The Second World War continues to make its way across Europe, gradually taking over the lives of everyone, encroaching as far as the smallest villages of Czechoslovakia, which is where we situate ourselves here. Tóno Brtko (Jozef  Kroner) is a humble craftsman who is perfectly content to live a very simple life as a carpenter, much to the chagrin of his family and friends, who see him as lacking ambition or the desire to rise above the simple life he was willingly chosen. A visit from his brother-in-law (Markuš Kolkotský), a military officer who commands the town, gives Tóno the opportunity to expand beyond the confines of being a carpenter. Through the gradual influence of Nazism in the nation (which has subsequently been renamed Slovakstatt) has resulted in a programme known as Aryanization, whereby Jewish-owned businesses are forcibly closed, and taken over by Christians, in an effort to assert dominance over the nation and return every bit of economic power to those believed to be superior. Tóno, a committed Catholic, fits this profile perfectly and is assigned the responsibility of becoming the new manager of a haberdashery shop. The owner is Rozália Lautmannová (Ida Kamińska), an elderly Jewish woman who is afflicted with a variety of ailments but is still dedicated to her shop, despite the fact that it is very clear that she is far too old to take care of it, and relies on donations from the local Jewish community. Tóno is a very empathetic man, a fact many know about, and he is convinced into accepting a monthly fee in exchange for his silence – he continues to allow Mrs Lautmannová to run the shop, serving as her assistant. Over time, they form an unlikely friendship, and help each other through these uncertain times – but it soon becomes clear that the socio-political circumstances could pose a major problem to their friendship, especially as the influence of Aryan ideology continues to encroach closer towards their humble countryside village.

Without any hyperbole, The Shop on Main Street (Czechoslovak: Obchod na korze) is almost a perfect film – as far as you look, it’s almost impossible to find a single flaw anywhere in it, which becomes frustrating, as it is so singularly implausible for a film to be this effective, especially when working from an inherently challenging set of thematic ideas. One of the most powerful works ever committed to film, the adaptation of Ladislav Grosman’s short story and the subsequent novel is an extraordinary experience, and one that completely eviscerates any hope for coherency, as practically everything about it supersedes mere words, burrowing into the soul of the individual viewer, who will undoubtedly find themselves shaken to their core by the dynamic, heartbreaking vision Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos put together here, creating one of the most beautifully-poetic explorations of humanity ever made. There are many reasons why Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos made nothing short of a masterpiece in the form of The Shop on Main Street – whether it be the wonderful simplicity with which they execute a bold story, their empathetic, heartfelt approach to the subject matter that would prove to be a challenge for many other filmmakers, the exceptional performances that ground the story and lend it the necessary emotional gravitas, or the general eloquence with which they put together in the process of venturing into the innermost recesses of existentialism, the directors made something extraordinary, delving deep into the silent roots of humanity, and ultimately emerging with one of the most profoundly beautiful and unflinchingly honest voyages into the human condition made through the guise of artistry.

From the first moment, it is immediately clear that The Shop on Main Street is going to be a very different kind of film. The sight of prisoners in a yard walking in circles, juxtaposed immediately by the citizens of the small Slovak hamlet enjoying a sunny afternoon stroll, is an instantly memorable image, and sets the tone for the rest of the film, establishing it as a story that will not show any restraint to its themes, while still being very elegant and honest about its intentions. Kadár and Klos worked closely with the source material, bringing it to the screen in a way that doesn’t feel like simply another attempt to capitalize on the disruptive methods of filmmaking produced at the time (for all intents and purposes, The Shop on Main Street was made separately but concurrently to the Czechoslovak New Wave, even if there are some marginal similarities between them in style, structure and story), but rather an entirely unique approach to a set of ideas that functions as neither satire nor overwrought morality tale, but somewhere in the middle. Oscillating between employing a gentle sense of humour and impactful social despair, the directors manage to explore some harrowing themes, which is especially evident in their outright refusal to abide by conventions. The film is quite radical in its ability to tell a straightforward story that isn’t necessarily a subversion of any particular style, but rather one that develops on some common tendencies and explores them with genuine, earnest curiosity. The Shop on Main Street is a journey, and the directors demonstrate a keen understanding of the thematic content, while still adding their own commentary (while not getting carried away with the mechanics of overly-moralistic storytelling) to create a thoroughly engrossing drama that has slight pepperings of good-natured humour and an endless amount of warmth.

This is perhaps the area in which The Shop on Main Street proves how it embodies everything a film should aspire to be. Cinema has often explored different avenues of the Holocaust, showing it from a wide range of perspectives, using first-hand accounts, historical resources and other components to create a tapestry of different forms of commentary that show the various atrocities committed in Europe in that period. The Shop on Main Street isn’t revolutionary in form or content, presenting us with a very simple premise – it exemplifies the power of a story well told, and more than anything else, flourishes on its stark honesty and unwavering commitment to the quiet resilience Grosman advocated for in his journey towards what would become this film. In no uncertain terms, Kadár and Klos put together one of the most compassionate films ever made, one defined less by the particular historical context or social message, but rather its bold intentions to just be as empathetic as possible. There’s nothing quite as striking as the moments in which The Shop on Main Street situates itself with the inextricably human aspects of the story, where something as undecorated as a conversation between two ordinary characters flourishes into some of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful investigations into one’s mindset in such an uncertain time. It takes on a deeper meaning when we consider that the directors weren’t intent on solely looking at the conflict between different groups during this particular period, but applying it to a broader social and cultural context that makes it extremely resonant to this very moment, where there is a perpetual discourse surrounding difference and how the obstacles embedded in any specific culture can prove to be insurmountable challenges for many of us. It takes a very special film to command such a vigorous message without becoming self-indulgent or sanctimonious, and through its earnest attention to the fundamentally human side of the story, rather than the inadvertently priggish, overly-moralistic musings that often find their way into such stark films, The Shop on Main Street manages to become a masterpiece in every sense of the word.

Another aspect that indicates how The Shop on Main Street is far more concerned with the more human element of the period, rather than the broader cultural context it is built on, comes by way of its attention to the character-driven side of the story. The film is led by two actors who I can confidently say give some of the finest performances of the period. Jozef  Kroner is wonderful as Tóno, the conflicted carpenter thrust into the epicentre of a social crisis, and forced into taking a side by virtue of simply being associated with the movement. The film presents Tóno as an effortlessly likeable man – he’s ordinary and without any discernible charms or merits, yet he’s got a strength of character that only manifests as he gradually comes to understand the severity of the situation around him. No longer can he rely on simply being isolated from the problem – he’s involved in it, and while he understands himself to be doing what is right by aiding an elderly woman in living out her final days without having to bear the painful brunt of Nazi rule, he still cannot resolve his own inner quandaries that make him rethink his entire existence and how he conducts himself. The question of whether Tóno should do what is right, or do what is expected, pervades the film and is the theme from which the final act of the film (one of the most heartbreakingly tense sequences in film history) hinges on. Kroner brings out the fear and despair that someone like Tóno would undoubtedly feel during this period – his character is built on the conflict between abiding by the law and thus being complicit in what he immediately recognizes as a crime against humanity, or breaking from socially-mediated decorum and acting out against a system he knows is inhumane, and thus surrendering himself to harrowing consequences. Its a very subtle performance, and Kroner does exceptionally well in portraying Tóno as nothing more than an everyman with a soul, rather than some flawless hero, which makes the ending of this film so hauntingly beautiful, as his own humanity is the result of his inevitable downfall.

Ida Kamińska is an incredible screen partner, and in playing the elderly shop owner who is oblivious to the gravity of the social situation around her, she makes an enormous impact, being a representative of an entire generation of Jewish people who were at the end of their lives during this period, and would likely spend their last moments in a gruelling labour camp, rather than in the comfort of their own freedom. Not many films prioritize the experiences of the older generation during the Holocaust – many of them focus more on the defiant youths who do their best to escape, holding onto some hope for freedom. Mrs Lautmannová isn’t afforded the same optimism, and Kamińska evokes the shattering reality associated with many similar individuals that are mostly confined to vague memories. She is the heart of the film, the lovable co-protagonist whose journey we are most invested in, and Kamińska manages to find the earnest truth in a character that would have otherwise been nothing more than a flimsy archetype had she not be the construction of the perfect intersection between creative individuals. There’s a poignancy to these performances given by Kroner and Kamińska that simply cannot be ignored – they are so unabashedly human, in their various complexities and enormously challenging flaws that define them, but also give them nuance that is rarely glimpsed in films such as this. They’re both representations of two groups that were falsely-constructed as polar to each other by way of socially-constructed beliefs. However, they’re also undeniably human, constructed with authenticity and honesty that is unprecedented, even in the midst of some of the most haunting explorations of this period. The film gives both actors the chance to venture to the depths of their respective characters, finding different aspects to latch onto and develop into the multidimensional individuals they brought to life with such effortless ease.

Made half a century ago, and situated decades prior to that, The Shop on Main Street manages to remain a timely work, not only because the wounds of the past haven’t healed, but because its frank and unflinching honesty makes it a potent reminder of our inherent nature. There’s an intangible quality to this film, a quiet resilience and unfaltering sincerity that simply doesn’t decelerate for the entirety of the film, making it a poignant and utterly exquisite social drama that means far more than it would suggest based on the premise. The film goes in some unexpected directions, and is both tonally and thematically far more complex than one would expect, being caught somewhere between heartfelt humour and shattering misery, but dovetails into one of the most beautifully human works of art, a gorgeous testament to the strength of character shown by the nameless multitudes who were victims of this horrifying period in history. Made with conviction and dedication, built from a foundation of pure empathy, The Shop on Main Street is an extraordinary film – from the first moment until the final shot (which is also incidentally the most recent addition to the elite group of films that have absolutely perfect endings), its a heartbreakingly beautiful voyage into the human condition, made by a pair of directors driven by nothing other than unflinching, authentic compassion, coalescing in one of the greatest cinematic achievements of its era, and one of the most excruciatingly gorgeous films ever made.