The terrible drama at the root of this story begs its envisioning as a debate. Polley and cinematographer Luc Montpellier film everything in a washed out style that’s a step or two above black and white, a choice that’s most effective in soundless memories of the women waking up in pain and confusion after their own respective assaults. These monstrous acts, coupled with the post-film realization that the real women stayed but put steel bars on their windows, make the version of this story that’s invested in true events difficult to stomach. As much as the debate itself makes sense as a way in, the premise is as far as Women Talking succeeds. There’s no immersion in the film or in the characters, who exist as embodied ideas more as people. Part of that is the visual style which never lets the viewer get comfortable, and part of it is the dialogue, which sounds unnatural out of the mouths of characters who are supposed to be illiterate members of an isolated community. That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, but it should limit how they relate to the world and their circumstances. This is only the case with Agata, who tells several anecdotes about her horses and connects them to a specific topic, but everyone else seems plucked out of a philosophy course about abstract topics.
A story on a clock like this one, with these stakes, should be able to transcend its artificiality and at least stay propulsive. Instead, the rhythms of the discussion tire and frustrate. There’s a rising inhalation of temper and loud voices, followed by an exhalation of calming hymns or recitations from the religion that has oppressed everyone in the room. This is repeated ad nauseum, when the far more interesting tack would’ve been the continued anger and urgency of the moment or a revolt against any paeans to the tenets of their lifestyle. Per Anton Chigurh, what value is the rule if it brought you here? Meanwhile, the snarky teens in the background are an utterly failed attempt to leaven the tone, as they themselves are victims and invested in what happens next. There’s also a lack of imagination, feminist or otherwise, in what the logistics of leaving would mean. They’re in Bolivia and speak no Spanish. Where do they go, how to they support themselves, how do they fend off the men who will probably go after them and their children? Instead of concrete problem solving, the viewer is treated to Ona and August considering why they never got together.
All three of Women Talking’s younger actors are in the upper echelon of their profession, likely to continue to stun onscreen and be nominated for and win major awards. Foy and Buckley are both best served by the film, as they get to embody the most compelling reaction to what’s happened to them and their families. McDormand, herself a legendary actor, is the closest thing to an onscreen antagonist the film has, but she exits quickly and was likely attached in her small role to get the film made. Mara has impressed in plenty of other works, but here, she’s badly miscast as a moony angel with no connection to the world of the film. She’s in her late 30’s. Why is she only now pregnant for the first time in this community? Why wasn’t she married, what does it mean for her place in the community that she wasn’t, and how does it inform her decision-making at this moment? She’s the closest thing the film has to a lead, and the film idolizes her as the clearest voice without doing any work to place her in this position. It’s like she’s been plucked out of the broader world and placed into this highly specific one, and the mismatch is jarring.
There’s simply too many questions left by Women Talking’s premise to invest in what’s here. The filmmaking makes the world ugly, but characters lament having to leave it. Polley’s camera makes their objections absurd. They may as well say they’re going to hate leaving behind their Playstations. It doesn’t consider what justice would look like, or why pacifism is a value worth adhering to in this or any circumstance. One of the victims has taken on the identity of a mute man after the assault, functionally becoming a transgender character, and no one has any problems with this. The character is only here as an opportunity for grace from other characters who would perhaps have a difficult time extending it to him if they’ve lived the lives they supposedly have, as if the viewer isn’t going to preternaturally be on these women’s side and they could therefore perhaps be treated as complex humans instead of boring fonts of wisdom. These communities exist to shut out the world, but Polley lets far too much of it in. C-