Hungary’s recent clashes with the European Union’s political establishment, rooted in its refusal to adhere to Brussels’ diktats on domestic and foreign policy, might strike outsiders as sudden or provocative. Yet for those acquainted with Hungary’s turbulent history, this defiance is neither novel nor unexpected. Throughout its existence, Hungary has oscillated between collaboration and resistance when embedded within larger political frameworks—whether under the Habsburg Empire, the Axis powers, or the Soviet bloc. This tension between autonomy and subjugation has often ended in tragedy, as seen in the 1848 Revolution’s brutal suppression or the 1956 Uprising’s violent quelling by Soviet forces. One such episode of resistance and its consequences forms the backdrop of The Round-Up (1966), a stark period drama directed by Miklós Jancsó. This film, a cornerstone of 1960s Hungarian and Eastern European cinema, transcends mere historical reenactment to probe themes of betrayal, authoritarianism, and the cyclical nature of oppression.
The film’s original Hungarian title, Szegénylegények, translates literally to “Poor young men,” a colloquial term for outlaws. Set in the late 1860s, roughly two decades after Lajos Kossuth’s failed 1848 Revolution against Habsburg rule, the narrative underscores a deepening socio-political rift. While the urban bourgeoisie and industrial elites had reconciled with Habsburg dominance, rural communities clung to revolutionary ideals, covertly supporting the remaining rebel factions that had turned to banditry. The Hungarian government, fearing destabilization, grants Count Gedeon Raday sweeping powers to eradicate this threat. Raday, a ruthless pragmatist, treats the task with the brutality of a military strategist, prioritizing efficiency over morality. His mission is framed not just as a crackdown on crime but as a purge of ideological dissent—a parallel that would not be lost on 1960s audiences familiar with contemporary authoritarian tactics.
Raday’s methods are chillingly modern in their cruelty: mass round-ups, improvised concentration camps, and systematic torture. The film’s protagonist, János Gajdar (János Görbe)—a former rebel accused of a brutal murder—is coerced into identifying fellow bandits in exchange for clemency. His efforts, however, are met with distrust and violence from fellow prisoners, culminating in his murder. Yet Gajdar’s death is no accident; it is orchestrated by the authorities to expose hidden conspiracies. By staging his execution, Raday creates a chain of betrayals, pitting prisoners against one another. This Machiavellian strategy highlights the film’s central thesis: oppression thrives when victims are turned into collaborators. The authorities’ manipulation of human psychology—exploiting fear, guilt, and desperation—underscores the dehumanizing nature of authoritarian control, a theme that resonates across historical contexts.
Jancsó’s visual approach is as austere as the narrative itself. The film’s black-and-white cinematography, devoid of the sentimental hues of mainstream cinema, mirrors the moral ambiguity of its characters. The absence of a musical score, save for the ironic use of the Austro-Hungarian anthem Gott Erhalte Franz den Kaiser (now Germany’s national anthem) and military marches, amplifies the tension. The soundtrack’s sparse, militaristic tones underscore the dehumanizing rhythm of control. Jancsó’s signature long takes and sweeping camera movements transform the Great Hungarian Plain (puszta) into a desolate, almost Western-like landscape—a metaphor for the prisoners’ existential limbo. The vast, empty spaces contrast sharply with the claustrophobia of the camps, symbolizing the futility of resistance against an omnipresent regime.
The film’s unflinching portrayal of violence and nudity breaks from 1960s cinematic conventions, reflecting Jancsó’s willingness to challenge taboos. A standout scene involves a young woman, likely a bandit’s lover, stripped naked and paraded before the prisoners before being whipped to death. This act, devoid of eroticism, serves as a grotesque display of state power. The scene’s brutality is not merely graphic but emblematic of the regime’s psychological warfare: humiliation as a tool to crush resistance. Such moments underscore Jancsó’s belief that oppression is both physical and psychological, rendering victims complicit in their own subjugation.
Co-written with Gyula Hernádi, the film’s script is taut and economical, relying on dialogue and visual metaphor rather than exposition. The pacing is deliberate, building toward a twist ending that reframes the audience’s understanding of the authorities’ manipulations. While some may find the dialogue stilted or the symbolism overly heavy-handed, the film’s emotional resonance lies in its unapologetic bleakness. The finale—a bleak, cyclical return to the film’s opening scenes—suggests that the cycle of resistance and repression is unending, a grim commentary on Hungary’s historical trajectory.
The film’s release in 1966 was fraught with political tension. While Hungary’s communist authorities permitted its domestic screening, its international distribution faced scrutiny due to its allegorical parallels to the 1956 Uprising. Jancsó was forced to claim the film was a “period piece,” disavowing any contemporary relevance, to secure its Cannes Film Festival debut. This compromise allowed him to continue his career, albeit under the state’s watchful eye. Yet the film’s success at Cannes—and its acclaim as a work of art—underscored the growing leniency of Hungary’s communist regime, which, for the rest of Cold War, had become a relative beacon of reform within the Soviet bloc.
The Round-Up is a masterclass in political allegory and visual storytelling. Jancsó’s unflinching portrayal of state violence and psychological manipulation transcends its historical setting, offering a universal critique of authoritarianism. The film’s bleakness is its strength, refusing to offer solace or redemption. Instead, it leaves audiences with an uncomfortable truth: resistance, even in its noblest forms, is often co-opted by those it seeks to oppose. For Hungary, this message remains prescient, echoing the nation’s ongoing struggle to balance autonomy with external pressures. In an era when Hungary’s defiance of EU again dominates headlines, Jancsó’s film serves as a reminder that the ghosts of history are never truly laid to rest.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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