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Kolya
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It is a strange and paradoxical phenomenon: although the arthouse market is expanding, the actual range of sophisticated, alternative movies on show is shrinking. So it is a rare and precious shock to see, for instance, a Czech film in English-language cinemas. Kolya is the kind of treat that makes me wonder what other goodies from abroad we are currently missing out on. Jan Sverák's film – written by and starring his father, Zdenak Sverák – has a rather familiar premise. Frantisek (Sverák), a talented musician who has seen better days, leads an independent, irascible life – as in much Eastern European cinema, this crusty older man seems to have little problem getting petite young blondes into his bed. Around him (the time is the late 1980s), social change is stirring. After reluctantly agreeing to an arranged marriage with a Russian woman, Nadezda (Irena Livanova), Frantisek finds himself saddled one day with her little son Kolya (Andrej Chalimon). At first their relationship is hilariously dysfunctional, but soon the boy melts the man's hard, self-absorbed heart. Kolya is a moving film – all the more so because it goes easy on the sentimentality and overt emotional manipulation. Sverák's direction gives the drama a tender, compassionate, often wry attitude. His staging of narrative events and character interactions has a quiet, subtle virtuosity that is deeply satisfying. © Adrian Martin March 1997 |
