Monthly Archives: April 2020

Women Without Men: A Surreal Journey Through History

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

In her 2009 film Women Without Men, Shirin Neshat tells the female story during the 1953 coup d’etat in Iran. The film, an adaptation of Shahrnush Parsipur’s 1990 novella, distills the political situation into a compelling story about a group of women whose parallel experiences lead them to the same location despite differences in class and lifestyle. We are first introduced to Munis (Shabnam Tolouei), a radiophile who is disinterested in the marriage prospects her brother, Amir Khan, is forcing onto her. Munis becomes the film’s primary magical-realist thread, acting as omnipresent narrator. With her vague commentary, she helps to generalize the themes for viewers: “Through all this noise, there was almost silence…the sense that everything repeats itself over time.” Shortly thereafter, we meet Munis’s friend Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), who comes to visit when Amir Khan is away. It becomes clear that Faezeh has a crush on Amir Khan, who is engaged to someone else. Afterwards, the scene shifts sharply to meet Zarin (Orsi Toth), a solemn prostitute, who flees from her brothel after seeing a customer with no face – another dip into the surreal. The camera switches to a military ceremony where we meet Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad), the oldest and wealthiest of the four women. She gets into a fight with her husband, the honoree, and leaves him rather unceremoniously. 

Save for Munis and Faezeh’s friendship, the women are apparently separate in the first segment of the film. They are each, however, in the midst of a conflict or change caused by a man in their life; and each solves the problem in the same way, by making her way to an orchard outside of Tehran. Once there, they develop bonds, facilitated by the wealthy Fakhri, who buys the orchard’s estate and acts as a caregiver to ailing Zarin, as well as to Faezeh after she is assaulted in Tehran. Unlike the others, Munis stays in the city; in her ghostly form, she is percieved only by a Communist Party member whom she befriends, and as such is finally able to get involved with political activity.

The women’s journeys to the orchard are important to Neshat; rather than skipping to the arrival of each woman, she includes long shots of each woman’s journey down the road. The shots of the dirt road from Tehran to the orchard illustrate the class differences among the women. Zarin makes her way to the orchard on foot, slowly, gaunt from hunger and scarred from scrubbing herself raw at the public bath. Following a channel through a gap in the wall, she enters clandestinely, lest the property manager catch her and kick her out. Fakhri’s first trip to the orchard, meanwhile, provides an overt contrast to Zarin’s. She travels down the dirt road chauffeured in a luxury car, and enters through the front gate where she is greeted warmly by the property manager. Both women make their way to the orchard because the men of Tehran are making their lives hard, whereas Fakhri’s wealth certainly makes the journey more comfortable. Munis and Faezeh are socioeconomically in between the other women; Munis accompanies Faezeh as she travels to the orchard on foot, but instructs her that she can just “Knock on the door and go inside,” unlike Zarin. Through these parallel shots, Neshat does a good job of underscoring the intersection between gender and socioeconomic status, a theme that reverberates for her 2009 audience. 

Women Without Men was a project spanning over half a decade, beginning as a series of videos exploring each of the women featured in the original 1990 novella by Shahrnush Parsipur. In an interview with Art In America, Neshat describes the challenges of adapting the novella to film: “I couldn’t have picked a more difficult book….Even before I started, my advisors told me to be careful.” An experienced photographer, Neshat responded to the challenge through color theory. In Tehran, the visuals are so muted that some scenes appear almost black-and-white. The shots in the orchard, though, are much brighter, featuring the vivid greens and jewel tones of the surrounding nature. suggestive of the happiness and safety the women experience in the orchard. The orchard plays a restorative role for the women; we see Zarin smile for the first time there, whereas Fakhri gets to take control of her own estate. Faezeh is somewhere in between; she heals from her assault in Tehran, and is involved in planning a party with Fakhri, choosing brightly colored dresses to wear. Zarin remains mainly bedridden, never changing from her white dress; perhaps her condition is unsalveageable despite the healing properties of the orchard. 

A fifth woman, Mahdokht, is cut from the original novel because of the difficulty of adaptation. In the same interview, Neshat detailed Mahdokht as “a woman who plants herself as a tree since she is terrified of sexual intercourse but obsessed with fertility. She dreams of producing fruits and seeds that can be disseminated around the globe.” Instead, Neshat gives a bigger role to the orchard’s male gardener, who directly or indirectly brings each of them to the estate; she prioritizes the symbolism of the journey and a clear portrayal of intersectionality.

With Women Without Men, Shirin Neshat succeeds in creating a film whose themes transcend the bounds of history and borders; universal themes come across for viewers uninitiated in Iranian history or culture. Haunting imagery and moments of magical realism pull the film it away from simple historical fiction. Even for viewers who have read the novel, for the visuals of the orchard alone, the film is well worth its 99 minutes.

Economic Sacrifice is an American Staple

Letter to the Editor

Response to this:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2020/03/19/americans-must-relearn-sacrifice-time-coronavirus/

Joseph Stieb tells us that more than post-truth politics or lack of paid leave, our roadblock to an effective pandemic response is that Americans identify as consumers more than citizens. Stieb provides examples like Reagan’s “less is not enough” policy and our all-volunteer military to illustrate the extent to which Americans have not been asked to sacrifice involuntarily in recent history.

In the face of the global pandemic, Stieb argues, Americans need to relearn how to sacrifice. Commenter boudica responds: “You don’t seem to understand that at least half of us have not recovered from the crash of ‘07… People scrim [sic] and scrape to pay rent, grocery bills, utility bills, car payments and repairs and education..You are one of the well-off lecturing the rest of us who are struggling about “sacrificing.’” Harsh, but boudica has a point.

Consumerism is a contributing factor to the U.S.’s pandemic response, but Stieb needs to take into account another factor: Americans who have nothing to sacrifice because the system of capitalistic consumption itself has pushed them to the ragged edge of survival. Stieb is correct in the sense that the U.S. isn’t used to involuntary sacrifice; but it is the wealthiest Americans who are least used to it. Sure, we have an all-volunteer military, but the prohibitive cost of college makes the G.I. Bill the only realistic way for many low-income Americans to get an education. Bush encouraged Americans to revive the airlines after 9/11 by taking vacations.; that could only apply to consumers who had been on paid leave and had the pocket money to do so. Americans in poverty understand sacrifice. The responsibility of cultural reform falls to the wealthy.

Yuki Matsuri

Feature Report

Every year at Wellesley, most cultural organizations offer the student body a window into the culture in the form of a massive, showstopping event open to the entire college. These events participate in a time-honored tradition of using coveted non-dining hall food as an attendance hook for the college crowd. They provide a celebratory backdrop for a window into cultures shared by the community. 

 Yuki Matsuri, Wellesley Japan Club’s yearly cultural show, started at 5 on a chilly Saturday evening in February. Planning to meet friends at the event in Tishman Commons, I arrived right on time — or on Wellesley time, 15 minutes late. My timing was underscored by the fact that the line for food already stretched out of the room, down the hall, up the stairs, and onto the main floor of the campus center. I got through a half-hour-long podcast episode by the time I reached the entrance to Tishman. After flashing my student ID, I picked up a paper plate and made my way down the line of student volunteers dishing out a variety of Japanese specialties in the smaller side room. Balancing a full plate with a cup of green tea, I finally caught up with my friend Sarah as we walked into the large performance area. There was a stage in front, more food and activity booths against the wall in the back, and floor seating/standing room in between. We ate our carefully rationed agedashi tofu and sweet potato maki in the dark as we watched student performers spin colorfully lit yoyo-like objects to Japanese pop music.

As the house lights came up, a kabuki performer began her dance and we moved across the crowded room to check out the rightmost food stations. We ate beautifully plated takoyaki and a rice cake with red-bean filling as we watched the performer don three very expressive masks as she acted in the roles of three different characters. One booth featured a box with gift bags dangling inside and a sign that read “Thousand Strings.” The two people ahead of me in line each pulled a random string, which released a bag filled with goodies. One student collected a small cookie, and Sarah received cute stickers. Curious what my turn might bring, I carefully selected my string. I was presented with a piece of paper that read “Watch out – bad luck may befall you.” I wasn’t surprised – Yuki Matsuri joined a long list of Wellesley events, from raffles to bingo, at which I was consistently luckless. I grabbed another red-bean cake and sat down with Sarah in anticipation of the next performance.

Aiko, the college’s beloved Taiko drumming group, performed next. The steady yet lively beats reverberated in my chest.  You might expect a group that constantly needs to be in perfect sync to be somewhat solemn – but every performer wore a confident grin as they drummed and chanted. I think this is the secret to why the student body loves Aiko so universally – they look like they are having so much goddamn fun onstage, and that energy is infectious. Sarah leaned over and told me “I have a crush on every single person on stage right now.” I laughed, knowing she spoke for every attendee.

I recognized the faces of many members of student organizations who performed, like my friend who led Shotokan Karate in a demonstration. Each audience member cheered for the friends we came to support. The room constantly held a few simultaneous layers of noise, whether from the performers, audience, or shaved-ice machine. I didn’t recognize one performer, however, who brought the room to silence. Older than a student, she came alone, save for a man who seemed like an assistant, or possibly coach. She wore a stark white gi top with flowing black hakama pants, and carried an archery bow that was easily taller than herself. The man asked people in the direction she would shoot to move; for a split second, I wondered if this is when my forecasted bad luck would befall me. With the audience rendered motionless, she meticulously approached her position, arranged her posture, notched each arrow, aimed at the target, drew her bow, and fired. Each step in this process was deliberate and memorized, and she shot twice. Her sober bow acted as a foil to the audience’s eruption of applause. I overheard another student’s commentary on the performance: “If she killed me, it would be an honor.”

Yuki Matsuri provides windows into a large variety of aspects of Japanese culture, from the lively to the solemn. Many cultural organizations at Wellesley host flagship events like this, open to the student body free of charge. A bite of non-Wellesley fresh food may be the hook, but these shows are a meaningful part of the college’s experience. They offer some Wellesley students a chance to celebrate their culture, while others get to learn about a culture shared by many of their sibs. 

Dreaming of a Democratic and Feminist Iran

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

Women Without Men (2009) is a tragic feminist allegory of Iran. It’s set in 1953, during the political turmoil in Tehran that saw British-American troops bring down the government of Mohammad Mossadegh in order to maintain Britain’s control over Iranian oil. Adapted from a novel by the feminist author Shahrnush Parsipur, directed by the contemporary visual artist Shirin Neshat, and filmed by Neshat’s cinematographer Martin Gschlacht, the film is a confluence of striking visual and narrative moments. It captures the lives of four women from vastly different sections of Iranian society: personal, political and social. Treading on the edge of historical veracity and magical realism, Women Without Men is a story of solidarity and companionship in the midst of a coup d’état, which marks the beginning of Iran’s contemporary issues. If the film doesn’t leave you rubbing your eyes as you seek to tell dreamy elements from real ones, it will definitely leave your mind racing to put all its pieces together.

In an inventive and innovative style, Neshat makes room for presenting feminist characters and invites you to join this 99-minute curated experience. Almost like playing the role of “the mother”, Fakhri is an upper-class matron long married to a general who backs the Shah. Exasperated by her abusive marriage, she leaves her husband to buy an orchard in the countryside. The first to reside with Fakhri is Zarin, a young, emaciated prostitute, who fled the brothel she had been serving to cleanse herself from her traumatising encounters with clients. Munis, “the rebel”, is a 30-year-old budding feminist activist who listens obsessively to the radio, to keep up with political developments. She constantly attempts to subvert her brother who imposes unreasonable restrictions on her actions and choices. Finally, Faezeh, embodying an iteration of the “Madonna”, is Munis’s friend and is in love with this tyrannical brother. Faezeh is rather timid, always veiled, and alarmed by Muni’s boldness. All four women unite in Fakhri’s orchard: the mystical centre of the film and a symbolic safe haven for women who have been victims of Iranian patriarchal institutions.

The variation in cinematography echoes the fragmented storyline. Gschlacht plays with light and shadow, creating mesmerising images in monochrome interspersed with muted colours. The film opens with Munis contemplating suicide on the roof of her home; the white building is beautifully framed against the fierce blue sky. The visual contrasts reflect the stark difference between life and death. More importantly, they shine a light on Munis’s state of mind, grabbing your attention and hooking you on to her story. The scenes in the streets of Tehran are predominantly black and white. You might find yourself navigating the print of a daily newspaper, or making sense of a newsreel. Neshat creates a blueprint to experience the repressed livelihoods of women. In an alternative reality, bright colours emerge in the orchard. While readjusting to chromatic changes, beware of the cuts replaced by dissolved transitions. Hold on tight to your chair: don’t float away with the surreal fluidity that envelops the screen.

The juxtaposition of visuals with sounds—or the lack thereof—compels you to listen and assess the background noises. Without any direct relation to the plot, these sounds tie the film in as one final product. The prayers, birdsongs, roaring crowds, wailing women and rushing water create a document-like reality, complete with historical accuracy. At the same time, Ryuichi Sakamoto’s morose soundtrack invites you to wander the world of fantastical constructs. Neshat seamlessly switches between authenticating reality and fuelling fragmented tales. The presented conversations between the four women are strained and hushed, allowing the audience to view their defiance through an intimate lens. Yet, profound and uncharacteristically loud monologues urge you to map out the possibilities of a democratic and feminist Iran: a construct of Neshat’s imagination.

Women Without Men balances on a tightrope between illusion and reality. Following Munis’s suicide, she is buried in the backyard of her house by her brother. As a citizen of the democratic world, this is your initiation to the horror of being silenced in your own home. As Faezeh returns, she hears Munis’s muffled voice and digs up her resurrected body. Like a ghost, she spends the rest of the film haunting the streets of Iran with her fierce intelligence, loyal activism and resolute feminism, making use of her newfound freedom from patriarchal oppression. Munis’s progression  stands as an emblem of everything Iran could have been, but failed to be. Another instance of a fantastical allegory is Zarin’s last interaction with a client in the brothel. In the hyperreal setting of the whorehouse, the sudden appearance of an eyeless, mouthless man is monstrous, and stupefying. As the catalyst of Zarin’s escape, the client represents everything the four women aim to get away from: the despicable institution of patriarchy. By now, you are sensitised to the reality of Iranian women.

Frail and helpless, Zarin acts as a metaphor for the exposed and vulnerable among the women of Iran. Withdrawn and silent from prolonged sexual exploitation, she strips naked in the public bath, violently rubbing herself to cleanse the marks left on her by the men who have used her. Even after reaching Fakhri’s mansion, Zarin is suspended between life and death. When Fakhri decides to host a party, she symbolically opens up the women’s safe space to the Iranian public. With this, the function of the villa as a safe haven dissipates, embodied by Zarin falling ill at hearing the news. Invested neck-deep in the powerless dame, you’re now aware that the safety of the sanctuary is intertwined with her fate.

This film is not just a work of entertainment and a political statement, but also a piece of art in itself. Different elements in Women Without Men work in unison to create a collage, that is an allegory, an artwork, a kind of poetry. The film offers a multidimensional perception of what Iran could have been by holding up a mirror to the harsh reality of its present. These women champion the journey of a ship scouting for the port in the storm: feminism in a man’s world. Something that makes your eyes pop out of their sockets, makes the hair on your hands stand on end, and leaves your stomach unsettled, this is a must-watch masterpiece.

The “Perfect” Caricature

Letter to the Editor

Rodrigues claims that Apu Nahasapeemapetilon of The Simpsons is simply a comedic caricature that needs to be modified to keep up with modern times. I argue that Apu is in fact perpetuating a faulty perception of South Asian cultures that is not only offensive, but also dangerous. With The Simpson’s wide sphere of influence, several South Asian performers’ experiences have been tainted by the representation of Apu.

An illegal immigrant eliciting laughter, Apu is the “perfect” caricature of an Indian shopkeeper with octuplets in an arranged marriage—perfect to fuel xenophobic sentiments. With a last name that is a frustrating tongue twister and a ridiculous over-the-top accent, Apu is a fallacious, noxious pastiche of South Asian stereotypes. Is it still an overreaction for Hank Azaria, the voice of Apu, to step down? Hank Azaria is right. The outrage is more than warranted—it is necessary. Even more so, his portrayal strengthens the first-world conception of foreigners coming to the country, stealing jobs and raising large families and “invading” America.

Since 1989, The Simpsons has a wide viewer base tracking its 30 seasons and has been a pioneer in exploiting negative racial stereotypes. The show has thus fuelled intimidation on school grounds, resentment in office spaces, discrimination in employment opportunities.

Is The Simpsons the first or the only series to use ethnic clichés for entertainment? Certainly not. Yet, the attitude of the animated series is an ethically suspect choice, not a moral one. It is conformity of a concept that is politically incorrect, irrespective of changing times.

The Fox Network is under the misconception that all they need to do is tweak the characters that fuel racial stereotypes to adapt to the modern age. Xenophobia is not a modern concept—it is a timeless disease. It is high time the entertainment industry became sensitive to the consequences of creating these not-so-perfect caricatures.

 

Article: https://www.thenational.ae/arts-culture/television/apu-in-the-simpsons-is-everyone-overreacting-over-the-racial-stereotype-1.968381

American Words, American Lives

Op-Ed,

The past three and a half years of the Trump presidency have introduced many privileged Americans to a new sensation: distrust. Donald Trump has told the most recorded lies of any sitting president—but, of course, that’s only if you believe the fact-checkers. Fake news and false information are nothing new under this administration, but the undercutting of media takes on a whole new meaning in light of COVID-19. Trump’s common use of misinformation and the way news sites cover it has been dangerous from the start, but when it comes to this new disease it’s turned deadly.

Take Colorado. On Sunday, April 19th, photos captured by Alyson McClaran and video recorded by the Twitter user @MarcZenn surfaced of a peculiar standoff: a nurse with sunglasses, an N95 mask, and the usual green scrubs stands with his arms folded in a crosswalk while a middle-aged blond woman hangs out the window of her RAM truck, a protest sign slapped across her windshield and a “USA” jersey on. She, part of an anti-lockdown gridlock, can be heard yelling “You get to go to work. Why can’t I?”and “If you want communism, go to China!” at the man, who does not answer.

This interaction is one of many taking place across multiple states, as self-professed conservatives demand that businesses reopen to protect the economy in the face of a global pandemic. Most Colorado protestors were in cars, but in other states demonstrators gathered in large crowds without proper distancing or protection. But their safety, or the safety of those they might come into contact with, is not the main concern. They brought everything from signs to automatic machine guns to their demonstrations, demanding that Governors repeal their stay-at-home orders. These manifestations are only the newest display of a deeply divided America. The protests and counter-protests show that division, but so too does news coverage and government response.

At the time of “Operation Gridlock”, Colorado had nearly 10,000 confirmed cases of COVID-19 and 420 deaths from the disease. This fact was reported in all articles written about the demonstration, but similarities stopped there. The Fox News article “Coronavirus standoff: Photos purportedly show Colorado health care workers at odds with anti-lockdown protesters” by Greg Norman focuses on the fact that more people have filed for unemployment than died, and that the photographed nurses refused to state their names or where they worked (hardly incomprehensible, when doctors have been fired for speaking about a lack of PPE). Fox News stated that thousands of protestors drove out, and omitted any quotes from the photographed woman. The CNN article “Health workers face anti-lockdown protesters in dramatic photos” by David Williams quoted the demonstrator right off the bat and stated that “hundreds” of people participated, not thousands, before putting out a few statistics about the protests across the country, and the percentage of stay-at-home orders. The two news sites diverge in their political leanings, and the identity of their readerships could not be clearer. Conservatives see an overblown response suppressing their financial capacity. Liberals see a dangerous, uninformed pushback against logical sanctions.

Colorado Governor Jared Polis has responded by announcing the guidelines that will be instituted after April 26th, when the stay at home order expires. Some businesses will begin to reopen as a transition through May 4th, where these “safer at home” guidelines will be re-evaluated and widened. The President’s response is slightly different. He tweeted three separate tweets to “LIBERATE” Michigan, Minnesota and Virginia. Other states have been left unnamed, but many reporters noted that the three that Trump named have Democratic Governors. Federal response to the protests has been mixed. As the BBC reports:

“President Donald Trump and his White House have expressed seemingly opposing views on the protests. Last week, Mr Trump and his Covid-19 taskforce unveiled new guidance to begin re-opening state economies [which has not been yet used by states]…But a day after the administration’s plan was announced, the president tweeted the slogans of the “Liberate” protests in several Democratic-run states.”

This duality of information and statements has become the status quo, but proves to be more confusing than ever. COVID-19 is the new frontier for smear campaigns against “fake news” and criticism of mainstream media. For instance, when looking for footage of Denver’s Operation Gridlock on Youtube you would come across an ad for Epoch Times, which claimed to have uncovered government corruption ignored by “institutional media” that “makes Watergate look like nothing in comparison.” When the President’s strategy is to undercut news and redefine criticism as falsity, his supporters are quick to doubt reports of mismanagement and vulnerability.

But the mismanagement of this pandemic—from the Administration’s refusal to distribute tests and respirators to states to its encouragement of these protests—threatens everyone. These Americans could avoid exposure if they chose to stay home as recommended. Those who are in danger of poverty due to job loss could lobby for more comprehensive support for unemployed Americans—perhaps closer to the $2000 per month Canadian citizens will receive. The problem is that the falsehoods of politicians have masked the very real risk of infection. For the first time, Trump’s encouragement of the disruptive, violent attitude of his supporters endangers them and others. And when they fall ill—which a projected third will—the people that treat them will be the nurses they screamed at.

Women Without Men: Change Will Come

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

In today’s charged political climate where American-Iranian tensions dominate headlines, Women Without Men (2009) takes viewers back to Iran in 1953, when the US crossed the political rubicon by intervening in Iranian politics, setting the stage for the geopolitical conflicts of today. Although the CIA-engineered coup to overthrow progressive-leaning Mohammad Mossadegh and reinstall the dictatorship of the Shah serves as important cinematic context, it merely frames the dominant subject of the film, the women. Women Without Men focuses on the lives of four different Iranian women, showing us a brief snapshot of what it means to navigate life as a woman in Tehran at the time. Based on the 1990 novel by Shahrnush Parsipur and directed by the Iranian multimedia artist Shirin Neshat, the film is powerful in its silence and the beauty of its characters and landscape; such quietude contrasts with an underlying, unspoken tension that makes the film an intense yet worthwhile experience. 

The four women of the film–Munis, Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri–have different backgrounds, making an unlikely group. Munis’ desire for personal freedom contrasts with her friend Faezeh’s religious devotion and conservative outlook, while Zarin’s past as a working prostitute contrasts strikingly with the wealth and status of middle-aged Fakhri. Despite these differences, the group of four is united by their experience of mistreatment by men. Munis is constrained by her authoritarian older brother and Fakhri by her abusive husband, while Zarin and Faezeh must process trauma inflicted upon them by anonymous men. Their lives overlap when Fakhri leaves her husband and purchases a villa outside Tehran. The other three women gravitate to the villa; Zarin stumbles upon the property accidentally and is found lying unconscious in a pond after fleeing the brothel, while Faezeh seeks out a place of refuge with Munis’ help after being sexually assaulted. Munis doesn’t stay long, lingering at the villa only to drop Faezeh off and then starting a second life working with a pro-Mossadegh Communist group. Regardless of how long each woman stays, they all find what they need within the group, whether that’s independence, coming-of-age, or the freedom to do what they like. Rejected or hiding from their past lives in one way or another, the four women adapt to their new-found autonomy. Little dialogue occurs amongst Munis, Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri but the silence between them affirms their deep yet unspoken bond and their resilience.     

Neshat’s vision of the villa and the cinematographer Martin Gschlact’s work give Fakhri’s new home meaning beyond the physical space itself. The villa and surrounding orchard have a mystical, hazy quality that envelops the lives of its female inhabitants. This mysterious aura also serves to protect Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri in their nascent independence, shielding them from the constraints and unrest of the outside world. In scenes where each woman travels to the villa, we get long shots of a single, solitary road that make it feel as if we are going back in time or traveling to a different world; one where women coexist sans men. The scenes from the villa are full of color, whereas the scenes of Tehran are presented in dull shades of grey, with the notable exception of the opening scene. Fakhri’s property calls to mind the Garden of Eden–lush, green, and enchantingly quiet. The air is thick with possibility, both from the connections between the female characters and the land itself. 

The gauzy properties of the villa translate to the screen the “magical realism” that Neshat adopts from Parsipur, coloring Women Without Men’s characters and plot. By incorporating fantastic and mythical elements into the stories of Munis, Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri, she implies there is more to an otherwise realistic story. Her use of magical realism makes it feel as if the four women are part of an art exhibition, portraits that she then brings to life not as characters but as symbols of what it means to be a woman in Iran. Munis, Faezeh, Zarin and Fakhri are important not because of who they are but what they represent; they are figures who gain true relevance and strength only in relation to each other and their significance in a larger story. The properties of magical realism also allow Neshat to convey meaning without overtly stating her message; she uses aesthetics and oneiric elements to make a deeper political statement. Her technique is well-suited to the current political context of Iran, where anything perceived as critical of the government is considered treason. Neshat’s status as an Iranian exile herself shows the risks and consequences of making politically dissident art. 

Throughout the silences of the film, tension hums in the background, leaving us with the feeling that something isn’t quite right. When Fakhri and the women open up the villa for a party, inviting men into their space, a cognitive dissonance is created. The get-together was intended to celebrate the women’s newfound independence and companionship, but it signals change and a possible threat to the safe haven they have created instead. Upon hearing Fakhri’s plans to host this gathering, Zarin falls sick, an ominous warning about what’s to come. The unease of the party is magnified by Neshat’s pairing of uncomfortable opposites: the tragic passing of one of the women contrasted with a beautiful singing performance, the fall of another’s political dreams against the backdrop of a wedding party, the appearance of soldiers on the night Fakhri begins her new, independent life. This jarring juxtaposition slowly crescendos to a breaking point during the party, which ends up being the villa’s last. 

The magic that has been cast over the villa proves to be precarious. The return to normal suspends Fakhri’s small oasis of women supporting other women and growing into their true identities. The commune of women living independently and healing together threatens the existing social order, and with the reinstatement of the Shah, can no longer be permitted. Things seemingly go back to the way they were before. Yet, in her new dress and made-up face, tracing her steps on the road back to Tehran, Faezeh’s character hints otherwise. The women from the villa can return to a semblance of normal life, perhaps, but not to its substance; more change will come.

Women Without Men: What You See Isn’t Quite What You Get, and That’s the Point

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

Women Without Men (2009), originally a video installation by the visual artist-turned-director Shirin Neshat, is characterized by its powerful visual elements, but the first impression it makes is audial. A black screen faces the viewer as the adhan, call to prayer, plays. One of the film’s four central women sits on the edge of a white rooftop, her black chador and hair contrasting a grey-blue sky. The adhan underscores her evident turmoil, as she struggles to make a decision, and cuts out the moment she does. Her name is Munis (Shabnam Tolouei), a 30-something unmarried woman who lives with an abusive brother and longs to be part of the world of political action she hears through her radio. This is the first enigmatic vignette of the fragmented, otherworldly feminist film.

Munis is joined in the film by three other women, who become entangled through the physical and mystical sides of life. One is Munis’ best friend, Faezeh (Pegah Ferydon), religious and conservative but jealous and longing to marry Munis’ brother. Then there’s Zarin (Orsolya Tóth), a silent but expressive young woman working in a brothel, and Fahkri (Arita Shahrzad), an older woman who leaves her controlling husband and buys an orchard where all three women begin to live together: a women-centered Garden of Eden of sorts, or, more fittingly, Jannah, a hidden paradise. 

 The film is adapted from a 1989 novel of the same name by Shahrnush Parsipur, but adds a more political thrust. The setting, 1953 Tehran during the imperialist US-British backed coup of the progressive leader Mohammad Mossadegh, is more than just a backdrop to the film. British-American forces, seeking to maintain control over Iran’s oil, not only destabilize the political sphere, but exacerbate the personal turmoil of the characters. Munis becomes the political axis of the film, active in the pro-Mossadegh resistance, while the militarized imposition of the Shah parallels patriarchy’s violent repression of women. As the women struggle to free themselves from their individual circumstances and their subjugation as women, so masses of protesters resist the imposition of a new regressive government. 

Two images are central to Women Without Men: one is the long road, leading to a horizon, where all of the women walk. The other is a babbling creek, which comes to a cave-like opening that leads to the semimagical orchard. These images recur throughout the film, facilitating travel, transition, and rebirth in the literal and metaphorical senses. The women encounter and journey along these pathways often in silence, with only the sound of footfalls or water accompanying them.  The diegetic sounds, absent any dialogue, heighten these meditative and almost trance-like moments, leaving us on edge as we wonder what will happen next. In these moments, the women transgress the division between reality and mysticism, and between the physical constraints they suffer and spiritual freedom. 

The road and creek are physical images, natural ones, that bridge the gap between the magical and the realistic. The film plays with surrealist images and techniques: a faceless man, a woman suspended in flight mid-air, a doubling of a character that allows her to watch herself. They are reminiscent of the effects achieved by the Spanish filmmaker Luis Buñuel, but in the context of the film and Neshat’s direction, this surrealism is distinctly Iranian. It is inextricably linked to the film’s mysticism, a narrative tool that rejects dominant, often Western, narrative styles. It is also thematically fitting: in a world where characters face repression, silencing, and control, they must find alternative ways to make meaning and express themselves. The Shah’s dictatorship and later the Islamic revolution imposed censorship of expression in Iran. Hence the elements of surrealism, magical realism, and other non traditional narrative and stylistic techniques for which Iranian cinema is known. Neshat’s particular approach to these elements suggests an intimate understanding of trauma and the subconscious: her surreal images always get at a hidden meaning or intention of her characters. 

Neshat’s direction and Martin Gschlacht’s cinematography pair perfectly to create the visual language of the film. Each image is created, navigated, and mediated by sharp, intentional camera movements that orient and disorient the viewer. An unflinching aerial shot shows Munis floating vertically in a howz, a pool, her dress billowing around her in what looks almost like a stationary version of a Sufi dervish. This stillness is contrasted in other parts of the film, especially those set in the orchard. One such moment shows Faezeh’s first encounter with the orchard, unmanicured and darkly beautiful. As she walks, the camera pans over her body 360 degrees, making us just feel just as lost as Faezeh. 

While the visual language of the film is largely effective, it is not entirely so. While Faezeh, Munis, and Fahkri are part of the images, Zarin is an image. Emaciated, traumatized, and close to death, she silently struggles and endures. We don’t get much of Zarin’s point of view beyond her suffering. She, compared to the other women, seems to be far more archetypal and one-dimensional, despite Tóth’s remarkable performance. Zarin feels like an anonymous image of the young, victimized, sex worker, rather than her own person. Her status as an image undermines the film’s evident belief in the complexity and richness of its women characters, especially those who are most vulnerable. 

Aside from this notable misstep, Women Without Men creates its own vocabulary of understanding, communication, and meaning. While rooted deeply in its historical and political moment, the film finds its home in a liminal space. Women Without Men’s pointillistic aesthetic gives us fleeting images that stay with us long past the credits— and extend the film’s resonance from 1953 to 2009 to 2020.

False Dichotomies in Ida

Movie Review: "Ida"

Paweł Pawlikowski’s Ida (2013) features dichotomies that are not as starkly different as they seem. The film’s main characters are a contrastive aunt/niece pair. Wanda Gruz Agata Kulesza) and Anna/Ida (Agata Trzebuchowska) differ in the big things: lifestyles, religion, and personalities. In early 1960s Poland, Anna is a young novitiate, forced to visit her only remaining relative before completing her vows. The women are immediately compared when Anna arrives at Wanda’s apartment; they take long, silent seconds to size each other up. Anna enters and Wanda’s one-night stand leaves. Their introduction establishes stark differences between the two and gives the role of judge to Anna despite it being Wanda’s profession. Wanda,under Soviet rule, was a well-known communist prosecutor and sentenced Polish nationalists to death. During this visit, Anna learns her real name is Ida Lebenstein. She and her aunt come from a Jewish family. Her parents, and Wanda’s son, were hidden by a Christian family during the Nazi occupation of Poland, but a member of that same family later murdered the Lebensteins. After learning this news, Ida wants to find where they’re buried and so the two go on the road: a young, solemn, Christian nun and an older, promiscuous, alcoholic judge. 

While following leads about their family’s suspected murder, the two women drive through Poland’s empty countryside and pick up a hitchhiking musician, Lis. The movie opens in near silence at the convent, with bare rustles of everyday activity as the only sounds. When Ida goes to see Wanda, the city’s bustling crowd introduces a bit more sound, but it isn’t until Wanda shares family pictures and stories with Ida that there is diegetic background music. Music is used to contrast Wanda and Ida. Throughout the film, music is associated with Wanda and her more casual lifestyle. Music plays in her apartment, in her car, and in her final, culminating moment. Also, Lis’s role is a seducer, using music to sway Ida’s conscience: to “know her effect” and give “usual life” a try. He invites them to see his jazz show while they’re in town, and although she goes, she isn’t tempted at first. For Ida is associated with quietness, which is reflected in her behavior: what she lacks in dialogue she makes up for it in facial expressions and the subtle flick of the eye. Surprisingly, as their trip progresses, the audience gets to see that while Wanda and Ida continue to clash, they share this trait. Often, in their conversations what is said is less important than what isn’t. Their similarities arise to show the two aren’t actually all that different.  

As with sound, Pawlikowski uses cinematography to create another false dichotomy; between the women and within the country itself. The film is shot entirely in black and white, making the most of natural light to illuminate scenes and draw the eye of the viewer. This decision evokes the association of white with goodness and rightness and black with badness and wrongness. However, Ida brings a subtle complexity to this overused trope. The film sets Ida up as good, Wanda as bad, and dramatically emphasizes their differences. In many shots, the natural light falls on Ida, emphasizing her association with goodness.  

But as the film develops, Pawlikowski begins to introduce the idea of nuance and layers in characters. Their archetypical contrast implies the Madonna-Whore complex; however, labeling them as so would demonstrate a shallow understanding of the two women. Despite Wanda being categorized as ‘bad’, there is no demonizing of Wanda or her lifestyle. The director does not pass judgment on her and encourages the audience to not do so as well. Through arguments with Wanda, Ida’s assumption of what is right is challenged. Wanda forces her to rethink certain things about life and encourages her to “sin” before she takes her vows. Black and white also serve to highlight present and past social tension in Poland. Shooting in this way calls to mind the two prominent narratives about Poland during Nazi occupation: Poland as a victim, or complicit. In response to the government’s “Holocaust Law” — which criminalizes those who voice the opinion that Poles are complicit — Pawlikowski challenges the narrative of Poland as a victim. He does so by complicating a stereotypical binary by introducing nuance. His use of contrastive characters, sound association and black and white film help to introduce the binaries that he later undermines. 

These dichotomies in Ida, that are later proven to be false, complicate our binary thinking and create a thought-provoking film. It’s important to understand that after the years of the Nazi occupation and Soviet rule, it was difficult to trust fellow countrymen when it was possible they committed atrocities. This information will help set up the viewer to understand the social tension during the 1960s, as well as the subtlety in which it is portrayed. Viewers are in for a delight if they desire three-dimensional female characters. Ida and Wanda have a complicated and interesting relationship throughout the movie, and it’s only made more so in the final ten minutes. Pawlikowski asks for viewers to watch with a historical critical eye, but for his characters, he asks only for empathy.

Ida: Pasts Unburied

Movie Review: "Ida"

Ida (2013) is a film with a uniquely layered story, evoking multiple periods of Polish history through the lives of its protagonists. The Polish language film, a 2015 Best Foreign Film Academy Award winner, was directed by Pawel Pawlikowski and written by Pawlikowski and playwright Rebecca Lenkiewicz. Pawlikowski was born in Warsaw in 1957 and grew up in Poland before leaving for the UK at age fourteen. In an interview with NPR, he explains that “in a way, Ida is an attempt to recover the Poland of my childhood.” Raised catholic, he learned that his paternal grandmother was a Jewish woman who died in Auschwitz in his late teens.

Set in 1962, the Poland of his youth, Ida follows a young woman about to take her vows as a catholic nun (Agata Trzebuchowska) as she meets her only living relative––her aunt, Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza)––and learns she is the daughter of two Polish Jews who died during the Holocaust. Her name is not Anna, but Ida Lebenstein. She and her aunt travel to her childhood home to uncover the truth of their shared history. Her visit to her aunt, which she undertakes only on the orders of her mother superior, dislodges her entire identity. But any reaction or emotion is strongly subdued. Trzebuchowska makes her debut in the film, having been scouted by Pawlikowski’s friends from a cafe. Her pale, concerned face manages to convey all the confusion and uncertainty her character never speaks of. This soft, sweet character is perfectly balanced by Kulesza’s portrayal of “Red Wanda,” a jaded judge and former state prosecutor whose love for her sister is revived by Ida’s presence.

The movie’s rapidly-paced plot is belied by the quiet, pregnant dialogue and drawn out shots. Filmed in black and white with a now out of style 3:4 ratio, which appears boxier than our normal widescreen ratios, the cinematography evokes the French New Wave style of cinema that was popular during the late 1950s and early 1960s. As a result, before any character speaks or any plot is revealed, we are transported to the time period of the film. We are confronted by a new perspective and the first layer of history is brilliantly clear. The in-era cinematography does nothing to traditionalize the radically honest content of the film, which unearths still-silenced truths about the cultural and individual effects of the Nazi occupation of Poland. While the images are black and white, the world they portray is anything but. Whatever idea we have of Communist Poland in the 1960s (if we have one at all) is certainly less complex than the story of a Jewish-Catholic soon-to-be nun and her alcoholic, tired, and righteous aunt road tripping through the backwoods to find whatever truth they can of their shared past.

Ida and Wanda connect in a way neither expect and Wanda decides to bring Ida to their past home in hopes of discovering where her parents are buried. Their differences are clear: where Ida is quiet, Wanda is aggressive. Where Ida is yielding, Wanda is demanding. Where Ida is restrained, Wanda is self-indulgent. As they travel from one town to another in search of answers Wanda seems to drive their quest, though the camera follows Ida. As a result, what we do not see is as important as what we do. We wander to the barn with Ida while a drunken Wanda drills Feliks Skiba, the current owner of the family home, for answers. Ida’s pale, soft face is in awe of the stained-glass window her mother made “to make the cows happy” when Wanda returns to the screen with the location of Feliks’ father, Szymon. We watch the shadows of tree branches play across the windshield of their car before we cut suddenly to an empty road. A moment later the car is being towed out of a ditch and Wanda is put in a holding cell to sleep off her intoxication. Occurring throughout the film, these hidden scenes––where the important action that takes place off-screen––mirror the history of World War Two which, to this day, has been obscured by censorship and revisionism. 

Thus, the second layer of history begins to unfold. While wrapped up in the intricately human paradoxes of 1962 in Poland, we find ourselves questioning the knowledge we have of the Nazi occupation and the country’s role in the Holocaust. The fact that neither aspect of World War Two is explicitly named but remains the undeniable focus of the film reveals Pawlikowski’s professional and personal experience. 

Pawlikowski’s personal ties to Poland and its past help to explain the casual intricacy of the cultural background of the film, but Trzebuchowska’s and Kulesza’s performances are what truly keep the complex plot clear. Both carry the dark, tired ambiance the country takes on through each packed scene. Few could carry the script the way they do.

Still of Ida: Agata Trzebuchowska in the bottom right corner, drawing her hair back over her shoulder
Agata Trzebuchowska in Ida (2013)

Their motivations are revealed by what they don’t say as clearly as by what they do. The fact that their reunion and their drive to find their dead family is motivated by what is unsaid and left forgotten makes these silences all the more meaningful.

Ida and Wanda travel to find Szymon Skiba, picking up a handsome alto saxophonist named Lis, who seems to play the role of “distracting love interest” that women traditionally take on in old black and white films. While it is rather refreshing to see a man boiled down to sexual tempter, his character falls flat because all the depth and development are given to Ida and Wanda. Their journey becomes one of self-discovery. Wanda continually pressures Ida to live in the outside world a little before taking her vows and giving it all up. “It”, of course, doesn’t refer to living in a nice house and cooking her own meals, but rather alcohol, smoking, and “carnal love,” especially with Lis. The lack of soundtrack, combined with the constant close framing of each characters’ face, evokes a realistic sense of discordant views and desires. These shots allow awkwardness, overt discomfort, and ultimately anger to come clearly through without a verbal explanation from any actor. 

As Wanda and Ida continue on to find their answers before trying to return to their lives, the quick cuts, off-center closeups, and isolating long shots keep us in tune with the intimate knowledge that a twitch of the eyes or hands can portray. The pale, monotone faces of Wanda and Ida give more insight into their minds than their dialogue ever does.

As such, it is ultimately the cinematography that gives Ida its slightly unnerving mood and deeply engaging tone. Not only is the film in black and white with unusual ratios that introduce the past perfectly, but cinematographers Lukasz Zal and Ryszard Lenczewski also frame the actors with shots that seem just off. By keeping things gray and on edge, each image is a still of the film itself: dark, compact, and riveting.