At 21, I wasn’t yet seeking films like Věra Chytilová's Daisies (Sedmikrásky, 1966)—films that would unravel me and then rebuild me with questions I couldn’t yet answer. But encountering it felt like colliding with a force I didn’t know I needed. It taught me that cinema isn’t just a narrative; it’s a provocation.
It was overwhelming—psychedelic colors, esoteric sets, cryptic dialogue. It felt like the film was speaking a language I didn’t yet understand but somehow knew intimately. That tension—between not fully grasping something but feeling its truth—has since become a hallmark of what I seek in art. Something shifted within me. It was surreal and stayed with me in ways few films ever had.
Daisies became a talisman of sorts, guiding me toward the radical corners of art—Dada, Fluxus happenings, feminist performance. These movements unlocked new aspects of the film for me. What seemed chaotic at first was a deliberate, razor-sharp critique of decadence, conformity, and patriarchy. It wasn’t just a film; it was a manifesto.
Chytilová’s Legacy: Pioneering and Unapologetic
As the first woman to study film directing at Prague's FAMU, Věra Chytilová was an indomitable force in the Czech New Wave. Her work redefined what it meant to tell stories from a female perspective in a male-dominated industry. With every frame, Chytilová interrogated societal norms and challenged cinematic conventions, even when it cost her dearly.
After Daisies was banned in 1966 for "having nothing in common with our Republic, socialism, and the ideals of communism," Chytilová faced years of blacklisting. From 1969 to 1975, she was barred from making films—an erasure so painfully familiar in the history of visionary, marginalized artists. Yet her resolve never faltered. She continued to create films that dismantled expectations, always pushing the boundaries of cinema. Watching her work reminds me that filmmaking isn’t just about technique or storytelling; it’s also an act of courage. Her work forces me to confront my own compromises as a filmmaker—what I’m willing to risk, what I’m willing to fight for.
Daisies: An Anarchic Masterpiece
The story of Daisies is deceptively simple: two teenage girls, both named Marie, decide that since the world is spoiled, they’ll be spoiled too. What unfolds is a series of surreal, destructive escapades that play out as a chaotic, feminist farce. The film’s fragmented structure, kaleidoscopic imagery, and absurdist humor reject conventional storytelling in favor of something more visceral.
Watching Daisies now, I marvel at how it refuses to explain itself. Chytilová crafts chaos that is deliberate and disorienting, embodying the critique it delivers. It’s as if the film itself is breaking free from the constraints of structure, mirroring its characters’ rebellion against societal norms. The radical beauty of Daisies lies in its ability to weaponize form. The jump cuts and oversaturated visuals aren’t just disruptive—they mirror the emotional and social fractures its characters navigate.
A Defiant Aesthetic
Chytilová’s aesthetic is confrontational. The deliberate over-saturation of colors, the use of found footage, and the jarring, almost violent edits are not just stylistic choices but acts of rebellion. Her films refuse to be easy. They demand your attention, your discomfort, your reflection.
This defiance isn’t limited to Daisies. In The Apple Game (Hra o jablko, 1976), Chytilová shifts her lens to the medical profession, critiquing how it dehumanizes women. Through the story of a nurse navigating a toxic workplace and a self-serving gynecologist, she exposes the intersection of power and intimacy with biting humor and raw immediacy. Watching it feels uncomfortably close, a reminder of how personal and systemic oppressions often overlap.
Her evolution as a filmmaker is striking when you consider works like Bagfull of Fleas (1962) and Fruit of Paradise (1970). If the former hints at the subtle resistance she would later explode in Daisies, the latter pushes her visual and thematic boundaries into deeply spiritual terrain. Together, these films reveal a filmmaker who never stopped interrogating power—be it societal, institutional, or existential.
Then there’s Pomegranates and Lemons (Pasti, pasti, pastičky, 1998), a dark satire of revenge against exploitative men. Set in a post-communist society grappling with its own contradictions, the film’s fragmented narrative underscores how deeply entrenched patriarchal norms persist despite societal shifts. It’s as if Chytilová is saying: nothing has changed, but the fight continues.
And yet, even her earliest work, such as Something Different (O něčem jiném, 1963), already demonstrates her sharp eye for contrasting narratives and power dynamics. Juxtaposing the lives of a gymnast and a housewife, the film interrogates the demands placed on women in vastly different spheres, both bound by expectations they didn’t set.
These films, alongside Daisies, reveal an artist who refused to limit herself to a single style or theme. Instead, Chytilová built a cinematic mosaic, each piece expanding the boundaries of what film could interrogate.
Personal Impact
Chytilová’s work feels like a beacon. She forces me to confront my own compromises. What am I willing to risk for the stories I want to tell? How do I navigate the systems that seek to confine me? Chytilová reminds me that filmmaking is, at its core, an act of courage.
Her films aren’t just art; they’re challenges—demanding us to think, to feel, to question. Watching Daisies is like being handed a blueprint for what cinema could be if it stopped playing by the rules. It’s exhilarating and exhausting in the best way possible.
Why Věra Chytilová Matters Today
The restoration and re-release of Daisies nearly six decades later feels celebratory, but it’s also a stark reminder of how easily revolutionary voices are marginalized. What does it say about our systems of cinema that Chytilová’s work, so ahead of its time, needed decades to be fully appreciated?
Chytilová’s films remain eerily relevant in today’s landscape, where feminist filmmakers and decolonizing voices still face systemic resistance. In a world teeming with glossy, palatable cinema, her work stands as a stark reminder that art is most powerful when it unsettles us.
Her defiance, her refusal to compromise, her insistence on telling stories her way—they’re lessons we can’t afford to forget. As movements like #MeToo and the fight for trans and queer visibility reshape cinema, Chytilová’s ability to fuse rebellion with craft offers an essential blueprint for resisting conformity without losing artistic integrity.
Věra Chytilová’s cinema isn’t easy to digest, nor should it be. Her films are anarchic, confrontational, and utterly necessary. Revisiting her work now feels urgent—a reminder that art, at its best, doesn’t just reflect the world but dares to challenge it. Her films ask: What are you willing to break to make something meaningful? It’s a question I’m still learning to answer.
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