Holubice

Czech director Frantiscek Vlacil and cinematographer Jan Curik employ high contrast expressionistic imagery within a realistic framework without sacrificing humanity of character to symbolic necessity where little is said but much implied in this visually stunning allegory filled with imagery worthy of a Bergman-Nykvist collaboration.

A white dove loses its bearings on it's way from Belgium to a Baltic island getting waylaid in Prague. After it injures itself an artist gives it to a child recently injured as well in a play ground accident. The child nurses it back to health and then must decide whether to free it to return to it's owner who pines away for it on the island.

Nearly every frame of the The White Dove is imbued with visual power. Fractured images, taut montage and scenes of surreal beauty such as the release of the pigeons from a coal black hill and a young girl waking from a dream and walking out her back door on water are awe inspiring. Dialog is sparse and motivation sometimes murky but character expression and physical actions more than fill the void to convey emotion. There is no wasted action and nearly every shot can be dissected for meaning or intent in a film that begs or rather demands more than one viewing although I would suggest on the initial watch you just sit back and soar along with the compositions.

The White Dove, by Frantisek Vlacil is a film that deserves to be remembered in spite of its occasional sloppiness. It is about a young boy (Karel Smyczek) and his quest for his freedom and his identity. Here we have a triumph of images rather than of acting or story. The visual metaphors are blunt, but they are beautiful, so who cares? We have a head made of clay that has its face ripped off (the loss of one's identity), we have fingerprints that grow into flowers (the delicacy of identity), we have our main character climbing to the top of the fence surrounding his school, escaping his vicious classmates (the struggle for freedom). The Four Hundred Blows may be wonderful, but its many plot device characters take away the film's riveting effect after many viewings; The White Dove's purely emotional rapture takes the long road around conventional plot clichés and finds a place in a quiet little corner of our hearts.

The Czechoslovakian film Holubice (shown in the U.S. as The White Dove) (1960) was co-written and directed by Frantisek Vlácil. The Czechoslovak New Wave was an artistic form of dissent that lasted from about 1962 until Soviet tanks invaded Prague in 1968. Although Vlácil isn't considered a New Wave director, this film shares several qualities with the movies that followed it.

Shot in black and white, the plot involves a homing pigeon that is released in Belgium, with the expectation that it will return to its home on a bleak Baltic island. Instead, it lands in Czechoslovakia, where it is wounded by a young boy in a wheelchair. The plot centers around the young boy, an artist who is his friend, and with the boy coming to grips with the results of his actions. The movie isn't carried by the plot, however, but rather by its symbolism and the striking imagery of the black-and-white cinematography.

This is not a must-see film. The White Dove was made more than 50 years ago, and it's not a timeless classic. However, the movie is worth seeing because it's clearly a precursor to the unique flowering of artistic filmmaking that came to be known as the Czechoslovak New Wave.

We saw The White Dove in the wonderful Gene Siskel Theatre in Chicago. My compliments to the people at the Siskel for finding this film and offering it along with a later film by Vlácil, The Valley of the Bees.

This is the first feature of Czech director Frantisek Vlacil who had previously made documentaries. His backgound as a painter is evident here in his composition of shots and his sense of the visual. He and his cinematographer Jan Curik have captured wonderful images where actions speak louder than words. The plot concerns a dove belonging to Susanne that loses its way and ends up in Prague where it is shot by Michael, a crippled boy. He nurses it back to health and is eventually persuaded by an artist who has befriended him to let it go. Tearfully he does so and we see it fly away, hopefully back to Susanne who is always hopeful of its return. Karel Smyczek as the boy, Katerina Irmanovova as the girl and Wjaceslav Irmanov as the artist are simply superb. This extraordinarily beautiful, inventive and touching piece easily bears comparison with 'Red Balloon' and 'White Mane' of Lamorisse in terms of its universal appeal. Must be seen.