As Marika, an employee of a Jewish tailor, found herself unemployed in a time of scarcity and brutality, with state police thugs ransacking homes and seizing valuables – as well as suspect residents – at their whim, she faced existential threats from the very start of Grofova's film. Already grappling with the grief of her missing husband and the responsibility of managing the family farm alone, Marika was hardly prepared when she discovered a Jewish boy hiding in her home – a sin that threatened to cost both their lives. As a Hungarian woman, Marika witnessed the purging of her own ethnicity alongside the Jewish residents, with the two groups pitted against each other, further escalating her precarious existence. Adding to her plight, a prominent local officer had taken a personal interest in her.
"When I first read the book, I was pregnant," Grofova reveals. "Perhaps that's why I felt such a profound connection to the character of the Hungarian widow, Marika. What would I have done in her shoes, risking my own safety for the life of another's child? What inner conflicts and moral dilemmas did she face?"
Grofova masterfully crafts a brooding and minimalist narrative in "The Hungarian Dressmaker," particularly in its montage sequences, which utilize macro lens shifts to lend an ethereal quality to Marika's predicaments. "The camera is a co-narrator of emotions in this film," she explains. "Simultaneously, the stylized and imaginative visuals help me evoke the metaphor of the ever-present duality of life and death, light and darkness, within each of us – Emma and the Death's Head."
Already burdened with the grief of her missing husband and the sole responsibility of managing her family's farm, Marika was hardly braced for the revelation that a Jewish boy was hiding in her abode—a transgression that threatened to cost both their lives. As a Hungarian woman, Marika witnessed firsthand the ethnic purging of Jews, with both communities pitted against each other, heightening the danger she faced. Adding insult to injury, a prominent local officer had taken a keen interest in her.
"When I first read the book, I was pregnant," Grofova reminisces. "Perhaps that's why I felt a profound connection with the character of the Hungarian widow, Marika. What choices would I have made in her shoes, risking my own safety for the life of another's child? What conflicting thoughts and dilemmas must she have endured?"
Grofova crafts "The Hungarian Dressmaker" with a brooding yet minimalist aesthetic, particularly in its montage sequences that utilize macro lens shifts to lend an ethereal dimension to Marika's struggles. She masterfully harnesses the cinematography of Martin Strba, remarking, "The camera serves as a co-narrator of feelings and emotions in this film. At the same time, the stylized, imaginative imagery helps me evoke the metaphor of the perpetual coexistence of life and death—the embodiment of both light and darkness, Emma and the Grim Reaper, within us all."
Grofova relies heavily on the performance of Alexandra Borbely to anchor the narrative, with numerous scenes focused on her unspoken pain, fear, and resolve. The director confesses, "Alexandra is a phenomenal actress. I had no doubts she would triumphantly shoulder this challenging role. Throughout our collaboration, I felt she intuitively grasped my unique directorial vision. In the culminating scene, she pushed herself to the very limit of her physical and mental endurance, and I am profoundly grateful to her for that."
Borbely's mastery in navigating between the intricate tapestry of languages, cultures, and traditions during that era was pivotal, as Grofova emphasizes, in capturing the audience's attention to the tensions ethnic Hungarians faced in Slovak lands during the war. "This held immense significance for me," she says. "I aimed to depict, as authentically as possible, the multicultural essence of Slovakia's capital and its fringes along the Slovak-Hungarian border. Slovaks often overlook the rich ethnic diversity of their roots and fail to recognize that excessive nationalism contradicts our genuine history."
The film's backdrop serves as a timeless portal, transporting viewers into a world of hardships yet filled with the intricate details of the era. "Fortunately, we stumbled upon the perfect locale for Marika's home, nestled in the authentic ambiance of a Slovak village, where Hungarians have been the primary inhabitants until this day," Grofova reminisces.
Her primary challenge, she confesses, was "to portray the characters' actions through the lens of their contemporary perspectives, not through the privileged hindsight of today, where we can conveniently moralize and judge the past. Only by immersing ourselves in history in this manner can we uncover parallels with our current conduct. If I have achieved even a fraction of this, I will consider it a triumph."
