A devotion of nuns adorned in traditional garb, doves clasped in hand, climb a hill towards a convent, while the naked pale flesh of a pagan woman combs a field towards an ancient tree, a rooster held by its feet, ready to make a blood sacrifice and engage in an incestuous tryst. An endless snow-covered expanse, with the occasional black limbs of brushwood reaching out towards the heavens, creates an idyllic image of serenity; however, what takes place on a day-to-day basis on its landscape is anything but. Peace and purity are routinely disturbed by man's cruelty, whose misdeeds can be seen inked across the powdered surface. Various acts of violence write the passages of society's infancy as it goes about any means of survival. Disputes inevitably met by bloodshed; the conflict between the land's encroaching Christians and existing pagans was just another chapter. Men with a steadfast belief in the lamb of God positioned with the ruling class face the antithetical forces of those wrapped in dried wolf fur and sheepskin, ready to engage in blood politics. This is the tale of Marketa Lazarová, a world of faith and flesh, devotion and desire, a staggering thing of beauty-a rapturous symphony of the middle ages that glides through the air and drags you through the mud-a continuous dance between viscera and cerebral evocation.
Brief interims of peace amidst chaos and barbarity are further reinforced by Vlácil's affinity for the avant-garde, breaking away from the conventional means of creating a historical epic to gesture towards something far more challenging. Omnipresence is withheld from the viewer, creating something akin to a subjective viewpoint, history seen through the eyes of a handful of its inhabitants in their fleeting coming-and-goings. You're there, in the times, among its various lords and peasants, bearing witness to skirmishes, riding horseback to give chase to opposing clans. Lying sprawled out in fields, feeling the earth between your fingers, the overcast cloud-covered skies tracing shadows across all below, or sinking into the surrounding marshlands, the distant howls of a wolfpack in pursuit. The audible crunch of ground frost and ice crystals in the dead of winter, sheathed swords clattering as bodies shift through the terrain. This is what Vlácil and his creative team continuously conjure-eliciting various sensations through its textures and highly rendered environment. Capturing an attentive audience made child's play by virtue of existence.
Further aiding in this extraordinary immersion is the dimension of sound, choral vocals that slice through the snow and filth; huge, proud sung performances cascade about, filling the negative spaces, giving a voice to Vlácil's herculean vision. The full-bodied reverberating gong of bells, woodwind flutes that whispers and slithers, and deep, resonant drum hits, the heartbeat of the living landscape echoing out through the valley, each existing as if to ordain the witnessed events as canonized myth-an oral folk tale to be sung for generations and transformed over time.
In this era, nature still reigns supreme, not yet conquered by man's might. Being "civilized" is a false virtue, a comfort for the fool and wise alike; duplicitousness is the desired means of survival and the closest assurance for any offspring to plant the roots of ancestry. From the marshes to the forest, the deciding factor remains bitter, cruel acts, cold as steal blades that ultimately lead the charge to war, or the gold-plated symbols upheld by wayward men, drunk on wine and power. The Christian chapel may sit at the top of the hill while the pagans writhe in the filth below, but make no mistake about it, in Marketa Lazarová, they're all animals.
Its brilliance is in the moments before action. The pause and the friction. The elation of glory on the battlefield. The ecstasy of sexual conquest. The reprieve of brothers in arms. It savors senses and rewards those that give in to it. To be consumed, to let its stimuli overwhelm inhibitions. It's one of the greatest achievements in cinema, and as far as I'm concerned, is as perfect as a film can ever hope to get.
Brief interims of peace amidst chaos and barbarity are further reinforced by Vlácil's affinity for the avant-garde, breaking away from the conventional means of creating a historical epic to gesture towards something far more challenging. Omnipresence is withheld from the viewer, creating something akin to a subjective viewpoint, history seen through the eyes of a handful of its inhabitants in their fleeting coming-and-goings. You're there, in the times, among its various lords and peasants, bearing witness to skirmishes, riding horseback to give chase to opposing clans. Lying sprawled out in fields, feeling the earth between your fingers, the overcast cloud-covered skies tracing shadows across all below, or sinking into the surrounding marshlands, the distant howls of a wolfpack in pursuit. The audible crunch of ground frost and ice crystals in the dead of winter, sheathed swords clattering as bodies shift through the terrain. This is what Vlácil and his creative team continuously conjure-eliciting various sensations through its textures and highly rendered environment. Capturing an attentive audience made child's play by virtue of existence.
Further aiding in this extraordinary immersion is the dimension of sound, choral vocals that slice through the snow and filth; huge, proud sung performances cascade about, filling the negative spaces, giving a voice to Vlácil's herculean vision. The full-bodied reverberating gong of bells, woodwind flutes that whispers and slithers, and deep, resonant drum hits, the heartbeat of the living landscape echoing out through the valley, each existing as if to ordain the witnessed events as canonized myth-an oral folk tale to be sung for generations and transformed over time.
In this era, nature still reigns supreme, not yet conquered by man's might. Being "civilized" is a false virtue, a comfort for the fool and wise alike; duplicitousness is the desired means of survival and the closest assurance for any offspring to plant the roots of ancestry. From the marshes to the forest, the deciding factor remains bitter, cruel acts, cold as steal blades that ultimately lead the charge to war, or the gold-plated symbols upheld by wayward men, drunk on wine and power. The Christian chapel may sit at the top of the hill while the pagans writhe in the filth below, but make no mistake about it, in Marketa Lazarová, they're all animals.
Its brilliance is in the moments before action. The pause and the friction. The elation of glory on the battlefield. The ecstasy of sexual conquest. The reprieve of brothers in arms. It savors senses and rewards those that give in to it. To be consumed, to let its stimuli overwhelm inhibitions. It's one of the greatest achievements in cinema, and as far as I'm concerned, is as perfect as a film can ever hope to get.