Kolya, el nombre de la esperanza

Who knows what you will do when your back is against the wall? Survival makes you do some things that you would never try. In this case Louka (Zdenek Sverák), a confirmed bachelor, marries a Russian woman to get her Czech papers and to get him some money to buy a car and fix his house and pay some debts.

As soon as they marry, she heads to Germany. her son, Kolja (Andrei Chalimon), a little five-year-old, ends up with Louka, who soon finds that he is bonding with the boy.

It is a beautifully touching story with some outstanding performances by the two leads and Libuse Safránková as Klara.

It is fascinating that star and writer of the screenplay is also the father of the director. I cannot imagine how that worker, but I bet it was interesting at times.

What is a man to do who has resisted marriage until late middle age but then enters into a fraudulent marriage of convenience and ends up solely responsible for a five year old in the bargain? That is Franta Louka's dilemma in this beautiful film.

Louka, played by Zdenek Sverak who also wrote the screenplay, is a onetime philharmonic cellist who has lost his orchestra job because the Soviet era Czech communist powers-that-be deem him unreliable. As a consequence Louka has been reduced to playing at weddings and funerals and re-gilding cemetery tombstones. He has no car and is deeply in debt. In order to finance a car and reduce his debt Louka lets a coworker from the cemetery convince him to marry a Russian woman so that she can emigrate to the West. Louka reluctantly agrees and married the woman but the Russian decamps. This ultimately results in Louka becoming solely responsible for the woman's five year old boy -- who only speaks Russian.

Louka and the little boy's relationship is both believable and moving. "Kolya" is very nearly a great film. Highly, highly recommended. 9 out of 10.

"Kolya", an award winning Czech film set in Prague, is a sweet and sentimental story about a boy (the title character) and a male cellist who, through circumstance, becomes his guardian. Set against a backdrop of Czech countryside and the architecture of Prague, this well crafted and wistful tale is a worthwhile 100 minute watch for those in need of relief from the numbing excesses of Hollywood blockbusters. Potentially enjoyable by all, "Kolya" will be most appreciated by mature audiences, particularly those who favor European films.

It is 1988, and Czech bachelor Frantisek Louka is struggling to make ends meet. A talented cellist, his main source of employment is playing at the various crematoriums in Prague; though he'll do most work that comes his way. One day, a friend offers him the chance to earn a large amount of money through a sham marriage to a Russian lady, which would enable her- and her five-year-old son Kolya- to stay in Czechoslovakia. However, weeks after they are married, the woman uses her new citizenship to emigrate to West Germany, leaving Louka to look after a boy he barely knows.

A touching comic-drama, Jan Sverák's 'Kolya' tells a familiar tale; though tells it well. Rather like Takeshi Kitano's 'Kikujiro,' the film follows an unlikely father-figure who grows to love the ward in his charge, changing as a person as he does so. As Louka and Kolya become comfortable with one another, the narrative- written by Zdenek Sverák and based on an idea from Pavel Taussig- examines the importance of connection, detailing how one's life can be enriched by even the most unlikely of relationships.

A poignant character study, the film shows Louka's journey from a gruff, womanising cynic to someone with a greater appreciation for life- thanks to his experiences with Kolya. His time with the boy changes him for the better, and the film's bittersweet ending hints that he will never be the same. While not original on paper, the genuinely heartwarming story has a sardonic edge, while Sverák's screenplay abounds with thematic depth and irreverent, dry humour.

Additionally, the film can be seen as a reflection of the end of the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia, offering a nuanced critique of same, highlighting the tensions and ironies of the time. Most evidently, Louka's interactions with the Soviet bureaucratic system are emblematic of the inefficiencies and frustrations experienced by many Czechs under Soviet rule. His sham marriage to a Russian woman, and the subsequent responsibility of caring for her son, can be seen as a microcosm of the larger political dynamics at play. This relationship mirrors the complex, often strained interactions between Czechs and Russians during the occupation.

Moreover, the film poignantly portrays contextual conflicting attitudes towards Russians through its characters. For instance, Louka's initial reluctance to care for Kolya reflects a broader societal scepticism towards foreigners, particularly Russians, who were often viewed with suspicion and resentment at the time in occupied lands. Conversely, Louka's gradual transformation symbolizes a potential for reconciliation and understanding amidst political turmoil; paralleling his country's own path towards greater openness and eventual independence.

In addition, Vladimír Smutný's lush cinematography expertly captures Prague's beautiful melancholy, enhancing the narrative's depth and resonance. Smutný uses a rich colour palette and varied lighting to reflect the film's shifting moods. The muted tones and soft lighting in Louka's apartment convey a sense of isolation and mundanity, while the brighter, more vibrant scenes with Kolya highlight the boy's innocence and the joy he brings into his world. This visual contrast effectively underscores Louka's transformation throughout the film.

Smutný's cinematography also adeptly captures the essence of late 1980's Czechoslovakia, with a visual style reflecting the period's socio-political atmosphere. Many scenes subtly incorporate elements of Soviet influence and the impending change brought by the Velvet Revolution, which helps immerse one in the historical setting and reality of the narrative. Milos Kohout's art direction, as well as Katarina Hollá's costume design, only compounds this immersive realism, while Ondrej Soukup's stirring score drifts through the picture like a euphonious wind, heightening its emotional impact.

In addition to writing the screenplay, Zdenek Sverák stars as Louka, delivering a nuanced, grounded performance that is engaging and heartrending. His portrayal of Louka's transformation is subtle yet powerful, capturing the character's journey from cynic to father-figure astutely. Opposite him, Andrey Khalimon, as Kolya, lights up the screen, showing a natural acting ability, and the two work wonderfully together. Meanwhile, Libuse Safránková and Ondrej Vetchý excel in the supporting roles of Klara, one of Louka's girlfriends, and Broz, the friend whose actions get the narrative moving, respectively.

In short, though Jan Sverák's 'Kolya' tells a familiar tale, it tells it very well, and is memorable and moving both. Resonating on multiple levels, its narrative is engaging and its characters compelling. Boasting striking cinematography, as well as a fine score, it is routinely well-acted, especially by stars Zdenek Sverák and Andrey Khalimon. To put it simply, 'Kolya' is a bittersweet symphony that plucks at the heartstrings and plays all the right notes.

Take the old formula of two mismatched people being forced to live together, and rejuvenate it by losing the cliches and adding excellent script and direction, and utterly superb acting by all the cast, especially the two leads (the grouch and the boy). The characterisations are just spot on.

Whenever I see films like this I end up both very glad to have seen such an outstanding movie, and extremely irritated that practically no-one knows about this gem of a movie, yet films like 'Godzilla' rake in money.

My thanks to all involved with this movie; you have produced a work of art.