Every revolution begins with just one dissenting voice – in some cases, it’s delivered as a scream, in others it is a mere whisper, but regardless of how it is announced, it signals the beginning of a journey towards change from which any return seems to be impossible, at least as far as those dedicated to changing the social and political nature of their culture. In his incredible feature directorial debut, Bogdan Mureșanu crafts The New Year That Never Came (Romanian: Anul Nou care n-a fost), a film set in 1989 on the 20th of December (and inspired by a short film he made several years ago), which was the eve of one of the most notorious but historically important days in Romanian history, as it was the start of the downfall of Communist leader Nicolae Ceaușescu, who was subjected to an astonishing fall from grace, coming after decades of leading the country through this era of hardship and despair, luxuriating in the splendour of his charmed life while his constituents constantly suffered, and which was only made more prominent by the fall of the Berlin Wall a few months prior, signalling the official start of the decline of the Soviet Union. The film follows the stories of six individuals, which include an elderly woman who is being evicted from her family home as it is on the verge of being demolished so that the government can build apartment blocks, a working-class labourer whose son mistakenly sends a letter citing his father’s desire to see their leader meet a violent end, a young student with aspirations matched only by his fearlessness and a television director tasked with creating a propaganda film, which is made more complicated by the presence of a lead actress who is undergoing her existential crisis through being forced to speak the praises of a man who has directly influenced her life in the most negative of ways. Each of these stories interweaves and creates a harrowing but utterly brilliant portrait of Bucharest on this particularly notable day, following the protagonists as they all deal with the challenges that come with existing in that ambiguous space between the Communist government trying to grasp onto the final vestiges of power (as even they know that their days of dominance are numbered), while also knowing that the winds of change are starting to blow in their direction, carefully crafted by a director whose vision is truly unmatched in both form and structure. 

For the past twenty years, we’ve seen a rise in Romanian cinema that is based around a clear incredulity towards authority, both past and present. Often referred to as the Romanian New Wave, we’ve encountered some of the most rebellious and subversive works of both narrative and documentary filmmaking to emerge from Europe in recent decades, creating a fascinating flurry of ideas that hint at the true state of the country, whether done through the lens of historical recreations or more contemporary stories in which the past lingers as a sinister spectre. The New Year That Never Came occupies the former category, focusing on a very specific day in the nation’s past, and one that many consider to be one of the most consequential moments in Europe’s history, as it was both a continuation of an ongoing battle between the public and the oppressive political regimes that had dominated for decades, as well as the start of a new dawn in Romania, with many people finally feeling the sense of hope that they never believed was entirely possible. Mureșanu had a vested interest in the period – he was a teenager when the events depicted happened (and there is a possibility the character of Laurențiu Silvestru, a young student, is based on the director), and retrospective narratives in which an artist reflects on their upbringing and the surrounding circumstances are always fascinating, especially when they come about years later once the necessary courage and appropriate words have been chosen to describe their experiences – and he uses his knowledge, as well as those of the people that surrounded him, as the foundation for this incredibly layered, well-defined examination of the past. The key themes that govern The New Year That Never Came are made clear from the start – defiance and the act of questioning authority, both of which are risky endeavours in any socio-cultural context, but a necessary step in absolutely every revolutionary, and which this film pieces together through shifting perspectives that prove to form the basis for this wonderfully unique and insightful study of a country and its people during one of the most tumultuous moments in its history.

All art is inherently political, and many filmmakers have used fictional stories set during real events as a way of exploring the impact certain ideologies have on different people, and how their journeys reflect the plight of those who existed in reality. This approach often facilitates some of the most daring and provocative commentary, since there isn’t a need to be too strict with the facts, and there is some degree of artistic freedom offered to the director, as we see in the case of this film. The New Year That Never Came doesn’t offer us one perspective, but instead revolves around half a dozen people, showing their activities over the course of one day concurrently – some are more trivial than others, but there is meaning behind every one of them, especially when we start to reach the climactic moments. Mureșanu recruits a sprawling cast, consisting of a blend of veterans of stage and screen and newcomers, all of which are plucked from the heartland of Romania, and tasked with bringing these characters to life, in what is quite possibly the year’s best ensemble-based feature. This is a cast filled to the brim with exceptional talents, and rather than taking the more traditional path of having a couple of de facto leads and then a large supporting cast, the film functions as the epitome of an ensemble effort, cobbled together from various perspectives and consisting of a number of unique personalities, each one representing a different archetype, albeit without becoming too cliched in both form and function. There are no standouts in this film – each actor is given a moment in which they can dominate the screen and deliver exceptional work, and the nature of The New Year That Never Came is that it isn’t defined by a single perspective, but rather the accumulation of different characters, each one only marginally related to one another (and the connection between them only being revealed as the film progresses – some of the links are quite surprising and add even more nuance to an already complex film), and which form a homogenous entity of Communist-era unease and frustration. The director crafts this film as a well-constructed machine, in which each actor is a component of equal importance, and where everyone has to work together in tandem – and the results are nothing if not utterly extraordinary.

While it wouldn’t necessarily be accurate to refer to it as an anthology film, since it is only slightly related to this style of storytelling, The New Year That Never Came is a film that consists of six very different stories, connected only by a time and place, as well as a simmering sense of existential despair and societal fury that binds them together. There are some examples of this style of filmmaking where a director throws together a few disparate ideas that could never be fleshed out into individual films and passes them off as a series of shorter vignettes working towards a broader conversation. This is not the case here – while each of these stories could easily be developed to stand on its own, to do so essentially dismantles some of the most groundbreaking commentary that defines the entire project, which is essentially acting as a series of interweaving moments that stand on their own at first, but eventually start to encroach on each other in creative and daring ways, which is the foundation for quite a provocative work, and one that is genuinely quite surprising in how it handles this material. Anyone who has worked with any form of media compilation knows that it is far more than just placing thematically similar ideas together, and instead requires some degree of curation, and in choosing to craft this film as one in which the narrative bounces between the six central stories almost concurrently (rather than introducing them individually), we find even further meaning is made, with the director being well-aware of how such a structure can strengthen the argument he is making at the core of the film. The New Year That Never Came is set during the Romanian Revolution, and like any major historical event, it is impossible to craft something definitive or even vaguely complete, so rather than trying to make a film that tackles every nuance of this important historical moment, Mureșanu hands the reigns over to the general public, offering us half a dozen bespoke stories that each serve to create this vibrant tapestry of a single day in the country’s history that none of them realized would be arguably the most consequential of their lifetimes. Interweaving perspectives offer something genuinely quite compelling, and we discover a lot of fascinating ideas that anchor this incredibly nuanced historical drama that is both invigorating and genuinely compelling.

Ambition is used to describe just about any contemporary work of art that dares to defy conventions, even if only marginally and through somewhat predictable means. Yet, encountering a film like The New Year That Never Came only highlights how truly revolutionary a piece of media can be when crafted with the right amount of skill and fervent dedication to a strong set of ideas. Mureșanu immediately leaps into the artistic consciousness, joining his compatriots such as Cristian Mungiu, Cristi Puiu and Radu Jude in defining the contemporary era of Romanian cinema by telling daring stories that are formed through means that border on utterly revolutionary, while also forging his unique path and developing a fascinating style that is distinctly his own. There are tethers between this film and other major works in this particular movement – it is heavily encased in a shroud of delightfully bleak dark comedy that serves to highlight the absurdity of their harrowing plight (to the point where it flourishes into one of the most effective tragicomedies of recent years), and the filmmaking itself is exceptional, showing a vivid depiction of Bucharest at this particular point in the past, but also not fixating too heavily on the details to the point where it becomes overly dependent on the historical context. Anyone can find value in this film – those with a working knowledge of the era and the specifics of the fall of the Communist regime in Romania will be delighted with the director’s approach, whereas those who are not quite as familiar will be given a solid introduction to the events without it feeling like a heavy-handed history lesson, which is very important in terms of providing us with both a thematically and artistically resonant piece of filmmaking. More than just an ethnographic study on the country and its people, and instead functioning as a revolutionary piece of artistry based around the concept of defiance and the challenges associated with going against authority, The New Year That Never Came is a magnificent piece of cinema and a genuinely remarkable examination of the past through several fascinating perspectives.