Producer: Jan Macola   Director: Petr Václav   Screenplay: Petr Václav   Cast: Vojtěch Dyk, Elena Radonicich, Barbara Ronchi, Lana Vlady, Alberto Cracco, Federica Vecchio, Pietro Tammaro, Antonio De Matteo, Dario Iubatti, Fabrizio Parenti, Achille Brugnini, Federica Rosellini, Diego Pagotto, Philip Hahn, Chiara Celotto, Ermanno De Biagi, Claire Palazzo, Elena Arvigo and Mirko Ciccariello  Distributor: Music Box Films

Grade: B

There’s a scene in “The Bohemian,” a richly detailed biography of eighteenth-century composer Josef Mysliveček—known to his contemporaries as Il Boemo, the Bohemian (or sometimes “Il divino Boemo”)—that can’t help but remind one of Milos Forman’s “Amadeus.”  Mysliveček (Vojtěch Dyk) is introduced to the teenage Mozart (Philip Hahn, whose middle name just happens to be Amadeus), then on tour with his father Leopold.  Asked by the boy to play one of his pieces, he sits at the keyboard and offers the beginning of an overture to one of his operas.  Mozart then begins to improvise on the piece with astonishing facility.

But while Antonio Salieri reacts with simmering anger when Mozart, in “Amadeus,” similarly toys with a little welcoming march the older man’s written, mischievously turning it into “Non pìu andrai,” Mysliveček is amazed by the young man’s skill, seeing him not as a rival but a genius.  And in fact the two would remain friends until Mysliveček’s death.

Petr Václav’s film is in many respects a cousin to Forman’s, but while the underlying theme is the same—the dependence of composers of the classical period on the whims of fickle aristocrats for support—the writer-director fleshes it out very differently.  Here the downfall of the titular figure is due not to the envy of other composers, who recognize and appreciate his talent, but to Mysliveček’s inability, after achieving considerable renown, to cultivate possible patrons’ demands for novelty. 

A second element, the film suggests, was the composer’s involvement with women.  In his day he had a reputation for womanizing, but Václav’s speculative take is that women gravitated to him because he was a gentleman—not high-born but naturally courteous—while most upper-class men of the time, despite their noble airs, treated women with disdain, if not outright brutality.  Even so, as portrayed here, Mysliveček used their attraction to him to further his career, often to his ultimate detriment.

Mysliveček was the son of a miller in Prague who travelled to Italy to study with famous composers there.  In this telling, which begins in 1765 in Venice, he’s gotten some encouragement, but his only income comes from giving music lessons, most notably to cello student Cornelia Rezzi (Federica Vecchio), with whose family he lives.  She becomes infatuated with him, and uses her own resources to secure him a private apartment where he can work in peace.  She’s also instrumental in arranging an introduction to a libertine marquise (Elena Radonicich) who offers him advancement in society, but in the process he effectively spurns Cornelia, whose reaction to his rejection leads to a self-destructive act.

Increasingly successful, Josef connects with Caterina Gabrieli (Barbara Ronchi), a famous but emotionally fragile soprano, for whom he composes well-received operas; but her insecurities mean that he must take forceful steps to induce her to overcome her fears and go on stage.  Ultimately his fame brings an introduction to the woman who becomes the love of his life, Anna Fracassati (Lana Vlady), but her vicious, controlling husband makes their relationship impossible.   

As his personal life deteriorates—he suffers a facial disfigurement as a result of illness, perhaps syphilis—his professional one goes into decline as well.  That’s largely due to a change in fashion: he remained wedded to the conventions of the old-fashioned opera seria, which was losing favor.  When his style came to be viewed as outdated, Mysliveček suffered the consequences.  His popularity evaporated, and he died in penury in 1781, as Vaclav dramatizes in scenes bookending the film.

“The Bohemian” offers a feast of delights for lovers of the music of the period; there are not only extended excerpts from Mysliveček’s works—instrumental, orchestral and especially operatic—but shorter ones from pieces by other contemporaries.  (The choices are only occasionally questionable: in a scene set in a Venetian salon in 1765, one can catch a bit of Boccherini’s famous Minuetto, which wasn’t written until six years later.)  The performances by the period group Collegium 1704 under conductor Václav Luks are excellent, and the vocalism by soloists such as Simona Šaturová, who provides the singing voice of Ronchi’s Caterina, is of high standard.  The acting is frankly more workmanlike than inspired, with Dyk making a rather recessive protagonist as the reserved, generally undemonstrative Mysliveček.  But the very different woman in his life are nicely drawn by Vecchio, Radonicich, Ronchi and Vlady, and the supporting cast is strong, with standout turns by young Hahn and by Mirko Ciccariello as the snide, sinister King Ferdinand IV of Naples.

Finally, while its budget was doubtlessly much smaller than the one Forman had at his disposal for “Amadeus,” “The Bohemian” captures the eighteenth-century Italian setting quite effectively.  The production design by Irena Hradecká and Luca Servino, set decoration by Davide Anello, costumes by Andrea Cavalletto and makeup by Andrea McDonald create a convincing backdrop to the drama, and Diego Romero Suarez Llanos’ cinematography is impressive without being fussy or gaudy.  And while the editing by Paolo Cottignola, Florent Mangeot and Florent Vassault is certainly unrushed (the picture clocks in at nearly two-and-a-half hours), the stately pacing allows certain realities of the time to register—like the behavior of audiences at the opera, where talking and even eating was typical, and enthusiasm would break out only when cliques responded (as today) to flashy displays of vocal pyrotechnics.

Mysliveček’s music has been enjoying a modest revival of late: an assiduous collector can assemble a decent representation of his compositions—some symphonies, chamber pieces, operas and oratorios.  They show him to have been, if no genius of Mozart’s caliber, a very able craftsman, and are well worth sampling.  Václav’s appreciative film may be fairly free in fictionalizing certain elements of Mysliveček’s life, particularly on the personal side, but overall it does him justice as a composer.  More sober than “Amadeus” or last year’s “Chevalier” (about Joseph Bologne, another of Mozart’s contemporaries), it’s a period musical biography done with elegance, as well as respect and a degree of compassion for its subject.