Between 1955 and 1967 many radical changes took place in Greek society. New production companies (including Spect Films, Millas Films, Tzal Films, Olympos Films, Karagiannis Films, Clearhos Konitsiotis Films, Klak Films) produced a remarkable number of films in many different genres. Such production was greatly assisted after 1957 by the construction of the best-equipped Alpha Studios in an implied antagonism to the AnZervos and Finos Film studios.
Between 1955 and 1956, 22 feature films were produced; between 1957 and 1958, 28 films; between 1958 and 1959, 46 films; and in 1960, 63 films. The pace accelerated wildly, so that between 1966 and 1967 a total of 118 movies were released, not including short films. At a certain stage, the Greek film industry was producing annually more films per capita than Hollywood and was competing with Hindi cinema for world supremacy.
All of the neighborhoods in the large urban centers had a remarkable number of cinemas for winter and summer screenings. By 1960, there were at least 350 cinemas in Athens, with another 140 in the working-class city
of Piraeus. A similar number existed in Thessaloniki and other major cities, with the tendency to increase in order to cater for different audiences. For the growing urban populations, movie theaters became spaces of communal experience, public visibility, and social recognition. The need for more popular entertainment demanded the immediate production of as many new films as possible, especially of comedies, melodramas or, at the end of the period, erotica or soft-porn.
Between 1955 and 1965, the act of going to the cinema was an experience of nation building with social and educational value. The urban masses that had just left their villages were in their majority illiterate (40 percent of a total population of about 8,300,000 people in 1960). Going to watch Greek movies was a socializing experience for them, as they were informed about the nation and its history through sanitized depictions of the War of Independence and, occasionally, of recent history. Audiences were thus implicitly conditioned regarding public morality, gender roles, and political ideology.
With very few exceptions, these films perpetuated stereotypes by depicting one-dimensional characters without dilemmas or inner life. Their stories were also simplistic and formulaic, depicting either a lost “innocence” through fustanella dramas or the victimization of women in melodramas about poor girls falling in love with rich promiscuous men. Titles like I Sinned for My Child; Mother, I am Your Child; The Deviation of an Innocent Girl; Mother, I lost My Way; I Killed for My Child; After the Sin; Mother, Why Did You Give Birth to Me . . . have become proverbial phrases in the political vernacular when referring to silly sentimentalism and bombastic banality.
Yet important and, on many occasions, great actors took part in such films, which were commercially successful. (Some of the revenue from these films was used to produce artistically ambitious films, especially by Finos Films.) From their titles, one could also notice the rise by the late 1950s and early 1960s of rather risqué movies, which expressed a preoccupation with sexuality and extramarital affairs. A number of films, such as Lust and Passion (1960), Desires in the Wheat fields (1960), Girls of Athens (1961), The House of Lust (1962), Sinful Hands (1963), and the notorious The Perverts (Oi Anomaloi, 1964), made by ephemeral directors, laid the foundations for a more explicit representation of sexual behavior, which, in the latter part of the same decade, led to the establishment of a thriving soft-porn industry.
Consequently, the control of their production was of immense signifi- cance for the state—and despite the relaxation after 1960 and during the interlude of 1963 to 1967, the state kept a very strict control over film scripts and the dissemination of “nationally or morally dangerous material.” The period shows an increase in slapstick comedies, which made use either of good performances by significant actors or of topical events that caused some sensation. What they retained in immediacy and sincerity,
however, they lacked in style and form. Most also lacked the moral and psychological complexity that would have created complete and believable characters. In a sense, these were grass-roots attempts to deal with the modernity that was reshaping Greek society by rapidly transforming it into a quasi-capitalist economy. During this process, the traditional ethics of communal bonds began to collapse, but no value systems emerged in their place. The new political establishment simply continued its opportunistic policies in economy, nation building, and social cohesion, based mainly on coercion, ideological conceptions of nationality and the systematic exclusion of “dangerous” ideas.
The image of the “rascal” (katergaris) as a likable and sympathetic character became the central figure in these movies, a new variety of the common man dominant in earlier films. In this new representation, all urbanized villagers and the aspiring petit-bourgeois or middle-class audience recognized the compromises and the concessions they had to make in order to be accepted and become mainstream. Their transformation meant that they had to dispense with their villageois accent, their uncouth manners, and their existential innocence and organic unity with nature, in order to succeed in their new environment of class-conscious capitalist organization. They also had to ingratiate themselves to state power and its representatives, by concealing their thoughts, disguising themselves into those “acceptable” by the official state in the new urban reality.
The image of the innocent villager who goes to the city and deals with the intricacies, contradictions, and pretensions of the new urban culture became the dominant theme in most comedies. In the beginning, they were delightful moral tales of self-empowerment, with witty dialogue and occasionally some extremely funny malapropisms (some of which have become standard expressions in the daily vocabulary). The attempts of uneducated low-class individuals to use sophisticated vocabulary and savoir- vivre manners provoked genuine laughter together with the carnivalesque depiction of the local aristocracy.
Certain movies that reflect the social tensions of the period should also be mentioned. Dinos Dimopoulos’ Jo the Menace (Tzo o Tromeros, 1955), and The Little Car (To Amaxaki, 1956) depicted the gradual transition to Americanized forms of commercial interaction in a still underdeveloped country: the juxtaposition of the prevailing traditional prewar mentality with the capitalist mechanized rules of modern urban realities provoked laughter by pointing out the contradictions and conflicts that existed in the minds of ordinary people. The mental tension explored here showed that, in these comedies at least, the individual was depicted with psychological depth and moral agency. Their comic stories caused an implicit psycho- logical release not simply on a personal level. Dimopoulos (1921–2003) soon became one of the most prolific and uneven directors of the so-called Old
Greek Cinema, and one of the central figures of the most successful period in film production in the country.18
Similar can be said about some other comedies made by Alekos Sakellarios during the 1950s, such as Music, Poverty and Pride (Laterna, Ftohia kai Filotimo, 1955), a hilarious carnivalization of stereotypical behavior, juxtaposing the urban mentality with the activities of wandering outsiders, the gypsies. During this period, Sakellarios (1913–1991), a lighter form of Frank Capra and Ernst Lubitsch, made a number of highly successful comedies dealing with the process of social transformation.
Among them, The Coffee Oracle (I Kafetzou, 1956) was extremely funny and quirky, starring the most important comedian of the period, Georgia Vassileiadou (1897–1980), an actress who distinguished herself for her peculiar idioms and sparkling wit. In Auntie from Chicago (I Theia apo to Chicago, 1957), Sakellarios brought her together with the dramatic actor Orestes Makris of The Drunkard to create one of the most exhilarating, exuberant, and absurd comic situations: this was the Greek equivalent of Waiting for Godot, minus the existential angst, metaphysics, and gloom. With its whimsical contrasts, irreverent paradoxes, and spirited euphoria, the film explored the deep and irreconcilable dualities coexisting in Greek society that were to receive their inevitable denouement in the next decade.
The terror of the new realities of capitalist commodification, urban alienation, and community dissolution can be seen in an amusing comedy by Tzavellas, We Only Live Once (Mia Zoi tin Ehoume, 1958), starring the great dramatic actor Dimitris Horn (1921–1988). The misappropriation of money from a bank by a low-level clerk in order to live out the passion of his life with a voluptuous woman (Yvonne Sanson, the first foreigner to appear in a Greek production) became the starting point for an exploration of the emerging capitalist class that was assuming power by imposing the exchangeable objectification of human emotions.
Sakellarios’ A Hero with Slippers (Enas Iroas me Pantoufles, 1958), with its melancholic humor and sad irony, and starring the great theatrical actor, Vassilis Logothetidis (1897–1960), seemed like a farewell to an era and to a type of cinematic hero. In the same genre of good comedies, Tsiforos released his hilarious spoof on urban myths The Treasure of the Deceased (O Thisauros tou Makariti, 1959) with two great comedians Vassilis Aulonites (1904–1970) and Georgia Vassileiadou. The quirky humor of this film almost established a peculiar style in scriptwriting with unexpected puns and irreverent innuendos. It also farewelled a particular style in house- making in Athens, as the old architecture with the courtyard in the middle was gradually replaced by fortified and privatized blocks of flats.
After years of city life, innocence was replaced by compliance and complacency, and by the terrifying image of a citizen without moral respon- sibility or a civil conscience, an individualistic opportunist who would do
anything and accept everything in order to “make it.” The cultivation of such an image became the dominant theme in these comedies which, despite the freshness of their vernacular and elegant simplicity of their plot, propa- gated a distinctly conservative and highly regressive ideological message. It must, however, be conceded that they managed to keep the industry alive, offer training in technical skills to young directors, and make the industry self-sufficient, so much so that after the 1960s a new wave of cinematic repre- sentations became possible.
In 1956, Elias Paraskevas presented the first color movie in a rather faded Technicolor. The film was The Shepherdess’ Lover (O Agapitikos tis Voskopoulas) a fustanella drama that enjoyed a revival in such a period of social transition. As we have seen, back in 1932 Tsakiris had produced his own sound version of the bucolic drama written in traditional demotic verse—and the fustanella tradition with its reassuring clichés and assuaging stereotypes gave a sense of continuity and strength to the urbanized masses working in factories against the depersonalizing presence of state bureau- cracy, urban anonymity, and capitalist mechanization. Two versions of the same story had appeared the previous year; one by Dinos Dimopoulos and a second by Dimis Dadiras. The latter became extremely successful thanks to the fresh and authentic innocence of Aliki Vouyouklaki (1933/4–1996), whose presence was to dominate the next 25 years of film-making.
In 1957, Gregoriou attempted a modern adaptation of the ancient Persephone myth in The Abduction of Persephone (I Arpagi tis Persefonis). The film was set in two villages that feud about having the daughter of Dimitra, Persephone, amongst them. It was the most ambitious and most interesting work made by Gregoriou during this decade. He filmed it in a village outside Athens, forcing himself to abandon the written script and let his camera simply record the actual life of the villagers. He recollected:
The camera became the all-seeing eye stealing scenes from the everyday life of ordinary villagers, forcing me to adjust appropriately the set scenes of the script, in a form of unpretentious following of actual life, dialogues, movements and reactions—as if there was no predetermined editing, but cinematic narrative followed objective reality.19
Gregoriou’s quest for realism soon ended, as his major films failed at the box office and reviews were particularly, and unfairly, negative.
In the same year, Gregg Tallas made his own provocative and controversial Ayoupa (Bed of Grass, 1957), which took risks with narrative and story- telling, reminiscent of Tallas’ Hollywood days and of Howard Hughes’ The Outlaw (1943). The rather explicit and uninhibited sexuality of the film challenged the morals of a society that saw an enemy of the social order in the nudity of the female body.
Another diaspora Greek returned to the country for an aborted exper- iment in mainstream film-making. The American avant-garde director Gregory J. Markopoulos (1928–1992) was invited by another Greek- American producer, James Paris (1921–1982), to direct a narrative film based on the famous Greek novel Serenity (Galini) by Ilias Venezis (1904–1973). The novel was about the predicament of Asia Minor refugees in their attempt to build a new life outside Athens. Markopoulos’ poetic take on the inner life of the characters through his depiction of their psychological yearning, trauma, and confusion in a series of dreamlike sequences was rejected by the producer; Markopoulos left before completing the film, which was not released at the time. However, what survives (about 65 minutes) is a strange hybrid of narrative cinema and avant-garde discontinuous images with classical music linking them as the deepest thread in emotional affinity. The colors of the film are variations of bright green, yellow, and blue, creating a surreal atmosphere of loss, absence, and expectation. Gregoriou, the director who was invited to salvage the project, considered Markopoulos’ work as incomprehensible rubbish and destroyed a substantial part of it.
In 1958, Dimopoulos released one of his most interesting and least- appreciated movies, The Man of the Train (O Anthropos tou Trainou). For the first time, through an ingenious use of flashbacks, the German occupation was recreated almost nostalgically as a period of unity and solidarity. The story was not about the Germans, who appeared as dark and impersonal shadows, but about the Greeks: their moral dilemma between resistance and collaboration, action and apathy. Also, the female protagonist, played with aristocratic grandeur by Anna Synodinou, initiated lovemaking with the male lead, played with an engaging mysteriousness by Mihalis Nikolinakos. She was represented with agency, internal life, and personal moral codes, and ultimately as a human with a distinct personality. The movie introduced a film noir tradition to Greek cinema, a tradition which was continued by various directors throughout the 1960s. The final scene in which the unknown man is lost in the dark, with his steps echoing as if in a dream, remains one of the most suggestive and atmospheric achievements of Greek cinema.
In the same year, Kostas Manousakis released his first feature film Love in the Sand-dunes (Erotas stous Ammolofous) with Aliki Vouyouklaki and the most popular male idol of the period, Andreas Barkoulis (b. 1934). The film contains explicit scenes of a passionate love affair between a young girl from a coastal village and a strange handsome man who arrives from the city. Nikos Gardelis’ photography works with deep contrasts of black and white—Manousakis makes here his first attempt to explore the crumbling structures of families. The risqué scenes and the controversial topic averted the far-seeing Vouyouklaki from ever appearing again in films of such bleak critical realism.
Yorgos Zervos’ The Lake of Desires (I Limni ton Pothon, 1958), a melodrama about the love affair between a fisherman and a woman from the city and set in the shallow lake of the city of Missolongi, was a successful film of the same year. It won two international awards at the Cork Festival and was favorably mentioned at the festivals of Karlovi-Bari and San Sebastian. Andreas Lambrinos’ Bloodstained Sunset (Matomeno Iliovasilema) represented the country at the Cannes Festival in 1959 and established a very convenient myth for the tourist industry: a repressed Swedish woman goes to Greece in search of an ancient god but instead discovers a handsome shepherd—the actor who was to make an international career, Spyros Fokas (b. 1937). The story became almost a cliché in the 1960s when “the seduction of the Mediterranean” was one of the main campaign strategies of the tourist industry.
Another female director whose work has been completely ignored is Lila Kourkoulakou (b. 1936). She directed an extremely controversial and groundbreaking movie, The Island of Silence (To Nisi tis Siopis, 1959), about a notorious and yet completely “silenced” leper colony on the small island of Spinalonga off the coast of Crete. The film was partly made on the island itself with real patients appearing, and had such an immediate effect that the colony was subsequently closed down. Kourkoulakou’s was another kind of Greece: not the sunny country with handsome shepherds, seductive women, and a glorious history; but a country of deformed people with unrepresented suffering, of hidden social groups whose history was not to be told and made visible.
The story, by Vaggelis Hatziyiannis, also depicted a country whose people hated knowledge and thinking, preferring to be governed by super- stition and a demonic fear of difference. The semi-documentary style of the film, a first form of docu-fiction, recorded real people in actual circum- stances, thus producing a cinema of critical realism, which provoked and annoyed. The movie represented Greece at the Venice Festival, making Kourkoulakou the first woman director to participate in an international competition, but it had no commercial success. Kourkoulakou returned later that year with At the Gates of Hell (Stin Porta tis Kolaseos) and in 1965 with a fictionalized biography of the former prime minister Eleftherios Venizelos, one of the first attempts to cinematically reconstruct recent history, in a mixed form of original documentary and staged episodes (since no funding was ever available for lavish historical productions). She has made only short documentaries ever since.
From 1959 onwards, film production was intensified and reached indus- trial proportions. One could claim that the line between good popular and bad populist cinema became blurred. Dinos Dimopoulos made his best fustanella film, Astero, with Aliki Vouyouklaki in an effective dramatic performance; the young director, Yannis Dalianidis, produced the refreshing
comedies Little Vixen (Mousitsa) and Commoners and Aristocrats (Laos kai Kolonaki); Alekos Sakellarios released his marvellous comedy about a dialect- speaking villager turned policeman in the city in his Ilias of the 16th Branch (O Ilias tou 16ou), and Dadiras his tense war drama The Island of the Brave (To Nisi ton Gennaion), which featured great performances by Tzeni Karezi (1930–1962), a sensitive actress with an intellectual performance style. Comedies and melodramas have been unduly underestimated from the perspective of the exploration of the social mentality surrounding the cinematic experience of the audience. Just as in Tornatore’s Cinema Paradiso (1988) and in all Mediterranean societies, going to the movies was a profound social ritual which tended on many occasions to compete with or even replace church-going. For the urban masses of the period, going to the movies was an experience of social bonding and status recognition, implicitly creating an alternative public sphere in which feelings and reactions could be externalized without fear of punishment. It also represented a space devoid of class divisions, a democratic spectacle, or illusion, of social equality—despite the fact that the luxury cinemas at the centre of Athens always enjoyed the privilege of the “first screening.” Furthermore, the villagers and the urban proletarians heard their own language on screen and not the austere and archaic idiom employed by the government. The demoticism of these films has to be studied carefully as an opposition to and parody of the official language of power, which seemed