"On Monday, 20 November, I went to Barrandov to the production offices where we were preparing the film Smoke. I had a Czechoslovak flag locked in my desk; it was precious to me because it was the flag of our scout troop from 1968. I wanted to take it away and fly it in Mánes. I had no idea that day would be a pivotal point in my life. When I was in the production office, there were these bakelite speaker cabinets of the local PA/radio system. The speakers said that the Barrandov management was inviting all the employees to Studio Six at two o'clock in the afternoon, and they would comment on the events. I said to myself: 'Václav, since you're here, go there and see what's going on at Barrandov.' There were certainly two thousand employees there; Barrandov had 2,800 employees in total. They set up the risers, and the Barrandov management came out and started mouthing sentences like, this can't be solved in the streets and we need a dialogue, and so on. There was no self-reflection at all about what had happened in Národní třída. As I said before, since Národní had left such a strong imprint on me, and it was frustrating for me and kept bothering me in the head, I literally snapped. I went nuts. I clawed my way to the front of the stage, jumped up on stage and took the microphone. I said, 'You guys go fuck yourselves, and we're going on strike!' Five minutes later, I was running Barrandov as head of the strike committee. What can I say? I'm quite an impulsive person, sometimes that's an advantage, and sometimes it's an absolute disadvantage. It just happened, and that changed my life fundamentally without me knowing it at the time."
"To me, 17 November in Národní třída was an incredibly traumatic experience. When it was Palach Week or any other protest, you could always run away somewhere. This, however, was terribly insidious and we were all trapped. Even in the afternoon, when we tried to walk past the Botanical Garden, I said on the pavement that we were going to get a beating. I had no idea how vicious and brutal it would be. I have a lot of powerful experiences from Národní. I was at the end close to the National Theatre, and the worst bit for me was that there were armoured personnel carriers parked there. They would take off, and now there were three rows. The first row was the police's emergency regiment, then other people from the emergency regiment but they looked like soldiers because they were wearing camouflage and red berets. Then there were the militiamen, and behind them were the armoured personnel carriers. They let us be, but then they went forward and pushed us. People panicked, stepped back, and some fell down, ran away and hid in the houses. Then they found them there, dragged them out, and beat them - but they beat them so brutally. They kicked them, dragged them on the ground by their hair. And you're helpless. This is happening twenty meters away from you, they're beating them, and you can't do anything. The helplessness was terrible, it was a primal feeling, and I still carry it with me."
"I was allowed to attend the filming in civilian clothes. I guess they didn't want us to stand out. I was making a documentary. It was produced by Armádní film. The most bizarre incident I experienced was the big Spartakiada parade on Letná Plain. There was a grandstand built on or next to the Sparta stadium. The whole Politburo of the Communist Party Central Committee was standing there - Fojtík, Husák, Indra, Bilak, all absolute criminals. We were standing right next to them with the camera. The regions of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic paraded in front of them, each region carrying some symbols. The East Slovakian region came up with about twelve gymnasts, six on each side, carrying the Dukla Heroes' Monument on huge stretchers of polystyrene. It still stands there in the Dukla Pass. This was a model, I don't know what scale, but it was quite large and made of polystyrene. They stopped in front of the grandstand, in front of the politburo, and it was incredibly hot and humid that day. Everybody was waiting to see what was going to happen because all the others had just walked past. Then, from behind, with his chest out, a gymnast ran in. He stood pathetically at attention behind the monument's back wall, grabbed a door and opened it. It looked like the oven from Frosty. He took two or three steps back with pathos and preened, but nothing happened, just nothing. Half a minute passed, a minute passed, and nothing happened. And then, a white dove of peace fell from inside the polystyrene monument, completely dumb and stupefied."
"I talk about it a lot not because I like talking about it but because if someone hears it, it will make them at least think about bullying. I must admit my former classmantes have condemned me. Bullying is dirty laundry and shouldn't be made public or talked about. I stopped going to alumni reunions, they made it clear: 'No, not you!' It's only because I talked about it publicly on a TV show. I have to say the bullying was monstrous. The kind of bullying I witnessed in the Bolshevik military was a notch below and I wasn't a direct victim. I was a university graduate. Nobody dared to attack me except for one soldier in Bratislava, but it was a bad idea; I had become a brawler then. Anyway, that first night, I'll never forget being a victim of total physical abuse, physical harm, in your freshman year. The physical bullying I experienced in my freshman year - freshmen had it worst - was shocking. The very first night I arrived with a paper suitcase - let me repeat: a paper suitcase, the sophomores came in and beat us up the first night, we were physically beaten and humiliated. We got beaten every day. It's hard to grasp it if you haven't experienced it... You could only experience it in three types of environments at that time: the grim dorm, prison, or the army. It didn't happen anywhere else; it went beyond all permissible limits here. Bullying was usually like, 'Give me your money, show me what you brought from home and give it all to me.' But this was cruel, cruel beating. Really - fist punches in the face and in the stomach, and kicks to the head."
Václav Marhoul was born in Prague on 30 January 1960. His father Václav was an employee of Československá námořní plavba (sea shipping) and his mother Dagmar taught at the University of Economics in Prague. Václav Marhoul grew up in Romania where his father’s employer’s home port was, until about age three. His younger brother Petr was born in Romania. Václav Marhoul was a film enthusiast from childhood and studied at the film high school in Čimelice from 1975 following primary school, experiencing a wonderful four years but also brutal bullying from his older schoolmates. After graduation, he was admitted to the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (FAMU). In 1979, he became a member of the Sklep Theatre. In 1983, he organised a secret discussion with director Miloš Forman in Prague during the filming of Amadeus, although FAMU leadership forbade students any form of contact with the Czech-born American director. In the same year, Václav Marhoul criticized the politics of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KSČ) and in return the teachers did not give him a single exam or credit. He repeated his third year and graduated from FAMU in 1984. He served his military service at the reception centre in Komorní Hrádek, the culture club of the College of Land Forces in Vyškov and at the Czechoslovak Army Film. While in the army he wrote the script for the play Cunning Philip and the Sklep Theatre premiered it in 1986. In 1987, he organised an exhibition of the art group Tvrdohlaví and began working as a producer on a film by director Tomáš Vorel, Pražská pětka (Prague Five), which was released in the spring of 1989. As a producer, he was involved in the filming of another cult film by Tomáš Vorel called Smoke in 1989; it was only completed after the Velvet Revolution. Václav Marhoul took part in anti-totalitarian protests from 28 October 1988. On 17 November 1989, he experienced the encirclement of protesting students in Národní třída and witnessed the brutal crackdown of the police and the Red Berets. A few days later, he spoke out against the leadership of the Film Studio Barrandov (FSB), called the employees to strike and was elected chairman of the strike committee. He turned down an offer to become the executive director of the national Civic Forum. He was persuaded to apply for the post of Director General of the FSB. He won the audition and took up the post in the autumn of 1990. Then unknown perpetrators caused his car to break down twice. He discovered it before he could crash seriously. In 1992, he and partners bought Film Studio Barrandov during the large privatisation project and turned it into a profitable enterprise. He left Barrandov in 1997 and founded his own film company, Silverscreen. As a director, he released the comedy Cunning Philip in 2003, the war film Tobruk in 2008 and the drama The Painted Bird in 2019. He lived in Prague in 2024, had a son and daughter from his first marriage and two sons from his second marriage.
Václav Marhoul as Rychlonožka (top left) during writer Jaroslav Foglar's 80th birthday party (seated in the middle) organised by the Sklep Theatre, 1987
Václav Marhoul as Rychlonožka (top left) during writer Jaroslav Foglar's 80th birthday party (seated in the middle) organised by the Sklep Theatre, 1987
Václav Marhoul during the award ceremony for The Painted Bird (premiere 2019) at the Venice International Film Festival. The film made it to the main competition and received the Film for UNICEF Award for the best film defending children's rights from the student jury.
Václav Marhoul during the award ceremony for The Painted Bird (premiere 2019) at the Venice International Film Festival. The film made it to the main competition and received the Film for UNICEF Award for the best film defending children's rights from the student jury.
