Let me start with a market-based point of view: perhaps the success of the Witcher franchise (books, RPG, and series) encouraged the producers to create Cracow Monsters, the new Polish Netflix series directed by Kasia Adamik and Olga Chajdas. Sapkowski’s prose makes use of or makes reference to Slavic mythology; many of the monsters that the Witcher has to fight against draw either directly or with a bit of enhancement from some kind of Slavic pre-Christianity. Following in its footsteps, the eponymous monsters in Cracow Monsters feature as Slavic mythology figures, although in fact oftentimes they are rather an adaptation.
Another “bait” for the viewer is the city itself. More than fourteen million visitors came to Cracow in 2019, and even during the pandemic in 2021 the number exceeded eleven million: Cracow is an international brand. This “tourist” aspect of the series might explain why some of the scenes were filmed in Wieliczka salt mine, one of the trendiest tourist places. As a resident of Cracow for more than twenty years I can say that in most cases in Cracow Monsters the city is filmed “accurately,” meaning that when a protagonist walks down one street and turns left, they do appear to be on the factual street as it is rendered on the map; only once did I notice a scene where two characters declare a wish to travel by car to Kazimierz district, although to all appearances they were heading towards Podgórze, which is exactly the opposite way; also, in some scenes the movie characters were driving cars on the streets where no traffic is permitted; last but not least, in some cases Jagiellonian University’s Collegium Novum seemingly hosts a department of medical studies (which it does not) while at other times the factual Collegium Medicum is shown. Certainly, this is of little relevance to non-insiders, as well as from the city-promotion-via-movie-series point of view. All in all, judging the series critically, Cracow is its best asset, and also the visual aspects of some scenes are really impressive.
There is another market-based bait or at least an affinity enticing only to Polish viewers: the two-season series Kruk (i.e., The Raven, although “Kruk” is a trade name here), produced by the Polish branch of Canal+ but not sold anywhere else. The latter series was highly acclaimed by the critics and the audience. What I find similar in that series and Cracow Monsters is the connection between “East” and mysticism/esoterism. This is a part of Polish mythology dating at least from Romanticism with the figure of Wernyhora, a mythical/real-life Ukrainian-Cossack seer. The plot is set in Białystok and its surroundings, the largest city in North-Eastern Poland, near the Polish-Belarussian and then, more to the north and towards the Polish-Lithuanian border, an area with the largest number of Eastern-Orthodox believers in Poland.
In contrast to central Poland, the region of Białystok is often portrayed as a realm of mysticism and antiquated customs reminiscent of a nineteenth-century glossary of superstitions or a contemporary heritage park. The key figure in this rendition is a grandmother-seer called “szeptucha” (a kind of a good witch, healer, seer, and white magician). The construction of the Polish myth stemming from “Eastern mysticism” primarily draws inspiration from Ukraine (or Belarus, or even Russia); however, it could be further narrowed down to the eastern part of Poland, especially Podlasie (the region of Białystok). This local iteration of a colonial escapade into the East romanticizes and labels the Orient as “fanciful” (e.g., Małgorzata Szumowska’s Never Gonna Snow Again [2020] and Agnieszka Holland’s Julie Walking Home [2002], to name only a few). In Cracow Monsters, the myth of “Eastern mysticism” becomes more intricate as we encounter the grandmother character (Małgorzata Rożniatowska, perhaps the finest performance in the series). She possesses innate esoteric powers because, apparently, that is what an elderly woman in Slavic cultures should possess.
We are also introduced to a mastermind monster, an evil god from pre-Christianity known as Chworz, derived from Slavic mythology. This deity, recognized as Chors, is also mentioned in “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign,” a twelfth-century poem written in Old Slavonic. There are two interpretations of what this god used to represent: a solar deity (positive) or a lunar deity (negative). Adamik and Chajdas opt for the latter, portraying Chworz as a god who preys on young boys leading up to “the red moon” period. While the worship of this god was prevalent across various Slavic territories, included contemporary Poland, it remains unclear why Cracow was chosen as his reappearance site. This inconsistency, like many others, must be overlooked for the sake of enjoyment.
Chworz inhabits the body of his victim, which prompts him to speak intermittently in Polish and… well, that raises a valid question. The credits indicate that the language used is “starosłowiański” (Old Slavonic), perhaps referring to “staro-cerkiewno-słowiański” (Old Church Slavonic), with language coaching provided by Danilo Jaryj. However, it is worth noting that “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” was written in Old East Slavonic, which differs significantly from Old Church Slavonic. Certainly this (in)accuracy may not matter much to the viewers. I once had to study Old Church Slavonic for a semester, which was a nightmare (although not due to dreams of Chworz drinking blood during red moons). Despite having prior knowledge of Russian alphabet from my fifth year of studying Russian, I painfully discovered that these two languages are quite distinct. While I could be mistaken, the presumed Old Church Slavonic in the series Cracow Monsters sounds remarkably… Ukrainian to my ears. Thankfully, the connection between the East and esoterism can be viewed as gothicized rather than colonial.
As I have already stated earlier, numerous inconsistencies and logical gaps can be found in the plot. The main character, Alex, a pansexual first-year medical student at Jagiellonian University, on the spur of the moment takes a special exam to join Professor Zawadzki’s renowned study group in pathology. She is accepted primarily because she intuitively drew an old Slavonic symbol on her exam sheet… She then is required to move to a building where Zawadzki and his study group actually live. This sudden turn of events requires a suspension of disbelief. In reality, academic life in Poland does not operate in this manner. A pathology study group would typically require access to a laboratory rather than a separate apartment. Additionally, it is highly improbable for a professor to reside with their study group. While it is true that archeology students may occasionally socialize with their professors during field trips, it is unheard of for a professor to actually live with the group. This situation becomes even more unlikely considering that this particular professor has a spacious house on the outskirts of Cracow where his family resides.
Another glaring logical inconsistency that requires forgiveness from the viewer is the fact that once Alex joins the study group – comprised of fellow medical students – none of them actually attend classes. Too busy chasing monsters, they are more of Cracow’s “ghostbusters” than overachievers. All of them possess psychic powers of various kinds, which raises the question: who would have thought that medical students would be so well-versed in esoteric practices? Rather than
delving into pathology or any other field of medicine, they explore the history of ancient Slavic beliefs. This prompts the question: why did the screenwriters choose medical students for the role that would be better suited for historians, archeologists, ethnologists, or anthropologists? The connection between pathology and the ethnography of old monsters remains elusive.
A more forgiving interpretation could be that the choice of medical students pays homage to classical Gothic conventions. In many Gothic novels, including the iconic Frankenstein, scientists are typically portrayed as practitioners of medicine or biology. I cannot recall a single “scientist” in classic Gothic literature who specialized in philology or history. However, as humanists, perhaps we should be grateful for our invisibility and lack of importance in this regard, considering that Gothic convention often depicts biomedical as obsessed or evil. This holds true in this series as well, as Zawadzki exploits his students’ psychic powers to help his dying son. In a manner reminiscent of Faustus, he even makes a deal with the “devil,” Chworz. Despite the exceptional talent of Andrzej Chyra, a Polish actor who portrays Zawadzki, his character’s choices and actions lack credibility.
The issue becomes even more poignant when it comes to the intellectual content of the series. As mentioned before, the show effectively promotes the city of Cracow. So, why doesn’t it take advantage of the opportunity to disseminate knowledge about Slavic pre-Christianity? It could, but unfortunately, it falls short. The understanding of this historical period and its religion remains superficial, presented in fragments. The screenwriters often reduce it to a mere mention of a god’s name and a one-sentence description of their qualities. Occasionally, the characters refer to books, but here the creators uphold a pop-horror movie convention rather than the literary depth found in classic Gothic novels. Books are treated with more seriousness in, ironically, other books.
This convention involves characters pulling a book from the shelf, opening it to a random page, and revealing a display of symbols and drawings. The more cryptic and incomprehensible, the better. The characters shriek with a sound that conveys a sense of ultimate revelation. This convention predates even the film adaptations of Dan Brown’s novels. Perhaps this is how medical students read books, which might explain why the only monsters we as humanists trained to study texts meticulously can chase are mere moths. I fear that this depiction of studying sources serves as a meta-allegory for how the creators themselves studied Slavic mythology.
In the course of the series we are not informed whether the Slavic deities and monsters have been present throughout centuries of Christian dominance or if their appearance is a recent occurrence. If the latter is true, what triggered their emergence and what are their intentions towards humans? The most ambitious attempt to explore would have been the topic of Wanda (although it ultimately fails in its execution). Polish feminists, such as Monika Rudaś-Grodzka, have reclaimed Wanda as a strong female character, drawing from a pre-Christian interpretation of the legend or myth.
According to this interpretation, Wanda is an aquatic goddess. In the Cracow Monsters series, she is only briefly presented in fragments, suggesting that the creators have consulted recent feminist research. Alex, it turns out, embodies a modern incarnation of Wanda: when she plunges into the Vistula River in a scorching car, she miraculously survives. However, this revelation leaves us wondering, “So what?” She is aquatic, but what significance does that hold? She is a goddess, but what does it entail? The topic of Wanda, among others, offered numerous intellectual opportunities, such as showcasing pre-Christian Slavic mythology, unveiling it (the unknown) to the world, reclaiming the pre-Christian matriarchal aspects of Polish and Slavic cultures, or exploring the potential of reconnecting with one’s roots in contemporary society. Regrettably, the series’ shallowness and intellectual confusion undermine these possibilities.
In Polish culture, we had a curious, albeit flawed Gothic attempt at combining the pre-Christian past and Gothic with current issues. I am thinking of Jacek Dehnel’s Ale z naszymi umarłymi [But with our dead ones] (2019), where zombies invade Cracow and eventually all of Poland, provided hints of social criticism and philosophical allegories. (See my review of this novel Apokalipsa przyszła bez trąby…, “Opcje” 2019 nr 4).
Now someone might construct a counterargument that also in classic Gothic novels, mythologies and religions were typically presented in a truncated manner. Take Richard Marsh’s The Beetle for that matter and its portrayal of Egyptian religion and its mysteries – purely colonial and phantasmatic. This is indeed true; however, it should be noted that Marsh was writing during a time when knowledge about Egypt was limited and still being formed. Moreover, he was not writing about his own culture. In response, my opponent may ask, “Can’t you simply let go of these aspirations for logic and intellect and enjoy the pleasure the series delivers?” But what pleasure does it truly bring? I would further argue that even the “simplest,” and most “libidinal” Gothic novels possess an intellectual dimension, social critiques, and philosophical allegories. At least, that is how we, as scholars of Gothic fiction, were taught to perceive them. Unfortunately, I do not see any of these elements present here. The result is the “pleasure” of chasing monsters for absurd and inconsistent reasons, akin to the pleasure derived from a teen drama attempting to simulate intellectual depth within its basic storyline.