This year marks the centenary of the founding of Czechoslovakia and the 22nd Made in Prague Film Festival forms part of the Czech 100 programme marking this momentous event. Some of the biggest names in recent Czech screen history are on view in this typically intriguing selection of fictional and factual features, which will run at the Regent Street Cinema in London from 2-4 November. 

There can only be one place to start, as Jan Švankmajer's Insects is the master animator's first feature since Surviving Life (2010). Based on the 1922 stage satire, Pictures From the Insects' Life, by Josef and Karel Capek, this exercise in `automatic writing' echoes the play's warning about the rise of totalitarianism, as Švankmajer addresses the audience in an opening prologue that is both playfully muddled in its delivery and deadly serious in its intent. Of course, he has adapted great works of literature before, with Alice (1988) being inspired by Lewis Carroll and Faust (1994) drawing on the writings of both Christopher Marlowe and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. But, with its allusions to William Shakespeare's King Lear and Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis, this is less an updating of the Capeks than a valedictory declaration, in which Švankmajer reveals the tricks of his trade while despairing of humanity's folly in consistently repeating its mistakes. 

Somewhere in a small provincial town, dyspeptic director Jaromír Dulava is trying to coax his cast into rehearsing the second act of The Insect Play. His task is not made any easier by the fact that he is also playing Mr Cricket and is struggling to keep wife Kamila Magálová focused on the text, as Mrs Cricket has developed a crush on the younger Jan Budar, who is essaying the villainous Sabre Wasp. As Ivana Uhlírová sits in the wings knitting furiously while waiting to appear as the Larva, Norbert Lichý lives up to his billing as the Parasite by chugging his way through a case of beer. 

Uhlírová shrieks when she notices Lichý guzzle down a cockroach that has been swimming in his glass. But his plight is nothing compared to that of Jirí Lábus, who is finding the role of the Dung Beetle to be increasingly onerous, especially as he is being terrorised by a balll of dung that keeps growing at an alarming rate and seems intent on crushing him. 

The live-action sequences are manic in the extreme and it's not always clear whether Švankmajer is taking aim at the provincial players, the Capek text or the fact that human nature has remained constant in spite of the momentous changes that have occurred in Eastern Europe since he first contemplated this project in 1970. The Czechoslovakian censors refused to allow him to make the film and it's fascinating to see how little Švankmajer's stop-motion methods have altered little over the intervening years (and resisted the intrusion of CGI), as he provides us with behind-the-scenes glimpses of how his animation team creates the dung ball that chases the hapless Lábus across the room and how the Foley artists use props like chicken carcasses to achieve the grotesquely authentic sound effects. 

Some have compared Švankmajer to a magician giving away his tricks during his farewell performance and there have been suggestions that this crowd-funded feature may be the peerless surrealist's swan song. If this is the case, this consciously stylised assault on dictatorship, socio-political complacency and the baseness of human urges and instincts will make a fitting cap on a remarkable career. The animated and self-reflexive interludes are fascinating, but it's the unforgiving depiction of the amateur actors - as the 35mm camera lingers in lurid detail on their physical imperfections and revolting tics - that reinforces the similarity between humans and insects and confirms Švankmajer's status as one of cinema's most fearless and ferocious iconoclasts.

In 1991, the debuting Jan Sverák earned an Oscar nomination with The Elementary School, which was scripted by his father, Zdenek. The pair went on to win the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film with another study of a young boy in unfamiliar surroundings, Kolya (1996). But they return to the character of Eda Soucek for Barefoot, a prequel to the 1991 feature that has been adapted from Zdenek Sverák's autobiographical novel. 

It's 1943 and the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia is part of the Third Reich. Although his mother (Tereza Voríšková) does her best to hide the worst excesses of the Nazi occupation, she can't prevent seven year-old Eda (Alois Grec) from witnessing the seizure of an elderly neighbour and the pitilessly cruel slaughtering of his pet dog. But Eda is too young to appreciate what is happening around him. Thus, he sees nothing wrong in letting his frustrations get the better of him and blurting out the fact that his father (Ondrej Vetchý) tunes his radio to the messages covertly broadcast by the resistance.

Forced to leave their home in Prague, the Souceks are dispatched to the country, where they move in with his paternal grandparents (Jan Tríska and Viera Pavlíková). Eda is told that he can trust his soldier uncle (Hynek Cermák) and his chatterbox aunt (Petra Špalková), but must stay away from another uncle, Wolf (Oldrich Kaiser), who has been ostracised since clashing with his mother. Naturally, however, the boy gravitates towards Wolf and they forge a firm bond, as Eda takes to rural life like a hayseed. 

He has to go to school, where he is slightly in awe of the headmaster (Zdenek Sverák). But he quickly makes friends with Ota (Václav Hubka), Satik (Niklas Klinecký), Prcek (Josef Bedlivý) and Vlastík (Petr Uhlík), who have a den in the cemetery and are forever scouring for souvenirs from the war. But nothing tops the fuel tank jettisoned by an American bomber that becomes a source of unexpected income. It's not all hijinx, however, as tragedy strikes during a storm and German civilians start to flee as the Nazis retreat in the face of the Red Army advance. 

Moreover, the truth emerges about Wolf, who takes his nephew on a magical cart ride through the snow before the family return to the capital. Foresight means that a shadow is cast over the happy ending, however, as liberation by the Russians will soon be replaced by another form of captivity. But the Sveraks avoid melodramatising events, which (even during Eda's delightful daydreams) have an easy-going naturalness that feels commensurate with country living. Faint echoes can be heard from René Clément's Jeux interdits (1952) and Karel Kachyna's Long Live the Republic (1965), but this Sverák carries over the mood from The Elementary School.

Chosen from around 400 hopefuls, Alois Grec is splendidly wide-eyed and mischievous as Eda and his young co-stars are equally spirited. Oldrich Kaiser is touchingly grouchy as Wolf, while Zdenek Sverák makes the most of a moving speech, in which he tries to talk over a tannoy announcement eulogising Adolf Hitler by focusing the minds of his students on the beauty of the bird song outside the window. Vladimír Smutný's photography is captivating, while Jan Vlasák's production design avoids cheap nostalgia to capture the look and feel of a lost time. Michal Novinski's score similarly strikes the right balance between charm and efficacy. But, with its deft blend of the whimsy and reality, this is a classic Sverák picture and it's surprising that it hasn't been snapped up for general release.

For once, Sverák won't be the Czech representative at the Oscars, as that honour has gone to the Slovenian-born, FAMU-trained Olmo Omerzu for this third feature, Winter Flies. Reaffirming the impression given by Family Film (2015) that Omerzu has a gift for directing juvenile actors, this cannily structured road movie provides an amusing, but deceptively grave insight into the realities of being young and restless in today's Czech Republic, while also reminding audiences of the key role that editing plays in screen storytelling.

Seemingly on a road to nowhere, 14 year-old Tomáš Mrvík and 12 year-old Jan František Uher, speed along in a stolen Audi as if the world was their oyster. However, as Mrvik is being interrogated by policewoman Lenka Vlasáková, it's clear that their trip has not gone according to plan. But, as Mrvik tries to play the cocksure, skinheaded scally, the flashbacks to his odyssey tell a very different tale.

Sporting a combat jacket and packing a BB gun, the podgy Uher has ambitions to join the Foreign Legion. But he is still very much an overgrown child and is easily impressed by the yarns being spun by Mrvik, who keeps insisting that he is fast approaching his 15th birthday. He convinces Uher that not only is he a fearless hard knock, but also an irresistible ladies' man. His boasts come to sound hollow, however, when they stop to pick up hitcher Eliška Krenková, who not only has to take the wheel when they approach a police road block, but who also manages to lock the boys out of the warm car so that they have to spend the night huddled around a faltering campfire. 

Krenková isn't the only passenger, however, as the lads have acquired a dog named Jackal after they prevented his owner from drowning him in a freezing lake. Naturally, the pooch gets to share the car with Krenková. But Mrvik and Uher prove to be loyal companions, as they confront a potential rapist and fall foul of a couple of duplicitous cops. Indeed, the grown-ups don't show well at all and it's harrowing to watch Mrvik plead with Vlasáková for news about the war hero grandfather he adores and whose sudden illness prompts his panicked attempt to flee. 

Screenwriter Petr Pycha has evidently seen lots of 1980s teenpix along the lines of Rob Reiner's Stand By Me (1985). But this rite of passage is firmly rooted in contemporary reality, as Omerzu seeks to show that while winter flies might be pests, they have a resilience that makes them worth saving, as Mrvik proves when he uses warm cigarette ash to revive an insect that had fallen into a cup of tea. The winning performances of the two first-timers certainly help Omerzu make his case, as Uher resorts to cursing and indifference to show off to Krenková and Mrvik adopts a mottled veneer of cool to hide his fear from the savvy Vlasáková.

Editor Jana Vlcková does a fine job of exposing Mrvik's bluster, with a cross-cut to the boys hiding up a tree being the most amusing of several neat transitions. Lukas Milota's photography and Antonin Silar's production are equally accomplished, as they cocoon the runaways in the stolen car, while also making them look small and vulnerable in the inhospitable wider world. Yet, even though this has its serious moments, the jovial tone is established and sustained by the catchy score composed by Simon Holy, Monika Midriakova and Pawel Szamburski. It's doubtful whether Omerzu will make it to the final five when the Oscar nominations are announced. But this bittersweet buddy movie confirms him as a talent to watch.

In following up his 2014 debut, Totally Talking, Tomáš Pavlícek takes inspiration from his own family in Bear With Us, a cross-generational comedy that will feel familiar to anyone who has been reluctantly confined in a small space in the middle of nowhere with relatives they spend much of their lives avoiding. Co-written by Lucie Boksteflová, this has a quaintly old-fashioned feel to it. But much of the humour deals with very modern ideas and attitudes.

As they no longer get much use of their cabin in the woods, Ivana Chýlková and David Vávra decide to sell up. But, as the buyer is about to sign on the dotted line, Chýlková has a sudden change of heart and not only decides that she can't bear to part with the scene of so many happy familiy memories, but also hits upon the idea of reuniting the clan for one last night for an overdue catch up. 

Chýlková's mother, Jana Synková, has never really liked the place. But she knows everyone will talk about her if she's absent and she drags along husband Jan Kacer, who used to regard the cabin as a sanctuary, but who is slowly succumbing to Alzheimer's. Son Jan Strejcovský welcomes the chance to share the burden of keeping Slovakian girlfriend Judit Bárdos occupied, while Tereza Voríšková is nervous about introducing German boyfriend Michael Pitthan to her relations. 

Neighbour Vaclav Kopta seems to take a prying interest in the weekenders, but they are too busy bickering among themselves to notice. Whether raking up old disputes or betraying how little they really know about each other (despite Synková's disarmingly frank line of questioning), the octet manage to rub along. Voríšková amuses herself with a bear costume, without being aware that a real bruin is roaming the vicinity. But the mood changes when they realise that Kacer has disappeared and seems to have ventured off into the woods alone. 

Feeling rather like the pilot episode for a kitchen table sitcom, this droll study of domestic dysfunction devotes as much time to character development as it does to narrative novelty. But Pavlicek and Boksteflová give the excellent ensemble plenty of scope to work with, as partners tug at the fraying fabric of their relationships and parents and children revisit old bones of contention. There are also some wince-inducing references to foreigners and the dubious nature of democratic progress. Yet, for all the sharpness of the cultural jibes, this is more a comedy of social manners than a political satire.

The waspish Synková, the sentimental Chýlková and the cynical Voríšková prove worthy adversaries, while Kacer conveys a wistful sweetness that reinforces the message that the past can never be recaptured and that sometimes it's better to let go than cling on to unreliable memories. Designers Tereza Kucerová and Zuzana Formánková fill the cabin with telltale items relating to the family's history, while cinematographer Jan Baset Strítežský makes atmospheric use of the woodland setting that reinforces the sense of cramped confinement that forces the characters to interact, whether they want to or not. But what's most appealing is the way in which Pavlicek ties up the loose ends without resorting to undue contrivance.

Since coming to prominence with Protektor (2009), Marek Najbrt has divided his time between features and television series. Thus, he seems the ideal choice to helm Prezident Blaník, a zany political lampoon based on the cult online satirical show, Kancelár Blaník. While this took its inspiration from Armando Iannucci's The Thick of It (2005-12), the feature version feels more like concocted by Czech Dream creators, Vít Klusák and Filip Remunda, or their Swedish counterparts, Jacques Servin and Igor Vamos, who are better known as The Yes Men. 

Having been informed by lawyer Tomáš Sokol that a loophole in the constitution of the Czech Republic makes it possible to sell the country to a bigger power, political lobbyist Antonín `Tonda' Blaník (Marek Daniel) decides to run for president in the 2018 election and make a fortune by flogging his homeland to the Chinese. A vain, foul-mouthed opportunist with an obscene love of shoes, Blaník orders sidekicks Zízala (Michal Dalecký) and Lenka (Halka Tresnáková) to whip up a petition to show support for his policies of paying off every citizen with a windfall bribe and providing them with free Lithium. 

As Blaník prepares to joust with rivals Jirí Drahoš, Michal Horácek, Mirek Topolánek and Miloš Zeman at the first presidential debate, news emerges that, despite collecting 100,000 signatures on a petition, Blaník is unable to run for office because a distracted Zizala failed to get his paperwork to the Ministry of the Interior in time. Undaunted, Blaník decides to sound out the views of the other candidates on his grand sellout ides. Meanwhile, Blaník keeps seeking the advice from the ghost of Václav Havel (also Marek Daniel), while Lenka becomes involved in a custody battle for her child with her Ivan Bartoš, the real-life leader of the Czech Pirate Party.

Indeed, there are lots of familiar faces making cameos, including economist musician Tomáš Klus, actor Jan Potmešil, documentarists Helena Treštíková and Olga Sommerová, director Jan Hrebejk, chef Roman Vanek, media personality Ivo Mathé and economist Tomáš Sedlácek. But, as the production company had already announced that Blaník's candidature was a ruse and that they were making a film with the election as a backdrop, the scenes with Blaník and actual people lack the hard edge of Sacha Baron Cohen's more ruthlessly satirical encounters. 

Consequently, long before the muddled ending involving Moscow putting in a bid to buy the Czech Republic and Blaník attempting to steal the jewels of state, this bold bid to make a movie on the hoof has tripped over itself. With five writers sharing the script credit, the humour feels as scattershot as that in Channel Four's election show, Power Monkeys. But topicality is less important in a feature film than cohesion and, despite the best efforts of the quick-thinking Marek Daniel, this never converts its bold intentions into belly laughs (although, one suspects, much of the wit will fly over the heads of those not au fait with Czech politics).

The satire is better directed in the aforementioned Vit Klusák's The White World According to Daliborek, which has been co-produced by Filip Remunda and is subtitled `a documentary play' to highlight the fact that this provocative pastiche of the films of Joshua Oppenheimer isn't to be taken as gospel truth. Nevertheless, Dalibor K. does exist and his repellent theories are dangerously real. 

In his mid-30s, Daliborek lives with his mother Vera in a rundown provincial town. He works as an industrial painter at a factory that has managed to survive the recession and goes about his tasks without attracting much attention to himself. Alone at home, however, Daliborek lets loose his Neo-Nazi alter ego, as he draws pictures of Hitler, posts vitriolic racist rants online and writes Death Metal songs with misogynist lyrics. He also produces homemade horror movies, one of which sees him stalk and slash a couple of victims whose blackface make-up is actually smeared Nutella. 

Although she largely confines herself to Facebook and a range of dating sites, Vera is no stranger to regrettable utterances, as she questions whether the beach death of three year-old Syrian boy, Alan Kurdi, was a publicity stunt staged using a dummy. However, she becomes preoccupied when she meets Vladimir online and Daliborek takes umbrage when he becomes a frequent house guest. He is resentful, however, because Vera can lure Vladimir into bed while his girlfriend, world-weary single mum Jana, resolutely refuses to sleep with him. But things improve with Vladimir when he buys Daliborek an Iron Cross ring for Christmas and promises to take him hunting. 

Despite having heard his subject's vile views on everything from refugees, gays and Gypsies to spiders and dentists, Klusák still arranges for Daliborek to pay a visit to Auschwitz. He comes to regret his decision, however, when the Czech accuses a woman of fabricating her survivor testimony and Klusák actively intervenes to bring the exchange to an end. The point is well made that an extremist buffoon is still a fascist and that no amount of own goal satire on his behalf is going to reduce the toxicity of his opinions. But the sequence feels like a stunt that should not have made the final cut, as Klusák has no right to put this poor woman in such an invidious situation. 

There's no doubt that this gross misjudgement leaves a sour taste and one is left wondering whether Daliborek and Vera knew precisely what kind of film they were making. Nevertheless, this contains numerous eye-opening moments that suggest the Western world is full of Daliboreks and that a time will come when they can't simply be dismissed with a scoffing laugh. 

As in the case with President Blaník, there's a resistible smugness to the satire, as Klusák struggles to keep a lid on the air of liberal superiority that inflects so many left-leaning mockumentaries. Thus, even though he does nothing to disguise the film's performance aspects or its compositional precision, Klusák and cinematographer Adam Kruliš might have been better advised to have watched the Maysles masterpiece Grey Gardens (1975) rather than Oppenheimer's The Act of Killing (2012).

Completing the fictional slate are Martin Šulík's The Interpreter and Jirí Strach's Angel of the Lord 2 (2016). The former stars Czech New Wave director Jirí Menzel as an 80 year-old who travels to Vienna for information about the SS officer responsible for the death of his parents. He meets the Nazi's son, Peter Simonischek, who hired Menzel to translate for him on a journey through Slovakia to discover whether his father was a war criminal. A very different expedition is undertaken by Ivan Trojan and Ivan Dvorák, as they reprise the roles of Petronel, the angel guarding the Gates of Heaven, and Uriah, the devil sent to tempt him. Having succeeded in persuading Petronel to pick an apple from the Tree of Knowledge, Uriah finds himself heading down to Earth in the middle of the St Nicholas' Day celebrations in order to retrieve the dropped fruit before a human can find it. 

Fresh from her guest appearance in President Blaník, Olga Sommerová returns behind the camera with Cervená, a profile of 92 year-old opera singer, Sona Cervená, Following on from studies of Olympic gymnast Vera Cáslavská and inspirational singer Marta Kubišová in Vera 68 (2012) and The Magic Voice of a Rebel (2014), this completes a triptych on remarkable, whose icon status within the Czech Republic has not been achieved without hardship.

Born in Prague in 1925, Cervená was the daughter of Žofia Veselíková and Jirí Cervený, the founder of the famed Red Seven cabaret band and the son of instrument maker Václav František Cervený, who is claimed to have invented the saxophone before it was popularised by Adolphe Sax. Despite their comfortable existence, the family suffered grievously during the war when the word `composer' was misread as `Communist' on Cervená's father's identity papers and he was sent to a concentration camp. Her mother followed as the Nazis wanted to requisition her home in the middle of the capital. But, while she survived the war, Žofia perished in Pankrác Prison after she was accused by the Soviets of having been a collaborator.

By the time her mother lapsed into a coma after being drugged during her interrogation, Cervená had started to make a name for herself on stage. In addition to appearing with such celebrated actors as Jan Werich and Jirí Voskovec, she also took the lead in Finian's Rainbow, which was the first Broadway musical to play in Czechoslovakia in 1948. Despite such success, however, Cervená was dispatched to a less prestigious company in Brno, where she made her operatic debut as a mezzo-soprano in 1954. 

It was only by chance that she was discovered by an Austrian delegation, which recommended that she should be treated with more respect. Transferring to the Berlin State Opera, Cervená managed to claim asylum in the West in 1961. Finding a home at the Opern- und Schauspielhaus in Frankfurt, she built a global reputation that eventually saw her give 5000 performances in 100 roles on all five continents. But she has no intention of retiring and has been starring in Robert Wilson's adaptation of Karel Capek's The Makropoulos Case at Prague's National Theatre since 2010.

While this is an engaging tribute to a garlanded singer, what makes it so compelling are the personal moments when Cervená had to dig deep in order to survive. Making telling use of a wealth of personal memorabilia, Sommerová captures the courage as well as the artistry that enabled Cervená to become a national treasure in a country that had forgotten all about her before her return from exile after the Velvet Revolution. Her recollections of being able to walk the streets unrecognised are every bit as poignant as her reflections on the tragic loss of her parents. 

Concluding the programme are Petr Slavík and Jirí Strecha's The Velvet Revolution (1990), which was edited in just 10 days at the end of a seismic period in Czech history, and Apolena Rychlíková's The Limits of Work, which draws on the footage that journalist Saša Uhlová recorded using a camera hidden in a pair of glasses while spending six months working in a variety of minimum wage jobs. Somehow finding time to write articles on her experiences for the A2larm.cz website, Uhlová slogs away at a hospital laundry, a chicken packing plant, a supermarket checkout, a factory producing razors and a waste sorting facility. Making friends in each workplace, she gets the lowdown on the exploitation of labour, as well as the physical and emotional toll taken of working exhausting shifts for a pittance.

Completing the fictional slate are Martin Šulík's The Interpreter and Jirí Strach's Angel of the Lord 2 (2016). The former stars Czech New Wave director Jirí Menzel as an 80 year-old who travels to Vienna for information about the SS officer responsible for the death of his parents. He meets the Nazi's son, Peter Simonischek, who hired Menzel to translate for him on a journey through Slovakia to discover whether his father was a war criminal. A very different expedition is undertaken by Ivan Trojan and Ivan Dvorák, as they reprise the roles of Petronel, the angel guarding the Gates of Heaven, and Uriah, the devil sent to tempt him. Having succeeded in persuading Petronel to pick an apple from the Tree of Knowledge, Uriah finds himself heading down to Earth in the middle of the St Nicholas' Day celebrations in order to retrieve the dropped fruit before a human can find it. 

Fresh from her guest appearance in President Blaník, Olga Sommerová returns behind the camera with Cervená, a profile of 92 year-old opera singer, Sona Cervená, Following on from studies of Olympic gymnast Vera Cáslavská and inspirational singer Marta Kubišová in Vera 68 (2012) and The Magic Voice of a Rebel (2014), this completes a triptych on remarkable, whose icon status within the Czech Republic has not been achieved without hardship.

Born in Prague in 1925, Cervená was the daughter of Žofia Veselíková and Jirí Cervený, the founder of the famed Red Seven cabaret band and the son of instrument maker Václav František Cervený, who is claimed to have invented the saxophone before it was popularised by Adolphe Sax. Despite their comfortable existence, the family suffered grievously during the war when the word `composer' was misread as `Communist' on Cervená's father's identity papers and he was sent to a concentration camp. Her mother followed as the Nazis wanted to requisition her home in the middle of the capital. But, while she survived the war, Žofia perished in Pankrác Prison after she was accused by the Soviets of having been a collaborator.

By the time her mother lapsed into a coma after being drugged during her interrogation, Cervená had started to make a name for herself on stage. In addition to appearing with such celebrated actors as Jan Werich and Jirí Voskovec, she also took the lead in Finian's Rainbow, which was the first Broadway musical to play in Czechoslovakia in 1948. Despite such success, however, Cervená was dispatched to a less prestigious company in Brno, where she made her operatic debut as a mezzo-soprano in 1954. 

It was only by chance that she was discovered by an Austrian delegation, which recommended that she should be treated with more respect. Transferring to the Berlin State Opera, Cervená managed to claim asylum in the West in 1961. Finding a home at the Opern- und Schauspielhaus in Frankfurt, she built a global reputation that eventually saw her give 5000 performances in 100 roles on all five continents. But she has no intention of retiring and has been starring in Robert Wilson's adaptation of Karel Capek's The Makropoulos Case at Prague's National Theatre since 2010.

While this is an engaging tribute to a garlanded singer, what makes it so compelling are the personal moments when Cervená had to dig deep in order to survive. Making telling use of a wealth of personal memorabilia, Sommerová captures the courage as well as the artistry that enabled Cervená to become a national treasure in a country that had forgotten all about her before her return from exile after the Velvet Revolution. Her recollections of being able to walk the streets unrecognised are every bit as poignant as her reflections on the tragic loss of her parents. 

Concluding the programme are Petr Slavík and Jirí Strecha's The Velvet Revolution (1990), which was edited in just 10 days at the end of a seismic period in Czech history, and Apolena Rychlíková's The Limits of Work, which draws on the footage that journalist Saša Uhlová recorded using a camera hidden in a pair of glasses while spending six months working in a variety of minimum wage jobs. Somehow finding time to write articles on her experiences for the A2larm.cz website, Uhlová slogs away at a hospital laundry, a chicken packing plant, a supermarket checkout, a factory producing razors and a waste sorting facility. Making friends in each workplace, she gets the lowdown on the exploitation of labour, as well as the physical and emotional toll taken of working exhausting shifts for a pittance.