QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM VENICE

Quiet and reserved Nina (Ia Sukhitashvili) is an obstetrician in a rural hospital somewhere in the impoverished Georgian flatlands. The facilities are spacious and barren, much like the surrounding environment. The devoted doctor literally takes matters into her own hands, fulfilling multiple functions. She helps to deliver children, provides postnatal care, preconception advice and – unbeknownst to her peers – carries out abortions (often past the 12-week legal threshold). She is motivated neither by money nor career ambitions, but instead empathy and solidarity.

Our protagonist has no time for men. A good-looking male doctor of around her age resents that she refused to marry him years earlier. She explains that her job does not allow time for such distractions. He offers to give her a child instead, but Nina’s commitment to other women remains steadfast. Her resolute sorority and her unwavering selflessness are moving, in a quietly convincing performance by prolific Georgian actress Sukhitashvili (she also starred in Dea Kulumbegashvili’s previous feature film Beginning, which won just about every major prize at the San Sebastian International Film Festival in 2020). Nina represents humanity at its most noble.

One day, a baby dies at birth. An investigation ensues, in the process uncovering evidence that Nina may have performed illegal abortions. She understands that a criminal charge would have very dear consequences for her. t could potentially cost her her job, and perhaps even her freedom. The hospital chief and the loving doctor are very supportive. They questions why she won’t have a nurse carry out the dangerous and illegal abortions, Her answer is devastatingly honest and pragmatic: “because they won’t know what to do in case something goes wrong”. So Dea carries on with her work as usual. That is, until another tragic event takes places. Nina’s realisation that her ability to help patients is both limited and fallible is absolutely heartbreaking.

This is a traditional piece of slow cinema, with a runtime of 134 minutes (nearly hour hours and a quarter). Extremely long and mostly static takes with little movement prevail, often ranging between five and 10 minutes. The images of the female body at work are extremely graphic. The movie opens with one of the most shocking birth scenes in the history of cinema. A premature and malnourished baby is seen inside an incubator. Nina performs an abortion on the dining room table of a patient’s home. The nudity is gracefully frank. The doctor too is prepared to disrobe herself in front of the camera, revealing her bony figure and modest breasts. However strong her goodwill and determination, Nina’s body remains frail and vulnerable reminding viewers of her mortality. The close-up of the naked male body and a gently shaky phallus provide a fitting counterpoint to the doctor’s anatomy.

Arseni Khachaturan’s exquisite cinematography deserves unequivocal praise, too. He blends conventional takes with Brechtian devices to impressive results. The action is somber and gloomy, captured from a multitudes of angles, mostly from a distance (there are very few close-ups). At times the camera is very revealing (the birth scene is filmed from above), at times it spares viewers (one of the abortion scenes reveals no face and no genitalia, instead focusing on the side of the torso). The visuals are intentionally fragmented, crafting a sense of distance and respect, while also avoiding exploitation and/or fetishisation. Viewers are left to fill the blanks and the unseen with the power of their imagination. This is truly inspiring and evocative filmmaking.

April just premiered in the Official Competition of the 81st Venice International Film Festival. I sincerely hope that the movie follows in the footsteps of its predecessor from four years ago, and that Dea Kulumbegashvili doesn’t leave Venice empty-handed.