From its enigmatic opening — where we are introduced to a humanoid monster ambling around a dark space to the sounds of children to the background, followed by a haunting, lingering one-shot of a sequence of ill-fated childbirth — Dea Kulumbegashvili’s April makes it clear that it will be a challenging watch. That said, despite its intricate approach, and deliberate and gradual pacing that slowly reveals the many layers of our protagonist, obstetrician Nina (Ia Sukhitashvili), the film plays it off beautifully with often-mesmerising sequences. Lengthy shots hone in on her, and the people and environment around her, deftly capturing how she navigates the fallout from the premature death of an infant during a delivery she handles.
Immediately, we are with Nina, confronted by an infuriated and grief-stricken father, who pushes for an inquiry into her methods and how his child died. That the camera never leaves the two in this scene only amplifies the discomfort of both parties, effectively reaching a boiling point during a moment of aggression by the father. Unfortunately, Nina must take this striking encounter in stride and compartmentalise (for her sake and the sake of her other patients).
Outside her professional world, we follow Nina as she cruises for men for quick flings in her car. In a fascinating but tragic parallel to her work, it’s clear that she is detached here, too: on one hand, anonymity is paramount in these moments of pleasure; and, on the other, it’s hardly reciprocal. In fact, when she asks her nameless casual partner to pleasure her as well, he strikes her. Situations like these emphasise how Nina is clearly going through a lot in her job — feelings that are only exacerbated by the patriarchal forces she encounters in professional and personal contexts — and thus seems to emotionally disassociate herself from others.
Tension underscores everything Nina does, especially when we learn about the extra burden she carries: performing illegal abortions for villagers in the countryside for whom drastic and covert actions are their only option. Her profession as a doctor is her entire life, both in the hospital and the villages, and Kulumbegashvili, who spent months observing doctors at maternity clinics and rural communities in Georgia, approaches her protagonist’s life, career, and social and political circumstances with extreme care and authenticity.
Sukhitashvili is often at the centre of it all, her silent performance — thanks to her expressive eyes — evoking the heaviness of Nina’s situation. Around her, of course, is a talented ensemble of veteran actors and non-professional performers alike. Apart from the cast, Asrseni Khachaturan’s cinematography gorgeously captures the scope of the countryside, with landscapes that have such tangible beauty to them. His work is particularly integral when the film takes its more surreal swings.
But this foray into monsters and mystery is equally potent, giving physical forms to Nina’s inner struggles and, by extension, portraying her as a martyr.In the press notes for the film, Kulumbegashvili spoke of wanting to explore “the dichotomy and convergence between existence and womanhood” through birth and death, wherein Nina’s journey is enduring pain and pressure in order to help others. Khachaturan’s cinematography creates a poignant contrast between the natural landscape of the world Nina lives in and the ominous presence of death that she ultimately cannot prevent.
While the narrative presents no clear answers for Nina — or the viewer, for that matter — the power of Kulumbegashvili’s work is such that we grow to understand why she persists despite the vitriol and violence hurled at her. She may not be omnipotent, but omni-benevolent, she, in her own way, most certainly is.
