“Red Psalm,” Miklós Jancsó’s 1972 portrait of a socialist uprising by Hungarian peasants, is part of a particularly fascinating genre combining elements of Hollywood-perfectionist choreography with a Marxist-Leninist focus on symbols and propaganda. Though we may look at these musicals with apprehensive mockery, Jancsó has turned the genre into a space for complex, analytical filmmaking. 

The sobering effects of the peasant revolts that swept Europe’s political landscape in 1848 are still felt among reformists and liberal politicians today. Jancsó not only understood the revolutionary fervor of those early socialists, but provided a cinematic analysis of their failures, all the while constructing a joyous musical that sometimes dances the line of propaganda. 

“Red Psalm” is Jancsó’s magnum opus, a film that cemented his legacy as a Hungarian visionary alongside his compatriots Istvan Szabó and Béla Tarr, the latter of whom drew heavily from Jancsó’s work. Over 26 consecutive shots, Jancsó paints a vivid picture of a socialist uprising that occurs in an impoverished Hungarian village. The peasants revolt against the imperial forces first by refusing to work, then by rallying and, finally, by demonstrating in a square. 

Jancsó’s uprising is an energetic one, filled with dancing men, women and children who demonstrate the power achieved through solidarity. Each scene, in some way, illustrates an act of rebellion; the peasants, arm in arm, join their fellow comrades either by singing alongside them or by physically forming lines around them. 

There persists, especially in the beginning and middle portions of the film, a feeling that we are watching interpretive and symbolic dance. Jancsó does not rush these moments, using the power of the master shot to allow the audience — and himself —  front-row tickets to a socialist musical. The Hungarian flatland fields in which the film is set become a proscenium arch.

Jancsó is, of course, no stranger to the didactic and political use of theater, and the theatrics of the peasants as well as their oppressors may certainly alienate some viewers. However, despite acting in roles better suited for the stage, Jancsó’s cast authentically replicates the emotions felt by Hungarian peasants of the time.

I found a particular resonance with an army officer who refuses to kill a revolutionary; I was mesmerized by his facial expressions and gestures, which contributed to a dramatic but sincere performance. The acting in the film, while a tad exaggerated, can be excused for the message and tone the film is attempting to convey. The resulting tone is filled with the bittersweet tragedy of socialist revolution. We hear Hungarian folk songs and traditional socialist ballads that depict the might of the revolution, the oppression of the peasant folk and the injustices of the ruling class performed with the casual imperfection of the people. These aren’t professional singers by any means, but rather everyday folk who express their ideas through song. 

Jancsó’s mastery of the long take is shown in these musical moments, imbuing the camera with an abundance of kinetic energy. Peasants shout, sing and hop in and out of the frame, although Jancsó maintains near-perfect composition. With steady, painterly strokes, the camera glides proudly, reflecting the march of the revolutionaries around the fields. 

Whereas a director employing similar techniques — Andrei Tarkovsky, for example — might reframe the shot by moving the actors and following the action, Jancsó allows the action to take place outside of the frame and moves into it. Thus, we feel as though we were part of this movement, a part of this revolution.

One of the acts of rebellion comes in the form of sexual liberation. A group of women, tired of being told how to dress, bare their breasts to the male soldiers, mocking them. The soldiers, although at first objectifying the women and glorying in seeing them naked, soon realize that when these women have complete authority over their bodies — that when their bodies are no longer sacred, mysterious objects of male attention — their seeming victory is nothing more than the disgusting behavior the peasants see. Though none of this is explicitly stated, the symbolic nature of the act, which frees the bodies of the women, is one of the film’s most powerful moments. Without authority to tell the women to cover up, the soldiers instead flee — a crushing defeat for the Hungarian patriarchy.

As the revolution picks up steam, so does the organization of the Hungarian army. Reinforcements are called in and the banners begin to rise. The revolutionaries soon become aware of the inevitability of a conflict; they too begin to arm themselves and tour villages, inciting landowners and peasants to take up arms and join them, and singing pro-union songs: “Internationale,” the left-wing anthem of the Parisian socialist organization Second International, as well as “Johnny is My Darling,” which was sung by Union volunteers in the American Civil War.

The editing parallels the heightening tension of the uprising. Jancsó’s long takes become shorter and shorter, as the Hungarian army and the Hungarian peasants, the ruling class and the working class, inevitably meet. There is a sense that not only is their meeting inevitable, but that the fate of the peasants is as well. Though the peasants march with their limited supplies, armed with only words and songs, to their doom, they do so joyously and musically. In the film’s climax, the peasants sing as they are mercilessly massacred. 

In the beautiful final scene, in which only one peasant woman is left, Jancsó detaches us from reality. We are suddenly thrust into the collective subconscious of the now-deceased peasantry. This last woman cocks her pistol, now covered in blood-red ribbon, and raises it above her. In this last moment, with all hope of a socialist future in her hands, she begins to sing.

Contact Brandon Kiziloz at [email protected].