Review: František Vláčil’s Historical Epic ‘The Devil’s Trap’ on Second Run Blu-ray

Set in the 16th century during the Inquisition, František Vláčil’s 1962 film The Devil’s Trap opens with a striking image of a severely burnt statue of Christ in the foreground of the frame as a middle-aged miller, Spálený (Vítezslav Vejražka), walks on the horizon line. The juxtaposition is symbolic of the pervasive and overpowering presence of the Catholic Church throughout the film, as well as foreshadows the charges of blasphemy and conspiring with the devil that are soon made against Spálený.

The first of Vlácil’s loose trilogy of historical dramas set in the Middles Ages, The Devil’s Trap—like the subsequent Marketa Lazarová and Valley of the Bees—uses its period setting as a means of slyly commenting on the persecution of dissidents by the communist party in Czechoslovakia throughout the 1950s. Taking place in the country’s Moravian Karst region, the film probes the contentious relationship between religion and science during the Inquisition, and the alliances that were formed between the church and the state to suppress any knowledge that puts either at risk, even if it would otherwise benefit average citizens.

Spálený inherited his understanding of the land from his ancestors, and his discovery of an enormous cavern and spring of water during a summertime drought marks him as a threat to both the church and the local regent, Valecský (Cestmír Randa), who’s jealous of the sway that the miller has with the locals. Where Valecský wants to destroy Spálený by charging him with witchcraft, Probus (Miroslav Machácek), the Jesuit chaplain who arrives as part of the Inquisition, is far more cunning in his approach. Realizing the great power of public opinion, he seeks to destabilize the miller’s position in the community by turning them against him.

The Devil’s Trap is backed by a remarkably haunting score by Zdeněk Liška, whose eccentric mix of choral music, atonal melodies, and drones add to the mystical aura of the environment, which is rife with superstitions and conspiratorial impulses. The film’s off-kilter compositions, askew camera angles, and ever-roving camera even further intensify the sense of volatility that arises when the conflicting truths of religion and science collide.

But it’s Vlácil’s acute attention to period detail and devotion to presenting the world and people’s understanding of it in a historically accurate manner that render The Devil’s Trap so emotionally raw and philosophically dense. He creates the vivid impression not only of being dropped into medieval times, but of taking on a truly medieval perspective as well.

As a result, Spálený’s knowledge of the land takes on an almost mythical quality throughout, as the filmmakers conflate our understanding of his talents with the warped lens through which Probus sees it. This perception is bolstered by Spálený’s statement that the land speaks to him, as well as when he later correctly predicts the collapse of the regent’s barn, which was built on hollow ground. But it’s the widely believed tale that the miller’s grandfather (Ladislav Kazda) miraculously survived a fire set by attacking Swedish forces a century earlier that serves as the foundation for the array of suspicions levied against Spálený.

When the miller discovers the cavern beneath his land, this offers a reasonable scientific explanation for the supposed miracle. But just as when Probus looked at another giant hole that opened in the earth to reveal a river hundreds of yards below and saw a potential portal to hell, he and Spálený can look at the same exact thing and see something entirely different.

In the film’s remarkable final sequence, set inside the cavern, the empirical and the spiritual come to a head. And while much of the film highlights the immense power that Probus and the church carry, and the horror that comes from their misperception of natural phenomena, the final scene works as a transcendent tribute to the power of science and knowledge, ending with a stunning shot that’s otherworldly in its beauty and yet entirely of this world.

Image/Sound

Second Run has sourced the Czech National Archives’s new HD transfer of The Devil’s Trap, and while the image is sharp, it’s clear that the film is still in need of a full restoration. There’s considerable damage, in the form of scratches, cue marks, and unintended jump cuts, and the contrast is fairly weak, making the image appear a bit murky. Fortunately, the heavy damage only affects about 10% of the film, and the 1080p image is crisp enough that even these stretches are still easily watchable. The audio could also use some work, as there are some very noticeable hisses and pops, and the dialogue is occasionally muffled.

Extras

The main extra here is cinematographer František Uldrich’s 1989 short documentary In the Web of Time, which touches on František Vláčil’s most famous films and includes clips of an interview with Vláčil himself. It’s a serviceable primer on the filmmaker, whose discussion of his extensive storyboarding process and the value of editing are fascinating. The disc also includes Elmar Kloss’s eight-minute documentary The Week Starts on Friday, which is about cinema exhibition in early-’60s Czechoslovakia and includes interesting footage of painters of movie billboards at work in their studios. The package also comes with a 20-page bound booklet that includes an insightful and well-researched essay by film scholar Peter Hames, who provides crucial background on Czech history, the Czech New Wave, and Vlácil’s work.

Overall

František Vlácil’s sophomore feature is a shrewd, harrowing examination of the conflict between religion and science in medieval times.