Erzsébet Bori
Caravans Without Wheels
Documentary Films on the Roma
The "screen Gypsies" of feature films
need no introduction. They were made
popular worldwide by Emir Kusturica, and
since then there has been no shortage
of those following in the footsteps of
Kusturica's Gypsies. No self-respecting
international film festival opens without
a film on the Roma in its programme.
The romantic image of the Gypsy is as
established as that of the beribboned
peasant in plays on a folksy theme - and
has about as much to do with reality.
Yet, it would be a mistake to throw this
image onto the rubbish heap before we
have something better. For the time being,
it serves as an alternative to outright
racial hatred. Those who tell pollsters
that the Roma are the people they least
desire as neighbours are still thoroughly
entertained by Kusturica's films as well as
the Gypsy characters in classic Hungarian
novels. They still pay respect to a Roma
violinist's virtuoso rendering of Grigoras¸
Dinicu's bravura piece The Lark, and they
do not hesitate to cast their votes for a
Roma singer in Hungarian television's
equivalent of Fame Academy. The Gypsy as
musician or as a comic figure in novels,
films, anecdotes and cabaret routines
enjoys wide social acceptance. We are
not in a position yet to discard all this.
While, hand in hand with the media,
feature films strengthen the stereotype,
documentary-makers are working heroically
to understand and describe the real Roma.
Documentaries no longer focus exclusively
on squalor or on the disadvantages suffered
at work, in the neighbourhood,
school and in the health care system. More
common now is the depiction of individuals
and communities striving to break
out of the ghetto, out of dead-end situations,
contradicting stereotypes. It's easy
for documentary films, we might say: because
of their very nature, they deal not
with types but with specific individuals and
situations. Still, if it were really so simple,
we would not have to cry out and rage over
the appalling media representation of the
Roma, nor would the selection jury at the
Hungarian Film Week have to reject so
many films on the Roma because they do
not make the grade as regards their familiarity
with the subject or their handling of
Meanwhile, much has changed in society.
Even if "society" has not realized this
change (or has simply not acknowledged it),
there are many signs of the change in public
debate and thought, and good documentaries
are a sensitive measure of this.
Film-making discovered the Roma in the
1960s, rather earlier than sociology did.
The latter did not even exist as a discipline
in the Eastern Bloc when Sándor Sára
(usually in collaboration with István Gaál)
broke new ground in 1962 with Gypsies,
literally awakening the Hungary of the day
to the Roma's existence. Gypsies was no
traditional investigative talking heads
report. Sára handled his subject in poetic
images, creating a kind of cinematic poem
with no educational objective. Soon after
the early sixties, industrialisation and
urbanisation accelerated in Hungary, disrupting
and almost destroying the peasant
world on whose periphery the Roma lived.
A decade later, the part fiction/part documentary
films of Pál Schiffer recorded these
considerable changes. Schiffer's trilogy
mapped out the living conditions of the
Roma as mirrored in their workplaces,
schools and homes (Black Train; What Do
the Gypsy Children Do?; Houses on the
Edge of the Village). Schiffer was no longer
alone in his explorations. He could turn to
the new disclipine of sociology and to the
nationwide representative Gypsy survey
carried out by István Kemény and his team.
The strongest of the trilogy is Black Train,
named after the trains which brought manual
workers to Budapest early Monday
mornings from the most backward and
impoverished parts in the east of the country,
and returned them to their villages at
the end of the work week. The majority of
these weekly "commuters" were Roma;
they worked in the capital's factories and
construction sites and lived in workers'
hostels. Almost all of them dreamed of
putting together enough money to free
themselves and their families from the
Gypsy quarters at the edge of the
village, where they lacked water and
electricity. It was Black Train and the
documentary feature film that the Budapest
School created in response to cinema
vérité, which led to Schiffer's Gyuri Cséplô,
a milestone in Hungarian film-making.
These films registered a landslide in the
way of life of the Roma, who had lived
through centuries of stagnation since their
arrival in Hungary. With the disappearance
or decline of traditional rural employment
opportunities, huge numbers moved to the
large cities, principally to Budapest, to
work at the sprouting housing estates, or
commuted between the cities and their
homes. This mass migration inevitably led
to urban squalor and slums. This negative
side of what was seen as progress and economic
upswing was examined only by sociologists,
volunteers at SZETA (Fund for the
Support of the Poor, founded by young
sociologists involved in national surveys
on the Roma and in surveys on poverty, a
taboo word) and documentary filmmakers,
primarily the young titans at the Balázs
Béla Studio (A Mother, Ferenc Grünwalsky,
1974; Changes That Have Been, Gyula and
János Gulyás, 1976-78). What they explored
in their films could no longer be regarded
as a set of temporary problems alien to
the nature of the regime, but solid facts.
By 1989, and with the advent of freedom
of speech, research and publication, the
problems had multiplied. Hungarian society
was quite simply not prepared for what capitalism
and liberal democracy would bring.
Quite the contrary: it was imbued with the
illusions accumulated and cherished while
peeping through the chinks in the Iron
Curtain for all those years. The changeover
produced too many losers. With the bankruptcy
of entire regions and industries, mass
unemployment and soaring inflation, it is in
retrospect a miracle that the country survived.
Partly in consequence, social policy
entirely lost sight of the Roma. Yet, as we
awaited accession, the EU drummed the
issue into us - and it is immaterial whether
its motivation was selfish or humanitarian.
At the beginning of the 1990s, interest was
only sporadic, but by the middle of the
decade we were deluged from every quarter:
news headlines, reports, academic studies,
films, national surveys. It transpired that
most of the country was able to survive at
the very edge of the poverty line, even if it
had to bleed and exploit itself to do so. Yet,
it also became obvious who had, definitively
and hopelessly, fallen by the wayside.
Not just the Roma, of course, but there were
simply too many of them in the ranks of
the poorest and most disadvantaged for this
not to catch the eye. Initially, it was only the
most devoted of documentary film-makers
who dared to touch the subject, and they
have not let go of it since - András Salamon
(Gypsies, 1992; Hero Street, 1993; Children
in the City, 1994; Jonuc and the Beggar Mob,
2000); György Pálos and the Közgáz Visual
Brigade (Schools on the Horizon, 1995;
Csenyéte Variations, 2000); István Tényi
(My Enraged Hungary 2, 1992; Three Steps,
2004) and the directors at the Black Box
workshop (Kicking and Screaming, 1994;
Streetwise, 2003). Tamás Almási's Barren
(1994-95), which put a final touch to a
series begun in the industrial city of Ózd in
the 1980s, was a very effective visual slice of
this era. Ózd, a former bastion of heavy
industry facing economic meltdown, was a
model for the blow delivered to both the
industrial work force and to the Roma.
The Hétes estate has been a favoured sociofilm
location ever since (Czabán-Pálos:
Plain Black; Kriszta Bódis: Ózd, Hétes Estate
6/a and God's Debt). Documentary-makers
Pálos and his colleagues found Csenyéte, a
village in northern Hungary, with a majority
Roma population, and subsequently
used it as a feature film location. With
The Stairs (1994), Lívia Gyarmathy seemed
to have created the documentary accompaniment
to her feature film Koportos.
Impressively, in both cases with a Roma
protagonist, she created films with a
human face rather than with a stereotype.
The hero of The Stairs is a young Roma
carpenter who bites off more than he can
chew when he undertakes the construction
of the grand staircase in a stately home
under restoration. His failure is symptomatic.
Before 1989, almost everyone in
Hungary was employed by the state. With
the introduction of the free market, enterprises
were sold or disbanded. Huge numbers
were forced to become self-employed
or set up their own businesses in order to
avoid unemployment. In an uncertain legal
and economic environment, masses of them
soon went bankrupt through lack of experience,
capital or sales. In the title of her 1994
film, Edit Kôszegi set out the path she was to
follow - I Prefer a Better Life. Then, together
with Péter Szuhay, she made Stories about
Surviving (2000), Matching People Up, or
Living Together (2003) and Decolores (2004).
The titles themselves clearly describe the
path along which, together with their protagonists,
these films looked for a way out.
Are we back where we were in 1962,
when we had to prove that the Roma are
also human? To some extent we are. The
socialist system sought to solve the Gypsy
problem via assimilation. Let them go to
school, let them disperse amongst the factories
and the cooperatives. This has failed.
We can start almost from scratch, but not in
quite the same way. This is the subject of
brave films such as City People (András
Salamon, 1997), The Stairs and the film Late
Birth by Kôszegi and Szuhay on the formation
of the Roma intelligentsia - not to
mention Ágota Varga's documentaries on
persecution during the Second World War
(Porrajmos: Gypsy Holocaust), forced labour
service (Black List), minority self-governments
(Hungarian Invention) and the
almost shocking presentation of the traditional
Roma "ruling class" (Chinto: The
Vojvod's Birthday; Two Lives - Gypsy Wedding
Party). It is as if we were watching a
Roma version of The Godfather; not because
those appearing are criminals (the
film makes no such claim), but because of
the nature of the relationship between the
family and the wedding guests. Here
is a pre-modern clan organization with
influential and famous friends from the
"mainstream" of society. Here it becomes
clear what the heated debates within the
Roma Minority Representative Council,
which are often difficult to comprehend, are
actually about. In essence, the traditional,
pre-modern ruling class clashes with the
urban intelligentsia; what is at stake is the
future of the Roma community in Hungary.
The destruction of the clichéd or outright
false image of the Gypsy in feature films
would appear to be a colossal task, as
such films reach much larger audiences and
do so with a much greater impact. The latest
example is the well-meaning Róbert Pejó's
Dallas Pashamende. Films such as this continue
to insist that our concern for the Roma
is futile, that we should accept them as they
are - they are happy with their lot, do not
want to live any other way and we should
not want to impose on them norms which
are alien to them. If the outside world does
not interfere, the Roma can survive and lead
happy lives, on a rubbish dump if necessary.
We will never understand this, because we
are different; or rather, they, with their different
skin colour and different hair, are different,
hopelessly different.
At issue is the conflict between protecting
and re-discovering traditional values
(lifestyle, customs, language, culture), and
modernisation with social integration, or
the possibility of some kind of mixture or
synthesis of the two. Mainstream feature
films make no bones about favouring the
former, while documentaries side with
modernisation. Documentaries represent
the very large number of the Roma who, like
most people, want to assure their access to
education, employment and housing.
That it is education that provides this
ticket is no new discovery. Yet, until recently,
education in Hungary has for the most
part been segregated; because the Roma,
like the poor in general, live in their own
districts and areas; because large numbers
of Roma children are sent to special
schools; because teachers, parents and
education policy makers consider this right
and proper. A series of horrifying documentaries
were made about educational
disadvantages, desperate searches for
solutions, racism both open and latent, and
malicious and well-intentioned prejudice
in education (Éva Varga: We Are Far Away
from Everything; János Dégi- Angéla Kóczé:
School Drama; Ágnes Tölgyesi: Gypsy
Alphabet; Judit Keseru: Pásurj - Steps). In
the most diverse parts of the country - in
large cities and small villages often left to
their own devices - schools struggle with
problems (poverty, backwardness, lack of
local infrastructure, unemployment, deteriorating
public health) that cannot be solved
by educators alone. These films tell us that
a growing number of people consider the
situation of the Roma intolerable.
Judit Kóthy's Most Unwelcome enjoys a
unique position. After 1989, and not unconnected
to the new-found freedom of
speech and press, the country was shaken
by a series of scandals. Police abuse and
skinhead activity were accompanied by various
examples of discrimination and exclusion.
In some cases, local authorities tried
to rid themselves of their Roma by illegal
means. There were also examples of school
segregation. At the primary school in Tiszavasvár,
for example, the end of year ceremony
for Roma children was held separately.
In the short term, these scandals showed
the Roma in anything but a favourable light.
As a rule the media invaded the exposed
institution or settlement and wrote critically
about them. The local population was on
edge, felt insulted and blamed the Roma.
Judit Kóthy visited Tiszavasvár years
after the scandal had faded and examined
what had happened in the meantime. I
would hazard that I have seen around 200
films on Roma themes over the years, but
rare are those that admit that they do not
view things from the Roma point of view -
instead, from that of the institutions (local
authority, school) whose staffs try honestly
to help the Roma and to work on breaking
down their own prejudices.
There is an entire list of films on how the
Roma - whether individually or as a community,
with or without the support of
mainstream society - try to change or to
better their fate. Ágota Varga's Akác Street
shows us such opportunities for escape.
On the surface, we see that pretty young
women improve their lot by their choice of
partner. In truth, their motive is to escape
from the village, a step that is hard to take
even if an opportunity does arise. There
everyone knows everyone else, even their
most distant relations. This gives a sense of
security and a hope for survival amidst
deprivation. Yet, that is all there is - security
and survival. In such a location there is no
chance of decent education or employment -
or least of all, of getting from A to B.
If Flóri, the film's protagonist, had not been
left by her husband to survive with two
children, her fate would have been poverty
and premature old age. Quite literally, she
needed a kick in the pants to escape. She
now has a decent house with a bathroom,
and other members of her family have
m a naged to climb a few rungs up the ladder.
Their children are growing up in civilised circumstances
and will attend proper schools.
As for the caravan, slowly it trundles on.
Sooner or later there will be a greenhouse
(If Only There Were a Greenhouse, János
Litauszki, 2005). Integrated education will
become a birthright, and the minority selfgovernments
will function properly.
Whether they know it or not, filmmakers
paint a picture of Hungarian
society and what our common future will
be like when attempts by the Roma to integrate
are recognised. If documentary films
have any social utility or responsibility, this
is where to look for it.
The Collegium Martineum in Mánfa is one of the country's best known institutes for Roma
secondary education, providing a supportive and sympathetic residential environment for
its students. The DrámaDrom project was set up to involve Roma participation in theatre, as
creators and as audiences, with such results that it received an invitation to Washington
from the World Bank in 2003 and was listed among the 200 best cultural projects.
For four years now, the Collegium has been been running a drama programme within
the DrámaDrom framework and touring their productions around South Transdanubia, a
region with a substantial Roma population.
2005 productions are Cigánylabirintus (Gypsy Labyrinth), written by the students, and
Gábor Gyombolai's historical drama Wyssegrad 1330. The first is a comedy using a TV
studio set, with mall bimbo audience, two talk show hosts and flashing lights, treating the
adventures of two young Roma who go up to the capital to try their luck. One ends up with
a good job, home and family, the other on the street. The play hammers home its didactic
points: when starting out, take on work no matter how awful and don't follow the traditional
petty crime route. The other play too addresses a theme not unfamiliar to the culture
of its audiences, avenging a woman dishonoured. The fact that the language is archaic and
the plot line difficult to grasp indicates the confidence of the young company in their own
skills and in the perception of their audiences.
Erzsébet Bori
is the regular film critic of this journal.
