Kladivo na čarodějnice (1970) is a dramatization of the historical record of the Moravian witch trials. Co-written and directed by Otakar Vávra, the film is widely perceived as an allegory for Soviet era “show” trials that rocked the former Czechoslovakia during the sixties. As such much of the torture in the film takes on a deeper and more contemporary meaning.
Vávra’s film focuses on two men on either side of the witch hunt. On the one side there is the sadistic inquisitor Boblig (Vladimír Šmeral) who abuses his station to seize the wealth of accused witches while on the other side is the rational and pious Dean Lautner (Elo Romančík) who opposes the witch trials. Scenes of grisly torture are juxtaposed with serene scenes of ethical contemplation as the film charts the trajectory of the two men until their paths cross in the climax of the film.
The modus operandi of Kladivo na čarodějnice is laid out in the opening moments of the film. A montage or “visual inventory” of highly sexualized female anatomy is followed by a similar catalog of images made up of theological symbols. Catholic piety is juxtaposed with sexual temptation. Immediately the perceived threat to righteousness posed by female sexuality is articulated, forming the framework of the witch trials to come.
The trials themselves draw visual inspiration from Dreyer’s masterful La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (1928). Like Dreyer before him Otakar Vávra uses close-ups and tilted angles to convey the trauma and religious fervor of the trials. The persecution of the innocents is rendered in great emotional detail as the guilt is fabricated in false confessions born out of inhumane torture. The stark cinematography of Josef Illík records the mental deterioration of Boblig’s victims in a cold, harsh remove. The camera stares dead on at faces wracked with fear, grief, and physical pain.
There’s a historical authenticity to Kladivo na čarodějnice that makes the film even more unnerving. There is a sense that the tragic events of the film really occurred in the locations that the film employs. There’s no suggestion of artifice or of a recreation. Vávra’s film is as haunting as the spaces and faces that it records. The whole film feels like a glimpse into a terrible and bloody chapter of history.
The horror of Kladivo na čarodějnice isn’t in its supposed witches or even in its scenes of torture. The true terror of Kladivo na čarodějnice comes from the notion that from a minor infraction so much injustice could arise. The cruelty and opportunism of the inquisitors that continues to escalate speaks to the phenomenon of fascism and the general inhumanity of those with absolute power. Kladivo na čarodějnice is as relevant and frightening now as it ever was.
