I was skeptical at first. In today's arthouse cinema, a trend can be observed that is becoming increasingly popular. A number of films in recent years basically offer a best-of the most beautiful frames of film classics without managing to tell anything profound with it; in the worst cases, this is then also linked to extensive references to all sorts of psycho analysis, mythology etc. (The Lighthouse would be the ultimate example). I am critical of this trend. Through their knowledge of film history, directors like Robert Eggers have become imitators, they work like curators whose only task is to compile the greatest works they are aware of. These approach results in overloaded yet empty works. The important thing in art, though, is to copy no one. Films are not great because they are "like Bergman", "like Tarkovsky", or because they embody all kinds of C. G. Jung theories, but because they find unique ways in using the medium to throw their insights about the world to the screen or - even better - pose important questions.
I was expecting the same with The Painted Bird. And indeed, at many points the film seems to only refer back to great classics; there are some more than obvious Andrei Rublev references; some very obvious Marketa Lazarová references; the scene where the boy is running away from the German soldier Hans is a clear adaption of several similar scenes that have become trademark shots of Hungarian director Miklós Jancsó; and not least, director Václav Marhoul has copied Kurosawa's effective way of making backgrounds dynamic with blowing dust. Marhoul clearly knows his craft, but his urge to copy his role models weakens the impact of the truly overwhelming masterpiece that The Painted Bird is.
In some reviews, it sounds as if the film was an utter exploitation film, letting brutalities follow cruelties follow abominations. The opposite is true. The Painted Bird is extremely disciplined in deciding what to show and what not; with a Bressonian rigor it only shows the absolute essentials necessary to understand the action. What is so hard to endure while seeing this film is not the brutality of the image, but the radicality of art one is exposed to. Nothing in this film invites you to commiserate; just like Bresson's Balthazar you don's actually see the boy suffer at any moment (his appearance is neutral throughout the whole film, and no stylistic device such as music, use of slow motion etc. tries to achieve an "immersive" effect for the viewer). In many ways, this film corresponds to Brecht's alienation effect: the whole action is presented in such a way that the audience is hindered from simply identifying itself with the characters. Acceptance or rejection of their actions and utterances is meant to take place on a conscious plane, instead of, in the audience's subconscious. The effect is intensified by the peculiarly non-natural way everybody speaks, using a Slavic Esperanto, "Interslavic".
In this regard, The Painted Bird is the absolute opposite of Come and See. Come and See wants to reach the viewer's affects and emotions, its lurid and sensational approach has rightly led to criticism. The Painted Bird, the much more mature of those two films, wants to reach the viewer's intellect; in the end, it is a deeply human film, reminding every viewer that they are able to SEE what humaneness is, even if the film itself is cold and does nothing to affect the viewer's emotions.
I was expecting the same with The Painted Bird. And indeed, at many points the film seems to only refer back to great classics; there are some more than obvious Andrei Rublev references; some very obvious Marketa Lazarová references; the scene where the boy is running away from the German soldier Hans is a clear adaption of several similar scenes that have become trademark shots of Hungarian director Miklós Jancsó; and not least, director Václav Marhoul has copied Kurosawa's effective way of making backgrounds dynamic with blowing dust. Marhoul clearly knows his craft, but his urge to copy his role models weakens the impact of the truly overwhelming masterpiece that The Painted Bird is.
In some reviews, it sounds as if the film was an utter exploitation film, letting brutalities follow cruelties follow abominations. The opposite is true. The Painted Bird is extremely disciplined in deciding what to show and what not; with a Bressonian rigor it only shows the absolute essentials necessary to understand the action. What is so hard to endure while seeing this film is not the brutality of the image, but the radicality of art one is exposed to. Nothing in this film invites you to commiserate; just like Bresson's Balthazar you don's actually see the boy suffer at any moment (his appearance is neutral throughout the whole film, and no stylistic device such as music, use of slow motion etc. tries to achieve an "immersive" effect for the viewer). In many ways, this film corresponds to Brecht's alienation effect: the whole action is presented in such a way that the audience is hindered from simply identifying itself with the characters. Acceptance or rejection of their actions and utterances is meant to take place on a conscious plane, instead of, in the audience's subconscious. The effect is intensified by the peculiarly non-natural way everybody speaks, using a Slavic Esperanto, "Interslavic".
In this regard, The Painted Bird is the absolute opposite of Come and See. Come and See wants to reach the viewer's affects and emotions, its lurid and sensational approach has rightly led to criticism. The Painted Bird, the much more mature of those two films, wants to reach the viewer's intellect; in the end, it is a deeply human film, reminding every viewer that they are able to SEE what humaneness is, even if the film itself is cold and does nothing to affect the viewer's emotions.