5 Films That Will Help You Better Understand Hungary

For those who were "fortunate" enough to be born in the USSR and countries of the Warsaw Pact, Hungarian cinema was often associated either with detective films like "The Professor of the Criminal World" (Az alvilág professzora) by Mihály Szeszély (after which all schoolgirls inevitably fell in love with Zoltán Latinovics), or with the parodistic spy action "The Lion is Getting Ready to Jump" (Az oroszlán ugrani készül) by György Révész (after which schoolgirls forgot about Latinovics in favor of István Bujtor), or the somber neon-noir "The Condor" (Dögkeselyű) by Ferenc András (after which no one fell in love with anyone). However, Hungarian cinema encompasses not only (and not so much) the films mentioned above, but also a vast realm of high-quality arthouse that can tell you much more, deeper, and with more subtlety about Hungarians than mainstream genres. By the way, the last film in this playlist is indeed a hit at mainstream film festivals.

"Sinbad" ("Szindbád"), directed by Zoltán Huszárik, 1971

Zoltán Huszárik's films have long been included in European cinema history textbooks, and British filmmaker Peter Strickland, known for "Berberian Sound Studio" and "The Duke of Burgundy," elevates his decadent-aesthetic works to the pinnacle of cinematic Olympus. Huszárik, transitioning from a costume designer to a director, intricately weaved his films with slightly ironic nostalgia for Austria-Hungary before the ravages of World War I and the heightened sensibilities of the fin de siècle era. His escapist films (where "the present" is deemed a wrong world without life, and "those who lived through Franz Joseph are mad") took audiences on quests for lost time and young ladies in full bloom. "Sinbad" is an adaptation of short stories by Gyula Krúdy (often called "the Hungarian Proust"), revolving around a sentimental yet cynical bon vivant named Sinbad, reminiscent of the legendary sailor from "One Thousand and One Nights." Unlike his eastern namesake, this Sinbad prefers to embark on journeys through cafes, restaurants, and women. The film begins with the protagonist's death, and thus, Zoltán Latinovits brilliantly embodies Sinbad's sense of fate and becomes a ghost who has outlived himself.

"The Red Psalm" ("Még kér a nép"), directed by Miklós Jancsó, 1972 

Miklós Jancsó rightfully holds the title of one of Hungary's most outstanding directors, and in 1986, the Venice Film Festival jury honored him with the award "For creating a new film language," a recognition reserved for the chosen few. In "The Red Psalm," Jancsó delves into the theme of peasant uprisings that spread throughout Hungary at the end of the 19th century, brutally suppressed by the army (the original title "Még kér a nép" translates to "The People Still Ask" - a line from Sándor Petőfi's poem). Despite being based on specific historical events, the fragmented narrative of "The Red Psalm" doesn't take center stage, transforming the film into a mystery where everything gains a sacred meaning – the fields, the wheat grains, the bare breasts of young maidens, the knife in a guitarist's pocket, and the cry carried away by the wind beyond the horizon. In this film, colloquial speech seamlessly transitions into song, a bloody wound turns into a flower, and a dance around the Maypole becomes a closing circle of sharp bayonets. Miklós Jancsó, while narrating about Hungary (though imbuing local social conflict with universal symbolism), brilliantly embodied the stylistic priorities of the early 1970s, earning him the Best Director award at the Cannes Film Festival.

"25 Fireman's Street" ("Tűzoltó utca 25"), directed by István Szabó, 1973

When it comes to István Szabó, people often recall his renowned trilogy "Mephisto" - "Colonel Redl" - "Hanussen." However, it was in "25 Fireman's Street" (not to be confused with Milos Forman's "The Firemen's Ball") - one of the most ambitious and simultaneously elegant projects of the Hungarian "new wave" - that Szabó demonstrated how emotionally powerful a tale of real historical events can be when framed within a surrealist paradigm. "I have lived and still live in a country where history has always influenced people's private lives," the director once said in an interview. "No Hungarian family has escaped this influence, be it wars, revolutions, occupations, or emigrations. Hungary is incomparable in this regard, for example, with Sweden, where people have simpler fates." In "25 Fireman's Street," Szabó constructs intricate narrative structures, blurring the boundaries between dream, fantasy, memory, and reality. Yet, the plot of this remarkable film can be described simply: "a hot summer evening, residents of an old Budapest building go to sleep, their dreams restless - they dream of the 20th century."

"Damnation" ("Kárhozat"), directed by Béla Tarr, 1988

All of Béla Tarr's films, in one way or another, tell stories about Hungary. Even "The Turin Horse." Even the adaptation of Georges Simenon's novel "A Man from London." Though it could be said differently: all of Béla Tarr's films are about the Apocalypse. Or loneliness. Perhaps both at once. Among critics, there's an opinion that "Damnation" is the director's best film, although it was only his first collaboration with writer and screenwriter László Krasznahorkai. "Damnation" received recognition at the Bergamo Film Festival and later found its way into Susan Sontag's list of favorite films (although she initially planned to take another Tarr film, "Satantango," to a deserted island). The protagonist of "Damnation" is Carrer, a reclusive drunkard (a kind of Gessian "steppenwolf") in love with a married singer from the local bar, "Titanic." The bartender offers Carrer a job - to illegally transport a package of money to another city - but he refuses. Instead, a cunning plan takes shape in his mind: to pass on the task to the singer's husband, to get rid of him temporarily, and draw closer to his wife. This pseudo-noir plot serves only as a pretext for Tarr to create an atmosphere of existential despair - through the slow journeys of the camera, invoking hypnotic sensations in the audience, and the multi-layered mise-en-scènes of lonely people and stray dogs wandering in the rain. Towards the film's end, a picture of a closed circle emerges, as the inhabitants of this godforsaken place engage in a dance, uniting the living with the dead, akin to a medieval "dance of death." The viewer is left to decide for themselves whether the curse is love or life itself.

"Comrade Drakulich" ("Drakulics elvtárs"), directed by Márk Bodzsár, 2019

This film, a robust cocktail of comedy-horror about vampires and a parody of spy films from the era of developed socialism, swiftly garnered a heap of awards at various genre festivals of different degrees of prestige. Márk Bodzsár, from a newcomer, immediately leaped into the ranks of the country's most promising directors, despite working on the cusp of farce and grand guignol. Picture this: in 1970s Budapest, Comrade Fabian arrives, a hero of the Cuban Revolution and the Vietnam War. His intentions are noble - to organize a charity blood drive for Vietnamese children. However, certain aspects about him raise suspicions among the vigilant watchdogs of the "happiest barracks of the communist concentration camp" - he mentions the USA more often than Havana or Saigon, shows sympathetic intonations towards the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, and drives a luxurious red "Mustang." Moreover, Comrade Fabian looks much younger than his passport's age of 60, can't stand the smell of garlic sausage, fears direct sunlight, and is always sipping blood-red soda. A couple of secret police officers start to monitor the honored guest to check his reliability, while in the meantime, János Kádár receives a call from the Kremlin demanding that they recruit the immortal vampire for cooperation. Why? "Lenin lived, Lenin lives, Lenin will keep living, but is Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev supposed to die or what?"