4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days

One movie in, and I already find myself at an impasse. What should have been next in my queue, Delmer Daves’s 1957 Western 3:10 to Yuma, is not currently available on The Criterion Channel, nor is the subsequent film, Robert Altman’s 3 Women (1977). Fortunately, Criterion updates its app on a regular basis, removing and adding movies at a fairly hurried pace, so I suspect I’ll have the chance to screen both of these offerings sooner rather than later. Because I am a completist, however—okay, so I suffer from just the tiniest little bit of OCD; no need to make a federal case out of it—I can’t abide the disarray without some sort of system in place for rectifying it. My plan for now is to keep a running tally of those films I was forced to skip for one reason or another in anticipation of returning to them once opportunity allows. I am calling these reviews “double backs,” and they will be marked as such in their headers. So where does that leave us today? Not in a happy, sunny place, I’m sorry to say.

Having geared myself up for a stylized genre movie from the golden age of Hollywood, I was not at all prepared for something as stark and somber as Christian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (2007). The film is Romanian, and my exposure to this country’s cinematic output is pretty much limited to The Death of Mister Lazarescu (2006), a dark comedy from director Cristi Puiu that, while sharing a certain unadorned authenticity with 4 Months, occasionally relents from its own bleak outlook. Mungiu’s movie does no such thing and is thus one of those productions that does not invite repeated viewings, regardless of its solid construction, masterful pacing, and realistic performances. I have read that some critics consider the film to be something of a thriller, what with its mounting dread and unpredictable twists and revelations, but I found it closer akin to a holocaust documentary—morbidly fascinating, but just a ponderous and brutal watch. I was exhausted by the end of it.

The movie centers around two female students who room together in the squalid dormitory of an unnamed university. It becomes clear over time—the matter is only addressed obliquely at the outset—that one of the women, Gabita (Laura Vasiliu), is pregnant and has arranged for an abortion that very day at a neighboring hotel. Her roommate Otilia (Anamaria Marinca)—the true protagonist of the story—has agreed to accompany her, but not until she has first combed the dorm hallways for individuals with whom she can barter for soap, cigarettes, and breath mints. The context for such exchanges is the year 1987 when Romania was still under the tyrannical and murderous rule of Communist Party General Secretary Nicolae Ceausescu, whose repressive policies pretty much impoverished the country and outlawed any activity that might threaten his regime. The abortion that Gabita seeks is thus illegal and goes just about as well as one might expect under such conditions.

It’s worth noting that there is nothing political about the film. Ceausescu’s decision to prohibit abortion did not stem from any sort of religious or ethical objection. Rather, he banned the practice to boost Romania’s waning population and thereby increase the number of Communist Party members. Following suit, the movie manages to neither laud Gabita’s choice nor condemn it, choosing instead to use the incident—already a foregone conclusion by the time wearrive on the scene—to present us with a series of portraits of Romanian life in the Eighties, the decade in which director Mungiu came of age in the city of Jassy. In fact, much to Otilia’s consternation, Gabita makes it exceedingly difficult to determine whether her response to being pregnant is a good one or merely in keeping with her flighty nature. Not only does she fail to follow the simple instructions of Mr. Bebe (Vlad Ivanov), the predatory abortionist who enjoins Gabita to come in person to a prearranged meeting place after making reservations at a very specific hotel, but she lies about Otilia’s identity and then embroils her in a sexual transaction. So muddied with inconstancy are her deeds and motivations (we are also not made privy to the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy) that the abortion itself becomes largely—though not entirely—beside the point. We are thus left to ponder those aspects of the film that do represent a definitive disclosure of Mungiu’s intentions, however mundane they end up being.

Perhaps foremost among these aims is that evident at the party that Otilia attends at the behest of her boyfriend Adi (Alexandru Potocean). Gathered are several family friends, including a couple of medical doctors, all of whom are party loyalists and just a tad elitist—this despite the cramped and dingy apartment in which they are located, itself a casualty of Ceausescu’s leadership. Otilia is absorbed into the center of their boisterous crosstalk as if by a sponge and summarily subjected to slapdash opinions on everything from the worthlessness of the church to the uselessness of young adults to the senselessness of fighting “the system.” At one point, she even finds herself seated at the head of the dining room table, flanked on either side by clamoring dinner guests—like Christ in da Vinci’s The Last Supper—the camera holding her frustrated gaze as she weighs the empty conversation against the plight of Gabita. The clear implication here is that the Romanian people are as much to blame as Ceausescu for the country’s problems. And unfortunately, that’s just about as deep as this movie gets.

Complementing the simplicity of his observations is Mungiu’s spare camera work. It’s largely a stationary affair, the lens fixed on a single focal point, regardless of whether the actors remain in the vicinity or not. Numerous times throughout the movie, characters wander off into adjoining rooms while the camera remains rooted in place, staring at the person left behind—or in some cases at nothing at all. Conversations are still audible, but they are muted or heard from a distance. Just about the only time the camera moves is in pursuit of Otilia as she hurries through the dormitory and then later when she seeks to dispose of the aborted fetus. Otherwise, there obtains an absolute stillness—so much so that scenes often resemble snapshots. The comparison between the dinner party and The Last Supper is thus fairly apt; the painterly quality of the cinematography and design is unmistakable. Mungiu actually tips his hand in this regard, having Otilia comment to Gabita about a picture in the latter’s hotel room, “That still life is really weird,” implying that what we are seeing in 4 Months is a collection of similarly crafted images that are nevertheless absurd, given the events they chronicle. Look closely and you’ll also note the precise symmetry of the set pieces—a lamp and end table on the left are mirrored perfectly on the right, and so on—which while aesthetically pleasing and harmonious, despite the lusterless earth tones that color them, likewise convey a sense of precise bureaucratic control, which is undoubtedly their raison d’etre. 

Indeed, “subtle,” “small,” and “meticulous” are probably the best words to describe Mungiu’s film. In no way is it a great cinematic achievement (despite winning the 2007 Palm d’Or), but it is a capable venture, well-built and expertly achieved—especially in the way that it uses its soft, unintrusive directorial touch to portray some quite violent, invasive, and confrontational acts. Whether it’s Otilia scrubbing her thighs in the shower having just prostituted herself, Mr. Bebe sliding a flexible tube—or “probe,” as he calls it—into Gabita, her pubic hair exposed to the harsh fluorescent light, or the hollow clunk of the bagged fetus as it plummets down the garbage chute from the top floor of an apartment building, these jarring episodes all proceed from the same stolid vantage point, somehow making them all the more horrific as a result. The moment when Otilia discovers the fetus on the bathroom floor is particularly disturbing. The camera lingers over it for a full fourteen seconds before cutting away. What at first strikes one as a mere blob of bloody tissue slowly resolves itself into a human visage, complete with diminutive eyes, nose, and mouth, and yet the shot is as cold and composed as those that came before it.

I mentioned earlier that Gabita’s abortion is not the actual subject of the film, operating almost as a (dare I say it) MacGuffin for the longsuffering Otilia in that it offers her an occasion for self-reflection—and this remains true. That said, I found it fascinating that when pressed to do so by narrative demands, Mungiu was brave enough to put a literal face on the abortion debate. The title of the movie refers to the duration of Gabita’s pregnancy, but as others have indicated, it also represents a countdown of sorts to this final grisly inevitability. There are any number of ways that the director could have played it, including not showing the fetus at all, but such would have been out of keeping with the manner in which the rest of the film refuses to avert its gaze. Again, I don’t believe this was a political decision on Mungiu’s part, but rather a gesture of honesty that conforms to the movie’s realistic approach. The same goes for the final scene of 4 Months, which locates Gabita and Otilia at the hotel restaurant. When the waiter offers them leftover food from a nearby wedding reception, the two politely and calmly refuse it once they learn that liver, breaded brains, and marrow are the remaining dishes. It’s as if they associate the meal with the fetal body.

I don’t know that the film could have ended on a more appropriate note. From start to finish, it bludgeons you with verisimilitude, but all from a placid, restrained, and well-ordered perspective. Otilia tells Gabita that they should never speak about the day again, and I must admit that, all things considered, I wholeheartedly support this strategy. No, there is nothing at all wrong with 4 Months as far as technique or craftsmanship is concerned, though I don’t think it breaks any new ground in this regard either. And I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that the acting here is in fact extraordinary—as naturalistic as I’ve seen in a long, long time. Even so, the limited philosophical range of the movie, when combined with its unrelenting gloominess and portrayals of hardship and suffering, does not have me itching to watch it again. I feel like I have actually lived the day along with Gabita and Otilia and would prefer to stop talking about it as well. Like these two women, I have been there and done that—I have bought the t-shirt, as they say—and now I’m just ready to move on.