Vulture’s Wake ★★

One could write a whole catalogue of thesis projects about the social-psychological and sociopolitical themes in Szabolcs Hajdu’s condensed chamber play Vulture’s Wake. Its intricate plot plays out over the course of one evening and prolonged night in the lakeside apartment of academic Andris (Szabolcs Hajdu). He has gathered his long time friends Rajmund (Imre Gelányi) and Árpi (Domokos Szabó) for a meeting to mourn a deceased mutual friend. In the years the formerly close men haven’t seen each other their lives have drastically diverged. As each man is joined by his female partner, the somber, intimate remembrance grows increasingly raw. Grief, alcohol, and nostalgia act as catalysts, peeling back layers of buried resentment, fractured bonds, and emotional wounds. The apartment becomes a microcosm of class tension, fragile masculinity, and political disparities.

Though highly hypothetical in its situational setting, the bleak black-and-white scenario is rich in socio-analytical and psychological potential. Each of the three friends serves as an obvious representation of his respective social class. Andris is a successful university teacher on his way to a promising new position in Mexico. Árpi struggles to maintain his middle-class status despite burdening debts. Rajmund is financially destitute, selling his plasma and belongings to make ends meet. While Andris aspires to join the upper class, Árpi is on the verge of sinking from middle-class to working class, and Rajmund is stuck at rock bottom. Thus, the male protagonists also embody different stages of social transition. Andris is going up, Árpi is descending, Rajmund is stuck at rock bottom. 

In line with the men’s representative personalities, the three female protagonists serve to portray the differing personal and familial relationship issues of their partner’s position in the social hierarchy. Andris’ partner Zsuzsi (Kata Pető) is concerned about his departure. Árpi’s partner Niki (Orsi Tóth) is worried about his expenses and offended by Rajmund’s crass behavior. Rajmund’s girlfriend Csibi (Erika Tankó) is suffering under his violence and acts equally clueless and clumsy. Each of them is hardly more than an extension of her partner within the narrative. This kind of high-concept drama is undeniably intriguing and indeed revealing. However, what Szabolcs Hajdu uncovers are his own prejudices and hardened classist stereotypes. 

The latter are neither undermined nor challenged by the dialogue-heavy scenario that betrays its misconceptions about social stratification and class hierarchies in its very premise. Though it is never explicitly stated how and when exactly the three friends met, it becomes clear that it happened in childhood and likely in school. This subtly denies the social segregation of neighborhoods and schools, the alienation between classes, and their individual differences. Since Andris and Árpi are both from different ends of the middle class, the odd one out is Raymund. Tellingly, he is by far the most negative of all characters, exhibiting the full range of hostile assumptions about the underclass. He drinks heavily, smokes cigarettes he rolls himself, gulps down tons of coffee, acts loud and vulgar, curses, has shrewd political views, and, most significantly, physically mistreats Csibi.

While his friends are less drastic and occasionally try to calm him down, they reveal their insecurities and chauvinism in their own ways. Andris disregards Zsuzsi when deciding about their mutual life, Árpi invests money he doesn’t have in luxury goods to show off a status he is about to lose. This crisis of a male identity that is strongly bound to status resonates in the Hungarian original title for the film: Egy százalék indián (One Percent Indian). It refers to a DNA test undergone by the deceased, which the friends find, discovering he was 1% Native American. These absurdist comical elements replace in the scenario any substantial exploration into male self-perception, class-specific gender concepts, and the friends’ search for identity and belonging. 

Szabolcs Hajdu’s idea of gender-specific behavior is that men search for belonging in their lineage, in another country, or in status symbols. Women, on the other hand, would simply want a man they can belong to. These painfully outdated concepts permeate the scenario, eroding its stylistic quality and competent performances. The latter effectively convey the emotional toll of the suffocating dynamic. Restrained visuals marked by long, unbroken takes and a muted, intimate lighting scheme echo the characters’ internal unease. Though realist in approach, acting, and execution, the overly constructed concept, stereotypes, and reactionism remove this intimate study of grief and masculinity, disillusionment, and friendship from reality. What remains is a showcase for acting and photography: the carrion of a good film, picked clean of social insight and psychological credibility.