Broken Voices ★½

An ensemble of young female talent, a privileged social setting where associates are also rivals for public recognition, a male authority figure celebrated for the achievements of the girls he directs: it’s a telling coincidence that the production circumstances of Ondřej Provazník‘s first solo-directing feature mirror its scenario. The latter evolves around a painfully common, yet crucially under-explored subject. Set in the early 90s in post-Soviet Czech Republic, the speculative composition of historical piece and teenage drama draws heavily from the infamous case of the Czech girl’s choir “Bambini di Praga”. Its choirmaster Bohumil Kulínský Sr. was convicted of sexual abuse in 49 cases – the true count of victims likely many times higher. 

His intimate ties with the girls were so obvious they were dubbed “Kulínčata”. One of them is 13-year-old Karolína (Kateřina Falbrová), though the tarnished name is never dropped. She is eager to join the coveted concert section of her girls’ choir, renamed “Canticella”. Her slightly older sister Lucie (Maya Kintera) has already caught the eye of suave choirmaster Vítězslav Mácha (Juraj Loj). Soon, the jealous girls not only compete vocally but for his discrete favor. At first, his attention comes as singing advice and calculated praise. But the closer Karolína gets to her singing dreams, the more intrusive Mácha’s advances become. It’s this multi-leveled power imbalance and manipulation where the moral ambiguity becomes most troubling. 

Provazník implies the girls share a secret desire for their choirmaster. His difference from the real Kulínský in age, demeanor, and appearance is striking. Loj’s calculated performance as a charismatic, “tall, dark, and handsome” genius turns the bloated, pasty molester into an alluringly amoral artist. His authority and imposing appearance are instrumental to a narrative that subtly shifts responsibility. Soft lighting, exquisite interiors, and a muted color palette create an erotic atmosphere, teeming with sensual promise. The cunning predator becomes a tragically flawed figure who can’t resist the omnipresent lure of budding feminine sexuality. As she slowly gives in to his unspoken physical demands, Karolína seems half-willing. He is exculpated as a passionate perfectionist; she seems complicit in her own grooming. 

Rather than scrutinizing the adults – parents, supervisors, organizers – for failing to intervene, the plot indirectly presents Lucie and the other girls as culprits. Instead of worrying about Karolína, they envy her. The plot never engages with the institutional structures that facilitate sexual abuse. Equally unexplored is the socio-cultural context that protects powerful men in artistic spaces. An authentic female perspective behind the camera is crucially absent. While newcomer Kateřina Falbrová gives a touchingly sensitive performance, her stifled dramatic arc leaves the character’s inner life opaque. Key emotional turning points are conveyed through glances and silences that romanticize exploitation rather than exposing it. This dissonance culminates in a rape scene framed as a tactful and tender seduction.

Shot on 16mm, the refined aesthetics exude a hazy nostalgia. Live-recorded choir scenes offer moments of transcendent harmony. This repeated emphasis on Mácha’s skills buys into the common argument that alleged male genius would be of higher worth than the physical and psychological well-being of young girls. Visual polish and modest pacing evoke a dreamlike quality that blunts the impact of the continuous abuse. In line with this barely hidden partiality for the abuser’s side, the original title translates to “Choirmaster”, and makes Mácha the key protagonist. On the other hand, the international English language title becomes a bitter reflection of the film’s failure to amplify the exploited children’s voices. Underneath the elegant veneer hides a questionable work that mines trauma for art-house pretension.