Review: De ce mă cheamă Nora când cerul meu e senin (2023)

(the movie will be released under the international title “Nora”, but the translation would go something like: “Why am I called Nora when my sky is clear”)

Nora Iuga is one of the colourful writers that enrichens Romanian culture. That said, I am unsure whether she occupies an easily identifiable place in contemporary consciousness, particularly because poets struggle in finding such a space. Yet, her irreverent, spirited character has allowed her works to be more readily enticing to younger generations, generations looking for an intimate authenticity that Nora’s writing is inhabited by. It is this feeling that Carla Teaha’s documentary manages to conjure, in a heartfelt tribute that sometimes suffers on rhythm, but ultimately paints not only a portrait of a person, but also a fresco of a moment in time.

The documentary is an ode to a woman who has lived through very diverse times and has changed through them, rather than with them. My immediate thought was that it relates significantly to Iris (2014), which also explored the larger-than-life persona of a nonagenarian artist. But while that film takes a swipe at history alongside a very dynamic social character, this one focuses on its more solitary subject, creating a sphere of intimacy equal to the stories and the writings that Nora retells. Whether it covers love of life, creative vision or abuse there is this sense of what I would call historical homogenization, through which the quirky oneness of Nora Iuga shines through. At the same time, this leads to a somewhat decontextualized portrait, in spite of the occasional tale of communist censorship, hence why I didn’t come away with a strong sense of the place that Nora occupied in the literary circles of her times – both communist and post-communist. In fact, she has shepherded many a young author throughout the years, even as we are only acquainted with probably the most representative one, Mircea Cărtărescu.

The narrative dynamic of the film is interesting, as we embark on a road trip to the Frankfurt Buchmesse, which while a tad sad in its outcome (a reading in front of a handful of people), offers the most authentic image of its subject. Nora is very much human, she is not just a projection of what other people want her to be, she is a 90ish year-old woman with the struggles of a 90ish year-old woman, but also the bursts of energy of someone much younger. She jokes herself how visiting Germany shaves decades off her age, a testament to the importance of both keeping occupied and chasing the things that give meaning to our lives.

The fragments of her poetic work to which Teaha offers visual representation have an ephemeral quality, inherent to the things that give beauty to life. They testify to Nora Iuga’s independent spirit, but I got a sense that she’s generally existed on the fringes of the mainstream, for reasons that are not clearly explored or discernable. There is little probing by Teaha, who offers Nora a platform to just be herself, while busying herself with ensuring the intimate frame is sustained throughout. At the same time, Teaha grows as a presence in front of the camera as the film progresses, demonstrative of how her ties with Nora grow as well.

It often feels that Nora is impressively sharp in spite of her age, but there’s also this realization that it took many years to shoot and assemble this story – which starts before the pandemic and ends midway through it. This latter segment further emphasizes the impression that Nora’s life is mostly solitary, exacerbated with the onset of distancing rules, and I was left with the sense that this typical old-age epidemic called for a deeper exploration.

All being said, this (beautifully titled) documentary offers a touching introduction to a character who deserves to be wider known. It portrays Nora Iuga’s unique worldview, partakes in her life’s story as it is still being written, to the point that it becomes a part of the story itself. It’s not always the most illuminating piece of filmmaking, but it’s a labour filled with affection, which is why I think it will find an audience outside of literary circles. Or hope so, at least. 7