CLOSELY WATCHED TRAINS. Coming-of-age Masterpiece

Jiří Menzel, the director whom only Miloš Forman managed to surpass, was accompanied for many years by his screenwriter, who co-created Menzel’s most important works. Until the end of his life, he wrote in his unique way, and nothing could stop him: neither Czech stubbornness, nor the communist regime, nor the Velvet Revolution and its aftermath. After all, only he could give his character an indecent name like Pipka (eng: pussy) and laugh at such a crude joke. But others laughed too, because Hrabal was the most Czech of all Czechs. Closely Watched Trains.
Bohumil Hrabal, a pop culture icon of Poland’s southern neighbors, often referred to as the Czech Gombrowicz, published his bittersweet story Closely Watched Trains in 1965. When he wrote it, he was just beginning to observe the people of Prague, the rest of the Czech population, and their peculiarities. Together with Menzel, he later created a film adaptation that, in 1967, won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. Hrabal’s life was never the same after that, and his texts were destined to influence future generations. He passed away in 1997, but his fame remains alive. Several years later, Mariusz Szczygieł would write that Hrabal had, in fact, deceived all of us, because he presented what was ugly and convoluted as beautiful and decent.

Deceived? After all, Hrabal is read worldwide, his works are still being translated, adapted, and performed in theaters. Szczygieł is right: Hrabal lied, stretched the truth, mocked his readers and the audiences of his adaptations—he showed the world through the eyes of a Czech, and that world, seen through Czech eyes, could be a happier place. After all, a Czech knows how to turn a blind eye to tragedies and enjoy life even when a pigeon soils his new uniform, or his wife betrays him with his best friend. And Closely Watched Trains is a textbook example of this unconventional yet necessary kind of lie. A lie we all know, which we often call humor in everyday life.
Closely Watched Trains is a quintessential Czechoslovak coming-of-age story. The protagonist, a Czech everyman, is Miloš Hrma (though his original surname, Pipka, was not included in the film—one can easily guess why!), who begins his first job at a small train station called Kostomlaty. This setting serves as a backdrop for the protagonist’s exploration of fundamental aspects of life: he experiences his sexual awakening, confronts adult issues, and encounters the realities of war, which form a crucial background for the story. Hrma also discovers much about himself, as the action of this cult-classic film, one of the hallmarks of the Czechoslovak New Wave, revolves around him. In this short story, comedy intertwines with tragedy, capricious grotesque with momentous events, and the hero’s bravery defies the realities depicted.
“Hodný” in Czech means kind, polite, pleasant, while “nehodný” is its complete opposite, much like the protagonist, as a contradiction, contrasts with the environment in which he operates from the moment he begins his job. Let’s not kid ourselves—Miloš doesn’t know much about life, and he chose a career as a train dispatcher, as he admits, so he wouldn’t have to toil like the rest of his peers. At work, he encounters various characters, such as Max, the stationmaster, who enjoys breeding pigeons and bears a striking resemblance to the father from The Cinnamon Shops, or Ladislav, the traffic controller—a clownish Casanova whose romantic escapades get him into trouble. The station lives its ordinary, daily life, its rhythm set by both the stationmaster’s moods and events in the country—the action takes place during World War II, and this is no coincidence in the narrative.
Jiří Menzel takes the helm from Hrabal in the film and confronts the viewer with his own, extended vision of the Czech manner, combining it with the techniques of the Czechoslovak New Wave. Closely Watched Trains doesn’t aim to be as wild as Lemonade Joe, shot two years earlier, nor as unbearably charming as Capricious Summer (1968). Instead, it showcases its intimate authenticity and humor, Czech in its often direct nature but kept within the bounds of good sense and taste. The latter is something we often seek in cinema but rarely find, which is why Menzel’s film can be called a bittersweet experience, sweet like the whitest sugar. This paraphrase of Jaroslav Seifert’s words fits perfectly, because that’s what Closely Watched Trains is: simply amusing.
The wide spectrum of characters makes it easy for the audience to grasp this small but significant message, which takes on timeless value when we relate the film to the present day. Hrabal (and Menzel along with him) primarily targets hypocritical people, those without an ounce of refinement, self-absorbed yet pretending that the supposed goodness within them triumphs over their “barely noticeable” evil. The stationmaster delivers fiery monologues about the degeneration of the modern world in front of his wife, while in daily life, he’s enthralled by the charms of women he meets. The protagonist’s father has been retired for as long as anyone can remember and, in no way, can serve as an authority for his son, though paradoxically he is one (“My father could do anything in the world, because when he turned forty-eight, he retired”). His mother seems proud of her son for starting a new chapter in life, but in reality, she’s thrilled that the family name will once again be on everyone’s lips. In Czech style, the creators attack small-town hypocrisy without hesitation, doing so in an absurdly grotesque manner. The craftsmanship deserves praise, as not everyone can skillfully embed tragic themes into a full-blooded comedy.
The tragic elements in Closely Watched Trains are often shocking, reminding viewers of the realities in which the story takes place. The absurdity of war, the oppression of the Czech community by German soldiers, and comments about the situation on the front lines can disgust or even send chills down the spine during moments of unexpected dread. This tragicomic portrayal doesn’t shy away from involving viewers in the wartime atmosphere while simultaneously showing the absurdities of the relationship between Czech citizens and Nazi soldiers. Considering the Czech perspective on the world, however, it’s not necessarily about depicting the stupidity of the residents—why can’t they enjoy life despite the conflict, which doesn’t always fully concern them? The perspective in Hrabal’s book is probably the same, but perhaps Menzel plays with the literary form, presenting its cinematic, amplified version.
Indeed, all the (sometimes overdone) comedy intertwines heavily with the senseless vision of wartime melancholy. From the very beginning, Miloš Hrma is a tragicomic figure evoking immense sympathy. Despite the constant laughter triggered by absurd situations, he shows that not everyone fits into this Czech world—and perhaps they don’t need to or never will. The weight of life, constantly pushed to the background by humor, begins to overwhelm him until, desensitized to life’s frivolities, he sinks into sadness. Thus, the final scene can be interpreted as the hero’s catharsis, freeing him from the burden of the coming-of-age process—not everyone emerges unscathed.
Closely Watched Trains should be watched under close scrutiny, even for its atmosphere, which never loses its credibility. The multitude of themes it addresses resonates, and the moral (or perhaps several conclusions) from this Czech tale will prompt viewers to reflect, whether profoundly or modestly. And the most important takeaway is this: it’s worth exploring the works of Hrabal and Menzel. After all, their “antidepressants” make you want to live!