The harrowing, unimaginable consequences of war might well be a sub-genre of its own. Personal trauma, physical injuries, a life-long toll. While fuzzing helicopter propellers give Vietnam veterans nightmares, the impact of cinema still manages to find pockets of grief deriving from another daunting chapter of our history – World War II.
Bohdan Sláma’s enduring, encompassing black-and-white picture, Shadow Country (Krajina ve stínu) imparts on us further misery through the eyes of the Czech Republic. Shadow Country may not have the clout of a Fassbinder or a Spielberg behind it, but the impact certainly warrants mentioning in the same sentence. A far cry on one hand from films like The Marriage of Maria Braun or Schindler’s List, for example, Sláma’s film lastingly presents us with the alleviating prospects of a war closing its doors and the prompt fall-out.
Shadow Country might lend itself to recent World War II films, sticking a firm flag in the ground and declaring harshly: wait a minute, the war might be over, but the war isn’t over. Look at Martin Zandvliet’s 2015 Danish Oscar nominee, Land of Mine (Under sandet) and Robert Schwentke’s 2017 German film, The Captain (Der Hauptmann). They, too, dissect distinct points of view of the immediate post-war horrors, sucking us back in rather than setting us free.
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Shadow Country sets its tide amidst a turbulent Czech and Austrian border village, pretty much across nearly two decades. With the aforementioned war slap bang in the middle. The locale is Schwarzwald, a fictional town, which still might have you blowing dust of the history books to refresh yourself on Czechoslovakia’s very own holocaust. Though not essential.
Ambling beyond the two hour mark, Shadow Country, in its steady pacing, requires the majority of your attention. Understandably, for those less inclined to fix their gaze, that captivity might have to be earned. As powerful as this chronicle is, the bleak nature of human cruelty and barbaric repercussions of war, Shadow Country is an ensnaring, arduous watch – especially that second act.
Sláma, and his screenwriter, Ivan Arsenyev, demand you be immersed in the political upheaval of a key time in Czech history. The importance of it is, though, not imposed gratuitously, but rather you’re driven to look through the glass at the hardships without much opportunity to look away.
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Shadow Country, even decades and decades later after that era, asks who are we and where do we belong? Such a timely film in its population cross-overs, fallout between neighbours, and an impelled contempt. Very ordinary people corrupted or crushed by national credence. The echoes are a million miles away on the chronological page, yet those feelings are there to be grabbed or embraced.
The vast intersection of characters in Shadow Country have their nationalities and predicaments in common. While the divide is a painful partition as they get caught in the historical cross-fire. A savage choice to be confronted with – pledge allegiance to the Third Reich or else declare your Czech heritage and become a penniless slave to war.
With years of preparation in the making, screenwriter Ivan Arsenjev drip-fed some actual real-life incidents into the narrative. Shadow Country certainly has that sense of documentary through its well staged authenticity. Characters act with spontaneity, combined with the understandable amount of fear and gusto.
Community is valued, perhaps even above stability. Though its not like these dwellers have an abundance of choices. One man half-jokes that he has lived in three different countries without even moving home. But he is all too aware that having your national identity challenged and jeapardised is no laughing matter.
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Director Bohdan Sláma has previously dappled in varying degrees of adapting to village life with 2001’s Wild Bees (Divoké včely) and 2008’s The Country Teacher (Venkovský ucitel). Shadow Country sees Sláma stepping onto a more cobble-some small-town path.
The guy is a fan of high-tier Andrei Tarkovsky and Ingmar Bergman I would guess. And perhaps he has even shown admiration for the likes of Estonian filmmaker, Rainer Sarnet, Hungarian László Nemes and more likely the fellow Czech director, František Vláčil.
The film’s gradual descent into genocide territory really amps up the heartache, as the film’s climax grabs you by the stomach. The horrid irony of someone reveling over the ending of the war, only for certain horrors to be escalated. Sláma prolongs the antipathy with reason and procedure, those corrupt few characters execute their deplorable duties with conviction.
The bold – I would never say stubborn – attitudes of those standing up for their heritage hardly prevails. But their voices are mercifully present. As one cries “Fuck the thousand year Reich.” or another impulsively giggles when a swastika is sewn onto decor in reverse (by accident?). The characters have a rightful audacity to speak their mind or take spontaneous action. Those quirky and boisterous personalities rally our support all the more, even if some of their silencing is inevitable.
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The ensemble cast, many of whom are non-actors, with every reactionary look or pause, are immaculately portraying spirited or swayed folk. The faces at times seem so familiar too. Like we truly are witnessing the depiction of times gone by, or part believe these are people we know.
There is, too, an observance to the women of the community grappling the insanity of war. And having to essentially make it on your own. A central figure has to head off into the woods, beyond the border, with her children by her side and a sackful of survival instincts within her emotional arsenal.
Shadow Country has an air of groundbreaking mentality as far as cinema is concerned. The languid, impressive progression is sadly going to allude some, but its hard not to find an exquisitely crafted film here. Cinematographer Divis Marek paints onto the canvas with spacious long shots, a great depth of field, while the camera never imposes. Often it just glides steadily where it needs to go and generally captures the story world to full, if subtle, effect.
The aftermath of a war’s end is cautiously told by Bohdan Sláma. Shadow Country is long, labouring, and also liberating. The composition of black and white film leaves little error and much to awe at in the finer details. Or any for that matter. The cruelty, condemnation and courage depicted here is worth every minute of filmmaker Sláma’s tender, loving care.
