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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