Marketa Lazarová (1967) - #661

Tales of foolish deeds, told at random...  

In recent weeks, a couple of social media posts have come to my attention, each involving some aspect of what I'll call "conspicuous Criterion consumption." This one was written by a guy who claimed to have watched 500 films from the Criterion Collection over the course of a single year. (His account seems dubious, since there's little in the way of insight regarding world cinema or even sufficient detail - no list of titles, just twenty or so specific film references - to convince me of his journalistic integrity.) Another one scales back the goal to merely "a Criterion a day," a pace that is certainly more practical and achievable, assuming one has enough free time and lacks sufficient desire to enjoy other pursuits in life that require getting out of the house or even just turning off the screen for a while. In both of these projects (and there are many other similar efforts going on out there, these are just a sample), I'm struck by the way that, in the minds of many who enjoy fine cinema, Criterion has become a thing unto itself, a commodity to be ingested and cataloged in short order, as quickly as the time it takes to play through each disc would allow.

But before anyone reading this accuses me of hypocrisy or a stunning lack of self-awareness, given the premise of my own Criterion-devouring project, please withhold judgment and allow me to clarify! After pondering those posts referenced above, and listening to several different podcast series aiming to conquer the collection in some comprehensive manner (usually, frustratingly in spine number order - blecch!) that have been issued in the past year or two (with increasing frequency, it seems), I found myself caught in a moment of introspection that's basically prevented me from posting this latest review for the past couple of weeks. And that's a good thing. Specifically, I'm reevaluating my own viewing habits, and the extent to which I too have fallen into this consumerist mindset that tends to see the Criterion Collection as not so much a trusted curator of excellent films and illuminating supplements, but more of a checklist filled with items to be scratched off and disposed of, for the sake of inflating one's ego, impressing acquaintances, and sustaining some illusion of practical accomplishment as we pursue and refine our aesthetic whims.

It's not just the depressing glimpse of self-recognition that I see in several of my slightly misguided peers that slowed me down. Thinking it through a bit, I think I've actually maintained a decent balance and pace between my hobby and the rest of my life as I close in on seven years of active blogging here. I've taken breaks when needed and made other choices in setting my editorial priorities that I think prevented me from just becoming a shallow hack offering knee-jerk opinions off the cuff, or falling into some dreadful formulaic approach that tends to regurgitate all the usual things said about the respective film under review on any given day, all for the sake of maintaining a steady pace of output on a daily, weekly, monthly basis. No quotas for me! Even though I've gone through phases where it's relatively easy to bang out quick takes (especially on relatively clear and simple films), I've always tried to remember that my primary aim when I started this blog was to just give each film its due consideration, and use this space as a repository for whatever thoughts a particular movie inspired, either in the process of watching it, or in the discovery of fascinating background details in my subsequent research on its origins or other aspects of the creative process. And if other people enjoy reading it, so much the better.

So for those of you who clicked on this link, expecting to read about Marketa Lazarová, Frantisek Vlácil's savagely bewildering masterpiece of 1967, I've kept you waiting long enough. Thank you for whatever indulgence you had to extend to get through those preceding paragraphs. Though the thoughts I expressed therein might seem disconnected from this obscure Czech epic, I must insist that the very overwhelming power of the film played an even bigger role in stopping me in my tracks, forcing a more prolonged period of reflection and processing than I had originally intended, in my haste to "get through" the Criterion titles of 1967 so that my Letterboxd watchlist could be whittled down all the more quickly.

Though it's obviously possible to fit a viewing of Marketa Lazarová into just about any kind of a leisure time schedule - it's only two hours and forty-five minutes long, after all - I'm convinced that one sitting is completely insufficient for anyone seeking to comprehend it in any meaningful way. This despite the fact that the director included explanatory intertitles at regular stops along the way that provide a fairly direct (but non-spoiler) summary of what was about to happen. The liner notes essay by Tom Gunning admits that he needed at least four passes through the film before he could figure out the family relationships depicted in the tale, and I'll expand on that by saying it may require that much study or more to grasp other aspects of the tale. Non-linear storytelling techniques abound here - flashbacks, dreams, ecstatic visions, abrupt shifts of location and hard cuts to first person point of view shots deliver continuous jolts even to the most experienced art house veterans. On top of this riveting procession of visual stimulation, our ears are set to ringing by an unorthodox sound mix that, even though its only in mono, presents rich textures and aural surprises every bit as fascinating and initially incomprehensible as what we see on the screen.

So here's my own summary of the story, which I offer in the interest of helping me gather my own thoughts about a film that still fairly overwhelms me, despite three full and closely attended viewings over the past ten days (and an earlier first impression back in 2013 when the disc was originally released.):

Over the course of a harsh winter and early spring on the Czech frontier, sometime in the 13th century AD, two clans run afoul of German royalty after a pair of brothers raid a caravan and kidnap the son of an ally to the king. Of the two feudal households, the Kozliks are the stronger and more aggressive, steeped in the old pagan ways, familiar with blood rituals and pitiless in executing their version of justice. It's their oldest sons whose crime has stirred up trouble. Lazar, their neighbor, is an adherent of the Christian faith, before the religion had established its dominance in that part of Europe. He's more or less content to live off the scraps left behind by the Kozliks, but because a few of his men participated in the looting of the abandoned wagons, he is pressed to form an alliance that would pose armed resistance to the inevitable retribution from the king's army. Lazar recognizes the futility and risk of such a rebellion, and brutally rejects the proposal, setting himself up as a target for Kozlik's own vengeance. Despite his pious (and self-serving) ambitions of dedicating his beautiful and innocent teenage daughter Marketa to a nearby convent, his plan is disrupted after she's kidnapped by Mikolas, the same son of Kozlik who'd been bloodied and beaten and sent on his way the last time he crossed the threshold of Lazar's family compound.

From that point forward, Marketa's fate, as a victim of rape and abduction, becomes enough of a focal point to justify the film being named after her. The second half of the film, a section titled "The Lamb of God," could even be applied to the girl's cruel suffering that still seems to serve some kind of redemptive purpose, though on a more literal level, there is an actual lamb and even a representation of the voice of God for those who prefer their symbolism served more concretely. Like many unfortunate young women in all eras who found themselves in similar circumstances, she develops an emotional attachment to the man who stole her innocence and corrupted her virtue. There's way too much chaos swirling all around the couple for anything to transpire that might fit our understanding of "romance," but Vlácil proves to be both courageous and capable in his inclusion of unadorned moments of tenderness between Marketa and Mikolas that provide brief interludes of pastoral respite and reprieve from the animalistic, brutal intensity that permeates this environment. Marketa, with her long blonde hair, her wide perceptive eyes and her capacity to register genuine astonishment and horror at the everyday madness she observes, remains an almost otherworldly presence amidst the unrelenting squalor of medieval life. And yet she absorbs into her virginal bosom the hard truths that her sojourn through this world has to teach her. She distills these lessons into responses that demonstrate her inner strength and her refusal to be dominated in spirit, despite the relative vulnerability of her youthful physique and her tender virtue.

And for those who enjoy the exotic elements of meticulously crafted cinematic worlds to vicariously merge into, this is one of the most engrossing renditions of a culturally remote, oppressively primitive time and place. In creating a truly timeless film that seems utterly detached from the typical 1967 vibe (that I really enjoy so much in this particular phase of my blogging journey) Vlácil went to great length, preparing his project over a period of years, to render this environment. He demanded great sacrifices of his actors, basically forcing them to live for several months in terrible conditions, out in the elements, facing the same hardships as their ancestors might have in those same locations 700 years earlier. There's really no "set" involved in the film, to the extent that we regard a set as an artificial contrivance built to capture on film an illusion of reality. Without the comforts of electricity, modern shelter or other amenities tucked away safely off camera, every member of the cast and crew alike had to personally adapt or give up, and the rigor of their ordeal infuses the production with a stern clarity. "Authentic" hardly begins to describe the sense of primal reality that's being tapped into here, a level of dedication to both art and craft that bespeaks a desire to strip away the insulation of contemporary civilized life so that they, and we, could capture some essence of life as it was experienced in a more drastic and visceral era.

Even after pecking away at this review for the past few hours, with a few breaks in between to think through what it is I'm trying to say about this monumental epic, I find myself staggering under its weight. I struggle to determine if I have yet managed to find my way past simple awestruck wonder and toward some kind of comprehensible grip on the mysteries it presents that I know I have yet to fully assimilate. This is not a film that I can in good conscience just file away and relegate to my movie-watching past. I know I have a lot more yet to say about this film, but for blogging purposes, I guess I have to be done with it for now.

Next: In Cold Blood