A Selfish Post on the master of puppets

My laptop is down for the count...which means midterm papers have to be saved in cyber-space if I want to keep them somewhere accessible. Ladies and Gents, allow me to present the pun-nily named (all for you Mr. T.) paper for my Literature and Place class:

Master of Puppets: Jiří Trnka’s Ties to Czech Culture

“Do your paper on Jiří Trnka,” my suitemate said, “He animated creepy puppet films that were more for adults than kids. He’s right up your alley.” Sure, Trnka’s “The Hand” and “The Cybernetic Grandmother” have their disturbing moments, but on the whole Trnka’s legacy grew more from his mixed-media innovations than from controversial content in his works. Though he would create films protesting the fetishism of technology, he created those films by breathing new life into a storytelling form with deep historical roots in the Czech lands through his use of new technologies and trick photography.

Czech puppet use evolved from Pagan traditions that used puppets for both ceremonial and entertainment purposes. After the 30-years-war, the marionette style of puppet became particularly popular, and this remains the case today. Typically, puppeteering was a family trade. This custom may have developed because the puppeteer was expected to make his own puppets, make his own sets, control all the puppets in a show, and perform all of the voices as well. With this much work involved, it is not surprising that the spouses and children helped with some of the labor. In doing so, they informally apprenticed in the field and so naturally grew into puppeteers themselves. Other signature characteristics of Czech puppet theater that could stem from this one-man tradition include the development of stories conceived with few set changes and one to two character scenes. Noticing these aspects of Trnka’s early works clearly reveals his training in classical puppetry.

Jiří Trnka was born 24 February 1912 in a suburb of Plzeň. Sources are not in consensus on his father’s occupation, but it is clear that Rudolf Trnka did not make puppets. Suffering from what may have been shell-shock incurred during his service in WWI, the elder Trnka spent time as a tin-smith, as a plumber, and as an unemployed father. Jiří Trnka’s entrance to the world of puppet theater was both helped and hindered in distinct ways by the consequential financial difficulties. His mother and grandmother both made toys—including rag dolls and puppets—to sell as supplementary income for the family. Trnka learned these skills from them, and for a time he attended the Holiday Camp Theater run by puppet master Josef Skupa.[1] When money got tight, Trnka had to drop out of school and work to help support the family. He spent time as a pastry cook and as a locksmith, struggling to stay involved with Skupa’s theater and making decorative puppets in his free-time.

Skupa recognized the boy’s talent and convinced his family that Trnka should attend the Applied Arts School in Prague. At age 16, Trnka headed to Prague. He lived with his brother and got his meals from an urban charity to keep costs down, but he also began illustrating children’s books to earn an income. He illustrated for Night Time, a children’s newspaper, and also got involved in the production of The Merman, a traditional puppet show of sea-faring adventure stories. After completing school, Trnka became involved with the Theater in Fetters, which was established in 1936 by Voskovec and Werich. His time with them was short lived; their business tanked and he took over, establishing the Wooden Theater. His first production in his own theater was Among the Fireflies, which was relatively successful. Encouraged, he went on to produce Basil and the Bear based on a story by his friend Josef Menzel. This was the theater’s most successful production, and Menzel actually hired Trnka as an illustrator when the Wooden Theater failed due to financial problems.[2]

In 1945, Disney dominated the international animation scene, creating a standard of anthropomorphic animals and ‘smile through the storm’ morals. At the same time, Trnka thought up his first film: Grandpa Planted a Beet. At the time, he was animating for the Trick Brothers and so was able to turn his story into the first Czech animated cartoon. His use of human characters was as revolutionary in the international scene as his moral: the help of even the smallest and weakest is valuable. Considering the tone of Czech literature, though, his choice to deliver Aesopic lessons rather than Disney-esque ones makes complete sense.

He made one other animated film, The Gift, before beginning in 1946 to produce the first stop-motion puppet films. He began with Bethlehem, the first of six parts to The Czech Year. The sestet of shorts celebrated Carnival, the coming of spring, summer, an autumn harvest festival, and winter. Trnka works in folktales, sometimes by including them as puppet shows watched by characters within the film. In one instance, this artificial fifth wall between the puppet actors and puppet audience is broken, a rather post-modern concept. The films are a nationalistic celebration of Czech identity appropriate to the post-WWII atmosphere in which they were made. They celebrate life, liberty, the common man, unspoiled nature, open spaces, and music; they condemn war and military subordination of the individual.[3]

At first, Trnka’s puppets acted without commentary and without voices. The auditory cues for the tone and plot were set by the music of Václav Trojan’s music. He later experimented with the use of external narrators, folksongs as chapter introductions, and eventually dialogue for the puppets themselves. This last experiment proved especially challenging. Trnka believed that “the mask-like faces of the characters would preserve the magic spell of myths” (Boček, 160). Animating the faces of the puppets to enable realistic speech would ruin this effect, so Trnka has to think of other possibilities. Sometimes his characters wear costumes that cover their mouths. Sometimes they whisper with their backs to the camera. Sometimes the camera focuses on the audience being addressed. In later films, he sometimes even uses paper dolls with animated faces to serve as the voices for the puppet characters.

This capacity for creative problem-solving, combined with the unique problems brought about when dealing with a cast of puppets and a crew of apprentice puppeteers, is part of the reason Jiří Trnka became such a sensation. When he needed transparent characters, he would shoot two images on the same frame and let them overlap. He used burning candles and moving suns to show the passage of time. He lingers over details to build suspense, manipulates shadows to move the viewer’s focus, and deliberately chooses the placement of color (or lack of) to emphasize motifs. In short, he pioneered the use of trick photography in animated film and inspired other artists to experiment with similar techniques. He became such a master of nuance that he even animated a “Shakespeare without Shakespeare” project: A Midsummer Night’s Dream performed without the prose dialogue that the play usually depends on. His version, a puppet ballet, manages to keep the humor of the original even without the repartees, and his version of the play-within-the-play even has a touch of tragic humor that gives it more depth than in the original.

To discuss Jiří Trnka’s place in Czech culture is difficult in such a short space. His final two works—The Cybernetic Grandmother and The Hand—are also the most frequently discussed. The first echoes “Up from the Wheelbarrow” (Ogden Nash) in warning against over-digitization. It features a young girl whose grandmother, at the parents’ telegrammed request, places her in the care of a cyber grandmother. The second film was banned by the Soviet government because it blatantly declares that totalitarianism suffocates the creative spirit of man and kills him in the process. The main character delights in making pots for his favorite flower. One day, a giant hand impinges and pressures him to sculpt hands instead. The overwhelming desperation and paranoia created by the situation causes the character’s death. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the plot is the way the hand does not directly kill the character—in fact it gives him a formal wake upon his death—and so can claim innocence of the deed.

These films showcase all the skills that Trnka developed during his long career, and they are also brilliantly executed examples of social criticism delivered through a medium traditionally reserved for children. They do deserve to be discussed; however, they are not representative of Trnka’s role in Czech culture throughout his career. Considering the 28 films Trnka is responsible for (as well as the numerous merry circuits and book illustrations), it becomes more apparent that his legacy is that of an artist. He pioneered a multi-media film style and developed the techniques necessary to best utilize the available technology while overcoming the limitations of the media being included. Certainly his social and political commentaries are significant, but his innovations in animation were the first serious threat to the Disney monopoly. They were innovations that stemmed from his training in traditional Czech puppeteering, making him someone no other country could have produced.

References

(1996). On Jiří Trnka /3 [Medium of recording: VHS] Prague: Krátký Film Praha.

Boček, J. (1965). Jiří Trnka artist and puppet master. Prague: Artia.

Dubská, A. et al. (2006). Czech puppet theater yesterday and today. Prague: Divadelní ústav.

Träger, J. (1958). Jiří Trnka master of the Czechoslovak puppet films. Prague: Československý

filmexport.

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[1] Skupa, famous in his own right, ran Kaspa’s Cabaret in Plzeň from 1916-1918 before going on to other projects. He established himself in Plzeň before putting together a company that earned success even in Prague. The Kaspa’s Cabaret pieces that he performed, and that Trnka would have been familiar with, were mostly social and political satires. He was Trnka’s earliest mentor and debatably his strongest influence.

[2] An exploration of the influence of Trnka’s next years as an illustrator and set designer is beyond the scope of this paper, but let it suffice to say that Trnka brought his puppet-making experience into his character illustration and later explored the use of multiple sets in his puppet productions as a result of his experiences in this interim. His connections from this time also helped him get established in the film world later on. Both painting and live theater would remain major parts of his life until his retirement. For example, his last film The Hand uses an actor’s awareness of the power of nuance to turn a puppeteers hand into a menacing character with minimal help from costuming or props.

[3] Ironic since the series was released as a whole in 1947, at which point the occupying Soviets were plotting to take power in Czechoslovakia. A plan which bore fruit the following year.

Bratislava

I have to admit, I almost dropped IR at the beginning of the semester. It wasn’t that I knew (yet) about how intensely cut-throat NYU’s IR program is; rather, I was acutely aware of the fact that I have zero background in international relations and that this class would be an honors seminar.

Why didn’t I chicken out? Once class started, I realized that the material is fascinating and our professor somehow manages to be both brilliant and hysterical at the same time. Maybe this is a generalization, but I find that academics of a certain caliber sometimes seem a bit intimidating. Especially here where I (and many of the other student’s I’ve talked to) feel frequently that our professors are overqualified to be teaching US. The pros and cons of such sentiments could and probably shall be analyzed for pages…but my point here is that my IR professor is certainly that caliber, but his jokes and easy conversation style break that illusion of perfection and allow us to know him (to an extent) as a person as well as an academic. This is important: one cannot be inspired by the achievements of a machine, but a remarkable human being is…well…remarkable. And inspiring.

So back to me being wide-eyed, totally clueless and excited to learn. Once the class started, the decision to stay in it came easily. Before that, however, (and I know this sounds shallow) I stayed because the syllabus listed a field trip to Bratislava to meet with think tank contributors. The promised trip was this weekend, and it didn’t disappoint.

We left Thursday…in a big green van that said “Official Pilsner Ambassadors.” Way to sell out, NYU. What if I like Staropramen better than the Pilsner monopoly brands? Hmmm???

I’m just kidding. It was still really funny to know that everyone watching us get into the van—not knowing that we’re NYU students in a government class—were seeing young Americans about to be chauffeured around and drinking excesses of the big commercial-brand Czech beer. If only they knew the truth…

We got to Bratislava, Slovakia with just enough time to drop our bags at the hotel before going out for dinner with our professor and his wife (who is originally from the city). They took us to Chez David for dinner. Don’t be fooled by the kitschy website; the hotel has one of the only remaining authentic Jewish restaurants in Bratislava’s old Jewish quarter, and the food is delicious. It was a funny dinner party of the three other students in the class, one journalism student who joined us, one wonderful RA, our professor and his wife, the bus driver, and myself. Made for interesting conversation.

After dinner we walked up to the Slovak government building and to Bratislava castle (hrad). In front of the castle was this statue that we had talked about in class: that of “King Svätopluk of the Slavs.” Historically, most details of the statue are incorrect, from its placement in the middle of the castle’s processional entrance to the presence of stirrups on the saddle to the handle of the sword to the highly controversial crest on the shield (it resembles a crest used by the Slovak regime that was Nazi-sympathetic). Pictures are here and here ( Hint: scroll down to September 23 after clicking the second link). Interestingly, a week later my professor came into class and announced that the statue had been removed and no one knows what will happen with it next. Which, from the rough translations I could find of Slovak articles on the topic, seems correct. I guess we had good timing.

Turning one’s back to the statue meant looking out over the city at night, and the view was stunning. From there we climbed down the hill and found a bar (where there was a musician singing “American Pie”?) for a Zlatý Bažant before turning in for the night. I love low-key nights, and it was somewhat refreshing to be going out with a different group of friends.

Our second day started with breakfast at the hotel (pension? It was cute and small…too much so to feel like a ‘hotel’). Then we headed into town for a very busy day. First we met Martin Bútora and his wife Zora Bútorová in a building run by Open Society (George Sorros’ project). We were fortunate enough to have the chance to hear lectures from both of them on the changes in the social and political situation in Slovakia since the end of Soviet occupation. Zora also had copies of her newest book, so I’ll be reading that on the road back to Prague.

We broke for a quick lunch before our second set of lectures. Embarrassingly, I forget the name of our first lecturer, but my notes from his speech reference both Freedom House and Slovak Foreign Policy Association (he works in their research center). The lecture dealt with trends in the political history of Slovakia and it was loaded with statistics and dates. Really informative, but I couldn't keep up well enough to take thorough notes. At this point, I might know more about the transitional governments in Slovakia than those in the Czech Republic...

Our second lecturer was Tom Nicholson, a Canadian writer who moved to Slovakia and now works with their top news publications. Which leads me to another embarrassing admission: I really enjoyed listening to a more American-style lecture from a speaker with no accent. I know that sounds terrible, but I wasn’t the only one who misses English speakers sometimes. And the lecture style is just different (though I enjoy and learn a lot from both). This isn’t to say that all lecturers speak the same in either place, but speakers from the American continent tend to rely heavily on anecdotes in their teaching…something my European professors don’t do as much unless they are referencing specific court cases and the like. Anyway, Nicholson was a really engaging speaker. He talked a lot about the corruption in the Slovak government over the past 20 years and he explained a bit about how things stand now. He also had some crazy stories about being an investigative journalist in a country where top politicians and secret police collaborate(d?) with thugs.

On a side note, I found this article that his wife contributed to, and I really enjoyed it. Some of the cultural differences she mentions are things I encountered here but at this point had started to take for granted.

Once all our lectures were finished, we headed outside to take a tour of the city. There is a somewhat amusing side-story attached to that transition. We had been street-side on the third or fourth floor of a building for our lectures. The windows faced the square where we were supposed to meet our tour guide, and the windows were open. One of the boys in the class had arranged with friends of his who were going to be in Bratislava that they would also meet us in the square. They could then tag along with us for the rest of our day. As we gathered ourselves after the lectures and prepared to leave, his friends arrived in the square and he spotted them out the window. He ran over to it and hollered down to them, attracting the attention and irritation of everyone else on the street…because you just don’t do that sort of thing here. About that ‘loud inconsiderate American’ stereotype that the rest of us have been trying to disprove…well…

The friends were nice kids though. They were en route to Vienna, and it was fun to have them along. Our tour guide led us all around the town center, pointing out sculptures and buildings along the way and always suggesting “And when you return to Bratislava in [insert month] you can…” One of the sculptures was a giant chess board. Another was of Pavol Hviezdoslav, the poet. The main center is actually pretty small, so the tour was great for helping me straighten out my sense of direction. And for making us hungry, because after the tour we crossed the UFO bridge (no, really.) and ended up at a Hungarian restaurant for dinner. The food was so good! Also, our professor and his wife picked out the wine to go with the meal (they had done this the night before as well). I don’t know much about wine because I’m too young to take any serious classes on wine-tasting in the US, but this was delicious. Which makes sense because we were right on the Hungarian boarder and the Hungarians are known for their wine—though this was a Slovak wine.

Again, we had a pretty quiet night after that. My room mate and I got up early-ish the next day so that we could walk down to the city center and take pictures. Then we met everyone for breakfast, checked out of the hotel, and all climbed into the Pilsner-Urquell van. On the drive, my professor told us about our destination: the Gabcikovo Dam.

Here’s my version on the history of the dam:

Hungary: It’s the end of the 70s and we’re still under Soviet rule.

Slovakia: That means we have to play nice with Hungary because they’re our fellow workers.

Hungary: We should build two dams on that bend of the Danube that we share so that we can generate electricity.

Slovakia: Sure. We own both sides of the river where the first dam will be, but you own the far bank where the second dam will be.

Hungary: You mean the near bank…

Slovakia: Whatever. Let’s do it.

Hungary: Yeah. Let’s do it.

…

Hungary: It’s 1989. We don’t have to share a government with Slovakia anymore.

Slovakia: But we still want to finish the dam. Because we started building it and our new government thinks it would be a good achievement for them.

Hungary: We don’t want the dam anymore. You can’t build that last third that’s on our land.

Slovakia: You promised!

Hungary: That was before…

Slovakia: Well if we divert 80% of the water just around the second dam, we can build both halves on Slovak land and finish the project without you.

Hungary: You can’t do that!

Slovakia: Watch us.

Hungary: UN! They’re stealing our river!

Slovakia: You broke your promise!

UN Court: You’re both acting like children. Slovakia, stealing rivers isn’t nice. Give 20% back. And Hungary, you shouldn’t have gone back on your word. What did you expect to happen.

Ta da. It’s strange because you look across the part of the river that Slovakia diverted and the level of the water is even with the level of the roofs of the houses in the nearby neighborhood. Imaging having a forest behind your house one month and part of a major river behind (and above) it the next. Kindof nuts.

We walked around the dam area a bit and then went into a gallery that’s open on a small artificial island. It’s called Danubiana Muelensteen Art Museum, and if you’re ever in the area it’s worth a visit. Inside, they had an exhibit of Jozef Jankovic’s work. A very poor Google translation of his Wikipedia page is the best bio I can find, but if you'd like it it's here. Here's my picture of his most famous sculpture. Outside, they had a sculpture park with contributions from several artists. As it was a beautifully sunny day, Vendula and I spent quite a bit of time out there posing with a large mosaic sculpture.

After finishing at the gallery, we said good-bye to our professor and his wife. As we drove back toward Prague, we got a little restless…so we stopped at Devin Castle to walk around and enjoy the views. Vendula told us about how the castle is situated in a place where the Danube was the edge of the Iron Curtain. Apparently, families who had been split up (ie some members were free in Austria and some were stuck in Slovakia) used to plan picnics. The Slovaks would go to the castle and the Austrians would go to the river-side, and all involved would bring their opera binoculars so they could wave to each other. I can’t imagine.

We tried to get food at the castle, but they didn’t have anything so we got back on the bus and stopped twice more: once at a gas station and once at an Ikea (where we did find dinner finally).

Home at last. All-in-all, a very worthwhile trip. I’m pretty amazed my professor puts something like this together for each class he teaches, but I’m very glad he does.

Academic Adventuring

My classes here rock. I know that sounds simplistic, but it's the honest truth.

They rock because they are truely interdisciplinary and they make use of experiential learning. ie We get out of the classroom and into the city regularly. And I love it.

For example, consider the week that started October 3rd:

Monday started on campus with German class but then sent me jogging to Josefov, the Jewish town, for my Literature and Place class. Our tour-guide was excellent. I had wanted to visit some of the old synagogues but was hesitant because I don't know the proper ways to respect the space. With our guide, she explained etiquette as well as history and holiday rituals. She translated Hebrew script, explained the numerology considered in the architectural details, and pointed out which tombs to leave wishing stones on. The tickets we were using got us into the famous Old-New Synagogue as well as the Pinkas Synagogue (with its simple yet overwhelming holocaust memorial), the Jewish cemetery (with no flowers because Judaism insists that signs of life should not linger in places dedicated to death), the Spanish Synagogue, and a few others besides. We didn't get through all of them in our allocated class-time, but I didn't have a class immediately after so I finished the tour anyway. There was a tiny gallery tucked into the back of one of the buildings that was hosting an exhibit on the exile of Jews to Belarus. The exhibit discussed the invention of the mobile gas chamber build into a truck, and it had interviews with both survivors and ex-Nazis to discuss both these matters. It was a very well designed exhibit. Then I hurried off to Prague castle for my History of Czech Architecture class. We toured the presidential palace, with it's Spanish hall and Rudolf Gallery, which was designed to have the ideal natural lighting for art viewing. And then my professor, who wanted us to see the renaissance architecture of the Belvedere summer palace, talked his way through the guards who had the garden closed for the filming of the Mission Impossible movie. In we went, and I am continually in awe of these people.

Tuesday I went to the Troja Chateau to begin research for my History of Architecture midterm. Then I had IR class on campus.

Wednesday I went to the Chateau again and got tacked on to a tour group of German speaking students. The tour ran over so I missed my German class, but I got back to campus in time for our Central Eastern European food experience in Lit and Place. Medovnic honey cake. 'Nuff said. Yet not enough said because after that was a Mala Strana walking tour with History of Architecture, and then I jogged to pick up Grace at Malostranska so we could go to the concert at the Polish embassy. My Lit and Place professor got us tickets to go hear Wojciech Waleczek play...for free. It was really nice having Grace there because she's much more knowledgeable about the music world than I am and so was able to teach me a bit about music appreciation. Then we met up with friends and got beer because the next day...

Thursday was the start of my IR trip to Bratislava. Which I'll right about later because I'm too tired to do it justice at the moment. Can you handle the suspense?

Already October?

Hurrah for free trips. Welcome to Olomouc and Litomysl!

After another wonderful week of classes and adventures, I found myself at Namesti Miru looking for the bus to yet another overnight trip. To be honest, I only signed up for this one because Sam did. I don't recall how exactly the school described this trip, but I can confidently say that they didn't do it justice. They should have advertised better; not only were both towns beautiful architecturally, but I've also noticed Olomouc being referenced increasingly and am glad that I had the chance to see it.

We drove almost to Olomouc but then stopped to admire Svatý Kopeček on the hill outside the city. It's actually a beautiful baroque church dedicated to the Holy Mother, and we walked around the grounds for a bit after admiring the inside. We munched on sandwiches as we walked back to the bus, and I noticed two things. First, there were markers for the Eurotrail along the path, and they were similar (obviously, I guess) to the ones we had seen in Slovakia the week before. Second, there was a small stone obelisk at the bottom of the hill that had text in both Czech and Russian carved beneath a red Soviet star. Translated, the inscription dedicated the monument to the Soviet army as a gift of gratitude from the residents of Olomouc who had been liberated after Nazi occupation. Fitting at one point in time, perhaps, but considering the history that followed I really think someone should have taken this particular monument down by now. Really.

From there, we continued by bus into Olomouc itself. One of our RAs has a friend who is from the city and offered to meet us and show us around. She had planned a walking tour, researched the history of the different architectural highlights, and arranged our visits to the town hall and art museum.

In the main square, the renaissance town hall (with its gothic chapel) sits next to a baroque trinity column while incorporating a Soviet astronomical clock and a replica of a David Cerny sculpture in it's facade. The astronomical clock originally had been similar to the one in Prague (though less ornate), but the Nazis tried to burn it then the Austrians stamped it with their empire's crest and finally the Soviets added mosaic scenes of their laborer, peasant, and intellectuals (though no soldiers, which is strange because Soviet art usually depicts the quartet).

We ended our tour at the Olomouc Museum of Art where we saw an exhibit called "Dům milovníka umění" or "An Art Lover's House." This curious exhibit was based in the idea that there were many artistic styles at the cusp of the 19th and 20th centuries, and it showcased pieces from all these styles arranged as they might be in an art lover's house.

That evening, we went out after dinner for burčák (the last of the season...it's getting to strong to be 'young wine' much longer), beers in a rock bar, and a bit of exploring in a wine cellar. Then we crashed for the night.

The next morning, we had a delicious breakfast (the complimentary breakfast at a hostel is always a gamble...this one was excellent) before setting off to Litomysl. Our first stop upon arriving was the house that composer Bedřich Smetana was born in. He didn't live there for much of his life, but the house has been turned into a museum to showcase some of the family's possessions. These include a violin, piano, and some of Smetana's manuscripts.

After that tour we split up to get lunch and explore the historic town before regrouping at the gorgeous renaissance castle (a UNESCO site, as it were). I'm so glad to be taking that History of Czech Architecture class. I can follow the jargon on castle tours much better than before.

We were supposed to return to Prague immediately after that tour, but we found ourselves with enough time to tour the Josef Vachal museum. Similar to the Smetana museum, it was just the house that Vachal had lived in turned into a museum. It was different because the artist had painted every exposed surface in most rooms, so there was a lot to take in. And if you're not familiar with his work you should really follow that link and check it out so that you understand: there was A LOT to take in.

So that was October 1st and 2nd. The 3rd (a Sunday) Sam and I went to the Prague Zoo. I learned that small owls are quite cute, that the German word for porcupine is das Stachelschwein, and that not putting up a glass wall on the bat exhibit is an invitation for the lovely fruit bats to fly out around the heads of zoo-goers. I guess that last one is obvious, but it was one of the coolest experiences I've had at a zoo and it was an experience that I don't think would happen in the US. Someone in the zoo bureaucracy would nix the idea for fear of a lawsuit. Just saying.

For all of this, I sketched scenes and details that I would otherwise have sketched because my camera disappeared on the train home from Slovakia. Thus, I have many poorly done and rather funny scribbles of owls and bats. The marks of a good trip.

I could write more...but I think this is a good place to break for now. Tchus!


PS I'm still blogging for my Art of Travel class if you wanna check it out...