A dozen women, of all ages, gather in the upper loft of a massive barn.
This feels like a small farming community, and they’re dressed plainly; there’s no sign of modern conveniences. It could be one, two, even three centuries ago.
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| Forced into an impossible decision, the women from two families — from left, Mejal (Michelle McLeod), Greta (Sheila McCarthy), Neitje (Liv McNeil), Mariche (Jessie Buckley), Salome (Claire Foy), Autje (Kate Hallett), Ona (Rooney Mara) and Agata (Judith Ivy) — contemplate a pair of equally life-changing options. |
A vote is taken, with every female community member weighing in. Because they’re all illiterate, they merely mark an X beneath one of three pencil drawings depicting each option. Their “schooling” has been solely Biblical and heavily evangelical, their compliance dictated by verses burned into their brains.
The vote proves a tie, between leaving or fighting back.
This small subset of women — from three families — has been tasked with weighing the options, considering consequences, and breaking the tie.
Director/scripter Sarah Polley’s moody, expressionistic adaptation of Miriam Toews’ critically hailed 2018 novel is a quietly somber affair that leans toward fable or allegory, but in fact is an explosive shot across the bow of all predatory male behavior.
As soon becomes clear, as the ensuing discussion unfolds, this community’s men have — for generations — been cruelly abusing these women physically, emotionally and spiritually. They’ve been raped in the dead of night, regardless of age, after being rendered unconscious by a livestock anesthetic spray.
Confronted, the following morning, by the bruised and often bloody results of these late-night assaults, their subsequent anguish has been dismissed — by the men — as the work of Satan, ghosts or “wild female imagination.”
This has continued for generations, the women often giving birth to boys who grow up to become men groomed to subsequently rape their own younger sisters.
The immediate emergency has been prompted by a failed assault attempt; the attacker was witnessed by potential adolescent victims Autje (Kate Hallett) and Neitje (Liv McNeil). They’re mostly silent during these proceedings, braiding each other’s hair into an intertwined bond, and — unexpectedly — occasionally supplying remarkably perceptive observations.
The perpetrator was caught and arrested; all of the community’s men have left to post bail in the nearby town. When they return with the accused, it has been made clear that the women will be expected to forgive him, according to “God’s way.”
Hence, the dilemma.
A third family, headed by Scarface (Frances McDormand, the epitome of grim), departs these proceedings almost immediately; her daughter Anna (Kira Guloien) and granddaughter Helena (Shayla Brown) follow reluctantly. Scarface favors the minority position of staying and doing nothing; religious obedience is all, and the threats of excommunication and banishment are too great a toll to risk. The men must be forgiven, the status quo maintained.
The ensuing debate rages primarily between Salome (Claire Foy), Mariche (Jessie Buckley) and Ona (Rooney Mara); when tempers flare, cooling words of wisdom are supplied by the elderly Agata (Judith Ivey) and Greta (Sheila McCarthy).
In an intriguing touch, the meeting’s minutes are recorded meticulously by the community schoolteacher, August (Ben Whishaw), the only man they all trust. He’s damaged goods: the son of a woman who questioned too much awhile back, and was banished. August has returned under a cloud, but — given his upbringing — is acutely sensitive and sympathetic to what is going down.
Whishaw has his work cut out for him, surrounded by such strong actors; he nonetheless holds his own. August is so meek, at times, that he almost vanishes within his own clothes … and yet he nonetheless works up the courage, at rare moments, to settle a question. But offer advice? He wouldn’t dare.
Foy’s Salome is passionate, enraged and terrified of what she fears are her own murderous tendencies. Ona is curious and thoughtful; Mara grants her eyes the glow of intelligence. She and August have some sort of bond, and she delights in his quiet efforts to explain the nature of things, when they’re alone together.
Buckey’s Mariche is waspish, sarcastic and condescending; as far as she’s concerned, they’re screwed either way (and not just metaphorically). At the same time, it’s clear — from Buckley’s defensive posture — that Mariche represses some mortal terror.
But she has a point: Are the alternatives really any choice at all? While it’s theoretically possible that each woman could slit her man’s throat during the dead of night, is that likely? And can they flee, without being caught? And even if they aren’t caught, they know nothing about the outside world, starting with which direction to head, and where to go. How would they survive?
And what of all the scores upon scores of young children, capering about in the fields?
Polley’s touch is clinically restrained. No actual assaults are shown, merely eyeblink flashbacks of their anguished aftermath … which is bad enough. Our vivid imaginations supply the rest.
Cinematographer Luc Montpellier’s palette is drab and desaturated; there is no color in the lives of these women. It’s therefore shocking, during the third act, when a gaily decorated truck roars through the fields one morning, blasting The Monkees’ “Daydream Believer” (apt choice, that) from loudspeakers, and exhorting the residents to come out and be counted … for the 2010 census.
Indeed, Toews’ novel is based on recent events that took place in an ultraconservative Mennonite Colony in the eastern lowlands of Manitoba, Bolivia. Between 2005 and ’09, numerous men raped and sexually assaulted at least 151 women and girls, including small children. Nine men were arrested; most were sentenced to 25 years in prison.
Not even a decade later, the male colony elders began lobbying for early release, and forgiveness. This undoubtedly was a catalyst for Toews’ fictionalized re-telling, which gives voice to women raised in an environment where they’re expected to be voiceless.
Polley’s film slides further into magic realism, although the content is no less grim or harrowing. Many viewers undoubtedly will hang on every spoken word, transfixed — in horror — by the unfolding litany of brutality.
But others likely will be challenged by the deliberate pacing; this is very slow going. Such material would have worked far better as a stage play, where intensity of performance wouldn’t be diminished by camerawork, directorial decisions and other filmmaking technique.
Even so, this is a enlightening reminder that some of the worst evils are casual. And institutionalized.
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