A film like a lament: ‘Ecce Homo Brâncoveanu’

Talking about Dan Pița’s long-awaited film, which tells the story of the martyrdom of the great Wallachian prince and his family, is difficult, uncomfortable and, above all, painful. Following a preview screening in Târgu Mureș on 26 October 2023, the film was released in Romania in February 2024, when the master was the remarkable age of 85. Rumours about the film had been circulating for several years; Dan Pița himself confirmed them, albeit discreetly, without revealing any details regarding the subject matter or production.

We had been expecting an epic film, a sort of monument on film, which would ‘seal on celluloid’ that tragic and momentous moment in our history, when blood opens the chronicle of time to the synaxarion and imprints it between its pages. I had expected an iconic film, a sort of historical and Christian parable, which would synthesise – even if in a subjective and imperfect auteurist key – our national idea… or whatever remains of it today. Naive hopes, fragile in their foundation, fuelled by the high points of Dan Pița’s filmography – such as Concurs, Hotel de lux and Eu sînt Adam – which demonstrated his power to transform moments of crisis in our history into metaphor. It is true that these landmarks belong to the past, and a historical film demands a great deal of hard work and coordination, whilst age takes its toll…

The arduous journey of producing this film, announced long ago, but long delayed for financial reasons, somehow mirrors the pitiful fate of the long-awaited revival and revitalisation of our national culture—especially after 1989—which has been fatally thwarted. Or perhaps it is not quite like that? Perhaps it is precisely this Christian lament, which emerges from the unfinished film, that is the lesson the audience must learn, in order to rouse us from our all too long and fatal collective slumber? Perhaps this is precisely the challenge we must face? A lament constructed in symbolic tones, centred on the chronicle of martyrdom, which draws upon—perhaps unconsciously— the central emotional motifs from The Ballad of Brâncoveanu, a recent piece of Christian folklore that emerged following the 1992 canonisation and is performed with great emotion by both lay and church bards.

Yes, a Christian lament, like an imperfect cube from The Lesson on the Cube, which urges us to lament the state of our current culture and cinema, oriented towards anything but the iconic and our identity-defining values. This ‘curse of Master Manole’, which fatally blocks any attempt to forge a sense of identity in our post-December cinema, is succinctly captured by director Laurențiu Damian in his excellent review ‘On a Destiny… Constantin Brâncoveanu’, published in Film Magazine No. 1/2024 (pp. 48–49), from which I quote: “Making a film about Brâncoveanu is a gamble that would have required funding on a par with that available to Kurosawa for his masterpiece Kagemusha. The funds did not materialise,” says the reviewer, rightly observing that this film could have contributed “in a different way, a completely different way, in terms of style and significance, to what we call the national epic”. The term, which has been compromised in our cinema to the point of near extinction (through the boycott, on all fronts, of the emergence of such a movement), nevertheless functions in countries, large and small, that respect their history (that is, not only in France, the USA, Turkey and Russia, but also in Poland, Italy, Hungary, the Baltic States, countries in Central Asia, South Korea, India and Japan). Only not here. But that’s another story.

The film’s screenplay, written by the director together with his very young apprentice, Alex Molico, is dense—too dense—with valuable historical information, delivered directly through dialogue that highlights the complicated political context and the web of betrayals to which the great ruler falls victim. The concentration of these lines into too few dramatic sequences makes the film difficult to follow, whilst the acting—at times theatrical, at times realistic, without a consistent stylistic approach—dampens the emotional impact and confuses the viewer, who is already unaccustomed to the conventions of historical drama.

The emphasis is on the betrayal by loyal and close boyars, particularly that of the steward Cantacuzino, the prince’s secret advisor, and on the family’s reactions (especially those of Maria Brâncoveanu and the older sons) to the prince’s torment is an inspired narrative choice, but, unfortunately, it remains psychologically – and by extension, directorially – underdeveloped, as well as lacking in the actors’ commitment – a long-standing weakness of our historical films, both those made before 1989 and the (all too rare) ones made since.

Dorel Vișan, who plays the slippery chamberlain, carries the film’s weight in terms of acting, succeeding, as usual, in the difficult feat of establishing an empathetic dialogue both with his co-stars and with the audience.

The result is a chamber-style historical film, with the action set in a Brâncoveanu residence, within the palace of Sultan Ahmed III, the courtroom in Istanbul, the dungeons of Edikule Prison and the scaffold. It would not have been a problem to set all these interiors in the palace at Mogoșoaia (where most of the filming took place), had the set design (by Mihai Dorobanțu) been faithful to the period’s details and inventive in its suggestions and improvisations, but it was not… Nor do the costumes, designed by Carmen Moldovan, lend much credibility to the era or the characters. It is true that the two have no experience with medieval films, but who among us does anymore?! Once upon a time, the master Pița was very particular about such details, and atmosphere played a major role in his films.

Here too, in Ecce Homo Brâncoveanu, small touches of a mystical, medieval atmosphere catch the eye, such as the premonitory appearance of a black rooster or the apparition of the Brâncovenis’ deceased daughter, Stanca (played by Alma Boiangiu). However, these do not form a symbolic code that engages with the film as a whole. The cinematography, by debutant Mădălina Păun, is striking in its painterly quality, capturing the vibrancy of certain scenes and evoking something of the distinctive visual style of Pița’s brushwork.

But the viewer interested in the chronicle of the era easily looks past the strengths and weaknesses of the imagery and focuses on the historical drama: the intrigues of the great boyars, the painful confrontation—revealed in the dialogues—between Maria Brâncoveanu (played by Daniela Nane) and the princely heirs with their martyr-like fate, and the commentary of Anton Maria del Chiaro, the prince’s Italian secretary (played by Claudiu Bleonț, once one of the director’s favourite actors), who, with the neutrality of a chronicler, relates the drama unfolding on screen directly to the audience – a theatrical device effective in parables, used brilliantly by Lars von Trier (in Manderlay and Dogville), but not sufficiently refined here.

The dramatic crescendo builds towards its climax: the sultan’s judgement, a sham trial with a predetermined verdict. The sultan toys with Brâncoveanu like a cat with a mouse. Marius Bodochi, who plays the sultan, employs a varied acting register, suggesting megalomania and cunning histrionics, but without mastering the fluid transitions from a friendly tone to a duplicitous one and on to a threatening one. A circle of dancers, appearing unexpectedly in the courtroom, encircle, as in a delirious mystical circle, the accused-judge pair, disrupting the interrogation and Brâncoveanu’s declarations of faith, thereby highlighting the farcical nature of the trial. The clash between the two registers – the trial and the ‘vaudeville’ – tends towards a parable, but is insufficiently stylised by the director and misunderstood by some of the actors, who barely manage to adapt, at the bare minimum of realism, to the context of the era.

What follows is the conviction, the ordeal of imprisonment and the torture in the dungeons, and the execution – moments which are also of the utmost importance in the film’s dramatic structure. It would not have required major investment to imbue them with the pathos of Shakespearean tragedies – which the Wallachian ruler’s fate would have fully deserved – but merely a great deal of attention, commitment and dedication from all the artistic departments. The lines, present in the screenplay and taken fairly faithfully from the historical chronicles, are compelling – provided the actors embrace them and study them thoroughly – and they resonate in our minds as leitmotifs of our history, thus holding the key to the viewer’s heart. But even here, things are not quite as they should be. As these are ensemble scenes, they would only have resonated with the audience through the harmony of the entire cast, resulting from a unified acting style, adapted to the tone of the historical and Christian parable – a style that is clearly defined and well-coordinated: yet these elements are lacking. The sad saying about Romanian films (from before 1989), in which, among the actors, ‘every man for himself’, comes to mind. The most difficult and, from an artistic point of view, the most painful sequence is the final one in front of the scaffold, during the last interrogation and the martyrdom of the princely youths. The moment, which ought to have been heart-rending, is undermined by the uncertainty in the performances of the very young actors, faced with a task that would be difficult even for a professional, as well as by a few jarring touches of violence that are out of keeping with the film as a whole.

The fragility of the lead actor, Constantin Pușcașu – an interesting casting choice – suggests the ordeal rather than the grandeur of the legendary prince, supporting the director’s vision, which focuses not on earthly glory but on political decline, alongside a spiritual ascent on the altar of the Christian faith and the homeland. This directorial choice – to avoid the trap of the shallow glorification of our history, as practised in films from the Ceaușescu era – is both legitimate and inspired. It is, by and large, successfully achieved, as set out in the range of intentions on the film’s official website: ‘Showcasing the nation’s cultural and historical heritage, highlighting the inestimable contribution of Constantin Brâncoveanu; highlighting the power of faith as a central pillar in the Prince’s life and decisions, thereby inspiring entire generations; an invitation to reflect on the concept of fate and destiny, exploring difficult choices and their consequences within the historical context; celebrating national identity and the values that define us as a people, through the lens of the life and sacrifice of a great prince; building a bridge between the past and the present, inviting the audience to reflect on the significance of these values in the contemporary world and in the future".

Those with ears to hear and eyes to see – that is, viewers interested in history, the theology of history and the Christian chronicle of our nation – will understand this message and appreciate the film’s iconic nature. The others, however, will avoid it…