Studies in Eastern European Cinema

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‘Before I fought ideology, not money’: Věra

Chytilová and the 1990s transformation of Czech
cinema culture

Jindřiška Bláhová

To cite this article: Jindřiška Bláhová (2018): ‘Before I fought ideology, not money’: Věra Chytilová
and the 1990s transformation of Czech cinema culture, Studies in Eastern European Cinema, DOI:
10.1080/2040350X.2018.1469204

To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/2040350X.2018.1469204

Published online: 18 May 2018.

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STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA, 2018
https://doi.org/10.1080/2040350X.2018.1469204

ra Chytilova and the

‘Before I fought ideology, not money’: Ve
1990s transformation of Czech cinema culture
Jind
ri
ska Blahova
Department of Film Studies, Charles University, Prague, Czech Republic

ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
The 1990s are perceived as a low creative point in V
era Chytilova's V
era Chytilova; cinematic
career and a far cry from her celebrated 1960s and 1970s films. transformation and
While these were the focus of scholarly interest as rich landscape privatization; Barrandov film
from which claims about gender-dynamics, cinema and authorial studios; film production;
Czech post-1989 cinema;
position under state-socialism can be gaged, her post-1989 body of Czechoslovak New Wave
work and her position within the transforming film culture attracted
considerably less critical attention. Shifting focus from state-
socialism, feminism and solely textual readings of her films, this
essay examines ‘1990s Chytilova’ as a filmmaker in transition and a
political activist. First, it explores her opposition to privatization of
Barrandov Film Studios and identifies some of the discourses of
privatization that gave the economic processes its socio-cultural
meaning. Second, it looks at her films D
edictvı and Pasti, pasti,
pasti
cky in their production context arguing that they are best
understood as a reflection of her adaptability to new conditions and
an extension of her engagement in politics. In doing so, the essay
thus reorients perception of Chytilova's 1990s films and her
development as a director. Moreover, it contributes to the
understanding of privatization by shedding new light on the
cinematic dimensions of the post-communist shift to capitalist
democracy.

Introduction
In 1992, Czech New Wave director V
era Chytilova wrote an open letter to Prime Minister
Petr Pithart, which, in spite of initial interest, would soon be forgotten. This development
stood in stark contrast to a previous open letter she wrote in 1975 to another high-ranking
politician, Communist President Gustav Husak, in which she complained about being
denied her right to work as a socialist woman. Over the years, the latter would become
the stuff of legend, as it showcased the absurdities of state socialism and exemplified two
perceived cornerstones of cinema thereunder: the oppression of artists by the state, and
opposition from Czechoslovak New Wave directors and their films. Co-written with fel-
low New Wave filmmaker Ji
rı Menzel, the 1992 letter addressed the planned privatization
of Prague’s Barrandov Film Studios, which until 1989 had been the centre of production
of the Czechoslovak state monopoly. Chytilova expressed concerns over ‘Barrandov

CONTACT Jind
ri
ska Blahova jindriska_blahova@yahoo.com

© 2018 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group
2 
J. BLAHOV 
A

falling into the hands of those who are only interested in getting it cheaply and exploiting
its real estate holdings’, adding: ‘They do not care at all about Czech cinema’ (Nez 1992).
The letter was one part in the story of the on-going transformation of Czechoslovak cin-
ema from planned economy to the free market, the history of which has barely been
written.
The economic transformation of Eastern Europe following the fall of state socialism
has drawn significant scholarly attention especially from political economists and sociol-
ogists (see for example Fish 1998; Rona-Tas 1998; Balcerowicz 2002). By contrast, the
general cultural aspects of these processes remain underexplored. This essay hopes to
contribute to the understanding of this project by shedding new light on the cinematic
dimensions of the post-communist shift to capitalist democracy. It aims to do so by
focusing on Chytilova’s dual position in the 1990s as a political activist concerned with
the state protection of cinema and as a filmmaker. Accordingly, it is organized in two
parts, each exploring one of the topics. By focusing on one of the prominent filmmakers
who represented both the loved (Czechoslovak New Wave) and hated (the state-
controlled monopoly) past in a period of contested visions of the future of Czech
cinema, we can begin to identify some of the structuring narratives and discourses that
gave the economic change its socio-cultural meaning. A critical discursive analysis is
thus the main approach here.
Additionally, this article also reorients understanding of Chytilova’s 1990s films and
her development as a director. In Chytilova’s career, the 1990s are mostly seen as a low
creative point and a far cry from her most celebrated 1960s and 1970s films – O n
e
cem

jinem/Something Different (1963), Sedmikrasky/Daisies (1966), Ovoce stromu rajskych
jıme/The Fruit of Paradise (1969), Hra o jablko/The Apple Game (1976/1978) and
Panelstory (1979). Those films have attracted major scholarly attention as unique formal
experiments and as a metaphorically, philosophically and politically rich landscape from
which broader claims about life, morals, gender issues and authorial position under state
socialism can be inferred (Hames 1985; Cieslar 2002; Lim 2001;
Skapova 2004; Hanakova
2014). Her work in this period was produced firmly within the context of the state
monopoly practice. The same, however, cannot be said about her two pivotal 1990s films
D
edictvı/Inheritance (1992) and Pasti, pasti, pasti
cky/Traps (1998). Scholars interpret
both films from the point of view of textual analysis, without taking into account either
their production context or Chytilova’s position within the dramatically transforming
post-communist cinema culture (Horton 1999; Bla
zejovsky 2002). Shifting focus from the
pressures of state socialism and solely textual readings of her films, this essay thus reveals
how Chytilova adapted to new economic conditions highlighting continuities/discontinu-
ities with her previous work. I suggest that Inheritance and Traps can be understood as an
extension of her engagement in politics.
Before exploring her politics, the state of Czechoslovak cinema at the beginning of the
1990s has to be sketched out.

ra Chytilova
An author in transition: Ve  as a political activist
The Czechoslovak film industry underwent dramatic changes after 1989. Before, the pro-
duction, distribution and exhibition were organized exclusively by the state. The state
retained control until 1992, but at the same time a number of independent production
 STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA 3

and import companies were established – Bonton and Space Films the most prominent –
as many entrepreneurs were eager to exploit the free market. Yet, Barrandov was still seen
as the main producer and should have remained as such even after its expected privatiza-
tion (Interview with Ji
rı Je
zek 2017). It employed two and a half thousand people in 1991
when its transformation to what would eventually become a privately owned company
began. The newly appointed CEO Vaclav Marhoul supervised the process. He would
privatize Barrandov within two years.1
Privatization was the issue that dominated the first half of the 1990s in Czechoslovakia.
A grand scale economic project, it was seen by the government as the best way to adapt to
the free market. Private ownership was intended to boost the country’s economy and to
attract foreign capital (Dvo
rak, Debata 1993;
Svehla 2017). While privatization of the rub-
ber factories and heavy industry was considered to be essential from an economic point of
view, Barrandov presented a far more complex issue. It was not just another company.
According to some prominent stakeholders, cinema should not have been considered a
mere commodity. It was key to building a national identity and sustaining cultural heri-
tage. Barrandov also carried a symbolic value – both negative and positive. For some, it
was a symbol of the shortcomings of the planned economy and Communist ideological
oversight. Others nurtured a vision of it as a guarantor of the stability and continuity of
Czechoslovak cinema from its 1930s heyday.
Consequently, the privatization of Barrandov provoked strong clashes between those in
support – the government and Marhoul’s company Cinepont (the future winner in the pri-
vatization process) – and those against – Filmovy a televiznı svaz (hereafter FITES), the film-
makers union. Established during the reformist 1960s to secure filmmakers’ rights, FITES
was abolished in the early 1970s and revived in 1990. Its membership consisted mainly of
older generation filmmakers and it advocated the importance of state protection of cinema.
‘A wise government would not get rid of cinema. Cinema has no hope for survival under
the current free market conditions’, warned one of FITES’ members, scriptwriter Zden
ek
Sv
erak who had recently written the Oscar-nominated film Obecna
skola/The Elementary
School (1991) (Ab 1992). He was among approximately 75 filmmakers – including directors
such as Ji
rı Krej
cık, Franti
sek Vla
cil and Elmar Klos – who opposed the rapid privatization
of Barrandov. One of the most publicly vocal members was V
era Chytilova.

The main discourses of privatization

Chytilova was 60 in 1989. She made her debut in 1961 with a medium length drama Strop/
Ceiling. Her last film made under state socialism was a 1988 satire Kopytem sem, kopytem
tam/A Hoof Here, a Hoof There aka Tainted Horseplay, in which the rather sensational
topic of the AIDS epidemic becomes a metaphor for the dysfunctional totalitarian society.
Her first post-1989 feature Inheritance premiered in 1992, the same year that Chytilova
entered politics.
Chytilova served as a member of the Prague city council focusing mainly on the cul-
tural agenda until 1996, when she unsuccessfully ran for the Senate on the platform ‘more
women in politics’ (Lacina 1996). Talking to the Czech daily Lidov e noviny she explained
the reasons for her candidacy: ‘I am naturally interested in what is going on around me.
And when I do not agree, I have to interfere’ (Lacina 1996).) She cited ‘banking scandals’
and ‘dysfunctional laws that help tricksters’ as the main reasons for running. Among those
4 
J. BLAHOV 
A

tricksters she included the Barrandov management who had reduced production to a bare
minimum and had also, in 1991, rejected her biopic on the famous Czech female writer
Bo
zena N
emcova (Ekr 1991).
Chytilova waged a public diatribe against Barrandov’s privatization. Her criticism
could be – and indeed was – seen merely as the reaction of an ageing director who feared
for her livelihood and had difficulty adapting to the new conditions. While there may be
some truth to that, the following account goes beyond personal agendas in order to dis-
cern in her statements some of the decisive discourses that underpinned the transforma-
tion of cinema at the time and consequently shaped the debates about modern Czech
film: the death of Czech cinema, market oppression, the threatening influx of foreign capi-
tal, corruption, the clash of ideological systems and generational conflict. All of those dis-
courses are symptomatic of much broader developments within contemporary society.

The death of Czech cinema (and the life of democracy)

First, let us consider the view that a privatized Barrandov signalled the death of Czech cin-
ema. When the Prime Minister Pithart opened the above-mentioned letter in 1992, he
read the following demand: ‘Exclude Barrandov from the first wave of privatization’
because ‘there is no guarantee that the production of Czech films will continue there’
(Nez 1992). Part of the solution could be a system for ‘a mandatory quota for Czech films
produced at Barrandov’ (Bare
s 1993). ‘Czech films’ in this context, however, meant some-
thing rather specific. Chytilova felt that under the new economic conditions the situation
of the 1960s could be revived and that filmmakers could continue making quality films
free of commercial pressure. The older generation of filmmakers thus defended an ‘elitist’
cinema and set the tone for future discussions about Czech cinema identity.
In line with her 1960s work, Chytilova presented the issue as an ethical one. Demand-
ing moral behaviour from the state, she claimed that ‘it simply cannot forego its responsi-
bility [to support cinema], particularly a state that strives to be more just’ after decades of
Communism (Anon. 1992a). The critics of privatization called the government’s decision
to sell Barrandov ‘non-democratic’ (Anon. 1992b). Chytilova viewed it as a crime. During
a televised debate in 1993, she attacked in a heated discussion the minister for privatiza-
tion Toma
s Je
zek, alleging that ‘the state had cheated the cinema out of money’ (Dvo
rak,
Debata 1993) by passing it to a few private hands. In her eyes, this meant that the
state had ‘killed cinema’ (Dvo
rak, Debata 1993) and ‘committed a crime against future
generations’ (Bare
s 1993). Czech cinema had become a victim of times ‘that gave in to the
fistfight over money’ (Bare
s 1993).

Market oppression, corruption and the uncontrolled influx of foreign capital

The dictatorship of the market was another key discursive tenet in the transformation of
cinema. Both Chytilova and her colleague, Oscar-winning director Ji
rı Menzel, repeatedly
spotlighted what they framed as the vulgarity of money. During socialism, Barrandov had
provided economic security. Losing it meant that filmmakers would have to ‘beg’ for
money at the ‘breweries, airline companies, and factories’ (McIntosh 1991). Chytilova
described her experience of having her Bo
zena N
emcova biopic rejected at Barrandov in
1991, as degrading due to money issues. ‘I do not know where exactly I should beg for
 STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA 5

money to finance that film. The director of Barrandov said that N
emcova would have to
strip naked for them to green light the movie’ (Bare
s 1993).
Arguably, conditions under the free market were even worse than under the Commu-
nist totalitarian regime. The older generation filmmakers attempted to exploit anti-com-
munist sentiments by claiming that as an oppressor the market outdid any communist
ideologue. ‘Before I fought ideology, not money’, remarked the director famous for her
open fights with Communist authorities. When explaining why she gave up her N
emcova
project, she added ‘You could always somehow deceive them [the communist ideologues],
shoot something different, retreat […] now Barrandov just wanted more money’ (Ekr
1991). The director Ji
rı Krej
cık argued: ‘A generation of filmmakers managed to create
something valuable often under difficult and oppressive conditions’, in the totality of the
free market ‘no value is going to be created’ (Dvo
rak, Debata, 1993). As the vision of the
stripping Czech nineteenth century writer anticipated, the free market went hand in hand
with the assumed encroachment of western culture (of nudity, violence and action) and
the uncontrolled influx of foreign capital.
The opening up of the Czechoslovak market after 1989 brought about both the interest
of foreign investors and fear of what might happen when they came. Cinema was no
exception. The Hollywood studios quickly moved into what they historically considered a
lucrative market (Blahova 2010) and supplied movie theatres with Hollywood films.
Almost as quickly as the majors moved in, the spectre of threatening Americanization
had been mobilized in order to imbue ‘the domestic’ with a deeper sense of value in what
was seen as the opening salvo in a cultural war. Distribution was only the beginning,
warned the defenders of Czech cinema. In production the issue would be even more criti-
cal. ‘The Czech film industry is going to be dominated by foreign capital and this will dic-
tate the topics’, cautioned Chytilova (Ekr 1991). The lack of control over subjects would
lead to a loss of the ‘authenticity’ and purity of Czech films. If Barrandov falls into foreign
hands, warned Chytilova, ‘there will only be commercials and pornography’ (Bare
s 1993).
The notion of the corruption of Czech culture dovetailed with a much broader sense of
corruption as a structuring principle of transformation. Corruption was considered as
one of the defining characteristics of economic transformation in the post-communist
states. Two general assumptions are accepted according to Andrzej Cieś lik and ºukasz
Goczek. First, that ‘corruption is rooted in the communist past, when these countries
embraced communist institutions, social norms, as well as low-development structural
factors’ (2017). Second, the ‘flawed transition process led corruption to increase because
politics and business were never separated. The elites pushed measures that preserved
their status while obstructing reform policies that might endanger their interests’ (Cieś lik
and Goczek 2017). According to Chytilova, the second assumption applied to the privati-
zation of Barrandov. She emphasized repeatedly that the law was being bent to accommo-
date the changing needs of those at power. ‘I wish we could rely on the law’, lamented the
director during the 1993 television broadcast Debata. ‘Why are there so few people here
today? Because they all believe that… privatization is in the hands of a mafia’ (Dvo
rak,
Debata). Several years later, she reflected on the situation: ‘We worried about hasty privat-
ization without a control which would at least guarantee that the rules would be kept, that
Barrandov would still make films, that land would not be sold and property defrauded…’
but ‘the powerful do not have to obey the law’ (Lacina 1996). In other words, she saw Cin-
epont as connected to the political elites that orchestrated the re-distribution of a hundred
6 
J. BLAHOV 
A

of millions-worth of state property right in front of the eyes of helpless filmmakers. She
insisted that the privatization of Barrandov (and privatization generally) was a ‘very bad
experience with very bad results’ courtesy of a ‘degrading’ right-wing liberalism
(Hrboticky 1997, 8).

The clash of systems and of generations

The conflict between different ideological systems represents one of the most dominant
discourses of transformation. In the case of Barrandov, the ideological conflict was inter-
twined with the generational one and created a backdrop against which the new identities
of post-1989 Czech cinema and state film policy were forged.
The privatization of Barrandov formed part of the defining spirit of general societal
change in the 1990s Czech Republic. Part of this ‘natural’ process was indeed a changing
of the generations and Barrandov served as a visible platform on which to showcase the
necessity to part with the past. The complex issue of the state funding of cinema was
reduced to a Darwinian survival of the fittest that would eliminate those who hampered
revolutionary change and were out of touch with the new reality. Chytilova was singled
out as an example. In 1991, Kino published an opinion poll taken among filmmakers on
the topic of the future of Czech cinema (Reh
a
ckova 1991). Barrandov representatives
were given the opportunity to react in the following issue. Paraphrasing the title of her
film Mı Pra
z an e mi rozum
ejı/My Fellow Citizens of Prague Understand Me (1991), Mar-
houl quipped ironically: ‘Director V
era Chytilova is making a film about the life and work
of W. A. Mozart entitled My Fellow Citizens of Prague Do Not Understand Me at All’
(Marhoul 1991). The era of socialist egalitarianism when everybody was equal and nobody
had to try to be the best was over. ‘Only the best can make films’, argued Vaclav Marhoul,
asserting that it was about time to accept that ‘people are not equal’ (Nezval 1992c).
Accordingly, critics of privatization were being discredited as those who simply could
not adapt to the new system and fought not for cinema but for their own personal gain.
‘Young filmmakers […] are not afraid that the ship has sailed’, remarked the representa-
tive of the Ministry of Culture, Igor
Sev
cık, when highlighting the fact that the younger
generation of filmmakers such as Jan H
rebejk, Jan Sv
erak, Toma
s Vorel, Petr Zelenka and
Irena Pavlaskova had not signed a petition against privatization that arrived at the Minis-
try of Culture in March 1992 (Nezval 1992b). Minister of privatization Toma
s Je
zek went
even further and accused Chytilova of ‘pining after socialism’ (Dvo
rak, Debata 1993), a
system from which she benefited – creatively and economically. It provided her with (rela-
tive) job security, an above-average salary, freed her from worries over budgets and even
ideological pressures could be circumnavigated. Even though the state monopoly exerted
political and ideological pressures, it also created unique conditions that facilitated crea-
tivity. As Ji
rı Menzel remarked in a 1991 interview for a popular magazine Kino: ‘We did
not even realize how easy it was for us to make films’ (McIntosh 1991). Je
zek’s accusation
was quite a serious one and symptomatic of the current climate. Until 1997, the public
narrative in the Czech Republic was overwhelmingly hostile towards anyone who was in
any way critical of privatization and capitalism. Those people were branded as ‘unrecon-
structed communists’.
It was not only the filmmakers who were discredited. Barrandov’s entire output before
1989 was smeared in order to accelerate the change and gain points for privatization.
 STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA 7

Privatization meant nothing less than purging cinema of both ideologically conformist
films and rubbish. ‘Barrandov, that sometimes produced films with more prints than
viewers, is in the past’, noted Igor
Sev
cık (Nezval 1992b). Privatization would protect
moviegoers from a wasteful system, which ‘for the taxpayers’ money produced films that
nobody went to see’ (Dvo
rak 19931, Debata). Furthermore, it promised, argued minister
Je
zek, to safeguard moviegoers from socialist agitprop such as the infamous Hroch/
Hippopotamus (1973) directed by Karel Stekly, a farce that primitively mocked the
Prague Spring reform movement. By evoking one of the most crudely ideological films
ever produced at Barrandov, he reduced 40 years of a diverse cinematic output, including
Chytilova’s films, to a straightforward case of propaganda and low quality.
The symbolic importance of the generational conflict – Marhoul was 31 when he
became the director of Barrandov, half of Chytilova’s age – cannot be underestimated. It
allowed supporters of the state protection of cinema to be framed as reactionaries, and in
doing so, undermined any legitimate discussion about an alternative future for the fund-
ing of Czech cinema. The state was disqualified from the very beginning from any serious
involvement at Barrandov. After all, how could the state manage such a company when,
as Mlada fronta put it in 1992, ‘in the past it proved to be entirely incompetent to manage
anything at all’ (Nezval 1992a).
Barrandov was privatized in 1993 and three years later bought by a steel company.2 For
Chytilova it remained a topic for the rest of the 1990s that echoed in her films.

ra Chytilova
An author in transition: Ve  as a 1990s filmmaker
V
era Chytilova’s work trajectory in the 1990s mirrors the development of the Czech film
industry in that period. As a filmmaker, she moved between the state institutions she
knew professionally, independent companies that emerged, and the commercial television
station Nova that represented both a new source of funding and consumer experience.
She made four films and worked on two unrealized projects. In 1990, she directed My
Fellow Citizens of Prague Understand Me, a parody of the life and work of W. A. Mozart
and his visits to the Czech capital. The production was initiated by a French company to
capitalize on Mozart’s 200th anniversary, but was eventually made for Kratky film. It is
set in 1990 but the characters are from the eighteenth century. The horse-drawn carriage
zigzags between the cars and Mozart hails tourists sipping Coca-Cola. Scaffolding is
erected around Stavovske divadlo, where Mozart staged his Don Giovanni, where hostile
bricklayers have replaced the once welcoming nobility. Chytilova juxtaposes post-commu-
nist realities with historical figures to reflect on national identity and post-communist
memory. As her second project, she envisaged a biopic of Bo
zena N
emcova. She first
offered it to Barrandov where it was allegedly scheduled to start in December 1990, but
the project eventually fell through. It was also considered by Kratky film but was not pur-
sued due cost (Email communication with Alena M€ ullerova 2017). She then approached a
private producer Bonton, but was turned down (Reh
a
ckova 1991). Eventually, she made
D
edictvı/Inheritance (1992) for the private company Space Films. Inheritance is the story
of a village peasant, Bohu
s, who becomes rich overnight after inheriting a large sum
of money. Unapologetically of its time, the film deals with the quintessential 1990s
phenomenon – restitutions. In 1993, Chytilova was hired by a company Film a
sociologie (Film and Sociology) to make a documentary about female entrepreneurs
8 
J. BLAHOV 
A

Kam panenky…/Little Dolls, Where Are You Headed… . The documentary was a part of a
planned cycle on the revival of private entrepreneurship. Chytilova also renewed coopera-
tion with Ester Krumbachova, a costume designer, scriptwriter and the co-author of
Sedmikrasky/Daisies (1966), with a view to making a sequel to her most famous film.
They co-wrote a script treatment in which the much older heroines indulge in their
destructive shenanigans and deal with the problem of ageing (Archive of Ester
Krumbachova). Pasti, pasti, pasti
cky/Traps, her last film of the 1990s, was co-produced by
Nova and premiered in 1998. Based on true events, it tells the story of a female vet who
castrates the two men who raped her.
Chytilova is widely seen as a feminist filmmaker. Even though she never publicly
embraced feminism and always maintained that she was an individualist, her strong her-
oines and harsh criticism of men (and their governance) invite this understanding. While
several scholars focus on her form and style (Ko
suli
cova 2002;
Skapova 2004; Solomon
2017), and others contemplate the issues of ethics, truth and the meaning of life (Bird
2001; Cieslar 2002), feminism and gender dominate the interpretations of Chytilova’s
films (Lim 2001; Radkiewicz 2002; Hanakova 2005, 2014; Jusova and Reyes 2014). The
feminist framework was applied also to Traps. Ma»gorzata Radkiewicz, for instance, sug-
gests that the film criticizes the gender hierarchy imposed on women by a patriarchal soci-
ety. She postulates that the main character is an example of Chytilova’s angry woman who
fights gender roles and patriarchal structures, but inevitably loses (2002).
While there are clear feminist overtones in Traps, I argue here that feminism is too a
reductive framework in relation to Chytilova’s creative intentions at the time. I propose a
different perspective – to view Traps and Inheritance as extensions of Chytilova’s 1990s
political activism. Traps in particular can be understood as a pamphlet that foregrounds
what Chytilova perceived as the failures of society and of the democratic system. While
Inheritance tackles the effect that money has on an individual, Traps takes up a number
of the emblems of the burgeoning Czech capitalist democracy of the 1990s – corruption,
commercialization, immoral media, aggressive entrepreneurs, the vulgarity of advertising
and the destruction of nature in the name of progress. Jaromır Bla
zejovsky claims that the
film is a ‘satirical epic about thuggery, impotence and the sterility of the entire ruling class
of today’s nouveau riche’ (2002). Relating to Bla
zejovsky’s argument I position Chytilova’s
films within a production context that significantly shaped their content and execution.
Combining interpretative analysis with oral history and the production history that con-
nects her films to the dynamics of the film industry provides a better understanding of
Chytilova’s intentions. To begin to unpack those, it is useful to first map out the continui-
ties between her pre-1989 and post-1989 work and to explore briefly the contemporary
critical reception that shaped the expectations for her 1990s films.

Continuities, discontinuities and critical reception

Considered as a director with a singular vision, Chytilova’s main topics are moral dilem-
mas, the contemplation of ethics, the meaning of life, gender relations and death. Because
her films also constitute one of the aesthetic cornerstones of Czechoslovak cinema, any of
her new films are routinely measured against her previous ones (most often those made
in the 1960s). The critics are looking for recurring topics, themes and a recognizable style.
In this sense, continuities with her previous films can be found in both Inheritance and
 STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA 9

Traps. In the latter, the ‘nervous’, often hand-held camera scans the environment. It
moves from character to character, from shots of nature to the vain parties of the Czech
nouveau riche and extravagant interiors. The irony and aggressive confrontation are also
palpable here. Writing about her 1970s films, Zdena
Skapova argues that ‘her moral tales
attacked the abuses of a deformed social system and, as her anger increased, irony and
spitefulness became her most frequent weapons’ (2004, 129). In the 1990s, V
era Chytilova
seemed very angry. Inheritance is an ironic comedy with acerbic lashes. Traps is a harsh,
uncomfortable farce. Chytilova also favoured character types over psychology. In both
films, the psychology of characters is subordinated to stereotypes – the village boor, the
sexy womanizer, the hysterical lover, an infantile daughter, the devilish entrepreneur and
the impotent politician.
In terms of continuity of topics, Inheritance and Traps both target consumerism, a
subject that Chytilova had already addressed in her 1961 film Ceiling as well as in Daisies.
Strong women are contrasted against weak men. In Traps the heroine fights for her integ-
rity (like the heroines in The Apple Game and Panelstory). Her partner is a pathetic weak-
ling who ‘forgives her’ for being raped while sleeping around with her journalist friend.
Other men are only capable of asserting themselves through sex, power grabs and occa-
sional spurs of violence that often reduced them to ridicule. There is a similar attack on
gender roles in Inheritance, which has otherwise been seen as a thematic aberration in
Chytilova’s oeuvre. Eager to gorge on everything that money can buy, the hero ‘buys’ two
women – his village lover and a professional escort. He ends up being exploited by both,
as the competitors in love gang up on him and demand both his money and his body.
Searching for continuities imposes a particular set of expectations on Chytilova’s films.
The contemporary media reception is an illustrative point here. ‘There is not much to
say’, began Ond
rej Zach in his review of Inheritance in Film a doba magazine: ‘The author
of masterful moralities and venomous peeks under the surface of human commotion has
proudly claimed alliance with the most commercial filmmakers’ (1993, 46). Zach’s review
is worth looking at in some detail. It spotlights three main issues that critics identified as
points of contestation vis-a-vis Chytilova’s post-1989 work: a lack of moral reflection of
capitalist reality, an abandonment of a signature style and ‘selling out’ by making a genre
film. ‘Where is the ethics that Chytilova called upon recently in relation to Barrandov and
other manifestations of commercial spinelessness’, asked Zach lambasting the ‘uncompli-
cated story full of pseudo-critical observations about our current situation’, and the
‘empty form that […] becomes a self-serving, autotelic, sad reminder of the director’s for-
mer abilities’ (1993, 46). He concluded that Czechs ‘lost a filmmaker but gained a skilled
craftswoman’ (1993, 46). Similarly, Traps was labelled as a ‘flagrant socio-critical agita-
tion’ (Spa
cilova 1998, 19). It did not fare better overseas. Andrew James Horton, evoking
the 1960s poetics, seemed to be both puzzled and irritated by the lack of avant-garde ten-
dencies in the film and surprised that Chytilova ‘misses an opportunity to say anything
truly interesting’ about ‘male violence, the pornography of advertising and life as a
complex tangle of power structures’ (1999).
Chytilova thus defied two sets of expectations – an expectation of herself as an
exceptional artist (Mı
skova 1992b, 7), and an expectation of the kind of future that some
envisaged for Czech cinema; a future firmly built on the legacy of the Czechoslovak New
Wave. As a director of moralistic tales about socialism, she was expected to provide a
moral compass for the tumultuous capitalist era. As a high profile representative of the
10 
J. BLAHOV 
A

most recognized cinematic movement in Czech cinema history, she was also expected to
deliver an artistically outstanding piece of work during a period of accelerated uncertainty
for Czech cinema. Her films should have confirmed that history can repeat itself and that
the New Wave filmmakers, freed from the oppression of state socialism, could again create
internationally recognized, artistically stimulating films.
It is tempting to look at Chytilova’s later film The Apple Game in the light of her earlier work.
Unlike many post-invasion films, there are recognizable links with her previous features.
However, it is more important to consider it in the context of the seventies. (Hames 1985,
227–228)

The same, indeed, applies to her 1990s films that, regardless of abovementioned conti-
nuities, were seen as being manically moralistic and formally crude, lacking the finesse of
her earlier films. Importantly, one key continuity has been overlooked vis-a-vis
Chytilova’s work – her ability to read the atmosphere and norms of the times and to
adjust her means of expression to the given era. Taken into account this sheds a new light
on her ‘lesser’ films.

Inheritance and traps: commerce meets anger

Writing about Inheritance in Film a doba, Ond
rej Zach bemoaned the loss of Chytilova as
an author. However, expecting ‘more’ from Chytilova as a representative of auteur cinema
and insisting on the separation of ‘art’ and ‘commerce’, he failed to recognize Chytilova as
something else – a rational businesswoman.
Chytilova quickly attempted to establish a foothold as a director under the new eco-
nomic conditions. Even though she advocated the state support of cinema, she realized
that she needed to think commercially if she wanted to make films. Her famous name
guaranteed producers’ attention. The New Wave ‘label’ carried a desirable cachet during
the early 1990s. But a famous name would only work in combination with what producers
perceived as commercially viable.
Inheritance was thus a calculated commercial decision on her part. Having been
rejected several times with her N
emcova project, she joined forces with Bolek Polıvka, a
leading Czech comedian and mime with western professional experience. They co-wrote
a script for a comedy under the working title Happiness is a Beautiful Thing. Chytilova
and Polıvka had established working relations in the 1980s, when she cast him in the exis-
tential drama Kalamita/Calamity (1980/1981) and seven years later adapted his theatrical
performance
Sa
sek a kralovna/The Jester and the Queen (1987). For the latter, they co-
wrote the script. Following sound economic logic, Inheritance was conceived as a star
vehicle tailored to Polıvka’s persona and his comedic style. It is full of physical comedy
and verbal jibes that are carried almost solely by the comedian. It was he, after all, who
came up with the plot. He was more involved with the script than the director (Interview
with Ji
rı Je
zek 2017). Chytilova even stated that Polıvka ‘saved her from blunt moralizing’
(Sovjak 1992, 7). Both filmmakers believed that the story would draw crowds. ‘We felt
that it was of the time’, said Chytilova (Halada 1992). Importantly, the film offered a dual
attraction. On the one hand, audiences could laugh at the fool who represented the
broader foolishness that seemed to have swept the nation. Bohu
s is a symbol of the major-
ity of people with zero experience of capitalism who stumbled in the dark. On the other
 STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA 11

hand, audiences could live out the fantasy that the same thing – getting rich – could hap-
pen to them. It is no coincidence that owning ‘one million’ became the ultimate dream of
the 1990s and that Tutovka (A Sure Thing) became the most popular lottery.
Chytilova approached one of the quickly rising private companies Space Films.
Represented by Ji
rı Je
zek, it had already executive-produced two massive commercial hits
Tankovy prapor/The Tank Battalion (1991) and Cern
ı baroni/The Black Barons (1992).
Inheritance became the first film that the company fully backed financially (Halada 1992).
The producer perceived Inheritance as a supremely commercially viable project. ‘Besides
the script I liked the combination of V
era Chytilova and comedy. I was convinced that
this would attract audiences because it differed entirely from what she usually did’,
explained Je
zek (Interview with Ji
rı Je
zek 2017). In retrospect, Je
zek considered his
cooperation with Chytilova to have been effective and amicable (Interview 2017).
Chytilova listened to his suggestions and respected financial restrictions (Halada 1992,
6–7). She may even have hoped that a commercially successful film would open up an
opportunity to make a less commercial one – such as the sequel to Daisies (see
St
etina
c
1991).
While it had clearly been envisaged as a star vehicle for Polıvka, Chytilova’s finger-
prints are all over Inheritance. They channel her critical views on Czech capitalist democ-
racy and she intersperses the comedy sketches with judgmental commentaries. For
instance, she criticizes the flood of western entertainment. After Bohu
s buys a satellite, he
flips through the channels. Hectic American cartoons, wrestling matches and crime films
are paraded in front of our eyes, creating an absurd incongruity with the humble interior
of his traditional cottage. There is also an analogical stab at the privatization of Barrandov.
When Bohu
s is invited to sell his brick factory to Japanese investors who do not intend to
continue producing the bricks but just want the land, his response clearly echoes
Chytilova’s opinions vis-a-vis Barrandov. To sell to foreign investors who would only
exploit the real estate holdings does not make any sense. Bohu
s can sell them the bricks
instead. If he keeps the brick factory, employees will also keep their jobs. The exact oppo-
site happened at Barrandov. Hundreds of employees were laid off, which became one
of the most traumatic experiences for the film community in the 1990s (Bare
sova and
Czesany Dvo
rakova 2017). Furthermore, her view of the old elites redistributing money
and power among themselves and their allies runs throughout the narrative. It is master-
fully embodied in a cameo by the most popular Czechoslovak pop singer Karel Gott. He
gracefully refuses Bohu
s’ pressing invitations for a drink. Bohu
s thinks they are equal
because they are now both rich. But one of them had already been rich for a long time as
a member of the Communist elites. The nefarious historical continuity of power is the
inheritance of the film’s title.
A strong instinct for reading the contemporary atmosphere and adapting her filmmak-
ing style was not new for Chytilova. As a director who was particularly interested in effec-
tive communication with the viewing public, she was able to adjust her avant-garde style
and methods from the 1970s onwards to accommodate changing norms particularly in
narrative and to address a more consumerist viewer.
Traps presents another example of a marriage of Chytilova’s economic rationale and
her socio-political criticism. From the production point of view, Traps can be considered
an exploitation project. Chytilova followed the key exploitative rule of topicality by choos-
ing a scandalous real event that had been featured in the news media – the rape of a
12 
J. BLAHOV 
A

female vet who later castrates her rapists. The shocking, titillating and provocative topic
helped Chytilova to secure financial backing from the commercial television station Nova
(Lederer 1997, 7) – the film was also supported by the State Cinema Fund3 and copro-
duced by Kratky film and Cinemart TV Prague. Until then, Nova had invested minimally
in original Czech production (it preferred to buy old Czech films). Nova had introduced a
new model of television broadcasting to the Czech media landscape by showing mostly
licensed foreign programmes and by embracing a tabloid approach to the news bordering
on exploitation. Traps thus fitted in well. It can even be argued that Chytilova deftly and
subversively exploited her ‘secret’ reputation as a feminist. Feminism was a hot and con-
tested topic in the Czech media in the 1990s (
Smejkalova 1988). Labelling Traps ‘a femi-
nist black comedy’, therefore, doubled its controversial appeal. Working for Nova, the
director aimed for the largest audience possible – broad jokes about male genitalia that
pepper the film and the situation comedy certainly meet that target. However, Chytilova
added another layer to this full-blooded, albeit uneven, farce – an idiosyncratic political
and social commentary. ‘I wanted this film to be a message. I want it to be useful to audi-
ences’, she explained, adding ‘It is about coercion in society. It targets cruelty and
thoughtlessness’ (Lederer 1997, 7).
Extreme private meets extreme public in Traps. Vet Lenka, hitchhiking after her car
runs out of gas, is picked up and raped by a dashing womanizer, an architect Petr, who
works for an ad agency, and a member of the parliament Dohnal, who is impotent. They
get acquainted at a party given by a super-rich entrepreneur Bach. Bach is also in a busi-
ness of pushing chocolate sweets – Bach’s balls. Petr’s agency runs the ad campaign. After
the rape, Lenka fakes amnesia, lures them into her cottage and castrates them. A flow of
absurdities ensues. The eunuchs try to deal with their fate – one claims to have been
attacked by homosexuals, the other seeks prosthetics and buys a vacuum pump to
deflower Bach’s spoiled daughter. Together, they attempt to silence Lenka, fearing she
will talk… .
On the surface, Traps appears to be a feminist film. It thematizes the utmost symbol of
crude patriarchy – the rape. It depicts combative gender relations in which girls and
women strive to assert their identity. Men are in the position of power, but the film shows
them as pitiful and absurd. Feminism is, however, a red herring here. Chytilova is baiting
her audiences with possible feminist readings but, without disregarding the victim, she is
more interested in the metaphorical aspects of the story – the ways it can be mobilized for
a political statement.
After unsuccessfully running for the Senate in 1996, Chytilova channelled her frustra-
tion over public affairs and her experiences from municipal politics into the film. She was
infuriated by politics, corruption, the uncontrolled bank loans for big business and disap-
pointed by the ‘lack of compassion’ in society (Jenıkova 1999, 7). ‘Sometimes it feels futile,
when instead of transparent competition things are being decided in the shadows’, she
said to Lidov e noviny in 1996. ‘But I know that I cannot give up – if only for the miniscule
chance that sometimes something can be done right’ (Lacina 1996, 13).
Pointing out the afflictions of the Czech governance, she expressed scepticism regard-
ing democratic processes. As an example she offered the case of a highway being built
through a housing settlement. ‘Not even large public protests made any difference.
Together with several MPs I had protested [this]… It is still undecided’, she pointed out
(Lacina 1996, 13). A highway running through a protected area consequently became one
 STUDIES IN EASTERN EUROPEAN CINEMA 13

of the plot lines in Traps. Her frustration with the system reverberates in the actions of
Lenka’s fiance. The would-be eco-warrior is willing to abandon his principles and black-
mail the rapist MP in order to save the protected piece of land. The only way to achieve
anything and get ahead is to accept the rules, no matter how corrupt. Chytilova also lam-
basts what she sees as the plundering of national resources. An echo of privatization can
be clearly detected here. The rape, a plundering of the female body, can be interpreted as
the plundering of land and property. This goes on without consequences. Not only are
the rapists not accused and punished, they are not even recognized as perpetrators. The
heroine is deprived of her voice, an opportunity to speak publicly. Throughout the film,
she agonizes over how to communicate what happened, whom to tell. When she
finally finds the courage to stand up and confront the rapists, she is accused of hysteria
and anti-social behaviour and whisked away to a psychiatric clinic.
Chytilova, however, does not target patriarchy here, but the failure of the very princi-
ples of democracy. Freedom of speech and the opportunity to be heard distinguishes
democracy from totalitarian regimes. Such an essential democratic principle is, neverthe-
less, absurdly turned upside down in the 1990s Czech Republic. It fails during an era of
unscrupulous entrepreneurs, corrupt politicians and ambitious young men who just want
to get obscenely rich quickly. Chytilova challenges the democratic notion that everybody
can talk freely as everybody can talk, but nobody listens. The film’s final scene goes one
step further in this respect. It shows a billboard advertising Bach’s chocolate balls in front
of Prague Castle. The slogan reads: ‘The Sweetest for Sucking’. By juxtaposing the
symbol of national identity with a crudely sexualized commercial, she seems to suggest
that ‘we’ are more interested in consuming the sweet chocolate balls of capitalism, than in
exercising democratic rights.

Conclusion
Chytilova was, in the 1990s, in a somewhat schizophrenic position. On the one hand, she
represented an older generation of filmmakers who had spent their productive years
under state socialism, working for the communist film monopoly. On the other hand, she
represented the Czechoslovak New Wave, a movement that put that country’s cinema on
the global map, was considered critical of the regime, and for many provided a blueprint
for the future of Czech cinema. Her political activism and her 1990s films thus, to a great
extent, embodied the broader tensions of transformation from state socialism to capitalist
democracy. Her persona and views encapsulated both the possibilities and challenges
of transition from one system to another. Her engagement in the debates concerning
Barrandov strengthens this perception.
By exploring her views, this study has begun to identify some of the key discursive
tropes concerning the transformation of cinema such as commercialism, market oppres-
sion, corruption, the clash of ideological systems and the generational conflict. Together
they create the structuring narratives that gave economic processes their socio-cultural
meaning. Both the cinematic transformation, which laid the foundation for modern Czech
cinema, and the work of the older generation of filmmakers call for further examination.
Scholars may want to explore, for instance, the practices of private production compa-
nies, the role that Hollywood played in the market and the 1990s careers of other New
Wave figures such as Jan N
emec and Ji
rı Menzel. The new generation of filmmakers who
14 
J. BLAHOV 
A

entered the industry in the early 1990s – their views, experiences, expectations and aspira-
tions – represents yet another vital area of investigation, not only because the generational
clash was one of the defining discourses of transformation. Exploring its personal, cultural
and political dimensions would be particularly timely given that, after a quarter of a
century, the debate about the state protection of cinema has run full circle. The Czech
government recently decided that the cinema requires systematic state support.

Notes
1. On the privatization of Barrandov see Iluminace 19 (1, 1997).
2. Even after this acquisition, filmmaking did not cease at Barrandov. The company currently
mainly provides services for both foreign and Czech film productions.
3. The need for some form of state support was recognized through the State Fund for the Devel-
opment of Czech Cinematography (now State Cinematography Fund). In the 1990s, the Fund
drew its resources from the sale of pre-1990 feature films and a one-crown surcharge on each
ticket sold.

Disclosure statement
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Notes on contributor
ahova is an Assistant Professor and the Deputy Head of Department at the Film Stud-
Jind
r i
ska Bl
ies Department, Charles University, Prague. As a research-active film historian she specializes in
the relationships between Hollywood and Eastern Europe, film culture under Communism, and
film festivals. In addition to having published widely in her native Czech, and having served as a
guest editor of the prominent Czech academic journal Iluminace: The Journal of Film Theory, His-
tory, and Aesthetics (issues on Post-feminism, Banned Films in Eastern European Cinemas, and
Film Festivals), her English-language articles on relationships between distribution, reception, and
politics have been published in the Historical Journal of Film, Radio, and Television, Film History,
and Post Script. She is currently leading a team research on the history of the Karlovy Vary Interna-
tional Film Festival.

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