Rebel Doctor, Silent Storm: A Groundbreaking Tale of Resistance in Georgia

Dea Kulumbegashvili’s second film, titled April, develops as a profoundly haunting contemplation, compelling viewers to endure the unease of its pauses and the weight of its unspoken queries. The narrative revolves around Nina (Ia Sukhitashvili), a Georgian OB-GYN who finds herself in a delicate predicament, both privately and professionally, due to her subtle resistance against Georgia’s legal restrictions on abortion.

The movie “April” breaks free from conventional storytelling methods, instead using a cinematic vocabulary that is tangible, immersive, and strikingly personal. Through skillful editing, careful pacing, and sound effects that enclose the audience, Kulumbegashvili creates an environment that is both unsettling and deeply relatable to the human condition. The film delves into the complexities of women’s positions in Georgia’s traditional society, a place where societal expectations and community values mold generations, and explores the heavy moral and emotional burden of living under systems designed to control and monitor them.

The Enigmatic Figure: Innocence Lost and Reclaimed

The month of April initiates a setting that’s both recognizable and elusive. An aged, gender-neutral figure emerges intermittently from the blur, creating an uneasy yet compelling ambiance. Kulumbegashvili positions us in the realm of the eerie, contrasting this unsettling character with the tranquility of the audio environment. The soundscape is punctuated by children’s laughter, blending harmoniously with the gentle rhythm of raindrops. The camera lingers on a still puddle mirroring a violet sky, its calmness starkly contrasting the lively voices of children echoing “Nina.

Initially, these elements seem scattered or unrelated, much like an intentionally unsolved puzzle. However, when the movie transitions to a powerful wide shot of a young woman in labor, the connections between sound, visuals, and meaning start to intertwine. The birth scene is portrayed candidly by Kulumbegashvili’s camera, refusing to divert its gaze from the raw, physical experience of childbirth. In this scene, we are introduced to Nina – not as the laboring woman or the nurse offering comforting words, but as the doctor, calm and composed amidst the turmoil that surrounds her.

In the following scene, Nina encounters three individuals: Merab Ninidze (her chief physician), Kakha Kintscurashvili (David), and Sandro Kalandadze (the husband of the woman who has just delivered a baby). While Merab is solely focused on preserving the hospital’s public image, disregarding Nina’s welfare, David feigns concern in his interactions with her. The husband, however, brims with anger, symbolizing the oppressive societal and patriarchal norms that pose a threat to Nina.

In this crucial conversation, the movie’s main dispute comes to light as the man accuses Nina of secretly carrying out abortions in nearby villages, calling her a murderer. His words are filled with contempt, but it is his final action – a direct, hateful spit – that shatters the delicate balance. The camera maintains an equal distance and unwavering gaze, mirroring Nina’s own stoicism, and records not only the man’s loathsome sentiment but also Nina’s restrained reaction, her expression a veil we, as viewers, cannot yet penetrate.

Layered Observations and Sonic Immersion

In this scene, the director Kulumbegashvili chooses to portray Nina, our main character, in a stark and unadorned manner, revealing her vulnerability as she is alone, nude in her own home with drawn curtains. This starkness serves to highlight her disconnection from the world around her, a woman burdened by others’ judgments, expectations, and moral standards, while also struggling with her own. Unlike other portrayals, April, the creator of this narrative, does not attempt to soften Nina’s image or elicit easy pity. Instead, she challenges us to confront the complexities of Nina’s life.

The story is presented piece by piece, providing insights about her life in an unusual way that doesn’t follow traditional storytelling structure. Details are shared sparingly and sometimes out of sequence, making the audience actively work to grasp the meaning. Kulumbegashvili uses a method of detailed, observational editing, which increases the viewer’s connection with Nina’s perspective. The film often stays in long, continuous shots, giving us time to absorb a situation alongside Nina, before abruptly switching to her perspective moments later, unveiling more layers of information.

This recurring pattern echoes how we experience real-life events: initially observing from the outside, then getting involved, and ultimately dealing with the emotional and situational impact of what we’ve witnessed. This method of editing generates a disconcerting feeling of temporal flexibility, where time and comprehension unravel piece by piece, encouraging perseverance and contemplation from viewers. It’s a creative decision that reflects the harsh world Nina lives in, where her silent resistance is met with criticism and dismissal. However, within this fractured storyline, there are instances of profound insight that expose the extent of Nina’s loneliness and fortitude.

A poignant instance arises when Nina, departing from a disrespectful villager, gazes into a deserted livestock train. Within lies a malnourished mother cow caring for her calf — drained, feeble, and probably pregnant once more. The correlation is clear: a being trapped in reproduction cycles it cannot break free from, its power usurped by forces it doesn’t comprehend. Nina remains, helpless to act, her quiet stare echoing the same despair she experiences in her existence. It’s an image that resonates deeply, lingering long after the scene dissipates.

The Rebirth and Restraints of Spring

The movie’s title, April, symbolizes the spring season, representing growth, change, and yet, uncertainty. This duality mirrors in the film’s visuals: the allure of nature, the puddles reflecting spring showers, and the mud signifying the burden Nina feels in her personal circumstances. The title suggests a focus on life’s cycles and the limited control many women often experience, echoing the fact that one cannot command the weather or the factors determining their lives.

In a seemingly caring manner, figures like David eventually demonstrate their participation in the restrictive norms that limit Nina. What initially appears as kindness from David transforms into condescension when he suggests that having a child could soften Nina’s views on abortion and make her more manageable to defend. His words are tinged with paternalistic worry, as he nostalgically recalls his wife and children, implying that Nina’s life is somehow lacking without motherhood. The interaction between them is intriguing: David, steeped in self-importance, is blind to Nina’s silent rejection of his perspective. Instead, the viewers are encouraged to peer beneath the surface of human interactions and ponder how these roles, behaviors, and expressions either empower or stifle one another.

The Rosy Red of Rebellion

Kulumbegashvili’s visual style underscores a request for self-reflection. In one instance, an office is arranged with such precision it resembles an Alice Neel painting, making shadows and tranquility compel the observer to seek deeper significance beneath the surface. The camera seldom shifts position, yet when it does, it uncovers additional insights in a manner that seems thoughtful and well-deserved. This is particularly noticeable in Nina’s encounters with her patients – women who struggle to express the systemic oppression that has influenced their lives, but who nevertheless long for something greater.

In this movie, a 16-year-old girl, whose nails are painted red, aspires to complete her education. However, her family pressures her to forgo these aspirations in favor of having children. Throughout the film, the color red, used subtly yet significantly, symbolizes liberty and self-determination. It serves as a visual link between Nina and other women, each of them constrained by identical oppressive norms and yearning for an escape. This is a recurring visual motif that ties Nina to these women, who are all subjected to the same repressive demands and secretly longing for liberation.

The symbolism reaches its peak during one of the movie’s most emotionally intense scenes, where Mzia (Ana Nikolava), the mother, requests Nina to perform an abortion on her deaf-mute daughter. Unintentionally, she admits a hidden truth about the situation, which Nina and attentive viewers will discern. Kulumbegashvili avoids depicting the technical aspects of the abortion and instead focuses on Mzia’s hands clenched tightly around her daughter, showing her fear and anxiety. When the act is over, Mzia’s hand is shown with painted nails, a subtle yet powerful moment that encapsulates the film’s main idea. This quiet act of defiance, liberation, and release offers a brief taste of freedom, despite its fleeting nature.

Nina’s Affirmation of Autonomy and Identity in ‘April’

In a significant scene from the movie that showcases more than just Nina’s professional role as a doctor, she is seen patiently waiting at a car wash. A timid young man, clearly uneasy in her presence, rushes to expedite the process so she can clean her vehicle. As he exits the frame, his car is shown to be red. Without uttering a word, Nina and the man leave together towards the woods. Although the camera doesn’t follow them, the power dynamic between them is clear. It’s Nina who takes the lead, and the man complies with her wishes – an unusual scenario in a setting where male dominance and desires are typically assumed and given priority.

In a new private interaction with another individual, Nina once again takes charge of the situation. When he inquires about her personal life, she feels under no obligation to disclose everything and reveals only a poignant recollection from her past: an unsettling memory of her sister nearly drowning in the rain-soaked mud during childhood, an incident Nina still grapples with guilt over. This moment showcases Nina’s vulnerability, yet it reinforces her decision not to be bound by the preconceived notions others may have for her. Nina’s independence extends beyond the physical realm into the emotional and mental facets of her existence. The feelings that David and others might harbor towards her are insignificant. What Nina truly yearns for is power – not power for its own sake, but the ability to control her life according to her own terms.

A Cinematic Demand for Introspection

The interplay of power, guilt, and rebellion is deeply ingrained in Nina’s character and Kulumbegashvili’s creative perspective. With every decision Nina makes, every silent act of resistance, she reclaims a part of the identity that was taken from her by force. As the movie subtly returns to its initial scenes, the genderless figure and the children’s laughter acquire fresh significance. They are not merely remnants of her past; they form the bedrock of Nina’s new identity, the life she has constructed from the soil of her history.

As a cinephile, I can’t help but be moved by April – a cinematic revolution both in its narrative and existence. It serves as a powerful reminder of the rebellious nature of filmmaking, especially in a world where women like Nina are often asked to surrender their bodies, voices, and identities. Kulumbegashvili’s unwavering lens refuses to look away, offering a glimpse into a reality that demands patience and vulnerability from its viewers. In return, it delivers a quiet yet devastating impact. As the end credits roll and the laughter of children fades, what lingers is a deep sense of urgency – a call to scrutinize the systems that control us, and to dare, even amidst oppression, to envision what true freedom could mean.

In late April, the movie was exhibited at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival. The following screenings are scheduled for January 29th and February 2nd. For details on timings and more information, please click here.

2025-01-27 06:04