‘April’ Review – Dea Kulumbegashvili’s Sophomore Feature Establishes The Georgian Auteur As A Visceral Visionary [NYFF 2024]

The first few minutes of Dea Kulumbegashvili’s April are occupied by the unsettling sight of a deformed skin monster trudging through the darkness of an undefined void. This grotesque, almost-zombified figure is clearly a female, if only because a pair of breasts droop from its chest. It could feasibly be the twin of the monster that emerges from the meshing of the two main character’s bodies at the end of Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance, with its deadened, wrinkled skin and its slouching shoulders that make it look as though it’s on the verge of death. The black vacuum in which it lives is not dissimilar to the one Scarlett Johansson led her unsuspecting prey toward in Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin; we wonder, what fate will this (or, has this) being suffered? Before we can even finish posing the question, Kulumbegashvili cuts to her sophomore features title card, and from there, to a thunder-filled rainstorm, and from there, to a scene featuring a shockingly graphic birth that ends with a still-born child and an OB/GYN being accused of malpractice. We’re not 10 minutes into a 134-minute film, yet our seats are permanently scarred with scratches from our now-filed fingernails.

It’s certainly not a horror film, but Kulumbegashvili’s visual sensibility – as well as the craft her films are built out with, from Matthew Herbert’s score to Arseni Khachaturan’s haunting cinematography – make for a distressing experience that the genre would pay to be able to conjure, especially with where it stands today. The early birth sequence can only be compared to the similar, widely-discussed moment from Arkasha Stevenson’s The First Omen, a good film by all accounts that still occasionally falls into the convention-filled trap set by the genre films that came before it. April, despite having a few brief reference points that a cinephilic viewer can spot, is a wholly singular work of auteurism that establishes Kulumbegashvili as an artist of her own class. And that’s just from the standpoint of the images she creates; narratively, there’s even more to chew on, and when married with the indelible frames littered throughout, it makes for a startling viewing experience that is bound to linger with you long after leaving the theater.

The OB/GYN we meet in these early moments is Nina (Ia Sukhitashvili), a Georgian woman who is highly respected by her peers and supervisors, regardless of the fact that one is looking for an excuse to fire her and she once had an extended romantic relationship with the other. The former is due to rumors about Nina giving unsanctioned abortions in nearby villages, allegations that Nina won’t deny, let alone respond to. When an investigation into her role in the newborn’s death is led by that same ex-partner, David (Kakha Kintsurashvili), Nina isn’t exactly torn, nor is she any more cautious in regards to her illicit off-duty procedures than she was before. After all, she’s doing what no one else will; while abortion is legal up to 12 weeks in Georgia, clinics only have to perform them if they choose to; most don’t. (She also provides some of her younger patients with birth control pills, though the hospital brass doesn’t seem to be aware.)

It’s a complicated existence, one that Kulumbegashvili and Sukhitashvili imbue with what could be seen as nothing more than relentless anxiety, or something darker and more deep-seated. An early shot of Nina finds her sitting nude in her kitchen, her arms cradling her legs as she curls into a ball on a wooden chair; later in the film, the shot is recreated, only this time, it’s the aforementioned mutant wandering around her home, having left the void for time among the living. It’s worth considering whether or not this is Nina, or at least a representation of her decaying soul while being pulled in multiple directions, yet Kulumbegashvili isn’t one for easy answers, and her films are better for it. 

Her previous feature, 2020’s Beginning (which, like April, starred Sukhitashvili and had its U.S. premiere at that year’s New York Film Festival), examined persecution and abusive power dynamics in realms of religion and relationships, and similarly featured a female protagonist who became disillusioned with societal expectations the more they threatened her own sanity. That both films were shot by Khachaturan (who also lensed Bones and All, directed by April producer Luca Guadagnino) certainly aids matters. They seem to be speaking the same language – literally and visually – as there are shared moments of respite between the two, many of which involve brightly lit fields populated by flowers; these shots, albeit short and sweet, are beautifully juxtaposed with the images that dominate the films, dark canvasses barely brushed by daylight, let alone hope. Khachaturanh’s camera uses Nina as a host at times while standing still at others, yet it never remains entirely motionless, even when it appears as though it is propped up in one place. There’s a turbulence to the film that stretches throughout, almost as though we’re positioned on a ship traveling over choppy waters. (I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.)

Perhaps the film’s strongest asset is Kulumbegashvili and Khachaturan’s joint position that not everything needs showing, and that oftentimes, a scene can be more harrowing the less viewers are able to see. There’s a stark difference between how the early birth and the film’s lone “on screen” abortion are shot: While the former, shot from above, was striking in its explicitness, the abortion that Nina performs on a friend’s young, mute sister – one that carries a great deal of weight in how the rest of the film unfolds – consists of one long shot that remains still throughout the entire procedure and never shows the actual procedure. We see the scene unfold from a height akin to that of a small child, where all we can see is two sisters clutching one another’s hands with such force that it’s a wonder no bones are broken in the process. Somewhere off to the side, we can hear tools being used, and a number of pained moans coming from one of the two bodies we can see make it clear that the operation is underway. It’s a brilliant stroke from a director completely in command of her vision, one who recognizes what needs to be in one’s purview versus what can be inferred.

In the Q&A that followed April’s U.S. premiere on Oct. 7, Kulumbegashvili told critic and festival programmer K. Austin Collins that she doesn’t view her “visual language” as a style, but more as a form of communication, an effort to show audiences how she’s experienced something or how she relates to it. A native Georgian who set both Beginning and April in her hometown of Lagodekhi, she tells real-life stories through a fictional lens, all of which are based on her own research. With that in mind, she spoke on how “life that’s filmed around us is so impossible to look at,” and said that she finds herself trying to narrow down the point of view by showing less to get audiences to focus on what’s most important for us to see. Regarding the contrast between the two scenes that are bound to be most discussed, she asked, “Do we really need to see everything there? I don’t. But as for the birth, I wanted to see it… [and] I do believe that cinema doesn’t consist only of images we want to see.” She also reassured the audience that it’s understandable if they wish to look away at the things that are hardest to watch, though seeing that April itself is a “difficult sit,” as they say, I’d recommend the opposite. At times, its images are upsetting, sure, but as a whole, its enveloping and meditative nature is worthy of your gaze, one that you shouldn’t break regardless of how hard it may be to keep your eyes trained. 

April held its U.S. Premiere as part of the Main Slate section at the 2024 New York Film Festival.

Director: Dea Kulumbegashvili

Writer: Dea Kulumbegashvili

Rated: NR

Runtime: 134m