TV Review: Thou Art the Man! (Vrah jsi ty!, 2003)

Police inspector (Jiří Langmajer)

As far as I remember, Edgar Allan Poe´s short crime story Thou Art The Man is just a few pages long, told in first person by very sarcastic unnamed narrator, and occupied by only four characters, including the narrator. The identity of the murderer is quite clear there, being constanty indicated by ironic tone the narrator uses every time he talks about that person. So, the pleasure from reading the story is not really caused by constant questioning who the killer could be, but by a curiosity whether or not he will be revealed and if so, then how. The spectacular ending, in which the archaic-sounding titular sentence is expressed, is what the story is most famous for.

Czech TV adaptation of it, written by Jana Knitlová and directed by Lucie Bělohradská, changed a lot. Even the “canonical” ending is little bit different. But more importantly, the adaptators generously expanded the number of suspects and added two detectives – one totally dumb police inspector, and one intelligent stranger who is suspect himself and as such, he has a good motivation to solve the crime.

So, unlike its source material, this TV adaptation is a traditional whodunnit with no less traditional English manor setting and the overall feel is more like if you are watching some Edgar Wallace or Agatha Christie detective story. The humourous tone of the short story is unfortunatelly ignored, wich is not unusual in cases of Poe adaptations.

I was relieved that Mr. Shattleby (the same man as in the Poe´s story, just with a different name) remains the victim, because the actor who played him, Jan Hrušínský, was so annoying after just few minutes of his appearance, that murder seemed to be the only right option. However, at first the incident was considered to be only a disappearance, not necessarily a murder.

Mr. Shattleby´s horse returned to his barn alone and injured by shot, while Shattleby himself was missing even after several investigative actions conducted by his close friend, Mr. Charlie Goodfellow (Viktor Preiss). Now and then, there were discovered some clues during these actions, most of them indicating that Mr. Shattleby is really dead and his nephew David (Jan Teplý Jr.) could be responsible for the crime.

Another theory, championed by sister of the missing Klára (Taťjana Medvecká) nominated Mr. Monroe (Lukáš Hlavica) as the possible killer. Monroe, who arrived in Shattleby´s house just shortly before the incident, is little bit mysterious figure, because with exception of the missing master of the house, nobody actually knows anything about him.

This character is an equivalent of the short story narrator and also seems to be inspired by detective C. Auguste Dupin from another Poe´s stories, The Murders in the Rue Morgue and The Purloined Letter. After realizing that police inspector (Jiří Langmajer) is more a strict bureaucrat than a brilliant mind the case calls for, Monroe takes control under the investigation.

What follows, is rather conventional string of chatty scenes of Monroe speaking with each other character and almost always discovering some secret of that person, widening the scale of possible offenders and their motives. I must add that this is actually a good change, because the only thing I didn´t like on the source material, was rather weak motive of the killer. In this, his plan is more sophisticated and his position in the house linked to more people than just to the victim.

With few exceptions, acting is very good. Viktor Preiss and Taťjana Medvecká are seasoned professionals and their names in the credits usually indicate certain level of quality. But I was also pleasently surprised by Lukáš Hlavica, who plays Monroe. He is acclaimed theater actor and director, but he rarely appears in front of a camera. Some other talents, like Klára Issová as neighbour´s daughter or Boris Rösner as Shattleby´s carter, are bit wasted in really small roles, the rest is OK.

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Film Review: Love Is My Profession (En cas de malheur, 1958)

Jean Gabin and Brigitte Bardot

Jean Gabin and Brigitte Bardot

Sometimes I think about how terrible damages were inflicted by the swollen egos of Jean-Luc GodardFrançois Truffaut  and their colleagues from Cahiers du Cinéma magazine (and later French New Wave movement). Similarly to some militant representatives of Czech New Wave or New Hollywood, their strategy to make changes in national cinema was based on constant disdaining of almost everything what was done before their arrival.

Even though they had to know that their experiments would not be possible to make without money earned by commercial films, they kept criticising their makers as if they were some sort of criminals, trying to destroy French cinema. The result of their hypocritical behavior is, that especially non-European audience often believes that nothing interesting was made in French cinema before New Wave era. That, of course, is a nonsense.

Director Claude Autant-Lara was one of these most blamed French filmmakers. In his case, it sometimes crossed the border between criticising and pure bullying. He was accused of such terrible crimes as making genre films, casting professional actors and probably the worst crime of them all – shooting films by fixed screenplays without any room for improvisation. The same as Hitchcock, for example, who on contrary was highly praised by new wavers.

In other words, he was very well crafted director and some of his movies, like The Red Inn (1951) or The Trip Across Paris (1956) are timeless classics for me. Love Is My Profession (1958), a sad crime melodrama based on Georges Simenon´s novel, undoubtedly belongs to the list, but considering the low number of ratings on IMDb (497 to date), it´s definitely not so widely known as I would expect it to be.

After a failed hold-up in jewelry, young and naive girl Yvette Maudet (Brigitte Bardot) asks famous attorney André Gobillot (Jean Gabin) to help her out of her troubles. She has no money, so she offers him her body as a fee. The scene in which they first met and negoitate, is half-comical and we expect that Gobillot will refuse the offer. Surprisingly, he agrees. From that point on, both of them are trapped in a spiral of self-destructive decisions, constantly forcing them (and viewers as well) to question what is or is not morally acceptable.

To cast Brigitte Bardot and Jean Gabin as a couple must had to be at least surprising, if not shocking, idea back in 1958. The 23-year old blonde beauty, whose most famous work to date was her naked appearance in Roger Vadim´s sensational (and overrated) film And God Created Woman, was probably the least anticipated onscreen partner of the actor who represented all what was considered as the traditional, conservative and yes, maybe a little bit stagnating in French cinema of the 1950s. But it was smart casting choice.

Not only it was quite significant evidence of changes, currently happening in Frech cinema. Bardot and Gabin also had different acting styles each and each of them was praised for something else. Which is unmistakeable parallel with the characters they´re playing in this. Gabin´s Gobillot is a man whose intimitading authority is built on decades of systematic work in which he cannot afford any mistake. On contrary, Bardot´s Yvette is happy-go-lucky cheap beauty with a decent chance to become a prostitute, who always gets away from anything without consequences just because she is beautiful young woman. She is aware of that and in one moment, she even verbalizes it: “I’m a female. I should do as I like.”

What these two characters have in common, are their questionable morals. Gobillot defends Yvette as an innocent victim of a mistake, even though he knows for sure that she is guilty of the crime, which she planned and tried to commit in cold blood. And Yvette, although not very intelligent, is smart enough to realize that a fee, which her attorney expects from her, is basically to be his concubine. And she seems to have no problem with it, at first. The biggest trouble is that both of them already have their spouses.

At first, Gobillot´s wife Viviane (Edwige Feuillère) seems to be OK with the fact her husband has some mistress, which he will use and discard, as she thinks. As soon as she realizes this is much more serious, she is not so happy about it. But her strategy is to wait and hope for the best. Yvette´s boyfriend (Franco Interlenghi) is not OK with the situation at all, repeatedly trying to open Yvette´s eyes and confront Gobillot. His only success is that Yvette keeps sleeping with him despite her proclaimed loyalty to Gobillot.

More accurate English translation of the original French title would be “In Case of Trouble” or “In Case of Adversity“, which suggests this love story is not going to end with a shot of Bardot and Gabin holding their hands and walking into the sunset. But the ending, which I won´t reveal, of course, is somewhat more brutal than I expected, and leaves some room for imagination what consequences it would have on each of the main characters´ lives.

encasdemalheurWhat started as a simple love story between elderly lawyer and his much younger female client, was actually quite subversive look on a morally ambiguous behavior of people from different social classes in era of French post-war prosperity, with some clever observations of its causes and indication of the potential consequences. For me, it´s any less relevant movie than Louis Malle´s noir The Elevator to the Gallows, released the same year and dealing with some of these topics as well.

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Film Review: Spirits of the Dead (Histoires extraordinaires, 1968)

One of many 1960s movies of its kind, Spirits of the Dead is a three-part anthology of Edgar Allan Poe´s lesser known short stories, each of them directed by a different European filmmaker – Roger Vadim, Louis Malle and Federico Fellini.

Histoires-extraordinairesQuoting Poe at the beginning (“Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then give a date to the story I have to tell?”), this movie set his stories in three different historical periods, from medieval times to then present day, in chronological order. More as two romantic mysterious melodramas and one sardonic satire than as horrors in a traditional sense, all three of these adaptations share a sense for visual beauty as well as attractive cast. However, in terms of an effective storytelling, their quality is uneven.


Let me introduce to you Barbare… eh, I mean baroness Metzengerstein (Jane Fonda). They just have the same tailor, I guess.

Directed by Roger Vadim, starring his then wife Jane Fonda and co-starring her brother Peter Fonda as her love interest, the adaptation of a first ever published story of Edgar Allan Poe could be easily described by only three words: visually stunning mess. If you previously saw some other films directed by this man, you probably know what I mean. Mr. Vadim could have been a great swinging sixties fashion guru. But as a filmmaker, he should be also a good storyteller, which he was not, I´m afraid.

So, based on its costumes, set designs and makeup, one could think that his segment is about Barbarella, mysteriously finding out her way to the past, where she pretends to be a bitchy baroness, secretly trying to influence the fashion trends of the medieval times. And, of course, to seduce some men along the way. But Jane Fonda actually plays a different character (or at least, desperately tries to) who just happens to share a similar taste in fashion and gender politics with the space heroine mentioned above.

Even if her baroness Metzengerstein is of an aristocratic origin and female sex, one can´t really use the word “noblewoman” in her case, because there is nothing noble about her. This is partly because of the character itself as she is – and is meant to be – a cruel, ruthless bitch torturing her fellows just for fun of it.

But partly also because Jane Fonda plays her as a redneck cowgirl who won some lottery and now gives everyone a big show of how much money and power she has. I believe Jeanne Moreau could be much better casting choice for this part, but I can understand the comercial motivations to make another VadimFonda vehicle instead of a good movie.

So, this ovidian story about a man metamorphosed in a black horse after his accidental death, and a woman who then finally realizes how badly she behaved to him, was over fourty minutes long torture to watch for me. And the increasing stack of a shallow wannabe-freudian symbolism certainly did not help this.

William Wilson 

Alain Delon, the godfather of self-harming

Alain Delon, the godfather of self-harming

The second segment has its highs and lows, but generally, the result is much more coherent in each component. Directed by Louis Malle, the story focuses on a sociopathic young man (Alain Delon), who wants to confess a murder he commited. In an unevenly interesting line of flashbacks, he tells the priest about a mysterious man whose name is exactly the same as his – William Wilson – and who keeps following him since their childhood.

Whenever the original William Wilson commits something really bad (and, being an obvious sadist, he does such things on a daily basis), this second William Wilson shows up as some sort of a romantic hero from “cloak and dagger” genre, ready to rescue the victim and punish the offender. Both William Wilsons are played by Delon, except for shots in which they physically interact with each other. In order not to disturb the illusion of two Delons, the chivalrous Wilson wears a mask covering half of his face, so Delon´s double remains anonymous.

The longest part of this segment is devoted to a card game Wilson plays with some noblewoman, played by Brigitte Bardot. And even if a huge amount of money is at stake, as well as is their privilege to punish the other in case of win, it´s really, really long and I am convinced that this is only because of Brigitte Bardot was cast in the part. She´s beautiful (actually, wearing a black wig, she looks more like Claudia Cardinale) and unlike Fonda, she knew how to act impressively without any external manifestations of it.

However, the sadomasochistic tension in a subtext of their game can not be stretched indefinitely, and more cutting would be of great benefit to the result. Especially when you can see the denouement of the story from afar.

Toby Dammit

Terence Stamp as Toby Dammit. If Edgar Allan Poe and Betelgeuse could have a hypothetical son…

I am generally a fan of Anglo-Saxon concept of cinema rather than of the Italian one, so I was seriously surprised that it was Federico Fellini segment which I enjoyed the best. His very loose adaptation of Poe´s short story Never Bet the Devil Your Head, starring Terence Stamp, is clearly the winner here. The titular character is a British actor, asked to star in Italian film, whose producers proudly present it as “the first ever Catholic western“.

We never see anything from this prepared masterpiece, because the whole segment captures a time elapsing between Toby´s arrival to the Italian airport and his night after, spent out at some bizarre award ceremony. Fellini´s obsessive contempt for television is hugely present here, but it´s not as snobbish and annoying as in some of his later films. It definitely makes much more sense in a story about an actor, devastated by his profession.

The anxious hero, probably not coincidentally resembling Edgar Allan Poe in a way, seems to be completely exhausted and disgusted by everything and everyone around him, so what we see along through his eyes, is just a dellusional pulsating carneval of grotesque. Fellini managed to capture so many people, surroundings and situations, some of them just barely overlooked for a few seconds, that I believe his present-day segment could have cost more money than both previous period dramas altogether.

In Toby Dammit (and some may argue that also in Fellini´s work in general) all people look and behave like a bunch of variously shaped and coloured insects, buzzing around the hero´s head and slowly killing him with their stings of words, asks and wishes. With each camera flash irradiating his face and each spasmodic smile he receives, Toby is closer and closer to be done with this world. And more and more prepared to leave it soon.

Even if the source material could be only an obligatory excuse for something different, more “auteurish” in this case, I appreciate that Fellini took from Poe something what the majority of his adaptators usually ignore, and that´s his dark, misanthropic humour. If for nothing else, watch the Spirits of the Dead for this last segment.

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TV Review: Aksál (1969)

Josef Abrhám and Marie Drahokoupilová

Similarly to Milan Kundera and some other Czech writers of his generation, playwright Pavel Kohout went through a major personal development during his profesional life. Starting as a devoted communist, writing enthusiastic hymns on Stalin in the early 1950s, he ended up being a totalitarian regime´s worst enemy, expelled from Czechoslovakia by its government in the fall of the 1970s. I am far from being a fan of his work, which I see as more often just demonstrative and pretentious than really interesting or culturally relevant, but there are some exceptions.

Thirty minutes long TV short Aksál, directed by acclaimed stage and TV director Jiří Bělka, is one of them. One of the last Kohout´s work before his plays were banned by the government, Aksál concludes about five years long period of his interest in collaboration with Czech film industry and television. After his emigration, he tried to continue in German-speaking world (by, for example, directing a TV remake of then banned and later famous Karel Kachyňa´s political thriller The Ear), but as far as I know, none of these attempts received any significant response.

From the author whose work is most famous for a substantial political subtext in it, I would expect anything but a lyrical story about love. Surprisingly, exactly that Aksál is. Narrated in real time, Kohout´s play focuses on a thirty something woman Ema (Marie Drahokoupilová), who is married for twelve years to a considerably older doctor (Jiří Adamíra). Their marriage seems to be happy, as they talk it with a younger couple at the beginning of the story. But is it really?

During one afternoon at some holiday resort, the doctor is asked to take a look at some sick child, so his wife is left alone in an empty restaurant overlooking the lake. She decide to spend her spare time reading a book, but then a younger man (Josef Abrhám) shows up. He asks Ema various questions (as if she likes dogs and if so, why she hasn’t one), half-jokingly, half-seductively. What she sees as a rude intrusion at first, starts to interest and entertain her more and more.

The young man, who introduces himself as Aksál (which is a nonsencial word in Czech and its real meaning is not revealed until the end) obviously has an original sense of humour and a hyperactive imagination. Jumping from one topic to another, whether it is a possibility of tightrope walking without rope or a usefulness of hyenas, he also keeps asking Ema questions. These are more and more personal. Because their conversation seems to be a clash of two opposite philosophical approaches to life (imaginative and conservative), Ema answers even some uncomfortable questions (as why she has no child) in order to defense her way of life.

Yes, her marriage maybe is little bit worn-out. Yes, she even imagined to herself how it would be like to divorce with her husband. But after all, their marriage is relatively happy, with dog/kid or without it. However, with each of her answers, Ema seems to be less convinced. To her own surprise, after about twenty minutes of conversation with this stranger, she is determined to leave her husband and go away with Aksál. The story has a sort of twist-ending, which is tragic in a way, even if nobody dies. I don´t want to spoil it to anyone. So, if you believe you could watch this rare short someday, skip the following paragraph.

SPOILER There is a confrontation at the end, with Aksál informing Ema´s husband that she is leaving him. After a fist fight between the two of them, two hospital orderlies enter the restaurant, apparently relieved that they finally found their man. With a promise that they´ll let him try the tightrope walking without rope, they take away the lunatic asylum fugitive Aksál (which is “láska”, a Czech word for “love”, read backwards), leaving crying Ema alone in the restaurant with her husband, questioning her life. END OF SPOILER

When I was asking myself why such a little talky short film impressed me more than anything else that Pavel Kohout ever wrote, I have to come to three conclusions. First of all, it´s the topic of the play, which is sort of defense of imagination and freedom over the more conservative and uptight way of life, dictated by common social conventions. That is something I can easily identify with.

Secondly, the actors. Josef Abrhám´s filmography amounts to one hudred and twenty films and TV productions, with various leading parts in many of them. But Marie Drahokoupilová unfortunately wasn´t so lucky. Most of Czech directors used to cast her rather stereotypically as the “vamp woman” (in 1993 comedy The Vampire Wedding, she even literally played a woman who became a vampire), which is type not so often present in Czech films and TV dramas. So, she was more or less obliged to repeat one stereotype, mostly in supporting roles, and did not have much opportunities to play something more challenging and differentiated. Aksál is one of not so many exceptions and she is great in it.

The third thing is that Aksál shows some quite nontraditional formal aspects for a Czech TV production of its time, especially that the whole thing was shot in exteriors (including the restaurant scenes). This decision apparently faced some troubles (being shot against the daylight, the actors were surrounded by a slight blackish aura from time to time, also one particular shot seems to be shot in the studio and added in later, probably for that reason). But thanks to the “living” lake, woods and gusts of wind, Aksál has definitely more fluidum of something real and unrepeatable, which it wouldn´t have if it was filmed entirely in the studio.

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TV Review: A Dime a Dance (Síť na bludičku, 1983)

Dagmar Veškrnová

Of all Czech foreign crime fiction adaptations, this one belongs among my personal favourites. It´s based on a short story called A Dime a Dance, written by Cornell Woolrich (under his pen name William Irish). Original Czech title of the play – Síť na bludičku – is derived from a title of a song which plays a key role in the story, and has a different meaning. But I think its English translation “The Net for a will-o’-the-wisp” sounds and even looks so clumsy and confusing, that it will be better to use the short story title.

Set in an American dance night club (with very obvious space limitations of a small Czech TV studio), the story focuses on a simple-minded, but good-hearted dancer Sandy (Dagmar Veškrnová-Havlová), whose best friend and fellow dancer Julie (Evelyna Steimarová) mysteriously disappears one day. Sandy knows that such a dissappearance without previous explanation is not usual for Julie and tries to find out what happened. She is even more worried when their boss Mr. Marino (Miloš Kopecký) claims angrily that after her unapologized absence Julie hasn’t to be bothered to come to the work anymore.

And she won´t. Unfortunatelly, a morbid forecast of the dancehall dressing lady Mrs. Henderson (Blanka Bohdanová), who loves to read newspaper columns about murders and accidents, was right. Julie was murdered in her flat by some unknown man, with whom she previously had a dance that night. The killer (whose at least third victim Julie was) seems to be some sort of a weirdo focused exclusively on dancers. Apparently, he likes to dance with their corpses after stabbing them to death. Of course the knowledge of this triggers a panic among the other girls. Whoever they dance with, they constantly ask themselves – could it be him?

As in most of effective crime thriller stories told from a viewpoint of a witness or possible victim, police is seen as completely useless in A Dime a Dance. Yes, there is some formal investigation, but detective Nick Ballestier (Jiří Kodet) seems to be interested in the case more as an excuse to repeatedly enter a dressing room full of half-naked girls, than for his ambition to catch the killer. His approach is more like – such things happens and dancers with a dubious reputation must take it as a common risk of their profession.

So, Sandy faces two goals – to find out the identity of the offender, and to convince the detective that she is not some dim-witted half-prostitute, and neither was Julie. There is also a third motivation – Julie was survived by her teenage son Danny, who was expelled from a boarding school and cannot get the insurance money until the circumstances of his mother´s death become clear. But I think this storyline (and the whole character of Danny) was little bit redundant for this adaptation.

Otherwise it´s a good job within the limitations of its TV play format. Writer Jana Dudková (who also adapted several Ed McBain and Boileau & Narcejac stories for Czech TV) had a lot of experiences with strenghts and weaknesses of this format, and so had director Jaroslav Dudek. I like their precise characterization of each important character, some of it subliminal. For example – we don´t know anything about Sandy´s family background, but we can guess it by her interaction with Mr. Marino and Mrs. Henderson, who are conceived as the parental figures here.

From this point of view, Dime a Dance could be seen as a story about a dysfunctional family and its reconciliation. At the beginning, Sandy is a rebellious daughter disrespecting her parents, who later will begin to appreciate the values they represent in her life and gain their respect in return. Mr. Marino is the breadwinner. Maybe too rigorous and too concerned on his business, but afterall, he´s a man who keeps Sandy´s life in a certain direction. His angry reaction to Julie´s absence is actually an expression of dissapointment of the fact that one of his “daughters” ungratefully left the family nest, and also a warning for the others, who might consider the same. And Sandy is certainly suspected of that. She obviously isn´t satisfied with her position and doesn´t want to become next Mrs. Henderson.

Which is probably my favourite character of the play. Mrs. Henderson is seemingly cynical raffish woman in her late fifties, whose only joy in life is booze. Roaming the club in her dressing gown, usually drunk and ceremoniously reading aloud newspaper articles about murders, she demonstrates to the girls (and to herself) how dangerous is the life out there and why the best thing one can do is to stay at home and drink. It´s sort of Bette Davis type of character and I absolutely adore the comical possibilities Blanka Bohdanová found in it. However, even Mrs. Henderson has some development as the story progresses. She becomes more active (and sober) once things start to be more serious.

Normally, I would be trying to avoid any spoilers in a case of murder mystery, but this one is not really about any surprising “it´s one of us!” sort of twist. No. As become clear right after the murder investigation, the offender was some random guest of the club and the main clue by which he should be identified in the future is a specifically shaped ring he´s wearing. So, as soon as actor František Husák wearing exactly that sort of ring shows up, there´s no doubt about a role he plays in the mystery. It´s quite surprising casting choice. And not only because this actor usually played mentally well-balanced and cultivated men like waiters, butlers, officials (or Sherlock Holmes).

It´s interesting for one more reason. František Husák shared his surname with then president of Czechoslovakia Gustáv Husák, who – as the highest representative of the communist regime – was generally hated by most people. They were not related, but even that surname was enough for the communist government to complicate the actor´s professional life. Some sort of regulation was issued about casting him only in smaller and preferably indifferent roles. Because in the case he would play some big role in some significant film or TV play, there should be a danger that people would be ineptly joking about Gustáv Husák, pretending they are actually talking about fictional František Husák´s character. Absurd, isn´t it?

So, that´s why it´s so surprising to see him playing such a negative role in A Dime a Dance.  But he was definitely a good choice. I remember seeing it for the first time as a kid and subsequently having nightmares from Husák´s scenes. There is actually a minimum of violence shown, but he plays his role in a very intense and disturbing way. No shouting, no tough words, nothing like that. He just keeps talking and the well-ballanced sound of his voice, that certainty of a man who decided long ago what he will do and now is going to do it smoothly no matter what. That was so disturbing.

Dáša Veškrnová (as we were used to call her before she was married to Václav Havel and become the first lady of the Czech Republic) is also great as Sandy. One thing I always liked about her was that unlike many other actresses, she was not so obsessively concerned on her looks, certainly not while playing some normal, ordinary woman, which is also the case of A Dime a Dance. Sandy´s job is to be attractive while dancing with male guests of the club (so she is), but inside her dressing room, she´s not pretending to be any diva or beauty queen. She acts naturally and doesn´t really care about her looks. I am not so sure whether another actress would be playing Sandy this way.

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