A staunchly uncompromising filmmaker in both subject matter and technique, Dea Kulumbegashvili won’t be one of those independent, critically-lauded auteurs who find themselves co-opted by the Disney/ Marvel machine any time soon. Her sophomore feature is a rigorously controlled, but unflinching and harrowing examination of the provision of abortion services in rural Georgia, or lack thereof. It’s far from a commercial prospect, with a detached presentation that compresses its dramatic moments into carbonised shards that flash viciously from within its stately runtime. But the patient viewer will be met with a bone-chilling experience that will be extremely difficult to shake.

Obstetrician Nina finds her career in jeopardy after a seemingly routine delivery results in a stillbirth. The father demands an investigation, even though the pregnancy was never been registered and the baby having several defects that would have made survival practically impossible. Nina is not really at fault, but the investigation risks making public her illicit provision of abortions for vulnerable women.

Kulumbegashvili’s approach continues that of her striking debut, Beginning from 2020. Long, static, handheld shots in a boxy aspect ratio impart claustrophobia and a sense of queasy movement even in the most still moments. She also brings back her debut’s lead actress Ia Sukhitashvili, who gives a brilliant, hyper-contained performance.

Known as a stage actress, what’s astonishing about Sukhitashvili’s depiction of Nina is how anti-dramatic it is. It’s one of those performance that doesn’t feel like acting at all. Kulumbegashvili augments this by placing her lead in real situations, alongside actual medical professionals during real procedures, such as a genuine birth and an epidural. She also eschews any dramatic – and by implication heroic – closeup. Instead, we always see Nina from a medium distance in profile, or swathed in darkness. The effect is a discomfiting sense of intrusion.

Kulumbegashvili’s aesthetic sense of her protagonist is mirrored by her storytelling. There is little direct insight into Nina’s character, other than how one reads into her actions. She lives alone and devotes the vast majority of her time to either her legitimate job or her extra-curricular activities for the downtrodden of the Georgian countryside. Again, there is no overt discussion of the morality of Nina’s actions besides the actions themselves; a real-time procedure conducted on a non-verbal teenage survivor of rape says everything about the value of her work, but nothing of her motivations (and as a scene shows nothing graphic, but communicates so much). Similarly, we can only speculate why she also seeks out anonymous, often violent, sexual encounters in a way similar to Isabelle Huppert’s similarly self-annihilating lead in Michael Haneke‘s The Piano Teacher. Is there a martyr complex at work? A need for atonement of some kind?

There is a certain surreal clue offered. Dotted among the many scenes of merciless realism are strange interludes in which a ravaged, bald, female figure appears on screen. Somewhere between the ‘Pale Man‘ from Pan’s Labyrinth and the terrifying wooden Golem from Oddity, she appears in Nina’s home, and is even seen in a clinch with Nina’s colleague and former lover. As such, she clearly presents some aspect of Nina grounded in trauma or neurosis. She cuts a dejected, exhausted figure, moving painfully slowly and breathing noisily like malfunctioning bellows. She makes for a striking image but the overall effect is willful obscurantism. The figure may point towards trauma as a motivating factor, but offers nothing concrete beyond the scraps we can glean from Nina herself. It’s another plank nailed across the doorframe of a film that isn’t exactly accessible to begin with.

April is a difficult film to recommend. It’s already tough subject matter is unflinchingly depicted, yet its themes dealt with obliquely, without any real closure, or real hint of catharsis. What it does boast are some remarkable visuals from Arseni Khachaturan (Beginning, Bones and All), a sparse yet hair-raising score from experimental composer Matthew Herbert, as well as that immaculately controlled central performance from Ia Sukhitashvili. Any horror filmmaker should also be shown the early scene in which Nina is faced by two colleagues and the father of the stillborn baby as a masterclass in tension with minimal components.

Being honest, April is going to be a critical darling but won’t trouble the heights of the box office. Yet it is a deeply affecting and memorable film that bears the imprint of some familiar influences – the aforementioned Michael Haneke, Béla Tarr, the Romanian New Wave – but is a thoroughly distinctive work from an increasingly major figure in world cinema. It sounds like the bleakest misery porn, but it is as far from melodrama as it could be. It’s not even really a character piece, which is the usual default for any movie not bolted to its plot. We’re never offered more than the odd piece of Nina’s character. If there’s such a thing as an ambient issue film, April may well be it.

In selected cinemas from Fri 25 Apr 2025