Visegrad Film Forum offers a rare opportunity for film universities from the CEE region to come together and showcase their students’ work. This occasion offers not only a comparison of the films themselves and the production culture of their host institutions and countries but also a platform to share and compare resources, pedagogical approaches and themes that interest the next generation of filmmakers. Films can rarely be decoupled from the conditions under which they are made, and this can manifest sharply on screen. Although heterogeneous in their approach, execution and technique, several apparent stand-out themes interest young filmmakers, and this text will be an observation of the current sentiment present amongst this generation. Nostalgia (especially towards music and socialist-realist aesthetics) seems to be a common denominator. CDs, cassettes and radios provide the soundtrack to these films, evoking a perhaps steadier, more predictable way of life. An overarching feeling that seems to be what unites this selection of films is longing for exactitudes, guidelines and sense-making in the very uncertain and precarious world we live in.
At this year’s VFF, five film schools from the CEE along with another guest school from Tallinn, Estonia, were invited to represent themselves. On Thursday, the program kicked off with films from the Eszterházy Károly Catholic University from Eger, Hungary, and the Film Academy of Miroslav Ondricek from Písek, Czechia.
As a professional working and living in Hungary, it is hard for me to remain completely objective, and I have a bias since I know the Hungarian situation closely. Recent years have been turbulent, and systemic changes have occurred in universities offering filmmaking courses. Because the previous status quo was upset with what seemed to be an apparent advancement of cinematic studies, the funding of university projects is as inequitable as ever. Furthermore, it cannot be unseen that the political and economic hardships that the country has been facing as well as the global instability have made their marks and made their way into the films that were screened. While the actual politics have always been present in contemporary Hungarian shorts (for example Land of Glory by Borbála Nagy), this pool of films was especially alarming. Each character is in an extremely precarious situation in their life while intergenerational and existential conflicts run to the boiling point with a catharsis and without release. The mental health and lived experiences of these characters are all too familiar to Hungarians.
The block of Eszterházy Károly Catholic University started with Katica Kozma’s My Own Body, a suffocating greenhouse drama where heavy emotions weigh with the pressure of 50 °C in high humidity. Laci (about 20) works in the plant nursery of his mother. He frantically and often drinks water, but we soon learn that it is not due to sweating. The scale shows a mere 50 kg when he stands on it, and it soon becomes apparent that Laci has an eating disorder. His mother meticulously documents each gram, and their ritual is well-choreographed. At this nursery, everything is neat and precise, and the plants obviously love it. This precise, yet mundane daily ritual is soon disturbed by Maja, a prospective employee who is late to her trial day. She is very competent, knowing each plant’s Latin name by heart, yet her place in such an exact world is doubtful. Maja is a breath of fresh air that blows as a shock through an open door of a glasshouse and Laci is relieved to have met a kindred spirit, even if just for a moment. My Own Body offers a unique perspective on a disease (anorexia nervosa) that is often associated with women and a wish to appear thinner or more appealing to the male gaze. Laci is a handsome man, and in his case, the disease is a manifestation of deep-rooted anxiety, generational trauma and uncertainty. Much like obsessive-compulsive disorder, it is the comfort of being able to control at least some aspect of his life that is at the origin of Laci’s disease. His overbearing mother, the dead-end nature of the greenhouse job and uncertainty regarding the future all paralyse Laci, to whom only his encounter with Maja offers some relief.
Tension is also at the heart of Lilla Süle’s Silkworm, a heavy portrait of the prevalence of deeply rooted traditionalist values in the Hungarian countryside. Tristan is a contemporary dancer in Budapest and his close friend Hannika works in theatre production. Their premiere is nearing as they go to visit Hannika’s relatives in the countryside – her sickly, wheelchair-bound mother and her unremarkable and quiet uncle, Géza. Silkworm is quite ambiguous throughout and Tristan’s character along with his place in the relational dynamic is left perhaps just too unclear. Mother and Géza are unexpectedly hostile, turning towards him with disdain and disgust, but nothing more is understood of this relationship, leaving a lack in the storytelling. Nuances and subtleties are felt but not persisting enough. The film culminates in restrained catharsis when Tristan shows up to dinner with make-up and dressed for his show. The mother, paralysed by the situation, is catatonic while Géza faces this situation with an apathetic disdain, an analogy of Hungarian perspectives on untraditional gender expressions.
People are divided, hostile and fearful in the country, just like the protagonists of Mátyás Kovács’ Adam’s Afraid. Vica and Adam are at the Hungarian-Slovakian border, they need to catch a flight from Kosice but will spend the night with Vica’s family nearby. This is not a vacation weekend, and it is quickly understandable why – conscription has started and those who receive the message must refer within twenty-four hours. They are fleeing, but Vica is reluctant to tell this to her parents who are already preparing for the war, creating a bomb shelter in the basement. They are deeply religious and have faith in God’s power to spare them. However, the danger is closer than they expected and each of them has to make a choice, to leave or to stay. Adam’s afraid particularly portrays the fearsome atmosphere and the anticipated doom in this highly fictitious alternative reality. The story begins in a vast open field, a symbol of freedom and a hope for evasion. Soon, however, we find ourselves in the narrow and dimly lit interior of a family home. The eerie feel is represented with unsteady lighting and subtle allusions to the frontline moving closer – footage of soldiers, virtual reminders of the draft, and a family heirloom, a cross passed down from generations of soldiers, that Vica’s father gives Adam to bear.
After a short Q&A session during which the students reflected on their thematic choices, funding and workflow, it was time to watch two short films from the Film Academy of Miroslav Ondricek. These two films were less connected by their style but still exhibited the returning themes that were present across each school’s presentation. Marina Malysh’s With Love treated the topic of a life-threatening illness in early adulthood. To a young person, disease is unfathomable, a tragedy. A body in its prime is not destined for it, nevertheless, it does not spare anyone. When all rationale is gone, for many comes faith. As humans, we need to make sense of even the most tragic and unjust occurrences in life. This highly stylised, sensory film tapped into the comfort that spirituality can offer in the face of uncertainty. Biblical symbols were apparent, mainly in the form of an angel-like figure, switching between a young child and an old lady. The spirituality and inevitable nostalgia of near-death experiences were emphasised through a dream sequence shot on 35 mm film, a departure from the general aesthetic of the film. Although the rest of the film is shot on digital, the dream sequence acts as a formal and aesthetic counterpart to the rest of the film with its montage of images, seemingly stuck in a time out of reach for the protagonist. A sequence of memories showcasing the mundane beauty of life ensues at this critical point of the film when the protagonist regains his faith and hope in life.
The second Czech film, Jakub Krajsky’s Only the Good, a hit-and-run style short, revolves around the topic of disillusionment, the hidebound stillness of dead-end peripherals. Similarly to Malysh’s film, the use of black and white cinematography evokes past aesthetics and creates an ambience disconnected from an exact time-space, enforcing the nostalgic feeling. The film is a loop of a future with no perspective with an eastern twist. The circulatory structure paired with timeless production design symbolises the stillness of rural Polish towns and the cyclicality of crime, while simultaneously paraphrasing the outlaws of the Western genre. The protagonists are young men, brothers, childish in a sense, who are naturally more interested in asking out the pretty waitress than stealing her money. However, they do not get the chance to have this carelessness and soon succumb to the harsh realities of unlawful dynamics. It seems to invoke a feeling of being stuck. On the one hand, we get a very sympathetic view of a time long gone, where fun and games can still be felt. On the other, a cruel ending shrouded in darkness and crime, perpetrated by a man with no face, as the camera characterises him only by his pineapple Hawaiian shirt.
The second day of screenings featured the films of the students of the Krzysztof Kieślowski Film School University of Silesia and the Vienna Film Academy. The session began with Polish films, where nostalgia was the common denominator, but the thematic range was wide. Two films stood out for their visual and sensory aesthetics despite opposing themes and approaches. Interestingly, both films were shot in black and white but while Cold by Daniel Le Hai is a dark, cruel and merciless tale, Probably…See You Later! shot on film by Bartosz Gaczynski is a playful, timeless and endearing tale of first loves. Cold portrays an initially random and violent attack by young neo-nazis on an elderly man. With interpolated videocam footage of a young boy reciting a patriotic poem, we soon realise there is nothing arbitrary about this attack. The cinematography is outstanding, and the shift from sharp images to grainy camcorder shots reveals a very uncomfortable past. Through editing, the boy is connected with one of the main attackers, as we see the film’s cathartic end. However, in Gaczynski’s film, this grainy, grey texture evokes a sharply different emotion. The soft, light gradients captured on film invoke the warmth of summer affairs and distil all down to the intimacy of this shared moment between two lovers. From dark and uncontrollable rage and deep resentment of forced patriotism to careless and somewhat escapist daydreaming, these two Polish shorts show coping mechanisms on two ends. While one is a reflection on the pull that extremist views can have on vulnerable people, the other reflects on the fleeting nature of contemporary romantics.
Faced with endless opportunities, standing still is often hard, and regret fills the one who doesn’t try. Nicolás Pindeus’s The Last People tackles the depopulation of rural communities as youth seek opportunities elsewhere. Lenz is hopelessly in love with his colleague Carina. After long, greasy days at the local tavern, they pass the time as best they can. Red wine with Coca-Cola, hardstyle and drifting – but no prospect in sight, just petty fights and lacklustre parties. When Carina breaks up with her boyfriend, Lenz, is finally ready to confess – but before too long, as many opportunities in life – it is already too late. Lenz is a bystander in his life, and even in motion, he is safe and predictable. He watches on as a pushy guy hits on Carina and lets her hug him with no reciprocation. His inertia is debilitating, he is unable to take control of his own life. No comfort is offered in this safe and well-known place but none in the future either, only the frustration of immobility remains.
The stream of aesthetic and thematic nostalgia persisted on the third day, as the Academy of Performing Arts, Film and TV Faculty of Bratislava and The Baltic Film, Media and Arts School (BFM) of Tallinn University presented their films. The use of 35 mm and 16 mm film was a common choice in both selections of shorts as well as dreamlike nostalgic relationships – both romantic and familial mixed with enthralling soundtracks of the 80s. Rauno Laikjõe’s Third Wheel, Carmen-Louise Suuroja’s Nostalgia in Red and Daniela Sláviková Nights and Days all echo this uncatchable feeling of memories of un-lived times through both their form and aesthetics. While film inherently has a sense of evoking past aesthetics, these three films represent timelessness and universality in their themes and through their visuals. The slightly blurry, soft neon warm lights complement the ubiquitous stories and feelings portrayed. First times – dates, loves, periods – are perhaps talked about and compared mostly to evoke a sense of shared experiences and to show that we are not alone with these uncomfortable feelings.
In the face of such unpredictable times, the unanimous take seems to be nostalgic longing for a time we never knew, a time of predictability and a steady pace. The only response is to face it with a great dose of humour, a celebration of all that makes life worth living and with filmmaking, offering ever-new perspectives on our experiences. Drawing from the past, longing for or warning of an unknown future, a feeling of stillness, even paralysis is omnipresent. To counter these feelings, rage, desire, dreaming and a great amount of absurd humour can serve as a response. The films do not merely visit or pay homage – they reinterpret, paraphrase and in so reframe the present. They represent a generational ethos, a universally shared sentiment.
