An adaptation of Miriam Toews’ 2018 novel of the same name, itself based on real events, women who talk is a story of misogynistic tyranny and terror reminiscent The Handmaid’s Tale— except for the fact that it’s not set in a dystopian world but, depressingly, in our own. Set in a cloistered Mennonite community ravaged by male monstrosity, writer-director Sarah Polley’s first feature-length fiction since 2011 take this waltz is a heartbreaking drama about freedom, faith, abuse, autonomy, responsibility and survival, which he approaches with patience and emotion. There is weight in his stillness, sorrow in his common suffering, and hope in his belief in the power of transformation and, also, in the ability of people to act.

In collaboration with Rooney Mara, Claire Foy, Jessie Buckley and Frances McDormandPolley provides no context for women who talkthe period or geography of , allowing him to focus on the unique specifics of his storyline while simultaneously positioning the material as representative of broader contemporary concerns. Driven by the storytelling of a young girl to an unborn child, the film involves a Mennonite enclave at a moment of crucial calamity: the rape of a four-year-old girl by a young male member of the community. This is told in jarring flashes, including the sight of the child’s mother, Salomé (Foy), trying to exact brutal vengeance against the author, and ends with the word that the men have left for the town to bail out the accused children. In the meantime, women in this population are voting to stay, fight or flee. When no consensus is reached, a small group meets in a barnyard to determine the best course of action.

The title of women who talk is not misleading; its drama is mostly conversational in nature. The women 12 angry men-ish The debate is led by the optimistic and open-minded Ona (Rooney Mara), furious Salomé, and bitter and fearful Mariche (Buckley), and it is complicated by each’s shared history of systematic subjugation. None of these women can read or write – or have been educated (or exposed) to the wider world. Instead, they have been indoctrinated to believe that reaching the Kingdom of Heaven is their primary goal and can only be achieved by obeying the male elders of the church. They are, for all intents and purposes, born and bred to remain docile, ignorant and subservient. More gruesomely, they were taught to smile and bear it when they wake up in the morning with bruises all over their bodies and blood seeping under their nightgowns from a tranquilizer-facilitated rape. Generation after generation, such has been their fate, thus making the tragedy of Salome – and the resulting revolt – a traumatic break in the status quo.

Using an ashy palette that reflects the desolation of its characters, all of whom wear prairie robes and scarves like the residents of 18^e century—Polley stages these deliberations with intense empathy, his camera capturing the angst and anger in moving close-ups and graceful pans. Like a knife stabbing a body, flashbacks suddenly creep into the primary proceedings and then disappear just as quickly, suggesting how past violations continue to hurt. In the present, the focus remains on the pros and cons of their options, while August (Ben Wishaw) – a failed farmer-turned-schoolteacher whose mother was exiled for speaking out against gender-based power dynamics in the community – hand-writes minutes of the meeting. With the men’s not-too-distant return hanging over their heads and devout Scarface Janz (McDormand, in a near-silent background role) refusing to take part in this potential heretical rebellion, tensions begin to mount and only do so. get worse from there.

women who talkThe main interest of is how women find their voice when they have been denied the opportunity to have one, and Polley approaches the issue from the unique perspective of its protagonists, whose only frames of reference are their beliefs. religions and their personal experiences. The question is not whether Ona and company should leave (which is obvious), but rather how they can come to that conclusion after being brainwashed and trapped by theological rituals and dogma, as well as physical and sexual violence. Polley’s screenplay explores this process in great detail, allowing Salome to vent her rage (which she is certain will turn into murder if she stays); Mariche to express her fear of the consequences of abandoning her home; Ona to detail and analyze the costs and benefits of their choices; and Ona’s mother, Agata (Judith Ivey) to offer advice and guidance and Mariche’s mother, Greta (Sheila McCarthy), to impart wisdom through metaphorical tales about her horses.

There are other wounded souls scattered everywhere women who talk, including two young girls who braid their hair together in a symbolic gesture of kinship, as well as trans teenager Melvin (August Winter), victim of an unthinkable incest. All are marked by the brutality and dominance of their male counterparts, who remain invisible – a creative decision that casts them as ghosts, which is appropriate given that they dishonestly blame their rapes on ghosts. “What follows is an act of female imagination,” reads an early title card, foreshadowing women’s struggle to envision an independent future for which they have no model, and therefore are unsure. that it is achievable – or, moreover, enviable, even by comparison. to their current nightmarish situation.

Although his most touching performance came courtesy of Whishaw as a man torn between selfless compassion and love for Ona, women who talk is a showcase for its leading ladies, with Mara the soulful axis around which the rest – and, in particular, a distressed Buckley and a furious Foy – revolve. Avoiding drama, they embody these marginalized individuals with moving intensity, emphasizing the grief and anxiety that threaten to hold them in figurative chains, and the determination and piety that offer them a chance for liberation (beautifully visualized by sight d’Ona teaching his compatriots how to use their fists and thumbs to locate the constellation of the Southern Cross). Polley grants her ensemble abundant space to navigate the emotional and intellectual ins and outs of their predicament, sparking a collection of superb turns that are both reserved and volatile, desperate and determined. Together, they paint a portrait of the birth of female action and solidarity that resounds with urgent topicality.