Versatile Slovak director Peter Bebjak turns his attention to one of the iconic voices of late-communist Czechoslovakia, Karol Duchoň, in his musical biopic Duchoň.
But Duchoň is not a conventional biopic, nor is it a nostalgic musical designed to bask in retro reverence. Instead, Bebjak delivers what he calls a "music film", a rhythm-driven, formally hybrid exploration of fame, fallibility, and fleeting freedom set against the paradoxes of the normalization era.
In a talk with ScreenAnarchy, Bebjak speaks about the creative choices behind Duchoň: his reluctance to dramatize for the sake of drama, the ethical tightrope of portraying a flawed national idol, and the challenges of injecting contemporary cinematic energy into a story so deeply rooted in the past. He also opens up about using artificial intelligence to reconstruct Duchoň’s voice and the broader implications of generative technologies in film.
ScreenAnarchy: You've mentioned several times that you want to explore different genres. And now, it seems, you’ve arrived at the musical biopic?
Peter Bebjak: Not a musical per se, this is a music film. That’s how I’d define it. A musical is something else entirely, songs in a musical are part of the story, they move the plot forward. But in a music film, it’s made up of existing songs, already composed and recorded, and they’re just layered into the film. So yes, it’s a music film.
Why the switch to biopic now?
It’s not just because I wanted to try something new, though of course, I enjoy it. What I really enjoy is searching for a new approach, a new style, a new form. I like figuring out how to handle that, how to push it somewhere else, what makes it different or new in a positive way. For me, it’s still a kind of learning process. I didn’t jump straight into biopics, this one just made sense.
The story of Karol Duchoň, and not just his story, but what’s happening around his legacy today, is seeing a massive resurgence. A real comeback. And that’s what’s so fascinating. He kind of disappeared in the ‘80s, was still played a bit, but in the past ten years, it’s been a huge return. It’s like rediscovering Bach or Vivaldi.
So far, it’s still mostly happening within Slovakia. But what’s amazing is that it’s not just nostalgic older generations, young people are discovering him too. Through the music, through his voice, through his energy. And maybe they even see him as a kind of rebel figure, he died at 35, he lived a free, unrestrained life. Or at least we imagine it that way, especially in the context of communism, which makes it even more striking.
Biopics tend to follow certain storytelling patterns. There’s often that rise-and-fall arc.
Duchoň had a similar dramatic trajectory. It’s almost theatrical. He hit a peak, and then spent a decade in decline, whether personal or professional. The alcohol, the discipline problems, the loss of public interest people stopped booking him, stopped caring. So as an artist, he kind of vanished. All of that, the fall, the addiction, the fading fame, that's what leads to the tragic end. In a way, life itself did the dramaturgy for us.
Biopics can be sensitive. How do you handle that balance between honesty and discretion?
That’s exactly it. On one hand, you don’t want to be clinical or sanitized, but on the other hand, you don’t want to be exploitative or tabloid-y either. Where do you draw the line?
We do show the alcoholism, it’s definitely there. The infidelity is there too, though it’s more subdued. But I think people can read between the lines. Like in the scene with the song Elena, our actress plays Elena, and the real Duchoň’s daughter is sitting in the audience. So yes, we included everything. Nothing was censored.
Did the family place any restrictions on what could or couldn’t be shown?
Two things. First, we never wanted to make a social drama or a deep psychological profile of the man and his demons. That would have been a completely different kind of film. That wasn't the goal.
We based our approach on a theater production by Jiří Havelka and Robert Mankovecký called Earth Remembers. It was a kind of fast-moving video-clip style retelling of Duchoň’s life. The idea was: he lived fast, so the film should feel fast too. We move through episodes of his life, and while he didn’t have the kind of dramatic life arc someone like Edith Piaf had, his life was still rich enough to work with.
And yes, we had to work with the family, not just because we wanted to check facts, but because we needed rights to the songs. So we had to communicate about scenes or elements that might be sensitive. Fortunately, they never once said, “This can’t be in the film.” Nothing was off-limits. Infidelity, gambling, alcohol, it’s all in there. Sometimes it's more direct, sometimes more subtle, but I think the audience will pick up on it.
The gambling storyline wasn’t as prominent though, was it?
It’s definitely there. In the present-day storyline, people are chasing him down, saying he promised them things. There’s talk of cards, loans, money he owes. So yes, it’s there, this idea that he made promises and didn’t keep them.
Duchoň might seem like a local figure, even generationally specific, but there’s something more universal in it. Do you see that too?
Sure, Duchoň is a local phenomenon, and maybe even generationally limited. But today, with this whole retro-mania, there's a new layer. And yes, it’s not just about him, it’s a story of a man, of fame, of downfall, of demons. And all of that happens against the backdrop of communism. That context makes it specific, but also compelling, even for people outside Slovakia.
You mentioned the backdrop of communism, not in a partisan way, but in terms of what it meant for people back then. Can you talk about how you approached that? How far did you want to go into the political context? Could Duchoň be seen as a kind of rebel against the regime?
That’s exactly what I find so interesting, it’s a very human kind of rebellion. A lot of people want to live their lives without confrontation. They just want to work, do what they love, and have peace. But the moment they’re put in a position of discomfort, or the pressure on them increases, many people choose to adapt. They go with the flow, so they don’t stick out. Because standing up to the system could crush them.
And what really troubles me now is this mirror of normalization. Because Duchoň became famous during normalization, and he adapted to what was expected of him. In private, sure, he made jokes, he said anti-regime things. But in public, he did what was asked of him. Or rather, he accepted it. Because he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t have trouble. He could keep singing.
So in a way, he sacrificed some higher moral principles for the sake of survival. But that’s the same with that entire post-1968 generation. It’s very hard to judge them, or to even talk about it. So many people were disillusioned. They lost hope. They had a glimpse of freedom for a few months—and then saw how power could trample all of that in an instant.
No one back then imagined that twenty years later, the regime would collapse. No one expected 1989. That’s why I think it’s right to celebrate and honor those who stood up against the regime and suffered for it. And yes, we should definitely condemn those who actively helped the regime, who built it, exploited it, benefited from it.
But it’s hard to criticize the millions who simply wanted to live, who didn’t want to be involved. Who chose to survive. Because who are we to say what we would’ve done in their place?
So would you call Duchoň a controversial figure?
Not really. Not in a political sense. I wouldn’t say he was controversial at all. I think he was someone who adapted. But that’s important to acknowledge.
You know, the things you say at home, when you're just venting to friends, that’s one thing. But what matters is how you behave publicly. And even now, we’re seeing a kind of self-censorship emerge in Slovakia. It’s starting to feel normalized.
Even in our own field, artists, creators, we’re starting to think about what topics we choose, how we frame things, because we know funding often comes with certain expectations. Maybe no one directly says what they want, but they do say what they don’t want. And that’s enough.
Do you think people have forgiven Czech crooner Karel Gott in this sense?
Well, Karel Gott lived a lot longer. He had time to make things right, to do more. People say he helped others, pulled some strings for them. With Duchoň, from what we hear, he was incredibly warm, very giving, kind of a wheeler-dealer. If someone needed something, he’d try to help. I think he loved it.
He liked money, sure. But he also spent it just as fast. Everyone remembers how he’d walk into a bar, buy drinks for the whole place, and party like crazy. He loved being the center of attention. That’s what kept him going.
So I don’t think he minded that he never had massive fame for long, or that he didn’t break through in Germany, even though he did record an album in West Germany. What really mattered to him was that feeling of being noticed, being seen. And when that faded, that’s probably what caused the real collapse, on a personal level.
You worked with a kind of retro aesthetic, but used very modern cinematic language. Was it difficult to combine the two?
No, I think it’s just a natural evolution of film language. We didn’t want the film to be just a nostalgic retro trip for Gen X.
We wanted to connect with younger audiences too. And they do know Duchoň, on Slovak parties, he’s still played. Maybe they don’t know his whole discography, but a few songs are still hits for them. And they don’t judge him based on his past or politics, they see him as someone kind of rebellious, a free spirit.
So in a way, the content speaks to older generations, but the form is tailored to younger viewers?
I think it works. Even our generation is now used to faster storytelling. Just look at where TV is headed, it’s getting quicker. So even people my age or older are adapting to this rhythm. We don’t necessarily need slow, drawn-out scenes anymore. We’re evolving too.
You shot mostly in studio, right? Apart from a few exterior scenes. Did you use those stylized video-clip sequences to replace typical biopic transitions?
Yes. All the clip-like sequences, the ones showing his “journey through the world”, were created as stylized music videos. Not documentary-style maps and airplane shots like they used to do.
We chose a more personal, artistic approach. For instance, the repeated flirtations with flight attendants or women, those little moments form micro-stories. They’re like emotional snapshots rather than literal depictions.
Did you draw from theatrical influences for that?
Not really. We didn’t take that directly from theater. But I suppose you could say it’s one of the expressive tools available to us. It works for condensing time, for keeping things symbolic rather than overly literal.
Those micro-stories you mentioned, like Duchoň constantly flirting with flight attendants or women in general, there’s something almost vaudevillian in that, isn’t there?
Yes, exactly. That’s the kind of performer he was. There’s even a line in the film where he says, “I’ll sing anything they write for me.” And that was kind of the point. You know, people often compare him to Karel Gott, but the difference was huge. Gott had discipline. He had a manager.
So you’re talking about that contrast, frivolity versus discipline?
Yes, exactly. Talent-wise, Duchoň had something very powerful. Just like Gott, who was immensely talented too. But if there’s no discipline, or no strong internal drive to build a long-term career, it becomes a problem.
And in the film, you can feel that shift, from comedic tones to more serious moments. It touches on family, dips into social drama... That oscillation was intentional. It wasn’t just to make it deeper, it was meant to make the film more accessible.
The goal was always to create a film that people would want to watch. That was the starting point. That was the primary intention behind everything.
But personally, I love cinematic language that’s not the simplest. I don’t mean overly complicated, but I don’t like the most primitive, spoon-fed storytelling either. My holy grail is to find a film that’s both a hit with audiences and has artistic value. Something with a deeper layer. Not just cheap entertainment.
That feels like your signature, this effort to combine craftsmanship and arthouse in one. And duchoň seems to land right in that zone, in both its subject and its execution.
Yeah, we were looking for every expressive tool possible. Even just by choosing long single takes, you’re limiting the rhythm of a scene. You can’t cut around it. But we made sure those one-shots were dynamic. There’s always something new happening in them, so that even younger viewers keep getting fresh impulses. That was the point.
I read that you used artificial intelligence to recreate Duchoň’s voice?
Yes, that’s true. The main reason was that out of all his songs, there were only five or six we had full rights to, only the original recordings. We couldn’t re-record them or manipulate them.
So we needed to get as close as possible to Duchoň’s voice. And the AI model helped us with that. It was a blend. For instance, when he’s younger, in the early scenes, we used about 75% of the voice from our actor Vladimír Plevčík and 25% AI-simulated Duchoň. Later, when Duchoň is older, it flips, 75% Duchoň, 25% Plevčík.
It was a very delicate, very technical process. Tedious, even. Because the technology isn’t fully developed yet, it still struggles to capture the emotional nuance in a voice. But for those songs we had to recreate, especially the ones Plevčík sang, it worked surprisingly well. The distortion was minimal, and it blended beautifully.
There's a big debate now about generative AI in art, especially abroad. Do you see it as a tool or a threat?
It depends entirely on how it’s used. AI can help you create. It can support people. But it can also do harm. Just look at Facebook. It was meant to connect people, but now it’s one of the biggest weapons for spreading disinformation and harvesting personal data. The original intention doesn’t matter if the tool gets misused.
There are already startups now where you type in some random idea, and it generates an entire film. Maybe not great films yet, but the impact is coming. I believe it might eventually disrupt advertising altogether.
But I still believe in the human element. If actors refuse to have their faces used, that limits how far AI can go. Because acting, that presence, that emotional reality, is still tied to real people. There’s still something sacred in being able to meet the person you admire, to see them live, to have that human connection.
You seem to be someone with a very distinct authorial signature. Do you think AI will ever match that? Or challenge it?
AI can only copy. I still believe in originality. Maybe in the future it’ll push us even further away from conventions. I don’t mean we’ll all suddenly go avant-garde. But maybe it will make us bolder, more radical in our choices, just like we’re seeing in some TV series already. Honestly, I hope I don’t live to see a world where everything is generated.
Photos courtesy of Karlovy Vary Film Servis.