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Archive for February, 2014

One for history buffs, translated and with the permission of foretplan.444.hu

We could also call it 130 pictures in memory of our dying hours, referencing the title of Lajos Kassák’s work [Kis könyv a haldoklásunk emlékére, 1945]. It is February 13. Today, it has been 69 years since the siege of Budapest came to an end. We no longer talk about ‘liberation,’ but we don’t really have a better word for it. (The Soviet forces did not officially liberate Budapest, but rather captured an enemy city. At least they are clear about this.)

Siege1

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“Budapest is the most wonderful city imaginable. There is no other like it in the German Empire… However, from a historical standpoint, it is unforgivable that the most beautiful city along the Nibelung river should belong to the ancestors of Attila and his huns.” – Adolf Hitler once stated. In the winter of 1944, he himself gave an order to protect the city – each and every house – as a key military stronghold. What we see in the 130 photographs recently shared on Fortepanon is the result of this apocalyptic and completely senseless battle – as told through the ruins, the missing residents, the buildings, themselves.

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The military action to occupy the city lasted for 102 days. During the siege, around 28,000 civilians lost their lives – among them 15,000 Budapesters of Jewish descent. The Soviets not only lost 80,000 soldiers, but the number of their wounded approached 240,000. The number of German and Hungarian soldiers lost – including both those killed and injured – reached 100,000. As a result of the siege, around a quarter of the city’s 40,000 buildings were either destroyed or seriously damaged. The Germans blew up all of the bridges across the Danube; entire squares disappeared, for example Honvéd Square and Szent György Square. The city was transformed into a mountain of corpses and, especially on the Buda side, a pile of debris. Furthermore, while the siege was going on, another war was also underway – the campaign of the Arrow Cross against the Jews of the capital city.

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Now we will try and jump over these 102 days, even if with this jump it will be harder to make sense of everything we see in these pictures. László Deseő, who was 15 years old in 1944, wrote about the fateful final/first days in his diary, writing from the basement of their Mészáros street house.

1945. II. 11.

It is morning and there is heavy shelling. Sometimes they shell the house for a good quarter of an hour. Every three minutes the whole house shakes and we can hear debris falling. (…) For me, the worst part of living in this basement is the humiliation we have to endure. The Germans asked us for wood. We didn’t want to give it to them from the firewood storage room, because we have our cases stored in there. So we gave them wood from the large room instead, but those were big logs. They made us chop them up. While we chopped, they laughed. We have to clean the toilet up after them, because if it is full, they simply go on the floor next to it. They light open fires in the rooms with wood flooring. All of our furniture is used as barricades. The situation is unbearable. (…)

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The Russians are at the Preisengers’ place. That’s the third house down from here. At 5 o’clock, the Germans leave, because they heard that the Russians had surrounded them and were attacking from Naphegy. (…) 8:30. The Germans came back. At 9 the Germans went out again. The shelter emptied out. I snuck up to have a look around. The Germans are still in our apartment. There are dead horses in every direction. There is a faint aroma of blood and corpses, blending delicately with smoke. It is cold. Manure is knee-high in the rooms. It’s hard to see. (…) The Germans are standing around freezing. They’ve become soft. They even kindly remind me that if I don’t go back to the basement, they will kill me, since civilians are not allowed on the front line. I put them at ease with the fact that this won’t be the front line for long. They are reassured. Apparently, they burned down the Déli train station. At 11 o’clock the Germans will leave the house, perhaps for good. Either they will return, or the Russians will come.

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1945. II. 12

At 2:45 in the morning, the first two Russians arrive. They are all decked out. They have automatic weapons with them. They are giddy. They shake hands with the paramedics and the wounded hiding here. They laugh at them. They say that if they feel like it, they could go back to the Germans, but they’ll be all right in Russian hands. They ask for rum. When they get the rum in small glasses, they hand them back saying, “big Russian glasses!” But we are not afraid of them. (…) I went up to the apartment. It is a tragic thing to go from room to room. There are eight dead horses in the apartment. The walls are red with blood as high as a man stands. It is full of all kinds of manure and excrement. Almost the entire floor of the loft has collapsed. Every door, cabinet, piece of furniture, window is smashed. Nothing has been left intact. There is hardly any plaster left on the walls. There are German armored cars abandoned in front of the building. (…) There is no wall between the bedroom window and the window of Katica’s room. People are walking on dead horses. The soft bodies of the horses are malleable. If people jump on them, blood bubbles and squelches from their bullet wounds. (…)

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1945. II. 13

The Russians came in the morning. They were looking for schnapps [pálinka]. They didn’t find any, so they left. We hear more and more reports of Russians harassing women. (…) The Potzonyis come over in the afternoon. They told us how the Russians had taken everything from their place. When I was out in the street, a Russian put a demijohn in my hands and wanted to take me somewhere. The superintendent of the neighboring house came over. I gave the bottle to him, so the Russian took him away instead. I am curious as to where he took him.

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Anything that wasn’t destroyed by the Germans was plundered by the Red Army. Marietta Seidl remembered the destruction of their home on Gellért Hill in this way: “The Russians lived in the villa for more than half a year. During this time, they didn’t even clear away the rubble from the rooms that had been decimated by gunfire. When they suddenly moved out at the end of the summer, we were met with a horrifying picture. They took practically everything that they hadn’t burnt or thrown into the craters left by the bombs. They left no trace of the piano, the paintings, furniture, rugs – at least what they hadn’t already cut up for horse blankets or curtains for their trucks. And they also took 13 doors and altogether 72 window frames. (…) In all the rooms stood the meter-high remains of my grandfather’s library: a pile of human excrement then an open book placed on top of it, then a newer pile, and another book, stretching to such a height that, from a comfort point of view, it was incomprehensible to us. These towers decorated the rooms like skyscrapers standing next to each other, emanating the most unbearable odor.

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On December 30, 1944, Lieutenant-General Iván Hindy, the leader of the Hungarian armed forces in Budapest, reported, “The local patriotism of the civilians in Budapest is so great that the people are in mourning; they aren’t even worried about their own fate, but are in despair over the destruction of the city. Everyone is horrified by the thought that we might be forced to blow up all of the bridges.

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Maybe it is not so far fetched to think that these pictures might have been taken by such a local patriot. In such arresting detail, these photos are able to capture the state of the city – for the most part Castle Hill, the Víziváros district, and Gellért Hill – in the spring/summer of 1945. The dead bodies that were pulled out from under rubble or horses, from basements or from the Danube, have already been buried. We can see memorials to a few of them – temporary wooden crosses placed here and there in grassy areas and parks.

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We received the 130 photographs from Dr István Kramer, a lawyer. In the early 1970s, the photographer’s widow (unfortunately he no longer remembers her name) gave him the prints developed from the original negatives. The photographer might be unknown, but he/she is probably identifiable. There weren’t so many people who could have gone through so many of the streets of the resuscitated city in such detail. Tibor Csörgeő, János Kunszt, Tibor Inkey – maybe the photographer hides among them. What is certain: when the photographer was taking this series of pictures, he/she couldn’t have had any other thought than to capture the scene for posterity and reparation. Perhaps this is why the style of the photographs seems to be without empathy, dry, and factual – and so, this is how Budapest looked in 1945.

References:

Krisztián Ungváry, Miklós Tamási. Budapest 1945

Translated from the Hungarian by Fiona Stewart

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We are feeling very lucky this week, as we stumbled upon this old video via Daily News Hungary. A while back, we tried to describe the apocalyptic locations available at some of the abandoned industrial parks around Budapest. But – as they say – a picture is worth a thousand words. Here we find British TV series Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson challenging some local teens to a race of sorts. Clarkson,  in a Fiat 500, and the Hungarian ‘BMX Bandits’ start off in the Castle District, and take off down the hairpin turns that descend Castle Hill, and then speed over the Chain Bridge (a location that seems fresh every time we see it); from there it’s a quiet drive for Clarkson through rainy Pest, as the BMX’ers take to the metro underpasses. Somehow they all make it to the finish line at Csepel Island, which was home to much local industry under the Soviet Union. I won’t tell you who wins, but it can be said that the short video makes the most of both elegant and edgy Budapest.

PPM Film Services is a Budapest-based film company offering an inspiring and creative work atmosphere for its host of clients from around the world. Since our inception, our focus has been providing the best of the best in terms of local production resources, locations, cast and technical teams to ensure that whatever the production we’re charged to create, we do it with no compromise. To sign up for the PPM Hungary newsletter, have a look here.

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via Wikipedia commons

via Wikipedia commons

On the last day of January of this year, Miklós Jancsó, one of Hungary’s greatest film directors, died. Born in 1921, he began to make films in the 1950s, and continued to do so up until his death. His name is well known to students of international film, fans of art-house cinema, and just about anybody who has been inside a movie theater in his home country. Over the course of his career he was nominated five times for the Best Director Award at the Cannes Film Festival – winning once – and was awarded a lifetime achievement award, also at Cannes. His best known works are The Round Up (Szegénylegények, 1965), The Red and the White (Csillagosok, katonák, 1967) and Red Psalm (Még kér a nép, 1971). Wikipedia sums up his style as follows: “Jancsó’s films are characterized by visual stylization, elegantly choreographed shots, long takes, historical periods, rural settings, and a lack of psychoanalyzing. A frequent theme of his films is the abuse of power. His works are often allegorical commentaries on Hungary under Communism and the Soviet occupation, although some critics prefer to stress the universal dimensions of Jancsó’s explorations. Towards the end of the 1960s and especially into the 1970s, Jancsó’s work became increasingly stylized and overtly symbolic.”

Below, find the last interview with Miklós Jancsó, originally published in Index.hu, and translated and reprinted with their permission.

 

Perhaps most characteristically in The Round-Up (Szegénylegények), but certainly in many of Jancsó’s films, the connections between the individual and the state, and between the law and the establishment appear. This is not a total coincidence given that Miklós Jancsó was a lawyer before his film career; in fact, he almost had a career in law. On September 1, 2012, the film director gave his last interview to the magazine Ügyvéd Világ [Lawyers World], László Bodolai (lawyer for Index), and Aranka Szávuly.

 Before your film career, you studied law. Why was that, or more precisely, why did you ultimately choose not to practise law?

Actually, I went into law because I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to be. That was the “communications degree” of the time; in other words, whoever didn’t know what they wanted to be went into law. Because of this there were tons of lawyers who never really went to class; at most they just took their exams. I always sat there, though; in fact, I really loved ethnography and sat in on those classes too.

Which university did you attend?

I did one semester at Pécs. I lived on campus there. After that, I went to Kolozsvár, because at the time, my father was an administrator and he was transferred there; we went with him. Actually, my family is quite strange—a half Romanian, half Hungarian family. My two siblings and I lived here; everyone else lived in Erdély. My mother was one of 12 children, my father one of 10. We used to have these family celebrations where ‘just close family’ meant that there were 122 people there.

What was your favorite subject?

I was interested in Roman law. The professor was named Nándor Óriás, (in Hungarian Óriás means ‘giant’) and he was actually 140 cm tall. I also loved the legal philosopher Barna Horváth’s lectures. He dealt with the politics of freedom. From him, we learnt that the law is freedom—and that the law can only be built upon freedom.

It is quite interesting that someone should stress this, namely that the law is freedom…

I don’t know what university life is like now, but back then there were all kinds of people. We were some kind of folksy-anti-German clique. We had a club too.

Would you say that the fact that you had to think under a regime had an effect on your way of thinking?

Maybe… I was a paralegal for an attorney. I prepared and delivered legal documents, taking them all over the place. There was still a chance that I would continue to be a lawyer. Then came the war. I fell into the hands of the Russians.

How did that happen?

At the end of the war, those who were attending university were pulled out of the army; I wasn’t called up either. As it goes, on March 18, 1944, I received my diploma. The next day the Germans marched in. The claws of the state machinery were slowly reaching the people. If it came out that someone had finished university, those claws came after them, as they did me. By the summer, the Romanians had dropped out of the war, and beaurocrats, like my father, returned to Hungary (along with us, of course). My older sister lived in Székesfehérvár with her husband, who was an army officer. We went to live with them. When they were bombed out of the army base, we moved into a house in a small village. Within a week, the neighbors reported that there was a young man there who hadn’t gone into the army. Naturally, they drafted me right away to serve at Mór. There were no longer any weapons or uniforms, just the rules—not even any barracks. I had a colleague who said that I should go to the squad leader and give him money. Then they would decommission me. I went to him; they decommissioned me. I went back to the village, and the gendarmerie came after me. My brother-in-law was an officer in the flying corps. He sent them away, but made me enlist again—this time to his unit. It was great, because there were no airplanes there, no petrol. After that came the Russians and everyone went West. But my brother-in-law, who was Serbian and a Hungarian soldier, announced that he was not going to leave his country. So, we waited for the Russians. He came back three and a half years later, and I came back half a year later.

The Round Up

The Round-Up

Where were you held as a prisoner of war?

I was next to Leningrad in the old summer home of a tsar. We were rebuilding it. Within half a year, I contracted pneumonia. There was no medicine, or rather the only medicine was bedrest. Are you familiar with [Tivadar] Csontváry’s telegram?

Which one are you thinking of?

When the news came that Emperor Franz Joseph had taken ill, Csontváry wrote: “Put the Emperor out in the sun. Stop. I want a report. Stop. Csontváry. Stop.” The Russians treated my illness the same way; they put me out in the sun. Later, a doctor took pity on me and sent me home. I was taken prisoner on Easter day, and returned home on November 4th. For the next year I was bedridden.

What happened after you regained your strength? You didn’t go back to practising law?

I almost did. I registered with the bar; I even had a mentor, but nothing came of it. When I started to look for my old gang, it turned out that there was a college where you could study film and theatre. I had wanted to be a theatre director my whole life. At the entrance exam, after a long conversation with Béla Balázs, he suggested that I go into film. I graduated in 1951. Last year, I received my diamond diploma.

How did you cope with the Rákosi era? It is difficult to imagine the how you could have managed, given your demeanor.

I was a left-leaning-populist, and we listened to Western radio stations, too. We knew that what they said was different from reality. One time, we heard a Hungarian broadcast of the Russian radio, in which they read out the entire Russian constitution. In the first elections, in 1947, my friends sided with the National Peasant Party, while I sided with the Radicals. By 1949, there was only one party. At that time I said, what the hell, something isn’t right here; they are taking advantage of the people. From then on, until the end of the Communist regime, I didn’t vote—not even once.

And what could you do with a film degree?

No one else was able to work in the film industry except for those who had a diploma. We were able to get work, jobs, right away. I was assigned to work for the television news.

But didn’t you have to make propaganda films?

There were two film studios—one that made feature films and one that made documentaries (part of the television news). Six of us got our diplomas—four of us went to the feature film studio, and two of us went to the television news.

And what did they teach you in college?

Nothing. We watched films and argued about them. István Szőcs swayed us toward Romantic-folksy films, but they didn’t really show us any American films, for example. However, we did go to the movies a lot. During that time, Ferenc Hont became the director of the college. He was a real leftist intellectual. He started the Szeged Open-Air Festival. He was good with the theatre, but not so much with film. In 1949, some of the students—maybe the circle around Karcsi Makk and Bacsó—took it upon themselves to make a film, some kind of story about the Young Pioneers. They got money for it too, and shot it at the Pioneer camp at Csillaberc. At that time, sound machines were about 200 kilos each. You needed two men to lift them. The lighter cameras were the German Arriflex cameras, but they had no sound recording capabilities and you could only work within a 60-meter radius. In other words, it was serious work to make a film with sound. All of a sudden Ferenc Hont showed up. He wanted to contribute his expertise to the project. At that moment, there was no lens on the camera, and so he looked into the panning arm. Such was the level of instruction at that time.

And how did you live through 1956?

With luck. I was in China at the time. There was an army band—orchestra, choir, soloists, dancers, maybe 300 people in all, and they were invited to China. The “brother countries” were really involved with each other, travelling back and forth. My first wife was a folk dancer in the State Folk Ensemble. She told me about one time in Slovakia, in one of the smaller cities, where there was a banner waiting for them that read: “Together we struggle for peace.” Getting back to China…We went there by train. It might have taken us three weeks; we almost went crazy. The Russians were also on high alert. On the train, they confiscated the postcards with maps on them that we had bought, claiming it was espionage. They brought us back quicker, though. By then ’56 was underway. My friends say that either I would have been shot dead or would have defected.

As an activist and somebody who generally cares about truth, how did you live without any repercussions?

Well, I don’t know. Apparently, once when I was not here, one of my co-workers said that I should be demoted. She was a massive bolshevik; me—not so much. We always chatted with each other, shared our differing views, but it never went so far that I should be reported.

And what kind of news broadcasts did you make, specifically?

Rural news. Pig-feeding in Kisvárad, and the like. The television news was organized so that first came politics, then heavy industry, agriculture, culture, and that’s it. These were the different sections. I was in the rural news section. First, they would give an idea for a piece to me, as well as to a director and production manager. Of course, there were also cameramen, but we usually didn’t record sound. We would go to the site—either a farmers’ co-op or state-run farm. But first, we would have to find the head of the village council and the head of the co-op. The first step was to speak with them. One Pentecost we had to make a similar kind of film. We went to the village right as they were having the parade. We asked someone where we could find the head of the council and the head of the co-op. They said, “There they are, they’re bringing the baldachin!”

How did you get to the village? Was there also a car, or did you take the bus?

There were three or four old Skodas that belonged to the film studio. The Russians took away all of the cars, but the studio somehow managed to save these ones. There were always tires packed onto the roofs, because every 50 km or so a tire would blow out and we would have to change it.

So you did reconnaissance.

Yes. We would go down and arrange to go back two or three days later. The head of the farmers’ co-op would then nominate the farmer who deserved to be the one to feed the pig on the television news. Then we would head home and write a screenplay that a committee would have to approve. And then we would go and make the news piece. There was the farmer all dressed up in his Sunday’s best, because of course he couldn’t have fed the pigs just in his work clothes. If he had received some sort of award of merit, that also had to be on display. After the filming, we would go home and, once the committee accepted the final product, it could be broadcast on the television news. We did one or two of these each week.

The Red and the White

The Red and the White

After being involved in the news, when and how did your first feature film The Bells Have Gone to Rome (A harangok Rómába mentek) come about?

In 1958. But it’s horrible.

Why? You don’t like it?

I already knew that it was horrible when I made it. I was finally able to shoot a film, because after ’56 the heads of the film studio were progressive Communists who, in the name of change, said that we should make feature films as well. Not long ago, someone brought it out so that I could see it, and I couldn’t even watch it all the way through; it’s so bad. I don’t usually watch my films, because I can see where I messed up. My colleagues in the theatre are so much luckier in that they can do the same piece more than once, modifying the live piece from performance to performance. But films are like canned goods.

But isn’t it good that these canned goods exist?

Well, I don’t know. I watch other people’s films. Many years ago, there was a screening of my films in England. They had found a completely untouched copy of The Round-Up. And so I started to watch it, because I was curious about its quality.

Speaking of The Round-Up… You broke some really serious taboos with this film for that time-period. It is a very frank depiction of the relationship between the individual and the establishment, and it amazes us that they allowed it. How were you able to achieve such artistic-creative freedom? 

I don’t know. I also wonder about this. When I first met my friend [Gyula] Hernádi, there was this new generation of young writers emerging; Gyula brought me into this circle. Today, many of us wouldn’t be able to sit at the same table together. Back then, there was one goal, which at its heart was critique—we should look at our society with critical eyes and report what we see. Why and how did they put up with this? I knew György Aczél pretty well. If someone watches The Round-Up, they will understand that it is a kind of generalization that is connected to ’56. Aczél was no idiot, and yet he allowed it. Why? He didn’t say. And since he never wrote his memoirs, he has taken this answer with him to the grave.

Do the soldiers in The Round-Up reflect your experiences as a Russian prisoner of war?

Maybe. And everything else. At that time the feature film studio consisted of creative teams. There was a leader, as well as screenwriters and directors. Originally, I ended up with [István] Nemeskürty, who was more or less a popularizing historian. As a Hungarian, he wanted to promote Hungarian history, because under Rákosi there just wasn’t a lot of that. He said that instead of [Mór] Jókai’s novels we should make a real historical film. There are three stories in The RoundUp: a story from [Zsigmond] Móricz, a true story about outlaws (written by a novelist from Szeged), and a story about how they suspected a gendarme of being a mole—that’s the real story of a Russian general.

Is it really true what they write about your films, that they portray your thoughts?

Actually, we never really formulated for ourselves, what we should say. That was always the problem, that we would finish the film and already need to make a new one. That’s why Hernádi took a firm position of no compromise. Both money and the establishment affect a film. I used to talk with my ex-wife Márta Mészáros about how lucky we were that we started working right at the time when Kádár was trying to liberalize things a little, if one can say this about such a regime. When someone writes something, they are writing about themselves. Even the census taker… Actually what comes out doesn’t really interest me, but at the same time you have to take it seriously. Public opinion matters quite a bit. It is not a coincidence that Americans spend as much trying to make a film popular as they do making the film itself. Under the circumstances of that time it was lucky that my first films were in international circulation. I have met with a number of colleagues, but I am not in the same league as Bergman, or Antonioni, who I consider to be my master.

Do you have any films in the works?

Yes.

Is there a good chance that there will be funding for it?

This is a ridiculous industry that requires a lot of money. For decades I’ve been making films in a way that when the money comes together, I mull it over. I really don’t think it all the way through. I just know more or less what I want to do.

We know that it is a lot, but how much has technology changed?

So much. In college we used to cut actual film. I already spoke about the kinds of cameras and sound gear we were working with. Today’s editors use computers. It’s a big change.

If I remember correctly, you have run for office twice since the end of the Communist regime.

Run? They made me. They asked me to. I gave my name.

Why did you say yes? Did you really believe that you could change something here?

I have thought that so many times. In these past few decades, there were times when I believed it might be possible to change things in the world. I don’t really like [Sándor] Márai, because I don’t like gentrification; but, what he wrote in his diary is important. You can’t seriously think that someone can change the world.

But that’s what being an activist is all about—believing that change is possible, that things should be better…

Of course. Because you have to. You can’t live just giving into the fact that everything is shit and people can walk all over you. But at the same time I know that with every change came people who did exactly the same as those who had come before them. At the time of the ’49 election, I was convinced that the Communists were an upstanding society. Later, as everything unfolded—and it’s the same now unfortunately—you realize that something is not right, no matter what they promise. But, well, it’s always been like this.

In the past few decades, has it occurred to you that you are a lawyer? Maybe when you heard or read about lawsuits or trials?

The lawyer in me has never stirred. With the Kádár trials, so many things came to mind, for example who were these people who had done these things. Once, I was called to the countryside. This young lawyer drove me there. It was at the time of the first Fidesz government. He talked about how one of his judge acquaintances had acquitted a fidesz defendant. The lawyer had asked him why. Had they swayed him? Had they given him money? He replied that they had done neither. He just wanted to live in peace.

What kinds of books have you been reading lately?

So many different kinds.

What kind of film would you make, if someone gave you an unlimited amount of money?

Well, that’s never happened to anyone. In today’s society, though, one can find plenty of topics.

Do you think that coincidence is an important part of life?

Of course.

And is there such a thing as a coincidence?

Well, I don’t know what coincidence is. Some time in the 40s I went out to the corner of Baross street. Two lackeys were unloading iron from a truck. One of the pieces of iron struck me just below my right eye, not even a centimeter below. An accident? A year either before or after, there was an avant-garde artitsts’ club on Üllői street in the building right across from the Vörösmarty cinema. I looked at my watch. It was 2:10 when I walked through the entrance and closed the gate behind me. At that moment, the balcony…

Collapsed. And what do you think will become of this world?

I don’t know. But it’s also a good question to ask, what will happen with this country?

Jancso_milos_01

via Wikipedia

* Interview translated from the Hungarian by Fiona Stewart.

PPM Film Services is a Budapest-based film company offering an inspiring and creative work atmosphere for its host of clients from around the world. Since our inception, our focus has been providing the best of the best in terms of local production resources, locations, cast and technical teams to ensure that whatever the production we’re charged to create, we do it with no compromise. To sign up for the PPM Hungary newsletter, have a look here.

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Oh but there have been a lot of videos making the rounds lately touting the elegant gorgeousness of Budapest past and present. If you look back through this blog’s posts, you will find but a few. Or just click here and here.

The latest addition to our video library comes from the Hungarian Board of Tourism, and goes beyond the borders of Budapest in its scope. Highlighting the unique beauty of the entire country, over the course of the video you will be taken to such destinations as Héviz, home to the world’s largest thermal lake, then on to Lake Balaton. Of course, Budapest is not left out, with stunning scenes from illustrious sights like New York Café, Heroes’ Square, the National Theatre, the Chain Bridge, and even a ruin pub. Recent Hungarian technological innovations like light-transmitting concrete also get some play, as does a deconstruction of some local cuisine. So, thanks tourism board, for this awe-inspiring tribute to the nation’s wealth of singularly tourist – and film – friendly sights.

PPM Film Services is a Budapest-based film company offering an inspiring and creative work atmosphere for its host of clients from around the world. Since our inception, our focus has been providing the best of the best in terms of local production resources, locations, cast and technical teams to ensure that whatever the production we’re charged to create, we do it with no compromise. To sign up for the PPM Hungary newsletter, have a look here.

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