The Intersection of Faith, Gender and Atrocities

At first, they were told it was ghosts. Or demons. Or the product of an ‘overactive female imagination.’ And while the women knew this was wrong, they lacked the evidence to prove it. In fact, they didn’t even have the language for how so many of them went to bed as normal, and woke up bruised, bloodied, and with burning pain. How could they describe it? It had been happening for a long time. But then one night, a face in the dark. Hurried footsteps down a ladder. Screams. Proof.

Based on the 2018 novel of the same name by Miriam Toews, Women Talking follows a group of women (led by Rooney Mara, Claire Foy, and Jessie Buckley) from what is a Bolivian Mennonite colony in all but name as they decide their future. After years of being lied to, they finally caught men in the act of tranquilizing and raping one of their own. The rest of the men are going to town to bail out the attackers. So the women have mere hours (the setting sun works as a great ticking clock) to decide their next actions. Do nothing, stay and fight, or leave.

The film’s structure, then, follows this council taking place in the hayloft of a barn as these women reason, shout, whisper, and face the most serious decision of their lives. It’s shot in a very muted colour palate, almost black-and-white, which visually echoes the stifling atmosphere they live in. The one man present is an excommunicated teacher named August (Winshaw). At one point, he dodges a question, saying, “I’m not here to think, I’m here to take the minutes.” Ona (Mara), visibly pregnant from her attack, responds, “How would you feel if, for your entire life, it never mattered what you thought?” A poignant question.

And yet, that question is preceded by a long fit of laughter. It seems paradoxical. How could these women be laughing in the face of this? But nonetheless, the laughter is an incredible moment. And it’s more than a breather from the seriousness. It shows how these women endure. And what they’re enduring for. Actor Claire Foy was asked about this, and she responded, “These women have survived something so atrocious and so dehumanizing, and yet they can still laugh with each other, they can still love each other, and a lot of that is to do with community.” It’s true. The movie is an amazing display of the empathy and love that can be present in the most horrible of circumstances. Multiple times, one of the women will reach a breaking point, and the other women always respond by moving over to sit with her. Not by making a grand speech about how there’s hope. Not by leaving to go attack the problem. Simply by sitting beside her and letting her know that she’s not alone. And maybe even laughing together. Over the narration, young Autje (Hallett) notes, “Sometimes I think people laugh as hard as they want to cry.“

All of the narration is delivered somberly by Autje, as she tells these women’s stories to Ona’s unborn child. Yet in the actual meeting itself, she and another young girl are quite bored, climbing ladders and braiding each other’s hair. The ordinary and the tragic are melded together. You would be forgiven for forgetting why these girls are here. As they sigh with boredom or giggle with mischief, you might assume they are here simply because they tagged along with their mothers. But none of the other children are here, and every so often the film reminds you that their presence is because Autje and her friend were attacked too. Even girls as young and as innocent as these were not safe.

The other women are much more vocal. As previously mentioned, Ona is pregnant from her attack and brings a quiet, philosophical approach to the conversation. Salome (Foy) on the other hand, opens the movie by attacking a perpetrator with a scythe and carries that fiery vengeance through much of the film. Joining her in anger is Mariche (Buckley), while Agata (Ivey) and Greta (McCarthy) bring a compassionate calmness in their roles as elder stateswomen. Each one has responded to the attacks differently; an acknowledgment of the diverse ways people handle trauma. Salome rages, but it’s a justified rage. Ona seems more relaxed, but she’s not treating this lightly. Each gets their moment to make a speech, but the film is far more impressive in the back-and-forths. The conversations are the highlights, and I was always more affected by the quiet moments following the speeches than the speeches themselves.

The character most out-of-place here is August, intentionally so. In the plot itself, he’s there to take the minutes (and to get yelled at by Salome). But thematically, he represents ‘the one good man.’ In fact at one point, while discussing the weight of potentially leaving their husbands and sons behind, Greta says, “This is about our freedom and safety. Men stop us from achieving those goals,” and Mariche responds (as the camera cuts to August), “Not all men.” That’s a very loaded phrase, one that might hit certain viewers differently than others. In a sense, it is literally true. August would never dream of hurting these women. But it’s also not a terribly helpful notion as these women try to deal with what are, undeniably, male problems. At another point, August tries to teach Ona something and she smiles silently and lets him talk until he realizes she actually already knows what he’s saying. They’re more equal than he realizes, but he doesn’t respond, “Oh, we’re equals.” He responds instead, “I wish there was something I could teach you.” He’s definitely not the problem here. He definitely cares. He definitely admits earlier on “I want to help, but I don’t know how.” In all likelihood, that desire to teach her something was actually a desire to connect with her through what he knows. And yet, that response betrayed a little bit of patriarchy remaining, even in him. A desire, not to be equal, but to teach. As the character I identified the most with, that moment sparked some self-reflection in me. Allyship, this movie says, starts with silence and listening before action. 

Speaking of Ona and August, their quasi-relationship is a great stand-in for the good things in danger too. I don’t think it’s spoiling too much to say that they’re drawn to each other. But her choosing to leave the colony would also mean choosing to leave him. And that potential relationship laid on the altar is a potent metaphor for all the other consequences these women are facing. If only bad things would be left or destroyed by leaving or fighting, what an easy decision that would be! The toughness of the decision stems, not just from its difficulty or newness, but also from good things being abandoned too. Sons, husbands, comfort, familiarity, a way of life. All that would be gone if they make a choice for themselves. And while not all those things can be given equal weight in a movie’s runtime, the would-be romance represents them well.

And yet, the consequences run even deeper than that. These women have been taught for all their lives that making a choice of this magnitude against the colony means losing their salvation. They were told by the elders they would have to forgive their attackers by the time the men return, and the very first line of the debate is, “It is a part of our faith to forgive.” That question of forgiveness hangs in the air of the loft like the smell of hay. What does forgiveness look like in a situation like this? Can it be true forgiveness if it’s forced on you? At what point does forgiveness become permissiveness? Does there need to be forgiveness offered even among each other? A more secular movie would brush past all this. But Women Talking is sensitive to the faith of these women and acknowledges the weight of forgiveness. When misused, it has the potential to be incredibly damaging. But when pointed at walls of resentment, it can be a wrecking ball of freedom.

This, in many ways, is the most impressive balancing act of this movie. The film has great performances and it’s shot effectively. But it is not easy to pace a film of this structure, and to keep the conversation not just tolerable, but gripping. That is exactly what Polley has done here, as the discussion dances from character to character, high point to high point, scene to scene. And all of it revolves around this intersection of faith and gender and atrocities. What do you do when ‘believers’ are the ones that hurt you? What are a woman’s options when it seems she has none? How can justice and peace co-exist? There are no easy answers for any of these, but the film grapples with all of them. And it’s worth watching just to listen.