Alexander Groff
teaches World History at Riverside High School in Durham. He lives with his beautiful wife and daughter in Franklinton.
The buffalo lives at Golden West in Baltimore. Twitter: MrGroffatRHS Goodreads: AlexGroff |
PROJECTS:
Cultural Connections Project 1: Two Travel Writing Pieces
Kafka Slept Here: A Walking Tour
EXPERIENCE-BASED TRAVEL WRITING The first and, for a long time, only thing I knew about Prague was that it was the home of Franz Kafka, so it made sense to take a tour that focused on his life and relationship with the city. The AirBnB Experience was the perfect tour for me.
The tour begins in Kafka Namesti, which means Kafka Square. The building where Kafka's likeness is mounted did not exist in his time, but that is where he was born, in an older building since destroyed and replaced. All that remains of the original structure are the large, wooden doors. From there, the tour takes a series of twists and turns, pointing out places that Kafka lived and worked, as well as statues and memorials to him. The tour guide was a wealth of information, referencing interesting details in Kafka's life and tying bridges and landscape to specific stories that Kafka had written. I thought that I had read a decent amount of his work, but the guide surprised me with early or less famous works. The tour itself takes about 90 minutes. We went over by a few minutes, but the guide did not rush us or cut any of her content. She was interested in sharing what she knew and answering all of the questions we asked. She even included interesting side stories that, while having nothing to do with Kafka, were interesting details about the city that one doesn't normally come across. Some sites, like Kafka's writing studio on the Golden Lane, were too far away to be part of a walking tour, but the guide mentioned Kafka's connection to Prague Castle, so we could visit it later if we wanted. These decisions helped keep the walking limited; I would imagine that most people could manage this tour on foot regardless of age or ability. Whether you are a Kafka enthusiast or barely familiar with the name, you should walk away having learned something interesting. More importantly, the details and asides are fun and interesting, leaving you wanting to check out some of Kafka's stories again, or perhaps for the first time. |
Eerie Sculptures of Prague
SITE-BASED TRAVEL WRITING Prague is a city rich with culture and art. Some of these works, like the statues of people flying with umbrellas, are quite whimsical. Many of Prague's sculptures, however, involve the kinds of human deformities that make Tim Burton and David Lynch jump up and down with joy. So if you've ever wondered how Kafka would have been as a sculptor, or why the director of Hellboy thought this city was the right place to film a demon hunting vampires, do yourself a favor and visit some of the public art displayed around Prague. UNTITLED
A short walk from the hustle and bustle of Wenceslas Square is a beautiful garden, once home to Franciscan monks, that is now maintained as a state park. Surrounded by high walls, with a church in the background, it is easy to lose yourself in the topiary and solitude. Then you see these sculptures. A series of hollow shapes could be ghosts, naiads, angels... it is hard to say what they are, and impossible to find a description. The tourist website MyCzechRepublic dedicates an entire page to the gardens without making any mention of these statues. But don't worry, this allows you to imagine your own horrors as you stare into their hollow eyes. THE IRON KNIGHT BY LADISLAV ŠALOUN
Unlike the sculpture in the Franciscan Gardens, the Iron Knight's history is well-known. The statue is based on the story of Jáchym Berka, a knight from the fourteenth century. Unaware of the concept of chivalry, the Iron Knight is best known for murdering his peasant girlfriend after hearing she cheated on him. The catch? She had been faithful the whole time. Angry about his lack of trust, or the fact that she was dying at the hands of her beloved, she cursed him, transforming him into stone. According to legend, there is a way to turn him back from stone into a real man again. However, after reading this story, you can understand why I'm not sharing that part of the legend with you. Šaloun went on to make other statues, including the famous statue of Jan Hus that sits in Staroměstské náměstí. Meanwhile, the Iron Knight stands with his dead girlfriend eternally at his side-- naked, of course, because the poor girl didn't have things bad enough in life. Šaloun, what were you thinking? ADAM AND EVE BY KRYŠTOF HOŠEK
This statue, in Jungmann Square, tells the story of Adam and Eve, in all of its erotic glory. Naked man? Check. Naked woman? Check. Sexually suggestive serpent? Check. The tree of knowledge?.... This work references the way that knowledge separated man from the animal kingdom, for better or for worse. Many of the books reference destructive ideologies, like Egotism, Xenophobia, and Nationalism. As Sculptureline.cz explains, "In order to create rules that would lead to a better life for individuals in the community, man became a victim of his own desire, ego and will to power." This work is less disturbing than the empty shells in the Franciscan gardens, and the backstory is tragic but less horrific than the Iron Knight. Still, where are the rest of their bodies? Hosek's work takes the humanity out of the story, leaving us to puzzle over the missing limbs and their meaning. MEMORIAL TO THE VICTIMS OF COMMUNISM BY OLBRAM ZOUBEK
Speaking of missing limbs, if you get off the tram at Ujzed and walk up a small hill, you will find a series of slowly dissolving bodies representing the victims of communism. The symbolism is a little hard to parse. For example, why are they becoming more complete as they walk towards us? Shouldn't they be falling apart, or is communism giving them form? However, the line of hollowed out metal bodies, missing organs, eyes, arms and faces, makes a clear enough statement of horror and revulsion that deeper analysis may not be necessary. Communism was bad, and if you don't believe me, ask what is left of these statues. Il Commendatore by Anna Chromy
The Description of a Struggle by Jaroslav Rona The Memorial to Jan Palach Before moving on to the most unsettling sculptures in Prague, it's worth seeing what else is out there. All three of these pieces above represent important figures in art and history in the most chilling ways possible. The first work, outside of one of the National Theatre buildings, represents a character from Don Giovanni. You will be forgiven, of course, if you see the Ghost of Christmas Future when you look at this statue. Then, near the Spanish synagogue, we have a representation of Kafka re-enacting one of his stories. However, in his story, every character had a head, making this statue just a tad disconcerting. Finally, we have a memorial to a true Czech hero, dissident Jan Palach, who sacrificed his life to champion the cause of democracy. He is a great hero, and his death helped inspire dissidents up to and during the Velvet Revolution. So what terrible person froze him in carbonite? He looks less like a national hero and more like a hostage inside of his sculpture. But the creepiest work of art in Prague is actually... BABIES BY DAVID CERNY
These babies have been crawling the TV tower for years, arguably symbols of how television and consumerism are raising the children that we should be raising ourselves. However, in Kampa Garden you can see them up close, which makes their faceless visages all the more terrifying. As a parent, there is nothing more terrifying than something happening to my child. These barcode babies make Westworld robots seem friendly by comparison. So while parents load their children on top of these monstrosities for a photo shoot, make your get-away. After all, they're only babies. They can only crawl so fast. You won't dream about them tonight. |
Cultural Connections Project 2: Scripted Duologue (Plotagon Animation)
Cultural Collections Project 1: Mapping Cultural Themes (Clio)
MEMORIAL TO JAN PALACH
In Wenceslaus Square, a memorial exists for those who self-immolated themselves at the end of Prague Spring, those last, desperate attempts to reignite the Czech and Slovak people's sense of injustice and their passion for reforming socialism. On 16 January 1969, Jan Palach inhaled a bottle of ether, soaked himself in petrol, and lit himself on fire. When a few Czechs used their coats to put out the fire, he asked one of the bystanders to open his briefcase and read his suicide note (1). It was signed, Torch Number One, the first of many. The Czechoslovak Communist Party attempted to suppress all coverage of Palach’s death. Fellow student Lubomír Holeček was on trial as a collaborator for stating on Czechoslovak Television (CT) that Palach’s actions, while admirable, should not be repeated (2). While CT did mention the self-immolation, the suicide note went unmentioned. In spite of those efforts, his funeral on 25 January 1969 attracted up to 500,000 people (3). The Czechoslovak Communist Party was so concerned that General Secretary Alexander Dubček went onto the radio to ask that the funeral proceed in a peaceful and orderly manner (4). They needn’t have worried: the funeral marked not just the death of one man, but the death of the idealism that had marked Prague Spring. Did these acts matter? One student interviewed by Radio Praha in 2009 said no. "He had hoped he would bring about a big change in the nation or that they would overthrow the system. But the people just went to his funeral and then went back to their homes and did nothing. So I think it may have been in vain" (5). Some of those who lived through normalization, however, saw the value of such acts. Although he was not a catalyst for change in 1969, Palach’s actions strengthened the dissident movement within Czechoslovakia and beyond its borders. Palach’s death inspired Catholic priest Tomàš Halík to return home from Great Britain and work as part of the underground church under Cardinal Tomášek (6). “I'm not a born hero,” Halík later wrote, “maybe I couldn't do it without a memory of John” (7). Unable to return from Great Britain because of his participation in Prague Spring, Ivan Hartl worked with a number of British collaborators to establish Palach Press, a publishing house for uncensored news and dissident literature (8). In 1989, dissidents including Havel organized “Palach Week” to both remember his death and protest against the communist regime. These January protests, while only gathering around 2,000 people, helped set the stage for the Velvet Revolution later that year (9). The events of Palach’s death has been captured in two films– 2013's Burning Bush by Polish director Agnieszka Holland and 2018's eponymous Jan Palach by Czech director Robert Sedláček– and a number of biographies. The fiftieth anniversary of his death was commemorated with vigils, an international conference at Charles University, and a traveling exhibition titled “The Power of Action” (10). However, the question of whether these actions mattered becomes more complicated when we consider the fact that Palach was only Torch Number One. On 25 February 1969, a high school student named Jan Zajíc set himself on fire as Torch Number Two. Choosing the anniversary of the Communist Party’s 1948 overthrow of the Czechoslovak Republic, Zajíc wrote, “I have therefore decided to rouse your conscience as torch number two. I do not do so because I want to mourned, or made famous, or because I have gone mad. I have decided to go through with this act because it is time you finally rally yourselves and stop being led along by a few dictators!” Zajíc died on the spot (11). Reports vary on how many torches there were. The Jan Palach website refers to a 1969 study by Milan Černý stating that there were 29 attempts at self-immolation in early 1969, “but only three of them (Jan Palach, Jan Zajíc and Evžen Plocek) were ‘undoubtedly altruistic in nature and motivated politically’.” When Josef Hlavatý set himself on fire on 25 January 1969 in Pilsen, television and radio coverage emphasized his recent divorce and ignored his activism in the Prague Spring. His funeral was silent and sparsely attended. How much does a man’s life, or his death, matter? In the end, normalization continued for twenty years. People heard about these events, then returned to watching the latest serial by Jaroslav Dietl. The Czech historian, Emanuel Mandler, argued that “ethical radicalism... would be untenable for the population” (13) and he seemed to be proven right. However, the acts of Palach, Zajíc and others resonated in the writings of Havel– particularly “Power to the Powerless”– in the music of Plastic People of the Universe, in the tenets of Charter 77, and in the protests of 1989. Each fire was a statement that demanded to be seen, whose impact was like so many things impossible to measure, but also impossible to ignore. Protests continue in 2019 over the corruption of the prime minister, as thousands continue to march for democracy and justice. On the fiftieth anniversary of Palach’s death, Tomàš Halík declared at Mass that Palach “became the absolute light that was supposed to illuminate the truth about ourselves in the dimness of half-truths and illusions” (14). Because of their deaths, the ideals they lived for continue. |
Footnotes (Not Yet Properly Cited)
(1) Blažek, Petr et al. “Protest,” Jan Palach: Charles University Multimedia Project. (2) Blažek, Petr et al. “Trial,” Jan Palach: Charles University Multimedia Project. (3) Carey, Nick. “Jan Palach.” Radio Praha | In English, 7 March 2001. (4) Bren, Pauline. The Greengrocer and His TV: The Culture of Communism after the 1968 Prague Spring, p. 31, 87. Cornell University Press, 2010. (5) O,Connor, Coilin. “Jan Palach - The Student Whose Self-Immolation Still Haunts Czechs Today,” Radio Praha | In English, 21 January 2019. (6) Horváth, Ivo. “Halík zmínil svůj slib Palachovi. I chorobného narcise Klause a mstivého Zemana.” Blesk.Cz, 16 January 2019. (7) Halík, Tomàš. “Výkřik do Svědomí,” Komentář týdne. Radio Proglas, 19 January 2019. (8) Willoughby, Ian. “Ivan Hartl: A One-Man International Branch of the Czech Underground.” Radio Praha | In English, 3 February 2018. (9) Steinzova, Lucie. “Fifty Years After His Self-Immolation, Czech Student Jan Palach Remains A Symbol of Defiance.” Radio Free Europe, 14 January 2019. (10) Johnston, Raymond. “Jan Palach To Be Remembered.” Prague TV, 14 January 2019. (11) McEnchroe, Tom. “Jan Zajíc - The Story of ‘Human Torch Number Two.’ Radio Praha | In English, 25 February 2019. (12) Blažek, Petr et al. “Followers,” Jan Palach: Charles University Multimedia Project. (13) Bren, Pauline. The Greengrocer and His TV, p. 97. (14) “‘Student Jan se stal absolutním světlem v šeru polopravd.’ Tomáš Halík sloužil mši za Palacha,” Česká televise, 15 January 2019. |
Cultural Collections Project 2: Curating Cultural Themes (Padlet)
Cultural Collections Project 3: Neighborhood Analysis (Weebly Slide Show)
Get off the Metro at Invalidovna and turn right: you will find yourself staring at the austere apartments that communism made famous. The experience is stark in a way that will be hard to explain to others when you return. What I expected, when this neighborhood was pitched to me against a backdrop of Art Nouveau architecture, was some combination of Le Corbusier and Bauhaus. The experience was far bleaker, more like Ben Wheatley’s film, High-Rise.
The buildings do not look like they are made to support human life, and the general absence of people certainly adds to that impression. There are half a dozen parks, but they almost all sit abandoned, while children’s playgrounds lie behind fences and locked gates. Three elderly ladies sit watching the playground, but there are no children playing. Recycling bins overflow, while plastic bags and food wrappers roll through the empty sidewalks like tumbleweeds. Those who abandoned these places spray-painted messages we could not read across the fronts of buildings and signs, warnings for future residents. The few people we do see are in a hurry to get somewhere, as if they were running for shelter. One woman, when asked about the apartments, said simply, “Oh, I do not live around here.”
The neighborhood ended abruptly with barbed wire and high brick walls. Signs admonished all to stay away. When asked, the man walking out from behind the wall explained this was an army installation. The sight of the army base, and the implicit existence of violence, did nothing to challenge the sense of dystopia that I felt in this place.
This story continues after the slideshow...
The buildings do not look like they are made to support human life, and the general absence of people certainly adds to that impression. There are half a dozen parks, but they almost all sit abandoned, while children’s playgrounds lie behind fences and locked gates. Three elderly ladies sit watching the playground, but there are no children playing. Recycling bins overflow, while plastic bags and food wrappers roll through the empty sidewalks like tumbleweeds. Those who abandoned these places spray-painted messages we could not read across the fronts of buildings and signs, warnings for future residents. The few people we do see are in a hurry to get somewhere, as if they were running for shelter. One woman, when asked about the apartments, said simply, “Oh, I do not live around here.”
The neighborhood ended abruptly with barbed wire and high brick walls. Signs admonished all to stay away. When asked, the man walking out from behind the wall explained this was an army installation. The sight of the army base, and the implicit existence of violence, did nothing to challenge the sense of dystopia that I felt in this place.
This story continues after the slideshow...
We walked for about a mile, watching the buildings change as we went. Architecture began to include quirky features instead of graffiti. A business park saw people standing around, talking and smoking. One building was a combination of glass and greenery, giving the impression that the structure itself encouraged life. On the corner, a restaurant served people under the cover of linden trees. Inside, tennis plays on tv., where Czech hero Karolina Plíšková defeated Zhu Lin at the French Open. While commentators discussed the game, a man entered the restaurant with a duffel bag and began to sell clothing to the waiters and waitresses at suspect rates. Leaving the restaurant, we continued our loop to head back to the metro. This time, however, we walked past restaurants, shops, bars, and people getting on and off the tram. Signs of life, I thought.
Thinking about this, hours later, I’m troubled by my assessment of Prague 8, Florenc. There were signs of life, hidden away in apartments– largely the sounds of televisions and radios– but it was also early afternoon on a weekday, a time of day when most people are at work, and those off work are probably avoiding the brutal midday heat. Schools are closed for summer break, and the parks– while not perfect– are well-maintained. The architecture is brutal, but there is something troubling about my immediate sense that the absence of shops and restaurants is a sign of doom. Is this an American perception, or a more wide-spread modern perspective? For how many centuries was society based around communities and families– and at what point did commerce and architecture replace human interaction as a measure of civilization? Where are the public spaces in modern society, and do those spaces matter?
Similarly, the question of how to engage with people in private spaces matters a great deal. There were people in their apartments, watching tv; it would not be hard to imagine others cooking, sleeping, cleaning, reading, playing video games, and doing all of the things that have become a normal but isolating part of modern life. In my own neighborhood in the United States, one could easily make the same statements about abandonment and emptiness that I made about Florenc. There are no high-rises, but people are inside their private homes, living private lives, and this leaves a sense of absence when one travels the streets of that small town. Is it part of the modern condition that we live in isolation, that public spaces are not enough? Or is it simply the fact that I showed up at a time when people were not there, and that if I had been two days earlier, or two hours later, I would have seen that a vibrant community still thrives in Florenc? It strikes me that this sort of research requires years of serious engagement with the people and spaces, and that it is far too easy to bring one's own assumptions to bear.
Thinking about this, hours later, I’m troubled by my assessment of Prague 8, Florenc. There were signs of life, hidden away in apartments– largely the sounds of televisions and radios– but it was also early afternoon on a weekday, a time of day when most people are at work, and those off work are probably avoiding the brutal midday heat. Schools are closed for summer break, and the parks– while not perfect– are well-maintained. The architecture is brutal, but there is something troubling about my immediate sense that the absence of shops and restaurants is a sign of doom. Is this an American perception, or a more wide-spread modern perspective? For how many centuries was society based around communities and families– and at what point did commerce and architecture replace human interaction as a measure of civilization? Where are the public spaces in modern society, and do those spaces matter?
Similarly, the question of how to engage with people in private spaces matters a great deal. There were people in their apartments, watching tv; it would not be hard to imagine others cooking, sleeping, cleaning, reading, playing video games, and doing all of the things that have become a normal but isolating part of modern life. In my own neighborhood in the United States, one could easily make the same statements about abandonment and emptiness that I made about Florenc. There are no high-rises, but people are inside their private homes, living private lives, and this leaves a sense of absence when one travels the streets of that small town. Is it part of the modern condition that we live in isolation, that public spaces are not enough? Or is it simply the fact that I showed up at a time when people were not there, and that if I had been two days earlier, or two hours later, I would have seen that a vibrant community still thrives in Florenc? It strikes me that this sort of research requires years of serious engagement with the people and spaces, and that it is far too easy to bring one's own assumptions to bear.
Cultural Collections Project 4: Museum Artifact Analysis (Voicethread)
Cultural Reflections Project 1: Czech Education System, "The Last Word" Discussion
One of the things that interested me about the Czech educational system is the division of secondary schools into college-bound gymnasiums and workforce-focused technical and vocational schools.
One of the things that interested me about the Czech educational system is the division of secondary schools into college-bound gymnasiums and workforce-focused technical and vocational schools.
My experience teaching began at a school in Maryland that was partnered with a vocational school, so the students would spend half of the day in their vocational courses and half of the day in their academic courses. Students could graduate with certification in plumbing, electrical, auto mechanics, cosmetology, or a number of other fields. This provided a future for many students who were not academically focused. It was my misfortune to work for a principal who sought to weaken this program in order to increase the percentage of students going to a four-year colleges after graduation, because increasing academic rigor for students who had neither the interest nor aptitude increased student frustration and behavioral problems, and lowered school morale.
Having moved to North Carolina, I see the same concerns from students who are not interested in or prepared for a post-secondary school education. Many of these students want to work with their hands, and see no opportunities for themselves within schools that have extremely limited programs for technical or vocational education. These programs are not entirely absent-- there are cooking and CTE courses-- but they are not meeting the needs of a large number of students. This creates a climate of meaninglessness, as education is seen as divorced from the students' needs and personal experiences. The article did not distinguish between vocational and technical schools, so I tried to do further research (see right sidebar). I am still unclear in many ways as to how these are different, but I learned a lot about the way that the Czech Republic approaches vocational education. In America, there is a view that vocational education is of lesser value or quality than academic education, which is interesting when one considers both how valuable those professions are, and how core to the American identity hard work is. Challenging this view, however, the Czech Republic offers college-level vocational training, so that when one finishes "high school," there are still routes available to students. Considering how specialized many technical fields have become, this makes a lot of sense. Another feature that would decrease stigmas and improve the quality of education is the fact that adults can also attend both secondary and tertiary vocational and technical schools. Again, in America there is a huge discussion around how to prepare the current work force for the disruptive changes that globalization, automatization and industry shifts have wrought and will continue to wreak. The Czech Republic's system of combining adult and teenage education in these fields provides a clear solution to this problem, as well as a fundamental recognition that vocational education is a necessity for a functional society. |
Additional resources:
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Cultural Reflections Project 2: Cultural Writing
Here are a series of biopoems about myself and important figures in Czech history.
Cultural Reflections Project 3: Czech Film Review
Mr. Louka is a professional misanthrope. Not by choice, mind you. He was trained as a classical cellist, a vocation that led him to abandon the idea of marriage and family in favor of musical excellence. “My late father always said... if you want a musical career, don’t get married.” However, for reasons left unstated for most of the film, the Czech government has banned Louka from performing with the National Philharmonic Orchestra, leaving him alone to eke out a living by whatever means possible. Whether it is playing cello at funerals or repainting the names on gravestones, Mr. Louka lives at the edges of society, unmarried and– in spite of a string of amorous affairs– alone.
His life changes when Mr. Louka agrees to an arranged marriage. He’s opposed to giving up the freedom of a bachelor’s life, but poverty is catching up to him. The holes in his socks, he can deal with, but his mother’s house needs new gutters, and he’s always running late because he can’t afford a used car.... A sham marriage would help him stay afloat in a system that seems designed to keep him behind. And all goes according to plan, until his new wife crosses the border into West Germany, leaving Mr. Louka with her five-year-old son, the eponymous Kolya. |
So what is the film? On the one hand, it is a slice-of-life story, similar to what one would have seen in French New Wave cinema, where a bachelor is forced out of his comfort zone because of circumstances, and becomes a better man for it. This aspect of the film is charming, largely because of the talents of the two lead actors. Zdenek Sverák, who looks like a Czech Sean Connery, manages to humanize a character whose faults far outnumber his qualities. Mr. Louka takes odd jobs, sometimes of questionable morality, without ever seeming like a schemer. When he lies, he comes across as someone forced to make the better of two bad decisions, rather than someone who manipulates and uses others. Mr. Louka would be pitiable if he weren’t so cantankerous. This cynical man is a great contrast to actor Andrey Khalimon, the boy who plays Kolya with both charm and gravitas. Their relationship, however contrived, is charming on screen.
On the other hand, Kolya is also a propaganda film that uses Mr. Louka and Kolya’s story as an allegory of the suffering caused by totalitarian governments. In this way, Kolya was a disappointment. The film’s style, which works so well for slice-of-life stories, saps the menace out of the communist threat, while refusing to find humor in its absurdities. The police interrogation scenes are a perfect example of this. Accused of helping his wife cross the border, Mr. Louka presented himself at the police station with Kolya. There is both danger in the threat of being sent to prison, and humor in the police’s utter befuddlement as to how to grill Mr. Louka when a small child is clinging to his leg. However, the tone remains detached, almost uninterested, and the scene remains as grey as those communist apartment complexes that litter Eastern Europe even now.
This refusal to emphasize the elements of communism could have been a noble approach, but it was undermined by the heavy-handed symbolism that ran throughout the film. Under communism, the signs are all death: Mr. Louka only plays cello at funerals, while Klara, one of his lovers, is infertile. Mr. Louka’s marriage is a sham, the only fertile man is that of Broz, the budding capitalist who found odd jobs and creative ways to make a living, even in the oppressive atmosphere of the Soviet era. However, the world without communism leads to musical success, pregnancy, and possible engagement. Likewise, the film draws from Havel’s essay, Power to the Powerless, the metaphor of hanging or not hanging the flag as a sign of moral authority over despotism. Mr. Louka also grapples with hanging the flag, but it is referenced over and over again, without adding to the film in any way. Symbolism can be useful, but it cannot replace substance.
Communism in Eastern Europe and Asia created some of the worst tragedies in the twentieth century. In particular, the Czech Republic’s push, post-1968, towards, “lifestyle planning” sought to regulate people’s lives in a way that surpassed Stalin’s dreams of conformity. Ignoring the gulag and focusing on the deprivations everyday citizens had to face under this system is a great idea. However, the delivery was nowhere near as good as the idea.
Older films tend to move more slowly, and allow the viewer to appreciate being in the presence of characters, rather than beating them over the head with plot and CGI effects. This produces a certain charm and naturalness absent from many blockbuster films today. If you can get past the film’s weak political message, and focus on Louka and Kolya’s relationship, the time you invest will be rewarded.
On the other hand, Kolya is also a propaganda film that uses Mr. Louka and Kolya’s story as an allegory of the suffering caused by totalitarian governments. In this way, Kolya was a disappointment. The film’s style, which works so well for slice-of-life stories, saps the menace out of the communist threat, while refusing to find humor in its absurdities. The police interrogation scenes are a perfect example of this. Accused of helping his wife cross the border, Mr. Louka presented himself at the police station with Kolya. There is both danger in the threat of being sent to prison, and humor in the police’s utter befuddlement as to how to grill Mr. Louka when a small child is clinging to his leg. However, the tone remains detached, almost uninterested, and the scene remains as grey as those communist apartment complexes that litter Eastern Europe even now.
This refusal to emphasize the elements of communism could have been a noble approach, but it was undermined by the heavy-handed symbolism that ran throughout the film. Under communism, the signs are all death: Mr. Louka only plays cello at funerals, while Klara, one of his lovers, is infertile. Mr. Louka’s marriage is a sham, the only fertile man is that of Broz, the budding capitalist who found odd jobs and creative ways to make a living, even in the oppressive atmosphere of the Soviet era. However, the world without communism leads to musical success, pregnancy, and possible engagement. Likewise, the film draws from Havel’s essay, Power to the Powerless, the metaphor of hanging or not hanging the flag as a sign of moral authority over despotism. Mr. Louka also grapples with hanging the flag, but it is referenced over and over again, without adding to the film in any way. Symbolism can be useful, but it cannot replace substance.
Communism in Eastern Europe and Asia created some of the worst tragedies in the twentieth century. In particular, the Czech Republic’s push, post-1968, towards, “lifestyle planning” sought to regulate people’s lives in a way that surpassed Stalin’s dreams of conformity. Ignoring the gulag and focusing on the deprivations everyday citizens had to face under this system is a great idea. However, the delivery was nowhere near as good as the idea.
Older films tend to move more slowly, and allow the viewer to appreciate being in the presence of characters, rather than beating them over the head with plot and CGI effects. This produces a certain charm and naturalness absent from many blockbuster films today. If you can get past the film’s weak political message, and focus on Louka and Kolya’s relationship, the time you invest will be rewarded.
Cultural Reflections Project 4: Czech Book Review
Havel's Summer Meditations collects a series of essays from his first few years as president of the newly-independent Czechoslovakia. Written over two decades ago, it is unaware of the impending breakup of the Czech Republic and Slovakia, as well as the rise in nativism in the Eastern Bloc, and globally. There are a few weaknesses to this book. It is not as eloquent or analytical as Havel's Power to the Powerless, essays written while still living under communism. Also, chapter two is extremely dated, and largely of interest only to students of the Velvet Revolution. Those qualms aside, Summer Meditations is the voice of a statesman who provides a sharp and powerful contrast to the political world we live in now, in 2019.
The last two decades have seen a rise in cruelty in politics-- nativism, anti-Semitism, the scapegoating of refugees, the weaponization of parliamentary procedures for partisan purposes-- both in the Czech Republic, and globally. While these politicians turn citizens against one another and against an often fictitious other, they wield government as a tool for their own self-aggrandizement. Is it more disturbing that such amoral figures have entered politics, or that people have voted for them in large numbers? Either way, Havel's view of government and politics is a stark contrast to the court culture created by too many politicians and businessmen, and offers solutions to this state of affairs. |
The question becomes, can we believe in these solutions, when most of what Havel offers is an earnest defense of love and respect? Depending on your point of view, these arguments may seem prophetic or naive. Is Havel's faith in mankind going to help, over time, bring out the best in us, or is he teaching us to rely on something that is not there, a faith in humanity that others have admonished us to be wary of? This year, there have been protests in Prague and across the Czech Republic against the prime ministers, who has been engaged in a corruption scandal. He refuses to step down, in spite of the protests. He has even gone so far as to make changes to the judiciary to protect himself from liability for his corrupt acts. This in turn has led to further protests. Following this, one cannot help but ask: does this prove that Havel was right, or that Havel was wrong?