Subversive Adaptations
Czech Literature on Screen
behind the Iron Curtain
PALGRAVE STUDIES IN ADAPTATION
AND VISUAL CULTURE
Petr Bubenícek
Palgrave Studies in Adaptation and Visual Culture
Series Editors
Julie Grossman
Le Moyne College
Syracuse, NY, USA
R. Barton Palmer
Clemson University
Clemson, SC, USA
petrb@phil.muni.cz
This new series addresses how adaptation function as a principal mode of text
production in visual culture. What makes the series distinctive is not only its
focus on the various forms of visual culture as both targets and also sources
of adaptations, but also its commitment to include forms beyond film and
television, such as videogames, mobile applications, the plastic arts, interactive
fiction and film, print and non-print media, and the various manifestations of the
avant-garde. As such, the series will contribute to an expansive understanding
of adaptation as a central, but only one, form of a larger phenomenon within
visual culture. Adaptations are texts that are not singular but complexly multiple,
connecting them to other pervasive plural forms: sequels, series, genres, trilogies,
authorial oeuvres, appropriations, remakes, reboots, cycles and franchises. This
series especially welcomes studies that, in some form, treat the connection
between adaptation and these other forms of multiplicity. We also welcome
proposals that focus on aspects of theory that are relevant to the importance of
adaptation as connected to various forms of visual culture.
Advisory Board
More information about this series at
http://www.springer.com/series/14654
Sarah Cardwell, University of Kent, UK
Deborah Cartmell, De Montfort University, UK
Timothy Corrigan, University of Pennsylvania, US
Lars Ellestrom, Linnaeus University, Sweden
Kamilla Elliott, Lancaster University, UK
Christine Geraghty, University of Glasgow, UK
Helen Hanson, University of Exeter, UK
Linda Hutcheon, University of Toronto, Canada
Glenn Jellenik, University of Central Arkansas, US
Thomas Leitch, University of Delaware, US
Brian McFarlane, Monash University, Australia
Simone Murray, Monash University, Australia
James Naremore, Indiana University, US
Kate Newell, Savannah College of Art and Design, US
Laurence Raw, Baskent University, Turkey
Robert Stam, New York University, US
Constantine Verevis, Monash University, Australia
Imelda Whelehan, University of Tasmania, Australia
Shannon Wells-Lassagne, Universite de Bretagne Sud, France
petrb@phil.muni.cz
Petr Bubeníček
Subversive
Adaptations
Czech Literature on Screen behind the Iron Curtain
petrb@phil.muni.cz
Petr Bubeníček
Masaryk University
Brno, Czech Republic
Palgrave Studies in Adaptation and Visual Culture
ISBN 978-3-319-40960-3 	 ISBN 978-3-319-40961-0  (eBook)
DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017937911
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2017
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Cover Image from Karel Zeman’s The Fabulous World of Jules Verne (1958). Courtesy of
Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved.
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petrb@phil.muni.cz
For my grandfather
petrb@phil.muni.cz
vii
The beginnings of this book can be traced back to the time I spent at the
Alfried Krupp Wissenschaftskolleg Foundation in Greifswald, Germany
in 2013, where I was provided with excellent conditions for conducting
research. I then continued working on the book at the Department of
Czech Literature of Masaryk University.
I would like to extend my warmest thanks to my close colleagues at
Masaryk University, Jan Evangelista Purkyně University, and the Czech
Academy of Sciences: Stanislava Fedrová, Zuzana Fonioková, Miroslav
Kotásek, Jiří Koten, Jan Tlustý, and Petr Vokřínek, who listened to me
patiently, provided me with much advice, and altogether helped out on
this project. This book would not have been possible without the support
of Zbyněk Fišer, who allowed me the time I needed to work on
it. Special praise is owed to my wonderful students Vladimíra Derková,
Jakub Jedounek, Gabriela Sládková, and Jana Vrzalíková, whose help
in completing this book was simply invaluable. I am also indebted to
Nicholas Orsillo for his revision of the English text and for his perceptive
remarks that led me to rethinking and rewriting in many places.
I am particularly beholden to several excellent scholars: adaptation
theorist Kamilla Elliott, literary theorist Petr Steiner, aesthetician and
philosopher Jaroslav Střítecký, and literary historian Dalibor Tureček,
all of whom gave me feedback on the early drafts of this book. I would
also like to thank literary theorist Alice Jedličková for taking the time to
speak with me on multiple occasions about intermediality studies and for
Acknowledgements
petrb@phil.muni.cz
viii  Acknowledgements
attentively reading my manuscript. Film historians Jaromír Blažejovský,
Ivan Klimeš, Lukáš Skupa, Pavel Skopal, and Petr Szczepanik also helped
me out greatly along the way. Many thanks belong to Pavel Švanda for
discussing Czech film with me and for reminding me of the pivotal role
Pavel Juráček played in the 1960s.
I would also like to acknowledge the help of my colleagues who
read various parts of the book and posed some great questions:
Michal Fránek, Libuše Heczková, Pavel Janáček, Kyle Mike, Jana
Nechutová, Petr Šámal, Jiří Trávníček, and Jan Wiendel. Jiří Hanuš’s and
Jiří Knapík’s advice concerning the historical context of my book was
invaluable.
The employees of Barrandov Studio made it possible for me to access
archival materials, and for that I am grateful. Similarly, it was a pleasure
to work with Denisa Lešková at the Karel Zeman Museum.
Finally, I would like to thank my wife Broňka for her understanding
and support, and my daughter Terezka for her smiles.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
ix
Contents
1	Introduction	 1
2	 Adaptation as Subterfuge: Silvery Wind	 43
3	 Adaptation as Play: The Worlds of Jules Verne
Come Alive	 85
4	 Adaptation as Challenge: Marketa Lazarová
and Romance for Flugelhorn	 129
5	 Adaptation as a Reflection of the Zeitgeist	 169
6	Epilogue	 197
Works Cited  205
Index 217
petrb@phil.muni.cz
xi
List of Figures
Fig. 2.1	 Stříbrný vítr (Silvery Wind; Václav Krška 1954).
Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved		 66
Fig. 2.2	 Stříbrný vítr (Silvery Wind; Václav Krška 1954).
Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved		 72
Fig. 3.1	 Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne;
Karel Zeman 1958). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman.
All rights reserved		 90
Fig. 3.2	 Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne;
Karel Zeman 1958). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman.
All rights reserved		 105
Fig. 3.3	 Ukradená vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship;
Karel Zeman 1966). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman.
All rights reserved		 110
Fig. 3.4	 Ukradená vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship;
Karel Zeman 1966). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman.
All rights reserved		 117
Fig. 4.1	 Marketa Lazarová (Marketa Lazarová; František
Vláčil 1967)		 139
Fig. 4.2	 Romance pro křídlovku (Romance for Flugelhorn;
Otakar Vávra 1966)		 154
Fig. 5.1	 Žert (The Joke; Jaromil Jireš 1968)		 186
Fig. 5.2	 Žert (The Joke; Jaromil Jireš 1968)		 192
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1
The subject of this book concerns film adaptations of literary works
undertaken in Communist Czechoslovakia over the 16-year period from
1954 to 1969. This particular chunk of history was selected not only
because of its signal value for Czechoslovak cinema in general, but also
because it has, until now, remained shrouded in many myths and much
misinformation, which the present study hopes to dispel.
But the chief goal of my inquiry is to challenge the view that all
films produced by the state-controlled movie industry behind the Iron
Curtain were artistically uninspired flops whose sole raison d’être was
to expound official ideology by other means. The actual situation was
much more complex. Although Party apparatchiks did their best to mold
all film adaptations produced in Communist Czechoslovakia according
to the tried-and-true spirit of Marxism-Leninism, despite their valiant
efforts, not every movie coming out of this ideological pressure cooker
turned into a mere passive mouthpiece of doctrine emanating from high
above. Despite the daunting conditions of their origins, the best cinematic
works managed to shed, in one way or another, this oppressive
yoke, becoming instrumental agents in a gradual liberalization of the
Communist regime culminating with the Prague Spring of 1968.
Focusing on internationally celebrated films like Vynález zkázy (The
Fabulous World of Jules Verne 1958) and Marketa Lazarová (Marketa
Lazarová 1967), I will illustrate with concrete examples how the local
filmmakers managed to defy, regardless of the infelicitous political and
economic context of the 1950s and, to a lesser degree, of the 1960s, the
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
© The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0_1
petrb@phil.muni.cz
2  P. BUBENÍČEK
restrictive, flatfooted aesthetics that the one-party regime promulgated.
It was the multilayered structure of cinematic signs—visual, audio, and
verbal—that enabled adapters to imbue their renditions of well-known
literary works with ingeniously encrypted messages. To wit: if official
ideology called for a monochromic realistic simplicity (as was the case
in the 1950s), deft filmmakers subverted such a command by employing
imaginative allegories. For a sophisticated viewer always ready to venture
beyond the facile surface, such films teemed with discreet allusions
incongruous with the ruling dogma. The venerability of the adapted literary
texts—their classical status—served as a decoy that legitimized the
film in the Party establishment’s eyes, while, at the same time, provided
a convenient cover for the exhilarating heterodoxies of various kinds that
would have otherwise been censored. The only trick was to grasp the
appropriate hermeneutic key. But in this game, Czech moviegoers were
more than au fait.
Viewers were able and willing to interpret art in a manner that would
allow them to entertain the possibility of a duplicate, or antithetical,
reading. The reason for this was simple—official interpretations (the
interpretation presented by the political or school systems, etc.) did not
offer sufficient scope for their actual interpretive abilities. Adaptations
served, in more ways than one, as ideal means for subversion. I do not
mean to imply that adapters always purposefully inserted content into
their films that was—politically or otherwise—revolutionary, unconventional,
or anti-ideological, while shielding themselves with a culturally
canonized work. In fact, it is much more probable that such meanings
were often realized unwittingly, due to the logic of adaptation, which
is inherently dual. Film adaptations constantly gesture to two things at
once: adapted works and, in the case of literary film adaptations, literary
texts and cinematic devices. I do not, therefore, focus primarily on
works of art as autonomous creations carrying predetermined meanings,
whether these meanings were established by author, genre, or aesthetic
form. I am interested in the ways that a work of art functions at the
intersection of reception, culture, ideology, politics, and creativity.
Subversion, however, can also be achieved simply by focusing on,
or enhancing, a work’s aesthetic qualities. This approach was particularly
prevalent in the early 1950s when socialist norms pushed for works
rooted in ideology and political indoctrination. The Communist dictatorship
viewed anything overly artistic with suspicion (and some movements—such
as surrealism—were outright prohibited); yet at the same
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  3
time, the regime wanted to support what it perceived as the right kind of
art—that is, the kind it prescribed.
In the politically more liberal 1960s, cultural production, including
film adaptations, diversified. Adaptations from this decade not only
disturbed the socialist canon and norms and weakened official ideology,
manifesting an agitating influence on viewers, but they also addressed
social topics that did not require filmmakers to hide polemical meanings
in the way they had to in the 1950s. Even in this more liberal atmosphere,
however, the government still censored works of art, and, thus,
potentially subversive screenplays were still at risk of being considered
anti-socialist and denied production. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that
a space had opened up for autonomous artistic expression, thus allowing
some filmmakers to strive for purely aesthetic goals: to bypass ideology
and film the “unfilmable.” Did such works still express criticism or any
kind of political or social engagement, though? I will demonstrate that
some works from this period, which are nearly universally considered to
be purely aesthetic in nature, do indeed efficiently convey meanings that
are not entirely aesthetic.
The book deals with two decades set apart not only by liberalization
of the Communist dictatorship, but also by a whole range of other
social, media, and pop-culture phenomena, such as urbanization, the
building of a welfare state, the introduction and rapid spread of television,
new fashions, and Western products (e.g., the license to produce
Coca-Cola).1 Therefore, this study searches for the subversive space
between strict prohibition and ideological promotion in these adaptations.
These larger dynamics are illustrated by examining six adaptations
that demonstrate a wide variety of means of subversion and polemics; all
of these films pushed against prescribed boundaries—both aesthetic and
political—and brought something new and remarkable into the restricted
Communist culture of this period.
* * *
For years, adaptation scholars have commented on the lack of and
need for more studies of adaptation outside Anglophone traditions and
cultures; recent publication trends demonstrate a rising interest in the
discipline from an international perspective (e.g., Della Colletta 2012;
Krebs 2014). Adaptation scholars tend to focus on either formal or
cultural issues (Elliott 2014). This study, in contrast to the prevailing
dichotomization, strives to deal simultaneously with both, exploring a
workable alternative to the either/or approach to film adaptation studies,
petrb@phil.muni.cz
4  P. BUBENÍČEK
thereby informing readers of the formal as well as cultural aspects of this
important, yet understudied region and period of film adaptation.
My approach to the cinematic adaptation of works of fiction, the
reader should know, is not without its intellectual antecedents. As a literary
historian weaned on the Prague school of structuralism embodied
by Jan Mukařovský and Roman Jakobson, as well as on the phenomenological
quest for the meaning of das literarische Kunstwerk, I was initially
influenced by Seymour Chatman’s Coming to Terms: The Rhetoric
of Narrative in Fiction and Film (1990) and Brian McFarlan’s Novel to
Film: An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation (1996), works that
evaluate adaptation from a narratological perspective. The structuralist
tradition enriched this method, the way I saw it, with versatile tools for
analyzing the text’s semantic structure. And Ingardenian phenomenology
liberated me from being overly concerned with the (in)fidelity of
film adaptations to their literary sources.
In 1991, Petr Málek, drawing from the Central European phenomological
tradition, published a study entitled “K pojmu konkretizace v
literatuře a filmu” (“On Concretization in Literature and Film”), in
which he states:
If we accept the idea of a literary artefact as a reservoir of infinite, non-predetermined
concretizations, as something that is in perpetual motion and
whose meaning is constituted and reconstituted in the process of reading,
we cannot be surprised about the multiplicity of various opinions on the
“fidelity” of adaptations […]. (Málek 1991, 8,  my translation)
Málek directs attention to the ideas of Roman Ingarden, which caught
on in Europe and inspired the globally known and wide-reaching reception
theory. Drawing from the ontology of art and using the term concretization,
Málek casts doubt on simplified ideas about literature in film; he
refers to plurality of choice, varied forms of the final product, and liberty
in adaptation practice. The logic of his argument implies that any offence
taken to the form of an adaptation is futile because semiotic projects disposed
to polysemy change throughout their concretizations and artefacts
exist to be defined and interpreted by their recipients.
The phenomenological approach, however, cannot provide a complete
solution to the problem of fidelity, as it principally emphasizes the role
of the subject, be it authorial or receptive. Thus, concretization does not
constitute a true dialogue between a text and its pre-text, and further
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  5
definition does not make the artefact a joint effort of two equal part-
ners. The widespread intertextual approach is also somewhat restrictive—
Thomas Leitch points out its limitations as a methodological framework:
“[…] it makes it difficult to distinguish adaptations from other intertexts
and threatens to dissolve adaptation studies into intertextual studies”
(Leitch 2017, 5).  “All-encompassing” adaptation theory progressed further,
and included in its scope the substantial flow of modifications that
fuel not only literature and film, but culture as a whole. This interpretative
angle enabled adaptation to become a model elucidating the function
of texts in the broadest possible perspective. The formalist measures
of structuralism are, in themselves, insufficient for understanding the
interplay between media and their functions within cultural communication.
Immanent analyses of text have exhausted their potential, and
instead of an aesthetic approach, thinking about literature and film as a
social practice has emerged. In the new paradigm of adaption studies,
the artefact itself is not a sovereign or autonomous creation that exists
independently and whose structure can be described, categorized, and
expressed in general terms. Each adaptation falls within particular social,
economic, cultural and political structures.2 Signs no longer obtain
meaning by their position in a text: they are already endowed with meanings
when they enter the text. All texts are substantially influenced by
the various discourses entering into them (in the adaptations I discuss
in this book, one can observe the Marxist discourse, the “adoration of
novel” discourse, etc.). It is no longer enough to consider the deviations
from an adaptation’s textual predecessor, as these too are codetermined
by context (Hutcheon 2006, 141–167).
The new adaptation studies have changed the theoretical paradigm,
and it is not easy to navigate the labyrinth of their theoretical stimuli. I
myself have “adapted” to essentialist, structuralist, and phenomenological
approaches to text and their terminological apparatuses. Therefore,
in each chapter I shall consider how meaningful aspects are conveyed
from one semiotic system to another. I will pay attention to the poetics
of media transformations and their parallel phenomena, such as the
treatment of themes, topics, or scenes. For example the chapter devoted
to the adaptation of the poem Romance pro křídlovku (Romance for
Flugelhorn, 1962) treats verbal devices and moving images as carriers
of meaning: in it, I will show how poetry and film reveal their medium
potential by representing forms of temporality and human experience
of time in ways whose demonstrative and expressive potential is in the
petrb@phil.muni.cz
6  P. BUBENÍČEK
respective medium strongest. In this regard, my research is inspired by
continental intermedia studies.3 Lars Elleström provides a pertinent theoretical
framework in the edited volume Media Borders, Multimodality
and Intermediality (2010). In the introductory essay, Elleström develops
a theory of intermediality, in which he includes—besides the basic separation
of the visual and audio track—subtle modalities such as physical
carriers or the spatio-temporal aspects of the artefact’s inception.
How does my book understand film adaptation? A literary work
and its respective cinematic rendering, I maintain, are two equipotent, autonomous
artefacts that carry out clearly disparate functions of their own.
An adaptation, in my view, is an open dialogue between two interlocutors,
an exchange of values. In processing and interpreting the initial
meaning of the text, the audio-visual rendition modifies and develops it
according to its own needs. The transformation of a “pre-text,” it must
be stressed, is not just the function of the new medium’s material properties,
but also, among other things, of the economics of this undertaking,
of the ­institutional setup in which it takes place, and, needless to
say, of its agents’ (whether screenwriters, directors, or camera operators)
creative aspirations. The list could go on. Embedded into an ever-changing
sociocultural context, an adaptation is not an ergon, a simple task
­culminating with a finished product, but a dynamic process, an energeia,
a never-ending alloiôsis.
From the First Republic to Normalization
This book puts the individual adaptations into a broader cultural and historical
context. It focuses on the “first half” of the Communist dictatorship
in Czechoslovakia, from the coup d’état in 1948 to the Warsaw Pact
invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 and the beginnings of what is known
as normalization. I shall call attention not only to the consequences of
the Communists’ rise to power and Czechoslovakia’s inclusion in the
Eastern Bloc on cultural and social life in the country but also the ways
in which contemporary society dealt with the single-party rule of the
Communists. I aim to define the contours of the regime. However, there
is an additional layer of interpretation concerning the period that follows
the shift from “big history” to common day-to-day life. The people with
whom this book is concerned—directors, screenwriters, and writers—
faced various obstacles and barriers put up by the Communist bureaucracy
in their work, the products of which were subsequently subjected
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  7
to ideological readings; and yet they were still able to navigate the political
waters and negotiate with the regime in order to bring their artistic
visions to life. Some of these people were born in the times of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire and started their careers during the interwar
years of the First Czechoslovak Republic; thus, they carried within themselves
a certain professional and artistic continuity with the pre-Communist
cultural scene. The Communists, in their attempts to purify the
country, failed to erase people’s memories of the First Republic’s economic,
social, and cultural advances; political plurality; and a high-quality
education system. In the end, it was obvious that even enormous, collective,
socialist projects could not have been done without the creativity
and critical thinking that had been instilled in people in earlier, more liberal
times. By emphasizing the social reality, I hope to avoid a stereotypical
interpretation of the national narrative that would reflect only upon
major historical events (such as the Communist takeover in 1948 and its
political ramifications). Finally, I examine national identity, an issue that
remained topical even after the introduction of the “international” ideology
of Marxism-Leninism.
To properly explain what happened in Czechoslovakia after World War
II, a broader historical overview is in order. The country gained its independence
after the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1918,
when the First Czechoslovak Republic was established. In the following
20 years, a democratic political system and liberal culture were built up.
Interwar Czechoslovakia was a democratic Central European state conceptually
based on the French and US democratic systems that strived
for a national order based on the Swiss model. Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk,
a philosopher and statesman, and subsequently the first president of
Czechoslovakia, played a major role in establishing the country’s independence.
The creation of independent Czechoslovakia was largely aided
by the Czech anti-Habsburg national movement, which manifested itself
by the rise of the Czechoslovak Legions during the First World War. The
accomplishments achieved by Czechoslovak troops on the Eastern Front
bolstered the idea of creating a new republic.
The First Republic was characterized not only by a prosperous economy
and a cultural boom, but also by unresolved nationalist struggles
and social issues. Czechoslovakia was not only home to Czechs and
Slovaks, but Germans, Poles, Hungarians, and Ruthenians as well. As the
“minority issue” was largely inherited from the Austro-Hungarian monarchy,
the First Republic is sometimes referred to as a “little Austria.”
petrb@phil.muni.cz
8  P. BUBENÍČEK
Czechoslovakia was home to an extensive German-language minority,
which in large part did not identify with the nominally Slavic state’s
political order and approached the new republic with worry and distrust.
The Czech political elites attempted to achieve contented coexistence
between various ethnic groups by constitutionally establishing civic equality.
Nevertheless, the German minority was long reluctant to accept the
idea of the new republic. Ethnic Germans became involved in the political
establishment only in the late 1920s, when the German Christian Social
People’s Party and the German Farmers’ League became a part of Prime
Minister Anotnín Švehla’s third government (cf. Rokoský 2011, 123–
124). However, the Czech majority dominated the country linguistically
and bureaucratically, with Slavs holding most positions in public administration,
the gendarmerie, and the army. The First Republic never fully
resolved the issues of internal Czech-German relations, as became evident
after 1933, when the German inhabitants of the Sudetenland radicalized
in the wake of Hitler’s rise to power in neighboring Germany and
Konrad Henlein’s Sudetendeutsche Partei was founded. Masaryk’s democratic
program gradually became a liberal-patriarchal national democracy.
Henlein’s party demanded a resolution to the Sudeten German national
issue—among other things, it “asked for territorial autonomy for the
German inhabitants of the Czech Lands based on national status and for
the national group of Sudetenland Germans to be recognized as a corporation
with public law and united representation, which transcended the
constitutional framework of the republic” (Rokoský 2011, 245, my translation).
As the government could not gratify those demands, Henlein
attempted to generate international pressure, mainly from the UK and
France. His requests were supported by the German establishment, as
Hitler saw Henlein and his politics as a convenient instrument for eventually
breaking up Czechoslovakia (cf. Rokoský 2011, 298). The build-up
of Henlein’s demands and international pressure, and the Czechoslovak
government’s unsuccessful attempts at compromise and maintaining
peace, culminated in the Munich Agreement.
In September 1938 four powerful European heads of state—Neville
Chamberlain, Édouard Daladier, Adolf Hitler, and Benito Mussolini—
met in Munich where they signed an agreement in which they jointly
demanded that Czechoslovakia surrender almost 40% of its land inhabited
largely by a German-speaking population to Hitler’s Reich (cf.
Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 18). The First Republic’s democracy, however,
was not toothless, and the army was prepared to defend the country.
Czechoslovakia had been preparing for the possible conflict, building
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  9
defensive systems with a realistic sense of the dangers their country
could potentially face. In addition to physical defenses, however, the
country relied on a system of alliances, mainly with the UK and France,
ones though that had broken down. Czechoslovakia’s second president
Edvard Beneš found himself in a difficult situation in the autumn
of 1938 (when also confronted with Poland’s and Hungary’s territorial
demands) and saw no other way forward than surrendering to the great
powers’ demands on Czechoslovakia’s territory. Together the shocking
behavior of Czechoslovakia’s Western allies, the transfer of power
over the annexed territories to Nazi Germany, and the withdrawal of
Czechoslovak troops from their borderland fortifications, which had
been constructed as a line of defense against Hitler’s Germany, took profound
root in the nation’s collective memory. The “Munich Betrayal,”
as the agreement is often referred to by the Czechs to this day, subsequently
formed a convenient justification for the Czechs to transfer their
loyalties towards the East: “The experience of Munich gravely damaged
Czech willingness to rely on the West for the state’s security, which manifested
itself in Czechoslovakia’s close military alliance with the Soviet
Union” (Abrams 2004, 157). In signing the Munich Agreement, the
European powers had effectively abandoned Czechoslovakia. With the
loss of such a large amount of territory, the economy took a major hit
(weakened agriculture and industry, steep rise in unemployment), as did
the country’s transportation infrastructure; rump Czechoslovakia also
had to contend with an influx of Czech refugees from the Sudetenland.
Another substantial problem was posed by the effective non-existence of
Czechoslovak borders, which were not internationally recognized during
the Second Republic (i.e., from October 1938 until early March 1939).
Despite the Czechoslovak government’s efforts to define and legitimize
the state’s boundaries, the signatories of the Munich Agreement
prevented any such action. Both France and the UK demanded that
Czechoslovakia reach an agreement with Germany concerning its border
even though Germany had no interest in an agreement, all the while
escalating its demands on Czechoslovakia (cf. Rokoský 2011, 387).
The Second Republic brought along with it a significant transformation
in the political and social atmosphere of Czechoslovakia, as
the Masarykian model of democracy was replaced by an “authoritative
democracy” (cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 45–47 and 69–88, my
translation). The principle fallout of the Munich Agreement was emotional:
disillusionment, disappointment, uncertainty, and anger gave rise
to doubts about the very legitimacy of a sovereign Czechoslovak state
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10  P. BUBENÍČEK
(cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 34). Antagonism towards Masarykian
democracy intensified amongst those who had been radicalized preMunich
(radicalization took place across the entire political spectrum; cf.
srov. Klimek 2002, 669–670, Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 34–49.) Soon
an alternative reading of the failure of Czechoslovak interwar politics was
established. This interpretation included the assumption that the unfavorable
situation in which the republic had found itself was caused by
Masaryk, Beneš, and their collaborators. This reading did not reflect
the reality of the situation, but rather was an expression of general helplessness
and anger. It was nonetheless enforced when President Beneš
retreated into exile in Britain. The failure of the hitherto functioning
liberal-democratic state was proclaimed, and calls for “restructuring”
and “simplifying” politics spread through the country. At the helm of
change were nationalist-conservative political fractions, which sought to
establish a regime that would eliminate the “chaos” of democracy (cf.
Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 37 and 46). The existing plurality of political
parties was reduced to two new political groupings: the governing Party
of National Unity and the National Labor Party, which was supposed to
play the role of a loyal, state-building opposition party (cf. Gebhart and
Kuklík 2006, 65). This authoritarian order was presumed to aid in overcoming
a period of uncertainty and weakness, but instead it ushered in
“a long period [marked by a] lack of liberty wherein collided the two
basic phenomena that permeate [Czech] twentieth-century history: the
phenomenon of democratic development and the phenomenon of totalitarian
social and political development. The clash between, and (at the
same time) the intertwining of, elements of continuity and discontinuity
with previous historical development formed an integral part of this collision”
(Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 34, my translation).
The fact that Czechoslovakia’s various nationalities did not fully identify
with the new republic ultimately manifested itself in the creation of
the Slovak Republic (also known as the Slovak State). This event was
in direct denial of the idea of Czechoslovakism that proclaimed Czechs
and Slovaks were of the same nationality. The decentralizing tendencies
of Slovakia were expressed by the gradual emergence of various
political parties seeking autonomy, greater participation in decisionmaking,
and the strengthening of local government. Such calls had
been made throughout the existence of the country, intensifying in the
1930s in particular. (The roots of these tendencies even stretch back
to the founding of Czechoslovakia, as at the time Slovaks’ expectations
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1 INTRODUCTION  11
differed from those of the Czechs.) It was therefore made apparent
that Czechoslovakism was not embraced by all members of the multinational
republic (as confirmed much later by the definitive dissolution
of Czechoslovakia in 1993). One of Czechoslovakism’s most significant
problems was the imperial nature of Czech state-building efforts. Czech
teachers were sent to “backwards Slovakia” in order to make Slovaks into
a more cultured nation: they promoted education, enforced the state
apparatus, and founded the university in Bratislava. After Munich, radical
Slovak political groups harnessed these long-standing tendencies in
the struggle for national autonomy, which was eventually won under
significantly contentious conditions: on 14 March 1939 (following the
visit of Jozef Tiso, the head of the autonomous Slovak government,
to Hitler) Slovak politicians declared a sovereign state, which immediately
became a client republic of Hitler’s Germany. The Slovak secession
from Czechoslovakia under such conditions clearly demonstrated
the strength of the Slovaks’ desire for self-determination. Following
the secession of the Slovak lands, the only remaining non-Czech area
in Czechoslovakia—Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia—was occupied by the
Hungarian army and later claimed by Romania.
The separation of Slovakia weakened the Czechs’ position.
Government officials assumed they would be able to negotiate new
diplomatic relations and establish peaceful co-existence; however, on
the night of 14 March 1939, the German army entered Czech territory.
The following day, Hitler presented President Hácha with a proposal
for conditions of annexation, and Hácha, with no other options,
accepted. On 16 March, the creation of the Protectorate of Bohemia and
Moravia was officially declared (cf. Gebhart a Kuklík 2006, 169–178).
The social, economic, and cultural conditions of life in the Protectorate
were dictated by Nazi Germany. In the first 2 years under Nazi rule,
with the German censors yet unable to grasp the stylistic nuances of the
Czech language, allegories, and the symbolism of certain pieces of art
(cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 482), Czech national culture experienced
a considerable upswing, which was all the while condoned by the official
establishment. Various ceremonies celebrating the nation’s cultural
life were conducted—among them were the re-interment of the remains
of Romantic poet K.H. Mácha at Prague’s Vyšehrad Cemetery, the
remembrance of the 55th anniversary of Bedřich Smetana’s death, and
a memorial ceremony dedicated to medieval church reformer Jan Hus
(attendance at religious pilgrimages rose steeply as well). These events
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12  P. BUBENÍČEK
molded public opinion: society not only saw their symbolic meaning but
also regarded them as an expression of national resistance towards the
occupation (cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 480–481).
In an effort to control Czech public and social life, the occupiers
attempted to discredit the Czech intelligentsia in the eyes of the rest
of society. Members of the intellectual elite were principally involved in
trying to salvage Czech national identity and to defend Czech society
and culture from Germanization. However, “attempts at isolating, discrediting,
and persecuting Czech intellectual and creative elites incited
an adverse reaction in the Protectorate public. Endeavours to create an
influential group within the intelligentsia that would be willing to collaborate
with the regime and that would identify itself with the ideas of
the national-socialist New Europe failed to elicit a substantial response—
those who did respond [such as Protectorate Minister of Education
Emanuel Moravec], were largely rejected by the public” (Gebhart and
Kuklík 2006, 508, my translation). The German fear of the intelligentsia
manifested itself early on: in the autumn of 1939, the occupiers closed
Czech universities. Germanization and the cultivation of loyalty towards
the Reich were realized at the primary and secondary levels of schooling.
The occupiers sought to seize power over the school system, which was
meant to play a key role in re-educating Czech youth with Nazi ideals
(cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2006, 536–537).
The situation of the Czechs under the Protectorate grew considerably
worse after martial law was declared on 27 May 1942 following the
assassination of Reichsprotektor Reinhard Heydrich. Over 1500 people
were executed (among them were General Alois Eliáš, who served as
prime minister from 1939 to 1942, and the writer Vladislav Vančura),
and the villages of Lidice and Ležáky were burned to the ground. The
occupiers took advantage of the situation to further decimate the ranks
of the Czech intelligentsia, as one-fifth of their numbers were killed,
including university professors, judges, teachers, engineers, architects,
physicians, writers, and clerics (cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2007, 145). After
1942, art could no longer exhibit nationalistic tendencies, and the political
events of the time caused many artists to withdraw from public life.
Theater was likewise affected—over the course of just a few months
starting on 1 September 1944, theaters were effectively closed and performers
were conscripted for forced labor (cf. Gebhart and Kuklík 2006,
514). These complex conditions had an impact on Czech society and
cultural life until the end of the war.
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1 INTRODUCTION  13
The short but crucial period that falls in between the liberation of
Czechoslovakia and the establishment of the Communist regime (1945–
1948) is habitually referred to as the Third Republic. In the once-againsovereign
Czechoslovakia, the parliamentary political system was not
renewed to its interwar degree and the republic operated in a state of a
somewhat diminished democracy. The influence of the political Left and
Moscow increased, democratic parties withdrew to the background, and
the Communists infiltrated both social and cultural institutions. These
developments, along with the changing geopolitical situation, contributed
to shifts within society and public opinion. The Yalta Conference of
February 1945 had serious consequences for Central Europe, which was
subsequently split in half by the Iron Curtain (cf. Trávníček 2010, 269).
A newly emergent idea (which was accepted by the public) postulated
that the USSR defeated not only Nazi Germany, but also the treachery
of capitalism. The disillusionment that was once felt over the real politics
of the USSR (e.g., the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact) disappeared from the
public’s collective memory. In the postwar period, Czechoslovaks aspired
to rebuild the country in a new, collective manner and thus achieve a
more just society. This enthusiasm was seized upon by radical groups,
and this combination of enthusiasm and political radicalism significantly
contributed to the overwhelming victory of the Communist Party in the
elections of May 1946. The Communists’ success lay in their ability to
provide the public with a new perspective and to convince people that
the capitalist system had failed. They therefore managed to garner significant
support for their own vision of a postwar political transformation
that would result in an affluent country and lead towards a “bright
tomorrow” for all of society. Two years later the Communists would
fully consolidate control and establish a dictatorship.
In 1948, the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia gained absolute
power that it would hold for the next 41 years, and the state and its
inhabitants fell firmly under the Soviet sphere of influence. The takeover
marked the beginning of an experiment whose goal was to establish
a social order based on social equality. Instead, the brutal period
of Stalinism, the darkest era in postwar Czechoslovak history, ensued.
Nowadays, it is very difficult to imagine this period’s atmosphere and its
pointedly political, propagandist discourse. The power elites of the time
excused their actions by referring to their historical mission; they were
acting for the greater good—an equal society, progress, and well-being—
goals that were to be achieved by any means necessary, including mental,
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14  P. BUBENÍČEK
physical, and material oppression and the destruction of the “enemies of
the state.”
Shortly after the Communists came to power, they enacted measures
to consolidate their power over all areas of social and cultural life.
Between 1948 and 1953 (the Stalinist era), the Party completely restructured
the state establishment and the means of economic control. The
Communist dictatorship was built upon a hostile view of the world,
sought out its enemies, and acted ruthlessly against those it identified,
including former democratic politicians, soldiers who fought alongside
the Western Allied forces, clergymen, and many others. Revolution
devours its children, however: even some of the highest-ranking establishment
officials were persecuted. In 1951, a spectacular show trial was
held that resulted in the death penalty for Rudolf Slánský, the General
Secretary of the Communist Party, who had actively participated in
unleashing violence and terror after the 1948 takeover. By the early
1950s, the political trials, executions, and repressions against the country’s
inhabitants had produced an atmosphere of fear.
Until recently, Czech historians viewed 1948, when the Communists
executed their takeover, as a great, insurmountable chasm in modern
Czechoslovak history that severed what had preceded it with what came
after. However, newer works, which examine the concept of totalitarianism,
have focused on the links between the domestic political events of
the late 1930s (and World War II) and the beginnings of the Communist
dictatorship; these studies differ from the earlier stereotypical interpretations
(which were often concerned only with power structures, repression,
and state-organized violence) and strict periodization. Historians
have analyzed contemporary sources and documents to produce studies
of everyday life under Communism and how individuals “negotiated”
with the reigning regime; in doing so, they have revealed a clear post-
1948 continuity with the social reality of earlier times. Today, historians
focus in particular on society’s role in the Communist project. Jiří Knapík
and Martin Franc describe how collective models of behavior, such as
eating in unison at workplace canteens, were supported and encouraged
under the Protectorate (Knapík and Franc 2011, 21). They also point to
similarities in the ethos of building a “new state” and the glorification of
workers in heavy industry (which was present during the Protectorate).
These authors have also taken an interest in childhood and adolescence.
In their most recent research, they try to demonstrate that a number of
traditional values continued to be passed down through families; despite
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1 INTRODUCTION  15
the regime’s attempts to control children’s extracurricular activities, these
values survived into the 1960s, when they could then be further cultivated
under more liberal conditions. Furthermore, they point out that
the regime—after its initial radical endeavours—never let the generational
divide become too prominent. The motto “Youth Forward” had its limits;
indeed, older, more conservative elements of society, primarily consisting
of workers, regularly held the youth back (Franc 2014, 82–85).
Bradley Abrams, who has examined how common citizens facilitated
the establishment of the Communist dictatorship, focuses on the previous
experiences of the people that helped the transformation along:
“The experiences of 1938–1945 triggered a set of radical changes that
manifested themselves after liberation, changes that considerably eased
the Communist’s road to total power” (Abrams 2004, 275–276).
Matěj Spurný, who has studied how ethnic minorities viewed the
establishment of the Communist dictatorship, finds continuity in ethnic
homogenization trends, which started already during the Protectorate.
Ever since the beginning of the war, the citizens of Czechoslovakia were
familiar with the process of segregating and “cleansing” all that was
alien. This familiarity was subsequently put into practice during the postwar
expulsion of the majority of Germans from Czechoslovak territory.
The forced displacement of nearly three million Germans brought radical
national stereotypes into clearer focus, and the Communists were able to
use this for their gain.
This cleansing of the society, which involved various forms of repression
and terror, was first and foremost an expression of society’s will, not just
a method used to intimidate those who were being controlled. This strategy
for forming society was driven predominantly from below, and in the
1940s and the 1950s it was successfully utilized by the Communist Party
to obtain legitimacy. (Spurný 2011, 340, my translation).
Stalinism lasted a relatively short time in Czechoslovakia, a mere 5
years, but it cast a long shadow. The enthusiasm accompanying the idea
of building a true Communist society in Czechoslovakia slowly evaporated
as it became gradually obvious that the promise of a classless society
and prosperity for all would remain unfulfilled. The vision of a just
society, which was allegedly on the horizon, never materialized. The
transformations made in the state, be they matters of social or cultural
engineering, or of economy, were failing to deliver on their promises.
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16  P. BUBENÍČEK
Growing skepticism about Czechoslovakia’s trajectory after 1948
amongst the populace became evident starting in 1951; this discontent
bred crisis. The Soviet approach to building a Communist state emphasized
heavy industry but did not provide the people with the prosperity
they had been promised; on the contrary, Czechoslovakia had fallen
behind the West in terms of progress. The “inner enemy” could not
be held accountable for the unequal living standards, nor for the problems
with the food, textile, or power supply. As Knapík and Franc note:
“Communist leaders considered it alarming that social tensions also
found their outlet in the form of the first spontaneous protests against
government policies and that these were supported even by those who
were supposed to represent the pillars of society—by the workers”
(Knapík and Franc 2011, 21, my translation).
From approximately 1953, when Stalin died, onwards, the regime’s
reign of terror began to weaken (Kaplan 2005, 63). De-Stalinization,
along with a change in political course, began in earnest only after
Khrushchev’s secret speech to the Twentieth Congress of the Communist
Party of the Soviet Union in 1956, in which he denounced Stalin and his
crimes. In the late 1950s, ideological control over art was relaxed somewhat4;
this change, however, did not mean that Party leadership was prepared
to allow substantial political liberalization. In conclusion, the late
1950s witnessed a distancing from the Stalinist version of socialism.
The following decade saw even more forceful attempts at changing the
political system, freeing the Czechoslovak people from repression, and
democratizing society. The reform faction’s ascent to power within the
Communist Party ultimately resulted in what is probably the most wellknown
event in postwar Czechoslovak history—the Prague Spring. In
1967 and 1968, reform-minded Communists, represented by Alexander
Dubček, Zdeněk Mlynář, Josef Smrkovský, and others, attempted to
establish democratic principles within society and the Party itself and thus
create “socialism with a human face.” These reforms, steering the political
system away from Communist dictatorship and towards democratic
socialism, were so progressive that, according to Karel Hrubý,
the Communist intellectuals striving for a substantial change in the system
ultimately progressed towards requirements concerning the renewal of a
plurality of opinions and representation in Parliament and comprehensive
checks on power; they even accepted the idea of an opposition party […];
they demanded a revision of the legal system and that consideration be given
to the rights of non-Communist citizens. (Hrubý 2008, 572, my translation)
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1 INTRODUCTION  17
It is necessary to add, especially concerning the chapter devoted to
the film adaptation of the novel Žert (The Joke 1968), that before the
Prague Spring the artistic scene, particularly that centered around the literary
newspaper Literární noviny, formed a surrogate space for otherwise
standard political discussions common in liberal democracies. This
was not a form of political activism, but a situation in which art offered
a parallel platform for political discourse. Literární noviny and some
other magazines for limited, specific readerships were after the Twelfth
Congress of the Communist Party in 1962 able to print a limited
amount of restrained criticism, thus participating in spreading reformist
ideas (Hoppe 2011, 125–126).
Ever since the end of the 1950s, starting at Expo 58 in Brussels,
Communist ideologues began to focus on the concept of socialist consumer
society that they themselves had created. In the USSR, the situation
was similar as Nikita Khrushchev promised citizens would be better
supplied not only with food, but with consumer goods as well: “contemporary
ideologues assumed that a communism presuming a full sufficiency
of all common commodities might be a very near possibility” (Franc
2011, 135, my translation). Socialist consumer society was expected to
not only catch up with the West, but to exceed it, especially in making
high-quality cultural production available to a wide public. A significant
portion of the Czechoslovak population chose the Western middle-class
lifestyle as their ideal. Although the growing demands of the people led
to the incorporation of Western features into the everyday functioning of
society, the establishment of an original model was out of the question
(cf. Franc 2011, 134). Thus, domestic goods were produced to substitute
their Western counterparts; for example, beginning in 1962, Kofola,
a Czech-made soft drink, could be found on store shelves as a replacement
for Coca-Cola. This play at “consumer society” (Franc 2011, 140)
and unfulfilled promises about material prosperity subsequently caused
the discontent to spread further beyond the confines of consumer culture.
The growing understanding that the Communist regime held for consumerism
and material prosperity led in the 1960s to the liberalization of
all aspects of life. People gained more free time (Saturday ceased to be
a working day), which they spent doing hobbies, playing sports, working
on their cottages—a form of recreation that was growing in popularity—or
watching the increasing amount of programs being broadcast on
television. New opportunities for personal, individual development corresponded
with a thaw in cultural and social norms. The film Starci na
chmelu (Hop-Pickers 1964) presents a fine example of the progressively
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18  P. BUBENÍČEK
freer climate. This musical’s rule-breaking youths, who even engaged in
what appeared to be premarital sex—still a taboo at the time—won audiences
over; in the movie, the voice of authority belongs to black-clad
young men with electric guitars, not to teachers and their strict norms
(cf. Bugge 2011, 143). There were also greater opportunities to travel to
the West, which helped cultivate more intense contacts with the western
cultural influences. From the mid-1960s onwards, “Western” and “local”
cultural trends were considered to be complementary, and not necessarily
at odds with each other. Western popular culture had a marked effect
on local musical taste—in the same year that Hop-Pickers hit the silver
screen, the Beatles’ A Hard Day’s Night was released in Czechoslovakia.
Society accepted rock music as a legitimate form of expression (occasional
repressions targeted not the music itself but certain aspects of the
broader youth culture, such as men with long hair, who were pejoratively
referred to as máničky), and the ruling regime was well aware of its commercial
potential (cf. Bugge 2011, 146–147). In 1964 Supraphon Music
Publishing produced the first domestic rock singles, and rock music was
incorporated into radio programming (a show called “Mikrofórum” went
on air) and television broadcasts (coverage of music festivals). The 5 years
between 1964 and 1969 are generally considered to be the “golden era”
of Czechoslovak pop and rock music. The music, the development of cultivated
pastimes, and opportunities for personal and social advancement
were all things that led to the gradual democratization of the dictatorship.
Democratization came to a violent end on 21 August 1968, when
Czechoslovakia was invaded by five Warsaw Pact nations—the USSR,
Bulgaria, East Germany, Poland, and Hungary. Subsequently, the Party
was purged once again of “counter-revolutionary” forces; all attempts at
democratization and freedom of speech were snubbed out. The resurgent
Communist dictatorship, pursuing a neo-Stalinist ideology, began
to repress its enemies, starting off a 20-year era known as “normalization”
(1969–1989). Jonathan Bolton describes this period as possessing
“a mixture of ironic resignation, boredom and often despair” (Bolton
2012, 12). The Communist regime was finally overthrown during the
Velvet Revolution of November 1989.
Art and Its Objectives
A cultural and social history is not supposed to fit the same template as
a political history. Instead, it would be more appropriate to speak about
certain longer-term tendencies. Thus in this book, I attempt to show
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1 INTRODUCTION  19
the continuity of prewar institutional practices of literary and film artists,
which were transferred through time, regardless of changing political
regimes. In the interwar period, Czechoslovak national culture was
established through enlightenment, education, and its extensive library
system. The First Republic was a time of great creativity and plentiful
modern art, whose spontaneity, imagination, fresh aesthetics, and “new
perspective” left a deep mark. Significant artistic movements developed
in the interwar period continued to exist even during the Protectorate
(let me at the very least mention the formation of post-avant-garde
groups and the constant search for new ways in which art can connect
with reality). At the height of Nazi terror, artists felt they could be targeted
by the occupier’s security forces at any time. Under such unique
circumstances, they sought to find a position for themselves that would
stand somewhere between the official and outside of official channels,
cultural production was also circulated through unofficial means. After
1948, the avant-garde and modernism were officially rejected, but the
need for an “authentic expression of self” (Klimešová 2010, 21) did not
vanish, even in the all-encompassing atmosphere of collective euphoria.
The prewar avant-garde’s enduring influence represented one of the subversive
tendencies in a period of anti-modernism and totalitarian art.
The national film industry prospered in the free, business-oriented
environment of the First Republic, and several filmmakers made a name
for themselves beyond of Czechoslovakia’s borders (for example, Gustav
Machatý with his film Ecstasy, 1932). During World War II, the Germans
took over the Czechs’ modern, well-equipped film studios (the most
famous in Prague’s Barrandov district were built in the 1930s) and started
to use them for their own goals. The occupiers restricted Czech cinema
and made their own propaganda films. During World War II, plans were
already made to reorganize the postwar film industry. In October 1945,
the film industry was nationalized on the basis of a presidential decree in
a move that was accepted by the wider cinematic community. The question
arises, why was there such overwhelming consensus about the state’s
changing role in film production? Film historian Ivan Klimeš states that
together with the euphoria of the war ending, and the country’s overall
orientation towards socialism, the experience with centralization initiated
by the Germans could have played a role as well (Klimeš 2016, 270–272).
The Czechoslovak film industry became fully subordinate to the Party
apparatus in 1948: the medium of film was considered one of the most
important ideological instruments for educating the new socialist citizen.
To ensure ideological supervision, the Party centralized production;
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20  P. BUBENÍČEK
the goal was to create a closed-off, plan-based system, similar to the
one implemented in heavy industry, with all filmmaking plans under
the control of two newly created institutions, Central Dramaturgy and
the Film Board. This new arrangement was supposed to guarantee that
creative employees would fulfill their political duties in the form of story
sketches and screenplays that followed Communist ideology5; According
to Klimeš, “works of film were thus expected to be created only under
political order, which essentially demanded the ‘artistic-technical’ reworking
of a selected political thesis” (cf. Klimeš 2000, 137, my translation).
Literature, as well, gained an important role because the engineers of
the new social order believed in its “formative influence on the reader’s
personality” (Šámal 2015, 1099, my translation). Literature has played
a role that surpasses its intellectual confines since the Czech National
Revival of the mid-1800s, when it served as an expression of national
pride and a carrier of national identity. After the Communist takeover,
this traditional role was adopted by the political power structures.
Literature was considered to be superior to audio-visual art, as this declaration
by the head of the screenwriting union, Jiří Síla, demonstrates: “If
Czech literature develops rich content and form, Czech film will develop
as well” (Síla 1953, 770, my translation). Writers were supposed to bring
suitable reading material to the working man and affirm in him revolutionary
ideas. The guiding aesthetic was Socialist Realism, an intricate
system of norms authorized by the politicians themselves (even including
Stalin). Literature was expected to provide film with pre-endorsed
themes focusing on the present or the future, while historical content
was to be interpreted uniformly as the gradual progress of society
towards Communism. The importance of adaptation and literary writers
in the state-owned film industry was therefore unassailable (Mareš et al.
2007, 445–453). Ideologically approved writers wrote the screenplays,
took part in approving new films, and monitored ideological conformity
(the important control and approval institution, the Film Artistic Board,
was staffed by distinguished writers such as Marie Majerová, Marie
Pujmanová, Karel Konrád, Bohuslav Březovský, and others).
A number of non-subversive, regime-conformist adaptations were created.
One example of a political-ideological collaboration between literature
and film was the adaptation of Antonín Zápotocký’s novel Vstanou
noví bojovníci (New Warriors Will Rise 1950), which portrays the victorious
battle between the old, bourgeois order, and the new, socialist one.
Antonín Zápotocký was not only a writer: he served as prime minister
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1 INTRODUCTION  21
during Stalinism, and after Klement Gottwald’s death in 1953 he became
president. His agitprop novel was adapted into film by Jiří Weiss in 1950.
Its schematic plot relates the political transformation of a small village
thanks to the tireless efforts of a socialist. It presents an easily comprehensible
story of society progressing towards a more just order. The
book and its adaptation use a simple ideological template to depict the
good and bad characters: on one side there are the antagonists of socialism—the
miserly bourgeoisie and a priest; on the other there are simple,
poor village folk—the principle revolutionary warriors. According to
the protagonist, who in the end is elected to parliament, it is possible to
disentangle oneself from the old ways; he also confidently believes that
the socialist model will one day prevail worldwide. His words are underscored
by a shot of a crowd of people singing “Even if we all fall / New
warriors will rise / The red flag shall fly.”
K.M. Walló’s Botostroj (Giant Shoe-Factory) is another strictly ideological
adaptation, based on the eponymous 1933 novel by Svatopluk
Turek (written under the pen name T. Svatopluk). The main message of
this 1954 feature was denouncing the owner of an enormous shoe factory,
an exploiter of the poor and a Nazi collaborator, and, as a result,
showing the necessity of breaking from the capitalist system.
Otakar Vávra, whose artistic ambitions are discussed in Chap. 5, was
himself the creator of several highly ideological adaptations. He adapted
a canonical socialist realist novel, Nástup (Deployment 1952) by Václav
Řezáč, which, alongside the usual Communist motifs, emphasizes the
fight between the Czechs and the Germans. Vávra subsequently directed
the so-called Hussite trilogy, updating the image of the medieval Hussite
movement, which the Communists had declared to be the first step on
the journey to a classless society (Bubeníček 2017, 569–572).
The centralized filmmaking system, staffed by people who often lacked
professional competence and were appointed on ideological grounds,
eventually brought the state film industry to an impasse. The plan to
make more than 50 films a year was not being fulfilled, partly due to
the fact that not enough suitable screenplays were being submitted for
approval. Therefore, quite soon after the 1948 takeover, it became obvious
that the centrally organized industrial production model was not suitable
for art, not to mention other economic sectors (cf. Kunakhovich and
Skopal 2015, 292). The state-controlled film industry, however, gained
new momentum in 1954, when writer and journalist Jiří Marek was
appointed general director of Czechoslovak Film, a position he would
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22  P. BUBENÍČEK
hold until the early 1960s. The film industry then underwent a gradual
decentralizing process—in place of the existing creative collectives and
the screenwriting department, four creative units of qualified film professionals
were established.6 They were led by seasoned directors who had
worked in the film industry before 1948, including Vávra, though he
occupied the position only for a short time (cf. Szczepanik 2012, 54).
After 1954, therefore, the film industry management system was
shaken up, and the result was more effective film production. Creative
employees were given greater leeway to seek out topics, prepare screenplays,
and appoint film crews, making them more capable of effectively
influencing the final form of the film. This crucial step paved the way for
the well-known Czech New Wave of the 1960s and its various stylistic
manifestations.
The careful differentiation of opinions in the area of literature-film
relations can be illustrated by a debate from the mid-1950s that took
place in the magazines Literarní noviny and Film doba. The most frequently
occurring terms and phrases in this debate, which was organized
in honor of the 10th anniversary of the state-controlled film
industry (1955), were screenplay, the approval process, the present, contemporariness,
and ideology. Contributors to the debate referred to
Soviet experience and agreed that collaboration between literary writers
and filmmakers was necessary, but not yet very frequent. Writers were
deemed responsible for film as a whole (the aforementioned shortage of
quality screenplays was their fault), whose duties included writing screenplays
and participating in the development of film. Contributors also criticized
the approval process, describing it as being too lengthy, uncertain,
and anonymous. They suggested making the process simpler and more
transparent and demanded greater responsibility for a film be placed on
its creators (the director and the writer/screenwriter) and the establishment
of smaller creative units.
Next the discussion moved on to collaboration between writers and
directors, which was supposedly affected by poor dramaturgy. Screenplay
and film were designated as independent artistic genres, and how to
make film production easier starting already with the screenwriting stage
was discussed; writers were urged to keep in mind that film has certain
specific attributes (emphasis was placed on film’s pictorial aspect).
The latter half of the 1950s saw differences in opinion between the
champions of more liberal cultural activities and artistic autonomy, and
their opponents. In a speech to the 1956 congress of the Czechoslovak
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1 INTRODUCTION  23
Writers’ Assembly, František Hrubín likened Czech poetry to a swan
whose wings were frozen in a block of ice and declared his support for
jailed or otherwise persecuted poets—Jiří Kolář, the future Nobel Prize
winner Jaroslav Seifert, and František Halas. Hrubín was later harshly
reprimanded by the minister of culture, Václav Kopecký, and called a
counter-revolutionary and a traitor (Málková 2011, 165). However, not
even the attacks of Party ideologues could stop the shift away from a system
in which literature, film, and other arts were seen as primarily ideological
and subservient to political power. In the late 1950s, the cultural
scene’s limited horizons began to broaden, a process that would continue
on a much wider scale in the relatively liberal years of the upcoming
decade.
In the last third of the 1950s, both Czech literature and film saw the
emergence of the less “revisionist” poetics of the “poetry of the everyday,”
which is discussed in this book in connection to the adaptation
Romance for Flugelhorn (1966). This poetics gradually contributed to
asserting the right of both lyrical and epic literature to devote attention
to the private sphere, an area not immediately influenced by Marxist
ideology. In Czech film, this tendency is represented by the adaptations
Florenc 13.30 (The Bus Leaves at 1.30 1957) and Tam na konečné (House
at the Terminus 1957), which at the time were a breath of fresh air in
the oppressive atmosphere. These films, while still a long way off from
liberated modernism, pointed to a gradual break in ideological restric-
tions.
Such debates, along with political developments, resulted in organizational
and economic changes in the Czechoslovak film industry, primarily
decentralization. Most importantly, autonomy of the creative units
was further extended. According to film historian Petr Szczepanik, from
1957 onwards, creative group:
answered directly to the studio’s director, and [were] responsible for all
ideological, artistic, and economic issues of the production. Along with the
lead dramaturge, they would direct the literary preparation: seek out, discuss,
and approve topics and film treatments, as well as (sometimes) shooting
scripts (literary screenplays were approved by the director of the studio);
they would suggest the appointment of the seven main creative members
of the crew (director, director of production, director of photography, editor,
architect, sound engineer, and make-up artist) and assess the director’s
choice of actors; they would supervise the budget; they would manage and
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24  P. BUBENÍČEK
control production in all its stages, including the daily rushes and the cut;
they would organize meetings of the leading crew members, and supervise
the wages and employee politics in the units (in 1957 creative units had 47
employees in total); they would compile a partial dramaturgical plan of the
unit for the upcoming year. (Szczepanik 2012, 55, my translation)
Although the film industry witnessed a short period of renewed
repression in the late 1950s,7 from 1963 onwards the authority of creative
team members was strengthened, and they were given greater creative
space. Adaptations were discussed in one of the six creative units.
The leaders of creative units and the dramaturge of each adaptation were
responsible for selecting the literary material, choosing the director, and
defending the adaptation methods at meetings; they were also in regular
contact with their superiors at Barrandov and with employees of the
Communist apparatus. The emphasis placed on the authorial gesture,
which is associated with the Czech New Wave, and a sufficiently liberal
attitude to creativity in adaptation-making would not have been possible
without the economic and political support provided to directors
and screenwriters by the more autonomous creative units. This aspect of
production explains why so many declaratively artistic adaptations could
come into existence.
Against the “Monostyle”
Czechoslovak cinema of the 1960s gained international renown due
to the emerging generation of young New Wave filmmakers—Miloš
Forman, Věra Chytilová, Jiří Menzel, Jan Němec, and Ivan Passer—and
their artistically challenging films. The variability in genre and style, typical
of this period, and the search for new topics to be depicted led to the
creation of a significant number of remarkable works that were filmed
by both the up-and-coming directors and older filmmakers. The general
diversity of artistic approaches that flourished in film and literature
contributed to the era’s plentiful and variegated adaptation production.
Film historian Petr Mareš has called the 1960s an era of creative “symbiosis
between literature and film” (Mareš et al. 2008, 545). Directors
worked closely with writers, they discussed modern art and aesthetic
innovations that transcended the older conventions of the film medium,
they wrote screenplays together, and they worked together both in the
adaptation process and then on the set. In the 1960s, writers had a
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1 INTRODUCTION  25
greater understanding of the production process, so directors no longer
complained that they were being provided with screenplays that were
unsuitable for filming. Writers themselves were at this time members
of ideologically artistic board of the Barrandov production teams. The
very establishment of these boards, which supplanted the previous model
of only one Ideological-Artistic Committee, constituted an important
aspect of the decentralization process.
In the 1960s the subversive function of adaptations was changing
along with liberalization and the instatement of creative freedoms.
The previous harsh restrictions in the form of screenplay authorization,
administrative interference in film production, and the distribution
of “unsuitable films” were subdued, thus allowing filmmakers space
to discuss more openly the social and political climate of the country,
the unfulfilled ideals of socialism, or the dogmatic views of socialist art.
Lukáš Skupa, a film historian specializing in censorship, interprets the
intricate authorization mechanisms as a negotiation forum shared by representatives
of censorship agencies, various departments of the Central
Committee of the Communist Party, ministries, and the main officials
of the film industry—and even the creatives themselves—who, though
divided by different interests, ultimately sought consensus:
In the film industry, the employees of censorship agencies were driven to
consider the financial demands of film production and the time involved
(had the screenplay in question or a copy of the film already been paid
for?), as well as the fact that production involved works in progress (a finished
film could possibly have a different tone than a screenplay, which
too could change during filming). Furthermore, radical interference with
the copy or banning the film’s distribution would effectively function as
the censors’ criticism of themselves or a contradiction to their previous
pre-production decision when they had authorized the film’s conception.
(Skupa 2016, 186, my translation)
Not even the “golden Sixties” were free of conflicts with the state
censorship authorities and the exponents of the Party’s conservative fraction,
and the adaptation authorization process was not entirely free of
ideological prejudice. Any significant divergence from socialist art norms
still carried the threat of confrontation with the guardians of dogmatism.
Moreover, in this period the atmosphere in society was not unchanging;
in fact, it changed from year to year. For example, 1965 temporarily
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26  P. BUBENÍČEK
brought in greater restrictions, as a result of which the adaptation of Jiří
Mucha’s semi-autobiographic novel Pravděpodobná tvář (The Plausible
Face) was left unfinished (cf. Skupa 2016, 114). In the novel, Mucha,
who was imprisoned in the 1950s for “seditious actions,” depicts how
power structures encroached on people’s lives and in doing so effectively
described the atmosphere during Stalinism. Thus, the Communist Party
strove to maintain control over cultural production via censorship agencies
and by carefully choosing employees (such as the general director of
Czechoslovak Film Alois Poledňák).
Whether a film would actually be made depended on the year it
was slated to be made, its subject matter, and the proposed director
or screenwriter. The adaptations of Hrubín’s poem “Romance for
Flugelhorn” and Vančura’s Marketa Lazarova, which are discussed
in Chap. 3 of this book, were not impeded by the authorization process,
and were immediately perceived as significant works of art, praised
by general director Alois Poledňák in front of the Communist Party’s
ideological committee. These two films were not expected to encounter
authorization problems, as both were the flagship projects of the
production plans in the years they were made. Films based on historical
subject matter, such as Marketa Lazarova, were seldom problematic,
and Romance for Flugelhorn was directed by Otakar Vávra, who enjoyed
a good relationship with the authorization agencies and was one of the
most established directors of the era.
The adaptation of Kundera’s novel The Joke, which is the focus of
the last chapter, made its way to the screen through a more circuitous
route. The film treatment of this ideologically inconvenient book (which
brought to light the still unresolved social traumas of the 1950s) was
initially banned, and was only enabled by the temporary abolishment
of censorship in July 1968. This brief reprieve, which lasted only until
September of the following year, made possible the release of several
films that would have otherwise remained in the vault (cf. Skupa 2016,
107). The primary objective of subversion becomes more complex as the
ideological atmosphere of the 1960s comes into focus—it is no longer
enough to monitor the political point of view, but it is also crucial to pay
attention to medium and style.
Dina Iordanova writes that New Wave directors “made quietly subversive
films that looked at present-day realities” (Iordanova 2003,
100). She pinpoints the shift from ideological viewpoints to the reflection
of everyday life situations, which Miloš Forman, Jiří Menzel, and
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1 INTRODUCTION  27
Ivan Passer portrayed humorously in their films. Jonathan Owen has
also picked up on the subversive aspects of such films; he claims that in
them “reality is itself never fully comprehensible and legible, but always
opaque, ambiguous and multifaceted” (Owen 2011, 10). The tendency
to seek autonomous artistic expression of ordinary people’s lives established
itself in Czech literature in the late 1950s. Filmmakers who relied
on literary antecedents saw Czech literature as a wellspring of productive
topics because it engaged in contemporary social analysis. Filmmakers’
interest in the socially resonant literature of the 1960s can be illustrated
by one of its many examples: the anthology film Perličky na dně (Pearls
of the Deep 1965), an adaptation of Bohumil Hrabal’s eponymous short
story collection. Several emerging New Wave directors—Věra Chytilová,
Jan Němec, Evald Schorm, Jaromil Jireš, and Jiří Menzel—collaborated
on the film. The book, as well as the author himself, appealed to these
filmmakers because Hrabal, with his focus on the minutiae of everyday
life and the language of his characters, represented a new, unique literary
voice. In mid-1963, one of these young directors—Jaromil Jireš—sent a
letter on behalf of the group to dramaturge Ladislav Fikar. In his letter,
he outlines the reasons these filmmakers wished to make a film adaptation
of Hrabal’s texts: he says that the short stories provoked a “spontaneous
response” from these young creatives. The main allure was the
figure of Hrabal: a surprisingly energetic man on society’s fringe, someone
who defies conventions. The young directors argued that the artistic
inclination toward authenticity, typical of the period, was an attribute of
film rather than literature: “These people [Hrabal’s characters] continue
to be a taboo subject in film, although through their on-screen authenticity
they could make an even more remarkable and convincing impression
than in literature” (Jireš 1969, my translation). They appreciated
Hrabal’s new perspective as well as his poetics: fascination with everyday
life, the accent on the ambiguity of the world, the dialogues of characters
located at society’s fringes, and an attempt to capture the atmosphere of
the day.8 Thus, they aimed to introduce the audience to everyday features
of the present day without resorting to typification. One way to
do this was to employ non-actors whose uneducated portrayals could
express the human experience more authentically.
A defining aspect of the adaptations made in the 1960s is an awareness
of the specific nature of the audio-visual imagination, and the
subsequent need to process linguistic and stylistic attributes of books
using film-specific means. Many Czech filmmakers were familiar with
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28  P. BUBENÍČEK
the institutional practices and stylistic tendencies of modern European
film, as well as its artistic principles, which made possible introspective
approaches that had hitherto been restricted to literature: abstraction,
subjectivity, and reflexivity (Kovács 2007, 140). A book’s film counterpart
was supposed to be an independent work of art, and transformations
of “unfilmable” material signified film’s maturity as a medium. The
contemporary press discussed the artistic metamorphosis of Czech cinema,
the “self-expression” of the up-and-coming generation of filmmakers,
the emergent auteurism, which contrasted with the monolithically
prescribed style of the time, and the methods discredited by schematism
seen as needing to be overcome (cf. Kadár 1966, 95). Film’s increasingly
innovative aesthetics strengthened its position within the national culture;
writers themselves emphasized film’s sovereignty. Literature was no
longer the master of film.
One experiment in adaptation, one that stood in contrast to the
approaches favored in the 1950s (in its coherence of meaning, its emphasis
on characterization, etc.) is the film Démanty noci (Diamonds of
the Night 1964) by another New Wave director, Jan Němec. This film
is based on Arnošt Lustig’s short story “Tma nemá stín” (“Darkness
Casts No Shadow”). The plot revolves around two boys’ escape from a
Nazi deportation train. They flee through a forest, exhausted, hungry,
and cold, and are ultimately caught by a German militia consisting of
elderly men no longer able to fight in the war itself. The film’s structure
is complicated by its mixing of the boys’ journey to freedom with dreamlike
images, reminiscences, and memories. According to Peter Hames,
Němec “is not interested in telling a story or explaining the actions of
his characters, but in creating a sense of identification with their mental
state” (Hames 2005, 168). Along with its rejection of outdated artistic
approaches, Diamonds of the Night marks a thematic shift towards the
Holocaust and the fate of the Jews. In the late 1950s, several books were
published in which Czech authors eschewed ideological schemata in portraying
the horrors of war and the extermination of the Jewish people.
Some of these works were subsequently made into films (Transport z
ráje 1962 (Transport from Paradise); …a pátý jezdec je Strach 1964 (The
Fifth Horseman is Fear); Dita Saxová 1967).
A suggestive example of subversive adaptation, which also happens
to be closely connected to the social situation of the early 1960s, is the
1965 film Obchod na korze (The Shop on Main Street) by the directorial
pair, the Slovak Ján Kadár and the Czech Elmar Klos. It was a
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1 INTRODUCTION  29
remarkable artistic achievement and the first Czechoslovak film to ever
receive an Academy Award. Its setting, World War II–era Slovakia,
brought back into the public consciousness Slovakia’s role in the conflict,
when it was an independent state allied with Nazi Germany. The film, set
in 1942, is concerned with the carpenter Tono Brtko, who becomes the
Aryan overseer of a shop belonging to Mrs. Lautmannová. The elderly,
deaf woman has no idea what is happening. She reckons that Tono, who
in reality is supposed to seize her possessions, works for her as her helper.
When Mrs. Lautmannová is not deported alongside the town’s other
Jews, Tono worries that he will be prosecuted for harboring a Jewish
person. He hides the woman in a cellar, and when he accidentally kills
her, he hangs himself. Hames notes, “The film is a grim moral fable that
works on a number of levels. Tono is a proverbial ‘little man’, whose
main object is to stay out of trouble, and he wants life to continue as
normal. […]. The film shows how Tono’s minor compromises take him
on a path leading to virtual collusion but it avoids simple moral statements
through its emphasis on the central relationship” (Hames 2009,
104). In the Communist interpretation of World War II, Slovakia’s
involvement had been reduced to a ritual emphasis on the national antiNazi
uprising in 1944, without reflecting the full complexity of the situation
in the Slovak Republic. This film thus signified a gradual change in
how recent history was viewed and formed a part of the reform process
in Slovakia.
At the very close of the decade discussed—that is, after the abolition
of censorship—an adaptation was made that reveals just how far cinema
had moved from socialist poetics. The film, Pavel Juráček’s Případ pro
začínajícího kata (Case for a Rookie Hangman 1969), which is a loose
adaptation of Gulliver’s Travels that makes reference to its literary predecessor
in the names of the characters and significant motifs,9 examines
the absurdity of fate in a mechanized, estranged world. Unlike in Swift’s
novel, however, the film’s protagonist, Lemuel Gulliver, lands in a country
named Balnibarbi, which is modelled on 1960s Czechoslovakia. The
world through which Gulliver travels is characterized “as both familiar
and unfamiliar, where logical connections have been destroyed” (Hames
2009, 135). Pavel Juráček belonged to a younger group of directors,
who viewed Communism from a distance, and saw it as a bizarre and
dangerous menagerie (disregarding the fact that Juráček was himself
a member of Communist Party for some time). To him, the “Stalinist
idealism” of the Youth Communist League of 1949 was an unfamiliar
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30  P. BUBENÍČEK
sentiment and he had no illusions of Communism bringing any applicable
solutions to social problems. Juráček’s film presents a poignant analysis
of the world of socialism based on “make believe”—a convention of
pretending accompanied by permanent and obtrusive police surveillance.
The adaptation, based on an 18th-century text, shows the irreversible
decay of the Communist regime and its elites. Some of the absurdities
Gulliver encounters are explained to him, but these explanations only
breed further absurdity. The film is therefore “much more than a political
parable or a transferring to film of real absurdities of the bureaucratic
world” (Hames 2009, 135); it also shows the absurdity in everyday
human actions.
The year 1968 saw a change in Party leadership, and the installment
of a new, reinvigorated authoritarian regime. Political liberties and civil
rights were curtailed anew, and they stayed that way until the end of
Communism in 1989. The powers that be were, again, searching for
ways to control and manage cultural production. In the film industry
these changes amounted to the end of film production’s decentralized
structure, purges on all levels, halting the production of all ideologically
“unsuitable” projects, and locking all “politically unsuitable” films in the
vault.
Against the Grain
The writers, directors, screenwriters, dramaturges, and artists discussed
in this book lived and worked in a country ruled by a Communist dictatorship.
Their work was codetermined by political structures, the organization
of production in the state-controlled film industry, the economic
situation of the country, and so on. Even in the most liberal periods they
encountered limits to their autonomy.10 Many were imperiled by the everpresent
possibility of political intervention: Party officials could limit or
even put a stop to their artistic career and lock up already-completed films.
The Communist putsch of 1948 brought with it a radical transformation
of social institutions, but society did not break entirely from the
culture of prewar Czechoslovakia.11 A great impact in the area of remembering
“the old times” was enjoyed by interwar cultural icon, theater
and film actor, and comic Jan Werich, whose partner Jiří Voskovec had
emigrated to the USA after the events of 1948. Viewers encountered
Werich on the film screen as well as in new productions of Werich and
Voskovec’s plays from the 1930s, which sometimes included variously
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1 INTRODUCTION  31
veiled anti-regime remarks.12 In his shows, Werich toyed with norms
that should have officially been left alone. His publicly pronounced satire
made him into a subversive artist because he took an ideological symbol,
transformed it into aesthetic material, and used it in a theater production,
thus creating political subversion. When it was impossible to talk
openly, Werich and others were moved to converse in Aesopian language,
which, as socialism progressed, nearly became a dominant code
in cultural communication. Everything said aloud became an allegory, as
people presumed symbolic meanings even in what seemed to be passing
references or infantile jokes. Consumers had been conditioned to understand
culture as being multi-layered on principle, and implanted meanings
into messages: the meanings were only present as a potential or
latency, which was nonetheless acceptable in the given code. A portion of
the viewers were pre-disposed to this kind of reading, as everything was
read, at least at some level, politically.
Subversion, the topic of this book, often pointed at untouchable
social, political, or sexual taboos, indirectly working with them and transforming
them. Although subversive adaptations were not always made
intentionally, such films nonetheless created the conditions for a subversive
reading. Potential subversion was based on the “coded” heterogeneity
of artistic representation, which the political apparatus attempted to
control, reduce, and eliminate. To this end it used various means, such
as censorship, economic limitations, restrictions in the form of approval
processes, and, finally, official reception in magazines and newspapers.
In a “proper” socialist-realist work of art, ideological norms were
implemented so seamlessly that any other contrary reading was severely
limited. However, even in cases like these, it was possible to read such
works “against the grain”—that is, to interpret them in a way that consciously
went against the intention of their creators. Such an interpretation
could have been based on a reversal of the declared values, made
possible by the fact that they were presented too simply and directly and
did not therefore resemble reality much. It is, however, generally true
that socialist-realist novels and the films based on them are internally
homogeneous: the good character is good, the bad character is bad, and
the story ends predictably. The basic plane of the text corresponded with
all its other planes, and the whole tended towards a conformist effect.
By contrast, a multi-layered, heterogeneous artefact could be interpreted
in various ways, with some interpretations emphasizing divergence from
period norms.
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32  P. BUBENÍČEK
Chapter 2, “Adaptation as Subterfuge,” deals with an adaptation created
in the first half of the 1950s, a time when institutions within the
Czechoslovak state-controlled cultural sector were expected to work
tirelessly toward promoting Communist values. In 1954, Václav Krška
adapted the work of the nationally beloved modernist author Fráňa
Šrámek, Stříbrný vítr (Silvery Wind 1910). When the film was released
after a 2-year delay in 1956, it was something of a revelation; it touched
upon subjects that the literary and cinematic Socialist Realism of the time
had expressly excluded from its program. The film Silvery Wind (1954)
differed from contemporary film productions in its grasp of human existence,
as it examined themes of individuality and subjectivity, the painful
transition from adolescence into adulthood, disillusionment, the
rebellion of sons against their fathers, and remembrances of first loves.
However, there was more to Krška’s Silvery Wind than the picturesque
depiction of fragile youth and nostalgia for years past. In applying an
alternative perspective to the film, the viewer can uncover heretofore hidden
meanings. From this perspective, analyzing the adaptation process—
resulting in a film which features (for the time) bold depictions of male
nudity, expresses adoration of the profound friendship between boys, and
is skeptical toward heterosexual relationships—reveals a successful subterfuge
aimed at the contemporary guardians of heterosexual values.
Chapter 3, “Adaptation as Play,” shows how implicit messages could
be delivered to audiences by appropriating stories officially meant for
children. It diverges from the concept of Czech literature on screen
because it is concerned with adaptations of the works of Jules Verne.
The director and artist Karel Zeman did not strive for a “faithful adaptation
monolith” and his artistic projects were greatly influenced by Czech
aesthetic, social, and political movements. Both films could be enjoyed
by children due to their adventurous and fantastical nature, but a second
layer of meanings was also crafted with adult audiences in mind. The
Fabulous World of Jules Verne (1958), an adaptation of Verne’s novel Face
au drapeau of 1896 (Facing the Flag 1897) focuses on a serious topic—
the constant threat of atomic war. This adaptation, however, does not
promote the official political positions of the ruling Communist Party;
it avoids this type of political discourse altogether and instead pursues
a universally comprehensible message about personal freedom, responsibility,
and the dangers of uncontrolled technological progress. The
Stolen Airship (1966) also treats other serious topics, such as how easily
reality can be distorted through the media and the corruption of state
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1 INTRODUCTION  33
police forces, but the overwhelmingly parodic and slapstick style of the
adaptation somewhat obscures them. The adaptation The Stolen Airship
effectively functions as a carnival of forms and symbols—and therein
lies an innovative artistic gesture. The most revered symbols of AustriaHungary
and the Belle Époque, in which the story is set, are the subjects
of this carnivalization. By foregrounding playfulness and clever
genre usage, Zeman managed to get away with criticism aimed at those
in power.
Chapter 4, “Adaptation as Challenge,” brings us to a time when
Czech New Wave cinema was ascendant and filmmakers were searching
for new themes as well as new methods to express them. The chapter
focuses on the development of an increasingly visually oriented culture.
In the 1960s, the influence of visual media was on the rise, a trend illustrated
by adaptations of two canonical books previously thought “unfilmable.”
First, František Vláčil reworked Vladislav Vančura’s Marketa
Lazarová (1931), a book valued for its highly aesthetical composition,
style, and language. Vančura was a remarkable writer whose fondness for
unusual expressions distinguished his writing style. The novel Marketa
Lazarová stands out for the comments and musings of its self-reflexive
narrator, who repeatedly calls attention to himself and questions the
story, the characters, and their behavior. These features of the novel
were long considered unique to the medium of literature, but nonetheless
Vláčil managed to turn the book into a film that is still considered
to be the most important Czech film of all time. Second, Otakar Vávra
took František Hrubín’s long poem Romance for Flugelhorn (1962) and
adapted its verse into images filled with delicate, lyrical beauty hitherto
thought to be only possible in verbal art. These successful adaptations of
“unfilmable” works from the Czech literary canon can be recognized as
subversive readings of literary texts because they disrupt the once sovereign
reign of words over culture.
Chapter 5, “Adaptation as a Reflection of the Zeitgeist,” deals with
Jaromil Jireš’s adaptation of Milan Kundera’s novel The Joke (1967).
When the novel was published, it caused a sensation because its narrative
depicts Czechoslovakia in the 1950s and 1960s unfavorably. Jireš,
one of the filmmakers belonging to the Czech New Wave, only finished
the adaptation after the country had already been invaded by the
Soviet army. In this film, the subversive interpretation of historical events
unfolds openly within the film’s narrative rather than being hidden in
symbols and subtexts as it might have been in an earlier period. The
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34  P. BUBENÍČEK
adaptation stands against Stalinism’s oppressive dogmas and methods, it
demystifies the workings of a Communist regime, and it seeks answers
about the place of both the victim and oppressor in the reformed state.
At the same time, the work resonates with larger political themes, criticizing
those who have conveniently short memories and are deliberately
oblivious to their previous sins. In an epoch in which many people
wanted to forget the shameful events of the 1950s, the adaptation drags
these events to light and presents them for all to see, opposing the desire
to suppress the past and forcing audiences to deal with it.
Notes
	 1. Kevin McDermott observes that “[…] everyday life in the cultural field
was a permanent cycle of conflict-ridden discussions and stand-offs
between younger generally radical artists, their elder professional colleagues
and various party-state cultural and censorship functionaries. But
compromises were possible” (McDermott 2015, 113).
	 2. In this I partially echo Simone Murray’s claim that “Adapted texts may be
interesting, in short, not so much for their intricate ideological encodings,
but for the way they illuminate the context of their own production”
(Murray 2012, 5). I am, however, reluctant to follow her fully
in her eager abandonment of textual studies, and it is not because they
provide me with an “intellectual comfort zone” (Murray 2012, 4). Film
adaptation can be viewed in a number of ways that are not always necessarily
in accord. In my approach I do not want to leave behind the
ingenious and creative methods filmmakers used to mold the discussed
adaptations in their own image. These particular directors and screenwriters
do not aim to slavishly imitate the books, but strive to display their
artistic abilities through the adaptation process, an approach that still
interests me.
	 3. The crossing of media boundaries is the focus of the theory formulated
by Werner Wolf and Irina Rajewsky. Alice Jedličková, who works with
the theory of intermediality in the Czech context, claims that intermedia
poetics are: “viable in dialogue with media studies and newer concepts
(such as the fictional worlds theory) and it provides findings valuable for,
e.g., research into cultural construction of identity; it is also successful in
connection to traditional genre studies, iconological approaches to art
history, structural narratology…” (Jedličková 2011, 24, my translation).
	 4. After 1953, social changes and the criticism of dogmatism and formulaic
portrayals brought about a demand for “a greater variety of genres in art
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  35
production (particularly for comedies and satire) and support for various
forms of popular entertainment” (Knapík 2015, 53, my translation).
	 5. The rigorous politically based measures implemented in the film industry
are revealed in the transcript of a meeting of Party dogmatists employed
by the Board of Culture, one of the Party’s key surveillance institutes,
held on 21 November 1949:
Comrade Hendrych [Culture Secretary of the Central Committee
of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia] […] We need such an
organ which would help ideologically and surveilled the ideology of
film. This is a demand which cannot be discounted. […]
We need to create a Party group of creatives, with a Party leadership.
It should include the best directors and screenwriters, and they
should discuss all film issues as they pertain to the Party.
That would take care of all the work, while the management of
the film is down to the comrades who are in Film, that is, comrade
Macháček [director of Czechoslovak Film in 1948–1954], and the
whole director board that manages those things.
Every screenplay that goes into production should be signed by
comrade Macháček, and after the board’s decision, by comrade
Kopecký. Apart from that, it is necessary to put together a group
that would see the films before they are released.
Comrade Kopecký [at this time the Minister of Information]
remarked that a film cannot be released before it is seen by comrade
President. (Klimeš 2000, 162–163, my translation)
	 6. Since 1945 when the film industry came under state control there were
several types of units prevailing in film production: production groups
(1945–1948), creative collectives (1948–1951), the central Collective
Board with an internal screenwriting department (1951–1954), and creative
units (1954–1970) (see Szczepanik’s typology 2013, 121).
	 7. The journey towards the 1960s was far from smooth, as is evident from
the events of the first Festival of Czechoslovak Film held in Banská
Bystrica in 1959, which saw harsh criticism of liberalizing tendencies.
It was made obvious that the portrayal of contemporary problems had
its limits, and the late 1950s proved to be too early to be overly critical
about society-wide issues. Several films were withdrawn from cinemas,
among them Václav Krška’s adaptation Zde jsou lvi (Here Be Dragons
1958) based on Oldřich Daněk’s book.
	 8. One of those young directors, Jiří Menzel, focused on Hrabal throughout
his career. In 1968, he was awarded an Academy Award for his adaptation
of Hrabal’s novel Ostře sledované vlaky (Closely Watched Trains 1966).
petrb@phil.muni.cz
36  P. BUBENÍČEK
	 9. References are also made to Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
and Through the Looking-Glass and to Franz Kafka’s literary world.
	 10. František Daniel offers an interesting remembrance of working in a
Communist dictatorship: “Filmmakers became aware that there were
some officially approved and publicly heralded philosophical concepts and
premises that could be used in making films filled with meaning: One of
them was the authoritatively proclaimed humanism. The other was the
regime’s pledge to defend national integrity and cultural traditions. These
were acceptable slogans, if you will, and therefore we could use them as
frameworks within which to fight against the inhuman and anti-national
elements that the official politics imposed upon our society. This tactic
provided us with a “playground” where we could experiment with both
form and substance in our films and gave us a certain freedom to pursue
our work” (Daniel 1983, 53).
	 11. The top-down, forced attempts to make the year 1948 a historical watershed
was, it seems, futile. Despite all their efforts, Party ideologues failed
to entirely destroy the cultural link to the avant-garde, especially Cubism,
Poetism, and Surrealism. According to art theorist Jindřich Chalupecký,
who observed the transformation of the visual arts in the 1950s, a number
of artists and teachers adjusted to the new order. Modern art, labelled
“bourgeois” in period-speak and despised by the establishment, did not
disappear completely. From the “dialogue of the deaf” between artists and
their critics, the artists understood that what was asked of them was something
“which would cause them to no longer be artists, and their critics
understood from their actions, speech, and defense that those artists are no
use to them” (Chalupecký 1999, 155, my translation). One of the artists
who defied the cultural demands of the era was (according to Chalupecký)
Czech graphic artist and painter Vladimír Boudník (1924–1968). During
the most crushing repression (in the late 1940s and early 1950s), Boudník
organized unauthorized conceptual performances on the streets of Prague,
designed to cultivate the public’s imagination. He discovered the raw reality
of everyday life in the cracked walls of buildings, in which he added
colored stains and fantastic images. His art commanded attention: people
stopped to talk to him on the street. Under the inhospitable conditions of
Stalinist socialism, he realized associative methods of modern art in public
places and established a new kind of connection between the artist and
recipient, who partook in the creative act. Boudník’s artistic expression,
which created neither ideology nor an aesthetic image and effect, transcended
political norms. His independent, apolitical escape into an aesthetic
world could be construed as an expression of subversive subjectivism.
The doctrine of Socialist Realism preferred the ideological function to be
structurally dominant. Being apolitical at a highly political time constituted
a subversive act because it positioned the artist against socialist society and
the goal of achieving Communism.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  37
	 12. One of the best known satirical allusions is this one from 1955: “Against
the sky, there was outlined this terrific building. An enormous building.
A hell of a building. And it had a tower sticking out of it, and another
tower, and another tower. And it was all ugly!” These sentences were
uttered during one of Werich’s forbínas, short sketches in front of the
curtain, during the play Caesar. At the time there was a new hotel in
Prague. The Internacionál, as it was known, was built in the socialist
realist style and intended originally as luxury accommodations for Soviet
counsels staying in Prague. The building, which was reminiscent of a
cake, and whose tower was topped by a five-pointed star, clashed thoroughly
with Prague architecture, and thus it earned nicknames such as
“Lomonosov University” or “a mad confectioner’s dream.”
Works Cited
Abrams, Bradley F. 2004. The struggle for the soul of the nation: Czech culture and
the rise of communism. Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield.
Bolton, Jonathan. 2012. Worlds of Dissent: Charter 77, The plastic people of
the universe, and Czech culture under communism. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press.
Bubeníček, Petr. 2017. Politics and Adaptation: The Case of Jan Hus. In The
Oxford Handbook of Adaptation Studies, ed. Thomas Leitch, 559–576. New
York: Oxford University Press.
Bugge, Peter. 2011. Swinging sixties made in Czechoslovakia—the adaptation of
western impulses in Czechoslovak youth culture. In 1968: Pražské jaro 1968:
občanská společnost, media, přenos politických a kulturních procesů, ed. Oldřich
Tůma and Markéta Devátá, 143–157. Praha: Ústav pro soudobé dějiny AV
ČR v.v.i.
Chalupecký, Jindřich. 1999. Osud jedné generace. In Cestou necestou, ed. Jinřich
Chalupecký, Jan Rous, and Zina Trochová, 153–161. Jinočany: H&H.
Daniel, František. 1983. The Czech difference. In Politics, art and commitment
in the East European cinema, ed. David W. Paul, 49–56. London: Palgrave
Macmillan.
Della Coletta, Cristina. 2012. When stories travel: Cross-cultural encounters
between fiction and film. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP.
Elleström, Lars. 2010. The Modalities of Media: A Model for Understanding
Intermedial Relations. In Media Borders, Multimodality and Intermediality,
ed. Lars Elleström, 11–48. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Elliott, Kamilla. 2014. Rethinking formal-cultural and textual-contextual divides
in adaptation studies. Literature/Film Quarterly 42 (3): 576–593.
Franc, Martin. 2011. Coca-cola je zde! Aneb Konzumní společnost
v Československu. In 1968: Pražské jaro 1968: občanská společnost, media,
přenos politických a kulturních procesů, ed. Oldřich Tůma and Markéta Devátá,
133–142. Praha: Ústav pro soudobé dějiny AV ČR v.v.i.
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38  P. BUBENÍČEK
Franc, Martin. 2014. Vztah politické elity v českých zemích k mládeži v letech
1948—1968. In Děti, mládež a socialismus v Československu v 50. a 60. letech,
ed. Jiří Knapík, et al., 81–95. Opava: Slezská univerzita v Opavě.
Gebhart, Jan, and Jan Kuklík. 2006. Velké dějiny zemí Koruny české. Sv. XV.a
1938–1945. Praha, Litomyšl: Paseka.
Gebhart, Jan, and Jan Kuklík. 2007. Velké dějiny zemí Koruny české. Sv. XV.b
1938–1945. Praha, Litomyšl: Paseka.
Hames, Peter. 2005. The Czechoslovak New Wave. London: Wallflower Press.
Hames, Peter. 2009. Czech and Slovak cinema. Edinburg: Edinburg University
Press.
Hoppe, Jiří. 2011. Pražské jaro v médiích. In 1968: Pražské jaro 1968: občanská
společnost, media, přenos politických a kulturních procesů, ed. Oldřich Tůma and
Markéta Devátá, 125–132. Praha: Ústav pro soudobé dějiny AV ČR v.v.i.
Hrubín, František. 1962. Romance pro křídlovku. Praha: Československý spisova-
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Hrubý, Karel. 2008. Politické rozpravy intelektuálů za „pražského jara“. In
Soudobé dějiny 15: 545–574.
Hutcheon, Linda. 2006. A Theory of Adaptation. London: Routledge.
Iordanova, Dina. 2003. Cinema of the other Europe. The industry and artistry of
East Central European film. London: Wallflower Press.
Jedličková, Alice. 2011. Intermediální poetika příběhu: úvodem. In
Intermediální poetika příběhu, ed. Stanislava Fedrová and Alice Jedličková,
5–25. Praha: Ústav pro českou literature AV ČR.
Jireš, Jaromil. 1969. Poznámka k filmovému Žertu. FTN, March 20.
Kadár, Ján, Elmar Klos, Evald Schorm, and Antonín Máša. 1966. Hovoříme
v přítomném čase. Film a doba 6: 93–99.
Kaplan, Karel. 2005. Kronika komunistického Československa: doba tání 1953–
1956. Brno: Barrister & Principal.
Klimek, Antonín. 2002. Velké dějiny zemí Koruny české XIII. 1918–1929. Praha:
Paseka.
Klimeš, Ivan. 2000. Za vizí centrálního řízení filmové tvorby (Úvod k edici).
Iluminace 4: 135–139.
Klimeš, Ivan. 2016. Kinematografie a stát v českých zemích 1895–1945. Praha:
Univerzita Karlova, Filozofická fakulta.
Klimešová, Marie. 2010. Roky ve dnech. České umění 1945–1957. Řevnice: Arbor
vitae.
Knapík, Jiří, and Martin Franc. 2011. Průvodce kulturním děním a životním
stylem v českých zemích 1948–1967. Praha: Academia.
Knapík, Jiří. 2015. Czechoslovak Culture and Cinema. In Cinema in Service of
the State. Perspectives on Film Culture in the GDR and Czechoslovakia, 1945–
1960, ed. Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 39–69. New York: Berghahn Books.
Kovács, András Bálint. 2007. Screening modernism: European art cinema 1950–
1980. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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1 INTRODUCTION  39
Krebs, Katja (ed.). 2014. Translation and Adaptation in Theatre and Film.
London: Routledge.
Kunakhovich, Kyrill, and Pavel Skopal. 2015. Cinema cultures of integration.
In Cinema in service of the state. Perspectives on film culture in the GDR and
Czechoslovakia, 1945–1960, ed. Lars Karl and Pavel Skopal, 275–314. New
York: Berghahn Books.
Leitch, Thomas. 2017. Introduction. In The Oxford Handbook of Adaptation
Studies, ed. Thomas Leitch, 1–20. New York: Oxford University Press.
Málek, Petr. 1991. K pojmu konkretizace v literatuře a filmu. Iluminace 3: 3–14.
Málková, Iva. 2011. František Hrubín. Brno: Host.
Mareš, Petr, Alena Štěrbová, and Radka Denemarková. 2007. Literatura v masových
médiích: Film a rozhlas. In Dějiny české literatury 1945–1989. Svazek
II., 1948–1958, ed. Pavel Janoušek, 443–471. Praha: Academia.
Mareš, Petr, Alena Štěrbová, and Radka Denemarková. 2008. Literatura v masových
médiích. In Dějiny české literatury 1945–1989. Svazek III., 1958–1969,
ed. Pavel Janoušek, 543–573. Praha: Academia.
McDermott, Kevin. 2015. Communist Czechoslovakia, 1945–89: A political and
social history. London, New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Murray, Simone. 2012. The adaptation industry: The cultural economy of contemporary
literary adaptation. New York: Routledge.
Owen, Jonathan. 2011. Avant-Garde to New Wave. Czechoslovak cinema,
Surrealism and the Sixties. Oxford: Berghahn Books.
Rokoský, Jaroslav. 2011. Rudolf Beran a jeho doba. Vzestup a pád agrární strany.
Praha: Vyšehrad and Ústav pro studium totalitních režimů.
Šámal, Petr. 2015. Část sedmá. 1949–1989. V zájmu pracujícího lidu. Literární
cenzura v době centrálního plánování a paralelních oběhů. In V obecném
zájmu: cenzura a sociální regulace literatury v moderní české kultuře 1749–
2014. Svazek II, 1938–2014, ed. Michael Wögerbauer, Petr Píša, Petr Šámal,
and Pavel Janáček, 1097–1226. Praha: Academia.
Síla, Jiří. 1953. O ideově umělecké linii naší filmové tvorby. Film a doba 2 (5):
770.
Skupa, Lukáš. 2016. Vadí—nevadí. Česká filmová cenzura v 60. letech. Praha:
NFA.
Spurný, Matěj. 2011. Nejsou jako my: Česká společnost a menšiny v pohraničí
(1945–1960). Praha: Antikomplex.
Szczepanik, Petr. 2012. “Machři” a “diletanti”. Základní jednotky filmové praxe
v době reorganizací a politických zvratů 1945 až 1962. In Naplánovaná kinematografie:
český filmový průmysl 1945 až 1960, ed. Pavel Skopal, 27–101.
Praha: Academia.
Szczepanik, Petr. 2013. The state-socialist mode of production and the political
history of production culture. In Behind the screen. Inside European production
cultures, ed. Petr Szczepanik and Patrick Vondreau, 115–133. New York:
Palgrave Macmillan.
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40  P. BUBENÍČEK
Trávníček, Jiří. 2010. Zrození střední Evropy z ducha…. In V kleštích dějin.
Střední Evropa jako pojem a problém, ed. Jiří Trávníček, 243–304. Brno: Host.
Vančura, Vladislav. 1931. Markéta Lazarová. Praha: Sfinx.
Films Cited
A Hard Day’s Night. Dir. Richard Lester. United Kingdom. 1964. Movie.
…a pátý jezdec je Strach (The Fifth Horseman is Fear). Dir. Zbyněk Brynych.
Czechoslovakia. 1964. Movie.
Botostroj (Giant Shoe-Factory). Dir. K. M. Walló. Czechoslovakia. 1954. Movie.
Démanty noci (Diamonds of the Night). Dir. Jan Němec. Czechoslovakia. 1964.
Movie.
Dita Saxová (Dita Saxová). Dir. Antonín Moskalyk. Czechoslovakia. 1967.
Movie.
Extase (Ecstasy). Dir. Gustav Machatý. Czechoslovakia. 1932. Movie.
Florenc 13.30 (Bus Leaves at 1.30). Dir. Josef Mach. Czechoslovakia. 1957.
Movie.
Marketa Lazarová (Marketa Lazarová). Dir. František Vláčil. Czechoslovakia.
1967. Movie.
Nástup (Deployment). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Czechoslovakia. 1952. Movie.
Obchod na korze (The Shop on Main Street). Dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos.
Czechoslovakia. 1965. Movie.
Ostře sledované vlaky (Closely Watched Trains). Dir. Jiří Menzl. Czechoslovakia.
1966. Movie.
Perličky na dně (Pearls of the Deep). Dir. Jiří Menzel. Czechoslovakia. 1965.
Movie.
Případ pro začínajícího kata (Case for a Rookie Hangman). Dir. Pavel Juráček.
Czechoslovakia. 1969. Movie.
Romance pro křídlovku (Romance for Flugelhorn). Dir. Otakar Vávra.
Czechoslovakia. 1966. Movie.
Starci na chmelu (Hop-Pickers). Dir. Ladislav Rychman. Czechoslovakia. 1964.
Movie.
Stříbrný vítr (Silvery Wind). Dir. Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia. 1954. Movie.
Tam na konečné (House at the Terminus). Dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos.
Czechoslovakia. 1957. Movie.
Transport z ráje (Transport from Paradise). Dir. Zbyněk Brynych.
Czechoslovakia. 1962. Movie.
Ukradená vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship). Dir. Karel Zeman. Czechoslovakia.
1966. Movie.
Vstanou noví bojovníci (New Warriors Will Arise). Dir. Jiří Weiss. Czechoslovakia.
1950. Movie.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
1 INTRODUCTION  41
Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne). Dir. Karel Zeman.
Czechoslovakia. 1958. Movie.
Zde jsou lvi (Here Be Dragons). Dir. Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia. 1958. Movie.
Žert (The Joke). Dir. Jaromil Jireš. Czechoslovakia. 1968. Movie.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
43
The film Silvery Wind by director Václav Krška, based on Fráňa Šrámek’s
novel of the same name, was made in 1954, when, despite the beginning
thaw, conditions in the country remained adverse to freedom of artistic
expression. However, coming on to 1956 when the adaptation was
released (after a 2-year delay), both ideological pressure and dogmatic
approaches to art had abated. Silvery Wind resonates with these changes
as it differed from the then-standard portrayals of fervent socialism. It
conveyed to the audience doubts about fundamental aspects of life and
touched upon subjects that the literary and cinematic socialist realism of
the time had expressly excluded from its program. Silvery Wind distinguished
itself in its grasp of human existence, as it examines themes of
individuality and subjectivity, the painful transition from adolescence into
adulthood, disillusionment, the rebellion of sons against their fathers,
and remembrances of first loves. Šrámek’s central metaphor—the titular
silvery wind—enabled generations of readers and later film viewers to
recall their youth, dream about a life in harmony with nature, and idealize
the picturesque landscape of South Bohemia. The blowing of the silvery
wind symbolizes not only the fragility of youth, but also longing for
years past. Some viewers perceived the film as a nostalgic reminiscence
of life during the Austro-Hungarian monarchy or the First Czechoslovak
Republic, which for a portion of the Czech and Slovak public at the time
represented a “dream of their youth.” Such a nostalgic reminiscence was
subversive because, as the historian Andrea Orzoff writes, “discussion
CHAPTER 2
Adaptation as Subterfuge: Silvery Wind
© The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0_2
petrb@phil.muni.cz
44  P. BUBENÍČEK
or commemoration of the First Republic and its leaders took on new significance
as symbols of political protest” (Orzoff 2009, 216).
My further commentary is aimed at demonstrating how Krška’s
audio-visual interpretation of Šrámek’s text, carried out in a nostalgic
mode and utilizing portrayals of “small events” and original poetic
techniques, contributed to the enforcement of private values and the
establishment of continuity with prewar culture. But there is another
factor involved in the film’s inception, one that shifts the perception of
the film in a crucial way. While interpreting the adaptation, it is necessary
to consider sources in which Václav Krška speaks about his homosexuality
(mainly statements given at police and court proceedings from
the 1930s). When Krška was an adolescent, homosexuality was a criminal
offense. In the 1950s, it remained illegal, and was concealed and
silenced. Krška’s earlier literary and cinematic work, when viewed in
light of this information, led me to hypothesize that the adaptation of
Šrámek’s Silvery Wind speaks much about the director’s own homosexual
experience. It is not possible, however, to say that this film is merely
Krška’s sublimation of his sexual orientation, as no clear evidence exists
to support such a claim. My hypothesis, based on the sources available,
is therefore more restrained: the director adapted Silvery Wind in a way
that enabled some viewers to perceive it as a refined allegory. Applying
such subversive perspective to the film, the viewer can uncover its heretofore
unseen meanings (Skupa 2010, 19). In this light the adaptation
process—resulting in a film that features (for its time) bold depictions of
male nudity, expresses adoration of a profound friendship between boys,
and is skeptical towards heterosexual relationships—appears to successfully
subvert the contemporary guardians of heterosexual values.
Additionally, I will address another layer of interpretation that can be
applied to Silvery Wind, which, however, diverges somewhat from my
main focus. It follows the second life of the film after the lead female
actress, Jana Rybářová, committed suicide in 1957. This facet of the
adaptation is of interest to me mostly due to the intensity with which
the film’s audience identified this newly emerged actress with her role of
“crazy Anička.”
Before starting on the main points of the interpretation, I will briefly
summarize the film’s plot. Silvery Wind is set in a small town in South
Bohemia, whose depictions in the film alternate with nature scenes. The
narrative centers on Jan Ratkin, a student and poet, whose experiences
encompass the pain of romance and heartbreak, youth’s rebelliousness,
petrb@phil.muni.cz
2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  45
and revolt against petty bourgeois conventions and religion. Šrámek’s
novel, covering a long period in the boy’s life (from 12 to 18 years of
age), could quite obviously be read as a coming-of-age story. Although
in the adaptation the time span depicted is reduced to 1 year, the film
still emphasizes the dynamics of a sentimental upbringing and centers on
the emotional state of the main character, which oscillates between the
optimism of a full, authentic life and the resigned emptiness of existence.
The romantic and erotic layer of the narrative is embodied by Ratkin’s
relationship with Anička, an unstable girl who gives into the boy’s affections
one moment and resists them the next. Ratkin’s life experience,
meanwhile, is also affected by his platonic relationship with an aging
actress and his bleak sexual encounter with an older widow, which leaves
him bitterly disappointed. His revolt against conventions and religion
is expressed most poignantly in his conflict with the catechist, in his
friendship with Zach (an older student who introduces Ratkin to antichurch
writings), and in his conflict with his father, a court councilman
and a typical representative of the petty bourgeoisie. Ratkin’s uncle
Jiří, recently back from travelling through exotic lands, understands his
strong emotions and romantic desires. As someone who appears to have
escaped small town life, Jiří represents for Ratkin an ideal worth following.
As the film ends, Zach is expelled from school, while Ratkin is
saved by a young teacher, Ramler. At the same time Ratkin learns that
his uncle has committed suicide by shooting himself. His last encounter
with Anička provides a conclusion to both their failed relationship and
Ratkin’s life so far.1
National Artists
I will now provide an outline of the position Fráňa Šrámek held in Czech
culture and the reasons for the uncommon popularity of his novel with
readers at the time of its publication. Fráňa Šrámek (1877–1952), Czech
poet, novelist, and playwright, published Stříbrný vítr (Silvery Wind) in
1910, when he was 33 years old. At the time he was already an accomplished
author, whose writings bore similarities to the works of the
poets and writers of the Czech Modernist movement, as well as Czech
Symbolism, Impressionism, and Decadence.2 Šrámek’s personal life
was tumultuous: after he rebelled against his father and abandoned his
law studies, he devoted all his time to literary pursuits, and thus lived
petrb@phil.muni.cz
46  P. BUBENÍČEK
without a steady income. Socially and artistically, he adopted anarchist
views and publicly opposed war and militarism.
Šrámek’s political views are reflected in his collection of poems called
Modrý a rudý (The Blue and the Crimson 1906). He was sentenced to
prison for four weeks for his poem “Píšou mi psaní” (“They Write Me
a Letter”) and as a result was later demoted to the rank of private. The
verses combine motifs of rebellion with anarchist revolt. In Czech, the
poem’s gesture, affecting to this day, is expressed in the melodiousness
of the verses. His verse reflects the tendency towards a more trivial mode
of expression (this triviality interestingly enough alternates with the mentioned
complex Symbolist phase connected to the metaphysical Czech
poet Otokar Březina) by working with the diction of a folk song: being
enlisted into military service is a recurring theme in such songs, which
Šrámek imitates in the poem. This form of the poem—along with the
theme of revolt against military (and, more generally, social) power—
contributed much to its popularity.3 The sentiments he expressed were,
after all, quite commonly held by people of Šrámek’s generation. Šrámek
began to mature as an author in the first decade of the 20th century,
a time pervaded by an apocalyptic atmosphere. Czech people from all
social classes felt they were being oppressed by Habsburg rule and saw
revolt and bringing down the monarchy as a way out of tyranny. And
apocalypse nearly did come—4 years after the publication of Silvery
Wind, World War I broke out. Young cultural elites enlisted to fight.
Those who believed what they were told going into the war quickly lost
that belief on the front. On the battlefield it became clear that civil and
moral values had no actual merit, that present friendships were what was
important. The war mowed down its “Ratkins” in a terrifying way, making
anarchists’ explosive protests in the heretofore “harmonious” patriarchal
world seem suddenly idyllic.
Silvery Wind received a warm welcome from a wide spectrum of
readers. Its influence persisted throughout the entire 20th century. It
brought—as a reviewer for the newspaper Lidové noviny noted 30 years
after its publication—“epidemics, an avalanche-like daze, which we fell into
in 1910, 1911 and 1912, like drunken flies giddy from sweetness” (M. N.
1940, 4, my translation). Its earliest readers were members of Šrámek’s
artistic generation who had had a taste of bohemianism and anarchism,
and also included grammar school students versed in the Habsburg school
system’s ways. Early-20th-century reviewers noted that the plot of the
novel consists of the inner development of a sensitive, restless child. Karel
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  47
Sezima, literary critic and writer, found the main character to be a nervous
child,
whose exceedingly changeable feelings are usually shaken by sad thoughts.
Bewitched by dissimilar objects, they easily transform into feelings of
opposite quality. The boy abounds in imagination and tenderness; his eyes
are piercing, derisive, and sorrowful. (Sezima 1911, 27, my translation)
At the time of its conception, Silvery Wind was perceived as a novel
about a young man’s desire to live a fulfilling life, defined by excitement
and love for life and for a girl. It was also read as an expression of melancholy
and regret stemming from the realization that youth’s ideals cannot
be attained. It was also viewed as a painful novel, as every young person,
according to Šrámek, “leaves a piece of flesh on every thorn” (Šrámek
1955, 238, my translation). The book’s reviewers took note of the rebelliousness
of youth against the force embodied by their fathers’ generation,
a revolt against conventions, old systems and values, bureaucracy, and religion.
Other reviewers—influenced by modern art and the radical break
in the aesthetic tradition, and looking for new sources of reading pleasure—pointed
to the artistic aptitude with which Šrámek portrays fleeting
moments of happiness, in which youth declares its love of life. The themes
of the novel were attacked by advocates of the patriarchy for giving into
the contemporary criticisms of “the malignancy of schools, the bigotry
and pedantry of teachers and the villainous catechist” (Jež 1910, 283, my
translation) and for supporting a break from parents and God.
Four years after the book’s publication, World War I broke out,
and boys barely out of school, still harboring the ideals of youth, suddenly
found themselves on Europe’s battlefields. The silvery wind,
however, continued to blow even after the atrocities of the war ended.
Contemporary reviews reveal that the novel’s lyrical sensuality still
inspired perceptivity and an enthusiastic outlook on the world. At
Šrámek’s 50th birthday celebration in 1927, he was praised as a poet
of wistful heart, affecting words, and sorrowful melodies. Several years
later, poet Josef Hora noted that Šrámek’s originally antimilitarist
songs had entered the repertoire of the interwar tramping movement
and that they were sung by campfires without it always being known
who wrote them. According to Hora, the contemporary popularity of
Šrámek’s writing reflected the recurring myth of the Czech countryside,
an idyllic place of calm repose, as opposed to the feverish environment
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48  P. BUBENÍČEK
of the city, because, as he writes, the youth of the time found Šrámek’s
poetry “under the high sky, in the movement of clouds and in the shadow
of green hillsides” (Hora 1931, 1, my translation). Šrámek’s recognition
as the nation’s poet was surely helped by the author’s non-conflicting
nature, his proximity to the president T.G. Masaryk, and his friendship
with one of the most renowned interwar authors, the democrat journalist
Karel Čapek. Čapek’s words, “it is beautiful to be Šrámek,” further illustrate
the author’s cult status. In the post-World War II period, the book
was read—as the exiled writer and journalist Josef Jedlička asserts—
as an account of a happier world, full of great emotions and private passions,
whose place in this world was diminishing; and [as] a melancholy
message about the unstoppable fleeting of youth, which changes irreversibly
into an age of reason and maturity. (Jedlička 2009, 44, my translation)
This remark is important as it highlights an innate desire for private life,
which not even the radical social changes of the early 1950s could eradicate.
I would like to close my examination of the popularity of Šrámek’s
writings—which I have attributed to the melodiousness of his verse and
the sensuality of his books and their propensity for evoking nature—with
the ironic remarks of one of the most important turn-of-the-century and
early-20th-century Czech literary critics, F.X. Šalda (1867–1937). In
1926, Šalda likened the conception of Šrámek’s writings to preserving
apricots, in his essay “Fráňa Šrámek čili jak konservovati meruňky” (Fráňa
Šrámek, or, How to Conserve Apricots; it is necessary to add that preserved
apricots––or apricot jam—are a Central European phenomenon
par excellence). According to Šalda, a writer’s success can be achieved by
preserving characters, themes, and events in sugar or vinegar, or by dehydrating
them. In the case of Silvery Wind, Šrámek pickles youth (whose
praises he sings in the novel) in melancholy.4 In Šalda’s piercing gaze, the
reason for Šrámek’s popularity emerges:
Šrámek’s fiftieth birthday was celebrated very loudly; superlatives capable
of burying greater authors than Šrámek were thrown in the air, exploded,
cracked, deafened. Why, though? It is because Šrámek does not require
polarization, neither poetic nor ideological; he is mainly a creature of compromise,
a poet of the senses, nature, mood, ease; he never attained any
order in his writing. He has remained the anarchist he was in his beginnings,
only appearing in muted colors now, older and more settled. All these negations
are particularly favored by the Czech people of today. They do not
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  49
demand commitment; they are boundlessly comfortable, and thus, likeable.
… Nature and life are today’s most popular slogans; if you seek success, call
upon them at least once a week. (Šalda 1963, 224–225, my translation)
These aspects of the novel settled deep into the audience’s consciousness
and remained there long after people stopped actually reading
Šrámek’s book. Ratkin’s image acquired a gloomy, melancholic, and easily
pleasing form.
A “Ratkinesque” desire for youthful enchantment still resonated
in the 1970s. A řeka mu zpívala (And the River Sang to Him), a 1976
documentary devoted to the directorial work of Václav Krška, sees the
aged actors of Silvery Wind revisiting the original filming locations. The
main actor, Eduard Cupák, walks again through the streets of Písek and,
accompanied by the film’s original soundtrack, seeks out these places.
The camera pans over linear elements of the urban landscape, such as
a bridge and a promenade; aerial scenes (shot from a crane) depict the
rural landscape of South Bohemia, effectively entering this documentary
about Krška into a dialogue with the visual effects of his films.
Placing the aged actors into the film’s original settings elicits nostalgia.
Here metalepsis is also employed: the narrative about actors returning
to Písek overlaps with the fictional reality that they helped create.
Narrative shots of Eduard Cupák reminiscing about times past alternate
with scenes from Silvery Wind. A group of musicians suddenly appears
on the streets he is walking on. A weather-worn balcony transforms
into its former self and Ratkin’s old love Anička appears. The documentary
effectively utilizes the metaleptic permeation of fictional narrative.
Viewers can recognize intertextual allusions, as they imitate the fictional
setting. The documentary also seeks to convey the evocative nature of
the film—dialogues are paraphrased, and certain scenes are imitated and
acted out again. By rehashing scenes from the film their uniqueness is
emphasized by an intertextual paraphrase: aged actors talk about times
that are never to return. The balance between the present and the unreproducible
past creates a unified lyrical mood and a nostalgic sentiment.
A Delayed Film
For Krška, Šrámek-based material was nothing new. In April 1940, an
amateur theater group performed a dramatization of Silvery Wind in
Písek, his hometown. The performance was met with outrage, especially
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50  P. BUBENÍČEK
from the catechist and the headmaster at the local grammar school.
Miloš Hlávka was responsible for the script and the play was directed
by Václav Krška. Jiří Srnka composed the music. Even though the play
earned Krška the status of persona non grata in Písek, it was well received
by critics from Prague. This dramatization later served as the basis for
the film’s screenplay.
Before moving on, I would like to mention one more element in the
adaptation process. At the time, a set of photographs was taken in the
streets of Písek of the actors in period costumes. One of the preserved
photographs depicts a meeting between Ratkin and Anička as portrayed
by actors Rudolf Hrušínský and Zorka Janů, sister of the notorious
Czech actress Lída Baarová. Ratkin is standing with his head bowed
down, holding his hat, while Anička regards him haughtily. It is scene
that is repeated in the film: a coquettish girl tormenting the sensitive
poet. The two young people are captured standing on Písek’s ancient
medieval bridge, against the backdrop of the town. This and other photographs
were variously alluded to in the film adaptation, which corroborates
Krška’s interest in visualizations of Šrámek’s writings and the
diversity of the filmmaking process.
The shooting of the film itself was fraught with complications.
Krška had already adapted one of Šrámek’s works—in the melodrama
Měsíc nad řekou (The Moon over the River 1953). It was an adaptation
of a play wherein the characters, Jan Hlubina and his aging daughter,
Slávka, praise youth and in a magical summer evening make peace with
the events of their lives. The film’s popularity with audiences prompted
thoughts about adapting Silvery Wind, but at the same time there was
hesitation: Would it be suitable to bring two Šrámek adaptations into
cinemas within such a short period of time?
Expectations about the film were high. Official media informed the
public about casting choices, the first studio takes, and on-location filming
in Písek, Prague, and Jičín (Stříbrný vítr opouští ateliéry 1954, 7;
Blahovec 1954, 5; Pa 1954, 248; Tarantová 1954, 164). Contemporary
sources emphasize the character of Jan Ratkin played by Eduard Cupák.
This young actor was known for his portrayal of the main character in
The Moon over the River: “Cupák’s boyish appearance and the temperamental
acting with which he admirably conveys the nuances of his characters
guarantee his success in portraying this new Šrámek character”
(Příští filmová role 1954, 8, my translation). Jana Rybářová was a dance
student who was chosen for her girlish looks to portray Anička Karasová.
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  51
It is not surprising that the film was heralded as ideologically charged
in the press: youth was supposed to be seen revolting against the degenerate
sensibilities of small-town society; the townhouse salon, filled with
sentimental and debauched decorations, was supposed to symbolize decadence
and profligacy, and the hateful catechist was to represent a caricature
of the church.
In Autumn 1954, the magazine Filmové informace reported that
Silvery Wind would be ready for release by the end of the year. The editors
asked film journalist Jan Wenig to use interviews with the director
and his knowledge of the screenplay to predict the final appearance
of the film. The critic joined those who admired Šrámek’s work as a
source of spontaneous vitality, furthered the author’s cult, and expected
the film’s enthusiastic reception, particularly among young people. He
regarded the attempt to translate a poetic reflection of adolescence, fantastic
tension, and, above all, “our” reading of Šrámek into an hour-anda-half
long spectacle with both excitement and apprehension.
Krška, who was well aware of the interest in his new project, announced
in advance his intention of seeking innovative audio-visual approaches: “I
wish to give the movie a visual intimacy, I wish … to work mainly with
medium shots and with close-ups and use them to illustrate both the
action and the mood” (Wenig 1954, 18, my translation). Nevertheless,
few people anticipated just how much this stylistically varied and playful
film would enrich the culture of the time. The emphasis on lyricism and
the metaphorical aspect of the final product were one of the most significant
attributes of the creative adaptation process. Krška sought to convey
Šrámek’s poetic language to the audience via film. His comments clearly
indicate that he understood his work as the creative act of an avant-garde
artist looking for a space for self-expression and for a possibility to communicate
his own approach to Šrámek’s work and to the author himself:
This is how he was; he walked quietly through the town and through the
country. He was both present and absent, and the whole town was filled by
him and permeated by him, and many minds accepted his name into their
innermost hiding places, forever. This is how generations of the young
and the bareheaded knew him … . Such was my Šrámek in my Southern
Bohemian birthplace, untouched and visibly invisible, while the fleshand-blood
poet settled in Vinohrady and later in Černý vrch, Smíchov [in
Prague], and looked at the sky with his blue, twinkling eyes full of life.
(Krška 1957, 5, my translation)
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52  P. BUBENÍČEK
However, expectations were dashed in 1954. Available contemporary
testimonials indicate that the female evaluators, one of whom was the
wife of Ladislav Štoll (the principal ideologist of official literature), were
scandalized by the displays of male nudity at the first projection of the
film (Příběhy slavných – Eduard Cupák: herec v zahradě 2001). And thus,
after all the feverish and loud preparations for its release, Silvery Wind
was suddenly shelved. It came up again in an official forum only in 1956,
when a reader wrote a letter to the editor of the newspaper Práce and
enquired about its fate:
Why has this film, having commanded so much time, as well as the best
and most earnest creative effort of filmmakers, and significant financial
resources, not yet appeared in our theaters? There has been no explanation
for this. It seems strange, if we declare, as we do, our pride in Šrámek’s literary
legacy, and require contemporary writers to work with film. (Mrázek
1956, 4, my translation)
The newspaper’s editorial office followed up on this question and asked
for an explanation from the Ministry of Culture or Czechoslovak State
Film, lending the situation more gravity. The reader of Práce was by no
means the first person to inquire about the fate of Krška’s adaptation;
reviewer Ludvík Veselý wrote in 1957: “…viewers, curious and persistent,
wrote letters and asked about the film at meetings, what has happened to
it and when it will get to the cinemas” (Veselý 1957, 23, my translation).
The difference, of course, was that the question was officially published
in an influential newspaper. In fact, the whole episode illustrates how the
building up of the audience’s expectations ultimately worked against the
film’s censors, as members of the public—enticed by the widespread media
coverage of the adaptation’s making—refused to forget Silvery Wind once
it failed to pass ideological muster. Their unfailing interest may have been
the ultimate factor in deterring the permanent shelving of this film.
Variations in Style
The most important source of inspiration for the adaptation was Šrámek’s
book. The novel’s narrative, however, is repeatedly suppressed by inserting
lyrical passages and impressions into the film. The book’s structure was
appropriately characterized by reviewer Julius Schmitt, who wrote in 1910
that due to Šrámek’s poetic nature he was unable to build up the novel by
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  53
writing vast, unified storylines, that “these are snippets of early years, and
whether and how serendipity granted them significance of upheavals, joys
or sorrows” (Schmitt 1910, 469, my translation). According to Schmitt,
the novel consists of a string of “little happenings,” which resonate
with the subjective impressions of the main character and with Šrámek’s
thoughts on the relationship between an adolescent individual and society.
As early as in the screenplay, Krška created a mosaic of scenes that when
put together convey an impressionist reflection of a past world.
Václav Krška, a former writer, read Silvery Wind as a book filled with
colors, contrasts, and scents. The storylines, therefore, were not the
most substantial aspects he saw in the novel. His screenplay shows that
he identified with Šrámek’s emphasis on the intensity of the sensual and
emotional awakening of youth, his aesthetic rendering of nature, and so
on. Krška’s artistic and aesthetic attitude, which manifests itself mainly
in the lyrical passages of the film and in the testimonies of “young, wild
blood,” stemmed from his efforts to adapt those aspects of the novel
that were difficult in terms of semantics. The creative process (writing
the screenplay, shooting the film) presents itself as a quest for filmmaking
solutions that would correspond to Šrámek’s poetic style. Krška was
drawn to filling the film with miniatures to evoke the atmosphere of its
setting, and with impressive metaphors.
The authenticity of his self-expression is rooted in the fact that Krška,
who had recognized and understood the status of an artist under the
new sociopolitical conditions, drew upon his long-standing method of
interpreting Šrámek, which contemporary critics praised as experimental
and avant-garde. His “answer” differs from the interpretation by the cultural
ideologists of the 1950s. Those ideologists noted the dangers posed
by Krška’s adaptation as early as when reading the screenplay: “There are
parts of the screenplay in which Krška favors his own writing and the
tradition of his early films, rather than the philosophy of that rebellious
lyricist, the nation’s bard Fráňa Šrámek” (Zvoníček 1954, 141, my translation).
Krška’s creation (despite the necessary libations to the ideology,
such as the parading of the working class or the criticism of small-town
decadence) shows, as early as in the screenplay, transgressions from the
cultural and political activism, and tends towards an alternative style and
a certain degree of independence.
Most of the film’s crew started their career during the first
Czechoslovak Republic. One of them was cameraman Ferdinand Pečenka,
who had shot dozens of films since the beginning of the 1930s, including
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54  P. BUBENÍČEK
Krška’s adaptations of Šrámek’s works. While in The Moon over the River
he employed static camera work, imbuing the film with the semblance of
a theatrical production, in Silvery Wind he intended to shake up the audience’s
visual expectations. Static shots subside in favor of dynamic ones,
with frequent panning and close-ups of the characters that were intended
to emphasize their emotions. This means of camera work shows that the
film’s style is not a return to tradition but an exploration of new possibilities.
At the beginning of the adaptation, the setting—a small town
reflected in the river’s surface—is introduced with a sweeping shot, a technique
that disorients the audience. The following shot then continues with
the visual innovation: the image of the town overlaps with the fabric of
a promenading girl’s parasol. The film Silvery Wind, then, is built upon
elaborate camera shots, further defamiliarized and complicated in order to
capture the audience’s attention.
It appears as though the nationalized film industry provided the director
and the crew with novel technological means for adapting a modernist
text. For example, sensuality is conveyed in the “flying” scene shot
on a swing ride: it is at this moment that Anička momentarily gives into
Ratkin’s enchantment. A reviewer noted upon this scene:
This scene, taking place directly while flying around on the ride, was
fraught with various technical difficulties. The swing ride purchased
by Czechoslovak State Film for the purpose of filming this scene had to
undergo multiple modifications in order for the cameras and lighting to
be attached to it. The resilience of the actors’ stomachs was also tested
prior to shooting the scene—if all went well, the filming could commence.
(“Stříbrný vítr v exteriérech” 1954, 4, my translation)
The music, composed by Jiří Srnka, was a critical component of the
adaptation. Srnka, a composer and a noted collaborator with many filmmakers,
caught the public’s and critics’ attention with his score to the
first film adaptation of Šrámek’s work, The Moon over the River. The
audience was especially impressed (Pilka 1957, 72) by the musical motif
of the river flowing under Slávka Hlubinová’s window. The musical
score to Silvery Wind contains a wide spectrum of motifs: violin solos
imitate the sounds of nature, the violoncello indicates love and pain,
and women’s voices fill in as the titular “silvery wind.” Concerts on the
promenade take up a prominent place in the film’s diegetic music; such
concerts remained popular well into the first half of the 20th century.
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  55
The use of various musical motifs (from the street organ to the work of
Jacques Offenbach) attests to the creativity and playfulness that Srnka
employed in his work on Silvery Wind.
A Secret Brotherhood
At the beginning of this chapter I hypothesized that Václav Krška was
able to make a film that uses socialist symbolism while at the same time
subverting faith in heterosexual romance by portraying relationships with
patently unclear endings. Krška was born in Písek in 1900 and was a
young man during the politically and culturally liberal first Czechoslovak
Republic. This perceived liberty, however, had its limits: Krška realized
he was homosexual during the 1920s, a sexual orientation that was
considered criminal in the contemporary legal system.5 The director’s
“awakening” was summarized by court physicians in 1939:
He broke up with the girl in 1922, as he had recognized that he liked a
boy. The boy was a machine fitter. He talked to him as to a friend. He did
not confess his feelings. There was no sexual intercourse. That was the time
when he laid his hands on the book Prokletá láska (Cursed love). … This
book opened his eyes. He recognized the feelings he had for the feelings
described in the book. The book told him “you are like this.” He attempted
suicide, but was dissuaded from it by his mother. He confessed to his
mother. She knew “it” about him. … He himself resisted it; he saw the head
physician Šťastný. He is reported to have confuted that it is incurable. The
mother wrote to Vienna, but the reply was negative. … He has not felt an
erotic attraction to any girl since 1922. (Nozar 2011, 397, my translation)
This report sums up in official-sounding language the adolescent Krška’s
painful journey to sexual self-identification. It implies his initial homophobia,
a fear of otherness, which led to his suicide attempts.
Krška was subsequently subjected to more examinations, as doctors
tried to “diagnose” him. Later on, he often resisted society’s interpretation
of his actions as being ill or sexually degenerate. His image as an aesthete
and bohemian is, however, inseparable from the humiliating admissions
that led to the reports of his perceived perversity: “As for sexual intercourse,
there was mutual masturbation and sucking of the sexual organ.
He did not pay anybody anything. These were people who sought him
out by themselves. Especially in Písek” (Nozar 2011, 408, my translation).
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56  P. BUBENÍČEK
He was diagnosed as suffering from a psychopathological disorder, a common
diagnosis at the time. Písek’s public denounced the perceived perversity
of the young man and his friends. One of the medical reports reads:
The examined committed homosexual acts in a state of mental feebleness,
which was caused partly by his … emotionally accentuated perverse nature
and partly by his … inhibitions being lowered as a result of the whole situation,
and particularly the incipient influence of alcohol-induced intoxication.
(Nozar 2011, 407–408, my translation)
When juxtaposed, reports like this one and the cinematic conflict
between Jan Ratkin and his teachers, who (along with the fanatic catechist)
embody heterosexual conformity, reveal a possible reflection of the
director’s difficult adolescent years (as well as themes such as individuality
and the subjectivity of an adolescent male conscious of his otherness)
within the adaptation. The sexual dimension of the film, then, is seen in
the context of Krška’s social standing in Písek (and later, Prague), along
with his homosexuality.
In the 1930s Krška experienced a grievous personal tragedy: his close
friend Vladimír Zanáška committed suicide in 1934. The same decade
saw Krška sentenced to four months’ probation for homosexuality. Part
of this experience appears in several of Krška’s works. One, the novel
Odcházeti s podzimem (Leaving Along with Autumn 1930), is of particular
interest for this study because Krška (in collaboration with František
Čáp) made it into a film called Ohnivé léto (Fiery Summer 1939). The
book contains clear autobiographical elements, mainly in the way that
the behavior of the other characters towards two boys, Walter and Julius,
is thematized. The former openly admits to his homosexuality and is
banished from his home, and the latter (despite not having had intimate
relations with Walter) is subjected to corrective re-education, which leads
to his premature death. The tragic story at the base of the novel is nothing
out of the ordinary for its time; the book constitutes a testimony to
the ambiguous nature of a young person’s identity.
Arne Novák, an influential contemporary literary historian, did not
pay particular attention to Krška in his Přehledné dějiny literatury české
(A Survey of Czech Literature 1936–1939). However, when characterizing
Krška’s literary work, he contends:
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  57
The most resonant tone in Krška’s works…remains the sensually erotic
lust and enchantment, escalating from the impatient tremors of puberty
to wild heat between men and women, though occasionally disturbed by
unhealthy perversion. (Novák 1995, 1481, my translation)
During World War II, and even after the war, Krška used to organize
meetings for homosexuals in his apartment in Prague. During these,
he could meet other men in private and hold cultural events (Schnidler
2013, 318). Thanks to transcribed pieces of oral history, we learn about
the young men who attended the meetings and who also played in movies
directed by Krška:
And of course there were always a plenty of people around the director
who wanted a role in a movie and he used to use them as supernumeraries.
It’s beautiful to watch his films these days. Of course, the public only sees
the film don’t they, but we know that those ten guys standing there that it
is simply that those are the director’s boys from the meetings, right? […]
And we all admired him so, cause what he did and how he could rein the
Communists in, right? Those were the 50s, yeah, it was still forbidden for
quite some time, criminal and he was quite brave and there was that solid
barrier around him, maybe even cause among those Communists, those
big shots, were queers as well. (Schindler 2013, 319, my translation)
Apart from Krška’s personal experiences, which support the subversive
reading of the film, his directorial decisions also need to be considered,
especially his casting of the young actor Eduard Cupák. The conditions
of Cupák’s engagement with the project are telling: in 1951 Cupák was
publicly condemned for his homosexuality and (just before graduating)
was expelled from the Janáček Academy of Music and Performing
Arts in Brno. His subsequent attempts to find a job in a regional theater
were in vain as the actor was banned from working in his chosen field.
In the same year, the actor Eduard Kohout introduced Cupák to Krška,
who took him under his wing. In their first collaboration, a film about
the writer Alois Jirásek, they briefly met on screen: Cupák played the
writer as a young man and Krška appeared as an elderly castle caretaker.
The casting of Eduard Cupák in Silvery Wind (in spite of all the condemnations
levelled against him for his homosexuality) was the first step in
creating a film that would disturb the ostensibly heteronormative practices
of the nationalized film industry. The oft-praised sensual experience
that affected the minds of then-adolescent boys and girls and embedded
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58  P. BUBENÍČEK
itself as a sentimental memory of first love, is presented ambiguously in
the film, and creates connotations that can be interpreted as homosexual.
Two marginalized people of a “strange nature”—a director not so long
ago persecuted for “unnatural relations” and a young actor whose career
was never meant to begin—managed to make a film that portrayed reality
through a homoerotic lens. It is particularly interesting that the person
who bent the socialist-realist norms of the early 1950s was not a capitalist
bogeyman—but an established artist, a well-known director apparently
content with his position within the nationalized film industry.
Town and Nature
The adaptation operates with two kinds of settings, urban and rural,
that signify two different aspects of life and the world. The role of urban
space, as opposed to that of nature and of transitional zones such as parks
and gardens, is continually emphasized throughout the film. The image
of a picturesque South Bohemian small town, a setting emblematic for
Czech and Central European culture, emerges from a tangle of streets,
from promenades, its corners, its bridge. Fráňa Šrámek employed in his
novel the nineteenth-century literary topos of an enclosed, small town,
and thus alludes to an important cultural topos that crosses various media
boundaries. Krška’s depiction of a small town as a microcosm does not
merely draw on Šrámek’s work, but it derives from numerous literary
works by early-20th-century writers. The parallel between the Silvery
Wind’s small town and the real town of Písek, that is, between fiction and
the actual world, was and is particularly vivid,6 although Šrámek himself
warned against equating the actual town with its fictional counterpart:
My dear Písek friends, I will not proclaim that this wind blew somewhere
else than in your town. However, there is a limit to this, gentlemen: do not
go pointing fingers at anyone; those are not the same feet running through
a street that run through the book. What I embellished, I embellished, and
let these embellishments rest; and let there remain a warm feeling of having
gifted one another: this lovely town gave unto me and I gave unto it in
return. (Šrámek 1955, 321, my translation)
The author’s pleas notwithstanding, nobody could stop fascinated
readers from lingering in Písek’s Palacký Park, on its promenades where
students met girls, in the grammar school park, on the ancient Jelení
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(Deer) Bridge, or anywhere along the Otava River. Ever since the novel
was first published, Písek has resonated with Jan Ratkin’s story, and at the
same time the town itself made a contribution to the national culture.
The reception of both the novel and the film contains frequent notes on
the fact that Písek played a central role in forming the nation’s identity.7
The town in the adaptation seems to be illusory, projected as color
snapshots of bygone places. The houses, huddled together, and the
remains of town fortifications and the church tower are all first seen
reflected, quivering, in the river, with the image gradually stabilizing.
There is a certain enchantment to this view of the town. The narrative
starts off with a poetic commentary, which is being declaimed in
a stylized way by a narrator’s voice. The narrator’s very first sentences
introduce the notion of nostalgia for times past: “It is long ago, oh, so
long ago as though it is not even true” (Krška 1954, my translation).
This sentiment is emphasized by the narrator’s sigh and tone of voice. A
string of episodic scenes from everyday life in the town ensues: girls with
parasols enchant young men; a fashionable lady looks into a shop window;
people linger in the streets, in their windows and gardens; imperial
officers escort a lady; gossipers huddle together; and washerwomen
toil by the river. Two scenes in particular are pursued to convey with a
fanciful lightness the overpowering joy of life. The first involves an airy,
playful shot of a female swimmer entering the water in colorful garb and
with comical gestures, while watched by a pair of young men. In the second
scene, boys watch a ballerina dancing on a table, while the medium
shot that is used shows only the dancer’s legs and her skirt blowing in
the wind. Both of the scenes exude the poetics of avant-garde art with its
playfulness and airy fantasies.
The first sentence of the narrator’s commentary captures the very
character of this Central European town with a certain distance, irony,
and indulgence: “Here it is, the small, peaceful, and honorable, having
risen on the banks of the river” (Krška 1954, my translation). Using
gentle irony, the narrator underlies this portrayal of a world that takes
itself immensely seriously. The sleepiness and honor ascribed to the
town is, however, in contrast to the existence of the town brothel. The
brothel, pushed to the periphery of the town, close to the river (which
imbues it with another, darker significance; Zach refers to the place as
“the house near the water”), is portrayed as a place of unrestrained revelry.
Some of the townsmen make use of the services offered there by
two prostitutes, Lorča and Anděla, archetypal characters who channel
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society’s needs so that life, peaceful on the surface, can go on undisturbed.
There is a crucial distinction between the two prostitutes: while
Anděla is unambiguously presented as a typical prostitute figure, Lorča
is portrayed as a beautiful girl, whose profession is hard to guess without
any context. Accordingly, her flower-filled room does not resemble a
typical prostitute’s chamber.
The game Krška is playing is fully revealed in the ironic confrontation
between trivial small-town life and an ordinary day in the brothel. In
an added two-minute scene, the camera first focuses on a wall painting
depicting a sailor embracing a woman holding a glass of wine in front
of a vast expanse of water; anchors hang from the wall. The connotations
are of a tavern in a port town, and thus, licentious behavior and a
dissolution of the honorable roles of men and women. Then someone’s
hands counting upturned cards on a table come into view. As the camera
moves away, the viewer can see a woman, emphatically stylized as an
elderly prostitute, playing a game of solitaire.8 Lorča is sitting next to
her.9
One of the central topographical points of a Central European small
town is the promenade with a gazebo. In the past, town inhabitants
would don their Sunday best and embark on a stroll, walking through
parks and town squares greeting each other, while the socially inferior
would pay their respects to the mayor and his wife or other politicians.
An army band (habitually playing the Radetzky March by Johann
Strauss, Sr.) was an important part of the small-town scenery. This ritual
rendered the town an important metaphor of order and hierarchy
(Hrbata 2005, 383).
The first scene at the promenade is pursued on two levels in the film.
First, students meet girls there, which serves the plot. Second, the scene
implies the nature of the imperial officers’ lives: they intermingle with
ordinary people, but the eccentrically dressed Mrs. Staňková is at the
center of their attention. This public behavior is in contrast with their
actions at the salon, where all lines are deliberately crossed. Here the
officers gather to drink, play cards, and court women. They are the stylized
embodiment of the decaying empire’s atmosphere.
The town is rooted in the surrounding countryside. It is easy for the
characters to leave its cobbled streets and, if the plot commands it, run
around in the countryside. Thus, the students are able to chase after a
butterfly at the beginning of the film, to go “outside, into the meadows,
to the river, to the hills” (Krška 1954, my translation). Without the
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topography of the town itself having been shown, the following scenes
show the boys racing through the countryside. Two of them, Ratkin
and his classmate, are the first to reach the peak of a hill, and along with
them the viewer gazes at the idyllic, slightly undulating landscape. The
shot, which shows the students’ backs in the forefront and the landscape
in the background, implies that it is not only scenery the viewer is seeing
but also, in a way, the inner life of the characters.
Shortly afterwards, all the boys are seen jumping naked into the river,
but not the one that flows through town. They have left the astringent
space of the grammar school building, and, being in the free countryside,
they can break the rules and show off their naked bodies to the washerwomen.
The punishing hand of the catechist does not reach places
governed by the order of nature. It is nature, not the town, that offers
comfort and beauty, a familiar idea in Czech culture. As the film shows
later on, Ratkin escapes into nature, which is essentially a Romantic idea.10
The Silvery Wind
The film Silvery Wind contains two storylines. The first I will call “the
journey towards the silvery wind,” as it recapitulates, on several levels,
the adolescence of Jan Ratkin. This storyline contains Ratkin’s feelings
towards Anička, the girl he pursues romantically, and his desire to reunite
with his mysterious uncle Jiří. The second storyline follows Ratkin’s
rebellion against various authorities: his father, the catechist, and his
teachers. The screenplay shows that the specific events of the book are
reconfigured in the film: for example, Ratkin’s conflict with his father and
the encounter with his uncle are moved to the latter half of the narrative.
Images of family life in the adaptation foreground the conflicts stemming
from an asymmetrical triangle: an authoritative father, a subjugated
mother, and a defiant son. On a visit home during his summer break,
having spent a day with his friends in the countryside, Ratkin finds his
father angry because he has received a letter from Ratkin’s landlady
about his son’s alleged philandering in Písek. Ratkin rebels against his
father because he does not want to grow up just yet. The situation is settled
by the sudden arrival of Ratkin’s uncle Jiří, the father’s brother, who
has come back from faraway travels and who gets involved in the argument
by defending the boy’s youthful rashness. Here a conflict between
stormy youth and old-fashioned patriarchal values comes into light. The
adaptation shows the old world mixing with a bold, young temperament.
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Ratkin runs away, and his uncle answers his mother’s plea to go and look
for him. What follows is one of the key scenes in the film, which has the
potential to answer some basic questions: What is the “silvery wind” and
which one of the forking paths in life should an adolescent choose?
First the camera follows Ratkin as he hurries through a garden at night:
he is filmed through the branches of trees and rose shrubs. A moment
later uncle Jiří arrives. On the one hand, Ratkin’s image of his uncle as a
free man who has fulfilled his desire is confirmed: his uncle has travelled to
remote and exotic places, experienced life in many countries throughout
the world, and rebelled against bourgeois conventions. In Ratkin’s words,
“he ran away from everything and has lived dozens of lives, in Europe,
Africa, on the sea” (Krška 1954, my translation). Here though this image
is brought face-to-face with the reality of an aging man who no longer
represents youthful euphoria, but rather skepticism and disillusion.
The crucial function of this scene, however, is the explication of
the silvery wind metaphor. It is the uncle who talks about “the silvery
wind” as “the tidings of beauty, beguiling promises, from far away and
yet within one’s grasp, not yet here and already near” (Krška 1954, my
translation). The silvery wind is a metaphor for youth: life as a wind,
blowing. The uncle adds sadly that it no longer fills his sails; he has
become disillusioned in his old age. Still, he urges his nephew not to give
up: listening to the silvery wind requires courage. The scene starts a dialogue
between Šrámek’s poetry, artistic imagination, and glorification of
youthful vigor. Ratkin sets out to follow the silvery wind, even though
his journey is doomed beforehand. His gestures give rise to new determination
that will drive him forward.
Ramler, Ratkin’s teacher who regularly comes to his student’s defense,
plays a role similar to uncle Jiří. In Ramler’s worldview, tolerance plays an
important role, as we can witness in three scenes. The first one focuses
on the catechist’s fanatical preaching: he is hollering from the pulpit at
the boys and promises them God’s punishment for their vices and sins.
To everybody’s surprise, Ramler suddenly leaves the chapel; shortly afterwards,
Ratkin faints and is guided out to the hallway. Later the catechist
meets Ratkin alone and urges him to confess his worst sins. The tense
situation is ended by the non-conformist Ramler, who does not heed the
catechist’s threats and tells the boy to go to the countryside, to enjoy the
trees and flowers in bloom.
In the second scene, Ratkin meets Ramler after Zach has been
expelled from school; they take a walk outside of the town. They are
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filmed walking en face, their bodies brushing against branches blowing
in a strong wind, as if they were becoming part of the surrounding restless
countryside. Their facial expressions reveal Ratkin’s rebelliousness
and the teacher’s wise understanding. The two stop to lean against some
trees. The perspective underscores the boy’s listening when his teacher
says: “Yes, I understand that. There should be a cry that would make
the windows shatter. That would make the obedient students’ desks and
superior teachers’ desks fall apart” (Krška 1954, my translation). For
the second time, we find him sending young people out of the schools,
under the trees in bloom, to talk “about love, manliness, and honesty”
(Krška 1954, my translation).
The third scene features Ramler’s theatrical monologue, in which he
defends Ratkin in front of the other teachers. Wearing a light-colored
suit unlike the rest of the teaching staff, he prevents the boy from being
expelled.
Strange Amatory Relations
Krška elaborates on problems in romantic relationships between adolescents
in four meetings between Ratkin and Anička. The adaptation
was incompatible with general period norms in that it depicts personal
experience as something intimate, not to be shared by the collective.
If the film had followed official ideology, it would have had to have
shown young people fighting for a new world together, agreeing with
Communist goals, perhaps working in a factory, encouraging each other
to work their way towards building a socialist society. The characters in
Silvery Wind contest this image. They are not stereotypes: they behave
eccentrically and their inner lives are elaborately developed.
In the first scene to feature Ratkin and Anička alone, we find them in
a park where the girl’s coquettish distance is contrasted with the boy’s
delicate sensitivity. The two stand on opposite ends of a fountain; a violin
motif blends with the burbling water, conjuring up a summer idyll.
The reverse shot augments the focus on the two characters. Ratkin is
jealous of his teacher Ramler, who has been courting the girl; then he
seems to forget everything, bows his head and touches the water’s surface.
Both characters’ attention then turns to the water, which until that
point had been a safe barrier between them, and Anička splashes Ratkin
in a capricious gesture. Then Ratkin looks at Anička and reads aloud
from his notebook: “There is something somewhere and I would like
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to approach it on tiptoe and suddenly I would stand facing it; it would
be like a miracle, it would open its arms and I would feel a long, long
kiss” (Krška 1954, my translation). While he is reading, the perspective
changes and the girl exclaims theatrically: “Take me along!” (Krška
1954, my translation). This surprises Ratkin, who violates the physical
space between them and comes up to Anička, who, however, returns to
her previous role and chases him away.
During their first encounter by the park fountain, Anička is very selfconfident
and manages to make use of her feigned ambivalent emotions;
this is not so in their next scene together, where Anička enters Ratkin’s
domain, somewhere on the boundary between the town and countryside.
Again, the camera offers a wide shot of a riverine landscape, focusing
on the lush vegetation, of which Ratkin, admiring the lovely flowers,
seems to be a part. The sound of violins enhances this authentic sensory
experience. A person longing for freedom has extricated himself from
conventions, gone to the countryside, and become a part of it. Yet soon
there comes an ironic twist, as suddenly Anička slides from a steep slope
towards Ratkin. In the countryside, the dressed-up girl with a parasol
loses ground; she is at the mercy of her instincts, which clash with her
ingrained urbane manners. In this way, the film critiques bourgeois society,
which produces girls who find such freedom incomprehensible and
thus follow prescribed plans in everything they do. Convention stands in
opposition to the biological principles symbolized by the river. Here, the
girl herself becomes an unnatural part of the landscape; she is an artificial
flower amongst natural ones. Indeed, the mis-en-scene is filled with various
natural elements.
After she has pulled herself together, Anička starts playing flirty mind
games with Ratkin again; they have, however, lost their effect on the
young man, as they belong on the esplanade, not here in the country.
Upset, Anička attempts a dramatic exit towards the river, but slips and
falls down, which is followed by a childish outburst of anger. Then the
two part, returning to their separate worlds: Anička to the esplanade of
convention, Ratkin to the natural and instinctual river.
To shoot the third meeting of the two young protagonists, the filmmakers
had to buy and convert a swing ride. The result was a short
romance evoking impressionist sensuality. The scene begins with what
has by now become the usual scenario: Ratkin meets Anička on the
esplanade, where Anička is being courted by a pharmacist. Subsequently
Ratkin and Anička go on the swing ride together, where Anička expresses
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romantic feelings toward Ratkin. Nevertheless, when the ride is over,
Anička goes back to her official position and to the pharmacist. In this
scene, the camera “flies” together with the protagonists, underscoring
the exclusivity of their feelings and their distance from the ordinary
world. The effect is enhanced both by the musical motifs used in the
scene (the original funfair songs change into violins) and by the changes
of light shed on the protagonists’ faces.
The unclear romantic motivation prefigures the even more ambiguous
conclusion of the film, where the two meet for the fourth time.
Elaborate stylistic methods, the “dance” of the camera and the compelling
music, communicate the protagonists’ states of mind. First the
camera moves along the overgrown river valley, like at the beginning of
the film. The branches move slightly in the wind. The score, centered
around a violin solo, evokes an impressionistic mood and reinforces the
poetic image and the link to nature. The camera ends its journey at the
village cemetery dense with crosses. On this sunny day, Ratkin is sitting
on the cemetery wall, a very romantic place, and writing a poem.
The camera films Ratkin from a low angle and approaches him while
he is reading his verse: “If you love stars / Find the most beautiful one
woven from our footsteps / With a grave in the middle and should you
follow the footsteps from here / A beautiful star from pearls you will
find / Pearls that birds strew on the grave” (Krška 1954, my translation).
Ratkin notices Anička walking with her bright red parasol. The camera
then offers 12 different shots of the conversation between them. The
girl uses two registers in her speech: on one hand she addresses Ratkin
formally, accentuating distance. On the other hand, she also communicates
with him in a sincere, informal manner, evident in her gestures and
facial expressions. However, she never abandons the role she adopted
when she first met Ratkin—that of his muse. Playing this game brings
her pleasure, but distance also means a certain degree of safety: it helps
her exert control over the situation.
In the first of the subsequent shots, Anička casts her eyes down and
turns her head away, perhaps a consequence of Jana Rybářová’s scant acting
experience.11 Nonetheless, this gesture reveals the character’s double
role: her theatrical behavior masks her affection for Ratkin. Soon
though, Anička begins to enjoy her superiority, as the tone of her voice
betrays. In a formal register, she proclaims: “Silly you are, in what you
speak and in what you write” (Krška 1954, my translation). She torments
and humiliates the young man; she derides the love letters he has been
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writing to her. The feigned distance climaxes when Ratkin interrupts the
flood of offenses with a smile, and the camera quickly approaches Anička
to capture her from the side in a medium shot. Anička turns around and,
with her head bowed, declares her love for Ratkin, yet immediately afterwards
pronounces this love forever gone. The girl’s drama of dashed
hopes now intensifies. Although her words are sincere, her facial expression
remains theatrical (Fig. 2.1).
Afterwards the two leave the cemetery together, observed by the fluently
moving camera. They stop and Anička gives Ratkin a twig from a
tree as a good-bye present, expecting him to embrace her, but instead
Ratkin goes away. Anička stays on the path, shown in a medium shot
against the landscape and horizon. Her depiction, her gestures, and the
musical motif of sudden violoncello tones convey her astonishment and
disappointment: Ratkin never even looks back at her. For the first time
she forgets her parasol: the game is over, pretension has lost its effect,
Fig. 2.1  Silvery Wind. The goodbye scene between Jan Ratkin and Anička. Stříbrný
vítr (Silvery Wind; Václav Krška 1954). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  67
and Anička has lost Ratkin for good. The violoncello expresses Anička’s
love and pain. A medium shot shows her sadly wiser. A large part of the
frame is taken up by the emblematic parasol; the viewer can also see the
lushly green landscape and the fragile figure of the girl dressed in light
colors. Anička’s gestures change as she realizes her thwarted affections.
She hangs her head and exits the scene, accompanied by the growingly
intense violoncello. Afterwards, the camera follows Ratkin in a blooming
forest; he only stops at the river in the valley and is shown once again as a
component of the natural world.
What happened to Jan Ratkin? In the novel his parting with Anička is
explained by the narrator and the reader is led to expect that Ratkin will
soon find a new love. In the film, however, Anička offers her love, but he
abandons her at the very moment she expects him to hug or kiss her. By
exiting the scene, Ratkin’s actions do not correspond with his young age
and inexperience. His words (“you crazy Anička”), facial expressions, and
gestures reveal a sudden superiority, as if he were an adult poet writing a
nostalgic book called Silvery Wind, in which he comments upon his own
story. It is as if he has discarded the stormy emotions of youth and become
an observer of other people, for he has reconciled with his own role, without
paying much attention to the fact that he is part of a cliché (students
fall in love and write poems). Ratkin might have shrunk at the possibility
that his ideal would materialize and thus lose its status. The fulfilment of
desire may bring not only pleasure, but also pain. Ratkin might be losing
more than he is gaining: his romanticism and ideals may be gone.
Anička and Ratkin’s conversations constitute a game of true or false.
Anička’s stirring sexuality is real; the way she hides behind trite phrases
is not. All four scenes share the same pattern: superficial chatting transforms
into a revelation of inward feelings. Even if the first scene, in
which Ratkin recites poetry to Anička by the fountain, appears to be
rather banal, the viewer can soon perceive the emotions buried under the
seeming triviality, which become even more apparent by the end of the
film. Anička fights primarily against herself, against her instincts. On the
one hand she obeys her passion and seeks Ratkin, but on the other hand
she tries to resist it. Her immaturity only allows her to play games with
the young man.
By developing the theme of intoxicating romantic desires and the
erotic tension between a boy and a girl, the adaptation concentrates on
the meaning of life. The manner in which the film deals with the characters’
inner lives emphasizes unique individuality. Ratkin, Anička, uncle
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Jiří, Ramler: all are shown in medium and close shots that emphasize
their faces. Far from being ideological portraits, these representations
aim to depict authentic emotional experiences. In this way, the film defies
the promoted conventions of Socialist Realist art that encouraged stereotypes.
Had Silvery Wind been filmed in keeping with the ideological
norms of its time, it would have given up the subjective perspective and
probably depicted the transformation of an effeminate bourgeois lad into
a politically conscious worker, who loves the tasks he does for his society
and country, and in rare moments of rest writes poetry glorifying the
working people, Stalin, and Gottwald. Yet Václav Krška himself indicated
the year the film was made that his protagonist was to be quite different:
And a defiant path, even though veiled by fog, arches above all that, a path
that leads to the unknown, towards something enticing and promising,
where silvery wind can always be heard. All that faraway, luring and seductive,
all that pure, bright and strong. Silvery wind! That lovely image in the
heart, which must guide you in your life! The future that awaits one perhaps
at the end of the journey! (Krška 1954, 2, my translation)
In the film young people are not subordinated to cultural-political norms
and to the socialist creed, but to their own hearts. Not even far-reaching
social changes could affect the desire for love and intimacy. Despite some
sacrifices, such as emphasizing the conflict between youth and the bourgeoisie
or the obligatory criticism of the church, Krška did not succumb
to the political demands of his time. His film focuses on intimacy and inner
life. It celebrates the moment: fragile, transient, difficult to capture.
Another Reading of Silvery Wind
The colorful spontaneity of Šrámek’s Silvery Wind had a great impact
on the cultural mood in post-World War II Czechoslovakia. It was seen
by many as a surprisingly romantic adaptation celebrating the vitality of
youth. Ignoring standard post-1948 Communist ideology, some viewers
welcomed the film as a nostalgic reminder of a time when people’s lifestyle
choices were not supervised by the ever-watchful eye of the establishment.
The film’s popularity was due to its portrayal of a reality that
resembled nothing in contemporary cinema.
Still, there existed a minority, which—being aware of the connections
with the adaptor’s life—could interpret the film in yet another, even
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more subversive, manner. The prewar personal life of the film’s director,
Václav Krška, was considered scandalous by the general standards of
the times and attracted attention well beyond Písek, his South Bohemian
home town. As he gained more and more influence within the Czech
cultural scene, his already bold calls for homosexual liberation became
louder, despite his awareness that homosexuality was considered to
undermine the value system of proletarian society. After World War II,
Krška chose not to draw too much attention to his own persona, but his
opinions and attitudes were well known to those familiar with the homosexual
subculture. It therefore makes sense to now present an interpretation
of the film that will turn Šrámek’s “lyricism of vitality,” richness of
motifs, and semantic nuances of the text on their heads.
One of the dominant motifs in Krška’s literary texts and film adaptations
are rivers. A trope not unusual in Czech culture, in his system of
symbols flowing water stands for something hidden, latent. It reflects the
world around us (in the film the quiet provincial town, the house by the
water), yet it does not allow us to look under the surface. The stream
symbolizes a latent, subsurface, non-actualized state of existence. Its surface
only offers a semblance of the truth; if we wish to find out what
is really going on underneath, we must get wet. We are left with two
options—we can either passively observe what is happening on the surface,
or we can enter the stream and start searching underwater amongst
the vortices and hidden flows. Is the adaptation’s thematizing of masculinity
and admiration of the relationships between boys—a theme alien
to Šrámek’s original novel—a phenomenon that can be given a name? In
the film, homosexuality is a subcultural affair, flowing under the surface
of official culture.
I believe that the context of the director’s life can serve as a relevant
basis for re-evaluating older interpretations of the film and offering up a
new one. The above-presented documents and testimonies allow us to
view the film in a different light. It violated norms by opening the door
to a homoerotic interpretation. One could argue that the film’s focus on
physical sensuality is predominantly associated with young men on the
cusp of sexual awakening. The interactions between Ratkin and Anička
show that heterosexual love is corrupted and burdened by the falseness
of amorous games and scheming. Following this interpretation, the key
function of Anička’s character is to reject Ratkin and other adolescent
boys because any attempts at intimacy, or achieving the romantic ideal,
will inevitably fail.
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If adaptors are viewed as surgeons who remove from the body of the
source text anything they deem unsuitable, Krška’s operating methods
appear to be rather odd. By removing one of the most significant female
characters, Lidka, from the film version of the story, he cuts out the central
theme of the novel—the possibility of fulfilled heterosexual love (in the text
this possibility is represented by other female characters as well). The character
of Lidka, Ratkin’s first love, stands for profound feelings and belief
in the necessity of love. When in the novel Ratkin puts his arms around a
young birch tree, he calls out Lidka’s name—in his eyes she is a forest fairy,
a symbol of pure, platonic feelings. In the film we see that Ratkin associates
the tree with Anička, a girl who cannot fulfill his desired ideal. By removing
one of the novel’s important semantic layers, Krška aims at a more conflicted
message, and the manifestations of the protagonist’s complex inner
life are directed towards relationships between members of the same sex.
Seen from this perspective, relationships with girls suddenly seem like a
mere formality, not expressions of authentic feelings. In the context of the
small-town bourgeoisie, these relationships become a commodity available
to honorable citizens, Austrian soldiers, and even men of the cloth, courtesy
of the brothel hidden away in a remote part of the town, as well as
the caricaturized salon of Madame Staňková. This commodification must
have come in handy to Krška when, during the adaptation process, he was
making necessary concessions to the cultural politics of the Communist
establishment. The prostitutes in the film are regarded with good humor;
they only seek love and understanding, not unlike the protagonist of Guy
de Maupassant’s Butterball. It is the members of the small-minded bourgeoisie
who are to blame for forcing them into their current position. The
maid in the Staněk household also contributes to criticizing the morals of
the “old” society, represented in terms of class war in keeping with the
contemporary cultural-political program. Whereas in the novel the Staněk
boy falls in love with the maid, in the film she is seen as a commodity
and her only purpose is to satisfy the basest of male impulses. This alteration
confirms the official Communist belief in the new world order and
can occasionally make the film adaptation look like a vehicle of ideological
propaganda. The question that must be posed at this point is, of course:
Was this blatant submission to Communist norms on Krška’s part, or were
there possibly other reasons for this change?
Fashion, people promenading along the Otava River esplanade, the
clothes hiding the beauty of the male body—these are all manifestations
of class differences and varying social status. Along with hypocritical
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  71
small-town morals, they expose and exclude those members of society
who reject the norms of established sexual behavior. The official boundary
of what is considered appropriate and “proper” is suggested by
Ratkin’s risky little game in which he recites to a young lady from Prague
a poem about a mistress’s uncovered bosom upon which her lover’s head
is resting. This provocative act, although scandalous and outrageous, was
still safely within the confines of contemporary morals, partially due to
the fact that it was in keeping with artistic conventions contained in the
poetry of Jaroslav Vrchlický (1853–1912),12 salon wall paintings, and
pseudohistorical architecture, where the motif of bared female breasts is
extremely (and conspicuously) widespread. In the patriarchal system of
the late nineteenth century, the only truly shocking and unacceptable
work of art would have been a poem, a painting, or a stucco wall featuring
a homoerotic theme. Bourgeois culture considered homosexuality
the gravest of all offenses. Thus, Krška targets the middle class—the
proletariat (the working class) and the “art crowd” viewed same-sex relationships
with much greater benevolence. If we see instincts as “natural,”
then clearly a lady with a parasol has no business wandering in the wilderness.
Culture, being a representation of civilization, serves as a tool
to keep the animalistic urges of homosexuality in check and under wraps.
Whereas heterosexuality was considered one of the cornerstones of
social relationships, homosexuality was regarded as an inadmissible sexual
practice and as such had no place in official culture. Its marginalization
allows it to shed some much needed light on the whole construct
of what is regarded as “natural” and acceptable by the social majority,
which tends to displace what it cannot process. Homosexuality, therefore,
cannot be used as an explicit point of reference in the adaptation
because then the film’s clearly identified sexual ideology would become a
tool of official cultural politics. Thus, the film adaptation of Silvery Wind
offers no such clear ideology, and it is precisely for this reason that it can
be labeled supremely subversive.
One of the key scenes in the film is the already-mentioned swimming
trip to the river. Here, homoerotic motifs are most clearly visible. Krška
created this scene by combining various sentences and passages selected
from throughout the novel. In the above-described shots the swimming
scene follows the strengthening of the friendship between the boys from
the lyceum and the brief moment of admiring the beauty of the countryside
when observing the faraway horizon. Looking closer at the scene,
we realize that the boys are positioned very close to each other. Krška
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took this introductory episode from the novel’s fourth chapter, where
the ten-year-old Ratkin and his friend Malkus run up a hill on the spur of
the moment. “You oaf …!” Ratkin blurts out, patting his friend on the
back. “You … you … ape!” Malkus replies and returns the poke (Šrámek
1955, 58, my translation). The scene is gradually transformed so that
in the adaptation it can be seen as the beginning of the film’s storyline
dedicated to homoerotic desires. In the film script Ratkin holds hands
with Malkus; in the film we can actually see them embracing after having
climbed the hill. Further on, we see the boys’ community grow in numbers;
one of the boys, with no clear motive, removes his shirt, showing
off his torso. Frequent touches and embraces shared between the male
characters scattered throughout the entire film are in a sharp contrast
with the awkwardness with which Ratkin touches the female characters.
In the fair scene he does not put his hands on Anička’s waist when they
meet on the swing ride, but grips the chains of her seat instead (Fig. 2.2).
Fig. 2.2  Silvery Wind. Jan Ratkin embraces one of his schoolmates. Stříbrný vítr
(Silvery Wind; Václav Krška 1954). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  73
The swimming scene is filled with tension that is created by a number
of contrasts and elements inviting us to interpret it as a manifestation
of homoerotic desire. This scene too has its origin in the novel; however,
the film significantly deviates from the text. In the novel, women
are spied upon by the town cripple, who hides by the river bank. His
character symbolizes the dark side of human sexuality, animalistic urges,
and perversion. It does not, however, breach the heterosexual conventions
guiding the novel. In the film, sexual otherness is always hidden in
the subtext; it never openly disturbs the dominant narratives. The latently
homoerotic undercurrents rise to the surface for a second, just as it is
possible to catch only a fleeting glimpse of the naked male bodies in the
river. The shot of the river in which the naked boys are swimming conceals
the ambivalent subsurface textual structures. Ratkin is different
from the other boys—while they hurry to the spot where women come
to wash clothes, he stays behind. He spots a daisy floating on the river’s
surface and puts it in his mouth—a symbolic gesture of his innocence and
purity. The following shot creates a contrast between a boy who plans
to surprise the women, thus representing heterosexual desires, and the
passive Ratkin. While the leader of the group becomes the center of the
frame gesturing in order to convince the others (“[the women] will enjoy
us watching them” (Krška 1954, my translation), Ratkin is hiding away
from the group in the background. Although he is outside the camera’s
focus, he remains discernible throughout the duration of the shot (partially
thanks to the color of his hair—he is the only one with fair hair;
the other boys are all dark-haired). Semantically, though, he is the main
focus: as he is shouting out to the boys to get back, the viewer is made
aware of his timidity and difference. The scene ends with the group
leader whistling at the women and flashing his young body at them.
This scene does not show standard eroticism; it holds no sexual fulfilment
for the male characters. It is here to demonstrate the beauty of
the naked male body, suggesting that there is something other than the
majority view of masculine and feminine sexuality hidden in the inscrutable
river stream. The “alpha boy” represents the legitimate mode of
sexuality, symbolizing the social majority, which produces new generations
of children (i.e., the future of Communism), whereas Ratkin’s
passivity suggests (at least) reluctance towards this normative mode of
sexuality, which makes him a threat to it. How is this parade of naked
boys justified in the film? First of all, the women are not young girls, but
older wives and mothers; moreover they are not bourgeois ladies from
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74  P. BUBENÍČEK
the esplanade, but washerwomen, the female symbols of the working
class. Their presence in this scene fulfills ideological obligations and
allows Krška to deviate from the text in so many other details.
As I have mentioned already, the themes of physical closeness and
the profound relationships between men constitute a dominant feature
of this adaptation, which differs from its literary pre-text by its addition
of the questioning of contemporary gender stereotypes. Furthermore,
the adaptation favors the male element on both the thematic and formal
levels (e.g., in the scenes with Ratkin and Anička, the camera constantly
shifts towards the former), and focuses on firm relationships between
male characters, opposing patriarchal (or heteropatriarchal) norms and
conventions in yet another way. The conflicts explored in the pre-text are
expanded in the adaptation by incorporating a new element.
The character of Zach, Ratkin’s older schoolmate and closest friend,
plays an important role in this expansion. The two youngsters meet for
the first time in the Madame Staňková’s infamous salon, the scene of
many a boisterous party attended by the Austrian officers stationed in the
town. Ratkin is—unsurprisingly—a fish out of water in this environment;
his unease seemingly illustrates the decadence of bourgeois society, and
at first he comes across as an introverted eccentric. Zach’s arrival throws
him off balance even more, with the newcomer taking Ratkin’s hands
into his own, describing them as “delicate and pink,” and proceeding to
read Ratkin’s future as a poet in his palms. Zach, then, is the first person
to recognize Ratkin’s otherness by identifying it as heightened sensitivity
and poetic inclinations. When they raise their glasses to drink to “never
having their hearts broken,” (Krška 1954, my translation) Ratkin calls
out, “Evoe,”13 explaining that the word does not mean anything, it is a
mere incantation. However, he does not offer any clarification as to what
he has exclaimed.
Once again we can observe the strategy of hiding behind play here—
the salon scenes, in keeping with the ideological critique of bourgeois
decadence, allow Krška to portray Ratkin as an outsider, someone who
does not fit in. This game of hide-and-seek enables those perceptive to
the clues—that is, a specific group of people strictly excluded from socialist
society—to extract hidden meanings from an entirely different symbolical
system. The sensitive protagonist’s loneliness is emphasized even
more in the following scene, in which he leaves the salon and wanders
through the town’s deserted streets, calling out his uncle’s name. It is
Zach who answers, thus strengthening the connection between the two
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  75
men who for Ratkin represent a kind of solace from the mostly uncomprehending
society around him. In this scene, Zach and Ratkin are
standing very close to each other; later in the film when Ratkin finally
meets his uncle, they share a close embrace and their proximity is even
more intimate. Towards the end of the film, Zach and Ratkin say goodbye
at the train station, their passionate embrace reminding us of lovers
being torn apart by external forces, in this case the former’s expulsion
from the lyceum.
Krška proved to be a master conman in his adaptation—at a time
of heightened political repression he managed to appropriate socialist
imagery to make a film that addressed one of the most socially excluded
groups of that time. The audience accepted the adaptation as a fresh take
on the work of a beloved novelist, along with its additional meanings
that they could not or did not want to see. The adaptation became a part
of Czechoslovakia’s cultural heritage, and through it the cultural capital
of the period was enriched by challenging and subverting the values on
which the adaptation was ostensibly built: homosexual love is shown as
superior to heterosexuality. Adapting the work of a poet who is regarded
as one of the pillars of Czech national literature thus becomes a subversive
act par excellence.
A Discordant Adaptation
During the first half of the 20th century Fráňa Šrámek had a wide, almost
cult-like following in Czech literature; he was celebrated by his fellow
writers, literary critics, and readers alike. The takeover in 1948 not only
preserved his cult status, but strengthened it by exonerating his prewar
anarchist and anti-Communist views.14 Even though the 1950s did not
favor the themes he had explored in his literary work, the state-controlled
film industry made it possible to produce a film with a distinct emotional
tone and impressionist aesthetics, a film that did not offer its audience
clear-cut clues for interpretation. Silvery Wind was uncharacteristic of its
time, revolving around the fragility of the human psyche, a theme hardly
obliging the official poetics of postwar Czechoslovakia. The film’s director
focused on the value of individuality—an approach in sharp contradiction
to the official artistic practice. In this context it is important to point
out that the 1950s were an inherently conflicted decade—members of the
prewar intelligentsia were still around, including a generation of classically
trained high school teachers who were still active and exerted influence
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76  P. BUBENÍČEK
on public opinion, albeit not as explicitly as before. Similarly, the legacy
of interwar literature and cinema was still alive in the minds of the people.
The most obvious function of Krška’s Silvery Wind and The Moon
over the River was to sentimentally reminisce about old times.
The adaptation’s romantic sensitivity towards nature also opposed
the period’s socialist enthusiasm. Unlike official, Communist-approved
images of man embedded in the urbanized, machine-operated environment,
Krška’s film is filled with scenes depicting nature as a soulful, sensitive
entity and man responding to it with matching perceptiveness. He
accentuates this relationship in shots of the flowing river and trees swaying
in the wind accompanied by vivid musical motifs. The landscape does
not just serve as an inanimate backdrop to the story; it is a living organism.
This approach to depicting nature reveals yet another dimension of
the adaptation: the representation of “queerness,” as experiencing nature
is shown as the contrast to leading a standard life in the industrialized
society of postwar Czechoslovakia.
Postscript: The Film’s Second Life
So far I have discussed how the adaptation resonates with its pre-text as
well as with other—both literary and non-literary—motifs. My final analysis,
however, requires a shift from the social to a deeply personal context.
I now wish to discuss how the making of the film influenced one
individual’s life. This change of perspective demonstrates how a work of
art can significantly mark a person’s life.
On 11 February 1957 actress Jana Rybářová, who played the role
of Anička in the film version of Silvery Wind, committed suicide; she
was 20 years old. Her death had a profound impact on Czech society.
Just like the film’s message, her fate did not fit the official ethos of the
time. Unlike the majority of contemporary female characters in Czech
cinema,15 her Anička offered the audience something they could easily
relate to—the troubles of a young girl confused by her own feelings of
bittersweet first love. The actress’s personal story—her tragic death and,
most significantly, the reasons behind it—thus amplified the romantic
fortune of the film’s Anička, creating a sharp contrast between the narrow
emotional range of the standard female character of the period and
the complexity of her existentialist act. The death of a young artist is a
theme with universal appeal, at least ever since Romanticism, and as such,
Rybářová’s suicide drew much attention and speculation. However, from
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  77
the establishment’s point of view with its firm belief in historical optimism
the suicide of a young person was obviously highly inappropriate.
Silvery Wind was Jana Rybářová’s first film, after which she was
offered a permanent contract with the Realistic Theater of Zdeněk
Nejedlý (1955–1957, nowadays Švandovo Theater). She was also
courted by famous film directors of the time; apart from the roles Krška
offered her, Otakar Vávra also offered her a role. During the filming of
Krška’s Legenda o lásce (A Legend about Love 1956), she met opera singer
Přemysl Kočí, and so her own ill-fated love story commenced. Kočí was
20 years her senior and a married man; she soon became the butt of
jokes. In early 1957, Rybářová committed suicide by coal gas. She was
buried at Prague’s Vyšehrad Cemetery, the resting place of many famous
Czech artists.
I would now like to turn my attention to Rybářová’s diaries. Writing
in a stylized manner that was a common practice in the days when diaries
were often written so that they could be published posthumously
as public texts, the young woman seemed to strive to be in control of
the account of her own life. Her diaries are full of self-analyzing contemplation,
exalted emotions, and concerns about her unfulfilled life. As
an adolescent girl searching for herself, she is torn between feelings of
intense happiness and profound sadness. Her writings also expose her
fear of revealing her own inadequacy—in her goodbye letter she asks her
mother to ensure that all her outstanding payments are seen to, so that
she does not leave any unfinished business behind. Commenting on her
death, she says that she “wanted to die in a more beautiful fashion.” The
diaries further reveal that the actress felt very close to the character she
played, and also how the fictional world of the story mirrored her personal
experience. In one of her entries she writes:
My beautiful, beloved Anička! She doesn’t know what she wants; she
wants beauty but doesn’t know how to get to it. She’s a silly flirt who can’t
see clearly. My Anička. How sweet you were, how happy I was when I
could be you. I only wanted to go forward. I would like to play you again,
my crazy Anička, and better this time, the way you deserve. I couldn’t play
you as well as I should have. I know I didn’t give you enough. But how
extraordinary it felt putting on your clothes and your face each morning!
For a whole day you would belong to me and no one else. And the tremors
that would come each time before the “action!” and then the disgust
and anger I felt watching myself in the dailies and seeing how empty it all
was. (Nevyjasněná úmrtí – Nelze umírat štěstím 2000, my translation)
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78  P. BUBENÍČEK
The diaries as well as friends’ and colleagues’ reports suggest that
Rybářová was dealing with similar issues as the character she famously
portrayed. The role must have had a great influence on her inner life,
especially on how she assessed her self-worth. Despite constantly doubting
her acting skills, she managed to render a character so well that it
lived on in the memories of countless viewers.
From a psychological perspective Anička’s mood swings—feigned or
real—may be an expression of her narcissistic personality with its characteristic
fear of her own self-worth. Subconsciously believing she has no
value as a person, Anička compensates for this fear by acting as if she
were too good for Ratkin. Her game is a manipulative one—she can see
he is quite helpless against her charms. Ratkin’s courting allows her to
treat him with disdain and to turn him down whenever she pleases to.
Again and again she teases Ratkin, testing his loyalty and demanding new
proof of his devotion. Not unlike Jana Rybářová herself, Anička is torn
between her desire and the need for rejection prescribed by social con-
ventions.
Suicide, apart from being an expression of irreducible despondency,
can also be seen as a symbolic gesture. This theme is present in the novel
(and partially in the film as well) in the story of uncle Jiří, who was not
able to live life as he desired. His character combines the tragedy of the
idealistic hero (the world turns out to be different than he had expected)
and the romantic longing to live one’s life in exotic and faraway settings.
His idealism and escapism stand in sharp conflict with reality and
so his desire to attain the ideal is replaced by a desire to leave this world
altogether. Jana Rybářová’s suicide can also be seen as her attempt to
overcome the discrepancy between the ideal and reality. Uncle Jiří kills
himself because he could not construct a meaningful life, and Ratkin
solves his ambiguous romantic situation by leaving Anička; the young
actress may have attained the ideal through the romantically perceived
act of suicide.
Jana Rybářová’s suicide was eventually aestheticized in 1960s Czech
poetry, when Jaroslav Seifert published his book of poems Koncert na
ostrově (A Concert on the Island 1965). One of the poems is dedicated to
the tragic fate of the actress:
Young Jana Rybářová
Died from a broken heart.
But there was something great in her death,
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  79
And stronger than the force that lifts the ribs
So that lungs can fill with the bitterness of life.
[…]
They call it love. It may be so.
But it is something see-through and lighter still
Than the wing of a fly
That weighs nothing. (Seifert 1965, 58–59, my translation)
The poem is part of a section titled Muší křídlo (The Wing of a Fly),
which includes four poems in total; two of these poems address transformations—those
of young girls from the innocence of childhood to womanhood
and those of young lovers’ happiness and fears; the final poem
talks about love’s tragic fate. It helps us see the connection between
the death of the young actress and Krška’s adaptation in the presence
of a desire for something grand and pure. The film’s uncle Jiří and Jana
Rybářová leave “our indifferent time” and they have to muster up all the
courage in order to do so. As Seifert puts it, “There was something great
in her death.” The actress had to gather superhuman strength to overcome
the survival instinct that bound her to her earthly existence. Her
doing so becomes mythologized in Seifert’s poem; her act reveals the
meaning of love itself.
In his poem Jaroslav Seifert grasped—and thus “possessed”—the suicide
of the young actress. Her death ceased to be an exclusively personal
matter. The poet—or society—usurps an intimate moment, turning it
into something that belongs to everybody. Seifert’s poem links suicide
and love, showing us how society appropriates works by adapting and
interpreting them.
Notes
	 1. The lyrical power of Šrámek’s novel, the sensuality of his images, and the
modes of his poeticism are illustrated by Ratkin’s declaration, which concludes
Krška’s film as well:
“Life! Life!—Let us bow to its glory, let us sing its praises! Its fires blaze
at night at hills that are ever nearer. It had sent forth its messengers, and we
have laid promises of our devotion in their hands. We want to love our great
and beautiful master; relay that, messengers! We want to carry his colors and
thus claim victory! We want to be so that his eye can dwell on us proudly,
nodding his head to our rhythmic march! But tell him not to betray us, not
to sell us! We want to battle him, even! Even him—tell him that. And that
we sing his praises, don’t forget…!” (Krška 1954, my translation)
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80  P. BUBENÍČEK
It is surely a significant question where this panvitalist celebration
of nature has its roots. F.X. Šalda noted with interest the similarity
between Šrámek’s writings and the prose of the Norwegian novelist
Knut Hamsun. Hamsun’s oft-translated novels were extremely
popular among Šrámek’s peers and with Šrámek himself because
of the emotional force they possess, the psychology of the characters
(including its analysis), and their forays into the subconscious.
The characters from Mysteries (in Czech 1909) and Pan (in Czech
1896) appeared to be complex riddles, which were then subjected
to microscopic psychophysiological examination in the books, which
in itself must have ignited the interest of the young Czech modernists.
Šrámek, then, appears as an appropriator of Scandinavian culture.
First, he “adapted” Hamsun’s life experience for the Czech environment
when he published the prose Mistr v hladovění (Master in starving)
in the anarchist journal Právo lidu in 1905. Silvery Wind, then,
borrows its ambiguously motivated romantic games between men and
women, and its panvitalist celebration of nature, from Hamsun.
	 2. He collaborated mostly with poets connected to the magazine Nový kult
(New Cult), such as Stanislav Kostka Neumann, Karel Toman, Viktor
Dyk, and František Gellner.
	 3. This relates to an important phenomenon in Czech culture—songwriting
and setting poems to music. The cult of the future national poet, which
would later become an icon of the socialist take on literature, emerges
from this relation.
	 4. “Elsewhere, Šrámek conserves his apricots in sugar. And that is much
more likeable; in this way the most pleasing and successful of his writings
are created. This is how it is in the novel Tělo (Body). A sensuous,
though smart, suburban girl marries the man she first succumbed to.
Youth and sensuousness are conserved in quite a happy marriage; only
the conclusion of the novel, very external and non-organic, the declaration
of war and the separation of man and woman, enters the novel dissonantly
and suggests the marriage’s beginning dissolution. It is a pity.
Here, Šrámek missed a truly great subject: showing how sensuality
evolves and changes form, or fades and dissolves, in ordinary marriages—
where there is no catastrophe this external and frankly rare as the beginning
of a war. Don’t let us deceive ourselves: the tragedy of sensuality is
internal” (Šalda 1963, 219, my translation).
	 5. This era can be reconstructed by using the study by Lukáš Nozar (see
Nozar 2011, 395–431, my translation).
	 6. While creating an audio-visual presentation of the town in 2012, students
from Písek chose a melody from Krška’s Silvery Wind as a central motif of
its musical component.
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2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  81
	 7. For example: “Písek, the town of music, of poets, the town which saw
the first Czech theatrical productions of Josef Kajetán Tyl, where Bedřich
Smetana worked, where Adolf Heyduk lived; it is a town with a substantial
role in our national history. Jan Neruda used to write here, and more
than one writer or poet gazed on the countryside—Alois Jirásek, Julius
Zeyer, F.X. Svoboda. Here, the music of our composers, our virtuosos
played. And it was here, where our national bard, Fráňa Šrámek, left his
traces” (Pa 1954, 248, my translation).
	 8. Another instance of Krška’s playfulness is at view here, as the supporting
role of the elderly prostitute is played by Zdeňka Baldová, a film
and theater star from the interwar period, and the wife of K.H. Hilar,
an important personality in the world of theater. While in this film she
portrays the “madam from the house at the river,” in the previous Šrámek
adaptation of Moon over the River she played the anxious and fearful wife
of the stationer Hlubina.
	 9. This motif originated in 19th-century Czech literature: it appears in the
short story Za půl hodinky (In Half an Hour) written by Jan Neruda and
published in the collection Arabesky (Arabesques, 1864).
	 10. The means of depicting natural spaces changed for Šrámek by way of reading
the novels of Knut Hamsun, though Krška also reveals links to Karel
Hynek Mácha (1810–1836). Mácha, a representative of Czech literary
Romanticism, sees nature as a space in which to project his subject, and
he views his own self against the backdrop of the witnessed processes.
Nature understood in this way is a mirror reflecting one’s state of mind.
For Šrámek, the countryside is a space of freedom, unchained by the conventions
of the town, and it is often so for Krška as well. Krška therefore
constructs an image of nature close to that of 19th-century authors (such
as K.H. Mácha or Vítězslav Hálek), with one key difference: nature is not
meant for sweet melancholy, but for riotous play.
	 11. The actress’s lack of experience was mentioned by the other actors, too
(cf. “Nevyjasněná úmrtí – Nelze umírat štěstím” 2000).
	 12. Jaroslav Vrchlický was a Czech poet, dramatist, and translator, the author
of an extraordinarily broad oeuvre that transmitted Western European
models into Czech culture.
	 13. The interjection “evoe” comes from the Greek εὐοῖ, an exclamation of
Bacchic frenzy.
	 14. In the 1924 survey titled “Why I do not support Communism”, journalist
Ferdinand Peroutka asked many famous Czech writers, including Karel
Čapek and Josef Kopta, this topical question. Fráňa Šrámek answered:
I have never been a supporter of the Communist Party, not even in
its earliest days. I’ve always preferred the word “freedom” to “dictatorship,”
“a man” to “the masses”; I find that the word “proletariat” can
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82  P. BUBENÍČEK
be too easily abused; the flag of class war can be waved with not very
good intentions. I accept that it is a new, great leap forward in terms
of human and social prospects, so we must not be irritated and show
patience instead. I have never been a sworn enemy of the movement
either; I could have been—and wanted to be—enlightened. And if now
I am not—or in a different way than I expected to be—it is not my fault
and it may not be Communism’s fault either. It is the Communists and
their examples, sometimes very illustrative ones too, that accompany their
slogans, who are to blame. (Šrámek 1924, 785–786, my translation).
	 15. In the ideologically immaculate films of the 1950s the female characters
often faced clearly defined tasks. The female protagonist of the film Cesta
ke štěstí (Way Leading to Happiness 1951), directed by Jiří Sequens, strives
to become a tractor driver. She is opposed by her father, who refuses to
become part of the local cooperative farm, and gets a job at the Machine
and Tractor Station. After a long night shift she successfully finishes plowing
the field and persuades the villagers to enter the collective. In the
film Slovo dělá ženu (A Woman as Good as Her Word 1952) , directed
by Jaroslav Mach, we follow the story of lathe worker Jarmila Svátková,
who develops a dishwasher prototype to help women with their household
work, impressing her future husband by showing him that women
are just as able to work in technical professions as men.
References
Blahovec, Zdeněk. 1954. Z míst, kde vzniká Krškův nový film Stříbrný vítr.
Lidová demokracie, June 13.
Hora, Josef. 1931. O Šrámkovi. Svět knih 5: 1.
Hrbata, Zdeněk. 2005. Prostory, místa a jejich konfigurace v literárním díle.
In Na cestě ke smyslu. Poetika literárního díla 20. století, ed. Miroslav
Červenka, Jiří Holý, Zdeněk Hrbata, Milan Jankovič, Alice Jedličková, Lenka
Jungmannová, Marie Kubínová, Marie Langerová, Zdeněk Mathauser, and
Nina Vangeli, 317–509. Prague: Torst.
Jedlička, Josef. 2009. O politické sentimentalitě aneb Jan Ratkin. In České typy
a jiné eseje, ed. Josef Jedlička, 43–47. Praha: Albatros.
Jež, Štěpán. 1910. Literatura. Umění. Věda. Studentská revue 9: 281–283.
Krška, Václav. 1954. O stříbrném větru na filmovém pásu. Květy 14: 2.
Krška, Václav. 1957. Můj Fráňa Šrámek. Lidová demokracie, January 13.
M. N. 1940. Čím mně byl Stříbrný vítr. Lidové noviny, Februrary 12.
Mrázek, Karel. 1956. Jaký je osud stříbrného větru? Práce, May 25.
Novák, Arne, and Jan V. Novák. 1995. Přehledné dějiny literatury české od
nejstarších dob až po naše dny. Brno: Atlantis.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
2  ADAPTATION AS SUBTERFUGE: SILVERY WIND  83
Nozar, Lukáš. 2011. Momenty života a díla Václava Kršky do roku 1945. In
Homosexualita v dějinách české kultury, ed. Martin C. Putna, 395–431. Praha:
Academia.
Orzoff, Andrea. 2009. Battle for the Castle: The Myth of Czechoslovakia in Europe,
1914–1948. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press.
Pa. 1954. Stříbrný vítr: K natáčení dalšího šrámkovského filmu
režisérem Václavem Krškou. Kino 16: 248–249.
Pilka, Jiří. 1957. Filmová hudba Jiřího Srnky. Praha: Svaz československých
skladatelů.
Příští filmová role Eduarda Cupáka. 1954. Filmové informace 2: 8.
Schmitt, Julius. 1910. Fráňa Šrámek: Stříbrný vítr. Román. (Slunečnice. Grosman
a Svoboda.) Novina 15: 469–471.
Schindler, Franz. 2013. Život homosexuálních mužů za socialismu. In Miluji
tvory svého pohlaví: homosexualita v dějinách a společnosti českých zemí, ed.
Pavel Himl, Jan Seidl, and Franz Schindler, 271–386. Praha: Argo.
Seifert, Jaroslav. 1965. Koncert na ostrově. Praha: Československý spisovatel.
Sezima, Karel. 1911. Z nové české beletrie. Lumír, October 19.
Skupa, Lukáš. 2010. Všechno je krásné (mezi námi kluky): queer aspekty filmů
Václava Kršky. Cinepur 71: 19–21.
Stříbrný vítr opouští ateliéry. 1954. Filmové informace 14: 7.
Stříbrný vítr v exteriérech. 1954. Filmové informace 27: 3–4.
Šalda, F. X. 1963. Fráňa Šrámek čili jak konservovati meruňky. In Kritické projevy
13: 217–225. Praha: Československý spisovatel.
Šrámek, Fráňa. 1906. Modrý a Rudý. Praha: Nová omladina.
Šrámek, Fráňa. 1924. Proč nejsem komunistou? Přítomnost, December 25.
Šrámek, Fráňa. 1955. Stříbrný vítr. Praha: Státní nakladatelství krásné literatury,
hudby a umění.
Tarantová, Lydie. 1954. Stříbrný vítr. Kino 11: 164–165.
Veselý, Ludvík. 1957. Stříbrný vítr. Žena a móda 3: 23.
Wenig, Jan. 1954. Dokument—Román—Film. Film a doba 1: 15–18.
Zvoníček, Stanislav. 1954. Stříbrný vítr v románě a ve filmovém scénáři. Host do
domu 3: 140–141.
Films Cited
A řeka mu zpívala (And the River Sang to Him). Dir. Oleg Reif.
Czechoslovakia. 1976. Movie.
Cesta ke štěstí. (Way Leading to Happiness). Dir. Jiří Sequens st. Czechoslovakia.
1951. Movie.
Legenda o lásce (A Legend about Love). Dir. Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia. 1956.
Movie.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
84  P. BUBENÍČEK
Měsíc nad řekou (Moon over the River). Dir. Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia. 1953.
Movie.
Nevyjasněná úmrtí – Nelze umírat štěstím. Dir. Marek Bouda. Czech
Republic. 2000. WEB 21 February 2016. http://www.ceskatelevize.cz/
porady/10123383458-pribehy-slavnych/400223100031009-nelze-umirat-
stestim/.
Ohnivé léto (Fiery Summer). Dir. František Čáp, Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia.
1939. Movie.
Příběhy slavných – Eduard Cupák: herec v zahradě. Dir. Marek Bouda. Czech
Republic. 2001. WEB 21 February 2016. http://www.ceskatelevize.cz/
porady/10123383458-pribehy-slavnych/401223100031019-herec-v-zah-
rade.
Slovo dělá ženu (A Woman as Good as Her Word). Dir. Jaroslav Mach.
Czechoslovakia. 1952. Movie.
Stříbrný vítr (Silvery Wind). Dir. Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia. 1954. Movie.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
85
In the 16-year period this book is concerned with, director and animator
Karel Zeman—called “the great wizard of cinema,” “the king of cinematic
fantasy,” and “today’s Georges Méliès” (Hořejší 1970, 1) by Czech
and international critics—made two adaptations of Jules Verne’s novels:
The Fabulous World of Jules Verne (1958) and The Stolen Airship (1966).
The first film was made in the 1950s, the second in the 1960s. Even
though both films were made in different political climates, their aesthetic
impulses have a common source: avant-garde aesthetic principles (an
emphasis on untamed fantasy, free association, combining different artistic
media, etc.) realized through original art processes.1 A clear subversive
contrast can be identified in the earlier film in particular: The Fabulous
World of Jules Verne went beyond the boundaries of prescribed art, for—in
contrast with Communist norms—it featured a new, complex approach in
which lightheartedness mixed with seriousness. By declaring children the
target audience, the film was less vulnerable to ideological pressure.
A duality of message was common to both films. To children, the
films promised an adventurous story based on Verne’s books. At the
same time, Zeman’s adaptations reached out to the adult audience, for
whom they recreated the fading memory of reading the novels: they
reanimated what had been lost to memory and projected it on film. One
review of The Fabulous World of Jules Verne expressed this idea:
When you come home from the cinema maybe you won’t go to bed. You
will go to your bookcase, to the last shelf, where you have hidden the
CHAPTER 3
Adaptation as Play: The Worlds of Jules
Verne Come Alive
© The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0_3
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86  P. BUBENÍČEK
books of your youth. And you will dust off those characteristically goldenred
volumes from Vilímek’s publishing house. You will leaf through
them—yes, Bennet’s, Roux’s, and Férat’s romantic illustrations are there.
But at that moment they will seem unnatural to you; you will find them
rigid and unmoving, even though just a while ago you had seen them alive
and in full motion. (Kratochvíl 1958, 8, my translation)
Furthermore, adult audiences were able to discover abundant allusions
to the political climate and the problems of the 20th century in
general in the allegorical subtext of the films, which undermined ideologically
driven ideas of modern history. The production of The Fabulous
World of Jules Verne offers an insight into the conflict between the time it
made and the creative determination of Karel Zeman and his collaborators.
Despite modernism and the avant-garde having been outright condemned
by Communist-era critics, the film contains traces of Surrealism.
The Stolen Airship, made eight years later, draws from the poetics of parody
and absurdity; it appropriated exotic themes for Czech audiences,
and it ultimately comes off as an inventive play on various sources of
inspiration. The film unfolds as a carnival of genres, forms, and symbols,
and sets into play a number of semantic-cognitive effects, which earned
it the attention of older viewers. Although the adaptations’ approaches
differ, both evoked an atmosphere of nostalgia, a yearning for a vanished
world, which called into question the clear-cut depictions of social
change in postwar Czechoslovakia.
Verne’s works have been available to Czech audiences in translation
since the second half of the 19th century. Not only did they relay suspenseful
stories, but they also provided insights into the overwhelming
technological and social changes happening at the time. An article from
the popular weekly magazine Světozor published in 1876 helps illustrate
the interest that Verne’s books generated amongst their readers:
There might be no other foreign writer who has garnered such excited
and universal approval as the Frenchman Jules Verne has with his strange
novels. His writings were translated into Czech in a ravenous manner, and
wherever they wander, they arouse genuine awe. Let us remember how a
brief abstract from his work A Journey to the Center of the Earth, published
within a feuilleton in one of our prestigious newspapers, caused a great
upheaval of minds by its being put out in several parts. Even intelligent
readers cognizant of the nature of our Earth pressed for the next installments
and the ending, eager to learn about the developments in the story.
Such is the interesting and captivating way in which Verne introduces
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3  ADAPTATION AS PLAY: THE WORLDS OF JULES VERNE COME ALIVE  87
readers to the newest discoveries of the natural and geographical sciences.
(“Jules Verne” 1876, 142, my translation)
Here, and elsewhere, Verne’s writings were heralded as pioneering: their
themes and ideas celebrated the successes of progress and scientific discovery
and resonated with the spiritual and cultural climate of the era. For a
wide spectrum of readers, his books presented a new program for humanity
to follow, one based on the tenets of reason. The spirit of the Industrial
Age permeated the collective consciousness of the Czechs. The Czech
lands were one of the fastest developing parts of Austria–Hungary, and
they furnished the monarchy with industrial goods as well as agricultural
products. Enormous lifestyle changes occurred within the span of a lifetime.
Change was most visible in the transformation of cities, whose urban
fabric was thoroughly rearranged: new buildings disturbed medieval urban
patterns, and fortifications were torn down to make place for newly built
boulevards and beltways. Verne’s novels accentuating faith in scientific and
technological progress arrived at the right time in the Czech lands, which
were undergoing a technological boom, and thus attained great popularity.
Contemporary readers were captivated by the extraordinary feats and
audacity of the intrepid trailblazing explorers portrayed in Verne’s novels
(cf. Jacobson 1936, 15–16; Bass 1931, 1–2). Verne’s literary works
mirrored the ongoing social changes. The use of rationality, which could
reveal the world’s mysteries and help dominate the world itself, denoted
happy prospects for the future. Discovery and positivist science, made
accessible by means of captivating novels, assumed the position previously
occupied by divine law. Verne’s writings brought 19th-century readers
closer to the rapidly developing scientific understanding of the world:
There have been many diverse attempts to disseminate, or popularize, the
natural and geographical sciences in amusing, fictional ways, but those
attempts never garnered universal approval. That which was thus unsuccessfully
pursued was achieved by Verne in a rapid manner. His novels,
translated into many languages, have become the domain of the masses,
and they have contributed, more than all scientific writings together, to
the popularization of science. Verne holds all rights to the founding of this
movement, and it is doubtful that anyone will be able to venture to imitate
him. (“Jules Verne” 1876, 142, my translation)
Such progress, however, was not always met with open arms, and for
good reason. There was a gradually emerging feeling that rationalization,
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88  P. BUBENÍČEK
as well as technology, is in fact two-sided: on one hand it could produce
an exciting Verne-like utopia, and on the other it seemed to be steering
humanity towards a dark dystopia. As cities grew, so too did criminality;
as people migrated, rural areas were depopulated. The growing concern
over rapid social change was reflected in Czech “sugar-maker novels,”
a fictional subgenre that developed in reaction to the transformation of
the countryside due to the growth of the sugar industry. One of these
novels—Duše továrny (The Soul of the Factory, 1894) by A.M. Šimáček—
tells the story of a girl from a traditional background, who becomes
infatuated with her factory job and loses herself in it. This radical change
in her psychology destroys her social bonds and, ultimately, her life: she
dies cut into pieces by a factory machine.
In 20th-century Czechoslovakia Verne’s literary output was categorized
as young adult literature. Entertaining narratives facilitated an understanding
of scientific discovery and modern technology. By the mid-20th century,
when the inventions from Verne’s novels had become common place
or even already obsolete, his works conjured up romantic images of scientific
pioneers, aeronauts, seafarers, mechanical engineers, and geologists.
Verne was celebrated as a visionary—his once fantastical descriptions of
electric energy and submarine travel had turned into reality.
Verne’s writings remained consistently popular in Czechoslovakia,
from the democratic interwar period, through the hard-line 1950s, to
the more liberal 1960s. However, in the early 1950s, the status of his
books began to change; according to literary historian Pavel Janáček,
censors tried to fully relegate Verne’s works to children’s literature and
proposed his books not be published for the general public (Janáček
2004, 213).2 His attractive stories, alongside those of Jack London,
however, remained compulsory reading for adventure-seeking youth.
Most importantly, Verne’s fictional works inspired a great pioneer of
Czech animation, Karel Zeman, who at least at first glance, approached
them as adventure stories for boys.
The Fabulous World of Jules Verne in the Age of the
Bomb
I will now focus on The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, which was made
in 1958 in the puppet film studio in Gottwaldov (today’s Zlín). The
filmmakers based the story on the novel Face au Drapeau (Facing the
Flag, 1897), which details the kidnapping of the inventor of a dangerous
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3  ADAPTATION AS PLAY: THE WORLDS OF JULES VERNE COME ALIVE  89
explosive. One might expect Communist functionaries would have coopted
an adaptation of Facing the Flag to illustrate their ideological
worldview, but that was not the case. Even though the film was made in
the 1950s and thematized the dangers of a “deadly invention” (one possible
translation of the Czech title) in a divided world, the overall mood
of the film did not adhere to contemporary cookie-cutter concepts and
normative aesthetic demands.
The film follows a simple plot and includes features common to
adventure narratives: kidnapping, interpersonal conflict, and risk. The
linear, chronological narration, riddled with captivating subplots, progresses
at a brisk pace. The villainous Count Artigas kidnaps Professor
Roch, the inventor of a very effective explosive, and transports him to
a deserted island equipped with a secret underground laboratory for
perfecting his invention. The Professor’s assistant, an enthusiastic proponent
of modern technology named Simon Hart, is also abducted; seeing
through the Count’s dishonest intentions, he manages to send out
a message about the impending danger to the world and, in the end, to
escape. Despite all the unfortunate happenings, Professor Roch eventually
realizes how his invention is going to be exploited and destroys it
along with the entire island, marking a victory for the civilized world.
The Fabulous World of Jules Verne’s narrative is clearly intended for
children. However, the film’s playful animation (and the formal and
meaningful dynamics contained therein) managed to captivate older
audiences; serious passages alternated with humorous scenes in this gently
ironic reflection on boundless wonder at technological innovation and
human ingenuity (Fig. 3.1).
Verne’s narrative is related from two points of view: The first is provided
by an impersonal omniscient narrator, whose style is documentary
and (in the last chapter) journalistic. The second is by the diary entries
of the main character, Simon Hart. The transliteration of an objectivized
narrative act into audio-visual form was not an issue in the filmmaking
process, unlike the diary entries: those are, in the film diegesis/story,
transformed into extensive, making voice-over one of the fundamental
narrative instruments of the film. This conventional solution puts forward
a subjective line of narrative informed mainly by enthusiasm for the
age of invention and by humanist pathos.
Karel Zeman wrote the screenplay alongside respected poet František
Hrubín. Clearly these two extraordinary creative personalities were
drawn to more in the source material than the escalating struggle
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90  P. BUBENÍČEK
between good and evil. Facing the Flag, apart from its obligatory utopian
motifs and celebration of scientific progress, looks skeptically at human
society. Instead of merely depicting noble and moral heroes and explorers,
the novel takes it upon itself to warn its readers of potential catastrophes
and the peril that could befall the whole world. In the adaptation,
the filmmakers build heavily upon this line of thinking.
The adaptation was made at a time when the Eastern Bloc was bolstering
its military might in anticipation of another worldwide, and possibly
nuclear, conflict. This period also witnessed the reinforcement of the
border between East and West—the “Iron Curtain.” The themes dealt
with in Facing the Flag thus resonated with a society subjected to the
ongoing threat of nuclear war and the possibility of global annihilation.
František Hrubín was well known as the author of the epic lyrical work
Hirošima (Hiroshima, 1948), which was composed in reaction to the
recently ended world war. In Hiroshima, Hrubín uses poetry to convey a
Fig. 3.1  The Fabulous World of Jules Verne. The warship searching for the kidnapped
Professor Roch. Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne; Karel
Zeman 1958). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved
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3  ADAPTATION AS PLAY: THE WORLDS OF JULES VERNE COME ALIVE  91
sense of endangerment and the fear of a nuclear war’s unfathomable consequences.
He expresses what it is like to be aware of the constant presence
of the greatest danger in the modern world: “it [the bomb] keeps
falling down with us / it will always fall down with us / even then, when
we are laid flat / as we die – and the fall / will shake the ground we
molder in” (Hrubín 2010, 225, my translation).
In Hiroshima a tragic event happening in a seemingly distant Japanese
city is brought closer to ordinary people in Prague as they experience a
peaceful morning—and a similar tactic is used in the Verne adaptation.
Simon Hart, having been kidnapped and brought to the remote island,
manages to alert humanity of the looming danger: he succeeds in sending
out a message about the ultra-modern military lab in the island’s
interior and about the pirates’ intent to abuse Professor Roch’s invention.
An enormous flock of frightened, screaming seagulls surrounds the
balloon carrying Simon’s letter; this visual, accompanied by the unsettling
soundtrack, generates a feeling of danger and uncertainty. After first
being found by a group of men and women, the letter keeps changing
hands, until it reaches a telegraph man, who then broadcasts Simon’s
message to the world. Then follows a series of static shots of illustrations
or models displaying telegraph wires, cathedrals, immense ringing bells,
harbors, cities, and a gathering of miners. This section features three
jump cuts to the real world, which serve a specific function: first, a camera
captures the undercarriage of a fast-moving train, followed by a carriage
hurtling forward, only the wheels and the horses’ legs visible, and
finally there is a medium shot of a World War I—era destroyer crashing
through ocean waves. This rapid sequence of alternating images, which
elicits the 20th century’s “real world” rush into war, serves as a vehicle
for accentuating a catastrophic scenario that needs to be stopped. The
world is hurtling towards destruction, and—as represented by the shot
of the battleship—20th-century technology definitely proves its dystopian
nature. However, this sequence ends with five shots that remove
the audience to a strikingly different environment: hurry and haste are
replaced by an old-fashioned steam train model slowly crossing a bridge
somewhere in the countryside, a picture of a wooden house with a bell
clanging in its belfry, and a little girl playing with baby chickens. The
fast-paced modern world is replaced with intimate rural motifs, a brief
reminder of the pastoral tendencies typical of 19th-century Central
European art. Formally conventional, this sequence is an emotionally
acute evocation of a peaceful and harmonic space connected to motifs
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92  P. BUBENÍČEK
of home and childhood. Nevertheless, the jarring clanging of the bell
implies anxiety. The fact that the last frame of the sequence is a medium
shot of a child protectively holding a baby chick to her mouth shows
that the film places emphasis on all earthly life being in danger. This conclusion
could refer to a threat striking at society’s core, which may have
played into the hands of Communist ideologues who tried to exercise
control over all areas of social life. They could choose to see in it a clearly
formulated argument in favor of isolating the country and its inhabitants
from the capitalist world by sealing the borders.
Adaptation Through Čapek’s Lenses
The adaptation manages to show continuity with pre-Communist artistic
and social traditions, with no intervention from the Party’s bureaucratic
apparatus and its censors. Both the screenplay and the film demonstrate
Zeman’s and Hrubín’s experience with the avant-garde art and culture of
the democratic First Republic.
Facing the Flag’s conclusion best evokes the immediate danger presented
throughout the novel: on the pirates’ order the Professor destroys
one of the battleships nearing the island, but once he sees the French
flag on another ship, he revolts against the pirates and their malevolent
intentions. The film treats the situation differently: the tired old inventor
is seen standing next to an enormous cannon. The juxtaposition of flagrant
human futility and a threatening weapon provides a poignant scale,
which reinforces the scene’s effect. The soundtrack also comes to the
fore here, accentuating this trying moment’s suspense and importance.
The audience wonders how the Professor will fare. Will he destroy the
weapon, the fruit of his labors? Will concern for society’s welfare outweigh
a scientist’s dream? Contemporary political events certainly influenced
the film, but its humanist message is surprisingly coherent with the
literary legacy of the First Republic. The anti-war novels and plays3 by
Karel Čapek (1890–1938), a dauntless journalist and defender of democracy,
also feature inventors who find themselves in similar situations.
Verne’s novel and Zeman’s film do not share the same goals: the
adaptation addresses ethical and philosophical issues absent from the
source material. In the film mere greed does not drive Count Artigas
as in the novel: he takes part in an allegorical parable concerning the
destruction of the technological world. It is an interesting coincidence
that after Čapek’s anti-utopian novel Továrna na absolutno (The Absolute
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3  ADAPTATION AS PLAY: THE WORLDS OF JULES VERNE COME ALIVE  93
at Large, 1922) was published critic Miroslav Rutte compared Verne to
Čapek in his review:
[S]cientific hypotheses remained a mere outline for Verne, and he built his
adventurous and romantic stories around them without trying to explain
or describe their ethical, political, or moral consequences. This sociological
background did not feature in scientific utopias until H. G. Wells’s writing.
He is mainly interested in those hypotheses which are able to influence
the very mechanism of life, force it to create new phenomena, or act
like a lever to induce a movement in the whole social, moral, and political
mechanism. (Rutte 1922, 1, my translation)
Rutte continues his commentary by stating that Verne fails to develop his
utopia, while Čapek uses adventure motifs only as a device enabling him
to write about social and political topics and convey his philosophy of
human actions.
Čapek’s fictional heroes often find themselves alone, facing destruction
and having to decide what to do while acutely aware of their personal
responsibility. Prokop, a chemical researcher and the main
character in Krakatit (An Atomic Phantasy: Krakatit, 1924) invents a
powerful explosive—similarly to Professor Roch—and has to guard it
from evil powers set on using his discovery against humanity. An Atomic
Phantasy: Krakatit was apparently Zeman’s most important inspiration.
Professor Roch is a naïve humanist who practices science for science’s
sake and accepts the pirates’ assistance because it enables him to
continue his research. He is fascinated by his sensational finding that
unlocks the enormous energy bound in physical matter: “and other discoveries
will be needed so that the energy can serve people, so that it can
power machines, provide light and warmth” (Zeman 1958, my translation).
He bequeaths his theoretical work to technicians who can harness
this energy and use it for common good. Just like in Čapek’s works,
the newly gained energy is supposed to help humanity and to rid it of
slave labor. In the film, the professor is unaware of the risks of industrialized
society. Immersed in his research, he is blind to the threat the
world is subjected to, and he does not understand Artigas’s desire to rule
the world: his blindness makes him similar to Čapek’s heroes, “[whose]
actions become a satire on naïve human faith in progress through
mechanical civilization and the modern natural sciences” (Černý 1992,
577, my translation).
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94  P. BUBENÍČEK
The image of the professor in The Fabulous World of Jules Verne
clumsily destroying the pirates’ cannon loaded with his own explosive
expresses a symbolic moral that shares the appeal articulated by Čapek’s
writings. Professor Roch is a solitary individual, taking a stand against
the transpersonal power of history. Blowing up the island is his answer to
questions of human freedom. He is searching for the meaning of an individual
existence at a period of “collective enthusiasm”—in early 1950s
Czechoslovakia, a heretical idea. Literary critic Zdeněk Kožmín noted in
his interpretations of Čapek’s writings that in his prose’s time:
is treated mainly as a sequence of open or expired time limits. Its function
is vividly anthropological: it offers the possibility to realize oneself, or it
takes it away. Čapek’s heroes do not ask themselves to be or not to be—
they ask themselves how to be. The question, even if posed in this way, is
chiefly dramatic. (Kožmín 1995, 381, my translation)
When one of the pirates informs the protagonist of The Fabulous World
of Jules Verne that he is no longer needed to execute their plans, the
Professor indeed asks himself “how to be.” Choosing such a conclusion
was not incidental—it arose from the needs of the screenplay and
the direction. Professor Roch is tested and prevails, just like a number of
Čapek’s characters, minor and major, before him.
Seeing the adaptation through the filter of Čapek’s work is possible
on yet another level, that is, in keeping with the philosophy of relativism:
ideology cannot be forced on people, everyone has their own truth, and
it is always prudent to use common sense. As literary historian Václav
Černý writes:
Čapek does not love the marvels of science and the wonders of technological
civilization. He denies them love in the name of life. All his utopias
resonate with the celebration of a modest, hard-working life, in which
moments of little, intimate joy alternate with times of honest, earthly
labor—the greatest blessing. (Černý 1992, 578, my translation)
The screenwriters read Verne through the transparent fabric of Čapek’s
apologia for life: through the emphasis on human liberty, and the shock
inflicted on one who has experienced the pitfalls of progress. Even as the
Professor destroys his deadly invention (and, in the process, himself),
his decision imparts a message about the meaning of humanity, which is
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also articulated in An Atomic Phantasy: Krakatit in the words that God
addresses to Prokop:
[…] you will not achieve the highest and you will not release everything.
You tried to tear yourself to pieces by force, but you have remained whole
and you will neither save world not smash it to pieces. Much in you will
remain closed up, like fire in a stove; that is good, it is sacrifice. You
wanted to do great things, and you will instead do small ones. That is
good. (Čapek 1948, 292)
Illustrations: A Window on the Word of Stories
In the 19th century the function of books and literary culture shifted
somewhat as decoration gained importance at the expense of text. The
urban salon, a new phenomenon, was a representative showcase often
centered on an aesthetically pleasing library collection. Apparently
untouched copies of Verne’s works in second-hand bookshops seem
to imply that some “readers” only ever entered the author’s fantastical
worlds via illustrations. Karel Zeman’s use of Verne’s original illustrations
would go on to cement their place in Czech culture.
Prague publisher Josef Richard Vilímek, Jr. made perhaps the greatest
contribution to establishing Verne’s place in popular Czech culture.
He began acquiring the rights to Verne’s books, and the illustrations
they contained, in 1889, and continued to publish them for 60 years.
His original goals were commercial in nature, as he primarily intended
to “reach out to the largest possible number of consumers, and
[achieve] the subsequent financial and social success of his company”
(Horák 2005, 19, my translation). Initially the books were—for commercial
as well as customary reasons—serialized. However, contrary to
custom, Vilímek insisted that Verne’s novels be printed along with the
original illustrations from the French editions, thus fostering a connection
between the words and the original engravings in the minds of the
public. Vilímek helped select the images for his publications and discussed
the matter with Verne’s publisher, Pierre Jules Hetzel; the technical
means at his disposal enabled him to publish high-quality, richly
illustrated books. Some of the higher-end publications included color
engravings. After the rights to publish Verne’s books were obtained by
another publishing company in the early 20th century, Vilímek decided
to save on expenses by reducing the books’ dimensions. However, he
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still insisted on his original concept and named his new edition “The
Cheap Illustrated Edition of Jules Verne’s Novels.” Even under commercial
pressure, he chose a format that highlighted the engravings (Horák
2005, 62).
How did the original illustrations attract generations of readers?
Why did Verne’s works become sought after by passionate collectors?
Illustrations contributed to establishing the “Jules Verne phenomenon,”
which transcends the monomedial borders of verbal narrative. Late-19thcentury
readers of exotic adventure novels encountered phenomena and
artefacts that were nearly impossible to imagine. Thus, these illustrations
aided in visualizing the fantastical. One example is the detailed description
of the airship Albatross in the novel Robur the Conqueror:
Above the deck rose thirty-seven vertical axes, fifteen along each side, and
seven, more elevated, in the centre. The “Albatross” might be called a clipper
with thirty-seven masts. But these masts instead of sails bore each two
horizontal screws, not very large in spread or diameter, but driven at prodigious
speed. Each of these axes had its own movement independent of
the rest, and each alternate one spun round in a different direction from
the others, so as to avoid any tendency to gyration. (Verne 1978, 189)
While the verbal medium provides a gradual, linear, and descriptive representation
of the airship, the visual representation offers a quick effect.
The interplay between the verbal and the visual helps readers establish
and refine their mental schemata.
Illustrations have the power to evoke the seemingly unimaginable.
While viewing the engravings in Verne’s books, readers repeatedly
enter familiar situations, returning to the worlds they had visited in their
youthful minds. Pleasure is invoked by repetition. It is therefore not surprising
to find that Karel Zeman, who identified as a passionate reader of
Verne’s novels, used this principle in his films.
The adaptation’s opening is a direct tribute to the French visionary
and writer (the film correlated with the 50-year anniversary of Verne’s
death). The audience is welcomed into the fictional world by a voiceover
saying “Good evening, dear friends. Come closer. I will tell you
about the greatest adventure of my life” (Zeman 1958, my translation).
The camera pans over a cozy room resembling a 19th-century scholar’s
office. The scene’s score underscores the calming nostalgic atmosphere,
opening with a clarinet solo joined gradually by strings and a
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harpsichord. The camera focuses on a well-known portrait of Verne, present
in most of the Czech editions of his writings, as well as on Verne’s
books, a petroleum lamp, an open diary, and, finally, on a portrait of the
narrator: the main character of The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, Hart
Simon. Both Simon’s and Verne’s portraits are woodcuts. Wood engraving
is also the main formal feature of the adaptation’s poetics, as most
images in the film bear a hatching effect. The audience is prepared to
enter a fantastic world of wonders (often mentioned by Karel Zeman
when talking about Verne’s oeuvre). In Zeman’s subsequent adaptations
of Verne’s works, this direct link to the factual author withered away, but
here it is clear from the start that the film brings to life a world created
by an author and his illustrators, Léon Benett, Édouard Riou, and so on,
and that it does so with reverence and respect. Technological progress
enabled artists to give movement to worlds made of words and illustrations
within the film frame. Zeman’s exuberant imagination thus brings
back memories of romantic pioneers, and of childhood.
Zeman’s aesthetic stance was indeed closely linked to imitating the
atmosphere of the illustrations: “[My] Verne … must originate not only
from the spirit of his work, but at the same time from the characteristic
appearance of the original illustrations, whose wood-engraving form must
be preserved and visible” (Brož 1986, 38, my translation). To do so,
Zeman elected to combine animation and live action. He could thus create
“a synthesis of the real and the fantastic” (Vestergaard 1986, 42). As
mentioned above, the original illustrations of Verne’s works were woodcuts,
and thus the “hatching” aesthetic unified the film’s artistic concept.
The influence of the illustrations is apparent on the machines, technological
inventions, costumes, and so on presented in the adaptation. Creating
such visuals, of course, involved a complex preparation process:
[I]n shooting a film like this, it is simply impossible to use any of the
normal props used in other films. It is, for instance, not possible to use
ordinary chairs; even the barrel which Hart writes about, the one in his
dwelling in the core of the island, could not have been an ordinary barrel,
because it would be visually jarring. All objects have to have the hatching
characteristic for line engravings. The same applies to the costumes and
make-up of the actors. (Navrátil 1956, 10, my translation)
After the audience has been invited into the fictional world, someone’s
hand starts turning the pages of a book containing Verne-related
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engravings. The individual images show the airship Albatross, Captain
Nemo’s submarine, a man battling sea monsters, a steamship-filled harbor,
and a map of the world, while Simon Hart’s off-camera voice says:
“I lived in a time which bore so many beautiful dreams of human progress—our
heads were full of it, mine and my friends’—there was Robur
the Conqueror, Barbican, Captain Nemo … that was the world of our
youth” (Zeman 1958, my translation). The camera stops still over the
last illustration, showing a steam paddle-wheel schooner. Then, suddenly,
the picture comes to life: the ship sails across the moving sea as
the stack emits steam, the paddle wheel turns, and people wander around
the upper deck. Here the adaptation alludes to the “cinema of attractions”
(Gunning 1989, 31–45)—the earliest cinema made hitherto static
objects suddenly move, to the amazement of audiences.
The next shot subjects the audience to an inventive combination of
diverse representational forms: whereas the ship is animated, the water is
“real” (in terms of film as a medium), and so is the rising steam. Further
on, the camera gets closer to the boat, and passengers sailing to America
are visible, represented by actors in period costumes, while an amplifierholding
sailor is represented by an animated figure. However, the sailor
“comes alive” in the next frame, in which he is portrayed by an actor.
The film uses various animation techniques and playful combinations:
mainly frame-by-frame animation mixed with real-time animation. Twodimensional
and three-dimensional objects are animated, and figurines
and props alternate with images of birds and marine life, as do live actors
with photographic portraits; the smoke rising from the battleships can be
real, animated, or a static illustration, and so on. When Professor Roch
and Simon are kidnapped from the coastal castle, the weather is stormy.
While both exterior and interior sets consist of painted scenes, the pirates
leave in real-life footage. This group of men fighting enormous waves
in a small boat evokes Edison’s 1897 short film Return of Lifeboat. The
technological aspect of Zeman’s effort towards stylistic experiment was
described by the assistant director of the film, Milan Vácha:
A substantial portion of the film material is double-exposed or even tripleexposed.
One frame captures a live actor in the studio with a little decoration.
In the exterior, the same frame is exposed to another part of the real
world—the surface of a pond or a stony bank reminiscent of a sea coast.
The same frame is put into a camera for the third time in the trick studio,
and a photograph of a miniature decoration or a moving figurine is added
to the picture. (Taussig 2014, my translation)
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The fantastic atmosphere and the blending of the real, unreal, curious,
and bizarre were achieved by a unified visual expression created by hatching,
matte paintings, special sets, and lighting. This combination generates
a playful space which immediately informs the audience that the
filmmakers are not trying to emulate reality.
The illustrations, embedded in cultural memory, were so important
to Zeman that some even served as storyboards. The director’s notes
on storyboard preparation, where we can encounter remarks like “the
whole shot following exactly the illustration in Verne’s novel” indicate
as such. This particular note refers to the scene in which the Sword, an
English submarine, has set off for Back Cup in order to rescue Professor
Roch. The illustration captures Simon Hart, an English officer, and the
pilot inside the Sword, which serves as a background to the dramatic
narrative. This episode is preceded by Simon’s attempt at escaping the
island across the bottom of the sea in a diving suit, and his rescue by
the suddenly appearing English seamen. The camera is trained on the
submarine’s “control center,” dominated in the forefront by its driving
mechanism. The pilot sits in the center, and the officer and Simon sit on
the sides by the windows. The whole scene highlights the atmosphere in
this enclosed space, which the troubled expression on the officer’s face
underscores even more. The film is, at this moment, faithfully stylized as
an illustration, and creates a moving copy of a picture known to generations
of readers. A dialogue between the film’s diegesis and the illustrations
is established: the intermedial relationship is based on animating a
timeless artistic work, and the illustration creates new relationships with
other aspects of the film further on.
The film crew’s creative work directly reflects a new approach to Verne’s
texts. The dynamics of the adaptation process were generated by the use of
various artistic methods. Generally speaking, the creators of The Fabulous
World of Jules Verne chose two main approaches: showing-showing—
through intermedial dialogue between the film’s narrative and book illustrations
(predominantly those from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the
Sea)—and, obviously, telling-showing. It is, however, debatable whether
this dichotomy, used by Linda Hutcheon in her Theory of Adaptation, is
sufficient to describe this film. Zeman’s films adapted a peculiar aesthetic
object—a fusion of the textual and the graphic, which determined the
poetics of the resulting work. The film presents and adapts not only characters,
events, and places, but also the visual character of wood engraving.
The intermedial flow is at least three-fold here: book—illustration—film.
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Fantasy, Playfulness, and Hyperbole
Surprising associations and hyperbole in approaching the ethos of rationality
is one of the characteristic features of the adaptation. Zeman’s
creative reflection of literary materials, which draws from childhood experience,
employs aspects of hyperbole and naïveté. It is apparent from
Karel Zeman’s oeuvre, as well as from his own words, that he was deeply
impressed by the utopian enthusiasm of Verne’s writings and the by late-
19th century optimism about the dawning new era. The film begins with
Simon commenting upon a spectacle that introduces the audience to
Verne’s world; a parade of automobiles, trains, ships, submarines, flying
objects, and fantastical inventions presents the viewer with an enthusiastic
vision of human ingenuity. Along with the main character, the viewers
witness the triumphs of science and technology, which are introduced in
a playful manner. Spontaneity and lightness constitute the semantic gesture
of this parade, which is unburdened by technology’s darker aspects, and
therefore presentable as a world of imagination and fantasy. The marching
music–style soundtrack imitates the rhythms of a street organ and imparts
a funfair atmosphere, accompanied by the harpsichord. It also implies a
lightly ironic and parodic distance from the achievements of modern technology,
which are presented in the film like funfair attractions.4
The film then continues with Simon Hart aboard the first Europe-toAmerica
steamer, where “unforgettable impressions” are made on him;
he witnesses how “the human spirit commands not only the sea but also
the sky,” and “with joyful trepidation observes the ever new triumphs of
science and technology” (Zeman 1958, my translation). His voyage can
continue on land, as “the iron horse knows no obstacles” (Zeman 1958,
my translation). However, the aesthetic model of the world does not
correspond with the enthusiastic declaration that “the century of steam
and electricity puts the servants of yesterday to rest” (Zeman 1958, my
translation) because the shots of new inventions clearly show that they
are two-dimensional or three-dimensional models, and therefore the
established form of things is subordinate to the creative view of the set
designer.
Several shots show the hyperbole and parody at play in the film: the
engineer driving the train across America resembles a Czech miller puffing
on a pipe; the scene from a Prague street showing a coach driver
standing over his fiacre’s broken wheel, where the only parts moving are
the driver’s hand and one of his horses’ heads; a short slapstick episode
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on the train in which a cowboy nearly shoots a passenger, who is used to
the dangers of the American West—he does not find gunfire extraordinary,
but instead marvels at the dangers of new inventions. Instead of the
immediate danger to his life, he is amazed by newspaper articles covering
the destruction of yet another technological invention—the submarine
(viewers later discover that the submarine actually was not destroyed, but
that Count Artigas merely faked the sinking of this vessel).
The world of pioneering, inventing, and innovating is, in Verne’s
works, embodied by male characters. However, Zeman and Hrubín
wrote a female character into the screenplay—a young woman named
Jana—who, in her naivety, forms a striking contrast to the male world of
exploitable technology, aggression, and wars. The character, stylized as a
gullible girl, fails to see what is really happening on the island until the
last minute: while the nearby factory is producing a powerful explosive,
she waters her flowers with army helmets. Another scene employing contrast
is also built upon humorous exaggeration: after the girl is rescued
by pirates who sink her boat with a submarine, she retreats under the
deck and tries to iron her wet clothes on the muzzles of cannons and
gunpowder-filled barrels until she is stopped by the terrified captain of
the vessel.
It is worth noting the unorthodox way in which Zeman represents
the beginnings of cinema with parodic exaggeration. The technical limitations
of the new form of art are demonstrated in a scene in which—
thanks to “the newest technological invention” (Zeman 1958, my
translation)—Artigas learns that his secret has been revealed. A portly
pirate approaches a primitive mechanism on a stand, lights a candle
within, attaches the handle, and starts the projection. The audience,
made up of the villainous Artigas and two of his accomplices, watches a
program comprising three parts: journal, sports, and news. They show
various curiosities and sensations designed to captivate the audience. The
film’s creators based the ironic subtext in this sequence on the Poetist
tradition of playful absurdity: English soldiers in African colonies ride
rollerblade-equipped camels; a weightlifter lifts a barbell with increasing
rapidity, while an innkeeper plays a Strauss-like waltz on an old-time
piano reminiscent of the music that accompanies silent films; modern
athletes move across the sky and water, aided by peculiar machines whose
appearance demonstrates the farcical and absurd quality of the athletes’
feats. However, the three-man audience is not impressed by these sensational
images, or by the medium itself: they are only interested in the
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third part of the film, which shows a submarine—their own—being pursued
by various nations’ armies, and which tells them that they have been
exposed. The actual film does not thematize awe over the emotional
power of moving images, but the awe of the invention itself, which is still
in its infancy. The clumsy machine catches fire during the final projection,
and the projectionist tries in vain to extinguish it with his hat before
he drenches the machine in water from a tub. Then a pirate takes the
machine, still on fire, out of the grand hall, as though this invention does
not belong in the refined environment of a salon.
Zeman, although impressed by the romantic ethos of the pioneers of
science and technology, had also experienced a world war and was thus
wary of the progress Verne describes. He sought a way to deal with the
tension of the modern era, and he found it in creating worlds of artistic
fantasy that enabled him to depict the contrasting motif of technology used
for good or evil. He created a diverse world built upon paradox, hyperbole,
and irony, in which the audience is constantly confronted with
new, surprising, and comical scenes. The English submarine created by
the animators differs poignantly from Artigas’s vessel. The likeable vessel,
which is propelled by curious paddles, contrasts with the ideal technological
form of the battle submarine. Their differences embody the conflict
between a defensive and an aggressive political program.
There are other instances in which the director demonstrates his
original treatment of the literary text. In one of the opening episodes,
the pirates are heading to Back Cup with the kidnapped Professor and
Simon, when they encounter the merchant ship Amélie. As is their habit,
they rob the ship and sink it. While the submarine’s captain directs its
nose towards the ship, one of the pirates sounds the battle horn, and
the camera shows the other shipmates: they are senselessly sharpening
their weapons in the grand hall of the submarine. The shot of the
pirates running their sharpeners to and fro is followed by a shot of the
submarine’s propulsion device: two pistons making the same movements
as the pirates. These two shots keep alternating back and forth and the
movement keeps getting faster, accompanied by a trumpet solo imitating
military signals, until the submarine rams into the hull of the merchant
ship. The impact is preceded by shots of surprised passengers on deck,
watching, uncomprehendingly, the disturbed sea and the approaching
shadow underneath the water’s surface. After the crash the view, as well
as the music, changes: the battle trumpet is replaced by a musical elegy
for the sinking ship and the camera focuses on the sad-faced sculpture
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of a nymph on the Amélie’s bow. A destructive scene follows, as sailors
clumsily try to avoid the falling rigging and leave the ship. A girl appears,
who, despite the catastrophic happenings around her, rescues two doves
from a cage and sets them free. While the ship, with men hanging on its
masts, sinks to the bottom of the sea, the girl grabs a floating piece of
timber and stays afloat; she is later rescued (per Professor Roch’s wish).
After the ship has sunk, the pirates set off to loot it. They use special
undersea bicycles, equipped with both propellers and bells, and a lift that
they use to transfer the treasure from the ship to the submarine.
Surprising Traces of Surrealism
In the introduction I explained how the new political regime spoke out
against interwar artistic movements and strictly rejected one of them in
particular: Surrealism. In the words of literary historian Jiří Holý:
Surrealism was no longer perceived as sympathetic to the Communist revolution
as it had been before the war. However, surrealist poetry, “concrete
irrationality”, could still stand as a rebellious, liberating force against
the stark rationalism of industrial civilization. (Holý 2008, 34)
Nonetheless, in The Fabulous World of Jules Verne Zeman visualized
fantasy worlds with creative spontaneity that still fascinates. Some of his
fantastic visions recall the Surrealist aesthetic and elaborate on interwar
avant-garde traditions (especially Poetist playfulness). It was beyond
imaginable that a non-conformist film featuring Surrealist imagery
would be financed by the state film industry. It was paradoxical that
The Fabulous World of Jules Verne included elements stylistically related
to officially despised “formalist and bourgeois” art (as Surrealism and
Poetism were called). Josef Vojvodík has remarked that “Surrealism discovers
new approaches to objects, to things which had lost their original
function and their practical place” (Vojvodík and Wiendl 2011, 163).
This fitting characterization corresponds with the creative devices used in
adapting Verne’s novel, especially in the parts taking place in the ocean
depths.
The richly expressive imagery of The Fabulous World of Jules Verne’s
underwater universe is closest to Surrealist poetics. The filmmakers were not
solely interested in creating a science-fiction world inhospitable to humankind,
which had to be conquered by romantic adventurers. The unknown
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provided them with a space where they could contrapose creative imagination
and rationality. Zeman and his team of animators combined uncommon
motifs into new ensembles; individual images are artistically unsettled,
the links between them are made less clear, and a poetic projection of the
undersea world is created. The underwater voyage does not merely serve
the story: it unveils a mysterious, spectral world. The film emphasizes the
bizarre appearance of undersea formations, the unusual shapes of various
fish, and the unrealistic scale of the seahorses. The kidnapped Professor,
the rational scientist, is the first character in the film to see the underwater
world and observe its diversity (from a large window in the submarine’s
grand salon). He peers into an unknown world, which the film presents as
a combination of real animals and animated figurines. Count Artigas introduces
the seafloor to the Professor as a land he has conquered, and which
has provided him with such wealth that he is now able to complete the
Professor’s invention. There is a conspicuous aspect of Zeman’s play with
the world he has created present in several shots: a peculiar type of illusion,
the jellyfish, a creature that offers a number of possible associations.
The jellyfish is driven by internalization and reveals irrationality because its
body is volatile, ethereal and variable. Bizarre formations emphasizing sensory
impressions inhabit the film’s underwater world; they are drawn from
the imagination rather than biology or oceanography. The viewer can only
guess at what is a dream and what is reality. This place cannot be grasped
by scientific objectivism’s rational devices because its mysteriousness evokes
irrational wonder. While Artigas discusses his plans, the submarine passes
shipwrecks—vestiges of human fates and ideas—and the obvious dominance
of natural forces denotes the futility of human actions (Fig. 3.2).
Surrealist imagination is also present when Simon loses consciousness
inside an underwater tunnel. The underwater world, having thus far
imitated some of the natural world’s laws, now exits the realm of reality
and normal human experience. Simon Hart offers the pirates his help in
repairing a cable in an undersea tunnel—the camera follows three men
in diving suits walking on the ocean floor. They find themselves among
peculiar-looking fish. A dramatic episode ensues as the divers are attacked
by an enormous octopus. Simon battles the creature and manages to
escape. He enters the tunnel, pursuing his way to freedom, but he soon
learns that his oxygen is running out. He stumbles amongst coral reefs,
jellyfish, and fish, until he falls down, fainting. The viewer now witnesses
the visual hallucinations of a man trapped in a diving suit.
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Surprise comes at the very beginning of this episode, as the camera
shows an obviously alive fish, floating belly-up in an unconcerned manner.
The following shot of Simon Hart with his eyes closed confirms
that these images are just an unconscious man’s visions. The next shot
shows two fish, which, having come head to head, merge and create one
body: eventually all that is left of the fish are their tails, which begin to
move—they have now become a butterfly. More butterflies arrive: they
fly above the seafloor and in the moving water they land on coral and
underwater fungi amongst schools of fish. Their wings are made from
crocheted yarn. These bizarre creatures bring new meanings to the space
outlined in the scene, eliciting associations with home: a room with crocheted
doilies. This hallucinatory scene marks a slowing down of the
film’s narrative pace. Underwater phenomena are visualized through the
Fig. 3.2  The Fabulous World of Jules Verne. The kidnapped Professor Roch in
count Artigas’s submarine.Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne;
Karel Zeman 1958). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved
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106  P. BUBENÍČEK
consciousness of the human mind: the mimetic convention of the illustrations
and their pretense of reality make way for an inner principle, and
finds itself standing against outer images of the actual world.
This scene has no actual basis in the screenplay or in the storyboards.
While the original narrative is partially maintained here, this moment
of lonely deliriousness was initially supposed to be expressed in a more
fairytale-like manner. After Simon loses consciousness, the nymph from
the bow of the Amélie was supposed to appear, her sad facial expression
seemingly predetermining the boat’s fate. A close-up shot of her face
with a wiped tear was to follow, the nymph symbolizing sorrow over
the current prevalence of evil in the story. The nymph was originally
intended to wake Simon up and encourage him to make his way out
of the tunnel. This directorial change shows how new ideas incessantly
influenced the creative adaptation process, and that the conception of the
film on the whole favored free imagination.
A Carnival of Forms: The Stolen Airship
Zeman’s second Verne adaptation, The Stolen Airship, was made 8 years
later and was loosely based on the novel Deux ans de vacances (1888). It
tells the story of five boys’ extraordinary adventure, and its main themes
are children’s games and imagination. However, a number of formally
and meaningfully complex expressions intended for adult viewers are
embedded in the film. Thanks to the freer political atmosphere of the
1960s, this film could, to an even higher degree than The Fabulous World
of Jules Verne, incorporate allegory, metaphor, and parody hinting at
meanings beyond the literal ones presented.
The film’s plot diverges from its literary source, though the adventure
genre is preserved in one of its two main plotlines. The protagonists
leave home and, after a sequence of dramatic events, find themselves in
exotic lands and experience extraordinary adventures. The story does not
commence in New Zealand, as it does in the book, but it takes place in
1891 in Prague. As the Czech lands are landlocked, the boys travel by
airship, as opposed to the literary text where the boys, boarding school
students in Auckland, are on a boat.
At an exhibition, the five boys are captivated by the wonder of their
time: a dirigible airship made by Findejs & Comp. Gentlemen who had
paid for a ride in the airship are hesitant to board it after they watch a
balloon catch fire and explode in the air. The company’s owner, Findejs,
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says (falsely) that his airship is filled with non-flammable gas and offers a
free ride to the boys, who are in the audience. In the ensuing confusion,
the boys take off in the airship with Findejs’s money box on board. Even
though Jakoubek, the youngest of the boys, wants to go back home,
the others outvote him and they all set off on a wondrous journey.
Meanwhile the news about “the stolen airship” travels around Prague,
catching the attention of Marek, a journalist. The case is taken up by
the court, and the attorney Dufek, not knowing that his son Tomáš is
on board, demands a grave punishment for the children. After he finds
out the truth, he changes his stance before the court and attacks Findejs.
Findejs, however, has suddenly become a highly sought-after inventor:
he is visited by a delegation from the army, as well as by a foreign secret
agent. Now, the whole world is after the airship with the boys on board.
Having withstood a dangerous flight and a storm, the boys land on
an island in the middle of the ocean, and the reportedly non-flammable
airship explodes. Just like in the novel, the boys find a cave there.
It is inhabited by a character that fascinated Zeman—Captain Nemo.
Observing that various objects are marked with the letter N (the mark of
Captain Nemo), the boys learn that this is, indeed, the Captain’s shelter.
From a distance they spy the Captain leaving in his submarine. Jakoubek
writes a note to his parents and throws it into the water. It is intercepted
by army men, who presume that it is in fact a coded message. The journalist
Marek discovers the boys’ location and launches a rescue mission.
Meanwhile, a schooner carrying the rich Mr. Penfield (originally from
the Czech town of Beroun) and his daughter, Kateřina, accidently lands
at the island. Some of the sailors want to steal Mr. Penfield’s money, a
skirmish ensues, and Kateřina throws a trunk full of gold into the sea.
The boys take part in the subsequent victorious battle against the mutineers.
Mr. Penfield gets back his gold and promises the boys he will foot
the bill for their adventures. The navy then arrives, the admiral learns
that Findejs was lying about having invented non-flammable gas, and the
little aeronauts return home triumphant.
The story’s outline itself implies alternation of two expressive poles:
illusive enchantment, childlike playfulness, and excited explorations on
one hand, and the “reasonability” of the adults’ sedate world on the
other. This confrontation is anticipated in the film’s idiosyncratic animated
opening. Four brief episodes offer insights into the difficulties
of childhood and adolescence: a caveman berates his son for urinating
on a fire, their only heat source; a Roman emperor threatens the little
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boys who accidentally drop a vase on his horse’s head; an elderly knight
and his wife react disapprovingly to a young man climbing a ladder in
pursuit of his lover; and in a Pointillist style, a man scolds a boy for his
recklessness in a Prague park. This montage is ended by the voice of an
old judge, who calls upon the film’s child protagonists to talk as they
huddle behind a courtroom railing somewhere in the sky. Jakoubek says,
“It’s not us boys’ fault; it was only a game” (Karel Zeman 1966, my
translation). This defense, however, provides an entirely different initial
viewpoint than that of Verne’s novel, whose characters yearn to leave the
world of make-believe and become adults.
The adaptation is a unique twist on the robinsonade as the boys set
off on their journey with the desire to experience extraordinary things,
to see exotic lands, and also to escape the adult-ruled world. Even
though the boys accidentally “steal” the airship, they ultimately decide
to undertake a dangerous voyage around the world that will test their
courage and perseverance. As the narrative escalates, their flight becomes
increasingly perilous, and the boys are forced to find their way out of
many predicaments. They only narrowly avoid a foreign army’s airship,
which fires its canon at them. When the airship finds itself in tempestuous
weather, the boys cut off its basket and hang on to the ropes to
save themselves from drowning. They land on an unknown island, where
their survival adventure begins: surrounded by the endless ocean, the
boys experience absolute freedom; they climb dangerous rocks and hunt
wild animals.
Here Captain Nemo, borrowed from Verne’s other novels, introduces
an important subversive element to the film. Zeman’s Nemo wanders the
ocean without a definite purpose (unlike, for instance, Count Artigas in
The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, whose purpose was very clear); he is
a mere shadow of his former glorious self. Nevertheless, he can be perceived
as a technological anarchist, as he rebels against all human and
social conventions. Technology becomes a tool of revolution and
emancipation, of class and anarchism: a world thrown into chaos liberates
itself. Nemo’s anarchism lies in his position outside society, in the
microspace of his submarine. He uses technology in a way radically different
from its original purpose. This, however, is not taken into account
by Zeman, who leaves Nemo to float close to the ocean floor like an
exhausted pilgrim; “Now I am all by myself…” (Zeman 1966, my translation)
he laments.
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3  ADAPTATION AS PLAY: THE WORLDS OF JULES VERNE COME ALIVE  109
It Was Only a Game
The story is set in late-19th-century Prague, during the Jubilee
Exhibition of 1891. There were several reasons for the decision to link
the story to this momentous event in the Kingdom of Bohemia. The
exhibition itself was a grand showcase of the Age of Steam’s technological
innovations, the subjects of Verne’s writings. The adaptation emphasizes
the exhibition’s patriotic significance for the Czechs. While Paris
had hosted the Exposition Universelle of 1889, the last Czech event of
such importance was several decades removed. By showing the exhibition,
balloons over Prague, and the newly built exhibition palace, the
adaptation reflects on the national-liberation tendencies of late-19thcentury
Czech society, the ideology of patriotism, and the contentious
relationship between ethnic Czechs and Czech Germans. The illustrated
Czech magazine Světozor, popular in the late 19th century, and which
appears in the film, published an article about the exhibition:
At this very moment, visible, clear, indubitable proof is being unveiled that
the Czech nation is one of those cultural nations leading the way towards
the highest aims of humanity: towards the elimination of all moral and
material poverty. (Hořica 1891, 302, my translation)
The specific historical setting enabled Zeman to utilize fin de siècle social
norms and the period’s rapidly technologizing atmosphere in the film,
both in a serious way and as light mockery. The film’s world is that of
a mechanical, rationalistic Austro-Hungarian monarchy, whose systemic,
organizational nature is strongly exaggerated. All human actions are
mechanical, and life is both theatrical and uptight, often to humorous
effect. In certain places the film and its sets display a flagrant artificiality.
For example, in one scene the journalist leans on a police station counter
and it bends: it is very obviously made of cardboard. The thorough stylization
of the environment results in two semantic frameworks: a clearly
structured world with an air of nostalgia to it (an era of technological
progress, strict conventions, and clear principles), and a parody of this
world with details adding to its hyperbolic and farcical dimensions. The
film blends the nostalgic and the parodic; some of its elements are capable
of conveying both of these modes: an image or a sound can be nostalgic
at one time and ironic at another (Fig. 3.3).
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The story begins on a Prague street in the late 19th century. A closeup
shows a hand ringing a bell. The next shot reveals it to be a tram driver’s
hand.5 While the first shot captures a real human hand, the second
shows a painted background and a flat model of a moving tram full of
passengers. The next shot features a wind-up toy horse rolling across the
pavement. Both images (the tram and the moving horse) are repeated,
and it is shown that the horse, along with a crowd of townspeople, is
headed for the Jubilee Exhibition. The wind-up horse travels in the forefront,
creating a peculiar point of view, in which the crowd is only visible
as shadows.
The film makes intertextual connections with various tiers of culture.
Its nostalgic tone does not limit it—on the contrary, on several occasions
it clearly alludes to the contemporary artistic trends of the 1960s.
For example, the wind-up horse references the work of Milan Grygar.
He became famous for his mechanical hen (a common toy at the time),
which hopped across paper, leaving a different trail of footsteps behind
each time. Such graphic experiments, which Zeman references, opposed
social technological norms, declared aesthetic sovereignty, and introduced
a new kind of imagery to those already existing.
Fig. 3.3  The Stolen Airship. The film is set in late 19th century Prague. Ukradená
vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship; Karel Zeman 1966). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman.
All rights reserved
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3  ADAPTATION AS PLAY: THE WORLDS OF JULES VERNE COME ALIVE  111
As the camera lifts its focus from the pavement, the audience can see
a painting of Prague from above, hot-air balloons rising above the city’s
skyline, and the exhibition palace’s illustrated gate. An episode follows in
which an animated aeronaut accidentally drops one of the sandbags from
his hot-air balloon. It falls on a (live-action) lady with a parasol, demonstrating
that technology, although exciting, is not entirely safe. The
camera then returns to a crowded street and finds Jakoubek accompanied
by his doting grandmother. He runs away from her and jumps on a train
with the help of a boy who calls himself Captain Corcoran and says he
aids all strangers pursued by Scotland Yard.6 Jakoubek introduces himself
hesitantly as “Artagnan,” only to be reprimanded for inappropriately
bringing musketeers into the century of technology.
The boys arrive to an area outside the city, where the latest inventions
are being demonstrated. The exhibition is permeated with enthusiasm for
technological progress. Departing from Verne’s semantics in the source
novel, the adaptation utilizes a flagrantly fairground-like atmosphere—
a flying airship carries a floating stage on which several female can-can
dancers show off their choreography. The film alternates between various
modes of representation, with the dancers shown as both live actresses
and figurines. The camera stops on a group of hat-wearing men, the
aerial variety show’s audience. Contrastingly, while the film thematizes
liberation, the new age is being ushered in while girls in can-can skirts
and fishnet stockings lift their legs: women are viewed as sexual objects.
While the men are allowed to watch them, the boys are jostled out by
a policeman, representing the state apparatus; as evident from the rest
of the film as well, the adaptation portrays a smoothly functional world
where the permitted and the forbidden are clearly delineated. The general
buzz of the crowd is pierced by the voice of a man with a circus ringleader’s
diction, alerting the predominantly male audience to
…the greatest sensation of the century, a flying man, a winged hero, he
has surpassed the eagle, he has surpassed the stork—epochal invention, the
first step towards space, the sky is wide open: the man will not plainly step
into the twentieth century, he will fly into it with his own wings. (Zeman
1966, my translation)
Meanwhile the camera follows an aeronaut flying in a winged contraption
and then descending amongst the crowd.
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In the spirit of the film’s circus-like poetics, the dirigible airship central
to the plot is also loudly showed off for the audience’s benefit. The
businessman Findejs cries out that a group of paying customers will soon
rise into the skies, along with a beautiful girl who “knows everything and
will take care of everything” (Zeman 1966, my translation), and will be
served a typical Czech lunch on board—roast pork, dumplings, sauerkraut,
and beer.
Marek, a journalist for Světozor, is trying to photograph the aeronautical
pioneers-to-be, but his camera keeps keeling over. Intercut
into this episode is the resulting photograph, which clashes with the fictional
reality: collage-like, its main subject is the girl, while the airship
and especially the men in their dark suits are relegated to the background
as dark silhouettes. The final photograph, as well as the way it was procured,
offers up several levels of interpretation: what is being captured,
what is actually seen, and what is favored by the particular culture. While
the audience is reduced to outlines in the background, the foreground
is devoted to a girl’s legs clad in delicate fishnet stockings. Zeman portrays
period technology along with its limitations (the unstable propeller
on the dirigible, the drooping camera, a smoke-exuding motorcycle,
the exploding airship). Although nostalgia and the idyllic are constantly
present, so too are parody and irony. Even though the crowd rushes
towards an exhibition of revolutionary scientific and technological progress,
its balloons, airships, and other machines are not cast in an admiring
light.
Experiments in visual representation continue with the boys’ ascent
over Prague, which is presented with almost documentary obsession.
The audience sees St. Vitus Cathedral without its Neo-Gothic towers,
which were (along with the Western nave) added to the building after
1891. The city is then shown as an ensemble of flat models in a clear
reference to a famous 19th-century three-dimensional model of Prague.7
The adaptation then alternates between two representational modes:
the model and the diorama. Dioramas were originally intended to create
an illusion of reality by layering models in a three-dimensional space
framed by a background. In the adaptation, however, the artificiality of
the scenery is meant to be clearly evident. Zeman utilizes period-specific
approaches designed to induce illusion, but at the same time he employs
scenery whose artificiality defies illusion: for example, one of the shots of
the boys flying away finds the animated airship in the midst of a typical
period genre painting of the Charles Bridge.
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The artificial nature of the Prague exterior shots is emphasized by
several rapid intercuts featuring statues and close-ups of their fingers
pointing at the airship. While the airship flies over the city, developing
the heroic narrative mode, the pointing statues represent the film’s symbolic
models. The film’s treatment of these models generates an ironic
tone to the episode: apart from models of actual statues, the sequence
shows the fictional statue of a warrior, created especially for the film.
National symbolism—that is, ostentatious, statuesque patriotism—is
parodied here, as are symbols of power and history (the reproachful finger).
Zeman ironizes Czech myths and monuments: the models clearly
allude to Myslbek’s statues that used to stand at Čech Bridge and were
later moved to Vyšehrad. The statues drew from old Czech mythology:
here, with their fingers raised, they gain additional meanings. They point
at the “stolen” airship and therefore become the carriers of the serious
grown-up world’s norms and values.
The opening assemblage of moving images, sounds, screams, and various
motifs set in the fading Austro-Hungarian Empire shows the adaptation
as a complexly constructed film replete with playful details and
stylized naivety: these aspects, in turn, hamper efforts at defining the
film’s genre. Nonetheless, the adaptation’s classification as an “adventure
film” intended for a young audience is not called into question—the
theme of adventure clearly dominates the film’s structure. The narrative’s
adventure aspect was not up for parody. The plot, a sequence of dramatic
scenes taking place in exotic locations in the air, on land, and in water,
is, on one level, a suspenseful survival story that entertains children.
However, Zeman’s treatment of the source material transcends this simple
concept, and the film crew created in the adaptation an extraordinary
spectacle.
The innovativeness of The Stolen Airship lies in its ability to effectively
function as a carnival of forms and symbols. The most revered symbols
of Austria-Hungary and the Belle Époque are the subjects of this carnivalization.
For the time the adaptation was made, its variety of meanings
and its nostalgia for the Belle Époque, which is also gently made
fun of at times, were quite unusual. Laughter is induced by objects
that, at one time, were held in the utmost respect. This phenomenon is
in keeping with Bakhtin’s understanding of carnival merriment, whose
subjects were things perceived as holy by the people of the Middle Ages
(the carnival was born from religious festivities). In The Stolen Airship,
established symbols (the eagle insignia, military marches, medals) of
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114  P. BUBENÍČEK
the Belle Époque are usurped (the novel itself as a genre was born from
the destruction of previous formats—legends, myths, chronicles, and
epics) and become the subject of parody merely by being placed into
an incongruent environment. They are therefore subject to estrangement.
Bakhtin’s carnival is closely related to heteroglossia, and it is primarily
concerned with style. The carnivalesque manifests itself when
various expressions of vernacular language and “street” genres of speech
can be found within literary narration. The concept is transferrable to
visual culture: a foundation genre is permeated by aspects of other genres,
especially comical ones, or, as Bakhtin would say, the laughing ones.
Saturnalia was a phenomenon that Bakhtin found fascinating: in the case
of The Stolen Airship, the Saturnalia is audio-visual.
Parodic Exaggeration
Although the type of political satire and parody Zeman works with only
originated after World War I, some of the absurd and farcical elements in
the film already existed in Habsburg-era Czech culture (i.e., during the
period the film is set in). A subversive parody of state power was dangerous
during the rule of “lex maiestatis.” Nonetheless, traces of criticism
were present in the political poetry of Svatopluk Čech (1846–1908),
whose lyrical composition Písně otroka (Slave Songs, 1895) became a literary
sensation when it was published. While the work was contrary to
power, its derisive tone was aimed at those who collaborate with it (the
old men who pin medals to their rachitic chests and ramble against the
nation for a bowl of rice). In his article “Jarní noviny” (The spring news,
1883), Jan Neruda parodies a county bailiff’s work. It tells the story of
a male spruce growing in the woods surrounded by younger—female—
trees: “They say that last year the old spruce—wed—the young ones!
And this year it probably expects to wed young ones again! It is to be
noted that when the county bailiff was told, he did nothing but laugh!”
(Neruda 1911, 149). Neruda ends the article with a notice saying that
the political atmosphere of the country forbade him from adding anything
else.
After Czechoslovakia gained independence in 1918, a number of literary
works and films emerged that openly criticized the monarchy and
ridiculed Franz Joseph I, the former emperor. The most prominent is
Jaroslav Hašek’s comedic novel Osudy dobrého vojáka Švejka za světové
války (The Good Soldier Švejk And His Fortunes in the World War, 1921),
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which focuses on anecdotes from the life of a Prague dog catcher conscripted
to fight in the Austrian army during World War I. The comedic
value of Švejk, who has been officially declared an imbecile by the
authorities, lies in his perpetual readiness to follow the orders of his superiors.
When Švejk’s superior, Lieutenant Lukáš, announces that they are
both being sent to the front, the soldier replies that it will be beautiful
when they both die for “His Imperial Majesty” (Hašek 1984, 213).
Literary historian Jiří Brabec has developed a fitting characterization of
this aspect of the novel:
Švejk repeatedly and loudly identifies himself with the powers that be, starting
with the emperor and finishing with the military aims of Austria-Hungary.
This total identification of an individual with a system and its representatives
is the comical starting point, which is then given many variations. Švejk renders
the representatives of power angry, frustrated, paranoid, and ultimately
helpless by his declarative unambiguity. (Brabec 2010, 386, my translation)
Švejk’s ability to comment upon war’s atrocities with naïve-sounding
comments, which can be read as pub banter, a play on words, or satirical
testimony on the mirthless fate of modern man, played a significant role
in Czech culture. When Švejk, for instance, finds himself in a military
hospital attending to the administration of extreme unction, he says to a
wounded soldier:
I think it’s splendid to get oneself run through with a bayonet…and also
that it’s not bad to get a bullet in the stomach. It’s even grander when
you’re torn to pieces by a shell and you see that your legs and your belly
are somehow remote from you. It’s very funny and you die before anyone
can explain it to you.
The young soldier gave a heartfelt sigh. He was sorry for his young life.
Why was he born in such a stupid century to be butchered like an ox in a
slaughterhouse? Why was all that necessary? (Hašek 1984, 153)
Interwar cinema—especially films starring comedian Vlasta Burian—constitutes
another vein of inspiration for the adaptation. In Karel Lamač’s comedy
C. a k. polní maršálek (Imperial and Royal Field Marshal 1930), which
mocks both the Austrian army and the Emperor, Burian plays a devoted
military captain who is suspended because his subordinates were heard
singing a humorous song about the field marshal. In Martin Frič’s Anton
Špelec, ostrostřelec (Anton Špelec, Sharp-Shooter 1932) Burian plays a musical
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116  P. BUBENÍČEK
instrument manufacturer who is so offended by not having received an army
medal that he insults the emperor while drunk.
Burian focused on entertaining audiences, so he sought out captivating
topics for his comedy. Apart from the army and the emperor he also
criticized senior civil servants in U pokladny stál… (He Stood at the Till…
1939). Wary of criticizing the members of the Czechoslovak Legion,
Burian looked for his army material further back in the past, and found
his ideal target in the officers of the Imperial army.
Zeman’s adaptation combines Švejk’s and Burian’s comedy, which is
apparent in the efforts to mock the old emperor. An army general character,
obviously stylized to look like Franz Joseph I, bears the derisive
moniker “the old Walk” (“starý Procházka”8); he is an elderly authority
figure whose chief duties include attending official festivities and ceremonial
processions. His portrayal combines the majestic and the profane.
Surrounded by pompous and narrow-minded officers, he takes part in
caricatured rituals that have assumed bizarre forms.
The genre-specific approaches pertaining to comedy are utilized for
parodic and comic purposes in a number of scenes. In one the journalist
Marek negotiates with a police officer, a typical representative of
the imperial regime, from whom he wants to find out what Jakoubek
looks like. This scene starts off on a comedic note, with the audience
seeing actor Jaroslav Štercl, a comedian known for playing “befuddled”
characters, portraying the policeman—it was hard to imagine an
actor less suitable for the role of a serious Austro-Hungarian civil servant
than he. Marek arrives at the police station on a motorcycle emitting
copious amounts of smoke and leaves it outside smoldering on the
street, until a patrolman finally extinguishes it with a bucket of water.
The camera notices the sign above the police station entrance: an eagle
whose head has been replaced by a threatening upward-pointing finger.
The journalist’s attempt to fetch his hat back, which keeps falling
off his head, provides more slapstick humor. His hat falls behind
the police station counter, and thus to retrieve it Marek must violate
the boundary between the private and the official: we see him performing
awkward gymnastics only to keep hitting his head on a chandelier.
In doing so, he—seemingly inadvertently—encroaches upon
official space. This episode culminates when Marek, who has managed
to bribe the police officer, obtains an image of Jakoubek only to
see that it captures the boy as a baby. This scene is a model example of
the film’s mockery of the authorities (the police, the courts, the army)
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because everything that happens in it should be excluded from dignified
official conduct (Fig. 3.4).
The Austro-Hungarian monarchy is portrayed as a fading relic of
bygone glory. The army is depicted as a group of harmless officers in
medal-covered uniforms, who rule over salons and coffeehouses. This
environment makes even the greatest threats seem to have a certain
charm; they seem trifling and—compared to the reality of the 20th century—even
grotesque. Nevertheless, a real danger is present in the form
of a foreign monarchy that resembles Prussia. This power is represented
by military staff located in a well-guarded fort, from which generals have
the airship watched and then attempt to seize it to gain its technology.
These army officers also intercept Jakoubek’s message in a bottle, which
reads: “Dear parents, do not worry about us. Love and kisses from your
son, Jakoubek” (Zeman 1966, my translation). They see the message as
“devilish cunning” (Zeman 1966, my translation), and praise their intelligence
for deciphering it. What seems like parody—the misinterpretation
of a boy’s letter—suddenly becomes serious when over- interpreted by
those in power to further their interests.
Fig. 3.4  The Stolen Airship. The exhibition is permeated with enthusiasm for
technological progress. Ukradená vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship; Karel Zeman
1966). Courtesy of Ludmila Zeman. All rights reserved
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118  P. BUBENÍČEK
The appearance of comedian Karel Effa as the most important foreign
agent lightens the tone, however. Effa’s mere on-screen presence could
elicit a smile. Here he exhibits bizarre behavior: he travels the skies in a
creaky paddle-powered airship, he travels around Prague in a vehicle with
horse legs instead of wheels, he exits Findejs’s flat by jumping headlong
from the window, and so on.
Světozor9 magazine and journalism in general are further objects
of parody. The newsroom itself is portrayed as a modern “openspace”
office, but the journalists sit at a large table, resembling pensioned civil
servants. The editor-in-chief dominates his staff, with the exception of
the inventive Marek, and his actions are always driven by either public
opinion or political pressure. When he learns that one of the boys is an
attorney’s son, he refuses to make the news public. He tells his subordinates
to write “about foreign countries, distant lands, romance, women,
song, drama, blood, passion” and to “mention the love for one’s native
country” (Zeman 1966, my translation). Images of exotic places accompany
his speech. As he emphatically pronounces the words “drama” and
“passion,” “Les Toreadors,” the well-known melody from Bizet’s opera
Carmen, plays in the background, while the screen shows images of a
bullfight with a toreador and a wounded bull. The parodic sequence
culminates in the mention of love for one’s native country, as an idyllic
scene featuring a little shepherd in the Czech countryside is replaced by a
partially moving illustration of an Austrian military band accompanied by
an excerpt from the “Radetzky March” .
The editor-in-chief’s refusal to make certain news public hints at
information manipulation. Nevertheless, the film does portray manipulation
and the interpretation of information dictated by those in power.
The film’s richness lies in how information is handled not only in journalism
but also in society in general. One piece of information can be
exchanged for another, the powers that be evaluate the manner erroneously,
and an avalanche of unexpected consequences may be unleashed.
At a different point in the film, the editor-in-chief admonishes his staff
to write about children in mortal danger because that is what readers,
especially women, like to read about. From a sociological perspective, the
existence of such magazines reflects the emergence of the Czech middle
class. This social phenomenon is thematized in The Stolen Airship: it is
the urban middle class that populates the streets of Prague. As recently
(in the temporal context of the story) as the early 19th century, the intellectual
community was limited to the educated, who made up a very
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small fraction of the population. In the period in which the film is set,
the middle class has already started to form, and it includes women.
Although they lacked a prestigious education, they were economically
secure, aware of their own social status, and desired to be culturally
sophisticated. These women often read Světozor.10
Humorous moments are often achieved by treating metaphors literally,
often to absurd ends. When the editor-in-chief wants the journalists
to change the topic, he says, “Turn the page” (Zeman 1966, my translation).
The following shot shows the journalists literally turning pages in
their notebooks. At another point, the editor-in-chief uses Marek’s materials
without his knowledge to make a collage featuring baby Jakoubek
pointing a pistol at a girl’s parted fishnet stocking–clad legs behind
whom male spectators admiring the airship are visible. The collage is surrounded
by headlines: “Sensation of the Exhibition!!!,” “Airship Theft,”
and “A Dangerous Act by Minors” (Zeman 1966, my translation). While
Marek is surprised that the magazine has printed fabrications, the editor-in-chief
says jovially that “a journalist needs to have an imagination”
(Zeman 1966, my translation). This is followed by an animated duck
made of newspaper scraps stamping on copies of Světozor. Through the
duck, canards, or false, sensational stories,11 are being referenced. In the
following shot a female villager chases a flock of ducks along a street in
Prague, and Findejs nearly hits her with his automobile. The incensed
woman, captured against the illustrated Prague cityscape, shouts “What
do you think you’re doing, young man? This should be banned in the
city. Where will this end?” (Zeman 1966, my translation) The canard
metaphor materializes as frightened actual ducks running around in
Prague. The woman’s words “This should be banned” (Zeman 1966,
my translation), have a double meaning that concerns both the falsehoods
produced by journalism (which are a recurrent motif in the film)
and technology (here represented by the new car).
Slapstick humor, parody, and satirical hyperbole are employed in the
episode featuring Mr. Penfield, who enters the story as the boys’ savior.
His very first scene is based on situational comedy: the camera pans over
the ship’s hull and pauses at a window behind which a girl is playing the
piano and singing a religious song; the second window shows a group
of sailors playing cards—one of them has just stabbed his mate’s hand,
and another has shot through another’s leg—with a lone civilian, the
girl’s rich father, Mr. Penfield. The film utilizes parody and slapstick to
show the sailors’ desire for gold, the shipwreck, the rebellion, the battle
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120  P. BUBENÍČEK
between the boys and the pirates, and finally the rescue of Mr. Penfield.
When Penfield eventually finds out that the boys are Czech and that
Jakoubek comes from Beroun, he exclaims: “The boy is ours, a countryman!
I’ve spent forty years rambling all over the world, just to find a fellow
countryman here!” (Zeman 1966, my translation).
In the 19th century, many Czechs left their homes for good. In the
1850s, in particular, many emigrated to the USA. At one point, in an
attempt to prevent further emigration, flyers describing the USA negatively
were published. Later, however, Czech-Americans marched
through Prague in Sokol uniforms and were admired and mythologized
as successful countrymen. The moment in The Stolen Airship where Mr.
Penfield accidentally runs into a compatriot is a literary and cultural
trope that was present as early as in Josef Kajetán Tyl’s (1808–1856)
patriotic drama Strakonický dudák aneb Hody divých žen (The Bagpiper
from Strakonice or Nymphs’ Feast; first staged in 1847): in a stylized scene
at a sultan’s court, the honest Švanda encounters the trickster Vocílka.
“Are you Czech?” cries Švanda, and Vocílka replies: “Oh, and what a
Czech! They could not even stand it at home and they advised me to
go see a bit of the world” (Tyl 1958, 38, my translation). Both Tyl and
The Stolen Airship employ an Aristotelian principle, a patriotically and
sentimentally modified anagnorisis. However, contrary to this and other
examples, Zeman’s take on the matter is comical because the compatriot
is a boy who cannot play partner to the adult Mr. Penfield.
A different encounter with the home country occurs after a naval
fleet appears on the horizon. Accompanied by the “Radetzky March,”
enormous ships and airships in the sky above approach, carrying, among
others, the journalist Marek. The boys’ small boat is shown, sharply contrasting
the immense battleship. The boys are to be honored because
everybody thinks they have a casket containing the instructions for
manufacturing non-flammable gas. When the admiral resembling Franz
Joseph gets hold of it, however, he immediately abandons the boys on
the deck beside the ship’s huge cannons, and the baffled navy band stops
playing. Mr. Penfield assumes control of the band and starts singing
the folk ditty, “My lovely Baruška, take me to bed with you.” The performance
of a bawdy song on a battleship parodies ritual and, broadly
speaking, official manipulation as well. This scene resembles a sequence
from the beginning of the film wherein Findejs praises his grand invention
and ends up having his dirigible airship flown away by little boys.
The reoccurrence of this motif throughout the film signifies Zeman’s
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interest in the bizarre and implies that he was more interested in creating
an effect than he was in ideological tones.
The Good Old Days
The Stolen Airship also scorned period norms in the way in which it
examined the relationship between people and history. The story ends
with all the major characters, both child and adult, riding on a creaky
train.12 The conclusion primarily conveys uncertainty: the audience has
no idea why and how this disparate group of people ended up on one
train. Where are they going? The motivations of the individual characters
remain the same: in the first compartment, the conman Findejs is trying
to assure the rich Mr. Penfield of his invention’s commercial benefits;
in the second one, the journalist Marek and the beautiful female aeronaut
kiss over the pages of Světozor; in the third compartment Penfield’s
daughter Kateřina sings religious songs while playing the piano; the last
compartment contains the boys, who have just agreed to stage a train
robbery. Everything seems idyllic until the audience realizes that unlike
Simon Hart’s train, which was driven by a jocular man smoking a pipe,
this train is driven by the foreign agent and, as is soon evident, he is driving
his child and adult passengers into a tunnel. This final train ride into
darkness constitutes an allegorical situation: after all, the Belle Époque,
with all of its beauty, invention, and playfulness, was heading towards
war. Individual free will is confronted with power mechanisms entirely
different to those which were earlier so easily lampooned. The inscrutability
of power stampedes the individual, whose personal ambitions are
set aside as the entire world is driven into destruction.
The world of the Habsburg Monarchy thematized in the film may
have been considered ideologically misled, but the experience of two
world wars put it in a new perspective. The adaptation might caricature
the prewar period, but it does this not by means of revolt—Zeman
depicts it using a slightly ironic sentiment. The tunnel’s darkness disregards
the class distinctions between the passengers and their social and
cultural identities; it represents rationally premeditated barbarism. The
monarchy was built upon rules, but these rules contributed to making a
space for the life of its subjects. It vehemently prevented arbitrary behavior,
and people could rely on it being a Rechtsstaat.
The film employs a mythology that Claudio Magris was also exploring
at the same time. In his book Il mito absburgico nella letteratura
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austriaca moderna (The Habsburg Myth in Modern Austrian Literature,
1963), this Italian scholar analyzes the nostalgia for the Habsburg world
that emerged after World War I ended, the 1918 flu pandemic took
place, fascist regimes gained control in some European countries, and
Russia was overwhelmed by the Bolshevik Revolution. People reminisced
about the Viennese waltz and the Belle Époque in general, and their nostalgia
transformed what used to be thought of as an oppressive period
into an idyllic and orderly time in Central Europe.
The world depicted in the film followed a strict order that everyone
could rely on, which was personified—for several generations—by only one
emperor: Franz Joseph I., who reigned from 1848 to 1916.13 The nostalgia
for this “immortal monarch” and his long reign was captured in Ladislav
Smoljak's and Zdeněk Svěrák’s play Lijavec (The Downpour, 1982), which
features the non-existent patriot, writer, and inventor Jára Cimrman14:
Imagine a 6-year-old boy who goes to school at eight o’clock in the year
1848. He walks with his bag, climbs over two or three barricades, meets
Frič, Špína, Márinka, comes to school, seats himself, and next to the blackboard
he sees the picture of Emperor Franz Joseph I. Fourteen years go
by, the boy is twenty, he gets married, has a son, and in six years the son
goes to school again. The barricades are gone of course; it is the year
1868, it is twenty years later (14 plus 6). And this son, again, sees the
picture of Franz Joseph I. next to the blackboard. Well, and then history
repeats itself: the son grows up, so that is fourteen more years until he is
twenty, he has a boy, his boy goes to school six years later, it is twenty years
on, it is 1888, and next to the blackboard—who does he see? Franz Joseph
I. And here’s his boy, twenty more years have passed, it is 1908 and next
to the blackboard, still firmly attached, hangs the immortal Franz Joseph
I. That, my friends, is the fourth generation with the same picture next to
the blackboard. (Smoljak 1998, 8–9, my translation)
In the film, the orderly world of Austria-Hungary is based on obligations
instead of rights. When journalists find out that one of the hijackers is
the little boy Jakoubek, they besiege his grandmother’s house and call
to her through an amplifier: “Why did you not put your boy in a reform
school in time? Does your family attend mass regularly? Has your family
displayed criminal tendencies before?” (Zeman 1966, my translation)
These questions concentrate on her station and purpose in society. The
upright man’s, woman’s, and even child’s responsibilities are defined by
their situation. Thus, there are a number of things that should not be
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done.15 The notion of human existence at the time was not based on
individuality. The Stolen Airship intentionally subverts this concept into
absurdity. One of the questions shouted through the amplifier was “Why
didn’t you put your boy in a reform school in time?” (Zeman 1966, my
translation). In the world depicted in the film, it is possible to clearly recognize
what is right, and when someone fails to observe this, they need
to be institutionally reformed. The conventional, ideologic concepts are
embodied by the character of Jakoubek’s father: a shoemaker (a common
fearful protagonist in a number of Czech fairytales), he is worried that
his son’s adventure is going to ruin his business. Emancipation fails to
manifest even in the next generation: Jakoubek initially wants to return
home because he has the same concerns.
This level of the narrative is closely related to the activization of memories
of the lands of childhood to which an adult is unable to return.
When Jakoubek, the youngest of the boys, is the only one to meet
Captain Nemo in his submarine, they engage in a brief conversation:
Jakoubek:  And you are the famous Captain Nemo?
Nemo:	 Yes
Jakoubek:  I feel like I am at a feast at home—pork, sauerkraut…
Nemo:	 Once I had a Canadian here—what was his name…
Jakoubek:  Ned Land, the King of the Harpooners
Nemo:	 That’s right, Ned Land. And he had with him a professor…
Jakoubek:  Professor Aronnax
Nemo:	 Excellent. Aronnax. Excellent. And how do you know all this?
Jakoubek:  I really like to read, Captain. (Zeman 1966, my translation)
The old Captain has forgotten his own adventures, and they are
returned to him by a child, a passionate reader of Verne’s novels. Zeman
might made elaborate allusions to uncertainty, but the key element of his
work is the effort to bring back the lost paradise of a child’s world.
Captain Nemo proceeds to talk about the violin, asks the boy how
often he practices, and then lectures him on music being the queen of
all arts. The tone of Jakoubek’s voice then changes, and he leaves the
submarine shortly afterwards. He is shaken by Nemo’s lack of originality
and conformity; he is just like other adults. Neither the submarine nor
its captain live up to the dreams of the young reader: instead of offering
intriguing adventures, the vessel becomes a space for generational conflicts.
A technological invention, the robotic hand, does not bring a new
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124  P. BUBENÍČEK
exotic adventure, but the despised violin. The child’s ingenuous vision
and sensitivity are confronted by adults who insist on bringing him up
while forcing him to accept compromises. While Jakoubek heads towards
new adventures (he paddles away from the submarine in an inflatable
boat towards the approaching battleships), the Captain, hunched, his
hands clutching his head, is seen through a window of the Nautilus:
lonely and willingly excluded from the social organism, he heads through
the water into the unknown.
I have argued that Bakhtin’s carnival concept (and the related theories
of polyphony and heteroglossia) is useful in the study of film because
film language is based on a combination of intentions and mutually permeating
genres. The adaptation can, in its polyphony, assume a serious
tone: once the screen starts showing images of old-time Prague, parody
vanishes entirely. A carnival atmosphere no longer dominates the film—
there is then a distinct aspect of solemnity in the film, which could also
signify wonder. Even though the film is set at the turn of the century,
during the Belle Époque, the narrative about the adult world is a timeless
story. The beauty of the old world lay partially in people’s unawareness
of the world’s hurtling journey towards the catastrophe symbolized
by the tunnel. Furthermore, Zeman’s film moves within yet another set
of coordinates: the director witnessed the greatest catastrophe in history,
World War II, followed by the brutal excesses of 1950s Stalinism.
A Central European living behind the Iron Curtain could plausibly yearn
for something as stable as the Habsburg monarchy. Zeman, however,
could not express this nostalgia openly because the Habsburgs were officially
deemed class and national enemies; they belonged to the hedonistic,
power-hungry aristocracy. The old world, thus, had to be depicted
under the veil of farce and comedy; the ambivalence of comedy provided
space for longing and nostalgia. The Stolen Airship enabled its adult audience
to interpret the film as a specific political allegory, a testimony of
the exploitability of power and the dangerous nature of progress. The
filmmaker aspired to a parable of the modern world which has sacrificed
progress to destruction. The nostalgia for the monarchy represented
a look back to the world of childhood, to the unique vision of a child
which he rediscovered through film. His work can nonetheless be interpreted
as such an approach to the mechanisms of history and manipulations
of power that could be concretized as a specific testimony on
totalitarian oppression.
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Notes
	 1. According to J. Vojvodík and J. Wiendl (2011, 9) the beginnings of the
Czech avant-garde movement can be dated to 1907, when the first modernist
groups with their own aesthetic platform began to form.
Two streams within the broader avant-garde movement that had
a fundamental impact on interwar Czech culture are critical: Poetism
and Surrealism. The former, Poetism, was founded in the 1920s as a
purely Czech artistic movement influenced by Western European modernist
movements; it took a stand against the older symbolist traditions
and expressionism. Its aim was to approximate life to art and to present
a vision of the harmonious, joyful world of humanity, which had gone
through the horrors of World War I.
Literary and art theoretician Karel Teige (1900–1951), who witnessed
the birth of this movement, described it:
The art that Poetism brings is leisurely, frolicsome, fantastic, playful,
non-heroic, and amorous. There is not even a drop of romanticism in it.
It was born in an atmosphere of abundant sociability, in a smiling world;
what does it matter if it has tears in its eyes. A humorous temperament
dominates; pessimism was abandoned in earnest. Emphasis shifts towards
experiences and the beauties of life, from stodgy offices and studios, it
points the way that leads from nowhere to nowhere. It winds through a
splendid, aromatic park, for it is the path of life. (Teige 1924, 199–200,
my translation).
	 2. Pavel Janáček describes how the board members strove to “[…] leave the
author with a place only within children’s literature and more specifically
to make it so that his books would not be published in the mainstream
publishing house Práce” (Janáček 2004, 213, my translation).
	 3. Such as Válka s mloky (War with the Newts, 1936), and Bílá nemoc (The
White Disease, 1937).
	 4. The film’s soundtrack was composed by Zdeněk Liška, an outstanding
Czech film composer. I have already noted that the introductory heavy
chords, intended to convey the threats posed by new inventions, are
followed by a melancholic clarinet, along with an orchestra, and they
underscore nostalgia for Jules Verne’s day. This musical moment recalls
the trumpet solos in Mahler’s symphonies, which have a similar nostalgic
streak. The third minute brings a rush of popular music resembling street
organ music. This stylistic range and––at the same time––tension is present
throughout the entire film. The music does not usually call attention
to itself––it often serves a descriptive/illustrative function (e.g., string
glissandi strengthening the atmosphere of suspense). However, the harpsichord
has an important role because its “peculiar” sound helps create a
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126  P. BUBENÍČEK
distance from the period in which the story is set (in the late 19th century
the harpsichord was not included in symphonic orchestras, and it
only resurfaced again in the 20th century).
	 5. This scene references the first tram line built in 1891 in Prague-Letná, by
Czech engineer and inventor František Křižík.
	 6. An allusion to the extraordinarily popular novel by Alfred Assollant,
Aventures merveilleuses mais authentiques du capitaine Corcoran.
	 7. Between 1826 and 1837 Antonín Langweil, a librarian at the
Clementinum University Library, created over 2000 cardboard models of
the historical part of Prague, which were then set on a wooden platform.
	 8. The Czech word procházka means “a walk.” The appellative “Procházka”
is a common Czech surname. According to an old anecdote, Franz
Joseph’s moniker originated from a 1901-newspaper photograph of the
emperor visiting Prague and crossing a bridge (most in Czech), titled
“Procházka na mostě” or “A Walk on the Bridge.” However, historians
Otto Urban and Jiří Rak have argued that the moniker is in fact older and
comes from the 1870s.
	 9. This family-oriented illustrated magazine primarily published photographs
obtained abroad. It occupied a vital role in Czech society at the time.
Literary magazines (Ruch, Lumír, etc.) addressed a different, artistic
audience––Světozor was a large-format magazine built around illustrations.
Magazines like Světozor appealed to readers’ cultural senses via
illustrations. The magazine Květy, for instance, published Doré’s engravings
“The Death of Atala” and “The Burial of Atala” without any further
comment, clearly assuming that the readers knew who or what Atala
is and could recognize the points in the story that are depicted in the
engravings. Illustrations could therefore have an educational purpose or,
on the contrary, evoke something that is commonly known.
	 10. The adaptation excludes a significantly more sizable population group:
rural inhabitants, who had an entirely different worldview of culture and
identity. Some of the people who lived in the countryside did not even
identify with the nation state idea, as they preferred to maintain a local
identity.
	 11. Canard, beyond its English meaning of a false story, is the French word
for duck. In Czech the equivalent term is novinářská kachna (literally, “a
journalistic duck”).
	 12. Cf. the opening of The Fabulous World of Jules Verne, in which Simon
Hart, excited about modern technological inventions, rides the train
towards the new industrial civilization.
	 13. The political scandals of the 1890s display the political and power-related
context of life in this particular period. On the other hand, the inhabitants
of Austria-Hungary lived in a Rechtsstaat. The patriotic journalist
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Karel Havlíček Borovský (1821–1856) was repeatedly accused of antigovernment
activities by Austrian courts, but he always successfully
defended himself, either on his own or with the assistance of attorneys.
After the administration finally concluded that it could not legally exile
Havlíček to Brixen, they deported him by imperial edict. When amnesty
was issued to revolutionaries in 1853, Borovský petitioned to return to
his homeland––he was told that since he had not been technically convicted,
amnesty did not apply to him.
	 14. The character of the non-existent creator and inventor Jára Cimrman,
who lived during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, is featured in the comedic
plays that Zdeňek Svěrák and Ladislav Smoljak began to write in the
1960s.
	 15. It was, for instance, unacceptable in the 19th century for a civil servant
to use his proper name to publish poetry or join a theater group. These
circumstances are reflected in Czech cultural history. The dramatist and
revivalist Josef Kajetán Tyl (1808–1856) was temporarily employed as
a clerk in a military office. He lost this job due to his extensive literary
and theatrical pursuits. The prominent Czech poet and dramatist Jaroslav
Vrchlický (1853–1912) writes repeatedly in his letters and memoirs that
when he was employed as a professor, each Sunday he would take his
sword and uniform and go to church because as a representative of the
university he needed to be seen at mass.
Works Cited
Bakhtin, Mikhail. 1984. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics. Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press.
Bakhtin, Mikhail. 1984. Rabelais and His World. Bloomington: Indiana
University Press.
Bass, Eduard. 1931. Dva roky prázdnin. Lidové noviny, May 19.
Brabec, Jiří. 2010. Reinterpretací tradic k novému tvaru. In Dějiny nové moderny.
Česká literatura 1905–1923, ed. Vladimír Papoušek et al., 385–395. Praha:
Academia.
Brož, Jaroslav. 1986. Rozhovor s Karlem Zemanem. In Karel Zeman, ed. Jan
Hořejší, 37–41. Brno: Blok.
Čapek, Karel. 1948. An Atomic Phantasy: Krakatit. London: George Allen and
Unwin.
Černý, Václav. 1992. Tvorba a osobnost I. Praha: Odeon.
Gunning, Tom. 1989. An Aesthetic of Astonishment: Early Cinema and the (In)
credulous Spectator. Art & Text 34: 31–45.
Hašek, Jaroslav. 1984. Osudy dobrého vojáka Švejka za světové války 1–2. Praha:
Československý spisovatel.
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128  P. BUBENÍČEK
Holý, Jiří. 2008. Writers under Siege. Czech Literature since 1945. Brighton:
Sussex Academics.
Horák, Vadim. 2005. Jules Verne v nakladatelství Jos. R. Vilímek.. Thyrsus: Praha.
Hořejší, Jan. 1970. Karel Zeman. Praha: Český filmový ústav.
Hořica, Ignát. 1891. Jubilejní zemská výstava v Praze. Světozor, March 27.
Hrubín, František. 2010. Básně. Brno: Host.
Jacobson, Alfred. 1936. Jules Verne měl pravdu. Přítomnost, January 8.
Janáček, Pavel. 2004. Literární brak: operace vyloučení, operace nahrazení, 1938–
1951. Brno: Host.
Jules Verne. 1876. Světozor, March 3.
Kožmín, Zdeněk. 1995. Studie a kritiky. Brno: Torst.
Kratochvíl, Miroslav. 1958. Až se vrátíte…. Divadelní noviny 18: 8.
Navrátil, Antonín. 1956. Ve znamení Julese Vernea. Květy 34: 10–11.
Neruda, Jan. 1911. „Jarní noviny“. In Drobné klepy II., ed. Ignát Herrmann,
145–151. Praha: Fr. Topič.
Rutte, Miroslav. 1922. Odpoutaný Bůh. Národní listy, May 26.
Smoljak, Ladislav, and Svěrák, Zdeněk. 1998. Lijavec: hra s opravdovým deštěm.
Praha: Paseka.
Taussig, Pavel. 2014. Vynález zkázy. Instinkt.http://instinkt.tyden.cz/rubriky/
ostatni/serial/vynalez-zkazy_25202.html_Rom%c3%a1n_ilustrace_adaptace_
o%c5%beivl%c3%a9sv%c4%9btyJuleseVerna.docx. Accessed 2 December 2014.
Teige, Karel. 1924. Poetismus. Host 9 and 10: 197–204.
Tyl, Josef Kajetán. 1958. Strakonický dudák. Praha: Jarosl. Pospíšil.
Verne, Jules. 1978. The best of Jules Verne: Three complete, illustrated novels, with
original illustrations. USA: Castle Books.
Vestergaard, Jørgen. 1986. Kuchyně experimentů. In Karel Zeman, ed. Jan
Hořejší, 41–44. Brno: Blok.
Vojvodík, Josef, and Jan Wiendl. 2011. Heslář české avantgardy. Praha: Togga.
Films Cited
Anton Špelec, ostrostřelec (Anton Špelec, Sharp-Shooter). Dir. Martin Frič.
Czechoslovakia. 1932. Movie.
C. a k. polní maršálek (Imperial and Royal Field Marshal). Dir. Karel Lamač.
Czechoslovakia. 1930. Movie.
Return of the Lifeboat. Dir. James H. White. USA: Edison Manufacturing
Company, 1897. Movie.
U pokladny stál… (He stood at the Till…). Dir. Karel Lamač. Czechoslovakia.
1939. Movie.
Ukradená vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship). Dir. Karel Zeman. Czechoslovakia.
1966. Movie.
Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne). Dir. Karel Zeman.
Czechoslovakia. 1958. Movie.
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129
The liberalization of the Communist regime in the 1960s enabled the
creation of several artistically successful adaptations. Writers, visual artists,
and filmmakers sought to reestablish art as an inherent part of
culture at large. These efforts originated from the era’s innate need to
recreate art for itself to once more foreground the aesthetic, and not
ideological, function; the social and cultural discourse revived the halfforgotten
ethos of the avant-garde.
To illustrate the forms and methods that the film newly created or
put to use, I have chosen two adaptations, both of which were intended
as art films and were subsequently codified as such by critics and viewers
alike. They are also both based on literary texts commonly considered
“unadaptable.” The text of Vladislav Vančura’s Marketa Lazarová (1931)
was considered medium-specific because of its thematic and compositional
structure, its style, and its use of language’s audio properties.1 In the case
of František Hrubín’s lyrical poem Romance for Flugelhorn (1962), its
genre determined its apparently “unadaptable” nature: verse constitutes
an uncommon source for film adaptations. Emulating certain features,
such as the rhyme, seemed unattainable within the medium of film.
The directors of these adaptations, František Vláčil (1924–1999) and
Otakar Vávra (1911–2011), respectively, chose to adapt texts they understood
to be of high aesthetic value. Although their creative processes, as
well as their personal and artistic journeys, differed considerably, they
both faced difficulties in understanding the meaning of an aesthetic-oriented
text in order to create a freestanding work in a different medium.
CHAPTER 4
Adaptation as Challenge: Marketa Lazarová
and Romance for Flugelhorn
© The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0_4
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130  P. BUBENÍČEK
Both Vláčil and Vávra adapted literary texts deemed by the general public
as artistic and in doing so sought to produce new, independent works
of art. For they were artists in their own right, poets who composed in
a cinematic language. However, no matter the creative independence
involved, these films were never received as stand-alone pieces. The
1960s cinema-going public did not separate the books from the films in
their minds, and Vláčil and Vávra were inevitably left to consider whether
the literary sources’ innate dynamism bestowed their films with artistic
quality. Ultimately though, these directors successfully created films by
employing innovative, richly aesthetic audio-visual methods. The authors
did not merely utilize the themes and motifs contained in the books:
they expanded upon them and added new meanings.
The success of these films, however, did not hinge on a single, “exceptional”
creative individual; a crew consisting of film professionals interested
in and supportive of these ambitious projects proved essential to
both adaptations. Records of pre-production debates over various film
concepts testify to the efforts to make the films in such a way that they
could gain artistic prestige.
Marketa Lazarová
František Vláčil, the director responsible for adapting Vladislav Vančura’s
novel Marketa Lazarová, cannot be easily categorized. Vláčil’s works are
permeated with unusual signals. The subjective perception of the artist
guided his conception of cinema. Marketa Lazarová (1967), a defining
example of 1960s art cinema, aptly demonstrates his approach to filmmaking.
Peter Hames considers the adaptation to be on a par with other
world-famous art films:
Vláčil has converted a short and unified text into a vast and sprawling twopart
epic that evokes comparison rather with Akira Kurosawa’s Schichinin
no Samurai (Seven Samurai, 1954) and Andrei Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev
(1966). (Hames 2004, 152)
The film was created concurrently in the minds of František Vláčil and
the coauthor of the script, František Pavlíček. It took four years to write
the screenplay, which was not completely finished even when shooting
began. It took six years to produce the most expensive film of its day:
the time and the financial means granted to it were only made possible
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4  ADAPTATION AS CHALLENGE: MARKETA LAZAROVÁ …  131
by the “auteur” position Vláčil occupied. In March 1965, Barrandov
Studios director Vlastimil Harnach composed an urgent letter to the creative
team’s leader Erik Švabík, expressing his dissatisfaction over the production’s
progress. Harnach was disturbed by the ever-growing budget
of the film, as well as the stubborn attitude of its director. However,
despite Harnach’s reservations towards Vláčil, the director remained,
in Harnach’s words, “the principal artist and creator of the film”
(Barrandov Studio archive—“BSA”, my translation).The auteur approach
to film adaptations, however, was not new to Czech cinema—as is attested
by the cult-like attitude of Kinorevue magazine towards directors such as
František Čáp and Otakar Vávra in the 1930s. Aesthetic experimentation
and enthusiasm for creativity and innovation brought a favorable reputation
to some directors, which helped them secure permissions to make
their adaptations, in addition to a certain amount of freedom concerning
the manner of their creation. However, this freedom was still, even
for Vláčil, certainly limited. In artistic adaptations, as in more mainstream
ones, economic and technical considerations drove aesthetic choices.
Before going into detail about artistic expression in Marketa
Lazarová, let us examine one other perspective on this adaptation: the
matter of artistic merit. Available archival materials inform us that Jiří
Bureš, an expert witness specializing in copyrights, the book market, and
author royalties, was tasked with devising a system for splitting the royalties
between Vančura’s widow and the film’s screenwriters. This legal
specialist examined the relationship of the literary source to the adaptation
of Marketa Lazarová in terms of authorship. Bureš produced a
10-page long report; it is a peculiar text, which on one hand strives for
lawyer-style pragmatism, but at the same time explores Vančura’s style
and general aspects of the relationship between literature and film.
Bureš considered Vančura’s share in making the adaptation as well as
Pavlíček’s and Vláčil’s. He describes the literary Marketa Lazarová as a
monolith, a granite block, the apotheosis of the Czech language, and calls
Vančura a magician of the written word. According to Bureš, the crux
of Vančura’s work lies not in the story, but in its stylistic structure and
fantastic atmosphere. This conclusion generates concerns about the possibility
of transfers between literature and film, and the problem of media
specificity. His distinction between “a standard film treatment, a mere
screenwriter’s treatment, and a different creative approach,” one whose
premise includes “authorial intervention in the subject matter itself”
captures the atmosphere surrounding the period’s work with a literary
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text and the screenwriters’ efforts. A certain type of substantial authorship
consists, according to Bureš, of searching for the equilibrium among
the novelist, the screenwriter and the director, as only a creative author is
able to resist the temptations of the story, to strive for understanding the
artistic intent of the literary text and, following that, “achieve an artistic
impact by different means of expression” (BSA, my translation).
To prove how substantial the screenwriters’ contribution to the film
was, Bureš points to added dialogue, plot changes, new motifs, and so
on. In the end, he suggests they receive half or at least two-fifths of the
royalties. However, Bureš includes a surprising twist in the conclusion of
his appraisal: Marketa Lazarová, to him, is so rooted in Czech culture
and consciousness that a different ratio is called for. Vančura’s spirit will
always be present in the adaptation. He suggests, therefore, that twothirds
of royalties be given to Vančura’s widow and the remaining third
be divided between Pavlíček and Vláčil.
In writing the appraisal Bureš transgresses his competence; he does
not stick to the letter of the law. He writes what is, in essence, an aesthetic,
literary analysis in defense of “high culture” and infers that even
in this case legal action should be pursued. The legal counsellor emerges
as an exponent of an elitist approach to culture and as an arbiter of values.
According to his text, Vančura’s literary work demands a “true
creator”, a person František Vláčil can become. A cinematographer is
supposed, via extraordinary creative action, to produce a new artefact
which will not hinge on imitation and captures the viewer by its aesthetic
appeal. The screenwriter and director is expected to relate the adaptation
to the original literary text, but escape its difficulties by using unconventional
and novel audiovisual approaches. At the same time, this instance
of a legal text highlights the monopoly for establishing and advancing
the artistic space. The auteur-adapter exists close to literature, verbal culture
and critical practice, they can recognize the stylistic nuances of any
given literary work, and in the end they employ authentic creative action
in their work.
An Unfilmable Icon of Czech Literature
The novel Marketa Lazarová is a stylistically multilayered literary work.
Vančura’s writing was peculiar in that it was based heavily on the choice
of expression. The semantic axis of the text consists of the commentary
and the musings of the narrating subject.
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The book is dominated by a Rabelaisian narrator, one who is ostentatious
in his self-expression—he constantly poses questions and comments
on the ongoing story. Placing the narrator in the foreground and everything
else in the background establishes a close relationship between
the narrator and the reader. Therefore, the essential aspect of Vančura’s
prose becomes not what is narrated, but how. Jan Mukařovský, a Prague
structuralist, described the prominent nature of a narrator that assumes
various stances towards the story and the characters. He highlighted
the way a narrating subject influences the text via his or her constantly
changing assessments of the fictional world and even of the readers,
occurring both on the lexical level and in the overall presentation:
The narrated story appears to Vančura’s narrator both important and
unimportant at the same time, deserving of laughter and sadness, praise
and judgment, seriousness and levity. These various hues of the narrative
voice change rapidly during narration, up to the point of overlapping with
one another (Mukařovský 2006, 54, my translation).
Mukařovský came to the conclusion that the narrative’s many-sided
evaluation of characters and events is a momentous aspect in Vančura’s
writing, a declaration he supports with an excerpt from the novel Marketa
Lazarová:
It is not difficult for me to imagine a frolicking wise man, a remonstrative
angel or a lover who beats his lady without ceasing to love her for even a little
while. … All things are subject to change, and many a color includes other
colors, ones that are altogether far away. (Vančura 1931, 106, my translation)
In the latter half of the 20th century, Vančura’s narrative modes and
his style were repeatedly analyzed by literary scholars. Czech structuralism
suffered persecution under the Marxist regime and was banned in
official publications and research. Jan Mukařovský eventually succumbed
to political pressure and denounced this analysis method. However, in the
1960s structualism was rehabilitated, and Czech literary scholars returned
to the structurally-analytical approach to writing about artistic literary
texts. When Marketa Lazarová was adapted, several philologically oriented
(and free from the Marxist view of art and literature) interpretations
of Vančura’s writing had already been published. These inspirational texts
include analyses written by Zdeněk Kožmín about the stylistic structure of
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Vančura’s prose. In his book Styl Vančurovy prózy (Vančura’s Prose Style
1968), which he had worked on since the early 1960s, Kožmín states that
the stylistic approaches chosen by Vančura in his books establish the text’s
poetic-rhetoric quality: “A narrator, a reporter, a poet, and an orator seem
to be alternating in relating exciting events happening to the audacious
characters” (Kožmín 1968, 86, my translation). Kožmín describes the
prose’s narrative dominants, its complicated structure, the wide range of
stylistic and language devices used to create the greatest possible variety in
the text (e.g., lyricism, archaisms, parallelisms, affinity to spoken language,
etc.; Kožmín 1968, 76–87).
Vančura’s writings were at the time examined in another creative area:
film adaptation. To the screenwriters, František Pavlíček and František
Vláčil, the original text of Marketa Lazarová was akin to a living tissue
being transplanted to a different environment. Both writers were
also partial to the philological analyses produced at the time: František
Pavlíček had studied Slavic literature and aesthetics in Prague, and
František Vláčil had studied art history and aesthetics in Brno; therefore
they were familiar with the methods of structural interpretation and the
appropriate terminology. They built upon the dominance of the aesthetic
function of the novel, following the structuralist conception of literature;
they saw the text’s focal point in its narrative mode:
I was, strangely enough, captivated by the absolutely non-film aspect of it,
the peculiar sentence structure and its rhythm and poetic quality—I would
even call it a musical aspect—so I started to imagine the story in interesting
images which could be exquisitely composed together. The film language
has a very particular magic to it: it is immensely like poetry. I can
combine various shots, each of which has its own aesthetic—and, by the
virtue of that—emotional, quality. I can make changes within this quality
by combining the shots differently… (Hrivňáková 1984, 4, my translation)
This and other similar statements make it evident that their formal training
drove the filmmakers to define the adaptation primarily on aesthetic
grounds. The basis of their work, therefore, rested in treating the text’s aesthetic
function by separating it (the most important task from a structuralist
perspective), and finding ways to further develop and transform it. The
creative adaptation process employed in writing Marketa Lazarová suggests
that the filmmakers tried, from the very beginning, to capture Vančura’s
originality, the secret of his art, and to devise a new way of existence for
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this “body.” Both writers were aware that they were dealing with an author
whose work is generally considered “unfilmable,” largely because of the
illusion of closeness between the narrator and the reader. They did, however,
manage to transcend the period’s conventions as soon as in writing
the screenplay, and in the following years of shooting the film, Vláčil
worked as a modern artist: fully consumed by the process of the work’s
inception he nearly sacrificed himself for the originality that was emerging.
The filmmakers were not primarily concerned with relating a simple
story: they were focused on the complexity of expression found in the
source work. Vláčil created an equivalent to some of its aspects by “rhapsodizing”
in moving images. Contemporary critics mainly celebrated the
adaptation of Marketa Lazarová as an artistic revelation:
One would most suitably take on this task in silence. Anything that can be
said about the film Marketa Lazarová will neither add nor subtract beauty
from this work, which will remain a milestone in our cinematography. It is
enough to say: Go and admire the beauty which the film’s authors managed
to wrench from the captivity of words and reincarnate in images!
(Francl 1967, 2, my translation)2
The critics wrote about Vláčil’s struggle with the words of a great avantgarde
writer, about poignant visual evocations, disturbing the main narrative
line, an authentic rendering of medieval way of life, of bringing
to life the long-gone times and people whose actions were, unlike the
actions of the critics’ contemporaries, instinctive and thus real.
In the Midst of Pagan Myths
The plot of the film Marketa Lazarová is fairly simple. Kozlík, a robber
knight, lives with his children at the Roháček stronghold. Two of his sons,
Mikoláš and Adam, capture a Saxon noble called Kristián. The young man,
who was previously bound for a religious life, falls in love with Kozlík’s
daughter Alexandra. Meanwhile, a governor called Captain Pivo (“Beer”),
accompanied by soldiers, sets off on a punitive expedition against the robber
clans. Mikoláš visits a hostile robber knight called Lazar, who lives at the
nearby Obořiště stronghold. He is nearly beaten to death, but he manages to
return home. Mikoláš’s clan attacks Obořiště, and Lazar is tortured. Mikoláš
kidnaps his daughter, Marketa, who was supposed to join a nunnery the following
Spring. Captain Pivo tracks down Kozlík’s clan, and in the ensuing
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fight most of the robbers are killed. Kozlík, who is gravely wounded, is captured.
Kristián goes insane and is later killed by Alexandra. Mikoláš, having
found both Marketa and his mother hiding in the swamps, sets off for the
nearby royal town of Boleslav in order to set his father free. He is wounded,
captured, and sentenced to death. Before he is executed, he and Marketa get
married. Marketa is pregnant and eventually gives birth to their son.
The adaptation is set in a vaguely medieval age. The film tells a story
from a time long gone, but its core elements (love, betrayal, insanity,
a ferocious struggle to maintain one’s way of life) transcend this setting,
being applicable to any moment in human history. The film’s makers
were interested in creating a historical story that was also concerned
with contemporary issues. The intertitles used in the film express this
idea. The first of them reads: “This is a story composed almost in vain,
and hardly deserving of praise. What can you do? The dowser’s divining
rod still bends above these ground waters” (Vláčil 1967, my translation).
It is meant to imply that everything repeats itself, and—as the voice-over
declares—even the oldest of things are “caught in the net of the present
time” (Vláčil 1967, my translation). The film’s composition rests on two
major parts —“Straba” (a male character from pagan mythology) and
“Lamb of God.” The theme of paganism permeates the first part, whereas
an allegorical tableau of a victorious journey towards a love that not even
death can conquer dominates the second. According to Vláčil, his Marketa
Lazarová newly embodies the idea “that in the center of Christianity’s rise
there are still islands, represented by Kozlík’s clan, where fading paganism
still exists” (Strusková 1997, 172, my translation). The spiritual borderline
between paganism and Christianity manifests itself when Kozlík calls to the
gods to decide on the life or death of his son Adam. However, he momentarily
corrects himself and speaks of one god. Analogously, Kozlík’s youngest
daughter Drahuše, a wild bandit child, grows up in a world of pagan
stories and superstitions while wearing a cross on her neck.
The film and novel both offer up a sketch of a world unrestrained by
norms—a world where one is entitled to one’s own actions. Men are
unspoiled, belligerent, elemental, and (most importantly) free. They are
close to an original natural state, and their actions resonate with unbridled
natural phenomena.
Vančura’s novel reads:
‘Tis better to be a bandit with the soul of a lynx and the honor of a lynx,
than a captain whose face is human and his teeth are dog’s teeth. The
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robbers’ conduct is vulgar, but we call it what it is—you, then, also confess
your nature. (Vančura 1931, 59, my translation)
The literary Mikoláš lives like a wolf or a lynx, he communicates with
his comrades in animal speech, his nose is reminiscent of a bird of prey’s
beak, and he is driven by instinct. By cultivating his repository of motifs,
Vančura aspired to convey “a nature of the characters that is inherently
whole and is set firmly in nature” (Holý 2002, 122, my translation). The
film works with the same principle; from the very beginning it systematically
builds up an image of Kozlík as a wolf—this is apparent from
the wolf skin that he wears, from his eyes that gleam in the darkness,
and from the brutal behavior he uses to force order upon his “pack.”
Contrary to the book, the film Kozlík does not express any compassion
towards living beings—this “softened” nature did not resonate with
the wholesome human ideal of the pagan world. As Mikoláš returns to
Roháček with the captured Kristián, he first meets his father. The first
shot shows Kozlík from above, standing in the center of the courtyard
and setting to inspect the stolen bounty. His laughter and his breath are
heard, his eyes are shown, and, finally, an image emerges of a wildly grimacing
man, surrounded by frightened horses and people, as he yells and
cracks a whip. There is no doubt as to who is the master at Roháček.
The screenwriters, having Vančura’s novel as their starting point, made
up a world in which there is a forest-dwelling clan connected to wolves,
animism, and animals in general. However, they were also inspired by
the Romantic fascination with the ancient past. Beside Vančura’s novel,
the film also found inspiration in the Rukopis královédvorský (Manuscript
of Dvůr Králové, 1817), a 19th-century example of Czech ossianism.
The near-absence of paganism in Czech literature, and the lack of historical
continuity thus created, disturbed some of the proponents of Czech
nationalism. At the same time, the creation of literary forgeries is one of
the aspects of the Romantic tendency to create historic-seeming imitations.
The person likely to have created the forged manuscripts is a Czech writer
and archivist Václav Hanka (179–1861), who “discovered” a fragment of
the manuscript in 1817 in Dvůr Králové. The purpose of the manuscript,
said to have originated as far back as the 13th century, was to show the
nature of Czech culture uncontaminated by Christianity. The Slavic people
are presented as wild, unrestrained people, who, at the same time, possess
a “dovish nature.”3 Even though the manuscript was ultimately declared a
fake, its influence on Czech culture and literature was formidable.4
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If we focus on the parallels in Marketa Lazarová to the so-called oldest
Czech stories included in the Manuscripts, an allusion can be found in the
images of sacred trees taken up by birds of prey which symbolize the souls
of the dead. The Manuscript poem named “Jelen” (A Stag) makes a connection
between the life of a strong animal and that of a young man: both
wander freely through the woods until the man is killed by a treacherous
assassin. An oak tree grows beside his grave, whose branches are occupied
by sparrow hawks, which, along with the deer, recall the sad fate of the
murdered man. In the film, a similar concept is used in the scene from the
part “O sudbě mužů a údělu vdov” (“On the fate of men and the lot of
widows”), in which Mikoláš says goodbye to Marketa before he sets off on
the ultimately futile quest to rescue his father. While Mikoláš recalls hunting
with Kozlík, the camera shows a herd of grazing deer seen from a distance.
In the following shot Marketa and Mikoláš are lying on the ground
in the forest. Mikoláš speaks about stags fighting over does and reminisces
about seeing an injured stag who led them to a barren plain:
I had once seen a burial ground, and it was less sad than that place.
Skeletons, skeletons, bones, a thousand pairs of antlers on white skulls. In
the center of it he stood, still. Alone. Beaten. Alone. Kozlík whispered to
me: “Look, see, the solitude of death.” (Vláčil 1967, my translation)
In Romantic characterization, the Kozlíks are not feeble, jaded people
divorced from nature. They have ties to their gods; they can live and they
can die.
The Manuscript inspiration resonates within the story of Straba itself,
which is set in pagan times and claims affinity to Slavic mythology.
Kozlík’s wife tells the story to her youngest children. Straba alienated
himself from people; he defamed what they held sacred, killed an innocent
girl, and thwarted the order imposed by the gods. In the end he
was banished to the woods, and “on these words, Perun struck the earth
though the sky was clear, and Straba laughs the quiet laugh of the wolf…
”5 (Vláčil 1967, my translation).
A Parable of Love
The second part of the film—“Beránek boží” (“Lamb of God”)—is
dominated by the idea of the regenerative power of love. The characters
placed by the screenwriters in the center of action express a categorical
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consent with their own fate. Core questions of being manifest themselves
in the protagonists’ willingness to die for love. Mikoláš steals
Lazar’s daughter Marketa, drags her to his camp, and makes her his sexual
partner. In the morning they are both confronted by Kozlík, who
orders Mikoláš to torture Marketa and then banish her. His son defies
his authority and throws the torture instrument away in front of other
bandits. Kozlík, furious, then punishes two pairs of lovers—the “sinners
of love” (Mikoláš and Marketa, Alexandra and Kristián) are all shackled
to a tree. They remain that way until Captain Pivo’s attack on the camp.
Mikoláš, having robbed both Lazar and the nunnery of Marketa, is the
lamb who walks towards death in the end. In the film, he does not sacrifice
himself in the name of salvation, but in the name of love. Mikoláš
and Marketa’s relationship calls forth the question whether the contrast
between the praying, nunnery-bound Marketa and the erotic Marketa
is not too stark. It is, in fact, not—in medieval times many pious men
and women embraced sensuality, as it was needed in life. Thus Marketa
remains a devout woman, not having betrayed her family or her family’s
beliefs. She is then herself part of the hopeful conclusion of the story.
Even though she was associated with her kidnappers’ way of life, her
story does not have an altogether negative ending (Fig. 4.1).
The added character of Bernard, a mendicant monk, who travels the
land accompanied by a sheep, plays an important part. He is first seen
through the eyes of Lazar, who has just promised to send his daughter
to a nunnery and, being of a greedy nature, refuses to give the monk
Fig. 4.1  Marketa Lazarová. Marketa and Mikoláš. Marketa Lazarová (Marketa
Lazarová; František Vláčil 1967)
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140  P. BUBENÍČEK
anything. In the second part of the film, the monk can be seen from
above, wandering the early-spring countryside, while a voice-over opens
the chapter. The voice-over suddenly changes the topic and its tone, and
addresses the monk, initiating a dialogue, finally exclaiming “Bernard, if
only your voice were as good as your humbleness is great” (Vláčil 1967,
my translation). The perspective shifts to a medium shot seen from
below, and Bernard, pondering whether God is showing him the way, is
alone again. He pursues his running sheep to Lazar’s courtyard, which
is now under siege. He begs for alms, but is assaulted and robbed of his
animal. In his third on-screen appearance, Bernard encounters the Kozlík
clan on the other side of the ongoing conflict. They get the monk drunk
and kill his sheep, leaving only its head, which the terrified Bernard takes
with him on his further journey.
The lattermost event plays out in the part of the film called “Poslední
večeře” (“Last supper”), recalling that important religious narrative.
A parallel is made with the death of Mikoláš, which, in contrast to the
slaughter of the sheep, had a purpose. At the end of the story, Bernard
is seen through the eyes of the pregnant Marketa. He is again travelling
with an animal, this time a male kid goat, which symbolizes Mikoláš’s as
of yet unborn son. He stops to talk with Marketa, trying to convince her
that they should travel together; however, they part ways when Bernard
runs off to catch the restless animal. The voice-over narrator informs the
viewer that Marketa will give birth to a son named Václav, whose soul
will be fought over by “love and cruelty, certainty and doubt.” (Vláčil
1967, my translation). Along with Bernard, the story reaches a peaceful
ending. Children embody the uncertainty of human choices as well as
the future and the continuity of the lineage—Kozlík’s clan will survive.
Like the restless baby goat the monk chases vainly across the plain, the
Kozlík tribe will always be defiant and the whole cycle of life will repeat
itself in further generations.
A different kind of romance than the one that Marketa and Mikoláš
experience unravels between the young noble Kristián, set to become the
new Bishop of Hennau, and Kozlík’s wild daughter Alexandra, whom he
falls in love with. In the novel, Vančura portrays Alexandra as a robber’s
daughter who can wield a sword, but who is also a graceful and delicate
girl. In the adaptation, however, she is treated differently. The film
Kristián first sees Alexandra as she is butchering a bull with an ax in the
center of the crude courtyard at Roháček. Kozlík has just decided to execute
Kristián but suddenly changes his mind. Alexandra watches intently
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as the young man prepares to die, and later, as he is taken back to the
castle, swift flashback scenes are shown, hinting at her past. These images
“mix magic and eroticism” (Škapová 2002, 57, my translation), showing
Alexandra naked and carrying out a pagan ceremony beside an ancient
oak tree. A shot follows of her naked figure as she walks through high
grass, a knife in one hand, in the other a dead rooster. Unclear images
of her lying in the grass with a man are shown next. These alternate
with shots of blood from the slaughtered animal trickling into a bowl,
establishing a symbolic connection between death and physical love. The
sequence continues with an image of an adder slithering along a tree
trunk, as a man kills it. The man is bitten by the snake, and Alexandra
sucks the venom out of his wound. The image shifts between Alexandra’s
face, the man’s hand, her body embracing the oak tree, and the ornaments
adorning its trunk. The last image is of a girl running through
a winter landscape, looking back in fear. The shifting of these images,
Kristián’s aborted execution, and a mysterious return somewhere in the
girl’s past, illustrates the complicated web of erotic relationships between
man and woman. There is no apparent key to the events, and it cannot
be safely assumed which interpretation is closest to the truth. It is uncertain
whether these images are memories, fantasies, or the director’s free
associations intended to give the viewer new interpretative possibilities.
This particular romance has a bitter ending. The intertitles marking
off this part of the story anticipate the situation ironically: “Where the
Bishop of Hennau was taken by love…” (Vláčil 1967, my translation).
The camera finds Kristián having gone insane and wandering through a
desolate land. He passes a sacred tree adorned by amulets, statuettes of
gods, and animal skulls, and enters a swamp. Flashbacks show a terrible
battle between soldiers and the robbers; presumably this event robbed
the young man of his sanity. Alexandra sets off to find Kristián, tracks
him down, and follows him through high grass as if he were a game animal.
The young people are shown struggling through the bushes, and
finally Alexandra’s sight rests on Kristián, the camera showing a close-up
shot of his bloody face. Alexandra picks up a big stone and kills her lover.
She is then seen from below as though rooted in nature; her character’s
shift into animalism is complete.
According to literary historian Jiří Holý, the oppressive atmosphere
of the film is a shift from the book, whose tone is “rather joyful and
benign, lacking even a slight aspect of morbidity” (Holý 2002, 149, my
translation). While the bleak attributes of the Straba story permeate the
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adaptation, in the novel the motifs of cruelty and damnation are “gradually
balanced out by motifs of kindness, tenderness, and hope” (Holý
2002, 147, my translation). This interpretation is certainly valid. The
screenwriters treated some of the characters differently than Vančura
did; Alexandra, as well as other characters, is portrayed more brutally.
Nonetheless, a victorious journey towards love remains the film’s main
concept. Immediately after Kristián’s murder, the film cuts to Marketa.
The desolate, inhospitable swampland is gone, and Marketa, covered
with fur, is sleeping under a large tree with the sun shining on her. The
film’s evocation of a cold world is replaced by a more pleasant perspective
on man’s existence on earth. Even though she is alone, as Mikoláš
has already gone to find his father to break him out of prison, the film
implies that Marketa will not be without help and that she will find a safe
haven.
In the Web of History and Faith
One of the opening scenes of the film shows Kozlík travelling to Boleslav
and negotiating unsuccessfully with Captain Pivo, then attacking him
and fleeing back to Roháček.6 His flight starts with a look towards a
grey sky and the branches of tall pines, heavy with snow. The camera
then shifts gradually to a horizontal position, moving forward, tearing
through black tree branches. Afterwards Kozlík is shown trudging
through deep snow, dragging behind him a heavy branch in order to
cover his tracks. His “wolf” cap is seen, and his breath can be heard. The
scene evokes a greater heavenly power looking down on the tiny soul of
a robber wandering through the woods, endangered by the severe cold,
wolves, and those who pursue him. All this is communicated merely
through images and sounds. In this world people are perpetually in danger;
soldiers may come at any time to ransack or raze settlements, killing
or running out their inhabitants. The life of robbers and bandits is more
dangerous still: they endanger the lives of others, while at the same time
putting themselves at risk.
The people portrayed in the film had no fixed expectations about their
immediate future (being permanently at risk due to the factors mentioned
above), and thus they took refuge in faith, which was straightforward.
They believed firmly in Heaven and Hell, seeking eternal life,
which was perceived as leaving the mournful valley that was their earthly
existence. These circumstances created the basis of medieval spirituality,
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built upon only later by theologians. Medieval piety was marked by
danger. The two versions of spirituality present in the film were not in
conflict with each other—both represent the need of a person living in
permanent state of peril to look hopefully to something higher than
human existence. When Mikoláš arrives at Lazar’s stronghold, the camera
moves rapidly and enters a room with a crucifix on the wall. The spiritual
can inhabit a young Christian girl’s room as well as a monastery,
it can be found in trees, in ponds, and in the mountains. In Marketa
Lazarová, Christianity is merely one of the options. It and tree worship
are far from each other, but they are not in conflict: they are different,
they ignore each other, yet their purpose is the same. The film gives an
eloquent description of medieval high culture with its dogmatic structures,
as well as the other spiritual aspects of the time.
The spiritual aspect of the story, which could potentially offer answers
about the transience of human life, was however impaired by Vančura’s
criticism of belief in God.7 The screenwriters transferred the novel’s
peculiar anti-religious stance from the 1930s into the film: some of the
book narrator’s ironic comments were softened in the script, but some
more obvious hints were left in, many of them inserted in the monk
Bernard’s dialogue. There is an eloquent example of this in the scene
after Pivo’s soldiers battle the robbers. The monk finds the already
insane Kristián in the plundered stronghold and utters a long monologue
in his presence. Amongst other things, he asks “Why appeal to
God? Captain, you heard, with God’s help, they make a master out of
a brute” (Vláčil 1967, my translation). In this fashion Vančura’s ideas
were transferred into the film—the criticism of faith, however, is transformed
into a criticism of people who abuse God’s name to further their
own selfish interest. The objective is not to denounce Christian faith, but
to call judgment upon those who treat it illegitimately. Analogously, in
the film’s conclusion Marketa first seeks shelter in a convent. When the
mother superior makes her confess her sins, Marketa repents but refuses
to denounce her lover. In this way people act in God’s name, even
though it is obviously against their faith. The aforementioned scene with
the deer boneyard brings the film closest to book’s existentialism: death
is perceived the same way it is approached in the novel—as a hollowness,
a void. The film absents Vančura’s heretic narrator, who exclaims: “Oh,
you sceptic, even you pale, even you tremble? Fear not! Heaven is empty.
Infinity is empty. Infinity, the madhouse of gods on whose edge a tiny
star is wandering” (Vančura 1931, 206, my translation).
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Vančura’s book includes two key themes that are retained in the
adaptation: social and anti-military. The novel was written in the difficult
1930s, during the Great Depression, which brought social inequality
into the story, a topic later taken up by the film. The book narrator’s
ideas on this social aspect are communicated by Bernard, who says that
human beings defend themselves like a bear sow, but can also attack like
a lynx when under pressure. This is a clear allusion to social issues and
the hypothesis that people must have become criminals because they
were driven to it by a dire situation.
The second area of interest concerns the anti-militarist ideas expressed
in the book. While the literary robbers are often depicted as acting with
honor, soldiers are portrayed as mercenaries who act not in the name
of justice, but for their own profit and that of their masters. This issue
is also addressed by Bernard (albeit in a minor way), when he says that
a bad farmer clears woods and a bad king pursues wars. The significant
difference in the soldiers’ temperament is most obvious in the character
of Sovička, who strives for honor, fame, and the admiration of women.
The screenwriters contrasted him with Captain Pivo, creating a dynamic
that is examined from multiple perspectives. While Sovička desires to be
seen as heroic, Pivo pursues justice. The contrast culminates during the
eventual execution of Kozlík and Mikoláš, which is fully divorced from
the film’s literary source. The film Pivo is ultimately shown to feel the
greatest regret of all about the tragedy of the Kozlíks (and particularly of
the lovers), as though the redemptive power of love had enlightened him
and turned this soldier into a compassionate man.
The screenwriters made the adaptation topical by including an issue
typical for the 1960s: a human experience with history that did not
match the Communist mantra of social optimism. This is illustrated by
the character of the monk Bernard. Here is a man thrown around by
events beyond his control, a puppet in the hands of history. He wanders
through a dangerous, threatening world, unable to defend himself or to
change anything—he can only bear witness to the times. There are various
places in the film that show the existential anguish of a character in
the throes of violence and death, such as in the scene where a bloodyfaced
Bernard, having been assaulted by the soldiers, flees Obořiště. The
camera shows the robbers who have just attacked and killed several men.
They are hidden in the shrubbery, watching as the monk, in search of
his sheep, arrives at the scene of their crime. He is terrified as he sees
that man is always being thrown into a world of malice and violence. He
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mumbles to himself, first leaning on God’s mercy, then calling for divine
anger and punishment. As he searches for his sheep, one of the robbers
mimics its sound. Bernard, ignorant of this being a cruel joke, searches in
vain through the trees. The scene appears as a metaphor for human life:
wandering in pursuit of chimeric voices. People are thrown into the depersonalized
world; they are helpless against the vicious snares of history.
Romance for Flugelhorn
In 1961 František Hrubín published a poem in book form titled
Romance for Flugelhorn. This poem eventually became his most popular
work, 	 as it was an unexpected revelation to many readers who had just
endured a decade of Communist dictatorship-building. This extended
poem is built upon a simple premise—the unfulfilled love between a
village youth and a fairground girl—but it carries a more wide-reaching
message about life. It brings topics such as transitioning from adolescence
into adulthood, growing old, and dying into the foreground.
Hrubín offers his readers an affecting, tender image of young love, the
regret over its lack of fulfilment, and more broadly, regrets over youth’s
irreversible passing.
At the beginning of the adaptation process, there were two authors,
František Hrubín and Otakar Vávra, who decided to work with the
topic of aging. They were both born just before World War I, experienced
the postwar avant-garde, lived through World War II, and saw
the Communist takeover in 1948. At the beginning of the 1960s they
had both just turned 50 years old and connected in ruminating about
their lives so far. Vávra was quoted as saying: “I make films which are
a testament of my generation—the fate of a part of my generation and
my class” (Kudela 1967, 31, my translation). Hrubín and Vávra worked
together on three film adaptations. The first, Srpnová neděle (August
Sunday 1960) was an adaptation of Hrubín’s theater play about the
ambivalence of human relationships. For Zlatá reneta (The Golden
Queening 1965) Vávra used Hrubín’s eponymous novella: in it, an aging
man searches in vain for the places where he spent his youth and for his
long-lost love. Their third adaptation was Romance for Flugelhorn, a
film seeking to convey an existentialist interpretation of life; it ultimately
became one of the most important Czech films of the 1960s.8
Otakar Vávra managed to work in film in all political regimes that
were prevalent since the 1930s, and any evolution of his work is often
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controversial; for example, Czech critic Jiří Cieslar called him “the classic
of Czech mediocrity” (Cieslar 2003, 410, my translation). Vávra began
his career in the 1930s as a screenwriter, conducting avant-garde experiments
such as Světlo proniká tmou (The Light Penetrates the Dark 1931)
and making successful adaptations of Czech literary works like Filosofská
historie (Philosophical Story 1937) and Panenství (Virginity 1937). After
the Communist takeover in 1948, he directed many films intended for
“ideological education” (perhaps the best known of these are those of
the “Hussite Trilogy,” which comprises adaptations of works by Alois
Jirásek, the regime’s favorite writer). In the early 1950s, though, Vávra
simultaneously opposed radical Communist dogmatists and put professional
values ahead of ideological proclamations, demanding “a quality
literary source, a screenplay with a complex dramatic structure, thorough
preparation for the shooting, elaborate sets and mass scene choreography”
(Szczepanik 2012, 87, my translation). In 1957, he started
teaching at the directing department of the Film and TV School of the
Academy of Performing Arts in Prague. He urged his students not only
to study film, but to devote time to other art forms; he encouraged their
interest in aesthetics and philosophy. His students included many of the
main exponents of the Czech New Wave (Věra Chytilová, Evald Schorm,
Jiří Menzel, Jan Schmidt), on whom he had a significant influence. After
Vávra’s death in 2011, he was judged for his political and social conformity
and intentionally letting the censors interfere with his creative process.
Several of his works, however, were remembered for their aesthetic
values, none more so than Romance for Flugelhorn (cf. Blažejovský 2008,
231–232). Jan Žalman wrote a piece on the film in the context of the
director’s other work, and concluded that “Vávra was paying his dues,
‘through Hrubín,’ to the same disillusionment that the whole generation
of 50-year-olds was experiencing with varying intensity; he pays a toll
to the disenchantment over a society which swore by the noblest moral
ideals, and then let them fall in a blind dogmatic rampage immediately
afterwards” (Žalman 1990, 266, my translation). Aside from disillusionment
over political developments in the country, Vávra had an even more
significant motivation: by adapting an “unfilmable” text, and transferring
its lyrical qualities to the screen, he strived to prove himself more
than a routinist, show off his creative talent, and keep pace with young
directors. Thus, an adaptation was made that still pleased the director
even many years afterwards: “Recently I saw this film on TV, after
24 years…and I really feel that it is flawless. All the aspects of the film are
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right. Both the tempo and the rhythm are right; I am convinced that this
is my best film” (Vávra 2011, 211, my translation).
The relaxing of political restraints at the end of the 1950s made creative
expression in film possible. Filmmakers could slowly make their way
back to using methods that had previously been suppressed, and they
focused on the prewar aesthetic, among other things. Vávra’s creative
vision was preceded in the literary and cultural context by the “discovery
of the everyday,” whose main proponents in the last third of the 1950s
were the poets connected to the magazine Květen. Working on a collective
platform, these authors built upon the reflection of everyday life, the
search for the ordinary, and making contact with raw reality. Their works
reflect the conflict between individuals and society, which was growing
ever more prominent at the time: “If the Květen generation strove to
perceive details in a universal perspective, this of course involved their
euphoria from the careful dismantling of the existing ideological taboos,
which had ordered to see the world split in two—the new world of
socialism and the backward world from before socialism” (Macura 1993,
37, my translation). And it was the poetics of human life, not turning
away from its most mundane or bleak aspects, that became the central
principle in the film adaptation of Romance for Flugelhorn. The film
builds upon the representation of raw reality; it captures everyday situations
and shows them in their simplicity, yet the viewers feel they are
witnessing something extraordinary. This sensation is made more urgent
by systematically thematizing time’s ephemeral nature. Vávra highlighted
simple things and their presentation, and by these means he built a
coherent, polyphonic world, which unites the tragic and the fiercely alive
aspects of human life.
Nostalgic Romanticism as a Gesture of Lyrical
and Cinematic Expression
Hrubín’s text is structured around several basic points: adolescence,
love, and death. Romance for Flugelhorn takes place in Lešany, a village
in rural Bohemia, in the 1930s, and then 30 years afterwards. The narrator—in
the adaptation his name is Vojta—falls in love with a younger
girl named Terina. Over a three-year period, they spend two extended
periods of time together when her travelling fair comes to the village.
In the first year, their romance is disturbed by the narrator’s duty to
take care of his ill grandfather, while Terina is busy at the fair. The latter
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part of their relationship is marred by the narrator’s fit of jealousy, in
which he strikes Terina. He does not get the chance to mend the situation.
Terina leaves with the fair, and the next year he learns that she died
of diphtheria during the winter. Almost 30 years later, he has a chance
encounter with Viktor, a carnival worker who had also pursued Terina,
and they both return to Lešany as though waiting for Terina’s ghost to
appear.
The complex layering of the poem’s temporal and place settings is
an important aspect of the literary Romance. A depiction of the narrator
and Terina on a warm August night is momentarily replaced with
the mature narrator’s voice as he reflects back on the crucial events of
his youth. Connecting the past to the narrative present determines the
poem’s dynamics. There is a central point in time that serves as a base for
the narrative—segments titled “Tonight (on 28 August 1930)” open and
close the poem, respectively, marking the most revisited moments. They
contain both the actual experience of a summer night and its memory: “I
sit on the windowsill, awake in the night. The warm fragrance of nettles
/ flows over my shoulder / the other one freezing in the room’s black
ice…” (Hrubín 1962, 22, my translation). These verses contain the central
image of the poem—imminent contact with both love and death at
the same moment. The lyrical subject is trying to come to grips with this
aspect of existence, and his ruminations on growing up with the consciousness
of human mortality transform into a melancholic testament of
people at turning points in life. While Terina is outside, radiating warmth
and life, inside the dead grandfather is laid out, emitting a deathly freeze.
Both of the situations involve a heavy, nearly unbearable burden, which
this young man must contend with during this key night.
In the poem, youth resides in a summer countryside represented by
a repertoire of natural details. The text emphasizes the charms of the
country and the experience of the intimacy of summertime feelings.
Colorful, tangible, fragrant nature presents an overwhelming whole that
towers monumentally over human life and its brevity. The young, however,
appear to be reaching the whole range of natural and cosmic forces:
Terina, I will dress you in stars and plant
universes on your body, you shall hear
the last chirp of an autumnal cricket
as well as an explosion creating a new star,
you will exist in the meanest Sweet William
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even as the universe is too small
for the tear which mirrors your sobbing
emotion when I embraced you yesterday.(Hrubín 1962, 22, my
translation)
Hrubín, who had experience with cinema, was well aware of the fact
that the film would need an epic drive if it was to be more than a short
experimental picture. He wrote a film treatment of the poem, in which
he chronologically reordered the asymmetric structure of the original:
“[W]ith Romance for Flugelhorn nothing else could be done than to
leave the poem as it is, extract the story, extend it, and work according
to the laws of filmmaking” (Träger 1970, 3, my translation). The plot
acquired a distinctly romantic form: a young man falls in love with a carnival
girl, another man ruins their relationship, and the girl dies in the
end. The story’s time and space were condensed. The pivotal moment
of first love, the grandfather’s death, saying goodbye to Terina—all this
takes several years in the poem, yet it unravels in the space of several days
and nights in the adaptation (with the added frame story of Vojta’s present).
A unity of time, space, and action is thus achieved, along with an
intense emphasis on the romantic nature of the story.
The film starts with a camera slide from the dark of the night through
an open window into a tavern. It is late. Card players are sitting at a
table, singing a song, whose lyrics are taken from a poem by Hrubín,
about a cemetery somewhere by Újezd in Prague, where “everyone” will
end up eventually. The words of the song, as well as its wistful melody,
communicate a feeling of loneliness and isolation, which grows deeper
as two customers are singled out by the camera. One of them belongs
to the card-playing group; the other one is sitting on his own and is on
his way out. So far, unbeknownst to them, two old rivals—Vojta and
Viktor—have been reunited by chance in this village pub.
In one of the shots, Vojta is seen at his table on the left, with the bar
and the barman washing dishes on the right. A shot across tables stacked
with chairs intensifies the notion of Vojta’s isolation. Suddenly, Viktor
reaches for his flugelhorn and plays eight notes. Vojta’s gaze changes, as
though he was suddenly very far away.
The three shots that follow show how the men’s gestures reveal their
memories being awakened; the cuts now follow each other more closely.
Viktor grasps the flugelhorn and begins to play. As he plays, Vojta, with
his head bowed, enters the shot from the right. The past reappears. Soon
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after their unexpected encounter, Viktor takes Vojta to “see” Terina.
Viktor, who knows that Terina has died, drives the baffled Vojta on a
tractor to a nearby cemetery. They discover that the girl’s grave cannot
be found anymore: someone else has bought the plot. When Viktor
asks what became of Terina, a gravedigger curtly exclaims: “What’s
left of her” (Vávra 1966, my translation). A frantic ride through darkness
follows, to another village where the fair brought the three of them
together 30 years before, underscored by a disharmonious string tremolo.
Viktor plays his flugelhorn on the village square, and the musical
motif transforms along with the scene: there is a long shot of a moving
swing ride accompanied by a slower variation of the central melody.
A wistful atmosphere envelopes this look at a past, no-longer-accessible
world. The memory in the fragments of recollection reawakens, brought
up by the flugelhorn’s sound.
Significantly, the adaptation features a musical leitmotif, a melody from
“Souvenir de Herkulesbad,” an old waltz by Austrian composer Jakob
Pazeller that might elicit nostalgic feelings in viewers familiar with the
music. It is worth noting that, like Romance for Flugelhorn, Pazeller’s piece
had a double life. The waltz was initially considered an upper-class form,
as it was often played at balls and on colonnades. The melody, however,
was made widely popular by organ-grinders who reproduced it in towns,
in villages, and at country festivals. It would be picked up in this fashion by
Viktor (a carnival worker), and his use of it is a manifestation of its second
life. Romance for Flugelhorn was similarly “picked up” by Vávra—he was
captivated by it, eventually adapting it to a medium inherently more widely
consumed, animating the poem’s meanings in the process. A poetic text
intended for an elite audience of literary critics, teachers, and students who
had to memorize it, was in its film shape shown in town and village cinemas
and later entered people’s homes through television.
Romance for Flugelhorn emphasizes understanding the complexity of
human existence, a theme uncommon for films made in the previous decade.
One reviewer declared that Otakar Vávra and František Hrubín rehabilitated
emotion as the cornerstone of human existence. In this overly rationalized
and smugly complicated world they attempted what nearly amounts
to a quixotic gesture: they put a romantic story on its stage, wherein sentiment
is equally important as reflections on life; pure love grows out of
enchanted childhood naiveté into staggeringly seductive heaviness which
stays with a person all their life. (AN 1967, 5, my translation)
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Romance for Flugelhorn suddenly emerged as a comprehensible artistic
work emphasizing individual humanity at a time when collectively filling
commitments made at Party congresses was a publicly proclaimed goal.
Instead of expanding upon the challenges facing socialism or accentuating
Cold War threats, the film elicited nostalgia. Both the poem and
its adaptation opened up a space for human uncertainty. Propaganda
urging collective euphoria was replaced by recognition of the fact that
something still exists that cannot be taken away: one’s personal desires.
Both Hrubín and Vávra spoke of “nostalgic romanticism” in interviews
detailing their poetical methods. The social function of Romance for
Flugelhorn was to bring relief, as the film served no educational purpose;
it merely talked with no embellishment about profound values in
life. From the big history of building a Communist state, the adaptation
turned to small, intimate histories, and showed what beauty—sweet as
well as bitter—can be found there.9
Metamorphoses
The literary Romance for Flugelhorn draws from an ancient textual
source—Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It contains a quote from this Latin classic
that was subsequently also included in the film’s screenplay, production
sheet, and credits, and carries the first instance of Romance’s mythological
connotations: “magna petis, Phaethon, et quae nec viribus istis /
munera conveniant nec tam puerilibus annis: / sors tua mortalis, non est
mortale, quod optas (Ovidius 1915, 29–30).”
The book’s readers may realize that the textual construction of
Romance for Flugelhorn rests on a semantic connection to Ovid’s work,
and this association reveals Hrubín’s poetic concept of life’s purpose. In
the Phaethon myth, which he incorporated organically into his text, the
author found means to convey such a desire that reaches beyond individual
possibilities.
This was not the first time Hrubín used ancient myths in his work.
In the poem “Proměna” (Metamorphosis 1957) he transposes the story
of Icarus and Daedalus to the time following the atomic bombing of
Hiroshima. Such updated myths and overt intertextual connections
mean Hrubín’s poems are not isolated texts—instead they demonstrate
the changes and variations in art throughout time, and the ways ancient
motifs are capable of gaining new meanings and connotations.
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Hrubín and Vávra agreed to work together on a film treatment, and
they both participated in writing the screenplay. They utilized two age-old
methods to work with and appropriate ancient texts: imitatio and aemulatio.
Imitatio, or imitation, was widespread in classical times. Ovid himself
chose myths, late- antiquity authors appropriated texts from previous
epochs, and early Christian epic writers imitated Virgil. This mode involves
a distinct effort to find a germane meaning in old texts and to learn from
working with them. Imitation in itself is worthwhile, and one can, for
example, improve his or her oratorical skills by imitating respected speakers.
The second mode utilized by the filmmakers was aemulatio, or emulation:
the effort to emphasize those issues that could interest modern
audiences. In this mode the previous text’s presence can be found in the
new text and deciphered. In his treatment of myths, Ovid emphasized the
changeability of the world. The readers of Metamorphoses move through
various motifs. Each metamorphosis’s beginning builds up tension, the
story gains in intensity, people change into animals, trees, or stones, and
a new story emerges immediately afterwards. Generations of interpreters
read Ovid’s book as an opus perpetuum, an internally connected text in
which narratives exist separately yet are connected to each other.
Romance for Flugelhorn appropriates the myth of Phaethon.
Phaethon, a young man unsure of his paternity, journeys to the sun god
Helios, who he supposes to be his father, in order to receive confirmation.
The god acknowledges his son, and offers to grant him anything
he desires. Phaethon, however, wishes for something unreasonable: he
wants to drive his father’s sun chariot across the sky. Helios hesitates and
tries to convince Phaethon to choose something different, but he ultimately
submits to his son. Phaethon quickly loses control of the horses,
and his frantic ride, which threatens to destroy the world, is stopped by
Zeus, who kills the boy with a thunderbolt.
This story contains a model of a father-son relationship: a more powerful
father is enticed into doing something by a son who desires to have his
power, if only for a moment. Hrubín connects the man of antiquity to the
man of modern times, and builds upon the myth in two ways. Phaethon’s
youth leads him to ask for something beyond his capacity; moreover, and
more importantly, he yearns for divine power. Hrubín shifts the story from
the divine to the human, from transcendence to the limited horizons of
existence. The aemulatio, a lasting and newly highlighted connection
between antiquity and the present, consists of an expression of human
helplessness and the eternal desire for the transcendent.
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Hrubín actualizes human mortality and boyhood with its intense
mental challenges through a metaphor involving shaving and a razor
given by a father to his son:
Once, it started:
It was when you first lent me your razor, Dad.
The parlor smelled of dill sauce that day
and you were in a good humor, watching
the ash of a cigar retaining the form of something
that is no longer there, and from that exciting
sight you kept looking up at me,
I was just leaving you forever
by the soap on my cheeks, by eyes that want
by staring at it to shatter the mirror
fragment into dust, to see myself beyond: a man.
(Hrubín 1962, 13, my translation)
In the film, the passage from boyhood into adulthood is captured in an
affecting sequence. The camera shows a broken mirror hanging on the
frame of an open door, which reflects the face of Vojta lathering up his
face. This image is followed by a shot of a man’s hand sharpening a razor.
It is then shown in a medium-shot that the person readying the razor is
Vojta’s father. The man’s hand checks the sharpness of the razor, and, in
a close-up, meets with the boy’s hand: Vojta accepts the gift. In the following
scene, the boy is shaving for the first time, carefully observed by
his father. The scene changes into a close-up of Vojta’s back and a grasshook,
which the suddenly arrived Tonka (who, as is later revealed, is having
a sexual relationship with the boy) uses to gently prod his skin. Ash
falls off the father’s cigar, and Vojta cuts his face. “Some man, you are,”
exclaims Tonka (Vávra 1966, my translation). The shaving, the hands of
the boy and his father, the handing over of the instrument, the acceptance
of the gift along with the symbolic acceptance of the responsibility
for one’s own life—all of these fragments form a complex metaphor of
the transcendence from boyhood into adulthood (Fig. 4.2).
The theme of life’s finality is embodied by Vojta’s grandfather,
a stroke victim divorced from reality and living in an imaginary world
inhabited by long-gone friends. It was this motif that captivated Vávra:
I was “taken” by Hrubín’s poem immediately after it was published …
[T]here was an image I could not get out of my mind: a boy who walks
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with death. The connection between the boy and his grandfather, who is
already outside this life, affected me so strongly that one day we decided to
find a form in which this could be expressed. (Fiala 1967, 4, my translation)
Vojta, whom his grandfather calls “Mr. Berka”—the name of a pub
owner he used to know—accompanies him on his walks around the village
and beyond. In the heat of summer the old man walks around wearing
a heavy coat, a scarf, a hat, and gloves because he worries about the
cold. In one scene in the film, they walk along an overgrown passage,
with the summer countryside buzzing with the sounds of insects, birds,
and other animals. The grandfather stops by some bushes, bows before
them, and greets the dead, talking to them, with Vojta acting out the
other side of the conversation:
Fig. 4.2  Romance for Flugelhorn. Vojta, walking with his grandfather. Romance
pro křídlovku (Romance for Flugelhorn; Otakar Vávra 1966)
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Grandfather:	 You’re getting younger and younger, Madam Head Forester.
How do you do it?
Vojta:	 You are dreaming, my old man. Why, I am dead already.
Grandfather:	 Oh, really! You see, you are ever so pretty. (Vávra 1966, my
translation)
In the following shot the two men’s faces fill the frame. The camera
focuses on the old man, who gazes absently into the distance. The focus
then shifts to Vojta, who—as a cutaway shot shows—is thinking about
Tonka and, prompted by the memory, he leans his head back, laughing.
Both of the young people (Vojta and Tonka) belong in the landscape the
film composes from close-up shots of nettles, grasses, and flowers, while
the old man is being inexorably drawn away from it. Nature’s noises—
the buzzing of the bees, flies, and other insects—signify the sounds of
life for the younger man. The grandfather, however, constricts his face in
terror—different symbols come to his mind: flies buzzing over an already
dead body. This aspect of the film was noted by Marie Mravcová:
The film Romance for Flugelhorn gained in emotional force and lifelike
intensity by including the cold-fearing figure of the old man, whose physical
body is already working towards its end, into the sensory profusion
of the summer countryside with its overgrown vegetation and choirs of
insects. (Mravcová 1989, 48, my translation)
Vojta and his grandfather eventually reach the river, and in another iterative
allusion to ancient mythology the grandfather goes on about a ferryman
who can bring them to the other side, who can bring them home.
Here it seems that Charon will not ferry the grandfather to the underworld—his
earthly departure includes a symbolic return home, a notion
that is ultimately fulfilled.
Vávra takes advantage of the audio-visual medium of film in order to
separate the sounds of nature present in the sequence. Human mortality is
accentuated by its connection to the buzzing of flies. Vojta, enchanted by
nature, hears noises that converge into a “choir of life.” His grandfather,
meanwhile, continues to only hear flies—impending death skews his perception
of the world. Afterwards, as he is alone, waiting by the river, the camera
shows a close-up shot of a fern leaf and horsetail plants emerging from darkness.
A buzzing sound overtakes the score, and the parallel of human existence
and natural processes reminds the viewers that the old man is nearing
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the end of his life. The insistent buzzing is only drowned out by the hum of
the river, rushing over the naked bodies of Vojta and Tonka; unrestrained
vitality opposes death, despite—or maybe because—of having death in sight.
In the film’s conclusion the boy comes into close contact with death;
his passage from boyhood to manhood is complete. Shortly before his
death the grandfather emerges from his delusions and reminiscences. He
finally recognizes the boy, and he asks after his father—the grandfather’s
son. He then asks Vojta to light a lamp. He is an old man wandering
through the darkness, asking for light. A kerosene lamp cuts through the
murk, the camera pans over the house’s interior, and the old man finally
recognizes the home he strove to go back to. The shrubbery, which
once displayed chimeras of the dead in the countryside, returns to its
true nature—the grandfather proclaims: “We should shear the elderberry
bushes in the garden; there’s not enough light” (Vávra 1966, my translation).
He dies a moment later. The notion of home is significant here, as
it is no longer associated with the darkness of the grandfather’s confused
mind, but it now means light. The room is no longer shrouded in darkness,
and the buzzing of the flies has ceased. The grandfather departs
peacefully, leaving his grandson at a pivotal point in life.10
In a close-up, Vojta’s hand touches the old man’s forehead, flinching
as the boy realizes that his grandfather has died. He is now the one holding
the light, while his ancestor has just passed into the realm of darkness.
Vojta, taken by surprise, looks upon the dead body, placing his
hand on his grandfather’s chest, and is distracted by a rattling clock. He
directs his gaze at it, and the camera pans smoothly over a grandfather
clock. The scene emphasizes our helplessness when it comes to the passage
of time. The ticking permeates the house. It is heard all the while
as the boy accompanies his grandfather on their walks (some of them
take place inside, the grandfather is very disoriented and cannot really tell
the difference), as he prepares his body for burial, and then afterwards
as he talks to his father. There is no escape from the clock within the
house—there is no shelter from the cycle of emergence and departure.
The absence of the boy’s mother, who had probably already died, accentuates
the male family lineage, and the particular relationship between
father and son, ever changing throughout various phases of life. The
sequence culminates when Vojta’s father returns to the house and finds
his own father dead. The camera shows his tired, aging face leaning over
the body, the face of the grandfather, and the face of the baffled Vojta.
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The boy, the father, and the grandfather share an unavoidable fate: they
have all been sentenced to the finality of human existence.
After his grandfather’s death, Vojta first runs to Terina, to meet her
by the water where they sometimes met and where they wanted to leave
from together. He is too early, and the girl is not there; he returns home.
The following sequence is shot as though the camera were standing, in
awe, over the limp, dead body. Vojta is then seen carrying a kerosene
lamp, a water bowl, and a towel—he is preparing to wash the old man’s
body. The film does not ruminate on the boy’s feelings—it addresses the
general human situation and states plainly that the boy knows what to
do. But who taught him? While the first rite of passage—shaving—was
performed under the supervision of his father, Vojta is left alone for this
final rite. The camera shows, with a rough concreteness, Vojta undressing
and washing his grandfather: it shows close-ups of the inert body, the
twisted arms being fitted into the sleeves of a clean shirt and a jacket—
while the soundtrack is filled with the boy’s strained, weary breathing
and the clock’s ticking.11
Vávra made an effort to express a stance towards the boy’s decision
to return to the house. He may look for the girl, but his actions signify
his hesitation—he does not know where to go. In one moment he is
seen standing by a caravan, and Terina’s voice can be heard from outside
the frame, saying “whatever will happen to us—we are together after all”
(Vávra 1966, my translation). The chosen medium-shot accentuates the
boy’s figure and generates a distance from the carnival people’s world.
Vojta turns his head towards home, and the next shot already shows the
dead grandfather’s face and the clocks are heard, ticking. Vojta’s abandonment
of the girl is treated very differently than it was in Vávra’s previous
Hrubín adaptation, The Golden Queening, in which the protagonist
abandons a girl in order to escape a conflict, making a decision that
would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The Uncommon in the Common
While writing the treatment that preceded the screenplay, Hrubín transposed
his poetic creation into another genre, but with the intention of
preserving the poem’s emotional impact on the reader.
In the film treatment as well as in the screenplay, which Hrubín and
Vávra co-authored, the roles of the authors can be perceived as Hrubín
described them:
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[I] get on well with Otakar Vávra, even though my tendency towards the
poetic may clash with Vávra’s demands of precise dramatic construction.
Otakar Vávra has a very particular system of work, which I sometimes
resent, but at the same time I feel respect towards it. I am an element
which will disturb that system. (Hořec 1966, 21, my translation)
The writers created a film treatment that centers around the visual experience.
Hrubín interacted with his own poem as a reader, and the verbal
metaphors he created are now re-imagined visually. He writes in terms of
long shots, medium shots, and close-up shots, and the rhythm—though
still related to the work’s literary composition—becomes a symbiosis of
the verbal and the audio-visual. His vision of the film encompasses plain
takes of a landscape or a human face. Darkness is penetrated by a flashlight’s
beam or a kerosene lamp’s calm glow, which reveal pieces of the
world to the reader; the playful imagination of the filmmakers concentrates
on the reflection of the sunlight on the trembling geraniums, forests
of nettles whipped by starlight, a thickening milky light.
In transposing his text from paper to celluloid, Hrubín also develops
the story’s acoustic realm. He endows sound with a spatial aspect:
the flugelhorn’s call repeatedly reaches the sky, it rebounds and returns
back to people; it changes—the melody is gentle and feeble at one point,
and it thunders at another. The countryside can be an overwhelming
aural experience. Chirping crickets bring the landscape to life. At times
they act as a terrible insect choir; however, at other moments, when
they “wrest the most striking sounds” from the distant fair songs and
“extend them to the stars,” they embellish human melodies (Hrubín
1965, 22).
Hrubín’s aesthetics is not therefore based on harmonizing gestures:
ordinary life and its joys are permanently under threat. Vojta’s grandfather
is trapped between the world of the living and the world of the
dead; he gazes intently, and at great length, at the “cream-colored elderflowers”
(Hrubín 1965, 18, my translation), he smiles at them and talks
to them, as though he were searching for the same thing that his grandson
will be searching for in 30 years in the darkening burdock leaves: the
ghost of the past. In Hrubín’s poetry, various forms of death make themselves
relentlessly present, constantly emphasizing life’s finiteness and
frailty.
These base existential notions were adopted by Vávra, who, in a return
to simpler cinematic techniques, chose to shoot a black-and-white film
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with a standard aspect ratio; his previous Hrubín adaptation August
Sunday was shot as a wide-angle color film. This earlier film was typical
of his previous work, in which he strove for expression by promoting
color, mass scenes, and elaborate sets and costumes. Thus in the context
of his career, Romance for Flugelhorn is a modest, unassuming film. This
shift in modes of expression, which represents change within the filmmaker’s
poetics as well as the aesthetic norms of Czech cinema at the
time, was encouraged by young and original-minded members of the
film crew, such as cameraman Andrej Barla.12
The film’s cinematographic modesty contributed to its affecting portrayal
of the travelling carnival employees’ lives, which, alongside the
areas they inhabit, are presented void of any romance. One of the central
settings of the adaptation is a dusty carnival ground placed right next
to the cemetery. The impermanent nature of the carnival people’s home
marks a pointed contrast between their world and the world of the village.
In one scene, as Vojta is walking by with his grandfather, he sees
Terina holding a small child in her arms. He takes hold of her hand and
tries to cajole her into meeting him at the pond, away from this poor
desolate place void of privacy. We see her mother mending clothes
in front of the open caravan, her father sharpening knives, and Viktor
making air rifle projectiles. As the boy and the grandfather walk away,
two industrious villagers pass fleetingly through the shot. People hurrying
after work represent movement and function as a synecdoche of a
life spent in everyday caring for a household, while the carnival folks sit
around among their rummage.
Another scene examines the poverty of Terina’s environment in
greater detail. Here we witness her father, sharpening his knives, shouting
at her prohibiting nightly wanderings. Viktor tells him that he is
too weak to deal with the girl, and that he could take care of her himself.
The camera watches both men as they neglect their work at hand,
capturing the tense atmosphere of their exchange. The father does not
want to give Terina to Viktor yet; to him she is still too young. But the
mother, suddenly entering the dialogue, says: “Some child [she is]—
you went after me when I wasn’t even fifteen” (Vávra 1966, my translation).
The stronger of the men—Viktor—announces that he wants to
marry Terina and asks her parents for their permission. The agreement
between Terina’s father and Viktor is shown with a subtext of social criticism.
First, Terina is shown taking down laundry. While she folds one of
the sheets, a horse’s rear end appears, and she leans against it, listening,
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with her head bowed, to her parents’ reproaches. The horse/girl parallel
conveys the position of a girl who is to be treated as an animal for
sale. Shots of the two men follow, and Terina is shown only when Viktor
gains advantage over the father, saying: “I don’t want to wait anymore;
there is a priest at the next stop” (Vávra 1966, my translation). There is
a medium shot of Terina appearing behind a bed sheet. The girl observes
passively as the men agree on her fate. A dramatic play of details and
fragments manifests itself in a shot with the men in the foreground, and
Terina, slightly blurred, in the background. In the front, her father has
just promised her to Viktor, while in the back the girl is taking laundry
down from the clothesline strung among the horses. There is a closeup
of the girl’s face, followed by a shot of the mother sitting in front
of the caravan, and then the camera returns to the men. Terina is being
denied the freedom to choose her own way of life. She is unable to exit
the closed environment she is in and enter another world. The image of
Terina as an object is finalized when Viktor, back in front of his caravan,
shouts out her name in order to compel her to do a task for him. He is
beginning to decide for her. The detailed shot of the girl’s face is partially
covered by her hair as she leans over the laundry basket, but the
close-up clearly shows the terrified eyes of a child.
Both the poem and the film present various models of love and death.
The adaptation deals with the issue of loneliness and emotional disillusionment,
and at the same time it emphasizes the importance of interpersonal
bonds. It is one of the reasons why Vojta’s fragile relationship with
Terina begins at the moment when the dull village center is alive with
the hustle of the carnival. The camera shows the internal workings of the
swing ride by focusing on the legs of the men who operate it. As the
swing ride seats begin to fly through the air, they are carrying two young
people, whose bodies flash around the wall of the cemetery, as a number
of headstones come into sight. The screenplay pairs the dying down of
the carnival with the weak light of the lightbulbs, which is confronted
with suddenly ignited emotions; love mixes with death, and the moving
images and the music elicit the awareness of the ephemeral nature
of life. The people flying through the air, as well as those watching them
from the ground, all participate in the symbolic expression of the human
desire to overcome one’s limits.
The swing ride motif is pivotal for the story because the film character
of Terina emerges nearby: she is walking barefoot on the swing
ride’s floor, calling out for people to have a ride. She does not share
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the pragmatism of her father, whose motive for staying in the village is
only business. Terina compels the villagers to enter an illusion of a journey
into mysterious and remote lands, a journey to the imaginary land
of Mindjapoor. The village fair, the carnival, and exotic people entering
briefly into the village’s community and traditional culture—all this creates
a counterbalance to the uniformness of everyday life.
As mentioned above, one scene shows the flight of the young people
in love on the swing ride: Vojta is in the seat, Terina jumps aboard and
stands behind him. The camera focuses on the young characters, showing
first Terina, then Vojta, and the girl’s legs being clutched by the boy
as though he were trying to prevent her from falling. Their movement is
accompanied by Viktor playing his flugelhorn, which has begun to resonate
throughout the place. The diegetic music then changes into nondiegetic,
the opening scene’s motif returns, and a slowed-down variation
harmonizes the audience’s experience. The story of two young people in
love is no longer taking place in the world of everyday concerns—it transcends
into an enclosed world, and, for a brief moment, there is no ill
grandfather, no travelling carnival life, no unwelcome suitor. In the flight
of the swing ride, the image of the world’s limited horizon comes forward
as its movement connects the headstones to the country, the trees
to people, and everything is flying around, ever changing. The audiovisual
medium’s means of expression allow the audience to discover the
sensory experience of Vojta and Terina, as well as capturing the flying
passage of time. The close relationship of the body to the earth (Kožmín
1995, 477), the recurrent motifs of love and death, all is given a new
life. In the stream of motifs, the motif of wings stands out (“my wings
unfolded in your blood,” [Hrubín 1962, 16, my translation]). This
motif carries multiple meanings: from the first, uplifting sexual experience,
to the breaking of wings and a fall. This symbolism connects the
adaptation further to ancient mythology, recalling stories of the human
desire to fly (both Phaethon and Icarus fall from heavenly heights).
Terina arrives with the swing ride, and ultimately she leaves with it.
While in the night, she still had hope for leaving the constricted world
of the carnival and beginning a new life with Vojta. The night escape,
however, is marred by the grandfather’s death. As the boy dresses the
dead body for the coffin, Terina waits for him in vain. The girl is eventually
found in the dark village by Viktor, who drags the terrified girl into
his caravan, saying that “your mother made your bed at my place” (Vávra
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1966, my translation). Terina thus definitively becomes a mere object,
her fate having been decided by her parents.
The scenes from the morning following the fateful night were used
by the film’s creators to show harsh images conveying feelings of loneliness
and alienation. Those sentiments are created on two levels, first of
them containing the carnival’s departure and the second one showing
the arrival of Vojta’s father to the house where the dead grandfather is
laid out. In the scenes covering the end of the fair, Terina and Viktor
are shown packing the swing ride’s boards covered in naïve imagery (a
young woman with a blissful expression, two lovers, etc.). These images
had a different role in the beginning, wherein they represented stories
about romance, disappearing and reappearing with the movement of the
swing ride, communicating the cyclical nature of interpersonal relationships.
These image boards are now being roughly thrown on the board
of a trailer. Each thump, which resoundingly disturbs the melody of the
waltz, and each view of the images on the boards, which Terina struggles
with in bringing them to the trailer, come together to convey the falling
nature of human life, present in the Icarus myth. The desire for change
is replaced by disappointment and defeat. Terina’s expression conveys an
untimely loss of illusions, brokenness, and resignation.
Terina’s only way out is ultimately found in death, about which we
learn right at the beginning of the film. According to Viktor, Terina
accepted it willingly: “We couldn’t get her to the doctor. She struggled
with all her might. She probably wanted to die” (Vávra 1966, my translation).
This shift from the text of the poem further demonstrates the way
the film builds its romantic gesture. In the poem, the girl is frequently
connected with stars, in a probable allusion to the work of the Czech
Romantic poet Karel Hynek Mácha. The girl, whom the poetic images
shroud in the light of the moon and the stars, meets a tragic end—she
dies of diphtheria. It is only the film’s narrative that implies a motive
for dying, thus creating a romantic image of dying for a wasted love.
Both the poem and the film then contain the allegorical message that all
human desire is condemned to destruction.
The last time Vojta sees Terina alive she is being taken away from him
on Viktor’s trailer. Vojta tries to get her attention, but she seems to be
submerged in a deep melancholy and does not respond. Viktor then uses
his whip to chase Vojta away from the moving trailer. The final images of
the departing caravans and the close-up of Terina’s tear-stained face are
accompanied by the sound of the flugelhorn, which transports the viewer
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back to the aged Vojta and Viktor, standing in the dark Lešany village
square, each lost in their own emotions.
The poem, which strove to convey an allegorical account of human
life, love, and death, comes to the conclusion that the gift of life, passed
from father to son, is only bearable if one is not alone. This sentiment
may be reduced in the film, but its resonance with Hrubín’s thematic
principles is ultimately quite apparent. Vávra managed to put into moving
images and sounds a perspective which contained various aspects of life,
such as introspection, the experience of loneliness, self-reflection, uncertainty,
and the encounter with one’s first love and death. The film closes
with a long shot of Vojta walking through the quiet village. The cricket
choir resonating throughout the summer night is joined by new nondiegetic
motifs, soothing the emotions heightened by the experienced
memory. The close-up shot of the man’s face seen from below shows
change: his previously tense gestures have slackened, and his expression
is now peaceful. The changes in the physiognomy of the main protagonist
are accompanied by the sunrise: the night is over. The following
shot shows a church at daybreak and a calmly flowing river. This fulfils
the allegorical message of the film: human life is bound to the passage of
time, and its purpose is in its continuation through further generations.
Notes
	 1. The following quotation illustrates the expressive language of Vančura’s
Marketa Lazarová: “There is noise in the nature of wars. Pivo’s yells
are the loudest; he is yelling and his voice hurls his soldiers hither and
thither, his voice tells of the monstrosity of the attack. The rank of a hetman!
What a splendid way to turn a boor into a gentleman” (Vančura
1931, 114–115, my translation). This fictional situation is commented
on by screenwriter František Pavlíček, who describes the “imaginationprovoking
scene” not only as unfilmable, but even as “anti-cinematic”
(Přádná 2009, 347).
	 2. Young directors associated with the Czech New Wave wrote an open letter
to Vláčil, reflecting on the situation of the film artist:
			 When someone makes a film, and they make it with such a passion as
you do, they will always end up alone, no matter the happy or unhappy
fate of their work. This cannot be changed by viewers, festivals, or critics.
We are writing this letter to thank you for the experience which you have
given us in Marketa Lazarová. We know how demanding it is to direct
a feature film, but we cannot even imagine the effort that you and your
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collaborators had to put forward in order for the adaptation to become
more than a historical film. Filmmakers rarely realize their dreams, maybe
once in a lifetime. You have realized yours with Marketa. You have made
a film that festivals have so far avoided. It will probably not become a
popular hit either, as its beauty, while not exclusive, is one of the rare values
that one does not receive for free. We wish that many people should
find their way to your film, but even if there are only a few, we consider
ourselves happy to count ourselves among them. (Jireš et al. 1967, 1, my
translation).
	 3. As Czech literary historian Vladimír Macura has shown, the manuscripts
were significant at the time of their “discovery,” as these patriotic forgeries
became an “integral element in the construction of the ideals of Czech
culture” (Macura 1995, 110, my translation).
	 4. Various works of art allude to these manuscripts (e.g., the music of
Zdeněk Fibich and Antonín Dvořák, the art of Mikoláš Aleš); remarkable
among them is the film adaptation of the prose Babička (The
Grandmother, 1855) by Božena Němcová, directed by Antonín Moskalyk
in 1971.
	 5. The story alludes to the old Slavic god Perun, who the manuscripts
describe as “truth-giving,” “truth-revealing,” and “valiant.”
	 6. Zdena Škapová used this scene to demonstrate how events in Marketa
Lazarová are conveyed from a subjective perspective:
			Vláčil is not particularly interested in the certainly dramatic happenings
in Boleslav, but he concentrates all his inventiveness on the night journey:
the darkness is only penetrated by the fallen snow. The camera, mimicking
the gaze of the exhausted Kozlík, is running through the woods…
bowing to look at animal tracks, turning sharply and quickly backwards,
jumps shakily up and down, as Kozlík totters speedily from the wolf pack
that is pursuing him. The transfocator’s ride from the walls of Roháček,
in the opposite direction of his run, lets the audience experience his anxiety
(he feels as though a safe haven is not getting any closer), and it also
amplifies the suggestively chanted whispers, sharp and unintelligible,
which underscore the scene in place of realistic sounds, and which also
suggest a feeling of the thumping and the churning of blood inside his
head. And the negotiations in Boleslav? In this part they are only present
in Kozlík’s barely intelligible and incomprehensible mumblings, and several
fleeting, fragmented, mostly pantomimic flashbacks running through
his mind first in the forest, and then at home in his bed. (Škapová 1998,
13, my translation).
	 7. Vláčil’s Marketa Lazarová has been called a spiritual work, similar to
Andrei Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev: The conviction about the films’ congeniality
had its roots in the film clubs of the 1970s and 1980s. However,
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in contrast to Andrei Rublev, whose message is globally comprehensible,
Marketa Lazarová has only remained “a cult film” in the context of
Czech cinema (Blažejovský 2007, 225, my translation).
	 8. Existentialism was one of the artistic movements panned by Communist
propaganda as “bourgeois art” because its ideas subverted the hierarchy
of collective norms sought after by the Communist dictatorship.
	 9. František Hrubín aptly described the renaissance of private values: “[I]
think that many viewers miss films with romantic, naïve plots (I am not
afraid to use these taboo attributes), which deal with the ordinary drama
of two young people, ever repeating itself in thousands of variations, that
always contain a great deal of poetry” (Hořec 1966, 21, my translation).
	 10. The adaptation thus commits to a significant shift in ideas––its semantics
is extended to religious motifs. It seems as though the film recalled
Hrubín’s earlier poetry, which included poems permeated by the consciousness
of a divine order and family succession (e.g., Včelí plást, “Bee
comb,” 1940).
	 11. The portrayal of death was criticized at the time of the adaptation’s first
showing, but A.J. Liehm brought a new perspective:
			 Some will criticize Vávra for going too far in the passage where the boy
is alone with the dead man and prepares him for the burial. I, however,
respect Vávra for this because I know that this passage took nerve: it signifies
taking the poetic principle to its extreme. And it is in this passage…
that its validity is confirmed. It is one of the moments which occur in art
in order for further steps to be possible. In this respect Vávra has merit
within Czech film, which has always feared that which is called naturalism.
Vávra, such a Czech director and poet, along with František Hrubín,
whose Czech-ness was never doubted, light-heartedly lets go of this
taboo and helps us from the pair of baby booties we have been unwilling
to shed since the previous century (Liehm 1967, 237, my translation).
	 12. The choice of cameraman interested period critics: “Barla transformed his
camera into a poetic instrument, which is able to discover poetry in a carnival
melee, as well as in a look of the eyes, in a landscape, and at the river
bank just the same” (AN 1967, 5, my translation).
Works Cited
AN. 1967. Romance pro křídlovku. Lidová demokracie, March 2.
Barrandov Studio a.s., archiv (BSA), sbírka: Scénáře a produkční dokumenty,
Film: Marketa Lazarová, Výrobní list, str. 3, 28. 1. 1967.
Blažejovský, Jaromír. 2007. Spiritualita ve filmu. Brno: Centrum pro studium
demokracie a kultury.
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166  P. BUBENÍČEK
Blažejovský, Jaromír. 2008. Dobové tance kolem života a díla Otakara Vávry. Web. 2
September 2014. http://www.ucl.cas.cz/edicee/data/sborniky/2008/SMVII/
32.pdf.
Cieslar, Jiří. 2003. Kočky na Atalantě. Praha: AMU.
Fiala, Miloš. 1967. Báseň jako film. Rudé právo March 5.
Francl, Gustav. 1967. Slovo v obraz proměněné, FTN November 29.
Hames, Peter. 2004. Marketa Lazarová. In The Cinema of Central Europe, ed.
Peter Hames, 151–161. London: Wallflower Press.
Holý, Jiří. 2002. Možnosti interpretace. Olomouc: Periplum.
Hořec, Petr. 1966. Hrubínův zpěv o lásce a smrti „Romance pro křídlovku“ ve
filmovém přepisu. Květy 47: 20–21.
Hrubín, František. 1962. Romance pro křídlovku. Praha: Československý spisova-
tel.
Hrubín, František. 1965. Romance pro křídlovku – filmová povídka. Praha:
Československý státní film.
Hrivňáková, Olga. 1984. Filmová řeč se podobá poezii. Kmen 17: 4.
Jireš, Jaromil, Miloš Forman, and Ivan Passner. 1967. Milý Františku Vláčile.
FTN October 18.
Kožmín, Zdeněk. 1995. Studie a kritiky. Brno: Torst.
Kožmín, Zdeněk. 1968. Styl Vančurovy prózy. Brno: Universita J. E. Purkyně.
Kudela, Petr. 1967. Odpovídá režisér Vávra. Červený květ 3: 30–31.
Liehm, A. J. 1967. Na dlouhé trati aneb Myšlenky nad Romancí. Film a doba 5:
234–237.
Macura, Vladimír. 1993. Neznámý básník Května—Jaromír Jermář. In Časopis
Květen a jeho doba, ed. Bohumil Svozil, 36–40. Praha: Ústav pro českou lit-
eraturu.
Macura, Vladimír. 1995. Znamení zrodu. Jinočany: H&H.
Mravcová, Marie. 1989. Romance pro křídlovku aneb Jak se z básně zrodil film.
Iluminace 2: 38–62.
Mukařovský, Jan. 2006. Vančurův vypravěč. Praha: Akropolis.
Ovidius, Publius Naso. 1915. Metamorphoses. ed. Rudolfus Ehwald. Lipsiae:
Teubner.
Přádná, Stanislava. 2009. František Pavlíček o Marketě Lazarové. In Marketa
Lazarová: Studie a dokumenty, ed. Petr Gajdošík, 345–362. Praha:
Casablanca.
Strusková, Eva. 1997. O věcech trvalých a pomíjivých. Film a doba 4: 167–176.
Szczepanik, Petr. 2012. “Machři” a “diletanti”. Základní jednotky filmové praxe
v době reorganizací a politických zvratů 1945 až 1962. In Naplánovaná kinematografie:
český filmový průmysl 1945 až 1960, ed. Pavel Skopal, 27–101.
Praha: Academia.
Škapová, Zdena. 1998. Literární a filmová podoba Markety Lazarové.
In Marketa Lazarová, ed. Stanislav Ulver, 7–21. Praha: Sdružení přátel
odborného filmového tisku.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
4  ADAPTATION AS CHALLENGE: MARKETA LAZAROVÁ …  167
Škapová, Zdena. 2002. Cesty k moderní filmové poetice. In Démanty všednosti:
Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně, ed. Jan Dvořák, 11–148.
Praha: Pražská scéna.
Träger, Josef. 1970. S básníkem o filmu. Hodinka s národním umělcem
Františkem Hrubínem. Záběr, January 8.
Vančura, Vladislav. 1931. Markéta Lazarová. Praha: Sfinx.
Vávra, Otakar. 2011. Paměti aneb Moje filmové století. Praha: BVD.
Žalman, Jan. 1990. Umlčený film. Kapitoly z bojů o lidskou tvář
československého filmu. III. Film a doba 5: 260–267.
Films Cited
Andrei Rublev. Dir. Andrei Tarkovsky. Soviet Union. 1966. Movie.
Babička (Grandmother). Dir. Antonín Moskalyk. Czechoslovakia: Československý
státní film. 1971. Movie.
Filosofská historie (A Philosophical Story). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Czechoslovakia.
1937. Movie.
Marketa Lazarová (Marketa Lazarová). Dir. František Vláčil. Czechoslovakia.
1967. Movie.
Panenství (Virginity). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Czechoslovakia. 1937. Movie.
Romance pro křídlovku (Romance for Flugelhorn). Dir. Otakar Vávra.
Czechoslovakia. 1966. Movie.
Srpnová neděle (August Sunday). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Czechoslovakia. 1960.
Movie.
Světlo proniká tmou (The Light Penetrates the Dark). Dir. Otakar Vávra and
František Pilát. Czechoslovakia. Movie.
Zlatá reneta (The Golden Queening). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Czechoslovakia. 1965.
Movie.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
169
The essayist Pavel Švanda has aptly characterized the 1960s, when the
last adaptation to be studied, was created: “I think that the most significant
experience of the period was that we could ultimately see the
political scene in motion with our own eyes…” (Švanda 2006, 174, my
translation). He recalls how an idea that had been to that point in time
absolutely impermissible began to spread through society—that the politicians
who ruled the country were not supposed to answer to themselves,
but to the public. In his opinion these reflections on political
accountability are the most important legacy of 1968. Švanda also turns
his attention to two groups within the Communist party—­convinced
dogmatists and reform-minded, progressive “comrades”; he sees, however,
no fundamental difference between party ideologues and those who
had deviated from the hardliners: “They were all Communists. They
believed in ‘world revolution.’ If they did indeed differ, it was only in
their opinions on the methods with which they wanted to accomplish
and maintain global domination” (Švanda 2006, 175, my translation).
The changing political scene, the return of political prisoners from jail,
and the transformation of Stalinists into progressive Communists are
themes that play an important role in this study.
The generational novel, whose sub-plots play out in 1950s and 1960s
Czechoslovakia, acquired special importance in the politically relaxed
climate of the 1960s. Novels addressing the recent past and the present
offered space for criticizing the Stalinist system and the wrongs that were
committed in implementing dictatorial policies. One such novel is Milan
CHAPTER 5
Adaptation as a Reflection of the Zeitgeist
© The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0_5
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170  P. BUBENÍČEK
Kundera’s The Joke, whose publication in 1967 was a first-rate literary
event, as this book deals with how a dictatorial system based on Marxism–
Leninism destroys its enemies. The book does not contain an extensive
reflection that sheds light on a society-wide coming to grips with the past,
but it clearly “diagnoses” the period. The central theme in Kundera’s The
Joke is a mechanically directed society in which a man is condemned to
do that which his surroundings force him to do. The protagonist, who
assumes he can become the master of his own fate, fails in the end, as he
is just a cog in the totalitarian machine. His antithesis is an opportunistic
politician who changes positions with the blowing wind—a former
Stalinist firebrand and who later becomes a progressive Communist.
When the book was originally published, and later after 1968 when
footage of Prague streets occupied by Russian soldiers circled the globe,
The Joke was read as a critique of Stalinist Czechoslovakia (Chvatík 1994,
13). As Guy Scarpetta recalls, the book was published in France not long
after the military intervention, and readers read it “two-dimensionally,
strictly politically,” and in its day The Joke was mainly regarded as a testimony
to resistance against the Communist regime (Scarpetta 2012,
162). In the epilogue to the post-Velvet Revolution edition of 1991, the
novelist writes that at the time it riled up critics, who in this book, which
reflects the European spirit, saw a political pamphlet. In the early 1990s,
when Kundera had a thoroughly developed concept of the novel genre,
he placed pragmatic values over artistic ones. This nonetheless changes
nothing about the fact that when it was first published The Joke was read
as a socially and politically topical book:
Milan Kundera’s cruelly ironic mirror has a number of surfaces, big and
small, that are masterfully synchronized so they reflect an image, a testimony
to our dogmatic period, of unjust years, when great and sublime
words masked low and villainous deeds, when false official optimism
patched the mournful reality that was the degradation of human individuality
on to a manipulable instrument of power. (Obermeierová 1969, 4,
my translation)
Both the book and the film tell the story of Ludvík Jahn, a man who
cannot simply forget what he has experienced. Undoubtedly, many readers
and viewers recognized their own plight in both the textual and
audio-visual versions of this work. It was impossible to rid oneself of the
Stalinist 1950s. It still lived in them; it had become a part of them.
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  171
As opposed to Kundera’s later novels, The Joke does not take place
in the timeless arena of the imagination, but in the midst of a real time
that the author knew very well. In 1948, when the Communists came
to power, 19-year-old Kundera finished secondary school in Brno,
started studying at the Faculty of Arts, Charles University, and joined the
Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. Two years later, his party membership
was revoked, only to be renewed again in 1956. He spent the 1950s
at the film school, FAMU (Academy of Performing Arts) in Prague, first
as a student of film and screenwriting and then as a lecturer of world literature.
By the mid-1950s he had published the poetry collection Člověk
zahrada širá (Man: A Wide Garden, 1953) and the poem “Poslední máj”
(The Last May, 1955), which bore the influence of contemporary poetics.
He later became a critic of the regime, which culminated in his speech at
the Congress of the Czechoslovak Writers Union of 1967. Here he publicly
stood up for Czechoslovak filmmakers by reading a message from
the Czechoslovak Film and Television Artists Union criticizing the insensitive
interventions the authorities had made in art through censorship.
The novel The Joke was brought to the silver screen by director
Jaromil Jireš, a member of the “Czech New wave.” Jaromil Jireš had
already written the screenplay with Kundera in 1967, and filming began
a year later; that is, at the height of political-cultural change. The film
was finished after the August Warsaw Pact invasion and was released
in early 1969. Just like the novel, this film adaptation also bears testimony
to the social situation in 1950s and 1960s Czechoslovakia.1 The
film examined and hinted at how the Stalinist machine had destroyed the
promising existence of an individual and how history had played a cruel
joke at his expense. The adaptation of Kundera’s The Joke demonstrates
how society reflects itself in a social and historical study, filled with criticism
and polemics.
The film revolves around the story of Ludvík Jahn. Not long after
the February revolution and the installment of Communist dictatorship,
Ludvík, a young Communist, sends a postcard to his girlfriend with the
short message: “Optimism is the opium of the people. A healthy atmosphere
stinks of stupidity! Long live Trotsky” (Jireš 1968, my translation).
In doing so, he is responding to her naive enthusiasm and the ideological
cliché with which she described to him her experiences from a
Czechoslovak Union of Youth camp. He was, of course, also encroaching
upon the “most sacred ideals” of the revolution. The girl informs
on him, and Ludvík is expelled from the Party as well as from school. As
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172  P. BUBENÍČEK
a politically unreliable person, he is assigned to a penal battalion. Thus,
he spends his youth in the mines and in jail. His desire to avenge an old
wrong is the main motif of the film.
The 1960s find Ludvík returning to his hometown after many years.
Here he has arranged a meeting with Helena, the wife of university classmate
and the former chairman of the school’s Party organization—Pavel
Zemánek. Pavel was largely responsible for Ludvík’s expulsion from
school and the Party, and Ludvík now plans to exact his revenge by
sleeping with his wife. In a borrowed apartment he succeeds in seducing
Helena. Later, Helena is reporting on a traditional folk music festival,
which is also attended by Pavel Zemánek—now an enthusiastic reform
Communist—accompanied by a young female student. Ludvík thus discovers
that Zemánek’s marriage to Helena has been a mere formality for
years and realizes that his act of vengeance has fallen flat. He then rejects
Helena, who is unable to recover from this new loss and attempts suicide,
but ends up taking a laxative by mistake. The story ends at an awkward
impasse. Any attempt at undoing old wrongs is hopeless. Revenge
cannot be had for past wrongs because Ludvík has already found himself
in another time and is fighting something that no longer exists.
The structure of Kundera’s book, as opposed to the adaption, draws
from a polyphony of voices into which the author inserts a diversity of
recollections and reflections.2 The characters Ludvík, Helena, Jaroslav,
and Kostka figure in the plot. I have not yet mentioned the last two,
so a brief description is called for here. Jaroslav is a dreamy lover of
traditional folk music, and in the novel he acts as a counterweight to
“Ludvík’s big city rationalism” (Chvatík 1994, 49, my translation).
Kostka is a character trying to live a Christian life full of forgiveness
and in accordance with God’s will. In the symmetrically organized fictional
world (cf. Blahynka 1967, 52), Ludvík has the main role; we hear
his voice in three chapters, whereas the other characters each have one
chapter to themselves, each telling their story in the first person. At
the end, we encounter the alternating perspectives of Ludvík, Jaroslav,
and Helena. This multi-perspective narrative is employed to examine a
diversity of human experiences during a turbulent political and social
era. Whereas some scholars have interpreted this narrative symposium
as an attack on dogmatic monologues (cf. Doležel 1973, 113), others
have noted the coherence of meanings flowing from this seemingly open
interplay of voices. For example, Milan Suchomel judges that
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  173
it’s as if the disorder of the depicted reality did not quite go together with
the a priori order of novel structuring. Despite featuring four narrators,
The Joke is homophonous. The narrators occasionally move to the wayside
to arrive in time to tell their story; one unleashes a pamphlet (one that
is against himself), another adds a number of events or dumps them into
another projection. (Suchomel 1992, 130, my translation)
The film’s screenplay does not disrupt this “homophony.” 3 The rewriting
process led to a more compact form of expression as the screenwriters left out
the four-voice narrative and emphasized the most important plot elements
as seen through Ludvík Jahn’s eyes. By transforming the text’s multi-voice
strategy into an augmented single-voice one and boiling down the plot, the
screenplay focuses on the uncertain path through life of a person forced to
come to terms with a historical wrong. This shift more clearly demonstrates
just how hopeless Ludvík’s endeavours are, as the more he wants to get
revenge on his enemy, the farther away his goal is. The new epoch in which
he has found himself is trying to forget about past events. The medium of
moving pictures grasped and artistically expressed the Central European
experience with totalitarianism.
Time and Betrayal
Starting with the first shots, the filmmakers sophisticatedly pull us into
the basic narrative themes. From the beginning it is clear that the tense
relationship between layers of time—the narrative present and the past—
will be crucial for the epical framework.4 The adaptation sets up this element
using an apt audio-visual parallel that has no basis in the novel:
the film begins with a detailed shot of the astronomical clock of the
Renaissance city hall in Olomouc. Certainly, Prague’s fifteenth-­century
astronomical clock is the most well known in the country, with its allegorical
apostle figurines, its bell-ringing grim reaper, and its crowing
cock symbolizing life’s finality. The Olomouc clock, which inspired the
filmmakers, is something else entirely; the original clock from the fifteenth
century was destroyed during World War II. It was newly built
in the early 1950s and was supposed to be unveiled alongside statues
of Lenin and Stalin during the 10-year anniversary of the city’s liberation
by the Red Army (Beneš 1955, 8). Painter Karel Svolinský designed
this Socialist Realist astronomical clock. Here, spectators will not see the
apostles, as the new clock could not embody the Christian values that
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174  P. BUBENÍČEK
the Communist regime sought to suppress. Instead, the Olomouc clock
tower is the scene of a parade of carefully conceived workers and scientists,
who embody a centralized society headed in the right direction.
These figures, engaging in various activities, represent different types
of Socialist man (and woman), who act in the spirit of the new ideals,
endeavour to give their most in predetermined economic sectors, and
fully submit themselves to the higher interests of the collective. Thus,
the adaptation is introduced by shots of a modern astronomical clock,
whose appearance proclaimed the aesthetic and ideological norms of
Communist art and which replaced Christian values, the relics of an
older time, with Communist ones.
In this introductory sequence, the figures of two blacksmiths capture
the camera’s attention; after a moment of stillness, they begin banging
their hammers on an anvil. The clock’s chiming fills out the soundtrack.
The film’s title— Žert—appears in the middle of this shot. Combining
the motif of the anvil-hammering workers with the title of the film foreshadows
Ludvík Jahn’s fateful plight after ironically joking about the
values of a new, serious era. Although Ludvík was a Communist, his
careless action put him on the other side of the barricades. The element
of subversion in both the literary and film versions of The Joke consists
in revealing how things got out of control for this young Communist,
as his situation reveals a world of false political interests. Ludvík makes
fun of an era that believed in its own authenticity and demanded people
feel the optimistic joy of living. The powers that be responded
harshly, as joking outside the narrow confines of the new social order’s
official doctrine meant disagreement, and thus anyone who dared make
fun of the regime could end up in prison. The few words Ludvík wrote
on the postcard are, in the context of a strict Marxist system, considered
anti-state activity, making him an enemy of the state. If we return
to the astronomical clock, the working class—represented by the two
blacksmith figurines coming to life—relentlessly opposes the enemies of
socialism and breaks up all conspiracies in carefully scripted show trials.
After the long introductory shot, this detail is put into a broader context,
as we can now see another section of the clock containing a rooster
in the middle, dials, and the zodiac. The camera then alternates between
moving figures appearing—and then disappearing—in a window and
the mosaic that fills out the astronomical clock’s niche. Thus, we get a
detailed view of musicians, a peasant woman, a baker, a factory worker,
a mother with a child, a government official, a male and female athlete,
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  175
a mechanic, a chemist, and finally the mentioned rooster, whose crowing
ends this exposition. The viewer is served the image of a cohesive
and closed society, in which everyone has a role to play and travels along
a predetermined path. The Olomouc astronomical clock clearly demonstrates
a preference for heavy industry and agriculture and also establishes
the position of women, who are engaged in hard work and are at
the same time mothers. The film masterfully employs another work of art
and in doing so prepares the viewer to better understand the atmosphere
of life in a totalitarian society.
The optimistic spirit of the early Communist period that is made so
clear in the astronomical clock’s design is addressed in several scenes. In
one of them, which combines authentic footage with acted-out shots, we
first see a mass celebration on Prague’s Wenceslaus Square in May 1949.
The crowd, carrying portraits of Stalin and Gottwald along with banners
espousing revolution, is shown from above in order to stress the event’s
mass nature. This shot is followed by a passage filmed for the adaption in
which young people are singing and dancing in the middle of the celebration.
They are mostly dressed in the Communist youth organization’s
uniforms, though some are wearing traditional folk costumes, and they
are singing folk songs. It is if all of society has voluntarily and collectively
stylized itself into folk prototypes, not unlike the ones that March aimlessly
on the astronomical clock.
The adapters employed the Communist-remodeled clock to establish
contrast between the new and the old, as it is directly in front of this
clock that we first encounter Ludvík Jahn as he waits for Helena; right
before our eyes, an image of narrative past and present begins to form
slowly.
To the meanings connected to the astronomical clock we can also
include the moment of betrayal, which the crowing rooster brings into
play. It is mainly Ludvík Jahn who is betrayed, by both his closest friends
and his girlfriend. Betrayal of course can be understood differently, as the
new Socialist world promised the unattainable. Despite these promises,
the 1960s did not see an economic boom; shots of the fictional world’s
material aspects clearly demonstrate this fact. The Socialist planned
economy did not achieve dominance over the capitalist model as was
expected. Also, with the crowing cock, motifs of accounting for the past
come to the forefront.
Director Jaromil Jireš opposed analyses of the film that interpreted it
as playing out strictly in the historical background of the 1950s. And he
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176  P. BUBENÍČEK
refused to concede that the fictional world to which Ludvík Jahn repeatedly
returns in his recollections was once and for all limited on the individual
or social level:
I think that “those days” are not so distant to our own—both temporally,
but also in what they entailed—and that the so-called 1950s and the late
1960s are very closely related. Even though today we don’t have grand
political trials and poppa Stalin, we have other things in their place (as a
kind of heritage of those days), about which one day it will perhaps be possible
to make a film. I would like to be involved in that. (Jireš 1969, 4, my
translation)
Nonetheless, it can be said that the film version of The Joke reconstructs
social and political events more clearly than its literary source
by using stories from two eras. Social problems transferred to the plane
of the individual reveal key turning points in history. Unmasking Pavel
Zemánek, a careerist who achieves success in both the 1950s and 1960s,
is central to the film. At first he is portrayed as a fanatical Stalinist, and
then a progressive Communist hobbling through the era of “socialism
with a human face.” The ideals of the early Communist period betrayed
those who acted in the interests of their own careers. In contrast to
Zemánek stands Ludvík, who was unable to tell which way the wind was
blowing and ended up paying dearly for it.5
Two Sides to One Generation
The film version of The Joke focuses more than the novel on two main
conflicting experiences of a generation in a tense time, although other
recollections of the past are occasionally present in the adaption in the
thoughts of Helena and Kostka. These, however, only serve to supplement
the Ludvík–Pavel dichotomy. A defining factor here is connecting
personal stories with historical events.
As opposed to the book, in the film narrative Ludvík Jahn and his personal
interpretation of the past acquire a thoroughly prominent space.
Ludvík lived in a country with a social system that provided him with
limited opportunities for finding purpose in life.6 As his story develops,
we encounter more frequent quarrels with other people and conflicts
with society as a whole. Although we learn very little about his political
activities during Stalinism—his position then was surely ambivalent—it is
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  177
certain that in the end external forces stripped him of his social role. In
the early 1950s, his role was defined by his membership in the Party, his
proximity to political activities at university, and his friendship with Pavel
Zemánek, the leader of a Party cell. Ludvík shows himself to be a man
of irony. Thus, his outlook differs fundamentally from the others and he
becomes a counterrevolutionary figure, as irony is a meta-attitude.
Petr Steiner, in his analysis of Kundera’s novel, notes that although Ludvík
depicts himself as a victim of the Marxist–Leninist regime, the ­novel’s text
reveals evidence that Ludvík abused his power as a Communist:
It was therefore Ludvik himself who, in concert with others, participated
in the purges after the 1948 coup: firing professors who did not fit the new
ideological mold, thereby in the name of the highest humanistic principles
ruining their lives. This is a responsibility, however, that Ludvík is not willing
to face. He is eager to paint himself as a victim of Communism, not as
one of its promoters. This status furnishes him with the moral high ground
for vendetta. Only after his attempt at avenging himself turns him into
victimizer does another connection between his past and present begin
to down him. […] But Ludvík is too weak to admit his complicity in the
wrongs of the Stalinist era. Unable to stand up to his past, he “becomes
drunk” with weakness and in “delicious vertigo” yields to a comforting
historical amnesia. (Steiner 2000, 206)
The adaptation helps Ludvík’s strategy of suppressing his own guilt
by relieving him of his worst qualities. In doing so, the contrast between
the two main characters becomes more clear-cut. In the film it cannot
be clearly discerned whether the ironic distance, which Ludvík’s girlfriend,
a firebrand functionary, accuses him of, is a reaction to his political
activities in the 1950s or whether it is a case of unreliable narration.
We do at least know that his returns to the past,7 in which we see on
screen through Ludvík’s eyes his friends, girlfriend, and other players in
the story, are captive of unrighted wrongs. Ludvík does not endeavour
to confirm his existence in the new settings. In the middle of the narrative
present, he constructs an image of the past; he constantly returns to
his experiences from the 1950s and an ironic tone is present in his voice.
Actor Josef Somr’s portrayal of Ludvík boosted the overall impression.
Stanislava Přádná aptly describes his performance:
Josef Somr, with the inimitable mimicry of a born master of facial expression,
gave the character the distinctive appearance of a fundamental man of
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178  P. BUBENÍČEK
irony with acrimonious diction and dismissive indifference; the actor’s type
with his distinctive physiognomy seems to predetermine a refined interior […].
(Přádná 2002, 263, my translation)
Thus, in the film, images of the 1950s are filtered through Ludvík’s
existentialist coming-to-terms with the past. In these images, Ludvík
is not an active member of the Communist Party, but an observer, for
whom personal qualities dominate over public ones and who is not a part
of the crowd. This attitude is displayed clearly in mass scenes in which
the relationship of his then-friends to the new social system is conspicuously
outlined. Pavel Zemánek can be seen in the midst of this mass
euphoria, dancing in traditional folk costume, urging the musicians to
play faster and leading the choir. Although Ludvík’s girlfriend, Markéta,
does not stick out as much as Pavel, she is nonetheless a dedicated member
of this tight collective. She is dancing, smiling, and having fun. She
is an earnest young Communist in an earnest time. And it is Markéta
who says to Ludvík at one demonstration: “What’s that face you’re making?
[…] You’re smiling so strangely. […] As if you were thinking about
something for yourself” (Jireš 1968, my translation). Therefore, we are
presented with an image in which Ludvík’s friends have surrendered
themselves to Communist enthusiasm, while Ludvík says about himself
that in those days he felt distance from this collective euphoria. At the
same time though, he admits that together with the others he had experienced
an intoxicating feeling, that he had stood behind the “steering
wheel of history” (Jireš 1968, my translation).8
The motif of misunderstanding and dissimilarity is also clear in the
scene where Ludvík meets in private with Markéta. Here this young man
and his ideas about intimacy are seen as going against the grain of how
relationships between men and women, including sexual ones, were perceived
at the time. He clearly is not set on fulfilling Communist ideas
of relationships and bearing offspring that will take part in building a
Communist society; he wants to have an intimate relationship with his
girlfriend. We first see Markéta walking along a river on a summer day.
The girl naively combines the personal and the political. Her character
embodies the enthusiastic acceptance of the new ideology in all aspects
of life. When Ludvík recites a banal poem about romantic relationships
between Communist youth, he pits the powerful message of the regime
against nature, biology, and his own desires:
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  179
Love is the sky, the wind that blows strong,
The hopes that drive us forward,
Love is not about simple lust, its naked bodies drown. (Jireš 1968, my
translation)
We can then be hardly surprised that Ludvík persuades Markéta in vain to
go to a remote cottage together for the weekend. The girl informs Ludvík
with theatrical enthusiasm in her voice that she has been chosen to attend a
two-week-long camp for young people. She begins to cry when she realizes
that this news has not made Ludvík happy, and she demands his support. The
scene ends with an abrupt cut and in the following shot we see a bus loaded
with young Communists, including a happy Markéta waving to Ludvík.
Whereas Ludvík, in his quest for a lost past, tells us that he behaved like a
normal young man who desired a private and intimate world, he depicts
Markéta as a person who has completely surrendered her individual goals and
desires to the Communist system’s value hierarchy.
The film works with the main protagonist’s inner state, with his
moods and attitudes, especially at moments when Ludvík returns to
events that belittled him and stripped him of the capability to decide for
himself. It also switches rapidly back and forth between past and present
sensations. One such example of old wrongs being projected into the
present is masterfully worked into the scene in which newborn babies are
“welcomed” into Socialist society. During this “welcoming of new citizens”
ceremony—a reworked christening for an anti-religious world—
parents would bring their babies to the local national committee building
where in a ceremonial hall the committee chairperson or other representative
of the Communist Party would symbolically welcome the young
children into society.
This scene starts with shots of Ludvík walking through the empty,
abandoned town, evidence of his aimless time-wasting while waiting for
Helena. He then spots a young woman in a short summer dress who
catches his interest, and he follows her. Shortly thereafter both pass by
several baby carriages parked outside of a large building. The camera no
longer “goes” with the two along the street as if it was taking part in the
action; instead it peers at them from above. Now the shot includes the
young woman followed by Ludvík, the row of carriages, and a part of
the statue on the building’s facade, a muscular leg belonging to an Atlas
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holding up the portal. This motif bears symbolic meaning: the infants,
who moments before had been lying in their carriages, had been born
into a world that was not as unfree as it had been in the previous decade,
but the giant’s leg is part of that world. Although the totalitarian political
system was not as stable as it had been in the 1950s, reforms to the
political system did not bring total democratization. The film reconfirms
its ironic nature in the following scene when we see a young woman’s leg
as she walks upstairs.
Ludvík follows the woman into the building and then into a room
where instruments can be heard tuning. A man sits under the state
emblem; in front of him there are several pioneers with carnations.
The music begins and at the same time we see that the violinist recognizes
Ludvík as on old friend. It is Jaroslav, who in the novel is mainly
portrayed as a simple man with a life-long devotion to folk music who
escapes into his fantasies about preserving folk traditions. In the following
shots, the mothers arrive with their newborns, followed by a line of
fathers. The primness of the ceremony is reflected in the officiant—an
older women, who uses hand gestures to instruct the people to sit down.
One of the pioneers than bows and begins to recite an ideology-laden
poem about welcoming young families to Socialist society. Then in a theatrical
tone the chairman of the national committee speaks about how
these newly born children will be taken care of by their families, the state,
and all working people. However, while he is saying these words, the
camera focuses on the details of Ludvík’s face. The curiosity and interest
in the young woman has already disappeared. He turns his head to the
side and looks off into the distance. Ludvík’s thoughts are soon revealed
as the voice of Pavel Zemánek from the narrative past penetrates the
scene: “And now let’s deal with the case of comrade Jahn” (Jireš 1968,
my translation). In the middle of the ceremony, Ludvík goes 10 years
back into the past to the meeting that changed his life. His postcard was
turned into a spectacle; Ludvík’s condemnation turned into a play that
clearly resembles the show trials of the 1950s.
The audience, whose view is guided by exact camera movements, is
led to focus on Ludvík’s gestures and facial expressions. Close-ups alternate
with medium and long shots, contributing to emotionally identifying
with the main character whose unresolved trauma has surfaced.
Ludvík’s feelings of solitude and isolation are thus clear. A series of shots
displays present and past events. The past enters the narrative ­present in
the soundtrack and in the end the present enters the past. For a moment,
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we see Ludvík among the ceremony attendees, and then for a moment
we observe the university’s ceremonial hall through his eyes, where
Zemánek is sitting alongside Communist youth members. Whereas at
the beginning the camera focuses on the details of Ludvík’s face, now
in the narrative present his face is repeatedly lost in the crowd. When
we hear Pavel Zemánek recite from Julius Fučík’s book Reportáž psaná
na oprátce (Notes from the Gallows, 1945),9 in the narrative present we
see the speaking national committee chairman and the standing pioneer.
Then the film cuts to a shot of Ludvík’s face and then quickly
to one of Markéta. This character plays an important role in this passage;
her uncertain gaze cast in Ludvík’s direction is replaced by her
nodding in favor of his expulsion. Ludvík’s behavior is just the opposite;
when a Communist youth member asks him how the Communists
who had been executed during the war would have viewed his actions,
he responds: “Their lives were at stake. They weren’t petty; they would
have understood that it was a joke” (Jireš 1968, my translation). When
Zemánek orders a vote on Ludvík’s expulsion from the Party and from
school and everyone present raises their hands, we are, for a moment,
brought to the narrative present. The ceremony ends and Jaroslav and
the musicians began to play a celebratory melody. Another shot from
the past is then accompanied by these tones, and once again we realize
that the entire passage was a flashback; from the beginning we were in
the present tense of the film’s narration and by jumping back in time we
returned to events that Ludvík cannot forget, and of which the ceremoniousness
of the welcoming of new citizens reminded him. The resulting
counterpoint is markedly ironic, as on one hand the civic life of the children
is just beginning while on the other in the flashback the civic life of
Ludvík is ending.
The film then directly reminds us of the consequences of being
expelled from the Party, as this scene cuts to a new one featuring young
men joining the penal brigades. Thus, another passage begins that slowly
reveals how “enemies of the state” were dealt with. Once again we find
ourselves somewhere between the past and present; the contrast is built
up differently, however. In chaos and haste, young men, unfit to serve
as soldiers defending the Socialist system, who had their head shaved
by old barbers, become objects in the hands of the totalitarian machinery.
The shouting is muted and a pure girl’s voice singing a folk song
increases the visual impression even more: “I walked, I walked, over a
green meadow, a green meadow. I was carrying a violet in my hand, a
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violet in my hand” (Jireš 1968, my translation). On the visual plane we
witness the culmination of objectification and demystification; the life of
an individual is guided by external forces. On the audio plane, the music
announces harmony in this wistful reminiscence about a loved one.
Folk music is connected to the character of Jaroslav, whom Ludvík
meets by chance at the welcoming of citizens ceremony. Although
Ludvík attempts to avoid direct contact with him, in the end he leaves
with Jaroslav for the cimbalom band’s rehearsal. We discover that Ludvík
was an excellent clarinet player, and that these two had once formed a
musical group together. But as the band begins to play, the image on
the screen brings us to mines where young men are working hard. In
another shot we see Jaroslav looking at Ludvík as if he wants to urge
him to enjoy playing. In the soundtrack, though, we can hear both music
and the shouting of a young soldier, yelling at the young men to work
harder. Once again, the past has seeped into the present. Viewers then
soon discover the truth about these young men’s situation. During an
inspection in the barrack courtyard, a young commander tells them that
they belong in prison, but that they were lucky and have been sent to
be indoctrinated. The state, however, will not entrust them with a gun.
The shot of marching men forced to sing a military song replete with
ideological clichés is followed by a return to the narrative present, where
musicians begin to sing a new, special song: “It’s good, it’s good, that
the master is no more” (Jireš 1968, my translation). It lacks, however,
the celebration of nature typical of folk music. It also demonstrates a
certain phoniness to the big picture of social interests; one master has
been overthrown, but a new one has taken his place. Alienation from
values is also expressed by the discordance between the singer’s appearance
and behavior. Although his singing is accompanied by traditional
gestures and body movements, in contrast to the rest of the members of
the group he is wearing normal clothes and sunglasses. The music is then
accompanied by shots of soldiers hard at work in a mine and Ludvík’s
words: “I was definitively relieved of any worries about my future” (Jireš
1968, my translation).
Both the book and the adaptation led us to discover that not even
after Ludvík manages to escape his involuntary state service does his
quality of life improve. He is unable to free himself from the prison of
the past. We get a look into the main protagonist’s unhappy life particularly
during his meetings with Kostka, which occur in the narrative present.
The role of Kostka, an ascetic protestant, was played by prominent
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New Wave director Evald Schorm. His calm demeanor imbued the character
with mildness, emphasizing even more the disparate relationship
between the two. In the adaptation, Kostka’s importance is reduced. He
has only little screen time to express his attitudes towards life. Kostka
appears a total of three times; besides two meetings with Ludvík in
Kostka’s apartment, we also see him at the university, where he worked
as an instructor during Stalinism. In this scene, Ludvík visits Pavel
Zemánek and asks him how the postcard affair had ended up. Ludvík is
assured he has nothing to worry about as “the Party will certainly take
care of it” (Jireš 1968, my translation). As their friendly conversation
continues, they spot Kostka clumsily carrying a butterfly display case.
Ludvík wants to help him, but Kostka refuses the young comrade’s aid.
It is not just his apparent clumsiness that sets him apart. He addresses
both of the young men as “gentlemen” instead of “comrades,” isolating
and distancing them from the politics that Ludvík and Pavel both represent
at the time.
During the first meeting in Kostka’s small apartment, the contrast
between both men is intentionally stressed. Ludvík’s unexpected visit
catches Kostka off guard. While Kostka asks Ludvík if he ever thinks
about university, the camera shows Ludvík looking over the apartment
and checking the bed’s quality. Kostka, who is making tea off screen,
enters from the left, and both men stand facing each other. On one side
is the hunched-over Kostka in an apron holding a tea tray; on the other
side stands Ludvík with a conniving smile on his face. The camera then
follows the conversation between the men sitting on a divan and focuses
on Kostka’s profile when he says: “It is not good for man to be alone”
(Jireš 1968, my translation). As opposed to the novel, the adaptation
simplifies this character and portrays him as an exemplary figure in full
recognition of his own fate, who endeavours to interpret human existence
through Christianity. This change sets up a clearer conflict between
the two men. The scene then cuts to Ludvík standing facing a window.
He is no longer in immediate proximity to Kostka, the pleasant chit–chat
has come to an end, and Ludvík reveals the reason for his sudden visit:
he would like to borrow his old acquaintance’s apartment. Their meeting
ends on the street with Kostka heading to work on his bicycle. He
hands his keys to Ludvík, wishing the apartment brings him something
good. Their thought-worlds, however, are far from each other. Ludvík
says borrowing the apartment will allow him to commit “one good
destructive act” (Jireš 1968, my translation). Kostka objects in vain; the
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following shot captures Ludvík’s face as he says, “You are a silent bricklayer
on God’s eternal construction site. You know, I…”(Jireš 1968, my
translation). A jump cut then brings us back to the past, to the alreadydescribed
May 1 celebration in 1949, where Pavel dances and Markéta
watches.
The second meeting of the two men occurs after Helena has been
seduced. The presence of items that were not visible in the apartment
before are important—mainly a birdcage behind the lying Ludvík’s head
that helps emphasize a lack of freedom. The man and the bird are caught
in a cage from which they cannot escape without the help of others.
Ludvík can be helped by Kostka, who names Ludvík’s situation in the
world and how he is trapped in the net of the past. One way Ludvík
can liberate himself from the past is by forgiving those who have harmed
him. In the shot we see Ludvík standing and facing a bookshelf, who
reminds Kostka that his best friends are responsible for the estrangement
between him and his former classmates. The scene then cuts to Kostka
sitting on the divan, leafing through a book; he says that he too was
kicked out of university and yet he is not in the same place as Ludvík
is, mentally speaking. In the shots we then see Ludvík, whose gestures
clearly relay his mental anguish. This film, examining the psychological
state of its protagonist, makes a clear statement via Kostka: “A world in
which no one is forgiven is hell. And you are living in hell, Ludvík” (Jireš
1968, my translation). The camera captures him from the front and in
the scene there are no other objects connoting meanings that might support
this comment. As a whole, the film resigns from a clear interpretation
of reality—on the purely personal level though it takes a clear stand:
Ludvík has lost his bearings in life.
Pavel Zemánek personifies another story from this generation. Ludvík’s
fate was described using complicated interactions with history; in contrast,
Zemánek is defined by flip-flopping, as a former Stalinist turned into a
reformer in the narrative present. At the beginning was a man who had
power and headed meetings at which people were expelled from school
and the Party. We do not know exactly what happened to him over the
years, how he managed to cast aside his Communist youth past and come
to the side of those who were now fighting against the closed Party structure.
This flip-flopping is of course a well-calculated move because if it was
not, the uniqueness of Ludvík’s experience would suffer.
Pavel Zemánek was played by another important postwar Czech actor,
Luděk Munzar. The first few times we see him in the film he is in Moravian
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folk dress—including in the photograph in Helena’s wallet. When Ludvík
tells Helena to get undressed in Kostka’s apartment, a song from the
1950s enters the narrative present through the soundtrack: “We’re building,
we’re building, a new world/and we’ll let no one get in our way/
today the motto of youth/forward and never back” (Jireš 1968, my translation);
after a jump cut we find that it is being sung by Pavel Zemánek
standing in the middle of a large group of joyous young people. Whereas
most of them are wearing the Communist youth uniform, he draws attention
in his Moravian folk costume. From this scene, it is clear how Pavel is
able to elicit a sense of intoxication, to move others to blend into the mass.
The traditional folk costume confirms Pavel’s political stance, for both the
mass song and traditional folk music were considered close to the revolutionary
ethos. We also see Pavel in other places, dancing and enjoying
himself in the midst of the demonstration. His position is summed up by
Helena, who tells Ludvík about how she and Pavel met at the manifestation:
“That was Pavel. He knew how to catch people by the heart” (Jireš
1968, my translation).
It is therefore extraordinarily surprising when this proletariat, this
lover of the collective and folk celebrations appears at the end of the
film. He is modernly dressed in a sport coat and turtleneck. He does
not bring to mind an enthusiastic Communist, but a Western intellectual.
And he is not alone. One of his young female students, craving
for change and the world, has accompanied him to the party. Pavel has
cast aside Helena, his aging wife, a relic of the Stalinist past, and his new
romantic relationship can be interpreted as a symbol of rebellion against
the establishment.
The scene featuring the meeting between the two main characters
begins with a shot of Pavel Zemánek, who has found out from Helena
about the new man in her life and is approaching the unsuspecting
Ludvík. Ludvík looks pensively at something and leans against a wooden
railing with his head bowed. He is ungroomed, in a wrinkled shirt with
a sport coat thrown over his arm. A detailed shot of Ludvík’s head taken
from the perceptive of Zemánek, who greets him. Ludvík, visibly shaken,
coldly responds to the greeting and refuses to shake hands. During the
course of their meeting, the point of view changes many times, expressing
tension between the two men. The viewer witnesses several sorties,
which are repelled by other sorties, and in the end Ludvík’s retreat.
The men are posed differently. Zemánek stands erect and is visibly
self-assured. In contrast, Ludvík’s constantly crossed arms indicate his
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tenseness and distrust, as well as a need for protection. They confront
each other with arguments. Whereas Ludvík deflects Pavel’s comments
by mentioning the latter’s youth (“you used to wear folk costumes”),
Pavel plays with Ludvík’s relationship with Helena. The young girl is
a disruptive element; her carelessness and naiveté surprises—she is not
interested in folk celebrations; she just wants to have fun. She personifies
a new type of young person, the kind that Zemánek likes so much. Their
meeting ends on a more relaxed, conciliatory note; on parting, they
shake hands, although their conflict has not been resolved (Fig. 5.1).
Zemánek could sense which way the wind was blowing and adapted.
He is successful, he works at the university, and he is convinced that he
has left behind his mistakes in the 1950s. Ludvík can only expect an
apology in vain, as Zemánek now stands on the same side as Ludvík.
Once again, it is Zemánek who has been able to cope with historic
change. He would no longer read Fučík, for he has overcome his crisis
Fig. 5.1  The Joke. Ludvík encounters Pavel after many years. Žert (The Joke;
Jaromil Jireš, 1968)
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of consciousness and seen the light. At one moment he begins to walk
slowly, followed by Ludvík, and states, “All those parades, songs, jubilation—it
was a wall behind which innocent people were locked up, condemned,
and executed” (Jireš 1968, my translation). He says this while
holding cotton candy in his hand. Both came to the same conclusion;
both came to oppose the regime, but in different ways. Let us return for
a moment to the literary source; in the novel Zemánek, in the narrative
present, does not conform to the ideological-social order, putting himself
at risk of being expelled from the Party. In the novel Ludvík says:
In this way I learned that Zemánek was one of the most popular teachers and
that his students worshiped him for not being liked by the university authorities:
for always saying what he thought, for being courageous and sticking up
for the young. Zemánek continued to protest mildly, and so I learned from
his companion further details of the various battles Zemánek had fought in
recent years: how the authorities had even wanted to throw him out for not
sticking to the rigid, outdated curriculum and for trying to introduce the
young people to everything going on in modern philosophy (they claimed
he had wanted to smuggle in “hostile ideology”); how he’d saved a student
from expulsion for some boyish prank (a dispute with a policeman) that the
chancellor (Zemánek’s enemy) had characterized as a political misdemeanor;
how afterwards the female students had held a secret poll to determine their
favorite teacher, and how he had won it. (Kundera 1992, 270–271)
In the film we don’t hear that he has helped anyone or that he had
put himself at risk of being punished by the regime; we only find out
that he has changed his opinion about the period and people (we wanted
to make a better tomorrow, but perhaps today young people will really
make it better). Zemánek’s character from the novel is transformed in
the adaptation; this change indicates that the screenwriters did not want
this career Communist to become a model and that they wanted to preserve
a clear distinction between him and Ludvík.
It is clear from interviews with Jireš, the director, that the filmmakers
did not aspire to change reality through radical social criticism, but
what they did endeavour to do was transform viewers’ relationship to the
complex reality. Careerist Pavel Zemánek’s way of “coping” with the past
can help establish a diagnosis of the era:
He is actually supposed to be a likeable character; in him we can compare
two different personalities in one person—at two different times. It’s
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that loss of memory that allows people to do good deeds even though
they have a past with bad deeds. It is easy to condemn Zemánek, but that
would close his case. I am more interested in how such a thing is possible.
That is why I don’t want to make any judgements about him. (“V květnu
zahájí” 1968, 7, my translation)
Despite what the director had to say, Zemánek comes off as a character
who, in the adaption, represents negative individual and social
behavior. The Zemánek of the 1960s gives off the impression of a grand
Western cinema hero; he takes a stand against the society’s ideals of the
past and still knows how to influence many people—although now in a
different way. He is loved in both roles, for he is, as Zdeněk Kožmín fittingly
writes, a successful grandee of living an inauthentic life (Kožmín
1991, 316). He always adapts and he can abuse his situation for his own
gain. Although he has the young female student’s sympathy, his careerism
irritates viewers. Instead of standing up for his beliefs, he changes with
the times like a chameleon. The generally existential plane present in the
book is pushed aside and the issue of adapting comes to the forefront.
In the end, in the novel’s cinematic adaptation, there is a clear
attempt at not putting a generation of career Communists in a positive
light. The fictional character of Pavel Zemánek cannot become a hero.
The adaptation does not engage in relativism; some characters stand on
the other side of the barricade, and it is impossible for them to wear new
masks. It specifically shows which people were standing on which side. If,
in the 1950s, all Communists were viewed positively and could not have
any negative features, then all of a sudden we see a tendency to counterbalance:
there are no extenuating circumstances for Communist careerists.
In this sense the adaptation comes off as retaliation for the past.
Behind the Scenes of Real Socialism
From the beginning the film tends to display raw, authentic images of
real socialism and thus unmasks its social reality. Its environment is presented
as worn down and ugly. The adaptation enables viewers to peer
into urban scenery, barracks, and the rural environment and show what
Czechoslovakia’s new Socialist society had accomplished. The disillusioned
depiction of Ludvík’s provincial and neglected hometown is
particularly laden with meaning. At first the camera shows the outline
of a walled medieval town. Ludvík’s off-screen voice brings viewers up
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to speed: “My hometown. Hmm. I haven’t lived here for twelve years
now. I’m quite indifferent about it and I almost hate it” (Jireš 1968, my
translation). This shot is then replaced by low-angle shot of a plague column.
The camera then returns to earth and slides along on old building’s
beat-up facade, peaking into a courtyard, where we see someone
cutting grass with a scythe. Once again a low-angle shot follows, this
time focused on a Baroque church tower. Another view of the heavens
marking the way to big plans and ideals is once again grounded by the
reality of daily life. The decline in material values and society is finally
confirmed by a counterpoint, as in the next shot the camera finds behind
the beat-up wall a grey, prefabricated concrete building.10 Here this
example of Socialist housing becomes a symbol of decline and alienation.
Similar to the novel, here the spatial settings, through which Ludvík
wanders, gain allegorical significance.11 The question arises of how to
find the meaning of human existence in the value-depraved world of a
communist dictatorship.
The town comes off as bleak in other scenes in which Ludvík is waiting
for Helena. The camera first captures him slowly walking around
benches and tables on a small square, behind which there is a building
with a grey, crumbling facade. Disharmony and disorder rule everywhere.
The atmosphere is highlighted by a female voice, broadcast over
loudspeakers, that monotonously informs town residents about upcoming
social activities. The regime’s proclamations, however, have no effect,
for it is completely clear that economic prosperity has not been achieved,
as one look at the desolate confectioner’s window display demonstrates.
When Ludvík looks there, the female voice promises that this year’s folk
music festival will be “especially varied and great” (Jireš 1968, my translation).
Such a critically conceived scene is the opposite of the aesthetic
imagery typical of the 1950s, when illusions about bright tomorrows and
coming prosperity were created.
The claustrophobic space of the hotel foyer is another part of the
town’s symptomatic topography. Behind the counter sits an old man,
who ignores the guests and eats food out of a pot that he has brought
from home. After spending the night on a creaky bed, Ludvík goes into
the empty dining room, where someone is washing the floor. When he
asks at the reception whether it is possible to eat at the hotel, the old
man just grumpily replies that it is closed. The glaringly empty restaurant
to which Ludvík takes Helena does not provide a more optimistic
perspective; both are brushed off by the staff, who are lazing about. All
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of these situations and details are small and large accusations against a
regime that has led society into a trap.
At first it may seem that the countryside acts as a certain counterweight
to the town. The adaptation allows viewers to peak behind the
scenes of village life and the Ride of Kings celebration. The faces of older
villagers can be seen against the backdrop of whitewashed houses, as can
a decorated chapel and farmhouse courtyards. Ludvík’s facial expressions
and gestures clearly reveal his enchantment with the celebration’s overall
atmosphere, which brings him a sense of calm. After he rejects Helena,
the camera shows the Ride of King’s path. Ludvík enters the shot, and
his figure is shown in direct relation to the men riding by on horses.
Ludvík casts a glance at the king, a young boy, their lines of vision crossing.
Jireš’s use of a telephoto lens increases the intensity of the depiction
of a simple traditionally understood life which is larger than any individual
struggles and in which Ludvík can take solace even after everything
that happened.
Here, the film smooths and rounds the novel’s rough edges, a move
that Pavel Švanda criticized in his 1969 review:
[…] on screen we see one of the most common tricks—from that which is
described critically in the text all that remains on the screen is a nice spectacle.
Here we have our Moravian folk traditions, the Ride of Kings, shot
nicely in contradiction to the original textual formulations. (Švanda 1969,
8, my translation)
Here, Švanda points out that the film offers viewers a less conflicting
dimension to the character of folk-music worshiper Jaroslav, as his son
and wife were eliminated. In the novel, Jaroslav meets with failure and
tries to save himself with “visions, dream notions” (Suchomel 1992, 123,
my translation). Such endeavours turn out to be in vain, as not even the
closest people to him—that is, his son and wife—understand his desire to
preserve South Moravian folk traditions, which he has dedicated his life
to. His son, in whom he has put his hopes, is no longer willing to believe
his ideals; he refuses to take part in the celebration, and with his mother’s
knowledge he leaves for a motorcycle race and has another boy secretly
take his place in the Ride of Kings. Jaroslav’s enthusiasm is in vain; the
attitude of those closest to him harms him to the extent that he has a
heart attack and the readers learn that he will never play with such passion
again.
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Although the adaptation leaves out the conflict between Jaroslav and
his family, the motif of betrayal is still present in the film. The Ride of
Kings is a carnival of sorts, in which the world is turned on its head. In
this folk celebration, which is still held today, particularly in Moravian
Slovakia, a boy becomes the king, whose richly decorated horse is led
around the village by his father. The young king replaces the old, in a
symbol of rebirth. Such a sacred ritual is no longer possible in the world
of Communism; the same applies to folk music. Jiří Koten writes in his
study of Kundera’s novel:
Music was degraded into kitsch and at the same time promoted to a modern
and state-recognized art form; in the politicized world it ceased to
be music and became insistent agitprop that served to dumb the people
down. (Koten 2012, 65, my translation)
A remarkable feature of the celebration is that that boy-king and his
pages are dressed in female folk costumes. This carnival has much in
common with revolution, in which the normal customs are transformed
and the world is turned on its head. However, in The Joke the Ride of
Kings loses its subversive potential, as it is a state-organized event. Such a
carnival does not undermine status, as would be expected, but instead it
supports the regime. Severing this sacred tradition from its past meaning
is tragic. Just like with Olomouc’s astronomical clock, the sacred value of
time is disfigured here.
In the film’s conclusion, Ludvík turns to Jaroslav and asks him
if he was already allowed to play with his cimbalom band once again.
The drunken shots of the audience, however, disturb their enthusiastic
musical performance. At the auditory level, the voices singing folklore
songs are contrasted with a loudly playing radio. Jireš achieves this
clearly delineated contrast by combing shots, cuts, and musical elements.
On one hand he shows the cimbalom band, whose singing members
personify the illusory beauty of the folk song, which one can escape to
and hide in. The seductive vision of “holism and originality of being”
(Chvatík 1994, 53, my translation) is, however, unmasked; it is humbled
by deadening feelings and objectifying interpersonal relationships. For a
moment the film’s soundtrack is filled only by the musicians, who are
closed in their own world; then, however, the noise of the crowd and
voices of drunken young men and soldiers begins to rise. The image of a
drunk old man closing the musical scene with his out-of-tune rendition
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192  P. BUBENÍČEK
of a schmaltzy tune forms the definitive counterpoint. For the entire
message of the film, it is symptomatic that an individual runs up against
circumstances that are difficult to fight against. The noise of the modern
world cannot be shouted over, not even in a village, so Jaroslav suggests
they go play in a field, just for themselves. One of the musicians stops
them, however, because according to their contract they must play the
entire night despite the indifferent crowd. Subsequently, tragedy strikes
as Jaroslav, disappointed that his music has been dishonored, has a heart
attack and is taken away to the hospital. The ideology-laden world had
bastardized and destroyed everything dear to Jaroslav.
And then the grand finale occurs, when Ludvík is attacked by a young
radio technician protecting the honor of Helena, the woman he loves.
Ludvík quickly overpowers the young man and transfers all of his rage
into his blows. In the next shot we then see Ludvík bowing over the
Fig. 5.2  The Joke. Ludvík at the end of the film. Žert (The Joke; Jaromil Jireš,
1968)
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  193
motionless body of his opponent, saying to him: “Man, I didn’t want to
beat you up” (Jireš 1968, my translation). Then the protagonist raises
his head and looks into the camera, while in the soundtrack we hear a
short folk song motif. The potential of the generation it represents has
not been fulfilled (Fig. 5.2).
The film version of The Joke took a stand against dogmatic attitudes,
demystified the communist dictatorship and its empty gestures, and
posed the question: Where do the victims of oppression stand and where
do those guilty of destroying their fate stand in the new social structure?
The key message in the film is that history leads nowhere; it merely drags
man along as if it was playing a joke for its own enjoyment. History
does not follow an aim; not even political developments lead to meaning.
Time is headed nowhere in particular and people are left to wander
hopelessly through a history that does not lead to an optimistic future.
We have been thrown into the whirlwind of history, which does with us
as it pleases. Its meaning lies only in its meaninglessness.
Notes
	 1. In one review, Jindřich Beránek focuses on the film’s “non-aesthetic qualities”
and claims that it is a work that above all represents its time. He
attributes a topical social function to the film, when he writes that it
“comes at a time when the clash between the conservers of social development
and the representatives of further progress in social revolution
(= the liberation of man) has undergone several changes, when powers
beyond the borders of this community have entered the fray. … Whereas
with the novel words lead the reader to reflect on himself, in the theater
the viewer remains a witness of what people are capable of. Certainly
what he has experienced since that summer of 1967 plays a role; he is the
witness of an era in which he only existed, which perhaps enslaved [him],
but which, with its inhumanity, is foreign to him” (Beránek 1969, 25, my
translation).
	 2. Tomáš Kubíček says that this narrative strategy complicates “not only life’s
(pseudo)certainties, but also the ones of the story itself […]” (Kubíček
2001, 42, my translation).
	 3. During the adaptation process, individual plot points were boiled down
and many of the novel’s plot twists and digressions were cut, as were its
philosophical and existentialist elements.
	 4. As Jan Tlustý claims, “The problem of time is of paramount significance
in the whole of Kundera’s oeuvre; for Kundera, time also constitutes one
of the novel’s vital challenges” (Tlustý 2012, 85–86, my translation).
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194  P. BUBENÍČEK
	 5. Jireš adds: “This paradox, even though it is terrible, also has its own
mournful laughter to it. Today, how many Pavel Zemáneks have been
born around us … Ludvík Jahn still lives in two times—he lugs his past
around with him like a ball and chain” (Friedrichová 1968, 1).
	 6. Many Czechoslovak citizens had similar experiences with actually existing
socialism, as clearly reflected in contemporary reactions to the film. In
one review, the adaptation is interpreted as a testimony to recent events
that would resonant particularly with viewers who had lived through the
1950s as youths and who were now confronted with the reality of the
1960s: “Through masterful editing, sharp and without preparing the
viewer, the reality of the early 1950s is interwoven with the not-so-distant
past. Memories of a period of earnest ascetic enthusiasm and equally earnest
and ascetic wrongs mix with a period of sobering up, skepticism, and
faded hopes. It is a very convincing montage. Today many people, especially
those who are now about forty, still experience this interweaving”
(Pacovský 1969, 2, my translation).
	 7. Both the novel and the film thematise the strong influence of one’s current
perspective on the perception of the past. As a result of this influence, it
might be difficult to differentiate a narrator’s present and past selves as the
past self is constructed by the present, remembering self. The film demonstrates
this unclear boundary by projecting the image of Ludvík at present
onto the scenes of his past that he is remembering. This narrative technique
then raises the viewer’s suspicion as to the possibility of unreliable
narration. For more on the influence of the present perspective on memories
and its relation to unreliable narration, see Fonioková (2015, 83–88).
	 8. Sheila Fitzpatrick and Alfa Lüdtke assert, while comparing Nazism and
Stalinism, that, “In both societies, people in all segments and groups
were caught up in the excitement of active involvement in a process of
fundamental transformation of things both large and small” (Fitzpatrick
and Lüdtke 2012, 300).
	 9. The novel, as well as the adaptation, work with a specific ideological
point, by making the connection between Zemánek and the Communist
journalist Julius Fučík, who was executed by the Nazis in 1943. Milan
Suchomel has noted how above the literary plaintiff “hung an idealized
portrait of Fučík; the plaintiff called Fučík as a Crown witness. Fučík
and Zemánek interweaved in front of Ludvík. Zemánek was a successful
imitator of Fučík” (Suchomel 1992, 124, my translation). In the film,
Zemánek invokes Fučík by drawing from the political propaganda surrounding
Fučík’s cult and reads his words with great pathos to later compare
them with Ludvík’s postcard.
	 10. On this issue, Zdena Škapová notes that these images are “silent witnesses
of a lamentable social decline” (Škapová 2002, 75, my translation).
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5  ADAPTATION AS A REFLECTION OF THE ZEITGEIST  195
	 11. In this vein, Zdeněk Hrbata writes about the novel how: the disillusioned
and anti-mythical image of the town in which almost nothing goes right
(not even the Ride of Kings that is present in the plot nor the lives of
old friends) does not cut itself free from the resistant symbolic core of
all returns, which is in most general terms the disentanglement of life”
(Hrbata 2005, 392, my translation).
Works Cited
Beneš, Jaroslav. 1955. Olomoučané zvelebují své město. Zápisník agitátora
Olomouckého kraje 4: 6–8.
Beránek, Jindřich. 1969. Román své doby ve filmu. Na okraj Kunderova a
Jirešova Žertu. Průboj, Februrary 25.
Blahynka, Milan. 1967. Milan Kundera prozaik. Plamen 1: 4–54.
Chvatík, Květoslav. 1994. Svět románů Milana Kundery. Brno: Atlantis.
Doležel, Lubomír. 1973. Narrative Modes in Czech Literature. Toronto:
University of Toronto Press.
Fitzpatrick, Sheila and Alf Lüdtke. 2012. Dynamika každodennosti. Uváření
a rozpad sociálních vazeb v éře nacismu a stalinismu. In Za obzor totalitarismu:
srovnání stalinismu a nacismu, ed. Michael Geyer and Sheila
Fitzpatrick, 404–456. Praha: Academia.
Fonioková, Zuzana. 2015. Kazuo Ishiguro and Max Frisch: Bending Facts in
Unreliable and Unnatural Narration. Frankfurt/Main: Peter Lang.
Friedrichová, Eva. 1968. Vrahové nemají paměť. FTN, October 27.
Hrbata, Zdeněk. 2005. Prostory, místa a jejich konfigurace v literárním díle.
In Na cestě ke smyslu. Poetika literárního díla 20. století, ed. Miroslav
Červenka, Jiří Holý, Zdeněk Hrbata, Milan Jankovič, Alice Jedličková, Lenka
Jungmannová, Marie Kubínová, Marie Langerová, Zdeněk Mathauser, and
Nina Vangeli, 392. Praha: Torst.
Jireš, Jaromil. 1969. Poznámka k filmovému Žertu. FTN, March 20.
Koten, Jiří. 2012. Od politiky k chaosu, v němž není místo pro soukromí.
Metamorfózy fikčních světů Milana Kundery. In Milan Kundera aneb Co
zmůže literatura? ed. Bohumil Fořt, Jiří Kudrnáč, and Petr Kyloušek, 60–67.
Brno: Host.
Kožmín, Zdeněk. 1991. Román lidské existence. In Žert, ed. Milan Kundera,
315–318. Brno: Atlantis.
Kundera, Milan. 1992. The Joke. London: Faber and Faber.
Kubíček, Tomáš. 2001. Vyprávět příběh. Naratologické kapitoly k románům
Milana Kundery. Brno: Host.
Obermeireová, Jarmila. 1969. K Žertu. Literární noviny, January 19.
Pacovský, Ludvík. 1969. Třikráte Žert. Kino, 24: 2.
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196  P. BUBENÍČEK
Přádná, Stanislava. 2002. Poetika postav, typů, (ne)herců. In Démanty všednosti:
Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně, ed. Jan Dvořák, 149–298.
Praha: Pražská scéna.
Scarpetta, Guy. 2012. Politický Kundera. In Milan Kundera aneb co zmůže literatura?
ed. Bohumil Fořt, Jiří Kudrnáč, and Petr Kyloušek, 161–169. Brno:
Host.
Steiner, Peter. 2000. The Deserts of Bohemia. Czech Fiction and Its Social Context.
Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Suchomel, Milan. 1992. Literatura z času krize: šest pohledů na českou prózu
1958–1967. Brno: Atlantis.
Škapová, Zdena. 2002. Cesty k moderní filmové poetice. In Démanty všednosti:
Český a slovenský film 60. let. Kapitoly o nové vlně, ed. Jan Dvořák, 11–148.
Praha: Pražská scéna.
Švanda, Pavel. 1969. Žert v kině. Host do domu, 16: 8.
 Švanda, Pavel. 2006. Paměť esejisty. Brno: Atlantis.
Tlustý, Jan. 2012. Fenomenologická stopa v díle Milana Kundery. In Milan
Kundera aneb Co zmůže literatura? ed. Bohumil Fořt, Jiří Kudrnáč, and Petr
Kyloušek, 79–88. Brno: Host.
“V květnu zahájí…”. 1968. FTN, 2: 7.
Films Cited
Žert (The Joke). Dir. Jaromil Jireš. Czechoslovakia. 1968. Movie.
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197
In this book, I have recounted how film adaptations of literary works
were made, what other non-literary sources they drew from, and the
circumstances of their creation in Communist Czechoslovakia, a Soviet
satellite from 1948. Thus, I sought to discover how these adaptations
resonated in the cultural context in which they originated. My aim was
to show not only how the political situation of Czechoslovakia molded
the film adaptations created there, but also how these same works in turn
shaped the sociocultural conditions of the 1950s and the 1960s.
While I could not present a complex and exhausting reflection of
the relationship between Czech fiction and film from the Communist
takeover in 1954 to the thwarted Prague Spring in 1969, I did focus
on a carefully selected set of adaptations. Through these films, and their
reception, I have tried to show the diverse nature of the relationship
between fiction and film. The adaptations at the heart of this book were
characterized by a struggle: screenwriters and directors faced severe political
pressure in the Stalinist 1950s, which, although it loosened up in the
more liberal 1960s, still proved to hamper the Czechoslovakian culture
in some ways.
The adaptations I have analyzed in this book were not made in an
attempt to overthrow the Communist dictatorship. Their goals were
instead artistic and so they strived to venture beyond their literary origins,
to emphasize a functional blend of various forms of artistic
expression, and to utilize playful experimentalism and unrestrained creativity.
To do so, filmmakers needed to look for ways to outsmart official
CHAPTER 6
Epilogue
© The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0_6
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198  P. BUBENÍČEK
cultural policy, while holding on to their artistic beliefs. They employed
strategies and aesthetic approaches that resulted in films which managed
to represent a more complex reality than the one depicted in politically
approved, ideology-leaden movies focused on Communism’s bright
future. I tried to characterize the taboos which the adaptations attacked
through their own artistic models of society.
It was mainly in the early 1950s that some adaptations confronted
politically controlled and formed art. Politicians decided what the desirable
values of art were and enforced them through a system of norms.
Therefore, filmmakers had to be subtle when pushing against official
boundaries. Václav Krška toyed with the characteristics of Socialist
Realism, misused ideological symbols, and subversively presented forbidden
homosexual sentiments. Karel Zeman, beneath his creative approach
(emphasis on untamed fantasy, free association, combining different
artistic media, etc.), adapted Jules Verne’s fiction and in doing so hid
serious humanist messages about responsibility and the abuse of power.
Later in the 1960s, when the strict political climate became increasingly
liberal, František Vláčil and Otakar Vávra challenged the dominance
of the written word with audio-visual modes of representation. Finally,
Jaromír Jireš’s adaptation of Milan Kundera’s The Joke was an open
polemic against Stalinist Czechoslovakia. Kundera and Jireš described
the experience of the Youth Communist League, whose members found
their political and aesthetic ideal in Stalinism after the February 1948
only to go through a period of harsh disillusion and to face the need to
find new solutions, which were not easy to find and were hazardous both
politically and aesthetically.
The stories I relay in this book are variously intertwined. They all
focus on universally valid principles and nostalgic yearning following the
loss of an ordered world and its values. Nevertheless, in many of these
adaptations nostalgia eventually gives way to skepticism and existential
disillusionment: initially nostalgia bubbles under the surface before it
reaches a full boil and is openly expressed, only to be then discarded in
favor of an open testimony about the social reality of Communist rule.
Silvery Wind evoked memories of the old world yet unaffected by
the immense catastrophes of the 20th century, where subtle, covert love
was still possible. Krška’s adaptation of a novel by Fráňa Šrámek, whose
literary work continued to be appreciated by its readers even after the
Communist takeover, stood out from other contemporary films. The
nostalgia of Silvery Wind, in the form of a longing for enduring values,
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6 EPILOGUE  199
thus stands in sharp contrast to the revolutionary present of the film
and the dehumanized machinery of power. A quiet boudoir and a murmuring
river were offered as a contrast to a marching crowd chanting
political slogans. Amongst cookie-cutter retellings of the liberation from
Nazism, stories glorifying the working class, and epic spectacles recounting
great events in Czech history, here was a film built upon a delicate
interplay of morals and feelings. Its emotionality and small-town setting
effectively contradicted the period’s ideologically charged films. Krška’s
movie defied the aesthetic norms of its time with its lack of an ideologically
formulaic interpretation of the source material. Silvery Wind does
not offer up a clearly outlined plot, focusing instead on gestures, faces,
and nature—a shocking artistic decision at the time of the film’s conception.
In this context, nostalgia was a synecdoche of subversion: within
the ideologically approved interpretation frame of “paradise of today,” a
film like Silvery Wind was distinctly divergent.
In Zeman’s adaptations of Verne’s books, the innocent world of
childhood and its playful, mischievous joy were confronted with the
destructive power of technology. A threatening quality hid underneath
the patina of beauty of the ingenious inventions and machines traversing
through the nostalgically viewed Industrial Revolution and the
subsequent Belle Époque. In The Fabulous World of Jules Verne in particular,
the contrast between the playful world of childhood and the
sobering hindsight of an adult looking back at the destruction of the
Atomic Age is clearly evident. In the case of Marketa Lazarová (similar
to Silvery Wind), the world of universal values is contrasted with the
fleeting present day whose disconsolate nature does not support delicate
love. Marketa Lazarová brings forward an image of the old world and
its workings, and reminds audiences of the perpetual internal discord
between the soul and the body present in all human beings. Romance
for Flugelhorn builds up an intimate, erotic storyline, while looking back
to the bygone time of youth and uncovering a microcosm of interpersonal
relationships presented as being parallel to natural occurrences; it
also points out the fragile nature of emotional ties perpetually threatened
by human mortality.
While all of the adaptations contain a moment of disillusionment,
the theme of personal and social disenchantment is most apparent in
The Joke. Both the novel and its adaptation thus appear to participate
in a deconstruction of nostalgia. They show that an emotional attachment
to the good old times is only a sentimental illusion lacking a real
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200  P. BUBENÍČEK
foundation. The memories of The Joke’s protagonist, Ludvík Jahn, function
in a different manner than recollections in the other adaptations:
his recollection of attempts at radical social change and violent subjugation
to the new norms bring nothing but pain. In the novel, the nostalgic
folklore enthusiast Jaroslav is eventually deeply disappointed with
his son, who never becomes the central figure in a rural celebration and
instead leaves secretly for a motorcar race. This method of uncovering
of nostalgia is close to the theories of Linda Hutcheon, who writes in
connection to the postmodern about ironized nostalgia: “In the postmodern
[…] nostalgia itself gets both called up, exploited and ironized”
(Hutcheon 2000, 205). Critical and ironical detachment from the nostalgic
immersion in the old world is the central feature of The Joke.
Krška, Zeman, and Vávra utilized nostalgia as a grand theme; for
them it, with its consolatory nature, represented present-day man’s salvation.
Kundera and Jireš dismantled this approach: they stepped over
the vulnerability, longing, and anguish that nostalgia entails, drawing
back the curtains of illusion and demonstrating that lost worlds cannot
be brought back. For them, nostalgia almost equals kitsch. History has
destroyed the world as we knew it; the old times and its order are no
more, and trying to recall them is nothing short of ridiculous.
***
There is no happy ending to my book. In 1968, the liberal strain
in Czechoslovak culture was abruptly brought to an end by the invasion
of the armies of the Warsaw Pact, after which ideological control
over art was reintroduced and reinforced. In the following year, the
Normalization era started by the curtailing of previous democratization
tendencies, and the Communist establishment’s close link with
the Soviet Union brought stern rule and ideological compliance. Many
people faced self-capitulation; it was often enough to sign a declaration
acknowledging one’s previously faulty view of the brief democratic
Prague Spring intermezzo and mistaken influence of right-wing opportunists—and
he or she was saved.
Tightened political control, strict rules, and active repression had a
detrimental effect on production culture. Purges affected the entire film
industry. All leading positions were newly appointed and film production
was brought under Party supervision (Hulík 2010, 50–54). Employees
at Barrandov Studios, especially those who were involved in the democratization
process and voiced their disapproval of the occupation publicly,
were dismissed. The creative units were dissolved in 1970 and replaced
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6 EPILOGUE  201
with “dramaturgical groups,” which diluted the autonomy of creative
talent and separated them from production (Szczepanik 2015, 84).” The
artistic committees were replaced by a central committee. The recentralization
of film production was meant to bring control over new projects
and to ensure that they did not stray from official cultural policy. A number
of films which were deemed ideologically tainted were withdrawn
from circulation and put on a blacklist.
Those newly in power tried to use František Hrubín, his work, and his
reputation, for their own ends, which, along with the events of the time,
probably hastened his untimely death in 1971. In 1975, Milan Kundera
permanently left Czechoslovakia for France. Vávra began to cooperate
with the new regime, returned to ideological compliance, and filmed a
World War II trilogy. Jireš made a film about a female Communist martyr
tortured by the Nazis, and Vláčil adapted one of the key works of literary
Socialist Realism. In the last two cases, however, both Jireš and Vláčil
returned to their earlier ways of making subtle use of film techniques representative
of the more liberal 1960s, continuing the subversion.
In the middle of the 1970s, Vláčil accepted an offer to adapt Bohumil
Říha’s novel Doktor Meluzin (Doctor Meluzin 1973). He used a novel by
an ideologically compliant writer as an entryway to making a film dealing
with existential questions—a theme we can also find in some of Vláčil’s
older films. The adaptation’s central motif is mortality as an inescapable
limitation of human existence. Bohumil Říha was a pro-regime writer
who devoted his writing to helping build Communist social order. The
novel clearly showed that—to quote literary historians—political developments
after 1968 “brought ideal conditions not only for establishing
a peaceful society but also for the inner harmony of an individual”
(Dokoupil 2008, 477–478, my translation). Vláčil was aware of the difficulties
of adapting a schematic novel about life in a socialist village, a
novel with a clear ideological message:
They offered me various texts which I refused. Smoke on the Potato Fields
was, to a certain extent, an offering to the gods. But the story was good
and I didn’t draw any political conclusions out of it. […] Quite a few people
held the film against me. (Strusková 1997, 173, my translation)
Vláčil wrote the script together with screenwriter and playwright
Václav Nývlt (1930–1999); their collaboration is an important detail of
the adaptation. Namely, Nývlt cooperated with many Czech New Wave
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202  P. BUBENÍČEK
directors and was involved in projects such as the adaptation of Bohumil
Hrabal’s short stories mentioned in the Introduction; Jiří Menzel’s Ostře
sledované vlaky (Closely Watched Trains 1966); Věra Chytilová’s eccentrically
experimental allegory Ovoce stromů rajských jíme (We Eat the
Fruit of the Trees of Paradise1969); and Pavel Juráček’s Case for a Rookie
Hangman. The role of the doctor in Dým bramborové natě (Smoke on
the Potato Fields 1977) was played by star actor Rudolf Hrušínský, who
was prevented by the Communist establishment from appearing in both
feature films and TV films in the early 1970s following his signing the
2000 Words Manifesto, which called for maintaining the democratic
reforms in Czechoslovakia. Film critic Jaromír Blažejovský praised the
actor’s achievement:
Rudolf Hrušínský gave a brilliant performance that captured the withdrawn
personality of the protagonist and his inner development. Hrušínský
uses no more than a look, a hint of a smile, a subtle gesture, and still his
performance is some of the best acting in recent years (Blažejovský 1977,
8, my translation).
Even though Říha’s novel Doctor Meluzin, on which Vláčil’s film
Smoke on the Potato Fields is based, is formally and ideologically compact
and its characters are structured schematically, Vláčil’s narrative minimalism,
visual style, and concise dialogues as well as his emphasis on the
alienation and ambiguous motivation of the main character allow human
fate and identity to overshadow ideological commitment and oversimplification
of the literary source. As for the depiction of the protagonist’s
psychological processes, the utterances are short and almost lonely. The
film’s title even signals the filmmaker’s delve into inner life: scenes of
small fires and children baking potatoes in the ashes belong to a traditional
Czech autumn. At one moment the aging protagonist declares
that he is coming back to himself: the film thus seeks to project human
stories into the fragile world of childhood. However, he cannot return to
the past; all he has left are memories that are going up in smoke.
A crucial attribute of Vláčil’s and Nývlt’s conception is the emphasis
on the psychological states of the protagonist, a once successful doctor
who suddenly finds himself in a village. Life becomes incoherent and its
ambivalence is antithetical to the novel, in which the main character finds
a new place in society. The camera forms an analogy of the vague search
for oneself through shots of bare, simple landscapes, where the protagonist
is followed in long shots.
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6 EPILOGUE  203
The topic of the basic problems of human existence and Doctor
Meluzin’s reflection of them intensify towards the end (which differs
from the ending of the novel), when a young girl named Markéta
gives birth to a child and needs to be taken to the hospital immediately.
While the doctor drives a dilapidated ambulance, a nurse is taking care of
both the baby and the dying girl in the back. In this sequence, we witness
another alteration of the pre-text; in the novel the girl voluntarily
gives up and abandons her child, a decision that is accepted because of
her youth. In the film, the story is different: when Markéta is pregnant,
Doctor Meluzin talks her out of an abortion, and not long afterwards
diagnoses her with a serious disease (which is never specified). The doctor
stops the ambulance in an inhospitable landscape. In a visually polluted
industrial environment, death strikes. A sequence of shots shows
Hrušínský’s face and a set of high voltage lines with an emphasis on the
buzzing sound of electricity; this scene evokes experiencing life’s finality.
The inhospitable landscape corresponds with feelings of emptiness and
resignation. The viewer is led to take a look at the intimacy of experiencing
basic human themes through the external, as if matter-of-fact, perspective
of the camera’s eye recording the events. There is no sentiment,
no decoration, just the touch of bare reality.
Works Cited
Blažejovský, Jaromír. 1977. Téma: Člověčina. Rovnost, May 26.
Dokoupil, Blahoslav, Lubomír Machala, Pavel Janoušek, Martin Machovec,
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Případ pro začínajícího kata (Case for a Rookie Hangman). Dir. Pavel Juráček.
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Romance pro křídlovku (Romance for Flugelhorn). Dir. Otakar Vávra.
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Žert (The Joke). Dir. Jaromil Jireš. Czechoslovakia. 1968. Movie.
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Movie.
Marketa Lazarová (Marketa Lazarová). Dir. František Vláčil. Czechoslovakia.
1967. Movie.
Měsíc nad řekou (Moon over the River). Dir. Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia. 1953.
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214  Works Cited
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stestim/.
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Czechoslovakia. 1965. Movie.
Ohnivé léto (Fiery Summer). Dir. František Čáp, Václav Krška. Czechoslovakia.
1939. Movie.
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1966. Movie.
Ovoce stromů rajských jíme (We Eat the Fruit of the Trees of Paradise). Dir. Věra
Chytilová. Czechoslovakia. 1969. Movie.
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Perličky na dně (Pearls of the Deep). Dir. Jiří Menzel. Czechoslovakia. 1965.
Movie.
Příběhy slavných –Eduard Cupák: herec v zahradě. Dir. Marek Bouda. Czech
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Československo. 1969. Movie.
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1897. Movie.
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Československo. 1949. Movie.
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Československo. 1966. Movie.
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Srpnová neděle (August Sunday). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Československo. 1960.
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Světlo proniká tmou (The Light Penetrates the Dark). Dir. Otakar Vávra and
František Pilát. Československo. 1931. Movie.
Tam na konečné (House at the Terminus). Dir. Ján Kadár. Československo. 1957.
Movie.
Transport z ráje (Transport from Paradise). Dir. Zbyněk Brynych.
Československo. 1962. Movie.
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1939. Movie.
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Works Cited   215
Ukradená vzducholoď (The Stolen Airship). Dir. Karel Zeman. Československo.
1966. Movie.
Vstanou noví bojovníci (New Warriors Will Arise). Dir. Jiří Weiss. Československo.
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Vynález zkázy (The Fabulous World of Jules Verne). Dir. Karel Zeman.
Československo. 1958. Movie.
Zlatá reneta (The Golden Queening). Dir. Otakar Vávra. Československo. 1965.
Movie.
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Žert (The Joke). Dir. Jaromil Jireš. Československo. 1968. Movie.
petrb@phil.muni.cz
217© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2017
P. Bubeníček, Subversive Adaptations, Palgrave Studies in Adaptation
and Visual Culture, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-40961-0
Index
A
Abrams, Bradley, 9, 15, 37, 205
Absolute at Large, The, 92–93
Academy award, 29, 35
Adaptation, 1–6, 17, 20, 21, 23–35,
37–39, 43–45, 50–54, 56, 58, 59,
61, 63, 67–71, 72, 74–76, 79,
81, 85, 86, 89–92, 94, 96–100,
106, 108, 109, 111–113, 115,
116, 121, 124, 126, 129–132,
134– 136, 140, 142, 144–147,
149–151, 157, 159–161, 164,
165, 169, 171, 173–174, 177,
182, 183, 187, 188, 190, 191,
193, 194, 197–201, 202, 206,
208–210
Aleš, Mikoláš, 164
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, 36
An Atomic Phantasy:Krakatit, 93, 95,
127, 206
And the River Sang to Him, 49, 83,
213
Andrei Rublev, 130, 164–165, 167,
213
Anton Špelec, Sharp-Shooter, 115, 128,
213
Arabesques, 81
Assollant, Alfred, 126
At the Final Station, 23
August Sunday, 145, 159, 167, 214
Austro-Hungarian, 7, 43, 109, 113,
116, 117, 127
Aventures merveilleuses mais authentiques
du capitaine Corcoran, 126
B
Baarová, Lída, 50
Bagpiper from Strakonice or Nymphs’
Feast, The, 120
Bakhtin, Mikhail, 113–114, 124, 127,
205
Baldová, Zdeňka, 81
Barla, Andrej, 159, 165
Barrandov Film Studios, 25, 131, 165,
200, 203, 205, 208
Bass, Edward, 87, 127, 205
Beatles, The, 18
Bee comb, 165
Beneš, Edvard, 9, 10
Beneš, Jaroslav, 173, 195, 205
Benett, Léon, 97
petrb@phil.muni.cz
218  Index
Beránek, Jindřich, 193, 195, 205
Bizet, Georges, 118
Blahovec, Zdeněk, 50, 82, 205
Blahynka, Milan, 172, 195, 205
Blažejovský, Jaromír, 146, 165, 166,
202, 203, 205
Blue and the Crimson, The, 46
Body, 70, 73, 80, 104, 105, 135, 141,
148, 155–157, 161, 182, 193,
199
Bolton, Jonathan, 18, 37, 206
Borovský, Karel Havlíček, 127
Boudník, Vladimír, 36
Brabec, Jiří, 115, 127, 206
Březina, Otokar, 46
Březovský, Bohuslav, 20
Brož, Jaroslav, 97, 127, 206
Bubeníček, Petr, 21, 37, 206
Bugge, Peter, 18, 37, 206
Bureš, Jiří, 131, 132
Burian, Vlasta, 115, 116
Bus Leaves at 1.30, The, 23, 40, 213
Butterball, 70
C
Caesar, 37
Čáp, František, 56, 84, 131, 214
Čapek, Karel, 48, 81, 92–95, 127, 206
Carmen, 118
Carroll, Lewis, 36
Case for a Rookie Hangman, 29, 40,
202, 204, 214
Čech, Svatopluk, 114
Černý, Václav, 94, 127, 206
Chalupecký, Jindřich, 36, 37, 206
Chamberlain, Neville, 8
Chatman, Seymour, 4
Chvatík, Květoslav, 170, 172, 191,
195, 206
Chytilová, Věra, 24, 27, 146, 202,
204, 214
Cieslar, Jiří, 146, 166, 206
Cimrman, Jára, 122, 127
Closely Watched Trains, 35, 40, 202,
204, 214
Coming to Terms-The Rhetoric of
Narrative in Fiction and Film, 4
Communist, 1–3, 6, 7, 13–18, 20, 21,
24–26, 29, 30, 32, 34–36, 39,
57, 63, 68, 70, 75, 81, 82, 85,
86, 89, 92, 103, 129, 144–146,
151, 165, 169–172, 174–179,
181, 184, 185, 187–189, 193,
194, 197, 198, 200–202
A Concert on the Island, 78
Creative units, 22–24, 35, 200
Cubism, 36
Cupák, Eduard, 49, 50, 52, 57, 84,
214
Cursed Love, 55
Czech New Wave, 22, 24, 33, 146,
163, 171, 201
Czechoslovak Film, 19, 21, 23, 26,
29, 35, 171
Czechoslovakia, 1, 6–11, 13, 15, 16,
18, 19, 29, 30, 33, 35, 37–41,
68, 75, 76, 83, 84, 86, 88, 94,
114, 128, 167, 169–171, 188,
196, 197, 198, 201– 204, 206,
209–211, 213
D
Daladier, Édouard, 8
Daniel, František, 36, 37, 206
Daněk, Oldřich, 35
Darkness Cast No Shadow, 28
Decadence, 45, 51, 53, 74
Della Colleta, Cristina, 3, 37, 206
Deployment, 21, 40, 213
Deux ans de vacances, 106
Diamonds of the Night, 28, 40, 213
Dita Saxová, 28, 40, 213
Doctor Meluzín, 201–203, 210
Dokoupil, Blahosla, 201, 203, 206
petrb@phil.muni.cz
Index   219
Doležel, Lubom, 172, 195, 206
Downpour, The, 122
Dubček, Alexander, 16
Dvořák, Antonín, 164, 167, 196, 210,
212
Dyk, Viktor, 80
E
Ecstasy, 19, 40, 213
Effa, Karel, 118
Eliáš, Alois, 12
Elleström, Lars, 6, 37, 206
Elliot, Kamilla, 3, 37, 206
Expo 58, 17
F
Fabulous World of Jules Verne, The, 1,
32, 41, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 94,
97, 99, 103, 105, 106, 108, 126,
128, 199, 204, 215
Facing the Flag, 32, 88–90, 92
Férat, Jules-Descartes, 86
Fiala, Miloš, 154, 166, 206
Fibich, Zděněk, 164
Fiery Summer, 56, 84, 214
Fifth Horseman is Fear, The, 28, 40,
213
Fikar, Ladislav, 27
Film a doba, 22, 38, 39, 83, 166, 167,
203, 208, 209, 211–213
Filmové informace, 51, 83, 207, 210,
211
Fitzpatrick, Sheila, 194, 195, 206, 207
Fonioková, Zuzana, 194, 195, 207
Forman, Miloš, 24, 26, 166, 208
Franc, Martin, 14–17, 37, 38, 207,
209
Francl, Gustav, 135, 166, 207
Franz Joseph I., 114, 116, 120, 122,
126
Frič, Martin, 115, 122, 128, 213
Friedrichová, Eva, 194, 195, 207
Fučík, Julius, 181, 186, 194
G
Gebhart, Jan, 8–12, 38, 207
Gellner, František, 80
Golden Queening, The, 145, 157, 167,
215
Good Soldier Švejk-And His Fortunes in
the World War, The, 114
Gottwald, Klement, 21, 68, 175
Grandmother, The, 164
Grygar, Milan, 110
Gulliver’s Travels, 29
Gunning, Tom, 98, 127, 207
H
Habsburg Myth in Modern Austrian
Literature, The, 122
Hácha, Emil, 11
Hálek, Vítězslav, 81
Halas, František, 23
Hames, Peter, 28–30, 38, 130, 166,
207
Hamsun, Knut, 80, 81, 207
Hanka, Václav, 137
A Hard Day’s Night, 18, 40, 213
Harnach, Vlastimil, 131
Hašek, Jaroslav, 114, 115, 127, 207
Henlein, Konrad, 8
Hendrych, Jiří, 35
Here be dragons, 35, 41, 215
He Stood at the Till, 116, 128, 214
Hetzel, Pierre Jules, 95
Heydrich, Reinhard, 12
Heyduk, Adolf, 81
Hilar, K.H., 81
Hiroshima, 90, 91, 151
Hitler, Adolf, 8, 9, 11
petrb@phil.muni.cz
220  Index
Hlávka, Miloš, 50
Holý, Jiří, 82, 103, 128, 137, 141,
142, 166, 195, 207
Hoppe, Jiří, 17, 38, 207
Hop Pickers, 17, 18, 40, 214
Hora, Josef, 47, 48, 82, 207
Horák, Vadim, 95, 96, 128, 207
Hořec, Petr, 158, 165, 166, 207
Hořejší, Jan, 85, 127, 128, 206, 207,
212
Hořica, Ignát, 109, 128, 207
Hrabal, Bohumil, 27, 35, 202
Hrbata, Zdeněk, 60, 82, 195
Hřivňáková, Olga, 134, 166, 208
Hrubín, František, 23, 26, 33, 38, 39,
89–92, 101, 128, 129, 145–153,
157–159, 161, 163, 165, 166,
201, 207, 208, 209
Hrubý, Karel, 16, 28, 208
Hrušínský, Rudolf, 50, 202, 203
Hulík, Štěpán, 200, 203, 208
Hus, Jan, 11, 37, 206
Hutcheon, Linda, 5, 38, 99, 200, 203,
208
I
Ideological-Artistic Committee, 25
Imperial and Royal Field Marshal,
115, 128
Impressionism, 45
In half an hour, 81
Ingardenian phenomenology, 4
Ingarden, Roman, 4
Intermediality, 6, 34, 37, 206
Iordanova, Dina, 26, 38, 208
Iron curtain, 1, 13, 90, 124
J
Jacobson, Alfred, 87, 128, 208
Jakobson, Roman, 4
Janáček, Pavel, 39, 88, 125, 128, 208,
212
Janů, Zorka, 50
Jedlička, Josef, 48, 82, 208
Jedličková, Alice, 34, 38, 82, 195, 208
Jež, Štěpán, 47, 82, 208
Jireš, Jaromil, 27, 33, 38, 41, 164,
166, 171, 175–179, 180–187,
189–196, 198, 200, 201, 204,
208, 215
Jirásek, Alois, 57, 81, 146
Joke, The, 17, 26, 33, 41, 170, 171,
173, 174, 176, 186, 191–193,
195, 196, 198–200, 204, 209,
215
A Journey to the Center of the Earth, 86
Juráček, Pavel, 29, 40, 202, 204, 214
K
Kadár, Ján, 28, 38, 40, 208, 214
Kaplan, Karel, 16, 38, 208
Khrushchev, Nikita Sergejevič, 16, 17
Kinorevue, 131
Klimek, Antonín, 10, 38, 208
Klimeš, Ivan, 19, 20, 35, 38, 208
Klimešová, Marie, 19, 38, 208
Klos, Elmar, 28, 38, 40, 208, 214
Knapík, Jiří, 14, 16, 35, 38, 207, 209
Kočí, Přemysl, 77
Kohout, Eduard, 57
Kolář, Jiří, 23
Konrád, Karel, 20
Kopecký, Václav, 23, 35
Kopta, Josef, 81
Koten, Jiří, 191, 195, 209
Kovács, András Bálint, 28, 38, 208
Kožmín, Zdeněk, 94, 128, 133, 134,
161, 166, 188, 195, 209
Kratochvíl, Miroslav, 86, 128, 209
Krebs, Katja, 3, 39, 209
Křižík, František, 126
petrb@phil.muni.cz
Index   221
Krška, Václav, 32, 35, 40, 41, 43, 44,
49, 50–60, 62–66, 68–77, 79–84,
198–200, 199, 209, 213–215
Kuklík, Jan, 8–12, 38, 207
Kunakhovich, Kyrill, 21, 39, 209
Kundera, Milan, 26, 33, 169–172,
177, 187, 191, 193, 195, 196,
198, 200, 201, 205, 209, 211,
212
Kurosawa, Akira, 130
Květen, 147, 166, 209
Květy, 82, 126, 128, 166, 207, 209,
210
L
Lamač, Karel, 115, 128, 213, 214
Langweil, Antonín, 126
Last May, The, 171
Leaving Along with Autumn, 56
A Legend about Love, 77, 83, 213
Lenin, Vladimir Iljič, 173
Ležáky, 12
Lidice, 12
Lidové noviny, 46, 82, 127, 205, 210
Liehm, Antonín J., 165, 166, 209
Light Penetrates the Dark, The, 146,
167, 214
Line-Up, The, 21
Liška, Zdeněk, 125
Literární noviny, 17, 22, 195, 210
London, Jack, 88
Lüdtke, Alfa, 194, 195, 206
Lumír, 83, 126, 211
Lustig, Arnošt, 28
M
Mach, Jaroslav, 82, 84, 214
Mácha, Karel Hynek, 11, 81, 162
Macháček, Miroslav, 35
Machatý, Gustav, 19, 40, 213
Macura, Vladimír, 147, 164, 166, 209
Magris, Claudio, 121
Málek, Petr, 4, 39, 209
Málková, Iva, 23, 39, 209
Majerová, Marie, 20
Man-a Wide Garden, 171
Manuscript of Dvůr Králové, 137
Marek, Jiří, 21
Mareš, Petr, 20, 24, 39, 209, 210
Marketa Lazarová, 1, 26, 33, 40,
129–136, 138, 139, 143,
163–165, 166, 167, 199, 204,
205, 207, 210, 212, 213
Masaryk, Tomáš Garrigue, 7, 8, 10, 48
Master in Starving, 80
Maupassant, Guy de, 70
McDermott, Kevin, 34, 39, 210
McFarlan, Brian, 4
Media Borders, Multimodality and
Intermediality, 6, 37, 206
Méliès, George, 85
Menzel, Jiří, 24, 26, 27, 35, 40, 146,
202, 214
Metamorphoses, 151, 152, 166, 210,
213
Mlynář, Zdeněk, 16
Moon Over the River, The, 50, 54, 76,
81, 84, 213
Moravec, Emanuel, 12
Moskalyk, Antonín, 40, 164, 167, 213
Mravcová, Marie, 155, 166, 210
Mrázek, Kare, 52, 82, 210
Mucha, Jiří, 26
Mukařovský, Jan, 4, 133, 166, 210
Munich Agreement, 8, 9
Munzar, Luděk, 184
Murray, Simone, 34, 39, 210
Mussolini, Benito, 8
Myslbek, Josef Václav, 113
Mysteries, 80
petrb@phil.muni.cz
222  Index
N
Navrátil, Antonín, 97, 128, 210
Němcová, Božena, 164
Němec, Jan, 24, 27, 28, 40, 213
Neruda, Jan, 81, 114, 128, 210
Neumann, Stanislav Kostka, 80
New Cult, 80
New Warriors Will Rise, 20, 21
Notes from the Gallows, 181
Novel to Film-An Introduction to the
Theory of Adaptation, 4
Novák, Arne, 56, 57, 82, 210
Nozar, Lukáš, 55, 56, 80, 83, 210
Nývlt, Václav, 201, 202
O
Obermeireová, Jarmila, 170, 195, 210
Offenbach, Jacques, 55
Orzoff, Andrea, 43–44, 83, 210
Ovidius, Publius Naso, 151, 166, 210
Owen, Jonathan, 27, 39, 210
P
Pacovský, Ludvík, 194, 195, 210
Pan, 80
Passer, Ivan, 24, 27, 166, 208
Pavlíček, František, 130, 132, 134,
163, 166, 210
Pazeller, Jakob, 150
Pearls of the Deep, 27, 40, 214
Pečenka, Ferdinand, 53
Peroutka, Ferdinand, 81
Philosophical Story, 146, 167, 213
Pilka, Jiří, 54, 83, 210
Plausible Face, The, 26
Poetism, 36, 103, 125, 128, 212
Poledňák, Alois, 26
Práce, 52, 82, 125, 210
Přádná, Stanislava, 163, 166, 177,
178, 196, 210
Prague Spring, 1, 16, 17, 197, 200
Právo lidu, 80
Pujmanová, Marie, 20
R
Radetzky March, 60, 118, 120
Rajewsky, Irina, 34, 210
Rak, Jiří, 126
Return of Lifeboat, 98, 128, 214
Řezáč, Václav, 21
Říha, Bohumil, 201–203, 210
Riou, Édouard, 97
Robur the Conqueror, 96, 98
Rokoský, Jaroslav, 8, 9, 39, 211
Romance for Flugelhorn, 5, 23, 26,
33, 40, 129, 145–147, 149–151,
154, 155, 159, 167, 199, 204,
214
Roux, George, 86
Ruch, 126
Rutte, Miroslav, 93, 128, 211
Rybářová, Jana, 44, 50, 65, 76–79
S
Šalda, František Xaver, 48, 49, 80, 83,
212
Šámal, Petr, 20, 39, 212
Scarpetta, Guy, 170, 196, 211
Schmidt, Jan, 146
Schmitt, Julius, 52, 53, 83, 211
Schorm, Evald, 27, 38, 146, 183, 208
Schindler, Franz, 57, 83, 211
Screenplay, 3, 20–25, 35, 50, 51, 53,
61, 89, 92, 94, 101, 106, 130,
135, 146, 151, 152, 157, 160,
171, 173
Seifert, Jaroslav, 23, 78, 79, 83, 211
Sequens, Jiří, 82, 83, 213
Seven Samurai, 130
Sezima, Karel, 46–47, 83, 211
petrb@phil.muni.cz
Index   223
Shoe machine, The, 21
Shop on Main Street, The, 28, 40, 214
Síla, Jiří, 20, 39, 211
Silvery Wind, 32, 40, 43–55, 57,
58, 61–63, 66, 67, 68, 71, 72,
75–77, 80, 84, 198, 199, 214
Šimáček, A.M., 88
Skopal, Pavel, 21, 38, 39, 166, 203,
209, 211
Slánský, Rudolf, 14
Slave Songs, 114
Škapová, Zdena, 141, 164, 166, 167,
194, 196, 212
Skupa, Lukáš, 25, 26, 39, 44, 83, 211
Smetana, Bedřich, 11, 81
Smoke on the Potato Fields, 201, 202,
204, 213
Smoljak, Ladislav, 122, 127, 128, 211
Smrkovský, Josef, 16
Somr, Josef, 177
Soul of the Factory, The, 88
Soviet Union, 9, 16, 167, 200, 213
Spurný, Matěj, 15, 39, 211
Šrámek, Fráňa, 32, 43–55, 58, 62, 68,
69, 72, 75, 79–82, 83, 198, 209,
211, 212
Srnka, Jiří, 50, 54, 55
Stalin, Josif Vissarionovič, 16, 20, 68,
173, 175, 176
Stalinism, 13, 15, 21, 26, 34, 124,
176, 183, 194, 198
Steiner, Petr, 177, 196, 211
Štercl, Jaroslav, 116
Stolen, Airship, 32, 33, 40, 85, 86,
106, 107, 110, 113, 114, 117,
118, 120, 121, 123, 124, 125,
128, 137, 215
Štoll, Ladislav, 52
Strauss, Johann Sr., 60, 101
Structuralism, 4, 5, 133
Strusková, Eva, 136, 166, 201, 203,
211
Subversion, 2, 3, 26, 31, 174, 199,
201
Suchomel, Milan, 172, 173, 190, 194,
196, 211
A Survey of Czech Literature, 56
Surrealism, 2, 36, 39, 86, 103, 125,
210
Švabík, Erik, 131
Švanda, Pavel, 120, 169, 190, 196,
212
Švehla, Anotnín, 8
Svoboda, F.X., 81
Svolinský, Karel, 173
Svěrák, Zdeněk, 122, 127, 128, 211
Světozor, 86, 109, 112, 118, 119, 121,
126, 128, 207, 208
Swift, Jonathan, 141
Symbolism, 11, 45, 55, 113, 161
Szczepanik, Petr, 22–24, 35, 39, 146,
166, 201, 203, 211
T
Tarantová, Lydie, 50, 83, 212
Tarkovsky, Andrei, 130, 164, 167, 213
Taussig, Pavel, 98, 128, 212
Teige, Karel, 125, 128, 212
Theory of Adaptation, 4, 38, 99, 208
Through the Looking-Glass, 36
Tiso, Jozef, 11
Tlustý, Jan, 193, 196, 212
Toman, Karel, 80
Transport from Paradise, 28, 40, 214
Träger, Josef, 149, 167, 212
Trávníček, Jiří, 13, 40, 212
Turek, Svatopluk, 21
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the
Sea, 99
Tyl, Josef Kajetán, 81, 120, 127, 128,
212
petrb@phil.muni.cz
224  Index
U
USSR, 13, 17, 18
Urban, Otto, 126
V
Vácha, Milan, 98
Vančura, Vladislav, 12, 26, 33, 40,
129, 130, 132–134, 136, 137,
140, 142, 143, 144, 163, 167,
212
Vančura’s prose style, 134
Vávra, Otakar, 21, 22, 26, 33, 40,
77, 129–131, 145, 146, 147,
150–163, 165–168, 198, 200,
201, 204, 212–215
Velvet Revolution, 18, 170
Verne, Jules, 1, 32, 85–90, 94, 96,
97, 99, 103, 105, 106, 108, 125,
126, 128, 198, 199, 204, 207,
208, 212, 215
Veselý, Ludvík, 52, 83, 212
Vestergaard, Jørgen, 97, 128, 212
Vilímek, Josef Richard Jr., 95, 128,
207
Virginity, 146, 167, 214
Vláčil, František, 33, 40, 129–141,
143, 163, 164, 167, 198,
201–204, 213
Vojvodík, Josef, 103, 125, 128, 212
Voskovec, Jiří, 30
Vrchlický, Jaroslav, 71, 81, 127
Vestergaard, Jørgen, 97
W
Walló, K.M., 21, 40, 213
War with the Newts, 125
Way to Happiness, The, 82, 83, 213
We Eat the Fruit of the Trees of
Paradise, 202, 204, 214
Weiss, Jiří, 21, 40, 215
Wells, H.G., 93
Wenig, Jan, 51, 83, 212
Werich, Jan, 30–31, 37
White Disease, The, 125
Wiendl, Jan, 103, 125, 128, 212
Wing of a fly, The, 79
Wolf, Werner, 34
A Woman as Good as Her Word, 82, 84
2000 Words Manifesto, 202
Y
Yalta Conference, 13
Z
Žalman, Jan, 146, 167, 213
Zanáška, Vladimír, 56
Zápotocký, Antonín, 20
Zeman, Karel, 32, 33, 40, 41, 66, 72,
85, 86, 88–90, 92, 93, 95– 114,
116–124, 127, 128, 198–200,
204, 206, 207, 212, 215
Zeyer, Julius, 81
Zvoníček, Stanislav, 53, 83, 213
petrb@phil.muni.cz