Molkipolki opens in a knick-knacky wooden house with a man moseying from room to room — except he isn’t speaking any discernible language — nor is he with anyone else despite his persistent conversation. It remains this way for the entire 44 minute film, the man only repeating variations of “molki-polki-wolky”. Molkipolki (written, directed, produced, edited and performed by Kyril Zach) is an intriguing piece for its anti-cinematic nature, tearing apart everything that a film should be. In its execution, Molkipolki is certainly one-of-a-kind, however, its perplexing storyline designates it as a thought experiment more than a fully coherent film.
The main — and only — character of the story is The Broker. The film opens with The Broker giving a tour of a house, evident based on his steady sauntering from room to room while hand gesturing to various things within it. When touring, The Broker holds a folder and dons a navy blue sweater. In contrast, the off-duty Broker often hosts parties and friends in a more relaxed grey attire. In between the house tours, The Broker socializes like a mad man — alone. The strange nature of the film is elevated by an eerie soundtrack. A ghostly chorus of children singing in acapella heightens the unease, but is nicely layered and weaves out of the scenes through the film at just the right time, almost as if these voices are The Broker’s only companion.
The repetition of the same cumbersome phrase quickly becomes bothersome. Eventually, the only choice left is to focus on what’s happening on the screen between The Broker and his imaginary friends and tourees. There is a lot of room for speculation: does the pattern and order of what he is saying indicate a certain phrase? Does The Broker greet each guest with a specific gesture? Is this a way to discern them from one another? Is the house he is selling and the house he resides in off-hours the same structure? These attempts to uncover some sort of underlying code will turn up fruitless. Though the tone, direction, and speed of his speech does carry scenes through a recognizable emotional arc — a slow, looping intonation when he’s flirting, the stuttering of words being cut off when he’s in an argument — they don’t tell the whole story.
Towards the end of the film, suddenly, the music’s lyrics are narrating in english. They proclaim “I’m horny” while he dances at one of his parties, and “vomit when you cook” right before he gets sick at a dinner. Otherwise, the absurd fabric of The Broker’s world remains indecipherable. And while the music overlay is acoustically sharp, The Broker’s constant movement around several rooms within one take, means his speech fluctuates in volume and clarity. He is surrounded by furnishings and trinkets, yet he seldom actually picks up a prop. Instead of using a glass, he sips from his empty hand, and changes his real TV with a make believe remote. For some audiences, this is where the logic might fall apart or become too looney to disentangle. However, Molkipolki opens up a valuable space for rationalizing the concept of “film”. Who is an actor, and do they have to be visible, or real? What do we really yearn for when we put a film on? And what is the necessity of dialogue — is body language enough? In this sense, Kyril Zach pushes his audience beyond the leisure experience of watching a film, and forces them to think. . . and think hard.
Molkipolki is certainly not a film for all audiences. As its sole performer is also its cinematographer, Zach gets creative with shot angles, but an otherwise distant and static camera leaves scenes feeling less dynamic than they could’ve been. The progressively intricate reality of Molkipolki’s world also demands a level of focus that some viewers may find useless — it’s all gibberish. Overall, Zach might be onto something. He put a film together that looks and acts like any other, but in fact is quite the polar opposite of what we’re used to. If you’re up for it — hang on for the ride.
