Tag Archives: 1963

Capsules

CAPSULE: THE GOLDEN FERN (1963)

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DIRECTED BY: Jiří Weiss

FEATURING: Vít Olmer, Karla Chadimová, Daniela Smutná

PLOT: When a lazy and amorous shepherd steals a golden fern bough from deep in a malevolent forest, a mysterious young woman appears begging him to return it lest dire consequences befall him.

COMMENTS: If fairy tales have taught us anything, it’s that going into the woods at night can be dangerous. The Golden Fern ominously begins in medias res in a dark and moonlit forest. A handsome young man races through the trees; it seems like he’s running from someone, but then he stumbles upon a grove of ferns and triumphantly picks the largest frond. He’s immediately attacked by a flock of angry birds whose screeching fills the air. He fights them off and manages to escape back to his humble peasant’s hut, where he gloats over his trophy. Was this an admirable act of bravery or simply foolish bravado?

There are no easy answers in Weiss’ film, but when a sudden knock sounds at the door, the latter seems more likely. He opens the door and at first only a shadowy figure appears, barely visible in the distance. “Give it back,” a voice urges him. “Give back the fern.”

Our protagonist, Jura (Olmer), hesitates to comply. He wants to know who would command him. Eventually the speaker reveals themselves, and to his surprised delight, the forbidding figure turns out to be a very pretty blonde (Chadimová). This being a fairy tale, he’s not going to give back the fern unless she kisses him first. She continues to insist he must give it back, but he ignores her warnings, and she relents to his clumsy overtures.

What seems like a poor start to a relationship briefly becomes a romantic idyll. The girl, whom Jura calls “Lysanka” because she has no other name, falls in love with him. In her devotion, she steadfastly protects him from the ambiguous influence of the golden fern, which he, of course, fails to return.

Fern was made at the beginning of the , although Weiss represents an older generation than the young film makers who would make names for themselves as part of the innovative and rebellious movement that yielded the Canonically Weird gems The Cremator,  Daisies, and A Report on the Party and Guests. While not quite as anarchic and freewheeling, Weiss displays the absurdist and irreverent black humor that’s a common denominator among Czech directors. This is a pretty dark fairy tale; however, the only truly weird element is the fern itself (unfortunately glimpsed in action in only one scene). Half plant, half beast, and blossoming with mysterious flowers before sprouting a tentacular vine replete with talon-like thorns, this fern looks like a worthy adversary to a monster from one of ‘s cheapo creature features (and I mean that as a complement). In a suspenseful and creepy scene, Lysanka fights the fern in what becomes a battle of wills. She emerges victorious, the possessor of one of its golden seeds.

The clever mix of basic low-budget effects utilized throughout the film enhance the otherworldly atmosphere, and the black and white cinematography fits the ominous tone. Lysanka never explains where she came from or who exactly she is; her pleas on behalf of the fern make her initially appear as its ally, until it reveals itself to be an opposing force. Jura remains oblivious of the magical powers surrounding him, simply losing himself in Lysanka’s love and beauty.

After defeating the golden fern, Lysanka sews the golden seed into a seam in Jura’s shirt. When he gets drunk at a tavern and ends up shanghaied into the army, it spells the end of their affair. She begs him to never exchange the shirt for another. He promises he won’t, but it’s Jura’s inability to follow good advice that landed him in this dire situation in the first place.

The setting then shifts to the frontier of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, where the Empress’ forces are at war with the Turkish military. This second half of the film has prompted comparisons to  The Saragossa Manuscript , but Golden Fern never reaches levels of surrealism. After a somewhat minor act of courage (literally capturing a flag from the enemy), the general promotes Jura to officer.

While the upper ranks continue to ridicule him for his slow-witted peasant ways, Jura unwisely begins a flirtation with the general’s gorgeous and aloof daughter (Smutná). First inspired by the possibility that she’ll convince her father to release him from his military service so he can return to Lysanka, she predictably beguiles Jura into attempting a series of increasingly dangerous tasks.

Learning from a fortune teller how to capture the general’s daughter’s heart, Jura risks his life to infiltrate the enemy camp. When he’s caught half-dead and disguised as a Turk after completing his mission, his commanders immediately assume Jura has turned traitor. The general’s daughter coldly abandons to him his fate as the gears of military justice grind into action; laws which seem as cruel and arbitrary as the mysterious rules of the forest. Even in a world of magic ferns and fae spirits, people still kill each other, mock each other, and fall in love—human nature is both triumph and tragedy.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

Czech writer-director Jiří Weiss’s The Golden Fern is a dark and haunting fairy tale, albeit one that’s grounded in an earthy naturalism. Rather than lean heavily into the surreal, as these films often do, Weiss subtly weaves elements of the magical or miraculous into an otherwise straightforward narrative, thereby cannily introducing aspects of the uncanny.”–Budd Wilkins, Slant Magazine (Blu-ray)

The Golden Fern [Blu-ray]

The Golden Fern [Blu-ray]
  • Czech director Jiří Weiss's breathtaking B&W fantasy about a stunning young forest fairy who falls in love with a handsome but selfish shepherd
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Apocryphally Weird

41*. THE SERVANT (1963)

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“The truth of the independent consciousness is accordingly the consciousness of the servant… being a consciousness repressed within itself, it will enter into itself, and change around into the real and true independence.”–G.W.F. Hegel, “The Master-Slave Dialectic”

DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: , , Wendy Craig,

PLOT: Hard-drinking playboy and would-be colonialist Tony hires the solicitous Barret as a manservant, despite the fact that his fiancée takes a dislike to the new employee. Barret convinces Tony to hire his sister as a maid, which sets off a chain of events that eventually leads to the master dismissing both servants. Tony’s drinking intensifies, however, and he invites his servant to return to the house; gradually, the roles of master and servant are reversed.

Still from The Servant (1963)

BACKGROUND:

  • Director Joseph Losey moved to the UK after receiving a summons to appear before Joseph McCarthy’s House  Un-American Activities committee.
  • The screenplay was written by Nobel Prize-winning playwright Harold Pinter, who adapted  Robin Maugham’s 1948 novella. It was the first of three collaborations between Losey and Pinter.
  • In 1999, a panel of movie professionals voted The Servant the 22nd best British film of all time.
  • Dirk Bogarde, a closeted gay man, had played a closeted gay man in 1961’s The Victim, one of the first films to deal openly and sympathetically with homosexuality. His agent (with whom the actor was secretly involved) was nervous about Bogarde taking this role, fearing he might acquire a “homosexual image.”
  • When Losey came down with pneumonia during the shoot, Bogarde stepped in to direct for ten days, with Losey providing instructions via telephone from the hospital.

INDELIBLE IMAGE: Mirrors, devices which reverse and sometimes warp images, but which also serve to reveal the selves we cannot see. Tony’s townhouse is littered with mirrors on seemingly every wall, and Losey takes advantage of them throughout the film, using mirrors to reflect the underlying truth of a situation. In one shot, Tony and Susan face Barret accusingly. In the convex mirror image, Barret can be seen clearly, standing calmly with a robe and a cigarette, while only the back of Tony’s head is visible, and Susan isn’t there at all. The mirror shows us the relative power and importance of the three characters in the scene more profoundly than the head-on camera shot does.

TWO WEIRD THINGS: Upside-down orgy; kissing the servant

WHAT MAKES IT WEIRD: The Servant emits the subtlest whiff of dignified strangeness, all emanating from the mysterious Bogarde: an unassuming Trojan horse of malice and perversion without a clear motive or objective other than raw power.

2021 Restoration trailer for The Servant

COMMENTS: Led by a dominating career performance from Dirk Continue reading 41*. THE SERVANT (1963) →

Capsules

CAPSULE: THE CASSANDRA CAT (1963)

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Az prijde kocour, AKA When the Cat Comes

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DIRECTED BY: Vojtech Jasný

FEATURING: Jan Werich, Emília Vásáryová, Vlastimil Brodský

PLOT: A magical cat reveals people’s true natures leading to whimsy and chaos.

Still from The Cassandra Cat (1963)

COMMENTS: On the surface, the movies of the (1963-1968) seem vastly different from typical cinema, but they aren’t. Not really. See, starting in 1945, when the film industry in Czechoslovakia was nationalized, the country’s cinema became stultified. Even small children could predict the outcome of every story. But in the early sixties there was a de-Stalinization within the Czech Artistic Council, and that led to an explosion of creativity: the Czech New Wave.

Films as strikingly different from one another as Daisies (1966) and A Report on the Party and Guests (1966) share not only this sociopolitical background but also a similar sense of absurdity and surrealism.

Why this Film Studies 101 intro? Because The Cassandra Cat (1963) (aka When the Cat Comes, The Cat Who Wore Sunglasses, One Day a Cat, and That Cat) makes a lot more sense in context.

A magician and his troupe come to a small town. They bring with them a cat wearing sunglasses. During the magic show, we learn the direct and rather impassive glare of the cat reveals a person’s true colors: literally. People turn entirely yellow if they are guilty of infidelity, purple if they are “social climbers” (we might say “brown nosers”), gray if thieves, and of course red if when they’re in love. Much chaos and hilarity ensues.

The Cassandra Cat is witty and whimsical, never passing up an opportunity to take a jab at authority, which is shown as anti-art and, through hunting and taxidermy, as anti-life itself. Our hero, a third grade teacher, is pro-art, anti-death, and all red when the cat looks at him, as he is smitten with the magician’s assistant.

The cat gets lost and falls into the wrong hands. The children protest by going into hiding. The parents lose their cool each in their own way, and in one delightful scene stand on tree stumps in the forest calling out their children’s names under the direction of a conductor. In the end the teacher does not get to keep true love (which thwarts the predictable Artistic Council code), but he does get a class of happy and creative students.

The Cassandra Cat uses experimental special effects throughout. Some of these, such as the process used to color those who have been seen by the cat, made restoration of the film quite tricky.

The Cassandra Cat‘s story is thin. Many scenes seem to have no purpose except to have fun, which in itself could have been rebellion against previous (and future) restrictions. The Czech New Wave essentially ended when Soviet tanks rolled in and crushed the Prague Spring in 1968.

See, doesn’t a cat wearing sunglasses lest he expose people’s true natures make more sense when you have that Cold War background?

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Part family fable and part surreal acid trip… Usually surreal, hallucinogenic films are also dark and moody, but Cat is unusual in this regard. It is a bittersweet film that never loses its sense of innocence, despite the wild scenes from the town square.”–Joe Bendel, J.B. Spins

Alfred Eaker's Fringe Cinema

INGMAR BERGMAN’S SILENCE OF GOD TRILOGY: THE SILENCE (1963)

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Throughout ‘s “Silence of God” trilogy, the divine voice becomes increasingly faint, until the vaguely concluding The Silence (1963), which is the world of a dead God. Whether or not The Silence is related to Through a Glass Darkly or Winter Light is debatable. Bergman himself never referred to the films as being concretely connected. It was later film enthusiasts (and home video marketing) who alternately lumped them together (not altogether incorrectly).

Silence‘s anti-theology theology is prominent in the first lines, when ten-year old Johan (Jorgen Lindstorm) points to a sign in a train compartment and asks his aunt Ester (): “What does this mean?” Her answer is elusive—“I don’t know”—despite the fact that she is a translator. Johan is the son of Anna (), who sweats sensuality in the stifling heat of the train ride. This is in sharp contrast to the ill Ester. There is tension between the sisters, but we don’t know what birthed it or why it exists, even in the midst of Ester’s dying. Questions are asked for which no answers are given. “Tell me,” Anna asks Ester, “When father died, you said you didn’t want to go on living. So why are you still around?” The closest explanation Anna gives for her contempt for Ester is “Everything has to have desperate meaning for you,” which is telling, as no desperate meaning is given—not even the reason for the opening and closing train trips.

Additionally, there is an ambiguous incestuous relationship between the sisters. Anna taunts Ester with a lie about a sexual encounter, told as if flaunting infidelity. Yet, then she offers: “It just so happens that I was lying.” However, later, an actual sexual encounter is presented, and again Ester is taunted. She asks: ‘What have I done to deserve this?” “Nothing,” Anna answers.

Still from The Silence (1963)Torn between his reserved aunt and emotionally charged mother is Johan. He is much present. He bathes Anna and hovers over Ester’s death bed. Yet, what is his purpose in the narrative? He wanders the hotel having encounters, from a waiter to a group of dwarves (?); all of which are presented, then abandoned. He serves as a voyeur to Ester’s boozing, cigarette smoking, and reading, and then to Anna’s sexuality. He’s like a series of loosely connected, masturbatory vignettes; a kind of divine figure, and we’re never certain that he exists, even though the film is channeled through him.

Aesthetically, this psychodrama is the most surreal of the trilogy, but there’s precision in its clarity and absurdity. Only a self-assured director could pull it off. Bergman does.

Alfred Eaker's Fringe Cinema

INGMAR BERGMAN’S SILENCE OF GOD TRILOGY: WINTER LIGHT (1963)

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Winter Light was said to be ‘s favorite of his own works, and one is tempted to concur. Having read about it for years, I was hesitant to see it after reading it described as Bergman’s bleakest film. This surprised me, because what I saw was akin to a clerical farce. Perhaps one has to have degree of experience with and appreciation for the clerical model to appreciate the humor.

It’s icily humorous, similar to the way that monk/philosopher Thomas Merton is never funnier than when he shrieks at the bad taste of his Trappist fellows in his journals, replaces their kitschy holy cards with prints of better art, or maneuvers a bush to hide a hideous statue of a long dead saint until he can convince his superior to cart off the offending cheap plaster. I can relate, but—enveloped in a parish that looks like a precursor to those ghastly Bible bookstores that every rural mall is cursed with—Winter Light‘s Rev. Ericsson wouldn’t. However, the actor () playing Ericsson would. Per the norm, this Bergman regular completely embodies his character with a wit and physicality that hearkens back to the silent film acting style.

Bishop Fulton Sheen talked about joy in repetition, and used conducting Mass as an example; he thoroughly convinced us of his joy, giving enthusiastic, occasionally brilliant and just as occasionally ultra-conservative homilies. On the other hand, I recall a parish priest who whipped out the creed and “Our Father” at breakneck speed, almost like an auctioneer, and he could get through a mass in 40 minutes, tops. Later, we discovered it was because he liked to go fishing, and he liked his beer. Still, there was a rushed enthusiasm in his delivery, even if he had more important things to do. In contrast, sickly Rev. Ericsson barely gets through his Lutheran Masses to an ever-dwindling congregation: by the film’s end, he’s left with a single parishioner. His sermons are unconvincing and uninspiring because, now a widower, he’s lost faith in God.

Among Ericsson’s congregants are suicidal fisherman Jonas () and his schoolmarm mistress Marta (), who initially looks like she stepped out of an El Greco painting of a 1960s Euro suburbanite. She’s quite the contrast to Ericsson’s detachment (it’s called Winter Light for a reason). Later, Marta graduates to an emotive Picassoesque monster intent on bagging herself the reluctant preacher man for husband, despite her own atheism and his pining for his dead wife.

Ericsson proves useless to others as he is himself when he fails to prevent Jonas, obsessed with the ills of the world, from offing himself. Nor does the parson have any effective words of comfort for fisherman’s pregnant widow, Karin ().

Still from Winter Light (1963)Again, we have a disciple who, like Christ in the garden of Olives, suffers at the hands of a faceless deity. The silence is catching, only broken when Ericsson displays disgust for the devastated Marta. And everyone—from the organist to parishioners and pastor—wants to get out of this absurd liturgical scenario, made all the more humorous in the way its starkly filmed.

Like , Bergman’s long-claimed atheism is suspect, because although he doesn’t subscribe to belief per se (both filmmakers are intuitive and honest enough to know that belief is ultimately an abstraction), a pulse of seeking permeates his oeuvre. Like , Bergman finds an inherent absurdity in that seeking, but never at the expense of essaying the better part of our all-too human spirit.