dir: Miklós Jancsó, Hungary 1966. Black and White, Agascope 2.35:1, with subtitles.

Screened at the Leeds International Film Festival

The film is set in Hungary in 1869. Events have followed on from the failed revolution of 1848 and there have been bands of rebellious peasants in the countryside. Part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the revolts are both about nationalism and about class. A new noble minister for law and order is determined to stamp out resistance, using whatever means is necessary.

The credits are shown over a series of graphic images: factories, mansions, prisons, and implements of torture whilst a voice over comments on the ‘enrichment of the bourgeoisie’. Then the film opens with a long sequence shot showing the actual round up of the title. Horsemen gallop across the flat, almost featureless plains, chase down peasants and herd them together. The action then moves to an enclosure and nearby buildings, predominately in white. The peasants are confined in an enclosure, Individuals are taken away to be pressurised or tortured. The latter includes a set of narrow and constricting cabins in which men are locked.

Women bring food and necessities to the imprisoned men. They are herded and attacked by the military. Their (presumed) husbands throw themselves from the walls of the enclosure. A woman is stripped and forced to run a gauntlet of flailing soldiers.

One peasant confesses to a two killing. He is then threatened with hanging unless he discovers a perpetrator who has killed more people. He is only partially successful when he finds a ‘victim’ he can only identify three of the names of the claimed victims. There is an execution.

The informer tries again. But locked in a cabin at night, he is found strangled next morning. Three men finally confess to arranging his death. The authorities questioning of the imprisoned suspects focuses on one of their leaders, Sandor.

Late in the film the remaining imprisoned peasants are forcibly enrolled in the army. Two claim to have riding experience with the rebel groups. They demonstrate their prowess. They are then allowed to select comrades from the ranks for a mounted battalion. Once gathered together they sing a song from their rebel days. But their enthusiasm is misplaced and they face punishment rather than service.

Jancsó’s films are strongly allegorical. Whilst individuals come to the fore for particular scenes, the characters are not psychologically drawn: they are symbolic of their class and their social position. The settings and the landscape are very important and add to the sense of parables about society and social relations. Stylistically he uses long shots, long takes and sequence shots, (though not to the degree found in later films like Red Psalm). He frequently places simultaneous action in different planes within the image. There is a strong emphasis on the framing and the camera movements: editing is simple though cuts are often abrupt.

Graham Petrie interviewed the director and commented on his approach to filming: “During filming, Jancsó’s major concern is with the use of space and, as Madaras suggests, with the rhythmic utilisation of that space through the moving camera. According to [János] Kende, the lengthy sequence shots which characterise his films are all worked out on location; cast and crew arrive knowing only the equipment and props (candles, rain-making machines and so on) that they are likely to need. The total space of the day’s shooting is laid out with tracks, and a starting-point for each shot – usually a close-up, of a face, a hand or a weapon – is established. The movements of the main actors, and much of their dialogue, are then built up, together with the appropriate camera movements, and finally the often numerous extras are integrated into the total pattern. With a particularly complicated shot, this can take up most of the day. As all the sound is post-synchronised, Jancsó may well still be shouting instructions to the cast and crew during the actual shooting. The first take, Kende says, is usually discarded, as there are still too many errors; by the third or fourth take, things have become too mechanically perfect. The second take, therefore, is usually the one used.” (In Red Psalm, Flicks Books, 1998).

By the 1960s the conventions of socialist realism were disappearing, though they still exercised some influence in Eastern European cinemas. At one level The Round Up offers a historical example of the ruling classes’ suppression of the resistance of the ordinary working people. However, there is less about the politics of the revolution than in, say, the later Red Psalm. Petrie comments “Neither side was completely pure or innocent; the victims could be manipulated into betraying or deserting their comrades, and former victims were perfectly capable of committing atrocities . . . the possibility of achieving social and political justice seemed extremely problematic.” It would seem that Jancsó’s films needs to be interpreted in the light of the concept of hegemony. Hence the importance of the opening titles where the power of the bourgeoisie is seen as embodied in the instrument of production and of torture, seeping into the social relations of all, even the oppressed.

We had a short introduction before the screening. The speaker emphasised the allegorical aspect of the film, which was made only eight years after the suppression of the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He stressed, as do a number of writers, that the thematic centre of Jancsó’s films is the question of power: who controls it and how they use it. From this perspective The Round Up offers forensic study of a particular historical instance where the ruling class exercise power in an extreme fashion. But the generalised presentation of this encourages audiences to consider parallels with their own world – with obvious examples now in 2011.

Miklos Jancso’s later film, Red Psalm (1971), was also screened during the festival, but unfortunately not in a 35mm print due to the poor state of the existing copy.

Director: Béla Tarr. Screenplay: László Krasznahorkai, Béla Tarr. Cinematography: Fred Kelemen. Music: Mihály Vig. Black and white, with English subtitles, approximately 150 minutes.

Screened at Leeds International Film Festival.

Béla Tarr has achieved a high reputation among European art film directors in recent years: though I could not find a profile of him in any of my biographical and encyclopaedic books.

His preoccupations are fairly distinctive, but at the same time there are strong parallels with the films of other Hungarian directors, especially Miklós Jancsó. The characters are almost symbolic, the narratives clearly allegorical, whilst the black and white cinematography is luminous and full of striking sequence shots. This is in contrast to the story world, which is grim and fatalistic. The Turin Horse fits the pattern, though (sadly) it is also likely to be the last of these features.

The title and the film’s opening present a narrative voice recounting an episode from the life of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche against a black screen. Nietzsche sees a cabman flogging an exhausted horse in a Turin street. The philosopher flings his arms around the horse and then passes out. So begins his final days of mental breakdown. Finally the voice asks “what happened to the horse?”.

The rest of the film presents a tale involving a farmer and his horse. Not, I think, the same ones as in the Turin episode, minor details don’t fit and the setting is the countryside familiar from Tarr’s other films set in Hungary. It does seem, though, that it is set in 1899. The farmer, who has an incapacitated hand, lives with his daughter in a rude and fairly primitive farmhouse. It is set in a desolate and windy vale. There is a well and a stables where the old, worn out horse is kept. The film covers six days and nights, during which time a very strong gale blows but finally subsides. In the course of the film the horse becomes ill, a neighbour visits to buy a bottle of Pálinka {a locally brewed hooch): a band of gypsies stop at the well for water: and the well suddenly dries up. And the narrative voice returns several times to comment on events, at one point picking up a reading from a religious book by the daughter. The final comment from the voice occurs at the film’s end, as darkness increases, and offers the audience little but ambiguity.

What the farmer actually grows or produces is not clear: the basic diet of father and daughter is potatoes. I noted that they do not eat the skins, whereas, given their limited diet, this would have seemed to be a good idea. The daughter has to dress and undress the father due to his disabled hand: though this is resolutely non-sexual. As noted at one point she reads from a book, given to her by the passing gypsies. I was a little surprised that she was not illiterate, though her reading is halting and laboured. Much of the time is taken up with routine tasks or activities.

Tarr has offered a partial explanation of the film:

“The Turin Horse is about the heaviness of human existence. How it’s difficult to live your daily life, and the monotony of life. We didn’t want to talk about mortality or any such general thing. We just wanted to see how difficult and terrible it is when every day you go to the well and bring the water, in summer, in winter …All the time. The daily repetition of the same routine make it possible to show that something is wrong with their world. It’s very simple and pure.” (Bela Tarr)

This is certainly one aspect of the film. But I think audiences will actually consider such general things as mortality during or after the film. There is a narrative development on the screen, and it is a relentless closing in: a sense of a fate that encloses the character as the darkness of night encloses us all at one time or another.

Co-incidentally I listened to a recording of a programme chaired by Melvyn Bragg this week on The Frankfurt School. One contributor suggested that Theodore Arno (in particular) held to the view that ‘happy, conformist’ mass culture blinded ordinary people to the reality of life. He believed that progressive art should actually expose them to the reality of the miserable oppression that is the actual world. I would think that these philosophers would find Tarr’s films exemplary in this respect. The problem aspect with both thinkers and filmmakers is that there is the risk that this doomed existence seems inescapable.

But if Tarr’s films seem to lack a way out of hell, they are impressive in their depiction of such situations. The black and white images at time offer an evocation of an action or setting, as in the superb opening tracking shot, which follows the farmer, horse, and cart as they ascend, with difficulty, a hilly path. It would seem that Tarr and Kelemen used a Steadicam for most of these impressive sequence shots. At other points in the film a long take provides a simple shot that contemplates a character, in particular a beautiful framing of the daughter as she gazes out of the window in the farmhouse. The sound is partly naturalistic, with the incessant wind preying on both characters and audience. But there is also a recurring musical sequence, ominous but repetitious. And the performers (including the horse) are at one with the landscape and the elements. This is a film which is a pleasure to watch, and which is immensely stimulating. Despite its running time of two and half-hours it did not seem long, nor did it become monotonous.

Artificial Eye will be releasing the film in the UK.

Hungary 2003, 1.85:1, 90 minutes, in colour.

Director and screenwriter: Benedek Fliegauf. Cinematography: Zoltán Lavasi. Film Editor: Lili Fodor. Leading cast: Rita Braun, Barbara Csonka, Laszio Cziffer.

Screened as part of the Magyar Masterpieces retrospective at Leeds International Film Festival.

This is a challenging and certainly very original film. I found it riveting, but even by the end I was unsure about what exactly I had seen. Never mind, it is a great 90 minutes of cinema.

The film opens outside what appears to be a Department Store with crowds of people entering and leaving. The camera seems to pick on a character or characters and follow them: only to change its mind and follow another. The credits follow. Then we view a series of vignettes, with short interludes. Some characters appear several times, some only once. The little dramas are mainly abrasive as one character upbraids another.

In order of appearance we see a young woman (Kati) return to her flat and find her friend (Barbara), a sleeping man with a dog and a can of gasoline. Two young men discuss an unseen and distinctly odd pet. A husband and wife discuss the husband’s attitude and treatment of their ten-year-old daughter. By a river two men tell a young woman a story about an accident and a giant catfish. A couple, seemingly married, row about the contents of a man’s knapsack and his dead friend. A young woman recounts a disturbing dream to her boyfriend. Barbara and Kati re-appear in a wood, arguing because Barbara has lost the map. The young couple re-appear sitting round a campfire, there seem to be other people there.

Here the film fades into darkness and we are left with the sound of the flickering flames. Now the film reprises the opening sequence outside the store. We are able to identify the various characters from the vignettes, either leaving or waiting outside. It seems exactly the same as the opening sequence, though I thought there was a slight but significant additional action.

The various little dramas have a lot going on in them: more than suggested above. They seem very separate, but tantalisingly as the film continues there are suggestive overlaps. Moreover, there are interludes between the vignettes when some of the characters briefly re-appear, though involved in what is never clear.

The film’s style bear some comparison to the Dogme School of filmmaking. The film is shot in a restless, constantly mobile way, using a hand-held camera, and featuring mainly close-ups with the occasional long shot. I noted only one long shot in the main film: a woman stands looking over a partly urban hillside. There are however long takes or sequence shots, brining a sense of candour to the scenes. These include constant whip pans back and forth between the various characters. The sound design is also extremely important. Most of the film relies on naturalistic sound, with the only music occurring in the interludes. The cast is composed entirely of non-professionals: “It was very low budget. The actors were friends of mine . . . They are normal people who were from my surroundings. With non-actors I cast very close to the character . . .” (Benedek Fliegauf).

There are also aspects that seem troublingly inconsistent. The man with the can of gasoline brings the dog to Kati, and, presumably leaves it with her. We do not see it again, but it is in both the opening and closing sequences. Here a young woman, whom I think we do not see in the main part of the feature, is walking it on a lead? And there are other, presumably deliberate, ambiguity.

The film achieves that intense in-your-face effect found in the best Dogme films. One becomes deeply interested in the various characters. The less abrasive episodes offer a sort of relaxation between the heavy encounters. I am still puzzling out the interconnections between all these segments. It is like a fine poem. The lines, or here the images and sounds, lodge in one memory: evocations on which you can dwell with pleasure or carry on attempting to analyse.

Hungary 1972, 1.85:1 black and white with English subtitles, 88 minutes.

This is a film with a delicate surface but a tough interior. It opens with an old an infirm woman (Lili Darvas) under the care of her servant Iren. She is visited regularly by her daughter-in-law Luca (Mari Torocsik), whilst her son Janos (Ivan Darvas) is away in an uncertain situation. From the start the film mixes memories with then present in short, elliptical inserts. This is essay on time and memory reminiscent of the work of Alain Resnais. Apart from food and flowers the daughter-in-law brings letters from the absent son. But it becomes apparent that his situation is different from the successful career presented in the letters.

Like other Hungarian films there is a strong sense of allegory, and some of the use of settings as well as the graphics in the inserts reminded me of the films of Miklos Jancsó. But this has a different sort of lyricism, a fragility that echoes the feelings of the characters involved.

The film adapts two short stories of the writer Tibor Déry.  This is reckoned to be the finest work of the director Károly Makk, who trained in the Socialist Film School and started directing in the 1950s. The cinematography by János Tóth makes beautiful use of the black and white images, and achieves delicate effects with special lenses, long lenses and the occasional zoom. What we would now call the sound design is notable for the mix of dialogue and sounds, including those of the settings and animals. The editing is distinctive, and one constantly has to respond to changes and new images. The English subtitles are less judicious, with some odd spelling and formulations, though one can always work out the sense. Given this is Hungary in 1972, an audience can soon work out what is likely to be the actual situation of the son and husband. There is a distinct lack of signs as to places, dates or events. This gives the film an allegorical feeling, but presumably also deflected possible political criticism.

One of the strengths of the film is the way that the characters’ feelings and their fears are so effectively captured. On one hand, parts of the film feel like a poem on aspects of love, in other parts there is a strong sense of the realistic depiction of the characters situations. It has an intense sense of place, setting, objects and props. The camerawork makes a viewer strongly aware of the physical context, in which the characters are found, move and interact.

“One of the chief merits of this film is that it presents complete human beings. It employs small gestures (sinking wearily into a chair, smoothing the coverlet, or remembering an insignificant episode from the past) to present a rich world of emotions.” (Károly Nemes, Films of Commitment, 1985).

NB the film should be in 1.66:1, but the projection was nearer to 1.85:1.