«R.M.N.: Eastern Europe under the scanner

Known for his Palme d'or on the theme of abortion with 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 days (2004), Romanian director Cristian Mungui's R.M.N. the stubborn populist resentments of a Transylvanian village under the yoke of the EU.

As the winter holidays approach, Dracula's birthplace turns red. The arrival of a few Sri Lankan workers, all of whom have come to lend a hand at the local industrial bakery, is heating up the gullets. Meanwhile, Matthias (Marin Grigore), relocated to Germany, slams the door on his employer and returns to his native region. There, he reunites with his son Rudi and his indifferent wife Ana (Macrina Barladeanu). But when he runs into Csilla (Judith State), assistant head of bread-making, the past comes back to life.

Filming with a magnifying glass

Just over a year ago, Xavier Giannoli delivered a new a delightful adaptation of the Balzacian novel Lost Illusions. By immersing ourselves in the inner workings of Paris under the Restoration, we gained access to the implacable mechanism of artistic circles. An underground microcosm of clandestine arrangements and deceptive promises revealed the closed organization of a system that made and unmade popularity and reputations in art. If R.M.N. (I.R.M in French) is popular and more determined by its own survival, the principle of the Franco-Romanian film is identical.

Mungui's camera dissects Transylvania, on the edge of the West. A veritable anthill, as it is the legacy of wars. Hungarians and Romanians live here alongside a minority of Germans and a few Roma. The latter, we're told, have been driven out. Sarcastic when, in Germany and Europe as a whole, the confusion between Romanians and Roma has become naturalized. The blurring of this multi-ethnic mix is reflected in the plurality of languages spoken in the same village. Matthias complains to his son's mother. The boy stopped speaking Goethe's language after she left. Everyone knows that work is scarce and wages are miserable.

So miserable, in fact, that the locals would rather collect unemployment benefit than take a job in the bread factory, which pays the local minimum wage. For its part, the small business needs to hire labor quickly to meet its targets and qualify for European Union (EU) subsidies.

Witnessing the birth of the impossible

R.M.N. could content itself with being a pessimistic binary film. On one side, the EU, a ruthless, demanding behemoth. On the other, the climb populist themes. With a feature film shot entirely in sequence, the dialogues and situations pierce the screen with their clear-sightedness. One thinks of a still shot in the church, where the village mayor stands before thirty villagers, separated into two clans. For over fifteen minutes, the arguments for and against the presence of the three Sri Lankan workers appeal to racist prejudices, against a backdrop of disgust for the white-collar workers from Brussels. Before our astonished eyes, reason loses out in the face of edifying imposture.

The details are also to be found in the composition of the frame. Like the young man in the foreground of the church, sitting at an angle. Allegory of a distraught youth, or distance from the quarrels beyond the war? What remains in this x-ray of consciences is a bubbling frenzy ready to burst out into the open.

Write to the author: fanny.agostino@leregardlibre.com

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Photo credits: © cineworx