old brought the advantages of regular employment (though often at the price of political obedience) and of stable and relatively generous funding. The dramaturgical system seems also to have helped foster proximity to a network of writers who proved supportive and sympathetic to Herz (as was the case with Bor, Šašek, Hofman, and Macourek). Herz himself may have felt that the ‘Normalized’ film industry essentially derailed his directorial career, assigning him to projects that his heart was not in or ensuring that those films he did value did not turn out as intended. Yet while at times he was clearly compelled to make the best of assignments that he would not have chosen in other circumstances (as with, say, Girls of Porcelain), in other cases the projects generated within the Barrandov system did prove conducive to his talents. Unlike many of his most talented peers, Herz was interested from the outset in making popular, genre-based films, and Barrandov’s own orientation to the latter thus meant that Herz’s talents were in many ways attuned to the projects available. In fact some of his best and most apparently characteristic work arose out of projects that he did not originate, that were already in development or that must have seemed like second-best or compromise options (as with Oil Lamps, Morgiana, Beauty and the Beast, The Ninth Heart, and The Ferat Vampire). None of these comments should be seen as minimizing the real repression and pervasive ideological interference of which the Barrandov system, especially during the 1970s, was an obvious representative. Nor should we wish to underestimate Herz’s achievement in both functioning within that system and pushing against its limits, all the while avoiding the egregious conformism or humiliating capitulation to which others succumbed. As suggested before, Herz can be compared with those classic Hollywood and B-movie directors who helped give rise to the auteur theory, ‘studio’ directors

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who (under very different institutional conditions of course) were able to turn the material they were assigned into audacious and personal art. To conclude in the macabre terms of his most characteristic and distinguished works, Herz may have had to endure seeing his films ‘mutilated’, as he once put it, but he never sold his soul.

Bibliography Egermajer, Jakub. ‘The Cremator’. Filmový přehled, 22.11.2019. https://www.filmovyprehled.cz/en/revue/detail/karl-kopfrkingls-way-of-the-cross Gruntorád, Tomáš. ‘Horory po česku: Hybridní žánrová tradice v normalizační kinematografii (1969–1989)’. MA thesis, Masaryk University, 2018. Herz, Juraj, and Galina Kopaněnová. ‘S Jurajem Herzem o začátcích cesty’. Film a doba 13, no. 7 (1967): 375–378. Herz, Juraj, and Ivana Košuličová. ‘Drowning the Bad Times: Juraj Herz Interviewed’. Kinoeye 2, no. 1 (2002). www.kinoeye.org/02/01/kosulicova01.php. Herz, Juraj, and Jan Drbohlav. Autopsie (pitva režiséra). Prague: Mladá fronta, 2015. Hulík, Štěpán. Kinematografie zapomnění: Počátky normalizace ve Filmovém studio Barrandov (1968–1973). Prague: Academia, 2011. Liehm, Antonín J. ‘Pro diváka a pro kritiku’. Film a doba 13, no. 8 (1967): 423–430. Lukeš, Jan. Diagnózy času: český a slovenský poválečný film. Prague: Nakladelství Slovart, 2013. Šimera, Rudolf, and Michal Kříž. ‘Panna a netvor a deváté srdce v kontextu díla Juraje Herze’. Film a doba 20, no. 1–2 (2014): 27–32. Skupa, Lukáš. Vadí – nevadí: Česká filmová cenzura v 60. letech. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Skupa, Lukáš. ‘Rozesmát je málo! Česká f ilmová komedie v etapě „oživení“ normalizační kinematografie’, in Tereza Brdečková and Lukáš Skupa, Tajemství hradu v Karpatech & Jiří Brdečka. Prague: Limonádový Joe, 2018. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘Between Units and Producers: Organization of Creative Work in Czechoslovak State Cinema 1945–1990’. In Film Units: Restart, edited by Marcin Adamczak, Piotr Marecki, and Marcin Malatyński, 271–311. Krakow: Ha!art, 2012. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. Svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Szczepanik, Petr. ‘“Veterans” and “Dilettantes”: Film Production Culture vis-àvis Top-down Political Changes, 1945–1962’. In Cinema in Service of the State: Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, edited by Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 71–88. New York: Berghahn, 2015.

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About the Author Jonathan Owen is an author, scholar, and programmer specializing in East and Central European cinema, avant-garde movies, and cult film. He is the author of Avant-Garde to New Wave: Czechoslovak Cinema, Surrealism and the Sixties (2011; paperback 2013) and has contributed to numerous journals and edited books, including The Struggle for Form: Perspectives on Polish Avant-Garde Film (2014), Czech Cinema Revisited: Politics, Aesthetics, Genres and Techniques (2017), and Popular Music and the Moving Image in Eastern Europe (2018). He has taught and researched at the Universities of Exeter and St. Andrews and at the Courtauld Institute of Art.

11. Václav Vorlíček: A Dream within a Dream Bernd Herzogenrath

Abstract: With titles such as Kdo chce zabít Jessii? (Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966), Dívka na koštěti (The Girl on the Broomstick, 1971), Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Nuts for Cinderella, aka Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973), and Jak utopit dr. Mráčka aneb Konec vodníků v Cechách (How to Drown Dr. Mracek, the Lawyer, 1974), Václav Vorlíček has been one of Barrandov’s most prolific directors and scriptwriters, creating some of the classics of Czech (or, then, Czechoslovakian) film and TV (e.g., Arabela [Arabela, 1979–1981], and Arabela se vraci [Arabela Returns, 1993]). After studying directing at the Prague Film School from 1951 to 1956, Vorlíček joined Barrandov, first as an assistant director and, later, as a figure who was instrumental in the development of a decisively Czech(oslovakian) mode of comedies and – most importantly – fairy-tale films. Keywords: normalizace, crazy comedies, fairytale film, WDR, DEFA

With titles such as Kdo chce zabít Jessii? (Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966), Dívka na koštěti (The Girl on the Broomstick, 1971), Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Nuts for Cinderella, aka Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973), and Jak utopit dr. Mráčka aneb Konec vodníků v Cechách (How to Drown Dr. Mracek, the Lawyer, 1974), Václav Vorlíček was one of Barrandov’s most prolif ic directors and scriptwriters, creating some of the classics of Czech (or then Czechoslovakian) film and TV (e.g., Arabela, 1979–1981, and Arabela se vrací [Arabela Returns, 1993]). After studying directing at the Prague Film School from 1951 to 1956, Vorlíček joined Barrandov, first as an assistant director, and later became instrumental in the development of a decisively Czech(oslovakian) mode of comedies and – most importantly – fairy-tale films. Vorlíček, it could be argued, translated the avant-garde style and

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch11

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look of the satirical and surrealist fairy tales of the Czech Nouvelle Vague (e.g., Valerie a týden divů [Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, 1970]) into pop culture, both on film and TV. *** A crystal-clear piano arpeggio, sounding like sleigh-bells in a wintery landscape. An angel-like voice – La La Lalala Lalala La La … This is one of my most-beloved memories from my childhood – Karel Svoboda’s romantic piece ‘Kdepak ty ptáčku hnízdo máš?’ (‘Where’s your nest, little bird?’), part of the well-known soundtrack to Václav Vorlíček’s Tři oříšky pro Popelku. Growing up in a small village in West Germany in the early 1970s, the 1973 Czech-German coproduction Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel, or, the English title: Three Wishes for Cinderella) was (and still is) one of my all-time favorites – and is probably one of the most-remembered f ilms of both German and Czech people now in their mid-f ifties. As a teenager, for me it conjured up a dream image of our neighboring country (about which I knew next to nothing) of a fairy-tale kingdom, with constant winter, faithful comrades, and crowded with look-alikes of Libuše Šafránková (who played Popelka in the film), at a time when I was torn between an affective predilection for either Pierre Brice (the eternal Winnetou) or Popelka – and Libuše won the race in the end. Little did I know when I started writing about Václav Vorlíček, that this eventually would turn into some kind of obituary – Vorlíček, ‘the Czech equivalent to Astrid Lindgren’ (Krohn 2019) died on 5 February 2019. *** Václav Vorlíček was born in Prague on 3 June 1930. We might speculate that as a child, he heard or read Czech fairy tales, in the ‘literary’ versions by either Karel Jaromír Erben or Božena Němcová. It was Němcová’s style of mixing a Romantic version of the traditional fairy tales with a deft realism and keen eye for detail that would also characterize Vorlíček’s own take on the genre of the fairy tale later in his life. After graduating from school, Vorlíček attended the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze, FAMU) from 1951 to 1956. Established in 1946, FAMU is one of the oldest and most prestigious film schools in the

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world. Due to its focus on not only theoretical, but even more ‘practical film work’, FAMU established a close connection with Barrandov Studios from the beginning. Directors graduating at FAMU would often find employment at Barrandov, and studio props were often lent to the academy. Vorlíček started working at Barrandov as an assistant director, working with directors such as Martin Frič and Eduard Hofman. In 1960, Vorlíček debuted with Případ Lupínek (The Lupinek Case), a detective film for children. During the 1960s, both FAMU and Barrandov were a haven for freespirited and experimental film artists. The so-called Czech New Wave (Nová vlna), whose beginnings might be said to coincide with the ‘Kafka Conference’ at Liblice in 1963, an international conference of the Czechoslovak Writers’ Union, which was later recognized as a milestone in the process of democratization and from which important impulses for the Prague Spring emanated, had a last ‘surging breaker’ during that spring, and was then ‘dried out’ by the (euphemistically) so-called ‘Normalization Period’ (normalizace). As Peter Hames has succinctly observed: There is no question that the Czechoslovak new wave constituted a significant film movement, being directed towards both cultural and social change. While few of the leading filmmakers were members of the Communist Party, their politically critical and artistically innovative work can be viewed as an important development in the revitalisation and reform of socialism rather than its destruction. It was glasnost twenty years before Gorbachev. Providing a powerful and arguably unique episode in film history, the Czech new wave lasted about seven years (much longer than the movement’s French and British counterparts) and played a more crucial, active role in social transformation. Suppressed by the post-invasion government, the new wave became a model for what could be achieved in f ilmmaking, and, for its former participants, it soon came to signify a lost golden age. (Hames 2006, 76–77)

The Prague Spring (Pražské jaro) is the name given to the attempts of the Czechoslovak Communist Party (KSČ) under Alexander Dubček in the spring of 1968 to implement a liberalization and democratization program, and above all to influence and strengthen these reform efforts by a rapidly developing critical public. The mood in the population was predominantly marked by approval of socialism, but only one of a reformed, democratic kind: there was no real

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demand for an abolition of socialism per se. In a poll in July 1968, 89 percent of the Czechoslovak population was in favor of keeping socialism. In the same survey, only 7 percent of the population expressed dissatisfaction with Dubček’s government, which in its program propagated a ‘socialism with a human face’. The basic aim was thus to create a new socialism without self-proclaimed leaders, without grey workplaces and without a dead and deadening bureaucracy. In return, the human being should be the prime measure and value, and the system should be adapted to the realities of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic (ČSSR), instead of blindly and unquestionably following Moscow’s strict lead. The Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KSČ) was always in charge, in particular when pressure from the outside began to grow. Dubček’s plan was a liberalization of all areas of life, including the development of the KSČ itself: to put an end to centralism, and to concentrations of power, especially around individuals, and to establish an inner-party democracy and a return to a parliamentary model with bourgeois parties. But after the ‘Czechoslovak miracle’ of the Czech New Wave in the 1960s, with directors such as Miloš Forman, Věra Chytilová, Jiří Menzel, Juraj Herz, and others, most of whom had studied at FAMU and worked for Barrandov Studios, normalizace hit hard. In the history of Czechoslovakia, Normalization refers to the time after the violent suppression of the Prague Spring by the Warsaw Pact armies in August 1968, and the subsequent self-immolation by the student Jan Palach. With Gustáv Husák replacing Alexander Dubček as leader of the KSČ in April 1969, all freedoms were revoked. At the beginning of this era, the need for a ‘normalization of conditions’ was the party line justification for repressive measures such as the renewal of censorship, the dissolution of independent social, cultural and political organizations that emerged in the reform year 1968, and ‘purges’ in the Communist Party. Critics of the regime were persecuted and put into prison. In a narrower sense, Normalization is only used to describe the period up to the Fourteenth Congress of the Communist Party in May 1971. In a broader sense, the entire twenty-year period 1969–1989 is called Normalization, namely the maintenance of the status quo until the fall of the communist regime. During this entire period Soviet occupying troops invaded the country and were stationed on Czechoslovak territory. The last Soviet soldier did not leave the country until 21 June 1991. The term ‘Normalization’ comes from the Moscow Protocol signed by the Czechoslovak leadership on 26 August 1968. The party document ‘Poučení

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z krizového vývoje’ (‘Lessons from crisis development’) summarizes the contents of the protocol and the goals of Normalization in this way: In this document, the Czechoslovak leaders expressed their determination to normalize the situation in our country on the basis of MarxismLeninism, to restore the party’s leading role and the authority of the state power of the working class, to ban counterrevolutionary organizations from political life, and to consolidate the international relations of ČSSR with the Soviet Union and the other socialist allies. […] Comrades Ludvík Svoboda, Gustáv Husák, Vasiľ Biľak, and other comrades who take clear class-internationalist positions were actively involved in the positive results of the Moscow negotiations from the Czechoslovak side. (Oddělení propagandy a agitace ÚV KSČ 1971, 34–35, my translation)

Of course, this strict and reactionary regime had a deep impact not only on everyday life in Czechoslovakia, but also on the ‘cultural sector’, including filmmaking. The directors and screenwriters working for Barrandov also felt the immediate consequences. While the effects of the Liblice Conference and Dubček’s reforms had paved the way for Czech New Wave directors to voice critical opinions and dissent from the regime, under Normalization conditions, these ‘excessive’ liberalizations and reforms were ‘toned down’ again ‘back to normal’, preferring light family entertainment and ‘ideologically correct’ films.1 As Rick Fawn and Jiří Hochman point out in their Historical Dictionary of the Czech State, ‘[t]he term “normalization” was a typical newspeak word of the communist world, the real meaning of which was quite the opposite. In 1969, the Husák regime made an attempt to introduce a new term, “consolidation”, but in popular usage the whole era of Soviet occupation continued to be termed “normalization”, with all its ironic undertones’ (Fawn and Hochman 2010, 173). In this period, the Czech New Wave directors and filmmakers were not allowed to work anymore; they had to suffer the political consequences of their dissent. Other directors – amongst them Vorlíček – continued to work by making films that ‘didn’t hurt’ the (political) powers that be, so the story goes. 1 As Pavel Skopal points out, one of the consequences was that in 1970, the former ‘artistic groups’ were replaced with dramaturgical and production groups, so that in such a ‘centralized model of production, which was typical of both the Czech and East German production systems, dramaturges coordinated screenplay development’ (Skopal 2017, 194n12).

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Traditionally, the films of the Czech New Wave have been characterized as having being fueled by two major tendencies: formalism and realism. Both Peter Hames and Jonathan Owen have commented on this nexus in their groundbreaking studies of the Nová vlna. As Hames observes, [i]n their attempts to present their versions of the truth, filmmakers would adopt many models and influences – neorealism, cinema-vérité, the Nouvelle Vague, the nouveau roman, the Theater of the Absurd, Kafka, and a return to the lyrical and Surrealist traditions of the interwar period. Each in its own way provided a means of coming to terms with the reality of experience. (Hames 2005, 7)

So, on the one hand, there is an almost documentary style (or if not style, then attitude) and, on the other hand, this progressive attitude is sometimes coupled with a return to older styles of filmmaking. But there is also another trend, as Owen has pointed out, whereas ‘one stream of New Wave experimentation headed in the direction of an ever greater verisimilitude, the other tended towards fantasy, formal play and the exploration of the inner life’ (Owen 2011, 3). This tendency toward fantasy, which is already hinted at in Hames’s evoking of the surrealist traditions, reveals itself in the sometimes oneiric quality of some Nová vlna films, and in what Owen has called ‘involuntary surrealism’ (2) – involuntary, because the surrealist qualities of some of the films were not always indebted to a conscious decision to work with surrealist aesthetics. It is this ‘involuntary’ (or sometimes even voluntary) surrealism, the location in the fantastic, and the oneiric quality of some of the films dubbed as ‘crazy comedies’ (‘bláznivé komedie’) that – despite all their (artistic and political) differences, I argue – provide an almost subterraneous connection to the films of the Czech New Wave, so that, I think, a strict differentiation between both cannot be upheld at all costs. The ‘crazy comedies’ (of which Vorlíček’s Kdo chce zabít Jessii? [Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966] is an early example – early, because it came out before the end of the Prague Spring … more about this film in a minute) had their heyday during the period of Normalization.… Take a few moments to savor this.… Petra Hanáková, in a brilliant essay with the telling title ‘“The Films We Are Ashamed of”: Czech Crazy Comedy of the 1970s and 1980s’, has commented on these ‘guilty pleasures’. ‘Crazy comedy’ usually refers to a group of films produced in the aftermath of the Prague Spring, during the 1970s and 1980s, by directors who stayed ‘loyal to the (communist regime) course’,

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films that ‘are today often looked down upon as the epitome of escapism and ideologically complicit mass entertainment, and are occasionally considered only as debased and stillborn attempts at parody and satire’ (Hanáková 2008, 111). This politically ‘untainted’ (which means: ideologically complicit) mainstream cinema of the normalizace period seemed unworthy of critical attention, as Hanáková makes clear. It is exactly the semantic ‘fireworks’ that connects the lingo of ‘normalization’ (as newspeak for censorship, state-controlled scripts and distribution) to a ‘crazy’ field of filmmaking that celebrates ‘chaos, implausibility and the loss of stable spatial and temporal references’ (Hanáková 2008, 112) that make a ‘symptomatic reading’ of those comedies not only possible, but necessary: these films are ‘too elaborate and too paradoxical to be merely rejected as escapist entertainment and read only as the work of politically conformist authors profiting from the re-establishment of communist rule’ (112). So, maybe, there is a set of two corresponding questions at work here: how ‘crazy’ are the ‘crazy comedies’, and how ‘normal’ is Normalization? Moreover, since the crazy comedies (and Hanáková in her essay denounces this term for the much better one: ‘hybrid comedies’) more often than not in both structure and plot make use of the genres of science fiction and the fairy tale, there also seems to be a deep relation to the very core of Czech cultural identity: the fairy tale has been an ‘archetypal supra-genre of Czech culture’ (112), as Hanáková points out – a genre also dear to Czech surrealism. It is precisely the lack of ‘formal coherence’ that interests me here – a lack that Hanáková turns into something productive by choosing the name ‘hybrid comedy’ instead of the accepted term ‘crazy comedy’. In their playfulness and genre-crossing inventiveness, these comedies have often been read as parodies, or pastiches. A misreading, as Vorlíček and his coauthor, Miloš Macourek, together with Oldřich Lipský (three of the main protagonists of the crazy/hybrid comedy already in the 1960s), were ready and eager to point out: ‘I hate parody and even more satire […] this is so cheap and easy. You can parody anything just through subtle exaggeration’ (Macourek quoted in Kopaněva 1976, 207). Miloš Macourek, one of the great Czech comedy script writers, teamed up with Vorlíček at Barrandov for Kdo chce zabít Jessii? The team humorously ‘signed’ for their films as VV + MM, and the couple turned out to become the Lennon and McCartney of Czech cinema, the Glamour/Glimmer Twins of ‘crazy comedy’, accountable for films such as Konec agenta W4C prostrednictvím psa pana Foustky (The End of Agent W4C through the Dog of Mr. Foustka, 1967), Pane, vy jste vdova! (You Are a Widow, Sir!, 1971), Dívka na koštěti (The Girl on the Broomstick, 1972), Jak utopit dr. Mráčka aneb Konec

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vodníků v Cechách (How to Drown Dr. Mracek, the Lawyer, 1974), as well as the TV series Arabela (The Fairy-tale Bride, 1979, a German coproduction). Rather than parodying or satirizing given genres or events, the working principle of those comedies, according to Vorlíček, was ‘to capture “real” reactions to absurd stimuli and focus on “realistic” situations created by them’ (Vorlíček quoted in Kopaněva, paraphrased in Hanáková 2008, 114). Hanáková comments on this quote by pointing out that these films are ‘painted in “primal colours”’ with neither ‘substantial internal development’ of the characters, nor ‘place for cranks, quibbling, physical gags or comic gestures’ (114) – as Vorlíček and Macourek point out the ‘realistic staging of absurdity’ and ‘comedy without clowning’ (quoted in Kopaněva 1976, 209). Equally important, however, is the fact that these films thus are seen as an experimental setup for new, unrehearsed situations and experiences, setups that fuse the ‘everyday’ and the ‘outlandish’, realism and the absurd – again, the surrealist tradition lurks in the background. I now want to focus on the first film by Vorlíček that I would like to introduce in this essay.

Kdo chce zabít Jessii? (Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966) The comedy tells the story of a married couple, both scientists: Dr. Růženka Beránková, a world-leading specialist in the research of dreams, and her husband Jindřich Beránek, an engineer who constructs cranes for big factories. Růženka Beránková is about to have her international breakthrough with an invention of hers – somnioreparation: with a serum called KR VI, she has found a way to ‘heal’ dreams, to erase nightmares and replace them with thought processes beneficial for the patient’s mental health and productivity. As she points out, to influence the dreams of millions of people is an important endeavor in the social and political field! It’s not difficult to read this politically – as an ‘absurdist’ take at state control and total surveillance. A member of the audience at her presentation then comments on the prospects of such an invention, noting that then even dreams can be allowed to develop uncontrollably. To which Beránková answers that dreams are just mental images that cannot possibly materialize or turn into energy. This is not only a self-reflexive commentary on the power (or danger) of film (from the perspective of those in power) – we will also see in a minute that this is not true! Beránková’s ‘test patient’ is a cow who suffers from dreams in which she is haunted by swarms of annoying gadflies. To counter this nightmarish

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troublesome dream element, Beránková then realizes the cow’s ‘wildest dream’ to make her feel better (and give milk again): the audience at the presentation (and we, the spectators) can savor the image of the cow lying in a hammock, being serenaded by a string quartet! At the same time, Růženka’s husband, Jindřich, is having problems with his crane – he would need superpowers to lift the materials necessary for the crane’s construction. It is then that he finds a series of comic strips telling the story of the voluptuous blonde scientist Jessie: she has invented antigravitational gloves! Unfortunately, in the comic’s universe, a Superman and a cowboy-gangster are after her to steal the invention. No wonder that Jindřich, after being forced into cohabitation by his wife (‘It’s Thursday, Jindřich!’), dreams of Jessie – and Růženka makes this visible and apparent by injecting her husband with the serum. In the meantime, we learn that Růženka’s invention has side effects: elements from the dreams reappear in reality: there are myriads of gadflies in the lecture hall. In a clever transition shot, we hear the buzzing of the gadflies, and see/read the ‘bzzzzzzzzzz’ of Jessie’s laser in the comic panel where she completes her invention. No wonder, then, that what is true for the gadflies is also true with respect to Jindřich: the next morning, he wakes up to Jessie sleeping next to him in his bed! But not enough: also, the bad-guy-Superman and the cowboy have transitioned over from the comic world into the real world – Vorlíček and Macourek creating one of those ‘experimental’ situations/absurd stimuli to which the characters now have to react ‘realistically’. The result is a whole tour de force of stimuli/reactions that govern the film, in the course of which Růženka becomes more and more jealous of Jessie, and at the same time falls in love with Superman – who, unfortunately, does not return Růženka’s feelings. As it turns out, there are also two reactions with regard to dreams: some (among them Růženka in the beginning) state that dream images have no right to freedom, whereas the dream personas (in particular, Superman) claim ‘freedom to dreams!’ Jindřich even proclaims that dreams prove to be creative: if we only let them soar, we could reach the highest summits. And whereas visions can’t be sued for damages, Růženka dryly states: ‘But we can sue the dreamers’ and, again: ‘We must get hold of the dreams at all costs – it is an important social duty’. But even she, the repressing stand-in for a state-controlled science, in the end follows her dream – quite literally: she injects herself in order to follow her love interest Superman into the dreamworld, whereas Jessie finally settles in ‘reality’ with Jindřich. As an aside: to my knowledge, this is (one of) the first films that integrates actual elements of comics, i.e., speech bubbles (Tod Browning, in The Unholy

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Figure 11.1. Jessie says, ‘I love you’. Still from Kdo chce zabít Jessii? (Who Wants to Kill Jessie?, 1966, dir. Václav Vorlíček). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

Three [1925], had already attempted something similar with integrating ‘sound words’ into a silent movie, but with much less coherence): Jessie, Superman, and Cowboy only communicate through speech bubbles, which somehow even materialize in the diegetic world, so that sometimes they have to be pushed or brushed away to make space. Only in the end does Jessie learn how to speak. According to Peter Hames, the film ‘contains some light debate on people’s freedom to dream, how to deal with fantasies that have become reality and how to re-educate them – or, alternatively, incinerate them’ (Hames 2010, 50), but beyond that, Vorlíček’s film, and crazy comedies as such, are rather ‘distinguished by their idiosyncratic and original plot ideas rather than their sense of cinema or aesthetic sophistication’ (51). Petra Hanáková adds another crucial insight: in crazy/hybrid comedies, often the setting ‘blurs its temporal and spatial coordinates’, presenting a ‘very “anomalous”, troubled chronotope’ (Hanáková 2008, 115) that blurs distinctions not only style-wise (between realism and surrealism/fairy tale), but also on an ontological level (between reality and dream/fantasy) – a hallmark of Vorlíček’s films, I argue. One recurrent theme in Vorlíček’s films are the travels between a dream world/fairy-tale world and the real world. Gilles Deleuze had observed this

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very trait with regard to the work of Vincente Minnelli. Deleuze even claims this ‘merging of two worlds’ as a trademark of his films, as the ‘just an idea’, as the very Minnellian film|thought: his films follow ‘the obsessive theme of characters literally absorbed by their own dream, and above all by the dream of others and the past of others’ (Deleuze 1986, 118–119). This is not to reclaim Vorlíček as the ‘Czech Minnelli’, but simply to point out a certain similarity in both directors’ ‘film|thought’. And here it is also important to ask the question, ‘Whose dream is it?’ also with regard to Kdo chce zabít Jessii?: because it’s not only the ‘dreams’ of the particular individuals, dreams that can or cannot be granted ‘freedom’. This perspective already grants ‘reality’ a certain fixed and unquestionable status – but maybe Normalization is already a dream, a bad one, that needs be changed. In the next film I want to introduce, this mixture between reality and fairy tale has shifted: now, we are inside a fairy tale – but it feels real.

Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973) If there is one film that represents and cements the status of the Czech fairy-tale movie, it is Vorlíček’s Tři oříšky pro Popelku, a ČSSR/German Democratic Republic (GDR) (Barrandov/DEFA) coproduction from 1973. Tři oříšky pro Popelku is based on the old Cinderella story, not on the Brothers Grimm or Charles Perrault versions, but the rewriting by Božena Němcová (1820–1862). This Czech writer is known for her distinct style in fairy tales, in which she combines a romanticizing of the old sources with deft and realistic descriptions of everyday situations. In the context of the time in which is was made – during normalizace, that is – the film has been read as an allusion to a repressive social system: it may suffice to note that the story of Popelka is also the story of a dispossession. Until today, however, its magic spell works because the film ingeniously condenses the well-known fairy tale into a fresh story of the budding love between Popelka and the Prince. Němcová’s original source already was cleared of much of the sentimental idolatry of older fairy tales, and also contained emancipatory tendencies – Vorlíček’s f ilm puts these under a magnifying lens. Without humble submission to authorities and fate, Popelka appears as courageous and independent young woman who playfully conquers the Prince on her own terms. The character gains much of her charm and temperament through the acting of the then twenty-year-old Libuše Šafránková, who in her role as Popelka has become an icon of the Czech fairy tale film. With her bodily presence and her childlike, but at the same time cheeky and confident,

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facial expressions, she appears as a down-to-earth and vital female figure, with none of the neat, stilted, and Barbie-like appearance of many a filmPrincess.2 By contrast, Popelka turns out to be a confident and coquettish fairy-tale bride, a natural and calm beauty who looks good even in rags or men’s clothing. The original incentive for Barrandov was a deal that both Barrandov and DEFA (Deutsche Film Aktiengesellschaft), the state-owned studio of the GDR, would share the immense production costs that were calculated for this film, and since both the ČSSR and the GDR prided themselves of national audiences with a great fondness for fairy tales (because of their cultural heritage and literary traditions), this deal promised to be beneficial for both partners – which worked out fine. The script had been proposed to Jiří Menzel first, but after Skřivánci na niti (Larks on a String, 1969), which was banned by the Czechoslovakian government, Menzel was not allowed to work in Czechoslovakia anymore. When Vorlíček took over, it was on the condition to immediately start shooting, so he had to rewrite the script to turn a summer fairy tale into a winter fairy tale – which, as we all now know, benefitted the film immensely. Since 1973, the film has been a must-see on TV every Christmas, and has turned into a kind of a ‘generational marker’ for the now fifty-plus generation. Moreover, the film has become something like a ‘national icon’. Every year, a representative of the government checks the status of Popelka’s/Cinderella’s garments, which are on display in glass cabinets in Barrandov’s showroom. So, what’s the fuss? The plot follows the storyline of the literary source: the stone-hearted stepmother uses the visit of the royal family on her property to ‘sell’ her daughter Dora to the Prince. She also has a stepdaughter, Popelka, who has lived on the estate (which by right belongs to her) as a maidservant since her father’s death, she has her do all the hard labor, and the stepmother even bans her from the house. Popelka is good friends with both the ‘lower end’ of the social spectrum at the estate (the chubby kitchen boy, the servant Vincek, etc., which are lovingly portrayed by Vorlíček), and the animals – her dog, her horse, a pet owl, and a flock of white doves. So, when she is given the difficult task by her stepmother to sort out a basket of lentils from a pile of ash, she is helped by 2 It has to be noted that most of the better-known film versions of the Cinderella story (e.g., Disney’s Cinderella, or the Soviet Zolushka by Nadezhda Kosheverova and Mikhail Shapiro) were produced in the late 1940s and early 1950s, with a definitively 1950s-ish moral code and value system.

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the doves. While the birds do the work, Popelka secretly sneaks out for a ride into the forest on her horse. In the woods, she meets the Prince, a carefree and freewheeling young man who has left court to go hunting with two of his friends, for the first time. His father, the King, wants him to take more responsibility – and also a wife, but the Prince thinks he still has to have a life before settling into adulthood. When the Prince is about to shoot a young deer, Popelka, with a veritable scorcher of a snowball, intervenes. The Prince is surprised and enchanted by the young, untamed beauty, and what follows is a game of tag between her and the three cavaliers. The friends try to poke fun at ‘the little girl’, but with a confident tongue-in-cheek attitude (‘Fools!’), she steals the Prince’s horse and escapes. When at home again, Popelka makes use of the three magic nuts, given to her by her friend, the servant Vincek. With their help, she is given various clothes with which she can dress up and have further incognito encounters with the Prince. Dressed as a hunter’s apprentice-boy, she amazes the courtly hunting party with her shooting skills. There is also, for the second time now, a sparkling eye contact between her (the androgynous boy-girl) and the Prince – he even gives him/her a ring, as a prize for the best marksman. Later, at the ball, which the King has arranged to find his son a wife (shot on location at the Baroque Castle in Moritzburg, in the beautiful wintery landscape of Saxony), the Prince and Popelka meet for the third time, again without the Prince knowing who she is. Dressed in a beautiful robe, Popelka tantalizes him without giving her identity away. While in the fairy tale, their mutual attraction comes somewhat out of thin air, rather unmotivated, in Vorlíček’s film, it has been prepared for already, through the sequence of previous eye contacts. Meanwhile, Popelka has shed her youthful (and boyish) charm and now bewitches and bewilders (but not bothers) the Prince with her feminine appearance. When he proposes to her, she keeps her calm, her strength, flirtatiously, and she very confidently and wittily remarks that he seems to have forgotten to also ask the bride if she wants to marry him. With the famous lost shoe in hand, the Prince sets off in search of Popelka. (Fun fact: since Libuše Šafránková’s feet were rather big – un-Princess-ly so, that is – there is actually a ‘stunt shoe’ involved in this scene. The shoe that the Prince carries with him is somewhat smaller than Šafránková’s ‘real’ shoes – again: a merging of reality and fantasy!) In the end, both Popelka and the Prince have to pass a test – not only does her foot have to fit the shoe, the Prince is also tested by Popelka: First, I will give you a riddle that you must solve: the cheeks are dirty with ashes, but the chimney sweep it is not. A little hat with feathers,

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Figure 11.2. The shoe fits! Still from Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973, dir. Václav Vorlíček). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

crossbow over the shoulder, but it is not a hunter. Thirdly, a dress woven in silver with a train to the ball, but it is not a Princess, sir. Well? A pity. Until you know the answer to my riddle – farewell!

One way to read this is to comment on ‘finding the true self behind the masks’ (see, e.g., Krämer 2018, 164) – a classical fairy-tale trope. I would argue in a somewhat different direction: since Vorlíček’s work is full of collapsing dichotomies (between reality and fantasy, realist style and absurd comedy, etc.), and thus also crowded with transformations, I think one could also read this in the following way: instead of claiming that there is a ‘real person’ behind all these masks, Popelka is claiming that she is all of these: a multifaceted young woman who is not afraid to make herself dirty, that she is a great sport, even a partner in crime, but can also be a lover, a woman, but with no ‘Princess-y-tude’. If we follow a quote by the great Sergei Eisenstein, this makes Vorlíček a comrade of Disney (whom Eisenstein greatly admired): The principle of poetry is to transform, to convert. In comedy, this ‘principle’ becomes action. In Shakespeare’s tragedies, people change. In Shakespeare’s comedies, the characters are transformed constantly […]

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by disguising themselves, or undergoing physical transformations through magical means. In Disney – they turn into each other. (Eisenstein 1988, 39)

Once the Prince has passed the test and recognizes her multifaceted self, the wedding is close at hand. Today, Vorlíček is known as a big name in the Czech fairy-tale film genre, and his first and best-known fairy-tale film already contains all his signature ingredients. The characters as well as the milieu in his films have a ‘realist touch’ that aligns them not only with the ‘time portrayed’ in the film, but also with the conditions and behavior, with the ‘everyday’ of the time of the film’s production. Vorlíček looks at modern family life with his typical mixture of a humanist empathy and the style of a ‘crazy comedy’, showing compassion with no trace of ridicule, e.g., when the stepmother and her daughter Dora are shown with character traits (and ridiculously protruding headgear) that nonetheless make them appear human and fallible despite their cunning and cold-hearted attitude. This, in the case of the ‘royal family’, Vorlíček utilizes his trademark mixture of realism and the fantastic to portray two parents who are worried about their son – the father (the King) more so than the mother (the Queen), who knows that the father seems to have forgotten his own youth and thus maybe expects too much from his son. Countering the desperate urgency of the King with a smiling and patient serenity, she seems to know already that her son’s unwillingness to marry will soon turn into something else. In its poignant references to everyday life, Tři oříšky pro Popelku completely withdraws from any urge to succumb to a ‘fantastic fairy-tale style’, or to orchestrate supernatural events. But when in the final sequence the couple rides towards the horizon over a wide and snowy field, the viewers are presented, so it seems, the Czech version of the desert scenes of classical Arabian Nights-like fairy tales. There is a similar endless, open plain, but the main colors of this scene are white, red, and blue – the colors of the Czech National Flag (see also Krämer 2018, 165): the ‘homely’ and the exotic combine in an ‘uncanny’ fusion to unleash the magic in the real, the foreign in the familiar – and vice versa: the fairy tale becomes real(ist), reality becomes fantastic.

Arabela (The Fairy-tale Bride, 1979–1981) With the TV series Arabela, again written by VV + MM, we open a new chapter. Not only is this a work for television (and not for the cinema), it

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also is a pioneer cooperation between the ČSSR and the Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland, BDR). While Tři oříšky pro Popelku, made in cooperation with the GDR, also had an ideological background (the Czechoslovakian government encouraged cooperation with other like-minded ‘brother states’), Arabela, as a joint project between Barrandov, ČST (Československá televize, Czechoslovak Television), and WDR (Westdeutscher Rundfunk), the West German broadcasting consortium, had different reasons. Of course, finances also played a role, but the main issue was a different one. The status of children’s movies in the ČSSR already shows this: these were films with a big budget, taken seriously as an art form in itself, artistic, poetic, well-crafted. As Helena Srubar points out: [T]he conviction prevailed that it was precisely through the experience of art in the sense of an active reception of the audience that central social values and norms could be conveyed. Art education was therefore considered an essential moment for the intellectual and moral development of the socialist subject, which is why a high aesthetic level was explicitly demanded in children’s films. (Srubar 2008, 191)3

Until the last half-sentence, and if you replace ‘socialist’ by ‘democratic’, this statement could also have been issued in the BDR – with two serious differences. First, there was no real budget for children’s film or TV productions – these were simply not taken as seriously as in the ČSSR. As a result, since there were no real attempts to create programs that were appropriate for children, German Television had to rely on imports from the US – so Fury, Lassie, Flipper, etc. were young viewers’ ‘daily bread’. The other, equally serious issue was the different perspective on ‘children’ in the ČSSR and the BRD. As Ota Hofman, another great Czech screenwriter, who worked at Barrandov as the dramaturge for the children’s movies department, and who, together with director Jindřich Polák, created classics such as the TV series Pan Tau, explains, the main idea was ‘[to tell] children by all available means that they have a right to their specific humor, to their 3 ‘Vielmehr herrschte die Überzeugung vor, dass gerade durch die Kunsterfahrung im Sinne der aktiven Rezeptionsleistung der Zuschauer zentrale gesellschaftliche Werte und Normen vermittelt werden könnten. Die Kunsterziehung wurde daher als wesentliches Moment für die geistige und moralische Entwicklung des sozialistischen Menschen erachtet, weshalb auch im Kinderfilm explizit ein hohes ästhetisches Niveau gefordert wurde’ (my translation).

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dreams and to their criticism of the adult way of life, and that it is not true if someone tries to convince them that they are only copies of the adults’ (Hofman 1986). 4 Hofman speaks of a perspective prevalent in socialist countries: culture, aesthetics – these were not just ‘commodities’, or ‘means of entertainment’, but ‘educational tools’ that were taken very seriously. This, one might say, ‘romantic ideal’ of children was absent in West Germany. As a country proud of their Dichter und Denker (poets and thinkers), the ideal here was more related to the Classical canon and the principles of the Enlightenment – children’s imagination and fantasy were not really on the radar of those who had a say in German TV. So, in addition to the already mentioned US imports, children had to endure rather stiff educational programs with wagging fingers and moralizing remarks, or ‘handicraft shows’ (such as Zugeschaut und Mitgebaut).5 Enter Gert K. Müntefering. As of 1963, Müntefering was a permanent employee of WDR and basically single-handedly built up its children’s program. Between 1965 and 1968, he was instrumental in the production of the first children’s films on German television. From 1967 onwards, he was also involved in the cooperation between Federal German Television and Czechoslovak Television in joint productions. Müntefering actively faced the dilemma that on German TV, there was practically no children’s program worthy of the name. He visited international festivals for children’s films, and in Venice, in 1963, he saw Jindřich Polák and Ota Hofman’s film Klaun Ferdinand a raketa (Clown Ferdinand and the Rocket), and bought it for WDR. Müntefering’s interest in Czech children’s film production was awakened – for various reasons. Not only did Czechoslovakia offer the artistic and infrastructural possibilities for the production of fictional films at a high level, impossible in West Germany for both conceptual and financial reasons, Müntefering also hoped to be able to exert more influence on the conception, dramaturgy, and production of a children’s program in Czechoslovakia than would have been possible, for example, in cooperation with American or British companies. Ultimately, Müntefering was fascinated by the combination 4 ‘[D]en Kindern mit allen zugänglichen Mitteln zu sagen, dass sie ein Recht auf ihren spezifischen Humor, ihre Träume und ihre Kritik an der Lebensart der Erwachsenen haben, und dass es nicht stimmt, wenn ihnen jemand einreden will, sie seien nur Kopien der Großen’ (my translation). 5 In this show, do-it-yourselfer Helmut Scheuer was shown in his work shed, fabricating all kinds of children’s toys and other objects using simple means and materials. An off-commentary explained all steps of the work, which should encourage children to participate and to build the things themselves – learning by doing.

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of fantastic and realistic elements specific to Czech productions (see also Srubar 2008, 193). With series such as Arabela, Pan Tau (1970–1978), Létající Čestmír (Flying Ferdinand, 1984), Křeček v noční košili (Hamster in a Nightshirt, 1987) – except for Polák and Hofman’s Pan Tau all VV + MM productions – the WDR/ČST/Barrandov project became a truly ‘European project’ that lasted for more than twenty-five years. And as Helena Srubar points out, these coproductions were anything but a kind of ‘development’ aid for the ‘Eastern Bloc’ – far from it. Rather, it was the opposite: Czechoslovakian inventiveness, aesthetics, and craftsmanship were instrumental in developing a profile for West German children’s TV that was able to counter the ‘US influence’ (see also Srubar 2008, 194). Arabela has until now remained one of the classics of this pioneering period of children’s TV. Vorlíček here brings the complexity of storytelling and narrative arcs together with his trademark of the confluence of realism and fairy tale to a point. One fine day, Mr. Majer (Vladimír Menšík), an actor who also tells fairy tales on the children’s TV channel, finds a little bell that makes the mysterious magician Rumburak (Jiří Lábus) from the Fairy-tale Kingdom appear to him in ‘the real world’ (of Prague). He is obliged to fulfill Mr. Majer’s every wish, and thus brings him to the Fairy-tale Kingdom, for shooting lessons. Due to a series of unfortunate events, Mr. Majer accidentally shoots the only talking wolf in the kingdom – of course, the one from ‘The Seven Little Goats’! King Hyacinth (Vlastimil Brodský) punishes Rumburak for his intervention by making him take the place of the wolf – but Rumburak-as-wolf flees into the real human world with the help of a magic cloak, transforms into Mr. Majer, and takes revenge: on TV, as Mr. Majer, he tells all the fairy tales in a completely wrong manner. The Fairy-tale Kingdom is thus completely turned upside-down and so Hyacinth, court magician Vigo (Jiří Sovák), and the princesses Arabela (Jana Nagyová) and Xenia (Dagmar Patrasová) also decide to travel to the human world to put a stop to Rumburak and prevent the worst. And as if that were not enough, the beautiful Arabela also falls in love with Majer’s son Peter (Vladimír Dlouhý). This is only the main framing story – the series is too complex to describe in all its details. In Arabela, Vorlíček peoples Prague with a whole pantheon of fairy-tale figures, traditional and new: Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, side by side with ‘adult fairy-tale personnel’ such as Fantômas, Tarzan, Frankenstein, and also characters from Czech legends and fairy tales, such as the Vodníci, the Watermen or Water Spirits, which already had a major entrance in VV + MM’s Jak utopit dr. Mráčka aneb Konec vodníků v Cechách (How to Drown Dr. Mracek, the Lawyer, 1974).

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Figure 11.3. Fairy tales – old and new. Still from Arabela (1979–1981, dir. Václav Vorlíček). Source: Barrandov Studios Archive.

The ‘cultural clash’ of the Fairy-tale Kingdom and the ‘real world’ (Prague in the late 1970s) creates some major upheavals, as when Xenia tries to adopt and import ‘modern times’ to the routines and habits of the Fairy-tale Kingdom as well – a light-hearted criticism at the erosion of traditions by a (capitalist) takeover. In Arabela, we have yet another take on the nexus between reality and a dreamy, fantasy, fairy-tale state: whereas in Jessie, we could observe as a main tendency the ‘oozing over’ of the dreamworld into reality, and in Popelka, there was an almost unnoticeable equation of reality and fairy tale, in Arabela, the ‘wormhole’ between reality and dreamworld/Fairy-tale Kingdom works both ways. To conclude: Vorlíček’s (and Macourek’s) films are part of the ‘guilty pleasures’ of the Normalization period. Maybe their focus on dreams can be read as a sign that the two main factors of the dream work (as Freud, and later Lacan had it): Verdichtung und Verschiebung (condensation and displacement) are also strategies to evade censorship. Maybe not. Or rather: sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, sometimes it is the sign of a fairy-tale-world or surrealist secret power, and sometimes it is the sign of patriarchal doxa and state-regulated normativity. Between the interpretation of dreams and the psychopathology of everyday life, Vorlíček does not choose the one over the other, it is not either/or with him, but both/and – which is why his films are either damned as escapist nonsense, stabilizing the ethos of normalizace, or as celebrations of a ‘never-ending Prague Spring, a refuge of anarchic freedom in the midst of the present times’ (Kothenschulte 2001,

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3).6 Accepting that they can be both, and that we will maybe never know whose dream we are dreaming here, attests to the joyful and uncanny quality of his films. Up to this day, Vorlíček remains one of the most prolific and popular directors associated with Barrandov Studios.

Bibliography Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 1: The Movement Image. Translated by Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986. Eisenstein, Sergei. Eisenstein on Disney. Edited by Jay Leda, translated by Alan Upchurch. New York: Methuen, 1988. Fawn, Rick, and Jiří Hochman. ‘Normalization (Normalizace)’. In Historical Dictionary of the Czech State, edited by Rick Fawn and Jiří Hochman, 173–174. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2010. Hames, Peter. Czech and Slovak Cinema: Theme and Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010. Hames, Peter. The Czechoslovak New Wave. 2nd ed. London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2005. Hames, Peter. ‘The Czechoslovak New Wave’. In Traditions in World Cinema, edited by Linda Badley, R. Barton Palmer, and Steven Jay Schneider, 67–79. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006. Hanáková, Petra. ‘“The Films We Are Ashamed of”: Czech Crazy Comedy of the 1970s and 1980s’. In Via Transversa: Lost Cinema of the Former Eastern Bloc, edited by Eva Näripea and Andreas Trossek, 109–121. Tallin: Estonian Academy of Arts, 2008. Hofman, Ota. ‘“Die Kinder sind keine Kopien der Erwachsenen”: Gespräch mit Ota Hofman’. Kinder- und Jugendfilm Korrespondenz 28, no. 4 (1986). http://www. kjk-muenchen.de/archiv/index.php?id=777&suche=Strobel. Kopaněva, Galina. ‘O komedii podle Miloše Macourka a Václava Vorlíčka’. Film a doba 22, no. 4 (1976): 204–212. Kothenschulte, Daniel. ‘Wie man Prinzessinnen wachküsst. Die Verwandlung als Prinzip: Das phantastische Kino des Vaclav Vorlíček’. In Aberwitzige Märchenwelten. Vaclav Vorlíček und der tschechische Kinderfilm, edited by Hans Strobel, 3–8. München: KJK, 2001.

6 ‘ein endloser Prager Frühling, ein Refugium anarchischer Freiheit inmitten der Gegenwart’ (my translation).

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Krämer, Marie. ‘Drei Nüsse für Aschenbrödel/Tři oříšky pro Popelku (1973)’. In Klassiker des tschechischen und slowakischen Films, edited by Nicole Kandioler, Christer Petersen, and Anke Steinborn, 159–167. Marburg: Schüren, 2018. Krohn, Philipp. ‘Hier Zauber, dort Realismus. Zum Tod von Václav Vorlíček’. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 6 February 2019. https://www.faz.net/aktuell/ feuilleton/aschenbroedel-regisseur-vaclav-vorlicek-der-tschechische-astridlindgren-ist-tot-16028626.html. Oddělení propagandy a agitace ÚV KSČ, ed. Poučení z krizového vývoje ve straně a společnosti po XIII. sjezdu KSČ. Rezoluce k aktuálním otázkam jednoty strany. Praha: Rudé právo, tiskařské závody, 1971. http://www.moderni-dejiny.cz/clanek/ pouceni-z-krizoveho-vyvoje-a-rezoluce-k-aktualnim-otazkam-jednoty-strany/. Owen, Jonathan L. Avant-garde to New Wave: Czechoslovak Cinema, Surrealism and the Sixties. New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2011. Skopal, Pavel. ‘The Czechoslovak-East German Co-production Tři oříšky pro Popelku/ Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel/Three Wishes for Cinderella: A Transnational Tale’. In Popular Cinemas in East Central Europe: Film Cultures and Histories, edited by Dorota Ostrowska, Francesco Pitassio, and Zsuzsanna Varga, 184–197. London: I. B. Tauris, 2017. Srubar, Helena. ‘PAN TAU & CO. Deutsch-Tschechische Co-Produktionen im tschechischen Kinderfernsehen’. In Zwischen Barrandov and Babelsberg. DeutschTschechische Beziehungen im 20. Jahrhundert, edited by Johannes Roschlau, 189–197. München: edition text + kritik, 2008.

About the Author Bernd Herzogenrath is professor of American Literature and Culture at Goethe University of Frankfurt/Main, Germany. He is the author of An Art of Desire: Reading Paul Auster (Rodopi, 2001), An American Body|Politic: A Deleuzian Approach (Dartmouth College Press, 2010), and editor of two books on Tod Browning, two books on Edgar G. Ulmer, and two books on Deleuze and Ecology. Other edited collections include The Farthest Place: The Music of John Luther Adams (Northeastern University Press, 2012), Time and History in Deleuze and Serres (Continuum, 2012), media|matter (Bloomsbury, 2014), Film as Philosophy (University of Minnesota Press, 2017), and The Films of Bill Morrison (Amsterdam University Press, 2017). He is also (together with Patricia Pisters) the main editor of the media-philosophical book series thinking|media with Bloomsbury.

12. The ‘Vault Films’ Matthew Sweney Abstract: ‘Vault films’ (‘trezorové filmy’ in Czech) is the name given to the group of Czechoslovak studio films which were taken out of circulation, left in the can and not released, or left unfinished due to the political changes in Czechoslovakia subsequent to the invasion of Warsaw Pact troops in August 1968. Recognition of their intrinsic worth at the time was such that the films were not destroyed, but instead spirited away and archived, put into hibernation to await the light of a new day. The films discussed here are All My Compatriots (1969, dir. Vojtěch Jasný; Best Director, Cannes, 1969), The Cremator (1969, dir. Juraj Herz), Larks on a String (1969, dir. Jiří Menzel; cowritten by Menzel and Bohumil Hrabal; Golden Bear, Berlin, 1990), Witchhammer (1970, dir. Otakar Vávra), The Ear (1970, dir. Karel Kachyňa), and A Case for the New Hangman (1970, dir. Pavel Juráček). Keywords: Czech New Wave; vault f ilms; Normalization; censorship; restitution

The communist putsch in ’48 took a few days. It took one night [in August 1968] packed with thousands of tanks to establish the twenty-year occupation. But changing the state film studio into a party studio took about two years. Thousands of employees, running budgets in the millions of Czech crowns, a hundred unfinished [audiovisual] materials and at least a dozen films in progress with crews in place, this could not be liquidated in a short time. There were still good, interesting, and beautiful films being made and finished; however, the majority ended up under lock and key and a militiaman’s seal. Vault films – this is a special chapter in the comprehensive history of our filmmaking: hair-raising, adventurous, and I dare say risk-taking and brave. – Alexandr Kliment, screenwriter (Hulík 2012, 11)

Herzogenrath, B. (ed.), The Barrandov Studios: A Central European Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam university press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462989450_ch12

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The book which you are about or not about to read was begun originally in 1967 and 1968. […] That book, however, was not published, for reasons that do not need to be explained. – Antonín J. Liehm, Ostře sledované filmy [Closely Watched Films] ‘An Explanation’ (Liehm 2001, 11)1

For reasons that do not need to be explained.… Perhaps an explanation for non-Czechs is in order: Trezorové filmy – literally ‘vault films’ – is the name given to the group of Czechoslovak studio films which were taken out of circulation, left in the can and not released, or left unfinished due to the political changes in Czechoslovakia subsequent to the invasion of Warsaw Pact troops in August 1968. It took a generation – until after the Velvet Revolution of 1989 – for them to be seen – and discussed – again, or in some cases for the first time. Those discussions, about several dozen films, were an integral part of the necessary national healing process in the aftermath of totalitarianism. Films which had earlier been declared subversive acts by specific personalities against the state were reclaimed as shared national cultural capital. The Soviet invasion in 1968 was a reaction to the political ‘thaw’ colloquially known as ‘Prague Spring’, a thaw which also gave birth to the Czech New Wave of films and filmmaking, which itself had a major influence on the political climate of the time. Dubček’s ‘socialism with a human face’ allowed those human faces to be shown on screen – but like Dubček’s own, once the tanks rolled in, those faces soon disappeared, not to be seen for another generation. The f ilms now known as vault f ilms originally did not have much in common, except that they were created in the same temporal, political, and cultural climate, and usually at Barrandov. Yet over the years, this group of f ilms has come to represent something very special in Czech culture: as a group, they represent (like Dubček) one of the great what-ifs: What if this kind of filmmaking – and the filmmakers – had been allowed to continue? 1 Antonín ‘Tony’ Jaroslav Liehm was a Czech f ilm critic and former editor in chief of the literary magazine Literární noviny in the 1960s. The Czechoslovak State Film representative in Paris from 1968 to 1969, he decided to remain in France in exile rather than return to postinvasion Czechoslovakia, and later moved to New York, where he had a major influence on the writer Philip Roth’s crusade to support Central and Eastern European (and Czech, in particular) writers and literature during totalitarianism (Bailey 2021, ch. 27).

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Judging from the spirit of the time, the films were banned for a good reason: because they are political – they are making sociopolitical statements on a key time and place in twentieth-century history, in ways that made the later Normalization regime very uncomfortable.2 Made as they were at the apex of the Czech New Wave, they also represent some of the very best feature films made anywhere in the period of 1968–1970: classics of world cinema which were consigned to the dustbin of history. Moreover, collectively they form a group of artworks which share certain characteristics and are usually lumped together, having achieved ‘cult’ status in the country of their origin and beyond. The subject deserves a monograph of its own, but for our purposes, I will take a brief look at a handful of the most prominent examples of vault films: Vojtěch Jasný’s Všichni dobří rodáci (All My Compatriots, 1969), Jiří Menzel’s Skřivánci na niti (Larks on a String, 1969), Juraj Herz’s Spalovač mrtvol (The Cremator, 1969), Otakar Vávra’s Kladivo na čarodějnice (Witchhammer, 1970), Karel Kachyňa’s Ucho (The Ear, 1970), and Pavel Juráček’s Připad pro začinajícího kata (A Case for the New Hangman, 1969).3 Interestingly, All My Compatriots, Larks on a String, The Cremator, and Witchhammer all take place in the past, and The Ear was originally set in the past, and as such are meant to be kinds of history lessons; A Case for the New Hangman takes place in a kind of ‘fantasy world’ – i.e., a parable. Three of them (All My Compatriots, Larks on a String, and The Cremator) also include Jewish elements, and discussion of the fate of Czechoslovak Jewry did not occur during the communist regime. 4 These films expect an audience response – which is of course one of the great reasons why they were banned. They are outrageous in that they could never have been made ten years before, and also that they incorporate the outrage of their makers against the old system; and, what is more, they incurred the outrage of the regime that followed them. 2 Other films were banned not for ideological content but because their authors or performers emigrated, such as the case of Nahota (Nakedness, 1970), whose star, Kristina Hanzalová, became Miss Czechoslovakia 1970 and emigrated after attending the Miss Universe pageant in the USA. 3 The published release dates vary; the dates here are taken from the copyright dates on the DVD releases. 4 The Franz Kafka Conference in Liblice (Mělník), Czechoslovakia, held on 27–28 May 1963, is generally credited for being the beginning of the cultural thaw called Prague Spring. Kafka’s works were not available in Czech (except a few in samizdat) at that time; the conference marked the first open discussion of Kafka – a Czech- and German-speaking Prague Jew whose sisters had been sent to concentration camps just twenty years before – and his writings and legacy.

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Všichni dobří rodáci (All My Compatriots, 1969) Dir. and screenplay Vojtěch Jasný

Twenty years in the making, this epic is writer-director Vojtěch Jasný’s self-acknowledged masterpiece, with characters and situations based on real-life people and events in his hometown of Kelč in Moravia (although filmed in the village of Bystré). This lyric, nonstudio film, made with (a lot of) studio money, was approved by Barrandov and planned as a major Czechoslovak release on the international circuit. Its story focuses on a generational group of seven men and one woman, roughly all in their late twenties when the film starts at the end of WWII. Jasný wanted to describe the fates of ordinary people in a remote village, a microcosm which is nevertheless severely impacted by the massive societal changes of the postwar period. Over the years, Jasný was affected by reading his mother’s letters, keeping him abreast of the local news and gossip from his hometown. Local heroes suffered public and private humiliations; indeed, one of the themes of the film is what determines heroics during various epochs – war, collectivization – among the same group of people in the same place. Beginning in May 1945, it tells the postwar history of a remote village through the above-mentioned communist takeover in 1948, and the subsequent collectivization of farming in the 1950s. The film starts with the singing of a paean to the victorious Soviet armada, sung by a church choir inside the local church. When the priest walks in, the choir members change their tune. Young boys pick up pistols in the aftermath of the liberation and use them for target practice on one of the protagonists. František (Radoslav Brzobohatý), the film’s main protagonist, the handsome head of a family farm, finds an unexploded landmine when plowing a field. He and his friends go to a gravel pit to detonate the mine, and when it goes off, the dirt covers them all – everything symbolic as to how explosive the postwar years of ‘peace’ will be. Attacks on one’s beliefs, character assassination, shared guilt, and shame in the years to come all are prefaced here. Gradually the village farmers are pressured to sign over their land to the new, Soviet-style collective. The last holdout is František. There is no Hollywood-type ending, with the lone good man in the white hat holding out, keeping to his moral code. František sells out in the end, making a sort of happy ending, in that it makes the villagers who did sign happy, as František’s a natural leader, and now no longer a holdout: he is one of them. But for viewers, it is far from a happy ending – as if John Wayne gave up the family farm and decided to join the bad guys. The film shows how powerful group

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mentality is, including the Nazi Protectorate past of collaboration – which is barely dealt with, but it is there, including the mention that one of the characters’ Jewish wife was sent to the camps, and of course the end of war which begins the film. The film starts with spring, the time of rebirth, and ends with Carnival, the time of death, with the protagonists taking their grotesque masks off, and of course underneath they are the same: angel, ox (‘vůl’ in Czech, the equivalent would be ‘ass’ in English), devil. The moral of the story is that Czechs did this – becoming a faceless communist collective with no personal responsibility or morals – to themselves, with the lesson that the herd mentality is dangerous, and when honest people get in the way, they are persecuted. The harsh political message of the film is all the more jarring due to the lyrical way the film is shot; just as important as the plot is the visual look of the film, the camera lingering on this lovely, idyllic village: on the fields, the village buildings dominated by the church, and a huge, solitary maple. Despite the change in seasons, representing the political changes in human life and the cyclical nature of human politics, war, peace, freedom, repression, transparency, and corruption – the tree – sacred to the early Slavs and the Celts before them – remains. Jasný insisted on capturing a Moravian village on film in all four seasons, so the shooting schedule was quite demanding, and located far away from Prague; the actors and crew were forced to relocate for months on end. This was intentional, as he wanted the actors to become villagers and the villagers to become actors. Jasný said that in addition to the village’s look, another reason why he chose it was that it had its own theater group and two choirs, so that all the materials he needed were there (Jasný 2007a).5 Barrandov invested heavily in the film: it was shot on Eastmancolor negative, which had to be bought with hard currency by Barrandov, and the folk music scenes in the pub were recorded in stereo.6 The studio spent the money because the script was so strong, and they were banking on All My Compatriots to make back the investment on the international circuit as a Czechoslovak export item. Unlike most of the vault films, All My Compatriots was released in Czech and Slovak cinemas, seen by nearly a million people before going into the 5 The use of nonactors being one of the elements of Czech New Wave cinema from Forman on. 6 For more information on the soundtrack and its composition and recording, see Černíček 2013, 134–139.

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vault (Čechová 2013, 297). It was entered into competition at Cannes in 1969, where Jasný won Best Director. Based on its success at Cannes, it was sold to international distributors. But when the ideological change at Barrandov occurred (in that same year), Barrandov not only took the film out of domestic distribution, but it took the absolutely extraordinary step of pulling the film from international distribution, recompensating foreign distributors, and even asking for the prints of the film to be sent back – something distributors almost never do, due to the expense of transporting such heavy materials as cans of 35 mm film – which the French distributor refused until 1995, the French print eventually becoming one of the primary materials for the film’s digital remastering (Batistová and Zahradníček 2013, 19).

Skřivánci na niti (Larks on a String, 1969)

Dir. Jiří Menzel, screenplay Jiří Menzel and Bohumil Hrabal This is the third of six films made by Jiří Menzel in collaboration with the writer Bohumil Hrabal, the follow-up to their Oscar-winning Closely Watched Trains (1966).7 Larks on a String is the darkest of them all, centering on a group of ‘bourgeois’ undesirables who are serving as forced labor in a steel scrapyard in the 1950s. It starts with a panorama of the industrial landscape in northern Bohemia (Kladno), resembling an entirely different country from the pastoral landscape of All My Compatriots. The setting is based slightly on Hrabal’s experience of working as forced labor in a paper scrapyard in the 1950s, material previously worked by director Juraj Herz and Hrabal into a sequence in Pearls of the Deep (Perličky na dně, 1965), which was cut from the final film.8 As the scrapyard boss (Rudolf Hrušínský) tells some visiting documentary f ilmmakers, ‘the scrap iron is to be smelted into new steel for tractors and washing machines, and so too will the bourgeoisie be smelted into new workers’. The scrapyard is segregated by gender, with the male miscreants made up of a professor and former head librarian 7 Perličky na dně (Pearls of the Deep, 1965), Closely Watched Trains (1966), Larks on a String (1969), Postřiženy (Cutting It Short, 1980), Slavnosti sneženek (The Snowdrop Festival, 1983), and I Served the King of England (2006, after Hrabal’s death). 8 Instead, it was released as a short (Sběrné surovosti) on a program with an East German detective film (and actually had more viewers than Perličky). See https://www.ceskatelevize. cz/porady/26798-sberne-surovosti/29138360237/.

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in Prague (he refused to pulp decadent Western lit), a public prosecutor (who maintained the defendant has the right to defend themself – ‘he was lucky not to end up on trial himself’), a carpenter (a successful businessman with a patent on washtubs and four employees), a barber (there were five in town and three had to go), a saxophonist (‘because we banned saxophones as bourgeois instruments’), a dairyman (closed his own dairy voluntarily to work for socialism), and a cook (played by Václav Neckář, the main protagonist of Closely Watched Trains) – ‘his won’t be a natural death’ – who refused to work on Saturdays for religious reasons (it is not stated that he is a Jew, but that’s enough for us to get it). The women are there for crimes not specif ied, except for one who crossed the border without permission. Much is made of the male gaze in films, and Menzel’s films deserve their own chapter on the subject; in this film the female gaze also plays a role. Naturally the men and women are curious about each other, and there are two marriages in the film – one between the guard and a local Roma woman. This is the occasion for a fantastic wedding scene by Menzel, with music and dancing, to which the male workers are actually invited as his ‘family’, but things fall apart, both at the celebration and in their married life after the wedding in their ‘modern socialist flat’, where his wife is so desperately unhappy. The second wedding is that of the former cook to one of the young women in the labor camp, which has to be done by proxy as she is still serving her sentence. The film ends with our newlywed protagonist being sent down into a (uranium?) mine for speaking out, the light at the end of the shaft (the sky) growing dimmer and dimmer. The Roma element is something missing from Czech socialist films, in a country where they make up a sizeable percentage of the population – and in addition to the wedding scene there is also a creepy scene of the scrapyard director (Hrušínský) bathing a young pubescent Roma girl – her mother calls a guard to complain, but instead, the guard joins in. These are poor and destitute people, not proud happy workers reaping the benefits of the glorious socialist revolution. The scrapyard is filled with slogans and placards lauding the Five-Year Plan, but when a young Pioneer group and a visiting dignitary arrive as stooges in the documentary film being made, some of the workers speak up – and then go missing. The others ask, ‘Those people disappearing – where did they go?’ and ‘And where did the good times go?’ One of the subtexts of Larks is that Czech documentary film of the time was false, fake, staged. In addition to socialist realism, there was of course

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the infamous 1944 Red Cross Theresianstadt documentary made not far from where Larks was shot. Here, fictional film is shown to have the capacity to be more ‘real’. That a film like this could be made in a communist country is astonishing, and Menzel relates that Barrandov urged them to finish it as soon as possible (Menzel 2005a). Winner of the 1990 Golden Bear in Berlin – doubtless partly political after the Velvet Revolution, yet the film holds its own – this is a devastating, depressing film, full of longing and loss, and plenty of black humor, the kind that hurts. The scene that never fails to stun me is the mountain of junked typewriters, tossed into bins to be melted down – emphasized via several shots. These typewriters are not mere props: in real life, they will never find their authors and they will never work again, the printing presses for samizdat texts and manifestos which will never be published. What happened to their owners?

Spalovač mrtvol (The Cremator, 1969)

Dir. Juraj Herz, screenplay Juraj Herz and Ladislav Fuks, based on his novel Czechs are famous for their black humor, but there are few films darker than this one. Full of jokes about the hazards of smoking, this is a film about a cremator (played with extraordinary relish by Rudolf Hrušínský), set against the backdrop of the Holocaust. Taking place during the period immediately preceding the German Occupation, the characters in the film talk about German blood and the coming Reich. The cremator, Mr. Kopfrkingl, asks his doctor (who is Jewish), ‘Is my blood Slavic or Germanic?’ ‘There’s no difference in blood’, the doctor says, ‘it’s the same as human ashes’. The doctor invites him to a Jewish burial ceremony, which might interest him professionally. This scene is not something which would have been shown during the totalitarian regime, when the collective guilt of Czech collaboration in the Holocaust was erased from public discourse. Another tableau takes place in a carnival house of horrors of medical monstrosities and depictions of venereal disease. The director, Juraj Herz (himself a Slovak Jew by birth and a Holocaust survivor), did not go to film school; he was a trained puppeteer, and here you see his zest for the grotesque. You cannot think of the carnival’s bottle baby freaks of nature without thinking of Mengele in the context of the period. Yet Kopfrkingl is the real, live monster here, Hrušínský cringingly portraying him via his hypnotic voice, his smiling, menacing face, and slimy touch – like the hangman

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shaking your hand to figure out how much you weigh. In the pantheon of slimy film villains, Kopfrkingl certainly holds an exalted position. ‘I have the feeling that I really do so precious little for you’, the cremator says to his family, whom he later tries to ‘free’ by murdering them. They are Jewish you see, and they are foiling his ascent in the coming Reich. Kopfrkingl is the man who has all the answers, all the smiles, all the platitudes – he is the epitome of Czech complacence during WWII. Hrušínský previously played the Good Soldier Švejk on screen in the 1950s – so well, that the role became iconic. ‘Švejkismus’, or ‘Schweikism’, is a ‘national trait […] consist[ing] of feigned compliance with but passive resistance to overwhelming force’ according to the CIA’s Czechoslovak Handbook.9 But here Hrušínský as Kopfrkingl is a fervent, true believer – ready to further his position and ingratiate himself to the coming regime even at the cost of sacrificing his own family: his own flesh and blood. It is tempting to read Herz’s casting of Hrušínský as a statement about the difference between the Czech everyman of WWI and that of WWII. Certainly collaboration with the enemy in the latter was a taboo subject for Czech film until The Cremator, as was, on the other hand, the communist regime’s scandalous postwar treatment of resistance fighters – until Jan and Zdeněk Svěrák’s Tvavomodrý svět (Dark Blue World, 2001). When the Gestapo comes for the employees in the crematorium (on whom the cremator has informed), they salute Kopfrkingl by heiling, and he gives the salute back, with a smile. As they go into the crematorium, Herz and Fuks have a beautiful, dark, angelic woman – presumably Jewish – coming out. She later appears at his wife’s funeral and at the end of the film – not quite the angel of death, but the angel of the dead. Kopfrkingl off iciates at his wife’s funeral (after having hanged her himself), where he speaks into the microphone, hair combed over à la Hitler. ‘Death can be a great blessing, a great good, saving us from great suffering – my dear, your soul has been set free. We have to accept casualties.… Death is the only certainty … and there will be a new Order on the table for Europe – a new Führer, a happy Europe … and Death!’ The funeral goers heil, and the dark-haired angel disappears from view. ‘Sorry my dear’, he says to wife’s corpse, ‘the flames will no longer hurt you’. An offer is made to him, against the backdrop of Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights – Hell (another house of horrors). ‘Mr. Kopfrkingl, 9 Central Intelligence Agency, Czechoslovak Handbook, p. III-1. Document number CIA-RDP7900891A001100050001-6 (March 1972), declassified and released through the CIA’s CREST database: https://archive.org/details/CIA-RDP79-00891A001100050001-6 (accessed 8 January 2020).

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you’ll be in charge, you have twenty years’ experience, this is all confidential y’see – with equipment for incinerating as many people as possible’. Kopfrkingl replies, as if entranced: To free them from the shackles of this world, and let them dissolve into the ether! What a tremendous opportunity. My crematorium takes seventyfive minutes to transform each corpse into dust – if we had huge furnaces, enough to hold a hundred, five hundred, a thousand, it could be done in minutes! Entire halls in constant operation would be economical.… Hundreds fed into one end, ashes streaming out the other. They’d get mixed, true, but ashes don’t differ. And liberated souls would gush from the chimneys. We could quickly liberate humanity, the whole world! If I gave them hope that they wouldn’t suffer.

Kopfrkingl kills his son as well and tries to kill his daughter, who escapes. ‘Don’t worry’, says the Gestapo man, ‘we’ll take care of her ourselves – you’ve got work to do, lots of work, for the nation, for humanity’. ‘No one will suffer – I’ll save them all’, are his final words, as he rides off in an official touring car, chased by the dark woman-angel, and on the car’s windshield an image of a Tibetan monastery is superimposed – presumably an allusion to the Tibetan Book of the Dead (an image of the monastery is earlier shown to him by his son, and Kopfrkingl appears in a bathrobe, much like a Tibetan monk after the murder of his wife, son, and attempted murder of his daughter). The film was shot in actual crematoriums – the exterior in Pardubice, the interiors in Prague and Pilsen. It was shot in black and white, although Herz originally wanted to do it in color. Stanislav Milota, the cinematographer, insisted on black and white, giving Herz an ultimatum: ‘You can do it in color without me, or you can have me and have it in black and white’ (Milota 2005). It’s such a dark film that it is almost unthinkable in color. Milota’s camerawork (mostly handheld Arriflex) and use of the f ish-eye lens is supreme, giving the film the feel of a fever dream, and is inseparable from the plot of the film. Kopfrkingl is talking, talking, talking, many times directly into the fish-eye lens, which today feels like we are watching the film through a surveillance camera. Speaking of surveillance, the Russian invasion of August 1968 was so unexpected it caught the filmmakers off guard.10 Milota was shooting the 10 And not just the filmmakers: from an interview with prop master Jiří Zůček: ‘The Americans were filming The Bridge at Remagen [in Bohemia]. Big budget war film, a huge contract, half of Barrandov was working on it. When I got to [the location] on the morning of the 21st [August 1968],

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scene after the credits inside Prague’s Municipal House when the Russian tanks started rolling by. Camera in hand, he ran out the door and captured footage of them (Hulík 2012, 29). He was not alone – the crew working on A Case for the New Hangman did the same, as did director Jan Němec, who eventually produced a short on the invasion, Oratorio for Prague (1968) (Hulík 2012, 30). Both Milota and Herz claim that this inspired them to shoot an ending for the film set in the present, where someone in the Municipal House asks, whatever happened to old Kopfrkingl? – who at that moment comes riding in on Russian tank, all smiles (Milota 2005).11 Not everyone smiles at the end of this film. Hrušínský, after reading the script, initially refused the role, finding the film unappealing. Herz said that in the Netherlands, the film was greeted with laughter by audiences; in Prague, nervous laughter; in Italy, shock and horror.12

Kladivo na čarodějnice (Witchhammer, 1970)

Dir. Otakar Vávra, screenplay Otakar Vávra and Ester Krumbachová, based on the novel by Václav Kaplický Witchhammer is a bit like Arthur Miller’s The Crucible (1953), in that testimony from the seventeenth-century witch trials is used verbatim – only Witchhammer is shot in the actual settings (not sets) where the Moravian witch trials took place: the same buildings, same judicial chambers, same torture chambers which were used in the 1600s. One of the subtexts of the film is that Vávra and Krumbachová (more than just a screenwriter, she was also a costume designer and a visual consultant – e.g., on both All My Compatriots and The Ear) are pointing out the disparity between this and Czech fairy-tale films, which use the same castles, palaces, wardrobes. Witchhammer is no fairy tale. In the 1990s, the Museum of Torture was opened in Prague for curious tourists to give them a frisson – but watching most of the crew and actors were already in place, deciding what to do under the circumstances. Suddenly Soviet transporters arrived on their way elsewhere. They stopped, some shayba got out. The poor slobs had no idea what to do, they came supposedly to suppress a counterrevolution against the socialist state, and before them stood soldiers in American uniforms – and German tanks with swastikas’ (Hulík 2012, 29). 11 Also Juraj Herz, in person before a screening of the film at the Uherské Hradiště summer f ilm school. Hard to say if this is apocryphal, for like Kopfkingl, nobody has ever seen this footage again. 12 Herz adds that in Italy, cremation was taboo (Herz 2005a).

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people tortured mentally and physically is something else entirely. This is not a film for the faint-hearted. In the same manner that Miller used the Salem witch trials to comment on the House Un-American Activities trials of the 1950s, the trials in Witchhammer are making reference to the communist show trials of the late 1940s in Czechoslovakia – where the punishment was also death. In particular, they are directly reminiscent of the fate of Milada Horáková (1901–1950), lawyer, leading feminist, antifascist Czech patriot, who was tortured (first by Nazis, then by communists) and later hanged for ‘crimes against the state’ at the communist show trials. Horáková was a timely topic in the period before and after the Soviet invasion: verdicts against her were posthumously annulled by the Czech Supreme Court in July 1968; however, her full rehabilitation had to wait until 1990. Vávra was no stranger to political filmmaking, as witness his film version of Karel Čapek’s antifascist play Bílá nemoc (The White Disease, 1937). In addition to Krumbachová’s screenplay, something should be said about her costumes. They are perfect reproductions, as portraits of the inquisitors – high-ranking Church officials from Olomouc – are still extant. However, between Krumbachová and Vávra, the baroque wigs and clothing of the inquisitors do not seem foppish but rather frightening – in the SS sense. Vávra’s stark black-and-white cinematography is reminiscent of another film about female martyrdom, Dreyer’s Passion of Joan of Arc, but also of Vávra’s own adaptation of Karel Čapek’s Krakatit (1948).13 Witchhammer is a feminist film: here the male gaze is not only lascivious but cruel and sadistic, the prelude to brutal treatment of women in a patriarchal society where women have no rights at all. Seen in a cinema, the combination of Vávra’s powerful direction, Krumbachová’s dialogue and visual acumen, the stark cinematography, the acting, makes the audience weep. This is not cathartic weeping, because the misogynist element of the film is not something relegated to the past but very much of the present: men of power breaking poor women in a public court of law; at the time of the film’s release, abortion was allowed but always decided by party tribunals made up primarily of men, a reminder that things had not changed so much since the 1600s.14 13 Which in its dynamic use of rapid cutting and black-and-white imagery would make a great double feature with King Vidor’s The Fountainhead (1949), to which it compares quite favorably. 14 See, e.g., Miloslav Nesyba, ‘The Obstetric-Gynaecological Practice in the Czech Republic during the Communist Regime and in the Present Days’, paper presented at ‘The Future of Obstetrics and Gynaecology: The Fundamental Right to Practice and Be Trained According to Conscience’, an international meeting of Catholic obstetricians and gynecologists, organized by

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There is another subtext to the film: recent German-Czech history, as the region of Moravia where the events take place was for the most part ethnically German, and the Germans were expelled after WWII – like the ‘witches’ (or Josef K.), their guilt was assumed. The ‘question’ for inquisitors, secret police, is never ‘Why?’, but ‘Who?’ The real guilt of course lies in the tribunal and those officials in charge, who will never concede their own culpability. And so the poor ordinary folk are made to suffer, as an example to those who would dare question authority.

Ucho (The Ear, 1970)

Dir. Karel Kachyňa, screenplay Jan Procházka Imagine Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? set in a police state, and instead of academia, in the world of politics, where secret police eavesdrop on private conversations. The Ear takes place on the night of a couple’s tenth wedding anniversary, and it pretty much observes the Aristotelian unities.15 The ‘action’ takes place mostly in their flat, with flashbacks to a party held earlier in the evening by the party, which included the Russian ambassador in military uniform. A lot of alcohol is involved. When the couple get back to their flat, they cannot find their keys, and their gate is open, although they left it locked. The lights do not go on in their house, although there are lights on across the street. A blown fuse? No, the power has been shut off. The man starts tearing up documents and tries to flush them down the toilet. When the lights come on again, men are seen getting into a party vehicle parked across the street, which rapidly speeds off. Nothing seems to be missing, but…. The screenplay for The Ear originally had an opening proviso: This story, which was not invented and actually took place, ought to have been set in Prague in 1952, when socialism was still quite deformed. (Hulík 2012, 65)

But by the time it was made in 1969, Dubček had had his comeuppance in Moscow and the gloves were off. The clothing and official party autos (Tatra the World Federation of Catholic Medical Associations (FIAMC) and by MaterCare International (MCI) and sponsored by the Pontifical Council for the Health Pastoral Care, Rome, 17–20 June 2001, https://www.consciencelaws.org/background/procedures/abortion027.aspx (accessed 8 Jan 2020). 15 In fact, it was adapted successfully for the stage by Jan Procházka’s daughter, writer Lenka Procházková, in the Moravian Theatre in Olomouc in 2010, and also released as an audio CD (Radioservis CR0586-2, 2012).

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603s) definitely belong to 1969. As Hulík states, ‘The Ear can thus be even more strongly understood as a generally valid look behind the curtains of a functioning totalitarian regime’ (Hulík 2012, 66). Barrandov insisted on finishing it as soon as possible, and so the claustrophobic, manic pace of the film is not only due to the direction, but is also the work of the crew: working round the clock, they were able to cut fifty-two days off the original shooting schedule (Hulík 2012, 65), testament to how tight Procházka’s script was. The couple (brilliantly played by Radoslav Brzobohatý and Jiřina Bohdalová, like Burton and Taylor, real-life spouses – both handsome and horrible at the same time – when’s the last time you saw a woman spit on film?) assume they are being watched. This is not a question of paranoia, but attention to small details. The husband is being considered for a government post as minister. Is he being suspected of something? Flashbacks to the party held previously that night focus on facial expressions, snippets of dialogue – seemingly innocent party talk perhaps conveying important clues, information, a meaning, a thread … or a threat? The anxiety of being watched also puts a strain their marital relationship. The husband is an outsider, not from Prague but from Mohelnice in Moravia (screenwriter Procházka was also from Moravia), and trying to fit into a society he was not born into is exhausting. Typically, his stress is vented at home – on his wife (even physically), who has had enough, and lets him know it. The doorbell rings. A group of revelers from the party held earlier have arrived, unexpectedly. They have come, they say, to keep the party going, but really they have come to finish the job, setting bugs (the Ear) throughout the apartment. The couple is forced to provide hospitality to these party members, who in the process, eat them out of house and home, consuming all the fine food (a cake and other refreshments) and drink (a bottle of Russian brandy, but many other bottles are consumed in a drunken orgy of drinking) they have prepared for their own anniversary celebration at home. After they leave, the man despairs that his briefcase full of documents which he had hidden in the cellar is gone. They sit outside on their balcony – away from the Ear, but not away from their neighbors’ ears: ‘What’s the matter’, she asks, ‘Can’t you write what you want for yourself, read the books that you want?’ He answers ‘Sure, you can … until they want something from you.… Now they know everything about me – half was not enough’. He locks himself in the bathroom – his wife bangs on the door, shouting that if he does it (suicide), she’ll do it, too. She crawls out the balcony, and breaks into the window from outside. His pistol holster is visible. ‘You

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wouldn’t have done it anyway’, she says. ‘I couldn’t – they took my pistol, too. When they want to, they’ll do it themselves’. His wife pulls out the bugs in the toilet, the bathroom, in the kitchen, speaking into them: ‘You can’t listen to us in the toilet, Ear! You can’t listen to us in the kitchen! Even apparatchiks can speak in the privacy in their toilets’. She drops the bugs down the toilet, now stopped up with electronics and torn documents. It’s 4 am. The doorbell rings: ‘That’s when they come for you’, he says. But it’s not the doorbell, it’s the telephone: and when he answers, he is not told he is going to prison, he is told that he has been named the new minister. The look on their faces is not one of joy, as they realize they have given the Ear all the information needed to send them to jail at a future date. ‘I’m scared’, she says, as the screen fades to black.

Připad pro začinajícího kata (A Case for the New Hangman, 1969)16 Dir. and screenplay Pavel Juráček

After a car crash, the protagonist finds himself in a bizarre land which looks exactly like Czechoslovakia in 1969: plaster falling off damp building façades, run-down castles where guests are served frankfurters on ordinary plates. This is a free adaptation of Book 3 of Gulliver’s Travels, where Lemuel Gulliver finds himself in the land of Balnibarbi, overseen by the floating island of Laputa – here, as in Swift, with the satire on bureaucracy and the academy. While from this point in time it may seem like a one-joke film, it would have been quite shocking in a 1969 cinema: this is socialism with a humanbuilt façade, one badly in need of repairs. The reality of years of Marxist plaster and whitewash covering gaping holes.17 In this fantasy, cinemagoers finally see the everyday look of late 1960s Czechoslovakia on the big screen – with their protagonist confused about where he is, as he certainly does not appear to be inside the polished sets of a Barrandov film (nor even the animated fantasy of a Karel Zeman film), wondering why nothing makes sense. There are also references to Alice in Wonderland, with a March hare and a pocket watch. However, in this film Lemuel is no innocent abroad but instead 16 There are various titles in English, including Gulliver’s Travels, the working title of the film in Czech. 17 James Naughton’s pre-1989 textbook Colloquial Czech (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987) includes the commonly found street sign reading ‘POZOR! PADÁ OMÍTKA!’ (‘DANGER! FALLING PLASTER!’)

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is a nervous wreck. The film is sometimes described as ‘surrealist’ – granted, Juráček also cowrote Daisies with Věra Chytilová and the ubiquitous Ester Krumbachová – but it’s rather ‘absurd’ in the sense of Kafka – or Havel; i.e., reality disguised as art: Swiftian. Is there anything more surreal than ‘socialist realism’? The film ends with Gulliver asking ‘Listen, is this watch running backwards, or is it just me?’ and the bureaucratic reply from the village idiot: ‘What’s wrong with you? Isn’t it enough that it’s still ticking?’ This bit of patter sounds like the harbinger of the Normalization period to come. Which goes back to the point of Swift’s satire: Does a funhouse mirror exaggerate the grotesque, or simply show it?

‘Nothing Like Vault Films Ever Existed’: The 1970s and Normalization There is a book, Českoslovenští filmoví režiséři sedmdesátých let (Czechoslovak film directors of the 1970s), which is fascinating to us now in this respect, although at the time it would have been an ugly testimony to political coercion. The volume includes a party-line tightrope walk in the form of an introduction by Jiří Levý: From the point of view of international connections, [the 1970s] were the years of the Helsinki Conference, whose accords satisfied the hopes of millions of people, not only those on the European continent. These were the years of the growing powers of progress and peace, increasing the prestige of socialist countries; on the other hand, however, they were also the years of the increased aggression of imperialism, arising from the deep social and economic problems of capitalist countries.[…] The 1970s have a truly fundamental historical significance for [film] development in our country. To evaluate the 1970s it is necessary to take into consideration the developments in the 1960s, which culminated in the societal, political, and economic crises of the years 1968–1969. Even if we take into account all the diff iculties of that era’s development, it is possible to state that the field of culture and art was also directly influenced by the period’s subversive tendencies, Western philosophical concepts, and revisionist discourse. (Levý 1983, 1)

The f irst sentence, making reference to the international Helsinki Accords on human rights of 1975, has another meaning in the Czechoslovak context, namely that Czechoslovakia’s failure to live up to the tenets of the

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agreement was the basis for Charter 77 (Charta 77), the signed complaint by Czechoslovak dissidents in 1977 against their country. Signatories to Charter 77 lost their jobs and faced imprisonment. (Many of them later served in government after the Velvet Revolution, including Václav Havel.) Why mention Helsinki at all? Levý’s introduction glosses over it, but he does mention it, for signing Charter 77 would be a reason for certain filmmakers to be omitted from in the book. (Pavel Juráček, for example, was a signatory.) Charter 77 was parried by the ‘Anti-Charter’ (‘Anticharta’, informally; formally: ‘Toward New Artistic Activities in the Name of Socialism and Peace’), a statement condemning Charter 77. Prominent artists, including filmmakers, were forced to sign the Anti-Charter if they wanted to keep their jobs, and others (like Bohumil Hrabal, who signed) were given the opportunity to have their works published or performed again if they did sign. Of the directors discussed in this chapter, Herz, Kachyňa, Menzel, and Vávra signed. Thus they are included in the encyclopedia of Czechoslovak directors, whereas Juráček is not. Nor is Vojtěch Jasný, who had gone into exile – originally to make films in Yugoslavia, but Tito told him that he was not allowed to accept Soviet Bloc émigrés, so he arranged a visa for Jasný to go to Austria, where Jasný worked, later settling in the USA (Štráfeldová 2008). However, whereas Herz, Kachyňa, Menzel, and Vávra have entries in the book, their vault films are not listed whatsoever. This is true of all the still-approved directors of vault films. The Orwellian removal of these films, not just from cinemas but also from film histories, also means, of course, that neither were vault films available to film historians or students, nor part of the public conscience. Stanislav Milota, cameraman on The Cremator, was a signatory to Charter 77, and as such, lost his job. His wife, Vlasta Chramostová (the actress who played Mrs. Kopfrkingl in The Cremator), opened up an underground ‘theater’ in their flat in the 1970s, where banned actors and directors could perform banned plays (including plays by Havel). Others fared much worse. Jan Procházka, author of The Ear, creative head of a production company at Barrandov, was also chair of the Czechoslovak Writers Union during 1968–1969, which publicly denounced the Russian occupation. Procházka was interrogated to the point of death; his daughter, the writer Lenka Procházková, has said that his interrogations were taped and played back in adjoining rooms to other interrogations when he was on his deathbed. The image of your inquisitors still interrogating someone who was said to be on his deathbed led others to confess their ‘crimes’ (quoted in Hulík 2012, 145). Procházka died at the age of 42 as a result of the

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interrogations. Parallels to The Ear are obvious, ‘for reasons that do need to be explained’. Štěpán Hulík titled his excellent, essential book about Barrandov and Normalization The Cinema of Oblivion, but there is also the politics of oblivion.18 Hulík managed to interview Jiří Purš, former director general of Czechoslovak State Film, in a coda to his book: the interview is entitled ‘Nothing Like Vault Films Ever Existed’ (Hulík 2012, 424–442). In it, Hulík proceeded to give the former boss enough celluloid to hang himself. Purš insists that there were no forbidden films, these were films that had been approved, but unseen due to ‘market forces’, that the audiences and cinemas did not want them. That the directors of these unwanted films were allowed to continue to work. (He uses the example of Věra Chytilová – always exceptional! – as a director who was allowed to work on whatever she wanted.) Other directors disagree: Herz talks about being given the choice of being given dogmatic Normalization films to work on after 1970 or fairy tales – he chose the latter (Herz 2005a). Jasný talks about being offered a chance to come back from exile to direct politically correct films – which he refused, as it would have ‘betrayed’ his prior work (Bláhová 2010, 122). And questions remain: Where were these film materials stored? Why weren’t they destroyed altogether? A partial answer can be found in an interview with Marie Barešová, where Vladimír Opěla, former director of the National Film Archive in Prague, states that filmmakers were dropping off materials, such as the newsreel-style Oratio for Prague, at the door of Národní filmový archiv from 21 August 1968, the day of the Soviet invasion, on. Due to international contacts, Opěla was able to sequester the films at ‘friendly’ archives abroad. However, from 1972 to 1979 he was not allowed to conduct any international correspondence (Barešová 2018).

Beginning to See the Light: The 1980s and Restitution It is thanks to the decades-long heroic efforts of Opěla, his team, sympathetic archivists abroad (and the archivists at Barrandov) that the materials remained extant, and to the filmmakers and critics who tried to resurrect them. There were scattered attempts throughout the 1980s by the Union of Czech Dramatic Artists (Svaz českých dramatických umělců, SČDU) to 18 As borne out by the number of quotes from it found here, I am hugely indebted to Štěpán Hulík’s book on the subject. It is not only definitive and informative, but a great read, and was the 2012 winner of the Czech national Magnesia literara book prize for Discovery of the Year.

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release some of the vault films ostensibly due to a lack of domestic product, ending in a campaign by SČDU to ‘rehabilitate’ the vault films in the spring of 1989. Jindřiška Bláhová has written about this at length: even the partyappointed experts’ evaluations of the films have been preserved (Bláhová 2010, 83–156). Jaroslava Houfová pinned Vojtěch Jasný with these inquisitional words: ‘Truly, films which were aimed against the interests of working people, against socialism, are something he certainly should not have made. In other words: he understood that the time when he could make antistate propaganda, with unlimited state money, was over’. (Bláhová 2010, 122)

But the spring of 1989 did not anticipate November of 1989, when the militiamen were suddenly deposed, and their seals to the vaults definitively broken. In 1990, Central Film Distribution (Ústřední půjčovna filmů, the state distributor of Czechoslovak films under communism) immediately prepared a remarkable pressbook, Trezorové a pozastavené filmy (Vault films and interrupted films) to accompany the first release or rerelease of films which had not been seen for two decades, a fifty-nine-page, comprehensive guide.19 The vault films were released in cinemas to general audiences, which appreciated them more than the Marxist critics, immediately achieving ‘cult’ status in the country (Chramostová 2005; Ptáček 2009, 12). Vault films were now regularly shown on board Czech Airlines in the 1990s with English subtitles, as representative of the country.20 And the National Film Archive has become a significant film studies publisher – e.g., in 2013, the Národní filmový archiv published a lavish book 19 Listed alphabetically, the films are: Až přijde kocour, Bílá paní, Čest a sláva, Démanty noci, Devět kapitol ze starého dějepisu, Den sedmý, osmá noc, Ezop, Farářův konec, Hotel pro cizince, Každý den odvahu, Kočár do Vídně, Konec srpna v Hotelu Ozón, Návrat ztraceného syna, Noc nevěsty, O slavnosti a hostech, Pasťák, Případ pro začínajícího kata, Skřivánci na niti, Směšný pán, Smrt se říká Engelchen, Smuteční slavnost, Spalovač mrtvol, Stud, Ucho, Všichni dobří rodáci, Zabitá neděle, and Žert. Volume 2 soon followed, with information on the films Archa bláznů, Československé Jaro 1968, Eden a potom, Flirt se slečnou Stříbrnou, Já truchlivý bůh, Ľalie poľné, Muž, ktorý luže, Nahota, Obrazy starého světa, Postava k podpírání, Případ Barnabáš Kos, Spříznění volbou, Straka v hrsti, Utrpení mladého Boháčka, Srdci Evropy, Vtáčkovia, siroty a blázní, Zbehovia a pútnici, and 322. It also includes a list of children’s films released from the vault: Automat na přání, Brankář bydlí v naší ulici, Červená kůlna, Dědeček automobil, Divotvorný klobouk, Finský nůž, Hry a sny, Pět holek na krku, Prázdniny v oblacích, Případ Lupínek, Útěk do větru, Vysoká zeď, and Zpívající pudřenka. 20 Which is where I first saw several of them, including All My Compatriots – definitely not the light, innocuous fare one expects as distraction on board.

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on Všichni dobří rodáci, which includes information on its background, digital restoration, interviews with the director, principals, etc. Presently, the Národní filmový archiv is also releasing an edition of vault films in HD on Blu-ray.21 Half a century later, their symbolic cultural status seems secure. On the thirtieth anniversary of the abolishment of censorship in 1989, vault films were the mainstay of two days of programming on Czech Television 2.22 And with streaming, they have also become cult films abroad – not just a national obsession but an international sensation.23 After the Velvet Revolution of 1989, there was a legal restitution (restituce) process launched in Czechoslovakia to return property confiscated by the communist regime. In addition to monetary or property compensation, restitution implies a moral corrective to wrongs perpetrated in the past. You cannot compensate for the loss of people’s careers; you cannot restore people’s fates or lives. You can restore a film, however, and the vault films are testament to the courageous role Barrandov’s artists and technicians played in those fateful years from 1967 to 1970. Translations from Czech are my own. Special thanks to BH and Linda Šplíchalová (National Film Archive, Prague). Of course, the bigger thanks go to the archivists – especially the National Film Archive in Prague (where pan Opěla is still working in his eighties as of this writing) – the collectors, the librarians, the typewriter repair persons. And to the distributors, cinema owners, the programmers, the audiences.24

Bibliography Bailey, Blake. Philip Roth: The Biography. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 2021. Barešová, Marie. ‘Padesát let ve službách filmového archivnictví’ [‘Fifty years in the service of film archiving’]. Filmový přehled [online magazine of the National 21 And other merchandising … so if you want a Cremator T-shirt with the grinning face of Rudolf Hrušínský, you can find it here: https://www.eshop.nfa.cz/tricka-a-tasky. (Get ’em while they’re hot!) 22 During 24–25 November 2019, Czech Television 2 broadcast twenty-one vault films, including all those discussed in this chapter. 23 The Criterion Channel in the United States, for example, as of this writing, regularly features vault films in their Critic’s Choice/Staff Picks (‘Czechoslovak New Wave’) for streaming, and is also releasing them on Blu-ray in its Criterion Collection. 24 I myself took part in organizing a ‘Prague Spring’ program of Czechoslovak films in 1982 at Cornell University (USA), never imagining that I would one day call the Czech Republic my home.

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Film Archive, Prague], 16 March 2018. http://www.filmovyprehled.cz/cs/revue/ detail/vladimir-opela-padesat-let-ve-sluzbach-filmoveho-archivnictvi. Batistová, Anna, and Jan Zahradníček. ‘Zpráva o digitálním restaurování’ [‘Report on digital restoration’]. In Všichni dobří rodáci [All my compatriots], edited by Briana Čechová, 16–27. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2013. Bláhová, Jindřiška. ‘Ven z trezoru. Přehodnocování a uvolňování zakázaných československých filmů z 60. Let’ [‘Out of the vault: Re-evaluating and releasing banned Czechoslovak films of the 1960s’]. Iluminace 23, no. 3 (79/2010): 83–156. Čechová, Briana, ed. Všichni dobří rodáci [All my compatriots]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2013. Černíček, Jan. ‘Od dechovky k symfonické fresce. Rodáci jako polyžánrové dílo Svatopluka Havelky’ [‘From brass band music to a symphonic epic: Natives as a polygenre work by Svatopluk Havelky’]. In Všichni dobří rodáci [All my compatriots], edited by Briana Čechová, 114–139. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2013. Chramostová, Vlasta. ‘Bonusy-Rozhovory’. In Spalovač mrtvol [The Cremator] directed by Juraj Herz. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2005. DVD Fuks, Ladislav. Spalovač mrtvol [The Cremator]. 7th ed. Prague: Odeon, 2017. Hames, Peter. The Czechoslovak New Wave. 2nd ed. London: Wallflower Press, 2005. Herz, Juraj. ‘Bonusy-Rozhovory’. In Panna a netvor [Beauty and the Beast], directed by Juraj Herz. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2005a. DVD. Herz, Juraj, dir. Spalovač mrtvol [The Cremator]. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2005b. DVD. Hulík, Štěpán. Kinomatografie zapomnění. Počátky normalizace ve Filomovém studio Barrandov (1968–1973) [Cinematography of oblivion: The beginnings of Normalization in Barrandov Studios (1968–1973)]. Prague: Academia, 2012. Jasný, Vojtěch. ‘Bonusy-Rozhovory’. In Všichni dobří rodáci [All My Compatriots], directed by Vojtěch Jasný. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2007a. DVD Jasný, Vojtěch. Život a film [Life and film], edited by Jan Lukeš. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 1999. Jasný, Vojtěch, dir. Všichni dobří rodáci [All My Compatriots]. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2007b. DVD. Juráček, Pavel, dir. Připad pro začinajícího kata [A Case for a New Hangman]. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2008. DVD. Kachyňa, Karel, dir. Ucho [The Ear]. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2017. DVD. Krumbachová, Ester. První knižka Ester [The first (little) book of Ester]. Prague: Primus, 1994. Levý, Jiří. ‘Úvod’ [‘Introduction’]. In Českoslovenští filmoví režiséři sedmdesátých let [Czechoslovak film directors of the 1970s]. Prague: Československý filmový ústav Praha a Slovenský filmový ústav Bratislava, 1983. Liehm, Antonín J. Ostře sledované filmy. Československá zkušenost [Closely watched films: The Czechoslovak experience]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2001.

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Lukeš, Jan. Diagnózy času: Český a slovenský poválečný film 1945–2002 [Diagnoses of time: Czech and Slovak postwar film, 1945–2002]. Prague: Slovart, 2013. Menzel, Jíří. ‘Bonusy-Rozhovory’. In Skřivánci na niti [Larks on a String], directed by Jiří Menzel. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2005a. DVD. Menzel, Jíří, dir. Skřivánci na niti [Larks on a String]. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2005b. DVD. Milota, Stanislav. ‘Bonusy-Rozhovory’. In Spalovač mrtvol [The Cremator], directed by Juraj Herz. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2005. DVD. Opěla, Vladimír. ‘Úvod’ [Introduction]. In Český hraný film IV, 1961–1970/Czech Feature Films IV, 1961–1970, edited by Eva Urbanová and Blažena Urgošíková. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2004. Owen, Jonathan L. Avant-garde to New Wave: Czechoslovak Cinema, Surrealism and the Sixties. New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2011. Ptáček, Luboš. ‘Český kultovní film?’ [Czech cult films?]. Cinepur 5, no. 6 (2009): 10–13. Štráfeldová, Milena. ‘Vojtěch Jasný chystá film o Terezíně’ [‘Vojtěch Jasný is preparing a film about Theresienstadt’]. Radio Prague International, 11 June 2008. https://cesky.radio.cz/vojtech-jasny-chysta-film-o-terezine-8595178. Szczepanik, Petr. Továrna Barrandov. svět filmařů a politická moc 1945–1970 [The Barrandov factory: The world of filmmakers and political power, 1945–1970]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 2016. Trezorové a postavené filmy [Vault films and interrupted films]. Prague: Ústřední půjčovna filmů, 1990. Trezorové a postavené filmy II [Vault films and interrupted films II]. Prague, Ústřední půjčovna filmů, 1990. Trezorový film [Vault films (special issue)]. Iluminace 23, no. 3 (79/2010). Vávra, Otakar, dir. Kladivo na čarodějnice [Witchhammer]. Prague: Bontonfilm, 2018. DVD. Žalman, Jan. Umlčený film: kapitoly z bojů o lidskou tvář československého filmu [Silenced film: Chapters from the battles over the human face of Czechoslovak film]. Prague: Národní filmový archiv, 1993.

About the Author Matthew Sweney taught American and Anglo-Irish literature and studies for over twenty years at Palacký University in Olomouc, Czech Republic. Currently he is working as a researcher on a project dealing with ageing masculinity in European literature and film for Karl-Franzens University in Graz, Austria. In addition, he is a translator of contemporary Czech poetry into English.

Index 1980s Czechoslovak cinema culture 30, 31, 193, 195, 197, 213, 298 A-B 16, 17, 45, 48–50, 52–59, 63, 64, 86, 220–222, 224 abortion 285, 350, 351, 351n 14 Adela Has Not Had Supper Yet/Adéla ještě nevečeřela 114, 288 Alice in Wonderland 353 All My Compatriots/Všichni dobří rodáci 35, 339, 341, 342–344, 349, 357, 359 soundtrack 343n 6 Anti-Charter 355 antifascist 115, 182, 255, 350 Aristotelian unities 351 audience response 156, 284, 341 auteur 22, 31, 32, 72, 115, 135–137, 165, 166 Baarová, Lída 108, 112, 124 Bailey, Blake 340n 1, 358 Barešová, Marie 23, 37, 356, 358 Barrandov Terraces 107 Batistová, Anna 24n 8, 37, 344, 359 black humor 346 Bláhová, Jindřiška 29, 30, 31, 193, 207, 211, 213, 293, 294, 356, 357, 359 Bohdalová, Jiřina 352 Bor, Vladimír 157, 163, 166, 255, 256, 300, 303 Bosch, Hieronymus 347 Blue Veil/Modrý závoj 120–122 Blu-ray 358, 358n 23 Brejchová, Hana 261 Brejchová, Jana 244, 245, 254, 261 Bridge at Remagen 19, 348n 10 Broz, Josip see Tito Brynych, Zbyněk 33, 145, 153–156, 298, 299 Brzobohatý, Radoslav 342, 352 Burian, Vlasta 107, 110, 111, 112, 114, 119, 124 Burton, Richard 352 Bystré 342 Cannes Film Festival 35, 36, 263, 264, 307, 339, 344 Čáp, František 60n 23, 108, 120, 124 Čapek, Karel 350 Case for a New Hangman/Případ pro začínajícího kata 36, 339, 341, 349, 353–354, 359 casting 219, 236–238, 240, 241, 244, 245, 265, 305, 347 Čechová, Briana 24n 8, 38, 344, 359 censorship 20, 22, 23, 29, 33, 34, 143, 146, 154, 158, 159, 201, 204, 214, 215, 271–273, 282, 283, 290, 294, 295, 300, 301, 310, 314, 320, 323, 325, 339, Central Film Distribution (Ústřední půjčovna filmů) 204, 357

Černíček, Jan 343n 6, 359 Charta 77 see Charter 77; see also Anti-Charter Chramostová, Vlasta 355, 357, 359 Chytilová, Věra 18, 32, 33, 154, 158, 160n 45, 162, 175, 212n 50, 241, 260, 271–295, 303, 320, 354, 356 CIA 347, 347n 9 Cikán, Miroslav 99, 108, 112, 120, 122–124, 154 cinematography 17, 18, 21–25, 45, 62, 179, 224n 7, 252, 259, 262, 268, 274, 290n 13, 292, 301, 350, 359 Closely Watched Trains/Ostře sledované vlaky 165, 295, 344, 345 collaboration with Nazis 26, 43, 61, 124, 343, 346; see also ‘Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia’ collectivization 342 Comedian Harmonists 107n 4 Communist Putsch of Czechoslovakia (February 1948) 123–124, 142, 339, 342 Communist show trials in Czechoslovakia 350 co-production 102, 103, 190, 337 crazy comedies 119, 317, 322, 323, 326 Cremator/Spalovač mrtvol 34, 35, 297, 300–304, 309, 315, 339, 341, 346–349, 355, 358n 21, 359, 360 Criterion Channel 358n 23 Criterion Collection 358n 23 Crucible 349 cult films 341, 357 Czech Airlines 357 Czech cinema 20, 24, 26, 27, 30, 32, 37, 38, 40, 43, 44, 45, 56, 60, 61, 63, 65, 67–70, 72, 73, 75, 77–79, 83, 85, 87, 95–97, 99, 101, 104, 105, 106, 111, 112, 115, 120, 124, 126, 127, 131, 134, 135, 139, 138, 165, 169, 172, 188, 219, 221, 235, 242, 250, 251, 252, 253, 266, 268, 269, 292, 294, 295, 316, 323, 336, 343, passim Czech film history 15, 22-31, 45, 67, 70, 83, 86, 97, 98, 102, 103, 131, 132, 171, 194, 195, 213, 221, 260, 341, 351 Czech film production in the 1950s 30, 131, 132, 137, 137n 7, 138, 144, 150, 165, 237, 244, 246, 253, 255 Czech National Revival 115, 116 Czech New Wave 13, 18, 29, 30, 33–35, 38, 39,105, 126, 131, 137n 7, 138–140, 154, 156, 157, 158, 160–163, 166, 174, 196, 214, 219, 221, 236, 241, 245, 247, 248, 251–253, 260, 263, 266, 268, 271–273, 292, 294, 297–300, 303, 319, 320–322, 336, 337, 339, 340, 341, 343n 5, 358n 23, 359, 360

362  Czech Television/Česká televise 19, 159, 174n 16, 175n 18, 182n 36, 183, 184, 187–189, 202, 205, 208, 212, 215,220, 243, 267, 272, 273, 291, 298, 302, 306, 313, 314, 331–333, 358, 358n 22 Czechoslovak cinema 20, 29, 31, 39, 43, 105, 108, 109, 110 125, 138n 8, 165, 193–195, 195n 2, 197, 211–213, 220, 232, 237, 245, 246, 248, 297, 297–299, 304, 316, 337, 360 Czechoslovak cinema industry 21, 31, 32, 43, 45, 48, 55, 57, 61, 62,106, 111, 123, 124, 125, 194, 195, 197, 212, 220, 244–246, 292 Czechoslovak film directors of the 1970s/ Českoslovenští filmové režiséři sedmdesátých let 33, 354 Czechoslovak State Film / Československý státní film, ČSF 16, 18, 141, 142, 163, 176, 179, 186, 187, 195, 196, 204–206, 226, 241, 246, 266, 282, 340n 1, 356 Czechoslovakia 47, 48, 55, 57, 61, 62, 106, 111, 112, 124, 131, 132, 190, 194, 195, 197, 220, 221, 224, 244, 246, 292 Daisies/Sedmikrásky 32, 116n 45, 271, 276–278, 289, 293, 354 DAMU (Divadelní fakulta Akademie múzických umění / Theatre Faculty of the Academy of Dramatic Arts) 253 Dark Blue World/Tmavomodrý svět 347 DEFA 34, 35, 102, 103, 177, 180, 196, 208, 213, 317, 327, 328 Deleuze, Gilles 35, 38, 40, 326, 327, 336, 337 documentary film 221, 224, 231, 234, 236n 16, 237, 237n 17 Dreyer, Carl Theodor 350 Dubček, Alexander 264, 280, 291, 302, 319–321, 340, 351 Duvivier, Julien 56, 109 Ear/Ucho 36, 174n 14, 290, 339, 341, 349, 351–353, 355–356, 359 Ecstasy/Ekstase 83, 102, 107n 4 Emigration 19, 26, 62, 109n 9, 124, 220, 265, 278n 5, 341n 2 The End of Agent W4C/Konec agenta W4C prostřednictvím psa pana Foustky 114, 323 English language 37, 105, 112, 113, 119–120, 216, 220 Eva Fools Around/Eva troupí hlouposti 60n 23, 119 existential revolution 251 expulsion of Germans from Czechoslovakia 125, 351 fairy-tale films 19, 34, 35, 307, 309, 312, 317, 327, 331, 334, 335, 349, 356 FAMU (Filmová a televizní fakulta Akademie múzických umění v Praze / Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts) 18, 23, 35, 40, 65, 126, 144, 160, 162,

The Barr andov Studios

172, 173, 178, 198, 200, 208, 210, 253, 260, 273, 278n 5, 293, 298, 318, 319, 320 Farkas, Nicolas 56, 109 female gaze 345 feminism 216, 350 Festival de Cannes see Cannes Film Festival film debut 108, 208, 208n 44, 209, 210, 259, 275, 278n 4, 298, 299, 306, 319 film distribution, domestic 21, 96, 302, 344 film distribution, international 47, 57, 58, 109, 344 film dramaturgy 138, 155, 158n 38, 170, 172, 176, 176n 19, 195, 198 film industry 19, 65, 165, passim film policy 26, 53, 65, 171n 8, 198, 204, 266 film production 55, 108, 122, 167, 215, 249, 269, 315 film production, domestic 15, 19, 53, 69, 110, 111, 138, 196, 224 film production studies 15, 28, 43, 167 film studios 13–26, 36, 43, 45, 48–56, 60, 61, 63, 68, 76, 86, 90, 94–96, 107–109, 118, 122, 148n 24, 158n 38, 181, 224, 232, 256, 284, 288 First Czechoslovak republic 111 forced labor 60n 24, 344 Forman, Miloš 19, 32, 33, 162, 163, 175, 241, 251–268, 272, 283, 290, 294, 295, 320, 343n 5 Audition / Konkurs 241, 251, 256, 257 Black Peter / Černý Petr 251, 256, 258 Goya’s Ghost 267 Hair 264, 265 Loves of a Blonde / Lásky jedné plavovlásky 19, 251, 260 Man on the Moon 267 One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest 264, 265 Puppies / Štěňata (Script) 251, 253, 256 Ragtime 265 Taking Off 264 The Fireman’s Ball / Hoří, má panenko 19, 37, 251, 263, 264, 290 The People vs. Larry Flynt 267 Valmont 267 Fountainhead 350n 13 French language 109, 110–111 Frič, Martin 45, 57, 60n 23, 100 108, 112, 114, 119–120, 122–125, 144n 18, 145, 154, 163 Fuks, Ladislav 163, 297, 300, 301, 303, 346, 347, 359 gender and film 271, 287, 291, genre 14, 22, 24, 27, 31, 32, 34, 38, 67, 68, 83, 84, 87, 95, 96, 105, 107, 108, 112–115, 119, 120, 123, 125, 131, 137, 138n 8, 146, 147, 152, 154, 155, 157, 159,161–164, 193, 219, 220, 228, 241–243, 246, 273n 3, 299, 307, 308, 311, 314, 318, 323, 324, 331 German language 16n 3, 26–28, 105, 109–112, 116, 118, 119, 121–123, 125 German Occupation of Czechoslovakia see Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia

Index

Gestapo 60n 24, 347, 348 Goebbels, Joseph 17, 57, 58, 112, 118 Golden Bear 35, 339, 346 The Golem/Le Golem 56, 109 Gollová, Nataša 108, 119, 123, 124 group style 29, 131–133, 136–139, 154–156, 158, 165 Gulliver’s Travels 353, 353n 16 Hames, Peter 13, 14, 17–19, 25, 32, 38, 39, 105n 1, 115, 126, 140, 166, 212, 214, 260, 268, 271, 292, 294, 295, 296, 319, 322, 326, 336, 359 Hanzalová, Kristina 341n 2 Havel, Miloš 16, 17, 24–26, 39, 40, 43, 46–65, 76n 11, 76n 12, 104, 107, 122, 124 Havel, Václav 16, 38, 50n 12, 253, 261, 266, 268, 354, 355 Havel, Václav M. 17, 50, 50n 12, 51, 51n 14, 52, 62, 64, 107 Helsinki Conference 354, 355 Herz, Juraj 33–35, 278n 4, 297–315, 320, 339, 341, 344, 346–349, 349n 11, 349n 12, 355, 356, 359, 360 Beauty and the Beast/Panna a netvor 34, 307, 308, 315, 359 Cremator/Spalovač mrtvol 34, 35, 297, 300–304, 309, 315, 339, 341, 346–349, 355, 358n 21, 359, 360 Pearls of the Deep/Perličky na dně 156, 273, 299, 344, 344n 7, 344n 8 Hitler, Adolf 14, 54, 347 Holman, J. A. 108, 110, 120, 122–124 Holmes, Sherlock 78, 101, 112–114 Holocaust 346 Horáková, Milada 350 Horror 34, 40, 297, 300, 304, 308–312, 346–349 Houfová, Jaroslava 357 House Un-American Activities trials 350 Hrabal, Bohumil 35, 153, 156, 273, 288, 294, 299, 339, 344, 355 Hrušínský, Rudolf 247, 344–347, 349, 358n 21 Hulík, Štěpán 23, 38, 173,177, 178, 181, 182n 34, 182n 37, 185n 45, 189, 196, 214, 266, 268, 303–306, 314, 315, 339, 342, 349, 349n 10, 351, 352, 356, 356n 18, 359 Husák, Gustav 33, 271, 282, 312, 312, 320, 321 The Imperial and Royal Field Marshal/C. a k. polní maršálek/ Der falsche Feldmarschall 80, 101, 110 industrial authorship 29, 32, 131, 136, 146, 156 interrogation 89, 93, 95, 349–350, 355, 356 Italy 145, 283, 349, 349n 12 Jasný, Vojtěch 18, 35, 137, 153–156, 163, 234, 234, 248, 273, 339, 341–344, 355–357, 359, 360 Jirásek, Alois 115, 116 Judaism in Czechoslovakia 341, 341fn4, 343, 345–347

363 Juráček, Pavel 18, 36, 155, 157–162, 166, 263, 273, 275, 276, 278, 302, 303, 339, 341, 354, 355, 359 Case for a New Hangman/Případ pro začínajícího kata 36, 339, 341, 349, 353–354, 357n 19 Kabátová, Zita 108, 123 Kadár, Ján 18, 33, 154, 155, 279n 6, 298, 299 Kachyňa, Karel 18, 36, 137, 153, 154, 163, 173, 184, 184n 42, 187, 234, 290, 339, 341, 351–353, 355, 359 Ear/Ucho 36, 174n 14, 290, 339, 341, 349, 351–353, 355–356, 359 Kafka, Franz 264, 267, 281, 319, 322, 341n 4, 351, 354 Kaplický, Václav 349 Kelč 342 Kladno 344 Kliment, Alexandr 339 Klimeš, Ivan 17, 24, 38, 39, 45, 52, 53, 54, 59, 63, 68n 2, 72n 7, 75, 82, 84n 29, 85n 30, 98n 41, 100, 111n 10, 115, 118n 15, 126, 150n 26, 166 Krakatit 350 Křesadlová, Věra 256, 265 Krumbachová, Ester 260, 269, 277, 277n 4, 278, 288, 349–350, 354, 359 Lamač, Karel 25, 40, 40n 3, 108, 114, 118 Larks on a String/Skřivánci na niti 35, 303, 328, 339, 341, 344–346, 360 Laterna Magika 250, 253–255, 266, 280 Levý, Jiří 354, 355, 359 Liehm, Antonín ‘Tony’ Jaroslav 18, 105n 1, 140, 166, 212, 214, 215, 252, 256, 258, 259, 260, 262–264, 268, 274, 279, 280, 293, 295, 299, 315, 340, 340n 1, 359 Lipský, Oldřich 155, 163, 252, 288, 323 Lemonade Joe, or The Horse Opera / Limonádový Joe aneb Koňská opera 155, 163, 252, 288, 295 Literární noviny 340n 1 Lukeš, Jan 139, 167, 212, 215, 272, 272n 1, 273n 2, 302, 315, 359, 360 Mach, Josef 124, 238n 29, Machatý, Gustav 25, 40, 45, 102, 107n 4, 108, 108n 6, 126, 127 Macourek, Miloš 159, 184, 189, 302n 1, 306, 311, 314, 323–325, 335 male gaze 345, 350 Mandlová, Adina 108, 122–124 Marxist criticism 357 Mengele, Josef 346 Menšik, Vladimír 261, 334 Menzel, Jiří 18, 19, 35, 36, 162, 260, 273, 280, 283, 283n 9, 285, 292, 295, 303, 312, 320, 328, 339, 344–346, 355, 360 Closely Watched Trains/Ostře sledované vlaky 165, 295, 344, 344n 7, 345

364  Larks on a String/Skřivánci na niti 35, 303, 328, 339, 341, 344–346, 360 Miller, Arthur 349–350 Milota, Stanislav 301, 348–349, 355, 360 Mohelnice 352 Moravia 19, 23, 24, 25, 27, 39, 43, 107, 111, 115, 121, 123, 139, 149, 191, 229, 342, 343, 349, 351, 352 Multiple-Language-Versions (MLV)\ 20n 5, 28, 103, 105, 109, 110–111, 125 Museum of Torture 349 Nakedness/Nahota 341n 2, 357 Národní filmový archiv (National Film Archive – Nfa) 24, 25, 31, 65, 70n 3, 83n 27, 83n 28, 155, 189, 194, 232, 239, 242, 245, 247, 250, 257, 356, 358n 1 national identity 13, 27, 72n 7, 73, 105, 106–107, 112–117, 118, 120, 123, passim nationalization 18, 26, 61, 123, 144, 223, 292 Naughton, James 353n 17 Nazi cultural policy 43, 59–61 Němec, Jan 18, 19, 162, 174, 189, 260, 264, 277, 277n 4, 278n 5, 349 Oratorio for Prague/Oratorium pro Prahu 349, 356 Nesyba, Miloslav 350n 14 Netherlands 228, 349 Nobody Knows Anything/Nikdo nic neví 124 Nocturnal Butterfly/Noční motýl 60n 23, 120–122 non-actors 219, 221, 228, 235–238, 240, 241, 244, 246, 247, 259, 343, 343n 5 normalizace/normalization 23, 30, 32, 34, 157n 37, 171, 176, 177, 179,184, 185, 188, 265, 268, 271, 278n 5, 279, 280, 286, 289, 292, 295, 297, 298, 303, 303n 1, 304, 307, 311, 319, 320–323, 327, 335, 336, 339, 341, 354–56, 359 Nový, Oldřich 107, 119 Olomouc 350, 351n 15 Ondra (Ondráková), Anny 108, 110, 123 Ondříček, Miroslav 255 Opěla, Vladimír 356–357, 358, 360 Oratorio for Prague 349, 356 Orwell, George 355 Papoušek, Jaroslav 162, 163, 258–260, 263 The Most Beautiful Age/Nejkrásnější věk 259 Pardubice 348 Passer, Ivan 19, 162, 163, 253–255, 258, 260 Passion of Joan of Arc 350 patronage 24, 76n 12, 169, 170–171 Pearls of the Deep/Perličky na dně 156, 273, 299, 344 Perestroika 30, 31, 193–200, 213, 214, 215, 294 Philosophical History/Filosofská historie see Otakar Vávra 114–117, 118, 124, 126

The Barr andov Studios

Pilsen 238, 348 Pittermannová, Marcela 30, 151n 29, 169–189, 179n 26, 182n 34, 182n 37 poetics of cinem 15, 27, 67, 69–75, 77, 82–87, 95–98, 99, 101, 104, 193 Ponti, Carlo 262–263, 300 popular cinema 105, 106, 108, 112–117, 120, 123, 125, 126, 155, 295, 299, 337 popular film 27, 34, 105–108, 112, 115, 120, 155, 223, 232, 251, 252, 299, 302, 306, 311, 314 Port Arthur 56, 109, 110 Prag-Film 16n 3, 24, 26, 28, 59, 60, 63, 64, 65, 112, 122–123 Prague 13, 14n 2, 16–22, 20n 5, 345, 348, 349, 352 Prague Spring 22, 33, 34, 175, 198, 214, 271, 272, 280, 283, 284, 293, 319, 320, 322, 335, 340, 341n 4, 358n 24 Pražská pětka 194n 1, 215 Procházka, Jan 157, 162, 163, 169–176, 178, 178n 24, 181, 188, 189, 256, 351, 351n 15, 352, 355 Procházka, Lenka 351n 15, 355 production culture 14, 15, 28–31, 38, 39, 190, 193, 195, 202, 249, passim production culture and state-socialism 31, 193–213 production history 15, 22, 23, 24, 28-31, 39, 69, 70, 110–126, 131–165, 169–189, 193–213, 251–268, 311, passim production units 139, 140, 141, 149, 193, 198, 199, 205–213, 237 Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia 16n 3, 17, 20n 5, 23, 24, 27, 39, 43, 58–61, 107, 108, 110–112, 116, 117–125, 139, 149, 191, 229, 236, 343, 346–348 Ptáček, Luboš 194, 215, 287, 288, 295, 357, 360 Pucholt, Vladimír 257, 259, 261 Purš, Jiří 76, 179, 186, 195, 195n 2, 197, 197n 5, 203, 215, 266, 282, 282n 7, 283n 8, 284, 288, 290, 295, 306, 356 Radok, Alfred 253, 254 realism 32, 77, 137, 145, 155, 219–212, 225–236, 240–248, 251, 260, 263, 318, 322, 324, 326, 331, 334, 337 regional cinema 14, 67-98, passim restitution 339, 356–358 revolution 15, 19, 35, 36, 116, 215, 233, 244, 251, 260, 262, 264, 265, 267, 272, 290, 292, 321, 340, 345, 346, 349n 10, 355, 358 Roma (ethnicity) 237–241, 345 Roth, Philip 340n 1, 358 Rühmann, Heinz 122 ‘Schweikism’ 347 screen industries 43–46 Šebor, Jiří 144, 162, 163, 255, 256, 258, 300 Semafor 255–257, 265, 267, 298 Shaffer, Paul 265

365

Index

Silent Barricade/Němá barikáda 117, 121, 124 silent film 27, 45, 67, 81, 83 Skill of Gold/Zlaté dno 121, 126 Škvorecký, Josef 18, 39, 105n 1, 126, 140, 158n 38, 163, 167, 253, 255, 268, 277, 278n 5, 280, 283, 285, 295 Slavínský, Vladimír 108, 112, 120–123, 126 Šlitr, Jiří 255, 267 Smetana, Bedřich 116 ‘socialism with a human face’ 264, 320, 340, 353 socialist realism 32, 137, 194, 219–212, 225–236, 240–248, 254, 288, 345, 354 Šplíchalová, Linda 358 star system 27, 107–108, 109, 112, 123–124, 244, 245 state-socialist cinema 22, 123, 169, 169n 1, 170, 188, 194–200, 211–213, 219–220, passim state-socialist mode of production 29, 103, 131–135, 133n 1, 138–141 The Stolen Frontier/Uloupená Hranice 124, 223, 236, 242 Štráfeldová, Milena 355, 360 Suchý, Jiří 255, 267 Svaz českých dramatických umělců see Union of Czech Dramatic Artists Svěrák, Jan 15, 36, 293, 347 Svěrák, Zdeněk 280, 347 Swift, Jonathan 353–354 Szczepanik, Petr 15, 22, 22n 7, 23, 28, 29, 30, 39, 40, 53, 64, 68n 2, 75, 75n 11, 78, 78n 16, 78n 17, 78n 18, 80, 88n 33, 94n 38, 96, 97, 98n 41,103, 127, 131, 132, 133n 1,135n 3, 138, 142n 11, 144n 16, 145, 153n 32, 156n 36, 167, 168, 169n 1, 173n 11, 176n 19, 190, 196, 216, 221, 226, 243, 249, 255, 256, 258, 269, 272, 273, 295, 300, 303, 315, 360 Tatra 603 351–352 Taylor, Elizabeth 352 Theresianstadt 346 Three Eggs in a Glass/Tři vejce do skla 112–114, 119, 125 Tibetan Book of the Dead 348 Tito (Josip Broz) 355 Toman, Ludvik 34, 178n 24, 180, 180n 29, 181, 183, 190, 196, 282, 283, 287, 288, 295, 297, 303–305, 310, 311 Tonka of the Gallows/Tonka Šibenice 83, 98, 110 Tourjansky, Viktor 96, 109 trezorové filmy see ‘vault films’ Trezorové a pozastavené filmy/Vault films and interrupted films 357, 360 Ufa 28, 59, 60, 111–112, 118, 122, 123, 125, 126, 220n 2, 222, 248 Union of Czech Dramatic Artists (Svaz českých dramatických umělců, SČDU) 356–357 Ústřední půjčovna filmů see Central Film Distribution

vault films 35, 339–359, 357n 19 Vávra, Otakar 18, 36, 60n 23, 108, 115–117, 120, 121, 124–125, 144n 18, 145, 202, 202n 14, 216, 246, 273, 274, 339, 341, 349–350, 355, 360 Krakatit 350 Philosophical History/Filosofská historie 114–117, 118, 124, 126 White Disease/Bílá nemoc 115, 350 Witchhammer 36, 339, 341, 349–351, 360 Velvet Revolution (November 1989) 15, 35, 36, 215, 265, 290, 292, 340, 346, 357, 358 Veselý, Josef 32, 252, 258, 258n 1 video, home 31, 193, 194n 1, 195, 203-213, 214, 215 Vidor, King 350n 13 Vítová, Hana 108, 122, 123, 124 Vláčil, František 18, 163, 173, 252, 280 Marketa Lazarová 25, 38, 174n 14, 252, 296 Volga in Flames/Volga en flammes 56, 109 Vorlíček, Václav 19, 31, 34, 35, 180, 184, 189, 283n 9, 317–337 Arabela 35, 317, 324, 331–334, Arabela Returns / Arabela se vrací 35, 317 How to Drown Dr. Mracek, the Lawyer / Jak utopit dr. Mráčka aneb Konec vodníků v Čechách 34, 317, 324, 334 The Girl on the Broomstick / Dívka na koštěti 34, 317, 323 Three Nuts for Cinderella, aka Three Wishes for Cinderella / Tři oříšky pro Popelku 19, 34, 39, 177, 178, 190, 317, 318, 327–331, 332, 337 Who Wants to Kill Jessie? / Kdo chce zabít Jessii? 34, 317, 323–327 Voskovec, Jiří 107, 118, 284n 11 Warsaw Pact Invasion of Czechoslovakia 19, 23, 35, 175, 264, 265, 281, 298, 320, 339, 340, 348–349 Westdeutscher Rundfunk (WDR) 34, 35, 184, 317, 332–334 Weiss, Jiří 31, 32, 118, 124, 154, 163, 219–249 Werich, Jan 107, 118, 124, 284 Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 353 Witchhammer/Kladivo na čarodějnice 36, 339, 341, 349–350, 360 Wohlbrück, Adolf (Anton Walbrook) 109 World War I 25, 44, 45, 47, 103, 119, 347 World War II 21, 22, 29, 32, 105, 106, 119, 120, 125, 182, 189, 215, 219, 221, 223, 226, 228, 229, 238, 242, 272, 342, 347, 351 Yugoslavia 355 Zaentz, Saul 265, 266 Zahradníček, Jan 344, 359 Žalman, Jan 140, 168, 360 Zeman, Karel 154, 245, 353