Kolya

I did not think this film was at all sentimental (if you are using the word in its pejorative sense). In reading the comments on this film, I noticed the Czechs who responded were rather lukewarm about it. This surprises me. Kolya works as a film on several levels at once -- political, artistic, personal, etc. and I do not think it is at all predictable. The performances are magical and the entire film is encased by music of very great beauty and humanity by Dvorak and other great Czech composers. Music from Dvorak's "Four Biblical Songs" is at the heart of the film. It is the song that Klara sings at the funerals and the song Kolya is singing before and during the closing credits. The vintage film footage of Kubelik conducting Smetana's Ma Vlast at a concert at the end of the Russian occupation is a wonderful touch. Although I'm sure many other Czech films deserve Oscars, I am glad Kolya was recognized. I hope this film is released on DVD soon.

This is a variation on the theme of an older man whose emotional life is reawakened by his being thrust into unexpected parenting of a young child. Many have complained of the exploitation of such time-worn subject matter, but the worth of "Kolya" lies in the particulars of how its themes are developed. After all there are still good movies made about underdog sports teams prevailing, and even the exact same material (thinking Shakespeare here) can be made fresh through different productions.

The man in question here is Frantisek Louka, the place is the Czech Republic, and the time is 1988 (just prior to the "Velvet Revolution"). Financial constraints tempt Louka to enter into a bargain to marry a Russian woman so she can get Czech citizenship and, it turns out, escape to West Germany to be with her lover. This leaves Louka to care for the child "Kolya." One thing that makes this movie stand out is the quality of the acting by all involved. In particular Andrei Chalimon as the Russian child is very natural and will win your heart as he does Louka's. But it's a slow process.

Another thing that sets this off is the political backdrop. I knew about Russia's occupation of the Czech Republic after World War II and the non-violent overthrow of the Communist government in 1989, but that is about as far as my knowledge went. This movie portrays what it was like to live in that environment in a concrete way that a history book cannot. A lot of little scenes exemplify the underlying tensions, such as Louka's being expected to display both the Czech and Russian flags in his window, Louka's mother refusing to let some Russian soldiers in to wash their hands by lying about her having no water, and Louka's purposeful refusal to learn the Russian language. So, this movie provided a small increment in my knowledge of Czech history and that's better than nothing. How the political situation drives the action makes for a singularly interesting story.

The musical score that contains works by the Czech composers Dvořák, Suk, Fibich, and Smetana adds a special quality.

Don't be turned away from seeing this because it touches on familiar themes; it is a quality film with unique characteristics.

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.

I've seen a number of U.S. movies filmed in Czechoslovakia, but this is the first Czech film I've seen. Seeing this makes me understand how Czechoslovakia could have a fairly booming film industry.

This movie came on on cable network IFC and it first grabbed my attention because I didn't recognize what language the characters were speaking. Within a couple of minutes, however, the movie itself had hooked me, though it's not the type of story I'd usually seek out. Indeed I was late to work and really wanted to get going, but I was unable to tear myself away.

Beyond the great writing, acting, and directing, this film has some truly amazing cinematography. There are occasions where the filmmakers seem to have commanded the universe around them to get these shots. In one scene, the lead character looks up through his car's windshield as he's driving, and in perfect synchronization the reflection of the airliner he was looking at passes across the windshield. Even more amazing was the shot from well up in the air, with the lead characters' car driving up the road, a train going up a track in parallel to them, and a hawk (or eagle?) hovering right in front of the camera and then diving off to the side -- and they got this shot right at "magic hour". In Hollywood CGI surely would have been used to coordinate this ballet of elements.

There were also many shots incorporating wonderfully poetic imagery. One of my favorites was the lead character staring into the reflective doors at the airport which close and reveal him to himself, standing there utterly alone.

One more comment -- another reviewer called the ending "predictable", but I'd have to disagree. I really didn't know where the movie would end up, and in fact it was portrayed so subtly that I had to rewind the final scene to be sure what had happened, and then go back and re-watch a prior scene that contained a seemingly throwaway line that bears on the ending.

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.