REVIEW: DVD Release: The František Vláčil Collection

Film: The František Vláčil Collection
Release date: 13th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 430 mins
Director: František Vláčil
Starring: Josef Kemr, Magda Vásáryová, Petr Cepek, Jan Kacer, Emma Cerná
Genre: Documentary/Drama/History/Romance
Studio: Second Run
Format: DVD
Country: Czechoslovakia

Coinciding with BFI Southbank’s František Vláčil Season, the rehabilitation of the Czech filmmaker’s cinema continues with the release of this box set, containing three of his greatest films alongside Tomáš Hejtmánek’s documentary.

For too long František Vláčil has been overshadowed by his internationally better-known compatriots Miloš Forman and Miklós Jancsó. Though often compared to the cinematic giants of the 20th century, he remains a generally unknown figure outside his homeland. His films contain elements reminiscent of the great visionary directors (from the poetic lyricism of Tarkovsky to the textural richness of Kurosawa, from Bergman’s existential mysticism to Welles’ epic grandeur), but Vláčil’s vision was always distinctly and unmistakably his own. The achievements of Vláčil in three extraordinary films released between 1967 and 1969 guarantee his place among the true greats of international cinema.


Marketa Lazarová (1967)
Adapted from Vladislav Vančura’s 1931 avant-garde novel, Vláčil’s 13th century historical epic deals principally with the conflict between the rival Kozlik and Lazar clans, and the doomed love affair between Mikolaš Kozlik and Marketa Lazarová…

Vláčil’s masterpiece, and a film which manages to explore more ideas and themes than most directors approach in a lifetime. With scenes depicting wild pagan rites, incest, rape and numerous brutal acts of violence, it would seem exploitative in the hands of a lesser artist, but such is our immersion in Vláčil’s painstakingly recreated world that it never feels in any way sensational. By filtering our viewpoint almost entirely through the eyes, thoughts and feelings of the characters, the film allows us to inhabit a world where we take as perfectly natural that a family should believe they are descended from werewolves, a father avert a curse by dismembering his son’s arm, or the heroine fall in love with her rapist.

Vláčil had spoken of the sense he got from most historical films was of watching contemporary people merely dressed up in historical costumes. In order to avoid this pitfall in his own picture, the director relocated his cast to the depths of the Šumava forest for a two year period of preparation, where they were put to constructing the various sets with traditional implements, living in period clothes and speaking in the dialects of the time. As a result, the acting feels less like performance, and more as though the actors are living and breathing their respective roles.

As dedicated to historical veracity as Marketa Lazarová is, Vláčil’s films were also intended as dialogues with their own times - with themes of paganism vs. Christianity/organised religion, German vs. Czech, the film is open to political interpretation. That the powers that be did take this view would eventually result in Vláčil’s cinematic output being severely restricted in the years to come.

With its extensive cast, and constant dislocations in time and perspective, it can be a difficult, often confusing watch, and you may only get your bearings about an hour into its 159 minute running time. Stick with it, though, and it rewards you with astonishing imagery, and a depth that is as visceral and emotional as it is intellectual.

Voted the best Czech film of all time by a survey of the country’s critics in 1998, it has been described elsewhere as one of the greatest films ever made about the Middle Ages. More than that, it is simply one of the finest films produced in the history of world cinema. A staggering achievement.


The Valley Of The Bees (1967)
Also set in the 13th century, the story was written in collaboration with the novelist Vladimír Körner, and deals with the conflict between human nature and dogmatism.

After years of hardship within a society founded on the precept that suffering is the way to God, Ondřej makes his escape from the Order of the Teutonic Knights and returns to his homeland, only to be tracked down by the zealous Armin, tasked with bringing the prodigal son back to the Order…

Opening with the image of a beehive and the busy drones working within, it’s easy to draw a parallel with the politics of Vláčil’s time, and after Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky, it’s almost impossible to view a film featuring Teutonic Knights without thinking of the 20th century aggressions of Nazi Germany.

It’s a far more straightforward film in terms of its chronological structure than Marketa Lazarová, and while not quite as daring in its aesthetics, it still contains some breathtaking images. There is beauty both in the austerity of the Baltic coastal setting and in contrasting scenes set in Bohemia that contain a vibrancy and use of light that shines through the black-and-white film. Some of the most memorable images are also some of the most horrific (a deserter knight thrown into a pit of savage dogs played out like a nightmarish ballet, or a sword fight set against a backdrop of smoking kilns).

Again, Vláčil manages his trick of immersing us in a world almost unrecognisable from our own, allowing us to identify with characters even when their actions appear inexplicable by a modern understanding. When Armin is compelled to his shocking act of violence towards the end of the picture, it seems beyond comprehension and yet also perfectly in keeping with the film’s logic and internal conflicts. It may appear an alien world, but in a 21st century still plagued by dogmatism and religious fanaticism, it is one we must finally recognise as our own.

The Valley Of The Bees possibly suffers through inevitable comparisons with Vláčil’s previous piece, but it remains an immensely powerful work in its own right. Had Vláčil only produced this one film, it would be enough to assure his reputation as a director of singular genius.


Adelheid (1969)
Another Körner collaboration, this time set in the aftermath of WWII and depicting the relationship between a Czech lieutenant who is assigned a manor house on the Czech-German border and Adelheid, daughter of its previous Nazi owner, who is allocated to him as a servant.

The first film to address the brutal post-war expulsion of the ethnic Sudeten German population from Bohemia and Moravia, it remains a taboo subject for many Czechs even today…

This was Vláčil’s first colour film, and if it perhaps lacks the ravishing beauty of his medieval works, there is still much to admire. Vláčil’s gift for evocative landscapes and expertly framed images remains in tact, wonderfully demonstrated by one scene as Adelheid returns to the manor house beneath an archway of snow covered trees. His camera has neither lost its ability to find beauty in images that should rightfully inspire horror (the bars of a cage, allegedly used by the Nazi Heinemann to torture prisoners, reflected in a puddle).

On the surface, the story would seem to deal with yet another doomed love affair; but it is less about love than in it is about a basic human need to connect - one constantly frustrated, in Vláčil’s film, by ideological and historical divisions. In a world in which even this fundamental need is repeatedly stifled, the possibility for love seems very distant indeed.

It is Vláčil’s most heart-wrenchingly sad film; mining a deep well of loneliness and pain, ably captured by the naturalistic performances of its two co-leads. Adelheid’s apparent stoicism masks an inner turmoil that even the most psychologically resilient would struggle to bear (her father awaits execution, her brother presumed dead in Russia - her future, like that of most Germans, appears a bleak one). The clearly (perhaps terminally) unwell Lieutenant Chotovicky is drawn to Adelheid mainly because he has no-one else in the world, as he admits during the almost unbearably poignant final scene between them. When he wakes up to Adelheid after they’ve presumably made love and says: “Now I am home,” it is an ambivalent moment. The manor house he occupies is really no more home for Chotovicky than it is for Adelheid.

Closer in feel and appearance to the humanist films generally associated with Czech cinema of the period, Adelheid forms a link with Vláčil’s other films through its dense network of poetic imagery and symbolism that achieves an effect closer to that of poetry or literature. A very human and deeply moving picture.


Sentiment (2003)
Tomás Hejtmánek's documentary on Vláčil is sourced from interviews conducted before the director’s death, which are re-enacted by the actor Jirí Kodet. It intertwines sketches from Vláčil’s life, the memories of his colleagues and abstract shots of his film’s original landscapes, to create a documentary film quite unlike anything you may have seen before…

Hejtmánek’s film is marked by a sense of absence and loss more than anything, most pertinently that of the late director that is its subject. Belying the suggestion of its title, it is, in fact, the most unsentimental of tributes, achieving by means of it a greater sense of poignancy.

It neither attempts to fully explain nor simplify its subject, be that the artist or his films. It can’t be considered an introduction to Vláčil’s cinema (having very little to say about the films, and actually requiring a prior familiarity with them to make it work). Instead, it presents a great artist simply as a man, unapologetically and with all his contradictions. Assuming the words spoken by Kodet are, in fact, Vláčil’s, it reveals a man as difficult as he was brilliant. It is, at times, very funny, as when he rants against an unseen assistant of Hejtmánek’s, referring to him as “that mute automaton,” in spite of Hejtmánek’s attempts to explain the poor man’s shyness is only because he feels intimidated in the presence of Vláčil. But there are other times when his conversation becomes quite moving, when he talks about the break-up of his marriage or his gangster son. Another theme that constantly comes up in his conversation is his craving for solitude, but then he tells a story about the deep loneliness he felt while hospitalised in China, or even, more touchingly when he thanks Hejtmánek for providing him with someone to talk to. Kodet’s performance, it should be said, is excellent, and it never feels like we are actually watching an actor.

Interspersed with these re-enacted interviews are shots of the locations used for key scenes in Marketa Lazarová, The Valley Of The Bees, and Adelheid, sometimes with the original actors returning, now aged almost beyond recognition. Often when documentaries about films return to locations, they’re barely recognisable, a McDonalds or a Starbucks where a location once stood. Vláčil’s locations remain largely unchanged, and even without the clips of dialogue and sound Hejtmánek sometimes overlays, these landscapes seem haunted still by the ghosts of Vláčil’s cinema. The technique is repeated most poignantly when the camera pans over Vláčil’s empty apartment.

It can be quite bleak. As Vláčil asks why some were recognised while he was passed by, the film seems to question the ultimate reward for an under-appreciated artist approaching the end of his days. The answer lies in a remarkable body of work that assures the immortality of Vláčil’s cinema and, through it, that of the artist himself.

An unusual documentary that does not tell us anything so much as it makes us feel - one less about facts than it is about emotion. Its title, then, is an apt one. A fine tribute to a truly great director.


Though issue could be taken with the decision to include in the box set three films already available in their present format (two of which Second Run released only this year), the highly reasonable price makes it a minor quibble taking into account the inclusion of Hejtmánek’s documentary. If you are unfamiliar with the cinema of František Vláčil, this collection cannot come recommended enough. A strong contender for box set release of the decade. GJK

REVIEW: DVD Release: Adelheid

Film: Adelheid
Release date: 23rd August 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 98 mins
Director: Frantisek Vlácil
Starring: Petr Cepek, Emma Cerná, Jan Vostrcil, Jana Krupicková, Pavel Landovský
Genre: Drama/Romance
Studio: Second Run
Format: DVD
Country: Czechoslovakia

In his first attempt at a colour film, director Frantisek Vlácil transports us by means of a train journey to Czechoslovakia where we are met with the repercussions of World War Two. A love tale with peril written all over it; Komer exemplifies the misfortunes which war carries to the table and how in its attempt to reconstruct minor faults of the world, war can end up hindering and reproducing them further. But will the two unlikely protagonists beat the odds in an unhopeful world with a happy ever after?

The story is led by one of two central characters Lieutenant Victor Chotovicky, a Czech soldier on his return journey from duty with the British RAF who we learn is somewhat of a rebel when he refuses to obey the orders of head officers on the railway, and, as a consequence, becomes involved in a brawl. It becomes clear that Chotovicky is not your average man as he takes no nonsense from anyone and battles for his privileges.

The nostalgic opening sequence is shot beautifully with idyllic views of the Czechoslovakian countryside accompanied by sombre yet hopeful music akin to those of religious melodies. From commencement onwards the film takes a poignant yet buoyant approach.

Chotovicky finds a slightly run down mansion, prior residence of the powerful and dangerous Hansgeorg Heidenmann, where he decides to make a habitat for himself. One morning he is awakened by the sound of scrubbing, and, in an attempt to reclaim what he now considers his, he approaches the ‘intruder’ armed, demanding to know how she got in and her motives. The woman, whom we learn is Adelheid Heidenmannová, knows the building well as she is the daughter of Heidenmann, and is now reduced to servitude as a consequence of her father’s terrible war time actions...


‘Adelheid’ comes from the old German name ‘Adalheidis’, which means nobility. Adelheid herself, along with Vlácil’s plot, reflects individual nobility and the attempts to regain human dignity in a time where all notions of such givens had vanished.

Patently, the mystifyingly demure German woman captivates Chotovicky from the moment they meet, and a yearning obsession quickly develops. Chotovicky acts rapidly in requesting to Sergeant Henja that Adelheid stay with him when she is supposed to return to the camp, where she can act as a servant to his every need. The film’s scenes from here are mainly filmed within the former dwelling of the Heidenmann’s, where the Lieutenant’s feelings for Adelheid increase, although it is not clear whether Adelheid reciprocates these emotions wholly or complies with the idealistic encounters required in order to fullfill her duties.

There are brief moments of joy and anticipation in Vladimir Komer’s novel turned film but nothing extravagantly amorous is said or acted upon to prove the two are in sync and especially in dual love with each other, although this coyness may be a result of the language barrier. Adelheid remains rather numb to the affair, although not against it - evident when she obeys Victor’s practiced German order: “Go to my room and wait for me in my bed,” whereas Chotovicky seems to be in love with her, or at least in lust, when he utters the tender words after they make love: “Now I am home.”

Romantics rejoice - this film is a sure fire way to get your passionate juices a-flowing; you will laugh and perhaps cry, but during the entire screening hope for a blissful ending for both Victor and Adelheid (optimistically, together). The emotional tale shows love at its strongest and at its weakest - how love can trap people and how it can set people free. We see the two leading roles become intertwined with one another, although on different levels, and for varying reasons, exemplifying a truly doomed and perhaps even forbidden love story.

Although the film deserves great credit for its plot, actors’ skills and devotion to characters, the only negative aspect is the poor cinematography in one of the first few scenes where Chotovicky takes a blow to the head and stumbles rather pathetically and unconvincingly to the ground. This laughable ‘fighting’ scene comes across as mediocre in comparison to the rest of the film where no major errors seem to occur apart from a few dubbing faults.

There is a recurring theme of loneliness concerning all characters involved. Lieutenant Chotovicky’s solitude is evident as he has no family, partner or home, and very few personal belongings. Adelheid’s aloneness is stemmed from her lack of family also, and how her life has changed significantly from riches to rags. Even minor characters like the Sergeant and his second in command show signs of being forlorn. Scenes concerning the Sergeant epitomise his dreary life with drink and dreams; he drinks alongside his officers and they talk somewhat bitterly about what others have and what they would desire in their monotonous lives.
This is further highlighted in one early scene where a German girl talks to Victor about her shortcomings. The story is a good historic account of the effects on an individual’s personal, physical and mental health as a result of living throughout a war of any kind. It is as though the bitterness of war stands in the way of love, or any feeling for Adelheid - perhaps the trauma of her father’s case is too much for her, and she resents the politics that remain.

Another huge element which is very hard to neglect is the running theme of sexual longing and frustration. Most characters make reference to sex; whether about themselves personally or about someone else on screen, and small, easily missed glances or quick passing phrases would indicate a cast wishing for some passion and/or companionship in life. However, the sexual chemistry is depicted mostly between Adelheid and Victor Chotovicky.


In Adelheid, the well selected cast and Vlácil’s fine directing skills have the ability to make the audience experience the same emotions they do - we feel the loneliness, the bouts of happiness and the relevant sensations at the end. A fine piece of cinema, especially for its time, and one which truly represents casualties of war. VMF

REVIEW: DVD Release: Marketa Lazarova

Film: Marketa Lazarova

Release date: 3rd December 2007

Certificate: 15

Running time: 173 mins

Director: Frantisek Vlacil

Starring: Josef Kemr, Frantisek Velecky, Magda Vasaryova, Vladimir Mensik, Zdenek Kryzanek

Genre: Drama

Studio: Second Run

Format: DVD
Country: Czechoslovakia

Voted the best Czech film of all time by a survey of critics in 1998, Frantisek Vlacil’s 13th century historical epic Marketa Lazarova remains an unfairly neglected film in this country, although it was reissued in 2007 by Second Run.

Adapted from Vladislav Vancura’s 1931 novel, the film is divided into two major sections: Straba (Straba the Werewolf) and Beránek Bozi (The Holy Lamb/Agnus Dei). In Straba, we are introduced to the two Kozlik brothers, Mikolas and Adam, as they launch a savage attack on a Saxon count and his retinue. In the hope of ransom, Mikolas kidnaps Kristian, the young son of the Saxon count, but succeeds only in bringing down the wrath of royal authority and the displeasure of his own father. Old Kozlik, responding to a royal edict calling for the pursuit of his clan, orders Mikolas to enlist Lazar, head of a rival bandit clan, in setting an ambush for the commander of the king’s army. Instead, Mikolas is attacked and left for dead by Lazar’s simple-minded kinsfolk. The Kozlik sons soon return to claim their revenge, abducting Lazar’s daughter Marketa and leaving her father nailed to the gates of his burning fortress. At a secret woodland hideout, Marketa is raped by Mikolas.

In Beranek Bozi, the introduction of the wandering monk Bernard helps to tie the increasingly diverse plot elements together, which include the death of Adam at the hands of the king’s troops, and a horrific battle with the Kozliks that ends with young Kristian going insane.

In the final section, the plot begins to come more sharply into focus as the relationship between Marketa and Mikolas grows into one of love, and the net begins to finally draw in around the Kozlik clan…


The most immediately striking aspect of Marketa Lazarova is the way in which it immerses us into its world with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. Vlacil’s dedication to the historical mise-en-scène, and the manner in which it transports the viewer into a world so remote from our own, both temporally and spiritually, is quite staggering. The intensive period of preparation and research that preceded the shooting undoubtedly accounts for much of the film’s veracity to the era. Vlacil relocated his cast and film crew to the Sumava forest for two years, where they were put to constructing the various sets using traditional methods and implements. He also drew on anthropological studies, dressed his cast in authentic clothes, and had them speak in the dialects of the era. For a film emanating from the Czechoslovakia of 1967, it is remarkably untainted by the politics of its own time, occupying a space as far removed from social realist propaganda as it does from the romanticism of the Hollywood historical epic.

The world of Marketa Lazarova is one we are not so much invited, as thrust into. At no point does the director invite us to see this world in any other way than through the eyes, beliefs, and feelings of the film’s characters. Vlacil often uses the viewpoints of relatively minor characters, such as Bernard or Kozlik’s feral children, to give the story a grounded point-of-view perspective. The technique is reinforced by the visual motif of peering eyes, watching the fearful events unfold before them.

From a cinematography standpoint, this provides a chance to slip in a lot of unusual compositions. Obstructions (an overhanging branch, swaying marsh reeds, marching soldiers) force the viewer into peering through and around objects much like the characters. The camera is constantly in motion as it stalks the movements of the characters, and yet the composition never appears to be anything other than meticulously planned.

Much of the apparent difficulty of the film arises from the unconventional presentation of the narrative. The relatively simple tale is subject to constant changes in perspective, vertiginous dislocations of point-of-view constantly arising out of moments of memory and clairvoyance. Such complexity in the film’s basic structure is not mere wilful artfulness, but intrinsically linked to Vlacil’s steadfast refusal to have this world judged by contemporary standards, to allow the projection of the future present onto the past. The brutality of Mikolas only seems less extreme in the context of the escalating violence of the story. Alexandra instigates an incestuous relationship with her own brother before moving on to young Kristian. Marketa, initially raped by Mikolas, eventually falls deeply in love with him, and weds him on his deathbed. At no point is judgement allocated by the director or narrator, no matter how foreign their actions may appear to modern audiences. The initially alienating techniques employed by Vlacil paradoxically work to draws us further in, as the fractured viewpoints coalesce or contrast, deepening our understanding of the events unfolding before us, and allowing us to identify and empathise with the characters.

It is testament to the strength of Vlacil’s vision that despite its extended period of preparation and shooting, the film possesses the intensity of an almost instantaneous inspiration. Despite the variety and complexity of the film’s visual and narrative technique, Marketa Lazarova plays as a seamless whole. A strong coherent art direction works to hold the piece together – from the poetic menagerie of animal images (the raven, the snake, the deer, the lamb; representing the hunter and the hunted) to the thematically linked costumes (the fur-covered armour and wolf-eared hood of the lupine Old Kozlik, and the woolly white snood that frames the face of the lamb-like Marketa as she returns home from the convent). A highly elliptical and fractured narrative is held together by the painterly beauty of the cinematography, and the uniform excellence of the acting. Special mention must go here to the young Magda Vasaryova’s utterly convincing portrayal of Marketa’s passage from child-like naivety to steely fatalism, as well as to the appropriately ferocious performance of Josef Kemr as Old Kozlik, all animalistic violence interspersed with insane hyena-like cackles.


Admittedly a difficult work, Marketa Lazarova nevertheless deserves to rank alongside the great masterpieces of 20th century cinema. It is film that anyone with an interest in world cinema should be at pains to track down and deserves to be experienced by all who relish a challenging, even genuinely mind altering experience. GJK

REVIEW: DVD Release: The Valley Of The Bees

Film: The Valley Of The Bees
Release date: 22nd March 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 97 mins
Director: František Vláčil
Starring: Petr Cepek, Jan Kacer, Vera Galatíková, Zdenek Kryzánek
Genre: Drama
Studio: Second Run
Format: DVD
Country: Czechoslovakia

When it was originally released at home, there was something of a furore, given the Soviet’s invasion of Czechoslovakia and the political spin given to the film’s theme – this all-new digital transfer release, with restored picture and sound, arrived with less fuss.

The story is as simple as they come. When Ondrej is introduced to his father’s new wife, as many children would, he shows his displeasure (although few would be as creative as to hide bats in a basket of flower petals). Scaring his new mother to be enrages his father who hurls him against one of the castle’s stone walls. Fearing Ondrej’s death, his father promises to give him to god should he save his life.

Subsequently raised in a strict monastery, Ondrej (Petr Cepek) understandably decides to break free from this forced vocation (where he’s renounced his family and riches) and return home, after severe and unjust punishment following another monk’s escape attempt – he is subsequently sent to his death and fed to savage dogs – but his dedicated mentor, Armin (Jan Kacer), cannot accept his defection from the Order Of The Teutonic Knights, and sets out in fixated pursuit (“he has gone astray, but his soul will return here”)…


Visually The Valley Of The Bees is a treat, and there is breathtaking imagery throughout - from the scenery, to key scenes, including the cell door opening to reveal the retina burning power of the sun, to the impressive recreation of the times. The restored black-and-white cinematography adds to this splendour no doubt, and the beauty of the film to look at contrasts extremely with its tone.

The imagery is never more stark or powerful than in its depiction of violence – graphic and shocking, particularly for the time. Although the swordsplay/fight scene is amusingly inept, when you see dogs set upon a man, or a throat slit, it is unflinchingly sadistic and jolting.

The story itself is disconcerting enough, tackling the extremes of religion and a number of relatable side issues, including self-harm and incest (his mother ultimately becomes his bride, and she is not averse to flagellating herself in the barn from time to time).

Hardly an easy watch therefore, and perhaps overly conceited in its delivery – with messages of “suffering is the way to god” delivered by our two key protagonists lying naked in the sea early on. It’s not helped by the introduction of characters with little explanation or worth (a blind woman is happened upon by Armin, and he threatens to sever her hand if she touches him), although those that do appear put in suitably sombre performances – even if the dialogue suggests their deadpan deliveries are out of place – with Jan Kacer, in particular, suitably superior.

The constant background noise, the sound of bees (which does wear), and then the sudden shift to silence does work in the overall unnerving of the viewer, as does the deep, god-like delivery (sounding detached to the rest of the film) of the men (rarely do you see a character’s mouth move, with little eye contact between the cast, and the camera panning out whilst their voices carry great distances).

As with many of the scenes throughout (particularly the dramatically cut opening scenes that see our young lead attacked and then cradled by his father), the end packs an enormous clout, but it’s a long and morose test that only the most ardent of film fans - or a film student keen to interpret the many underlying messages - would subject themselves to.


Difficult to follow, even at its calculated dawdling pace, it’s nevertheless an inimitable piece of filmmaking, with glorious cinematography ultimately prevailing. DH