Many of the shorts that were later expanded into feature films feel like they were reverse-engineered for a specific purpose: a compelling taste of what was clearly a larger work, although perhaps not entirely satisfying as a microcosm. . Bogdan Mureşanu’s acclaimed 2018 short Christmas Gift – which won the European Film Award for Best Short Film, among other accolades – doesn’t seem to be the case. It evokes children's perspectives on the horrors of politics through unintentional acts of protest that are both poignant and darkly humorous, perfectly self-contained details on the wider canvas of history. Yet in Muresanu's synthesis, which includes debut novel The New Year That Never Comes, The Christmas Gift is deftly recontextualized as one of several intimate, comprehensive vignettes that make up Romania's work on A frayed tapestry of the social and political turmoil of the country's final days. Communist rule.

Against a unifying momentous backdrop—the cold revolutionary weeks that preceded the hastened downfall, trial, and execution of communist leader Nicolae Ceausescu on Christmas Day 1989—the film’s accumulated human micro-dramas gather A real sense of scale and power. A bit too long at 138 minutes, and a bit obscure in the beginning, this is still a symphonic work, with sustained, unsubtle use of Maurice Ravel's "Polet" throughout the thrilling climax. Luo Dance” and won with an audience-friendly artistic style. Last year it won the top prize at the Orizzonti Competition in Venice, and recently it won the New Voices New Vision Award in Palm Springs. Muresanu, a middle-aged writer who turned to filmmaking, clearly intends to join the most ambitious ranks of contemporary Romanian directors.

In just two days in Bucharest, the heat of the Ceausescu regime, the rage on the sidewalks that broke through the December chill, unfolded in a Bucharest filled with seasonal spirit, from which the "New Year that never came" unfolded. Considerable dramatic irony is gained in the sheer speed. The president is going bankrupt: no one here knows that he will die in less than a week, or that Romania's post-communist era is approaching. Panic and paranoia about the consequences of criticizing or supporting the current authoritarian regime run through much of the tangled narrative thread of Muresanu's original script; rumors of a government-ordered massacre of protesters in remote Timisoara creep in throughout the process Escalating into a collective cry of outrage.

The tragedy in Timisoara has a particularly heavy impact on the psyche of Florina (Nikoleta Hancu, a standout in the troupe), a stage actress who receives an invitation she cannot refuse— — as much as she’d love to — when producers of a stuffy patriotic New Year’s Eve TV special get in touch: The show is already in the can, but their more famous stars are persona non grata Following her recent defection, the look-alike Florina was therefore required to re-record her scenes. The show gave Florina the greatest exposure of her career, but she was reluctant to pay "the obligatory tribute" to Ceausescu on camera, praising him for his "love for this country." a living symbol." Producer Stefan (Mikhail Kalin) is also distraught: his university-age son Laurentius (Andre Mirkul) has caused terrible scandals after starring in a satirical student drama secret police and tried to escape the country.

One of the investigating police officers, Ionut (Julian Postelniku), is equally preoccupied with personal matters. He has just taken away his stubborn, depressed mother Margarita (Emilia Dobrin). ) moved into a new apartment because her long-term home was scheduled to be demolished by the government. Emotionally unable to leave her old place, she enlists the help of a hired porter, Gru (Adrian Vancica) - whose own story "Christmas Present" cleverly weaves into the proceedings place. The story, both hilarious and devastating, tells of the impact on the family when Gru's young son innocently parroted his father's wish for Ceausescu's death in a letter to Santa Claus, and it remains one The film weaves the most poignant, bitter comedy in the story.

The introduction may overwhelm some viewers, as it introduces a series of characters without much supporting context, and Muresanu and editors Vanja Kovacevic and Mircea Lakatos give their multi-headed narrative a finds a deftly swirling rhythm, identifying common personal and political threads in parallel threads while maintaining a keen, ticking sense of linear time. Only Laurentiu's personal story feels slightly underdeveloped compared to the others; otherwise, the thematic and demographic contrasts between sequences are considered and informed.

Shot fluidly in narrow academic proportions by cinematographers Boroka Biro and Tudor Platon, the telecast is what much of the story relies on - the better to bring the archive The footage is woven seamlessly into the final reel - with cinematographers Boroka Biro and Tudor Platon capturing the bleakness of communism's last gasps in their palette. Dun Brown and Ten Thousand Agency Blues. The same goes for the production and costume design of the period, where every detail, from the clunky rotary phones to the knotty knitwear, is downright grimy but without a hint of retro nostalgia: if the past is a foreign country, then the future, or at least the 90s The era is beckoning to us. With some commitment to home.