|
The Party, the People, and the flames that won't be extinguished. Milos Forman himself might be the deadpan artist dangling from the burning banner before the opening credits, this is his acrid farewell note to Czechoslovakia. The provincial city hall sets the stage for the all-pervasive farce, the annual ball thrown by the local committee of firefighters to raffle off prizes, choose beauty queens, and honor the retirement of the ancient chief. The subversive spectacle rests on the myriad of ways things go wrong, exposing the gawky crowd poised for chaos, the cadre of sagging leaders, and the roiling sea of stupidity, corruption and clumsiness on which everybody floats, hoping for the best. The main table loaded with lottery goodies is gradually emptied by pilfering guests (the "honest idiot" trying to return a head of cheese is the only one to get caught), under it teenagers enjoy an awkward tryst. The flimsy manufactured pomp of the beauty contest—slouching girls are snatched from the dance floor, leered at by the officials, and dragged screaming onstage to be crowned—is but one of the sundry travesties of ritual and tradition, a comic bedrock for Altman, Leigh, Ritchie. "Solidarity" is the word nobody can remember, the drunken cry of revolt is briefly heard ("Shit on the brigade!"), the stalled fire engine leaves an elderly man in the snow outside, just a bed amid the ashes of his house. Witnessing it all is the sideways-glancing camera, and the wizened, cancerous beneficiary, forgotten on the sidelines like De Sica's Umberto D. "Gentlemen, don't underestimate the people." In a preface demanded by the furious government, Forman is made to assure viewers that this is about firemen and firemen only, and, taking a cue from the film's bumbling figureheads, does an inept job. With Jan Vostrcil, Josef Sebánek, Josef Valnoha, Frantisek Debelka, Josef Kolb, Jan Stöckl, Milada Jezková, and Frantisek Svet.
--- Fernando F. Croce |