Closely Watched Trains (Jirí Menzel, 1966)
Cast: Václav Neckár, Josef Somr, Vlastimil Brodský, Ferdinand Kruta, Alois Vachek, Vladimír Valenta, Jitka Bendová, Jitka Zelenohorská, Nada Urbánková. Screenplay: Bohumil Hrabal, Jirí Menzel, based on a novel by Bohumil Hrabal. Cinematography: Jaromír Sofr. Art direction: Oldrich Bosák. Film editing: Jirina Lukesová. Music: Jirí Sust.
It's a little hard to come up with the right adjective for Closely Watched Trains. "Bittersweet" doesn't quite work, nor does "tragicomic." It's one of those essentially comic films that keep you off balance by maintaining a matter-of-fact attitude toward life and death. We've all seen coming-of-age comedies about a young man's attempt to lose his virginity, but they rarely interrupt that process by a suicide attempt or end with a heroic self-sacrifice after the protagonist reaches his goal. The secret of Jirí Menzel's success at bringing off both deviations from the norm lies in the texture of his film: It's so full of little unexpected moments from characters who never quite behave in the ways we think they're going to that we come to accept their off-beat actions and attitudes. Take, for example, the subplot involving Hubicka's lovemaking with the telegraphist, during which he applies the bureaucratic stamps on the table where they consummate the affair to her bottom. She's perfectly fine with it, and even when her mother discovers the inked flesh and hauls her before the magistrate, she maintains a blissful smile during the interrogation. We've come to think of Hubicka as something of a womanizing creep, but her blithe acceptance of her role in their relationship upends (so to speak) what may have been our original view of it. She's using him at least as much as he's using her.