It's appropriate that Václav Havel, the playwright-president of the Czech Republic, graces Up and Down with a brief cameo. Havel's talents for absurdity and subtextual political satire distinguish his plays, while the screenplay for Up and Down—co-written by director Jan Hrebejk and Petr Jarchovsky—weaves the politics of borders into the comedy of human frailty.
The film opens on two blunt smugglers who, after transporting illegal Indian immigrants across the Czech border, discover that one of their cargo left a baby on board. As the underworld operation troubleshoots this problem (or is it an opportunity), Hrebejk and Jarchovsky shift to Prague, where Mila (Natasa Burger) laments, to her husband Franta (Jiri Machacek), "I need a baby" (problem: she can't conceive). Though he's trying to put his soccer-fan hooliganism behind him (at one point, he blusters, "There ain't no God. That's why I'm a fan"), Franta's probationary status disallows adoption. The wayward baby makes its way to the hapless couple, but the apparent solution is only the beginning of their farcical pursuit of stability.
An apparently separate plot thread develops across town, where ailing professor Otto (Jan Triska) serves as the pivot point for an awkward reunion. Martin, his son from a previous marriage (Petr Forman; yep: Milos's son), long living in Australia, returns with his mother Vera, Otto's ex (Emilia Vasaryova). Vera makes no attempt to placate Otto and his beautiful young lover (Ingrid Timkova). The sitdown of the foursome is a study in tension; inevitably, the topic of emigration causes much of the friction, with Vera—who feels profoundly spurned—spewing intolerant invective about outsiders. Back at Franta's place, a visit from his soccer-fan buddy "The Colonel" includes the guest's comment "Who can blame me if I want this little country for me and my white kids?" even as Franta frantically tries to conceal his non-white baby.
Hrebejk and Jarchovsky keep the ironic situations (and gallow's humor) coming as fickle fate guides the stories to converge, almost casually. Ineffectual bureaucracy is a common denominator; one scene depicts cops obliged to play concierge to thieves. Mostly, Up and Down is seasoned with the everyday absurdities of artificial social boundaries. In its roundabout way, the film illustrates that whatever the nation, we're all the same, so the only sane response is compassion. For whatever reason, this simple lesson has proved the hardest to learn. The credits roll over a pan of Vera's menagerie of kitschy toys, as good a symbol as any of stalled global diversity, whirring up and down and round and round in endless cycles, collected and shelved.
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