All language subtitles for Ősz Badacsonyban 1954ENG

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AUTUMN IN BADACSONY

directed by
Miklós Jancsó

director of photography
István Hildebrand

music composed by
Iván Patachich and Sándor Lakatos

We arrived in Badacsony on a
moonlit October night.

We stood on the mountaintop,
with the silver landscape beneath us,

and the quiet, glistening
Lake Balaton.

We quoted the poet Kisfaludy, and were
reminded of the rich history

of this land.

Can the present live up to it?

It can!
As our film is the witness.

Already quarter to 6,

and still the moon shines.

Daybreak comes late in October.

We are in the rooms of
Badacsony's great poet,

Sándor Kisfaludy, who
has been dead for 100 years.

The door is open.

The is where the poet stepped out
to the porch every dawn,

to ponder the view of
his land of great history.

The hooves of Roman mules trod this
road a sesquimillenium ago.

Once proud castles that
protected the famous viticulture

from the Turks
and the Tatars

are today crumbling stone.

ROSE STONE

And this stone is an
old meeting-point for lovers.

It has seen generations
of vintners

live, be happy, work...

So has the Sun emerging
from Lake Balaton.

Morning steps in slowly
on its golden bridge.

Top of the morning!

We shouldn't have said that.

It's a bad day for the fox.

The Badacsony man rises
even earlier than the fox,

and each, including
hunter Anti Víg,

is a sworn enemy of foxes.

No wonder.

It can wreak havoc in the vineyard
if it manages to get in.

The sly one got lucky this time.

It is nowhere in sight.

It's around 6 o'clock.

As signalled by the churchbells,
and the horns of the Balaton ferries.

No!

It's 6:30 sharp.

You can adjust your clocks
to this little fire.

The Croatian brigade break their fast
at precisely half past six every day.

The Bastion.

Buttress is the name of this structure.

Protecting the precious vines
from wind and storm.

Lots of basalt blocks,
lots of money here.

But our Government is no cheapskate.

There's a fight for the vines
over there, too.

Bushes, weeds are burned,

for they could suffocate the vines
within a year or so.

A famous family works here.

The Ihász's.

Vintners for five generations.

Now they work in their own vineyard.

This one has barely brought any fruit
this year, it's grown old.

As we can see from
the head-shaking of Mr Ihász,

it may have some ailment.

So, let's go with the pickaxe.

A new rootstock will be planted
here in the spring.

Mr Ihász is in his 60s,
but he still works hard.

Yes, because one only
has to glance next door to see

what happens if one
lets go of the pickaxe.

This used to be a grapevine 4 years ago.

It yielded a 1000 litres.

The thatched roof of the Zsuppáns'
press house needs to be fixed.

It's a shame that the bush
has crept onto the cellar roof.

Through the damaged roof,

the basalt cliffs of the
Badacsony stare ominously.

These volcanic formations dubbed
'organ pipes' may look beautiful,

but vintners, like the Ihász's
cannot forgive them

that it is from their feet,
that every year

a new assault of
bushes, weeds, rocks begins.

To combat it, great human
will power and teamwork is required.

This is probably what
Mr Ihász thought,

when one fine day,
he visited the People's

Front Committee
to offer his help.

Talking with Comrade Bíró,
he said

he had serious results that year,
and he thought he could help.

He would talk to the vintners
for better yields.

And from that day
on, every day after work,

Mr Ihász pays a visit
to his fellow vintners.

He is with Mr Tóth now.

This variety, called Red Szlanka,
is getting old.

But it still yields much.
And it's delicious!

Still, it should be replaced
with more noble varieties.

Even if they are more sensitive.

The pay-off is a hundredfold.

The Szürkebarát (Pinot Gris), king of
the Badacsony local varieties.

Burgundy's a pretty,
good yielding variety,

but the real Badacsony variety is
the one to which this leaf belongs,

which is more than meets the eye,

the one that produces
the famous wine: the Kéknyelű.

This is the other famous one.

The Olaszrizling (Welschriesling).

Vintners are also wine experts.

And Mr Ihász is one of
the top ones at that.

He is now visiting the cellar
of the State Winery.

These deep cellars hide treasures
worth their weight in gold.

In fact, they may be
even more valuable than gold.

These barrels contain Badacsony wine.

It sounds better than ringing gold.

And the colour...

and the candlelight
diffracted through it...

and the taste!

Well, its taste is good enough
even for Mr Ihász.

Agronomists Szőnyegi and Vajkai
deserve every praise.

They have devoted their lifetimes
to the reputation of the Badacsony wine.

And these bottles with red caps
and white labels

advertise the famous vines
of these hills,

the heat of the Balaton
sun with their fire,

and the warm, wine-loving heart
of the Badacsony man.

Wine must be cared for like a child.

One has to watch it every day,

unlock the secrets of its soul.

One secret remains to be solved by
the Badacsony people:

we want more good wine.

The barrel is small,
the wine is good inside

I'm not drinking it,
I'll get drunk

A few years ago, only
a couple of old people

used to wash the
barrels before harvest.

Now there is help aplenty.

Many young Badacsony people
have returned to viticulture

a laborious trade at
times, but certainly

a happy one,
especially at harvest.

Just as the starlings return
every year to taste the grapes.

The grapes have matured, finally,

the vine is left alone

but not you, my little angel,

for I carry the grapes with you.

On top of Badacsony hill

three red, three white vines.

I'm choosing the white one,

I'll pick it for my dove.

The Badacsony State Winery is
among the first to harvest.

Always doing exemplary work.

Landed first prize for its wines
at the Agricultural Trade Fair.

The vines are heavy with grapes.

The girls can barely cope with them.

And the taste!

And they're almost as beautiful
as the Badacsony girls.

Then again, they've worked
all year around for this.

Ernő Szombathelyi hasn't
only bowed down to girls,

he hoed, he sprayed fungicide,
until his back hurt.

Results are stupendous.

Quite a few people as well as presses
are at work at the press houses.

Still, they're barely able to cope.

The long line of manual presses
couldn't do it alone.

But in the back, and here in the front,
hydraulic presses are used.

They really make it easier.

A small hand gesture,
and the must comes pouring.

The hydraulic press gets rid of
all the pomace at once.

And down in the cellar,
the must is already being examined.

In the barrels in the
branching corridors,

next year's good spirits are brewing:

the wine is fermenting.

Autumn clouds approach from the south.

And in the small cellars
flat against the hill,

the murci, partially fermented must
is being examined.

Mr Ihász is proud
to offer his guest a glassful.

His reputation is well earned
on this hill,

he won't be ashamed
before Comrade Szőnyegi.

But the old man has been the carrier of
others' problems for some time now.

Will fine weather last?

The wonderful twilight landscape
looks promising,

so does the light from the sinking Sun.

Fine weather is badly needed, the
harvest hasn't finished in many places.

And there will be festivities
somewhere, they say.

the blackbird calls on the
shores of the Balaton

the blackbird sings a pretty song

there's no one in Badacsony like you.

This high sky,
if it clouds up, it clears up.

The rich girl is avoiding me.

You can keep avoiding me,
Badacsony girls,

I don't care for you anymore.

The torchbearers are headed
to the festivities.

The harvest hasn't been this merry
in Badacsony for many years.

(unintelligible)

I sat my lover on top

The vine wreath signaling
the end of the harvest, is brought in.

The old custom is renewed.

The youth greet the elderly,

their paragons in good work.

Cheers!

They've worked well.
Let's wish them a good time.

The fat, red skin of the
lamb on the spit,

the Badacsony murci,

and the loud merrymaking proclaim:

the hill resounds with joie de vivre.

And what is signified by
the couples looking for a quiet place

by the centuries-old Rose Stone?

Tradition has it,

that if one sits here with their lover,
they get married in a year.

Well, best of luck, Erzsike!

Just a few people moving
in the silent night.

Everything alright on the hill,
isn't it, Mr Ihász?

Mules trudging up the Roman road.

Maybe they're taking the reeds
to the Zsuppáns' press house.

Or there could be
harvest tomorrow somewhere.

Badacsony of centuries-old culture
lives on with renewed vigour.

THE END