One Sunday, several months ago, early risers gazing at Czech Television's CT2 channel saw picturesque panoramas of the Czech countryside, broadcast to the wordless accompaniment of elevator music. It was the usual narcoleptic morning weather show.
Then came the nuclear blast.
Across the Krkonose Mountains, or so it appeared, a white flash was followed by the spectacle of a rising mushroom cloud. A Web address at the bottom of the screen said Ztohoven.com.
Ztohoven, to no one's great surprise, turned out to be a collective of young artists and friends who had previously tinkered with a giant neon sculpture of a heart high atop Prague Castle, and managed (during a single night, no less) to insert announcements for an art opening inside all 750 lighted advertising boxes in the city's subway system.
Now half a dozen members of the group face up to three years in jail or a fine or both, charged with scaremongering and attempted scaremongering. The trial is set for next month. Some Czechs expressed outrage over Ztohoven's action, naturally, but in general it drew a mild, tolerant, even amused public response, in contrast to how terrorism-related pranks, or what might seem like them, have been widely greeted elsewhere. The incident instead has highlighted an old Czech tradition of tomfoolery that is a particular matter of national cultural pride.
Not long ago a film that became a local hit, Czech Dream, documented a boondoggle by two young Czech filmmakers, who enlisted advertisers and publicists to devise a marketing scheme for a nonexistent supermarket. The movie's goal, like Ztohoven's, was to wag the dog: lampoon media manipulation and public gullibility. In the trailer hundreds of shoppers swarm a weedy field, rushing toward what they believe to be the store, which turns out to be a painted backdrop. The mushroom cloud, in a sense, upped the ante on the supermarket.
To hack into the CT2 broadcast, Ztohoven simply switched cables on an unmanned, remote camera at a limestone quarry in the mountains, which the artists had scouted three years earlier. Then they piped in their video. The name Ztohoven makes a pun in Czech that means both "out of it" and an obscenity. Rightly, the group presumed this would tip off viewers that the explosion was fake, in case they hadn't already guessed it from the cheesy special effects.
Contrary to what the British news media reported, no War of the Worlds panic ensued. So far as anyone can tell, not a single sleepy-eyed Czech viewer was frightened by the stunt, their lack of fear, the state attorney said, not being the explanation for the curious charge of "attempted" scaremongering. (The charge is a Czech legal fine point.)
As for exactly who the group's members are, that remains something of a mystery, which Ztohoven theatrically guards. Even the state prosecutor said over the phone the other day it was private information until the trial. Nevertheless three members of the group - two amiable ringleaders and a quiet, sweet-faced 26-year-old who looked as if he were 12 - agreed to meet at an empty cafe over coffee and Coke. They declined to give their names.
But they brought a film crew.
Turns out, Ztohoven includes no women. "That's the problem of radicalism," sighed the threesome's 33-year-old elder statesman, who called himself Roman Tyc. (The pun works in English.) "To get together for pranks is also more difficult now that we're getting into our 30s."
RSS