Marketa Lazarová

Marketa Lazarová is worth a concentrated evening, provided we can accept that its storytelling will sometimes defeat us. František Vláčil directs and shares the screenplay credit with František Pavlíček, adapting a novel by Vladislav Vančura. The result is a historical drama with an arresting physical presence and a stubborn tendency to lose us among its rival families. At 166 minutes, that is a substantial request for patience, but the images and performances earn it more often than not.

Magdaléna Vášáryová, as Lazar’s daughter, gives us someone to care about while we are still getting our bearings. Michal Kožuch’s Lazar and Josef Kemr’s Kozlík make their rivalry feel bitter enough to matter without requiring us to enjoy either man’s company. František Velecký, playing Kozlík’s son Mikoláš, adds to the film’s sense of people we cannot comfortably predict. We believe in the families before we have properly sorted them out, which is a considerable achievement by the cast, though it puts a good deal of responsibility on them.

Bedřich Baťka’s black-and-white photography supplies the strongest reason to stay attentive. We were unsettled by the glare in the brightest images; even the sunlight feels inhospitable. The force of that reaction matters, because historical films can make hardship look comfortably remote, something arranged for us to inspect. Here the brightness is abrasive enough to prevent that distance, and the images remain compelling even when we cannot confidently explain how the people within them are connected.

Oldřich Okáč’s production design deserves much of the credit for how persuasive this world feels. The surroundings feel inhabited, and the care taken over them helps establish a life beyond the immediate family quarrel. Zdeněk Liška’s music also helps hold our attention through the narrative’s more difficult stretches, giving us something to respond to when explanations are scarce. Neither contribution solves the confusion, but both make continuing to watch feel like a pleasure rather than a dutiful attempt to keep up.

The qualification is Miroslav Hájek’s editing, which gives the film much of its restless energy and also makes it needlessly difficult to follow. Changes of style can be exciting, but there are passages when we are too occupied with reconstructing the story to respond to it. František Vláčil seems willing to accept that cost more often than we are. The praise for the film’s disorientation needs that caveat: feeling lost is sometimes absorbing, and sometimes it simply means a scene has not communicated enough.

Historical drama often helps us along by explaining everyone’s loyalties, and we did occasionally miss that courtesy. Even so, we recommend this one warmly: the people and their surroundings stay convincing through the muddles, and the photography rewards close attention. Do not start it as background to a busy evening. Give it the time, with no promise that every question will be answered.