When it comes to Birds, Orphans and Fools (Slovak: Vtáčkovia, siroty a blázni), there are only two kinds of people who understand it – those who lived through the Prague Spring and can account for the social and political turmoil demonstrated here, and those who are mentally unstable enough to grasp this fever-dream of a film. All that the rest of us have to go on is a sense of complete narrative anarchy, where we are forced to endure the deliriously strange vision of one of Czechoslovakia’s greatest artistic iconoclasts, Juraj Jakubisko. Yet, despite the complete incoherence and often unsettling approach to some difficult material, Birds, Orphans and Fools is a transcendent experience – what could have so easily been perceived as a chaotic nightmare flourishes into one of the most heartwrenching anti-fascist films ever made, a satire that sees a director who, much like his creative compatriots, grew disillusioned with the state of affairs in the Soviet Union, and how Communism was damaging the lives of the very people it served to bolster. The response was to dismantle the entire system through art, representing the absurdity of the period through subversive art that tore apart the hypocrisy and presented the truth of the situation through sometimes darkly comical means. Jakubisko’s work reflected both the disquieting fury and unflinching despair that came about during this period, and as this film demonstrates, the remedy is often to tell stories that expose the truth, in the hopes that it can change some hearts and minds, needless censorship and suppression of artistic expression aside.

Somewhere in the Soviet Union (presumably the filmmakers’ native Slovakia), three people exist – Yorick (Jiří Sýkora), Ondrej (Philippe Avron) and Martha (Magda Vášáryová). They’re all orphans of Communism, having had their families killed during one of the many conflicts that occurred over the years in their nation-state. Despite being adults, they exhibit childish behaviour, spending most of their time engaging in ludicrous games in their home, a decrepit church, slowly decaying as a result of neglect in the midst of the ravages of war that often tend to harm even the most sacred of institutions. They slowly become closer, revealing fragments of their past and learning more about each other, particularly in terms of Martha, who enters into the lives of the two men and instantly become the object of their desire. Their foolish behaviour, which was previously nothing more than a way for them to distract from the trauma of the losses they have experienced, and a way to work through the grim social situation they find themselves in, begin to erode as they gradually realize that while “only a fool can be happy”, it takes more than retreating from reality to survive. They begin to turn on each other, finding that even their closest comrades can become ensnared in the selfish social system that has singlehandedly disadvantaged entire populations. Their unique methods for working through the challenges of daily life eventually disappear, and they are thrust into the exact bleak, hopeless world they have been avoiding all along.

Birds, Orphans and Fools is a film that takes quite a daring approach to the material – like many Soviet-era films, it disguises its commentary under carefully-curated satire that alludes to broad issues in such a way that is obvious, but not direct, as if hiding the truth under something ludicrous would conceal the genuine message. In this film, Jakubisko uses the conventions normally associated with coming-of-age stories as a way of commenting on broader social issues, particularly in terms of how it attempts to perceive the atrocities inflicted on the people the Soviet Union through using the trope of childhood innocence. Any story that has a child protagonist normally does so as a way of presenting an alternative, but still resonant, viewpoint. Children tend to be compelling protagonists, and as evident here, even when they’re only symbolic present, such as in adults masquerading as children as a trait, the principle remains the same. Younger eyes see the world differently, and in contrasting adult physicality with youthful attitudes, Jakubisko is able to carefully deconstruct the hypocritical system, exposing many of the flaws in what was always promised as being the hallmark of political ideologies. There’s always a sense of more clarity that comes with looking at such a story from a more straightforward perspective, and the earnestness that comes with a more childlike perspective,  and Jakubisko utilizes it exceptionally well here, blending the innocence of one’s younger years with something more harrowing, perhaps even unexpectedly so.

The combination of these two elements come together in a way that manages to convey a much deeper sentiment that sometimes becomes a dauntingly darker, especially considering how upbeat the material seems to be at the outset, with Birds, Orphans and Fools steadily declining in terms of its genial humour, eventually devolving into a bleak statement on the ravages of war, which is still delivered with a darkly comical twist that comes almost unexpectedly. This is already evident in the title, which could be interpreted as referring to the social system governing the nation at the time. The “fools” are the government officials and military officers that enforce these harsh systems that destroy the lives of the people they are supposed to care about, creating the “orphans”, which aimlessly traverse a broken country, trying to find some sense of belonging. Finally, the “birds” are the dead, doomed to remain indelible fragments of an awful period, haunting the living – they’re free to take flight, but they can never be liberated due to their role in being painful reminders of the past. The ravages of war are the central focus of the film, which manifests with a sincerity that is rarely perceived with such ardent enthusiasm, while still managing to be as dark and subversive as it possibly can be without losing sight of its satirical edge. It takes a lot to make something this disconcerting appear so exuberant, but when one considers how humour is sometimes the most impactful way to convey a message, it makes sense why Jakubisko sought out to direct something as surreal as this.

Ultimately, Birds, Orphans and Fools is not an easy film to talk about. So much of the film requires a deeper understanding of the historical context, with an intricate understanding of the details seemingly being important to setting the atmosphere – but even without the social background, we’re presented with an extremely powerful film, an ambitious experimental masterpiece that comes across as endlessly original, and not only manages to be entertaining and thought-provoking but also deeply heartbreaking, which tends to surface in the later stages of the film, where the anarchy becomes less quaint and more harrowing as a result of the descent into narrative chaos. Birds, Orphans and Fools is a bittersweet experience if there ever was one – it is simultaneously a joyful celebration, where optimism is primary to surviving as difficult a time as this, and a shattering, tragic tale of trauma and despair, and how there is sometimes no hope for complete resolution, where even achieving something we take for granted is an enormous triumph of the spirit. Juraj Jakubisko put together something truly special here, both a towering social epic and a small, intimate character study. It’s beautifully poetic and incredibly moving, and the blend of poignancy and wit all work together in evoking a surreal, but nonetheless extraordinarily meaningful, portrayal of suffering, and the limitless bounds of our tendency to survive, no matter the cost. It may be abstract and sometimes bewildering, but the message underlying Birds, Orphans and Fools is certainly extraordinarily resonant, and should definitely define this as a postmodern masterpiece the provokes as much as it enthrals, turning it into a singularly unforgettable experience.