Category Archives: Movie Review: “Women Without Men”

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.

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.

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.