A REPORT ON THE PARTY AND THE GUESTS (O slavnosti a hostech) A-
Czechoslovakia (71 mi) 1966 d: Jan Nĕmec
Czechoslovakia (71 mi) 1966 d: Jan Nĕmec
The mid-60’s was a turning point for films, both in the East
and the West, as the cultural dynamic shifted from the old world to the new, as
pro-military films were replaced by anti-war films, films about the bliss of
the common man were replaced by films about existential desolation, and films
about the grandeur of political systems were replaced by films about political
nightmares. In the West, the origin of
this shift may have had its roots in the era of McCarthyism
during the House Un-American Activities
Committee hearings of the late 40’s and early 50’s that exploited a fear of
communism, when a government witch hunt attempted to rid the motion picture
culture of communists, leftists, trade union members, and even believers in
civil rights, labeling them subversives and anti-American, where the idea of
freedom was not something the government could narrowly define and subsequently
impose upon its citizens. In the East,
it may be Mikhail Kalatozov’s The
Cranes Are Flying (Letyat zhuravli) (1957), a film made after Stalin's
death, creating a political thaw and causing a worldwide sensation,
winning the Cannes Film Festival Palme d'Or in 1958, reawakening the West to
Soviet Cinema for the first time since Eisenstein's IVAN THE TERRIBLE
(1944) in the 40's. Freedom and happiness were not grand ideas that
respective governments could sell through speeches, propaganda, nationalistic
fervor, or other social platforms that had little application to reality. This idea would not fully kick in until the
mid-60’s when films would flip the enthusiasm upside down, where films of this
period were quick to point out government hypocrisies, exposing the efforts to
hide political oppression behind a veil of big ideas, like nationwide happiness,
equality, and freedom. Examples of
critical films questioning these values from Eastern Bloc nations would include
Dušan Makavejev’s Man Is
Not a Bird (1965), an absurdist glimpse of life behind the Iron Curtain,
where the lowly individual is dwarfed by the indestructible power of the State,
considered the “cornerstone of Eastern European cinema,” Vera Chytilová’s
DAISIES (1966), an anarchical satire about two delightfully precocious young
girls who refuse to play by the rules, a madcap and aggressive feminist farce,
arguably the most radical film of the decade, or Andrei Tarkovsky’s ANDREI
RUBLEV (1966), a haunting and supremely beautiful but crushing and demoralizing
epic where the devastating effects of war prevent an artist from being able to
create art. One would have to add Jan
Nĕmec’s A REPORT ON THE PARTY AND GUESTS (1966) to the list, described by film
historian Peter Hames as “The most controversial film ever produced by the
Czech New Wave,” an absurdist satire on power relations and the imperative to
be “happy” under totalitarianism.
With the exception of Dušan Makavejev (it would take him two
more films), all of these films were banned by their respective communist
governments, where each was considered a threat to the imposed totalitarian
systems. A common element with these
films is a prevailing sense of melancholy or disillusionment, where they all
show a profound understanding of governmental failure, the corruption and
hypocrisy in promises made and not kept, and the resultant moral void left
behind. Many of these filmmakers were
products of the Cold
War, having grown up as the beneficiaries of the postwar policies of
indoctrination and propaganda that led them to believe in a utopian optimism
about their way of life and the supremacy of their respective political
systems, whether it’s the promise of the American Dream or the idealized New
Soviet Man. Movies helped shape these
perceptions of moral patriotism, having played such an active role in selling
the cultural images to the public, but realizations shattered those illusions, exacerbated
by anxiety that results from the conflicting Cold War themes of freedom and
fear, the ultimate paradox, where we’re supposedly free, but we’re so afraid of
dangerous forces that may take that liberty away that we protect ourselves with
laws that add even stricter limitations to that freedom, all in the name of the
public good. In every instance, citizens
are trapped under the influence of higher powers, and their freedoms
restricted. It is within this backdrop
that Nĕmec’s film is conceived, slated to open at Cannes in 1968 (the festival
was cancelled due to student demonstrations) along with two other Czech films,
Miloš Forman’s THE FIREMAN’S BALL (1967) and Jiří Menzel’s CAPRICIOUS SUMMER
(1968), which never happened before in a small country that only produced about
20 films a year, suddenly becoming part of the international stage. That has completely disappeared, by the way,
with no Czech films in competition at Cannes, Berlin, or Venice since
1990. Czech President Antonín Novotný
was particularly incensed by Jan Němec’s film, which was banned for two years,
released during the brief Prague Spring of 1968, then banned again, becoming
one of four films to be “banned forever” by the government, the other three
being Forman’s THE FIREMAN’S BALL (1967), Vojtěch Jasný’s ALL MY GOOD
COUNTRYMEN (1969), and Evald Schorm’s THE END OF A PRIEST (1969).
Following the critical acclaim of Diamonds
of the Night (Démanty noci) (1964), Němec’s name was quite marketable at
the time, having won awards at international festivals and achieved foreign
sales, so he was viewed favorably by the government. That was short lived, as this is a blistering
Kafkaesque fable, a savagely dark satire on free will, and one of Němec’s most
politically charged films, written in collaboration with his wife Ester
Krumbachová’s screenplay that intentionally mimics Ionescu’s Eastern European
theater of the absurd, an onslaught of words that repeat in circular patterns,
resembling a staged, outdoor theater piece.
The film opens, innocently enough, in the bliss of a sunny afternoon
picnic in the countryside where a group of bourgeois lovers and friends share
home made cake, drink wine, and joke with one another, while the women bathe in
a nearby river, apparently changing into more formal evening attire, becoming a
picture post card image of an idyllic social occasion. They are interrupted by another larger group,
featuring grim looking but politely smiling men, several wearing dark glasses,
who invite them to come with them.
However they are insulted and intimidated, even a bit manhandled, as
their appearance has sinister implications, where the use of flowery and overly
polite language covers up the fact that what at first seems voluntary becomes
more of a forced escort into an open field where a desk suddenly appears. Behind the desk sits Rudolph (Jan Klusák),
who sadistically continues to play mind games with the group, forcing them to
obey his commands, to stand within arbitrary lines he draws on the ground, supposedly
imprisoned while he holds them under interrogation, like a police questioning,
detained for some unknown offense, like Kafka’s anonymous Joseph K in The Trial. When one man (Karel Mareš) resists, claiming
he’s had enough and simply walks away, Rudolph sends in the thugs to grab him,
knock him to the ground and rough him up, all actions that resemble the overly
apologetic, excessively polite home invaders in white gloves from Michael
Haneke’s Funny
Games (1997), whose disturbing violent actions grow hideously
merciless. This possibility is avoided
however when the gracious host (Ivan Vyskočil) of the larger party arrives, who
is all apologies for the rude behavior of his adopted son Rudolph, and
cordially invites them to a celebratory banquet alongside a tranquil lake.
The ever charming Vyskočil in his white suit dominates the
second half, as he is the de facto leader of the group, the man in charge, who (without
taking any responsibility) charmingly eases the fears of all involved (though
they are made to feel guilty), with several admitting afterwards to having felt
threatened and of having suspicions, as the rudeness was inexplicable and
uncalled for, but they are suddenly, in turn, ingratiating themselves to their new
host, a consummate politician who smooths things over and takes control of the
situation by admitting to nothing, “So will someone tell me what happened or
not? A brother shouldn’t turn against
his brother. And a guest shouldn’t turn
against a guest.” The elegant banquet
itself couldn’t be more elaborate, where servants bring lighted candelabras to
every table, where after a “minor” disturbance, everything is back in good
order. That is, until some plump woman
realizes she’s sitting in the wrong seat, which sets off a chain reaction of
everyone getting up and moving to a different seat in an absurd display of
accommodation, where they show the appearance of concern without really
bothering themselves, where they pretend to go along, as that pretty much
reflects what they do. In this manner, Němec
documents the self-deception and rationalization that lead to passivity and unquestioned
conformity. The host, of course, requires
complete obedience and quickly loses his patience with this unnecessary
disruption to a party he’s taken such great care to organize. He grows furious, however, when one of the
women announces that her husband has actually “left” the party, that he wasn’t
that interested in being there anyway, but the host views this as an act of
bold defiance, setting off a series of instructions where a heavily armed party
of men decide they will go after him, led by a scent-sniffing hound that will
lead the way, where this search party literally disappears into the trees to
the sounds of dogs barking. There is
little doubt they will hunt the man down.
Němec has a sharp ear for the kind of psychological manipulation
practiced by Soviet regimes in his day, including the appeal to widely
prevailing customs, peer pressure, and formal politeness to keep subjects in
line, where the supreme leader is seen as a kind and benevolent dictator
expressing the widely proclaimed fiction that life under the state is a party
and we all ought to be its grateful guests.
Though veiled as an allegory, apparently a reference to the nonsensical
authority of the party was too close to the Communist Party, as the film
describes the authoritarian mentality that occurs under fascism, communism, or
“democratic” lynch mobs (see The
Ox-Bow Incident, 1943). When
President Novotný saw the film, he apparently “climbed the walls” according to
Nĕmec, and demanded the arrest of the director.
Aside from Vyskočil, who is a theater director, the non-professional
cast is chosen primarily from the Prague intelligentsia, including Jiří Němec,
a psychologist and translator, while his wife Dana Nĕmcová is a psychologist, Karel
Mareš and Jan Klusák are composers, Evald Schorm (the man who left the party)
is a film director, Miloň Novotný is a photographer, and Josef Škvorecký along
with his wife Zdena Salivarová-Škvorecká are both novelists, a cast Nĕmec describes
as a photo album of the counter revolution, where only playwright and eventual first president of the Czech
Republic Václav Havel is missing.
No comments:
Post a Comment