Released to Blu-ray this week by Second Run is the 1971 Cannes Jury Prize-winning Hungarian film Love (or Szerelem, to give it its title in its native tongue) Directed by acclaimed Hungarian filmmaker Károly Makk and based on two short stories by his fellow countryman, the renowned author Tibor Déry, Love is a remarkable mix of socially aware, political storytelling and unconventional, lyrical filmmaking. It’s a worthy and worthwhile addition to the great range of Eastern Bloc movies being rediscovered by the quietly formidable Second Run.
The film offers a seemingly simple narrative and appears, initially at least, to be something of a chamber piece. Two women, a bedridden old lady and her young, red-haired daughter-in-law, bicker and bond and attempt to bridge the gaps in their lives over the course of several days as the old lady steadily advances towards her death. The empty space that dominates the lives of both ‘Az öregasszony’ (literally old woman, the character bears no other name) played by Lili Darvas (a respected and much acclaimed Hungarian actress who graced stage and screen in her native country, Europe and the US; scoring a Tony nomination for Best Actress in the Broadway production of Les Blancs in 1971, the same year that Love came out) and Luca, played by Mari Törőcsik (a future Cannes Best Actress winner for her performance in Mrs Déry Where Are You? aka Déryné hol van? in 1976 and who sadly passed away last year at the age of 85) has been left by one man, János; son and husband respectively.
His absence speaks of the wider issue in the Soviet-controlled nation in the 1950s (arguably when Love is set, though no timeframe is ever explicitly given), namely the false arrests, show trials and imprisonments that befall many Hungarian men and women in the wake of Stalin’s death in 1953 and the ill-fated, nation-wide uprising in 1956. The part of János is given added gravitas when you consider that the actor playing the role, Iván Darvas, had fallen foul of the communist authorities himself. During the 1956 uprising, he organised a revolutionary committee with the express aim of freeing his brother from gaol. The outcome of which, once the revolution was crushed, was to imprison Darvas himself for twenty-two months. Following his release, the actor was blacklisted and forced to seek work as a labourer for four years until matters eventually relaxed in 1963.
Whilst Luca is fully aware of the truth regarding her husband’s situation, she has elected to hide this fact from his mother, who believes her son to be a successful filmmaker working in New York on a new project that he cannot return home from until its completion. This kindly deception is sustained by a series of letters Luca reads, ostensibly from János in the US, but which are, in reality, written by her own hand. Each missive relates to the old woman and her son’s extraordinary success overseas as a means to provide comfort and protection from the fact that, given her age and infirmities, she is unlikely to ever see her son again.
Personally, I choose to believe that the old woman knows more than she lets on but chooses to believe the lie in the letters because, like all mothers, she wants the best for her son. The ambiguity Makk uses within the story is very welcome and perpetually intriguing.
The subject matter for Makk’s film is, understandably, a bold and controversial one for Hungary, even in the 1970s when a degree of leniency had begun to develop. Nevertheless, one could argue that the stylistic choices the director makes to tell these stories based on Déry’s writing are a means of avoiding censorship. In telling the story of Love, Makk places emphasis, not on the relationship between the two women and fragmented memories, rather on a confrontational focus on the political conditions of his country. As I said earlier, the period in which the film is set is never specified, despite Déry making it plain in his original story that János is a political prisoner as a result of his participation in the 1956 uprising. This was a necessary revision as, despite some relaxation in censorship, discussion of the failed revolution was still considered taboo by the authorities at the time Love was made. Nevertheless, mention of his arrest by the State Protection Authority, an arm of the secret police that operated in the early 50s, implies that Love is set prior to the events of 1956 – an acceptable timeline given that, by this time, the Stalin era was being seen in more realistic terms as a reign of terror.
Makk’s avant-garde approach to the narrative is also likely to have beguiled and befuddled government censors. There’s a poetic use of montage and still imagery that runs like a golden thread throughout Love, from its opening titles to its very conclusion. These kaleidoscopic moments, spliced into the narrative of the film, often present themselves as fragmentary memories, ghostly visions of her past and fantasies of her son’s success so illusionary and redolent of her own feeble understanding, appreciation and time as to become surreal, peculiarly displaced and hauntingly evocative. And so, whilst Luca’s fake letters are elaborate and convincing, the old woman’s mind’s eye can only offer up anachronistic stills of a turn of the century elegance standing in for modern-day New York. The interpretation of these images and the old woman’s thoughts is something left wholly up to the viewer too. For example, we learn that she had another son, a younger sibling to János whose introduction to the narrative coincides with a jarring spectacle of a violent explosion. Are we to presume that this second son died tragically in the war?
Likewise, interspersed throughout the imagery of obsolete glamour that stands in for her son’s success, we witness stark, realistic shots of a prison. From this (along with a couple of ambiguous statements made by the old woman) are we to presume that she is actually aware of the fabrication that Luca has created or are these images from the mind’s eye of Luca herself, intruding upon the rose-tinted fantasy with the cold light of day? It’s worth pointing out that, as an audience, we are also often privy to Luca’s memories and daydreams too which stand apart from the old woman’s as depicting the harsh realities that she, as a stigmatised wife of a political prisoner, inevitably faces; unemployment, mandatory co-tenancy and, in one memorable moment, the bell of a tram conjuring up the unwanted memory of her husband’s arrest in the middle of the night. Personally, I choose to believe that the old woman knows more than she lets on but chooses to believe the lie in the letters because, like all mothers, she wants the best for her son. The ambiguity Makk uses within the story is very welcome and perpetually intriguing.
By the final act of the film, the focus shifts from the two women to János himself. Newly released from captivity, his POV co-exists with that of his wife, exploring contemporary Hungary rather than the faded bygone era of his mother, the old woman. His journey from prison to Luca is one of progress and momentum, with imagery to match. Just as the old woman tried to make sense of the fantasy of her son’s situation, we see here how János must try and make sense of his unexpected, newfound freedom. He appears downcast, numb and apprehensively fearful; uncertain at the authorities who shave him and perform the routine of a pre-release medical because what can this care and attention mean? What do they require of him? Entering the world again, we see through his eyes everyday structures, items and moments as if for the first time. He is dazed and hesitant, expecting the worst. It is a look his taxi driver recognises all too well; “Political?” he enquires. János responds in the affirmative. His eventual reunion with Luca is tender and bittersweet and again, in keeping with a film so redolent with imagery, the focus is on their body language, looks and gestures.
This Second Run release includes several extras including an archive featurette from 2005 which sees Makk reminisce about his movie, an audio commentary recorded in 2016 with the director and actor/writer/academic Gábor Gelencsér, a featurette detailing Love‘s rescreening at Cannes in 2016 and archive footage of Hungarian Film Week in Sorrento, 1971. The film itself is presented in a HD transfer from the new 4K restoration undertaken at the Hungarian Film Institute for this world premiere Blu-ray release.
LOVE (SZERELEM) IS OUT NOW ON SECOND RUN BLU-RAY
CLICK THE BOX ART BELOW TO BUY LOVE (SZERELEM)
