Monthly Archives: April 2019

Women Without Men – An Allegory Falls Flat

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

Shirin Neshat, primarily known for her video installations and photography exploring gender issues in the Islamic world, forays outside familiar territory with Women Without Men (2009), her first feature-length film. Though born in Iran, she currently resides in New York, having been banned from entering Iran since 1996 due to her politically controversial photographs and experimental videos. Overly ambitious and ultimately unsuccessful, Women Without Men was originally envisioned by Neshat as a video installation. The film was loosely adapted from feminist writer Shahrnush Parsipur’s 1989 novel of the same name. This audacious debut feature looks back at the pivotal moment in 1953 when the progressive Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh was overthrown. The Shah was then re-installed as dictator in a coup d’état engineered by the American and British governments. This film, which won Neshat the Silver Lion award for best director at the 66th Venice Film Festival, revolves around the lives of four women from different classes and backgrounds during this turbulent period in Iran’s history.

Representative of the expectations their society places on women, the four characters are largely cliché and their behavior often predictable. Munis (Shabnam Toloui), a serious woman obsessed with listening to the radio for reports on the Mossadegh situation and eager to participate in the street protests, refuses to limit herself to the circumscribed roles approved by her society and mandated by her tyrannical brother Amir Khan (Essa Zahir). In love with this brother who makes Munis’s life a misery, her conservative friend Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni) is a timider woman. Emaciated prostitute Zarin (Orsolya Tóth) impulsively flees the brothel where she worked after the men’s faces start to blend together into a surreal blank. Lastly, Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad) is a stylish older woman unhappily married to the powerful General Sahri (Tahmoures Tehrani). After an old flame rolls into town she leaves her husband to live in a lovely country orchard where she encounters the other three women, who also arrive seeking refuge before the military coup intrudes on their peaceful idyll. Through these characters, the film celebrates women’s resilience and courage in the face of an oppressive, unyielding patriarchy that is present on personal, political and cultural levels.

While each of these women represents an aspect of what their country expects women to be, they simultaneously buck these roles, which gives them a presence greater than that of simple flesh-and-blood. Munis is desperate to take an active role in the politics of her nation, to affect change, but is forbidden by her fundamentalist brother to set foot outside the house or act other than the demure woman he expects her to be. Zarin is abused daily by men in the brothel as her only way to survive and get by, eventually leading her to flee to a women’s public bath where she scrubs herself bloody in an attempt to feel clean of their touch. Fakhri is reviled by her husband because she is menopausal and no longer sexually desirable to him; when her former lover returns she runs away with him to the orchard. These women come together in the almost magical orchard after their travails to form a family, cementing the importance of freedom and working together to attain it.

The director’s instincts as a photographer are evident in every frame of Women Without Men. The treatment of light to contrast with shadow and the expert use of color to paint each scene with rich, shifting hues creates a realistic view of the world that is still, at some level, magical.  The precise compositions of each shot present alternately troubled and serene landscapes, which contribute to the almost fantastical atmosphere of the movie. In contrast to the lush color palette of the orchard scenes, the scenes taking place in Tehran (re-created in Morocco) are muted and monochromatic-more like a newsreel. Each frame in the film appears carefully composed and it gives Women Without Men the ambience of an exhibition whose figures have come to life, like Pygmalion’s Galatea, to act out this tragic feminist allegory.

It’s more than just the composition and palette of each frame that lends the film its fantastical quality—it’s the surrealistic elements as well. This is especially evident when Zarin looks up at a client’s face and sees that it is completely featureless; this initiates the breakdown that ultimately leads her to leave the brothel. The orchard is another of these surreal elements. Purchased by Fakhri it is clearly located in the real world, but its representation gives it more the feel of a dream space set apart from reality–sometimes menacing, sometimes divine.

Both the original writer and the director have been persecuted by the country of their birth because of their beliefs. Women Without Men allows viewers to feel their emotions—and through them those of the women still held down by the men in their lives—and desire to be free and true to themselves in these characters. These performances are successful largely due to the skill of their actresses in achieving the right level of emotional intensity in each scene: Shahrzad’s portrayal of her character’s dissatisfaction and desperate desire to maintain sexual and social confidence, Tóth’s display of fierce intensity, Tolouei’s depiction of pride and deep-seated melancholy.

The actresses’ portrayals are especially important given Neshat’s lack of experience with extended narrative. While her compositions are arresting, the narrative sometimes fails to pack much punch. The film feels awkward and overloaded and, despite decent performances by the actors, the viewer never gets to know their characters. Ultimately this results in the emotional impact of their respective fates falling flat and somewhat predictable. Neshat bit off more than she could chew in this ambitious debut with its heavy socio-political and cultural commentary. Nevertheless, her film is worth watching for its message, striking imagery, and distinct blend of realism and imagination in the service of an affecting feminist message.

Exploring the Meaning of Freedom

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

It’s hard to reconcile the masterful cinematography with the subject matter of Shirin Neshat’s Women Without Men. There is a magical quality about the filming, something that fits in with the film’s central theme of freedom, and Neshat’s artful shots, each frame itself a photograph, almost seem out of place in such a violent setting.

The film takes place in 1953 in Tehran, Iran, during the Anglo-American-backed coup d’état that overthrew Mohammad Mossadegh’s democratically-elected government and restored the Shah as dictator. The narrative begins with Munis (Shabnam Tolouei), a thirty-year-old woman who is trapped in her home by her fundamentalist brother. The opening scene shows her suicide, taking place directly after her brother unplugs her radio—her only connection to the world outside the walls of the house. Instead of mourning her, her brother curses her for disgracing him and buries her in their garden.

Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), a friend of Munis’s, discovers her body. She secretly wishes to marry Munis’s brother, and when she learns of his marriage to another woman, she seeks the help of a seer to ensure that the marriage fails. Instead, she hears Munis call out to her when she is in the family’s garden; when Faezeh digs through the dirt, Munis returns to live a double life as an independent woman, protesting against the planned coup d’état against Mossadegh.

Zarin (Orsi Toth) is a prostitute. So many men have abused her body that it becomes impossible for her to tell one from the next, and she flees the brothel when she sees that her last customer is seemingly faceless. The next time she is on screen, she tries to wash the marks of these men from her body; it is a painful thing to watch because these marks are indelible, and no matter how hard she scrubs, even leaving her skin raw and bloody, they will never disappear. It is only by leaving Tehran and the men who hurt her that Zarin breaks free from the loveless caresses that haunt her.

Finally we meet Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad), a wealthy woman married to a war general. Following the arrival of an old flame, Fakhri leaves her husband and purchases a villa at the edge of town. This villa becomes her refuge—and in turn becomes a safe haven for Faezeh and Zarin, who eventually arrive at Fakhri’s door. Here, the three women help each other heal from the invisible injuries men have left on them. In this newfound freedom, they can live their lives undisturbed by men. Together, they take care of each other without fear of saying or doing something wrong; Neshat seems to be telling us that they understand each other in a way that a man never could. Meanwhile, Munis is free to pursue her desire to not only interact with the world beyond her radio, but become an activist herself and fight for what she believes in.

Each shot and frame of the film is ethereal, reflecting the surrealistic nature of the cinematography. It is a unique contrast that both invites the user to question the reality of the film and decide for themselves what hidden message each scene might contain. But in keeping with this artful, ever-shifting style, the peace at the villa and Munis’s activism do not last. When Fakhri announces that she is going to throw a party to celebrate the opening of the orchard in which the villa is located, Zarin falls ill; meanwhile, the coup begins in earnest, and Munis watches helplessly as the leadership of the protest fractures after the capture of one of the key activists.

The party and the crumbling of the protest unfold in tandem as the film progresses. At first it seems odd that the two events happen together, but they are linked the moment that a woman voices her distaste for the Shah at the party. Suddenly the viewer is reminded of the coup and the ensuing rebellion, and not long afterwards the Shah’s men arrive at the villa’s door, searching for one of the activists. This marks the end of resistance as their leaders scatter and Munis mourns the freedom that could have been. When Fakhri walks around in her empty villa the next morning, it dawns on her that that party was perhaps the last moment of freedom for Tehran and its citizens.

That Neshat’s work is forbidden in Iran, as is the novel, a magic-realistic book written by Shahrnush Parsipur, that the film is based upon, creates another tension with the film’s central theme of freedom. Women Without Men is a self-explanatory title that explores the possibility of freedom—a place where women can dictate their own lives in any way they choose—in an environment where there is no way to win. Perhaps it is a reflection of how Neshat sees the world today, or perhaps it is a call to arms to fight for the freedom she shows us in the film. Whatever the case, Neshat’s love for Iran is apparent at every turn, and her artful depiction of freedom and what it means to women is central to each frame, surreal and real.

Who is Ida?

Movie Review: "Ida"

Who is Ida? It’s the question that persists from the haunting opening scene of Ida to the determined final one. Is she Anna, set to take her Catholic nun vows? Or is she the Jewish Ida Lebenstein that her aunt labels her? She’s reserved and quiet, a good nun-in-training despite the chaos around her– until she’s not. The unreadable female teenage lead is a common figure in cinema, and searching for clues in Anna/Ida is how Ida grips you until the very end.

As the film opens, a reluctant Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska) is embarking on a journey from the convent in which she was raised, out into the world to meet her only living relative, her aunt Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza). Wanda is a deeply conflicted, suffering woman, living with the half-repressed memory of her son and family killed in World War II. The contrast between Anna and her aunt is jarring; though their interactions are brief, it is clear that Wanda represents all that is sinful in the eyes of a convent-raised Anna. Given Wanda’s assertive nature, the low-playing western jazz, the half-naked man in her bed and her insistent questioning of Anna– “Did they tell you what I do?”– viewers are left to question, just as Anna must, the purpose of her journey to meet this unknown aunt. When it’s later revealed that Wanda  was a Communist resistance fighter, the contrast between Anna and Wanda transcends the differences in their behaviour; it becomes a clash of ideologies. As the film progresses and their unlikely relationship develops, this clash becomes crucial to our understanding of Ida.

Anna’s reaction to this confrontation with her newfound aunt is striking, because it’s minimal. As Wanda bluntly reveals that Anna is in fact Ida Lebenstein–and that’s she’s Jewish, not Catholic– Ida doesn’t cry or ask questions, she merely looks on, her heavy breathing the only indication of distress. Perhaps Trzebuchowska’s lack of professional acting training explains her convincing portrayal of Ida; it’s not overdramatised or artificial, it’s human.

Although the audience repeatedly sees close-up profile shots of Ida throughout the film, her expressionless face reveals no answers to her identity crisis. As Wanda and Ida pursue their mission to find the bodies of their deceased family, shots of Ida lying in bed, taciturn as ever, offer no insight into any inner turmoil she may be suffering. In a film that maintains a fast pace by its repeated interlude of short scenic shots, these lingering moments alone with Ida grow mesmerising as we search her expression for any indication of her inner turmoil. Despite our best efforts, Ida is inscrutable.

Searching for her family’s remains is crucial to Ida’s development; it prepares her to take her vows as a nun. Through the journey that results for the two women, the audience is offered a glimpse of post-war Polish life. The impact of the war on Poland by the numbers– the loss of a fifth of the Polish population– is not explicitly mentioned in the film; instead, its human consequences are portrayed through the tender relationship that develops between Wanda and Ida as their ideologies converge. Wanda is initially resistant to Ida’s Catholicism and pokes fun at their contrast– “I’m a slut, and you’re a saint”– but their journey to find their family and achieve peace exposes Wanda’s inner turmoil, and she is unafraid to express herself in a manner that directly contrasts with the unreadable Ida. Ida’s only true outburst comes when Wanda mocks her Catholic faith, but with Wanda’s encouragement she opens up to Lis, the musician hitchhiker they attract on their journey. As Ida has learned to take lessons from her aunt, Wanda, too is moved by her niece, and by the knowledge that Ida was spared her family’s fate due to her fair skin and ability to pass as a Catholic. Their tender hug as Ida returns to the convent following their journey points to a subtle convergence of their clashing ideologies.  It also suggests that war has shaped Polish society in ways that transcend statistics.

So when we try to understand Ida’s identity, we are also trying to understand Poland’s.

Paweł Pawlikowski seems to suggest that Ida and Wanda are embodiments of the post-war Polish experience. They have had to adapt after a war in which life and death were decided upon by factors beyond the individual’s control. The film reveals, however, that both women ultimately decide to take control of their fate. When Ida Lebenstein was orphaned and left to be raised in a convent, her family, history and identity were stripped from her. Having discovered the truth, Anna finds it comical to return to her life in the convent; her once unquestioning demeanour cracks and she chuckles during the convent’s rituals. Admitting she’s “not ready” to take her vows, Ida briefly plays the role of her aunt and explores life beyond her Catholic faith, donning Wanda’s clothes and dancing with Lis.

Despite being the film’s namesake, Ida is given significantly less dialogue than even the film’s minor characters. Her interactions with Wanda are brief and her narration is minimal, and  Ida’s body language and brief moments of outburst become more meaningful as a result. The most poignant moment in the movie comes in her conversation in bed with Lis, where he proposes they “have children” and “live life as usual”. She asks “after that?” “After that?” is perhaps the question on the minds of the Polish, expected to return to life “as usual” following a tragedy Poles often refuse to acknowledge.

In the final scenes of the movie, it seems even Ida does not know who she is. In typical Ida/Anna fashion, she dares not give the audience a visual clue to her emotions– in the morning she leaves Lis, swiftly dons her novice habit, and presumably sets out to return to the convent ready to take her vows. As the camera follows her face, it’s hard to ignore the subtle change in her expression, as her once unreadable demeanour is replaced with a now relaxed one. In all the ambiguity, the pressing question, “who is Ida?” remains. We try to decide who Ida is, but can’t, just as it is impossible to characterise Poland in the wake of its tragedies.

Ida: A Masterpiece of Emotional Depth

Movie Review: "Ida"

Ida is not a film that takes place on screen–rather, it unfolds in the mind and soul of the viewer. Pawel Pawlikowski manages to carry a deep emotional weight throughout the film and keep the audience enchanted with only stagnant, sparse shots. Through sharp cinematic choices, he creates a beautiful piece of brutal realist cinema that leaves the viewer with something far greater than what is shown on the screen.

The film opens in a convent, revealing scenes of women in grey robes, but never centering on one. We watch as the uniformed figures go about their day, each one as insignificant as the last. The monotony of this life is immediately evident even though only a few ordinary moments are offered. Women walk dutifully through the bottom quadrants of the frame and spoons clang against bowls at supper, each shot so sparse it serves to heighten any motion or sound. Finally, the camera focuses on a beautiful wide-eyed young woman who we learn is Anna, a novice nun about to take her vows. Mother Superior tells her that before she can relinquish herself fully to a life of worship and sacrifice she must meet her only living relative.

When Anna meets her aunt Wanda, she finds a hardened woman. In their first encounter, Wanda lights a cigarette and proceeds to tell Anna the truth. Her name is not Anna–it’s Ida, and she is the daughter of two Jews who were killed during the war. Ida, who had never left the convent where she was left as an infant, suddenly finds her whole life turned upside down. Soon after, the unlikely pair set off on a journey. They leave to find the burial plot of Ida’s parents and Wanda’s son, discovering the truth behind their tragic deaths along the way. The movie turns to a reckoning of the past for both Ida and Wanda, and leads them to a deeper understanding of themselves, their Jewish identity, and Poland’s harsh history.

As the two pursue their journey, what enchants the viewer is not the plot but the moments. Starting at Wanda’s kitchen table, when Ida discovers the truth about who she really is, she does not burst out in emotion. Rather, we see a simple long take of Ida sitting quietly. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t ask any questions. All Pawlikowski offers the viewer is the stark unspoken emotion of the scene. Each blink, each blank stare, heightens the scene, leaving nothing behind but raw feeling. Nearly every shot operates in this way: precisely framed and composed of only the most minimal elements. Most of the shots are long takes, often capturing one character at a time while the world moves around her. Though each shot is slow-moving and stagnant, the film as a whole does not lull or feel lifeless. By scraping down the frame to almost nothing, Pawlikowski elevates each moment, expression, sound, and emotion. The rawest, most moving moments are experienced simply through the eyes of these characters. Because we do not witness the action or drama we expect to see in modern Western films, what we do get is all the more powerful.

The director tells this story through a harsh lens and draws on themes of oppression and revelations through cinemagraphic choices. Pawlikowski frames his shots with the characters in the bottom of the frame, leaving vast expanses of space above. This unbalanced shooting style feels oppressive, as if the weight of the world looms over these two women. Between these oppressive top-heavy shots and the uncentering of the characters, the film creates an uneasy feeling, in a way that is hard to pin down. Pawlikowski’s cinematic choices convey meaning in a subtle but effective way. Nearly every sound is diegetic. There’s no soundtrack, and what music does occur is deeply poignant. Wanda, for example, is torn musically between the upbeat new age western jazz music, and soulful, somber classical music. When she shows Ida photographs of her lost family, we hear Mozart on a record in the background, and just at the moment in which Ida asks about the little boy in the picture, the music shifts to a minor key. Wanda gets up and moves the needle on the record and ends the movement, but the point has been made. For a moment we are taken to a somber place, and though we do not understand yet the depth or cause of Wanda’s suffering, we feel a sense of pain. The viewer is not given much, and the director never explicitly tells us how to feel, but rather he invites us to explore these emotions ourselves.

As we follow Ida and Wanda through their journey, we can only watch their characters develop through glimpses of their lives. Early on, Ida is filmed so that she is hardly noticeable, often partially out of the frame, and is characterized by her extreme innocence. Meanwhile, her aunt Wanda draws the eye of the viewer with her dark coat and aloof personality. As the two grow and become closer, we are allowed to see beyond Wanda’s hard external demeanor, and we see Ida come into herself as a person. Though Wanda’s darkness deeply contrasts with Ida’s lightness, this contrast serves a more complex purpose than a juxtaposition of good and evil. Ida is a nun–she prays before bed each night while Wanda downs a slug of vodka. But she has not truly lived, and so her lightness is shallow, since there cannot be true light without having seen darkness. Wanda, on the other hand, may be a sinner in the eyes of God, but her darkness is complex–it has been forged from necessity. The two, in a unlikely way, help break down each other’s walls. Ida lives, and learns of the harsh reality of the world, and Wanda comes back in touch with her emotional self.

In the end, the two are both forced to confront their past in a way they hadn’t expected to, and the truth brings them to final and brutal ratifications. The last times we see Wanda and Ida are among the most powerful and jarring. The scenes are again not driven by plot but rather by emotion, as we watch long, poignant moments unfold. The film ends on a somber note, but not an unexpected one for both women, with the two of them meeting similar fates. We leave with a deeper understanding of this girl and her aunt, and a beautiful sorrow for them as well.

“Ida”: A Masterpiece of Unspoken Expression

Movie Review: "Ida"

Eerie, haunting, and beautifully constructed, the film “Ida” (2014) is set against the backdrop of Poland’s post-war, battle-scarred landscape. Directed by Polish-born filmmaker Paweł Pawlikowski, the movie traces the physical and emotional journeys of a novice nun, Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska) and her Communist aunt, Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza), as they attempt to find the buried bodies of Anna’s parents. Their quest takes them from Łódź, where Wanda lives, to Szydłów and Lublin. Yet, the somewhat simple narrative comprises more than just the details of a road trip. It reflects a journey of self-discovery and growth, of transformation and maturation.

Anna is just about to take her vows to become a nun when the Mother Superior tells her she must visit her only remaining family member, Wanda. Anna travels to visit her aunt, who reveals that Anna comes from a family of Jews and her real name is Ida. Ida says she would like to visit her parents’ graves, and the two set forth. They journey to the house where Ida’s family used to live, now occupied by a Pole named Feliks Skiba. With much reluctance, Feliks shows them the graves if they agree to give up claims on the house. Ida and Wanda discover later that this man killed Ida’s parents and Wanda’s young son.

For Ida, the film is a coming-of-age story. But what distinguishes this movie from other coming-of-age films is not plot or dialogue; it’s the expressive power of the unspoken. In the movie, the unsaid is just as compelling and revealing as the fleeting dialogues exchanged between characters. The film’s visual elements and the characters’ intentional silences speak volumes. Ida exploits the particular power of cinema to create a narrative.

Nowhere in the film does Pawlikowski directly offer historical context or explanatory details of the film’s time or place. The cinematography fills this contextual void by evoking the emotions needed to comprehend the scene, rather than the historical details. By conjuring feelings of desolation and gloom, the black-and-white film style not only reflects the bleak and oppressive backdrop of the unfolding story; but it also prepares viewers for the poignant narrative that is to come.

Only moments into the film, Anna’s personality is revealed. Reserved and rigid, the novice nun sits with her eyes downcast in front of the Mother Superior. When Anna eventually arrives at her aunt’s doorstep, she is greeted by a woman who sports a bathrobe, is smoking a cigarette, and has a male caller in her apartment. The woman appears to be the exact opposite of Anna. With minimal dialogue, Pawlikowski allows the viewers to conclude that compared to her brazen aunt, Anna is an image of purity, innocence, and naivety.

Just minutes after she sets foot in Wanda’s apartment, Anna hears her aunt’s shocking words: “You’re a Jew. They never told you? Your real name is Ida Lebenstein.” Without being told directly, the viewers learn that the movie takes place in the aftermath of the Holocaust. The young girl reacts wordlessly to this news, staring stricken but unflinchingly at her aunt and not uttering a single reply. And so begins their relationship, a tumultuous journey of affection and irritation, of give and take, and of love.

Their evolution is reflected most strongly through facial expressions and exchanged glances. As Ida sits in the train station, waiting to depart for the convent after meeting her aunt, the camera focuses first on the taciturn novice and then on her unabashed aunt watching from the distance through a window. Wanda gazes at Ida, and her expression is one of softness, care, and affection. Without any supporting dialogue, it is clear that she has begun to feel a connection with her niece, perhaps prompted by how much the young girl resembles Róża, Ida’s mother and Wanda’s sister.

As the narrative progresses, it is evident that Wanda isn’t the only one who draws closer to her newly discovered relative. Ida too demonstrates unspoken compassion toward her aunt, who is nearly a mother figure to her. This time, the affection is not revealed through facial expressions, but rather through gestures. After meeting the hospitalized older man who presumably killed Ida’s parents, Wanda remains stone-faced and still. The camera reveals not a shot of her face, but of her torso, as Ida slips her arm around her aunt and gives her a gentle but supportive squeeze. The silent gesture reveals the blossoming attachment between the two.

The strengthening aunt-niece relationship is what ultimately enables Wanda to serve as a catalyst for Ida’s maturation. Watching her aunt smoke, drink, dance, play music, and flirt with men, Ida is introduced to a version of adulthood that contrasts starkly with her experience in the convent. Toward the end of the film, Ida chooses to explore the meaning of adulthood and exercise her own autonomy by doing what she’s watched her aunt do. Ida slips on heels and a sleeveless black dress. She smokes a cigarette and drinks alcohol. She sleeps with the hitchhiking saxophonist, Lis, whom she and Wanda met on their way to Szydłów. Her initial reserve and restraint are slowly overshadowed by a flaming boldness that has no doubt been inspired by her aunt, resulting in the former novice exploring her identity. Perhaps she is also influenced by her aunt’s words at the start of the film: if you don’t partake in sinful acts, how is becoming a nun a sacrifice?

Wanda’s character is associated with music in addition to smoking and drinking. She plays music in her car, dances in the hotel, and listens to the record player in her home. The final scene concludes with piano music, memorializing Wanda and her effect on her niece’s growth, while also serving as a reminder of the Anna that Ida used to be.

Ida’s Strength is in What It Omits

Movie Review: "Ida"

Paweł Pawlikowski’s Ida (2013) is a sparse, devastating film that looks at the extended aftermath of the second World War in Poland. The winner of the 2014 Academy Award for Best Foreign Film is a work of art from which the viewer can’t turn away. Pawlikowski draws a tense, broken post-war image of a Poland that is struggling to accept the events of the war and the German occupation, and that is still recovering sixteen years after the fighting ceased. The film’s power is defined by what it omits–music, visual effects–and these deliberate absences make the emotional content of the film stand out in a powerful way.

Set in 1961, Ida begins with the titular character (Agata Trzebuchowska) as Anna, an eighteen-year-old orphan raised in a convent. Before she takes her vows to become a nun, her Mother Superior orders her to visit, for as long as she needs, her only living family member, a judge named Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza). After traveling to the city of Lodz–a far cry from the quiet stillness of the rural convent–Anna, wearing her novice’s habit, is greeted brusquely by her aunt, who calls her a “Jewish nun,” shocking her. Immediately after they meet, Wanda informs “Anna” that her real name is Ida Lebenstein, and that she’s Jewish. Wanda is the sister of Ida’s mother, and she tells Ida that her parents were among the three million Polish Jews who perished during the war. The encounter lasts a few minutes, and Wanda promptly shows Ida out and seems set to send Ida on her way. However, later she reconsiders and the two ultimately go on a road-trip of sorts to discover the fate of Ida’s parents. As their journey progresses, the source of Wanda’s disillusionment and heartbreak is revealed–not only did Ida’s parents die during the war, Wanda’s son did as well. The film is multi-layered, both an intimate portrayal of the relationship between two women confronting the differences dividing them and a complex exploration of post-war Poland.

The film’s emotional and thematic center comes from the relationship between Ida and Wanda, and the contrasts and connections between the two. Pawlikowski paints a picture of two women who are complete opposites–sinner and saint, jaded and innocent, Communist and Catholic. While on the surface they’re opposites, they are ultimately connected by their shared past and by the Polishness of their conflicts. Ida is a victim of the German occupation and Polish anti-semitism, and Wanda has become hurt and disillusioned by the corruption of the Communist party ideals. They are on two different paths, but both women are struggling with their pasts and their presents and ultimately need each other to overcome the challenges they’re facing. The differences between them allow them to help each other and grow throughout the film as the worldview of each challenges the other’s. Pawlikowski does a masterful job of conveying these two opposing women without passing judgment on either. Ida and Wanda are portrayed as equals and the viewer feels for them equally.

One defining characteristic of the film is its use of sound, and lack of sound. Silence is used as a tool that makes every sound, line of dialogue, and bit of music a statement.  This is a quiet film; each clink of a spoon against a bowl, each exchange of words between characters, and snippet of music played by a jazz band is set in stark contrast to the silence that threads persistently through the film. Pawlikowski doesn’t incorporate a soundtrack for the film; the only music comes from the characters putting a record on or attending a dance. The film also uses dialogue sparingly, making the viewer take in each line with maximum impact. The disruptions of the jazz music that recur throughout the film highlight the way that American and western culture are breaking through the Iron Curtain and slowly beginning to become part of life in these countries. They also signify the disruption of Ida’s quiet life that comes from her trip with Wanda and the challenges that the woman brings into her world. Silence is an essential vehicle that conveys the stark world these women are living in.

Visually, the film also use absences and contrast to their advantage through stillness, a black and white palette, and the use of space. The characters are almost surreally still in this movie, especially Ida, and their immobility is complemented by Pawlikowski’s use of long, unwavering camera shots and the limited use of changes of field. These cinematographic choices allow the characters to be truly still, creating striking portraits for the viewer. Ida’s stillness in particular is part of her power, calling attention to her stoicism and the learned emotionlessness that she has been brought up with in the convent. The use of black and white film could seem pretentious here, but instead it allows a stark portrait of the realities of post-war Poland. What could feel like a cheap trick acts instead as a muted background to highlight both the characters’ pain and the figurative colorlessness of their world. It also allows for a vivid play of light and shadow, with a single light often used to illuminate a scene, leaving the characters half in shadow, a beacon piercing the darkness around them.

In many films, what they lack is what detracts from their power, but Ida demonstrates the inverse. The characters can’t avoid their pain–even if they try, with Wanda having sex and drinking, and Ida immersing herself in her religion–ultimately they cannot, and neither can we. Ida is a powerful, arresting film that captures the viewers in its stillness and quiet and immerses them in the emotional journeys of its characters.

A Future Unclear

Movie Review: "Ida"

In contrast to the Poland of 2013, which oozed economic potential and seemed to eager to further relations with NATO and western partners, the picture of Poland in 1962 that Pawel Pawlikowski paints is much more bleak. The film’s black and white frames pull the viewer back to a post-war communist Poland, where the collective memory and national identity of the Polish people is complicated and questioned through the story of Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska) and her aunt, Wanda (Agata Kulesza).

In the days before taking vows to become a nun, Anna is sent by the mother superior to meet her only living relative, who reveals that Anna is a Jew named Ida Lebenstein whose parents died during the war. Ida and her aunt set off across Poland to find where Ida’s parents are buried, starting with the village where Wanda and her sister Roza grew up. Their journey uncovers fragments of  Wanda Gruz’s past life as a state prosecutor where she was known for sending “enemies of the people” to their end. The film draws a comparison between the faithful, innocent, naive Ida and her life-hardened, bitter aunt who regularly engages in nights out, heavy drinking, one-night stands, and smoking. It is through this pair of characters that Pawlikowski presents his inquiry into the history and identity of Poland.

What is remarkable about “Ida” is the numerous and overlapping contrasts that Pawlikowski weaves into the film. Not only are the personalities and lifestyles of Wanda and Ida at odds with one another, but the two represent larger societal chasms. The most visibly obvious of these is generational. Wanda was witness to the war and remembers the invasion, occupation, and liberation as lived personal experiences. Ida, on the other hand, is part of the generation that grew up in its shadow of the war. Yet another contrast is that of ideology. Ida is a devout Catholic, and adheres to a tradition that has been an important part of Poland’s history. Although Wanda was once an active and proud member of the communist party, her idealism was dashed as the party betrayed the people’s revolution. This highlights the third of the film’s contrasts, that of devotion. In contrast to Wanda, who has lost her devotion, Ida remains pious, reading her bible and saying her prayers even as Wanda looks on condescendingly.

Both women are reflective of political and cultural sects present in Polish society. In this way, the tension in their interactions and the challenges they face are representative of the same challenges to identity and tension between sects that existed in Poland in the post-war years, and perhaps persist today. The days of traveling and the weight of what the pair might discover create an environment in which these ideologies and ways of life are set to clash. In the hotel room, when intoxicated Wanda mocks Ida’s devotion to the church, Ida pulls the book from her aunt’s hands and places it under her pillow on the farthest side of the bed from her aunt. Though this scene is the most confrontational between the two, the tension is set up much earlier, as Wanda asks while still in her apartment “And what if you go there, and you realize that there is no God?” However, while the heaviness of their potential discovery creates the atmosphere for this clash, it also forces each to confront a shaking reality that ultimately blurs these demarcations.

The setting of the film presents contrasts of its own, including the interplay of different cultural influences in everyday life. Wanda’s previous involvement with the Communist party is a reminder of the political and social influence of Russia in Poland in the post-war period. However, at a bar in the hotel where the two stay during their journey, a young musician, who takes an interest in Ida, plays and discusses the music of Coltrane. Though the film is set in the sixties, the possibility of outside influence, even through the iron curtain, calls Poland’s identity once more into question. Context, dialogue, and action are in short supply; silence is plentiful. “Ida” is a relatively short film filled with long moments. Following the conclusion of dialogue, the camera stays focused within the frame seconds longer than necessary in terms of the narrative. The tension from the scene, whether it is a result of grief, guilt, or anger, persists in the moments after the action of the scene concludes. It is the pauses, these prolonged silences, that cultivate the heavy, inescapable bleakness that pervades Pawlikowski’s film. The use of silence, in tandem with shots of the convent, the rundown home of Ida’s parents, Wanda’s apartment, and the Polish countryside create an image of a Poland that is peaceful but disturbingly stagnant.

In this aspect as in others, Pawlikowski’s film rests on the belief that viewers will read in between the lines and grasp the indirectly delivered themes and motifs of the film. This reliance on cultural and political knowledge contributes to the sense that the film belongs to the 1960s despite its 2013 release. In fact, the film runs for 15 minutes and 3 seconds before the word wojna – war – is ever uttered, which is surprising since the action of the film is derived from understanding the tragedy and legacy of this event. The film “Ida” conforms to artistic norms of post-war film in terms of subject, cinematography, and the innate ability to question the political reality while creating art within the bounds of censorship. Sound, for much of the film, is diegetic, which is common in films of the early sixties. Like other film of this era, “Ida” focused on the cost of the war and the impact on individuals in ways that earlier film didn’t allow, fitting in with the black and white films of the late-50s and early-60s and after the Polish October (1956). Though the film itself makes no ideological claim, its subtext calls into question the systems of both organized religion and communism.

Pawlikowski’s juxtaposition of numerous contrasts, the links to past film, and the intersection of multiple components of Poland’s history results in a gray zone, not only in reference to each character’s place in society, but also in reference to Poland itself. Catholicism, Judaism, and Communism intermingle in Pawlikowski’s consideration of Polish identity. At the end of the film, viewers understand the choices and identities of Ida and Wanda. What Pawlikowski does not venture to answer, and what he leaves hanging in the final sequence, is the identity of Poland. After complicating viewers’ perception of Poland’s history and people, he leaves his viewers once again with silence, forcing them to find his message in frames not seen and words not said. The image of Poland is one of people immersed in gray uncertainty. They are neither fully aligned with the eastern bloc, nor with the western. It is clear that Catholicism plays a significant role in Poland’s identity, but the place of both Judaism and Communism is more uncertain. Poland has experienced tragedy and stagnation, and there is little hint of what is yet to come.

War Criminal’s Accomplice

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor:

It seems the case of Shamima Begum has exposed several British political double standards. Patrick Galey’s “UK’s racist two-tier citizenship” (Feb 21, 2019), highlights the racist double standard being applied in this case, but I think there are other layers to this debate.

Although recent headlines suggest otherwise, Shamima, who left home at 15 to join ISIS, is
neither the first nor the last returnee. Hundreds of other European ISIS fighters and “those
affiliated with them” – their families – have returned to their home countries. Shamima is
getting much more media attention due to her pleas for return which went viral on social
media and the home secretary’s decision to strip her of her UK citizenship. Shamima does
not have a second citizenship, nor does she have the ability to guarantee one. Thus the
government’s decision effectively renders her stateless, an action that is illegal under
British law and international law.

Had she been allowed to return, Shamima would not have been the first European “ISIS
wife” or even ISIS fighter to face the consequences of her decisions in her own country.
Hundreds of returnees have been processed by their respective countries and have
received verdicts ranging from life sentences to participation in rehabilitation and de-
radicalization programs. As your writer points out, the homes secretary’s assertion that she
can be stripped of her citizenship because her mother is a Bangladeshi immigrant is, on its
face, hypocritical and racist.

But Shamima’s case also exposes a far different facet of British hypocrisy, one exemplified
by a British citizen who does in fact hold another passport. This is a woman who is married
to a brutal war criminal, the one responsible for the largest number of civilian deaths Syria
has ever witnessed. She has defended her husband, consulted with him on strategy and
publicly expressed her allegiance to him repeatedly. So the conversation around ISIS wives
and terrorist accomplicity begs the following question: Where is the challenge to Asma Al-
Assad’s British citizenship in this debate? Where is the call to hold this European citizen
accountable to the crimes against humanity, the terrorism, she has helped defend? The
first lady of Syria and the accomplice of a mass murderer surely deserves as much debate
as a pregnant teenager who ran away from home at 15 to join a terrorist organization.

It’s Not Just About Keeping Your Voice Down

Letter to the Editor

The insight that Dr. Kate Klonick’s “A ‘Creepy’ Assignment: Pay Attention to What Strangers Reveal in Public” (Op-Ed, March 8) gives into how easily our privacy is compromised is both eye-opening and incomplete. While it’s true that people will divulge information without any awareness of their surroundings, it’s more interesting to see what kinds of people feel anonymous in a public setting. Tellingly, every student Dr. Klonick writes about performed the experiment on test subjects that had one thing in common: all of them were men.

Perhaps the three anecdotes Dr. Klonick chose to share were simply the most interesting ones. But if not, it is a disservice to overlook the cultural influences that determine who is in need of this advice. The article would paint a more complete picture of what privacy means to different kinds of people if it considered the following question: is there a reason men are less careful about revealing too much information, at least in America? The answer is straightforward: men have the privilege of knowing that the entire culture system is slanted in their favor. They take over the space around them because they feel it’s their space to take. Not only that, but they feel secure enough to do so without fear of repercussions.

Meanwhile, your author fails to grasp the fact that an invasion of privacy is not merely “creepy,” it’s an issue of personal safety. In a political climate such as ours, it’s not enough to just write about how easy it is to compromise another’s privacy. It is a gross oversight not to acknowledge the inherent dangers that a large majority of Americans face when a stranger figures out a person’s nationality, religion, gender, or sexuality without their consent. Rather than limiting herself to generalizations, Dr. Klonick should have considered what it is about American society that poses these risks in the first place, and focused her advice on those who are most vulnerable.
 

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/08/opinion/google-privacy.html

“They are just doing their job”

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor,

Racism is alive and well in Great Britain and clearly, Twitter isn’t helping. The racist online abuse of Meghan has put royal staff on high alert by Max Foster, (cnn.com, March 8), calls attention to the ways in which the media, social media, and other modern public discourse are making it difficult for the royal family to navigate this moment in its history. I appreciate the article’s informative, to-the-point departure from the sensationalist norm that appears to be controlling British media.

The social media din raised by online trolls has made it harder to tell the factual from the merely inflammatory. As Foster highlights in the piece, “The pressure to produce ever more dramatic headlines to drive traffic is intense,” and it’s what  gives the trolls a platform.

Monarchy implies monolith in the eyes of many, and a break in the pattern of whiteness in the royal family (the marriage of Prince Harry to Meghan Markle) has shown the British public’s true colors. Surely I am not the only reader who is outraged by how much the color of Meghan’s skin influences the online discourse in Britain. Unfortunately, the historical composition of the royal family implies, as Foster notes, that racism is built into the fabric of British culture. And so despite their efforts at projecting an image of normality, the royal family has continued to face challenges in welcoming Meghan into the fold.

Foster’s careful article reminds us that it’s the job of the media to present an accurate report of what’s happening with the royal family, while at the same time emphasizing the humanity of the often-superficially portrayed people who comprise this iconic group. Some in the media, like your writer, are working to make their reporting reflect the ideal of racial tolerance. With luck, this will one day become the norm.