I Think Mine Is Torn

“In this turbulence and noise, there was almost silence underneath, the sense that everything repeats itself over time.” Dressed in black, Munis (Shabnam Toloui) stands among a throng of white shirts, people with arms and voices raised in opposition to an oppressive government. The camera hovering near her face, Munis is visibly moved—by the crowd’s literal, physical energy, by the call to political awareness and action, and by the moment’s metaphysical, historical pulse. Just then, shots sound, and the movement changes: people scatter, no longer one, but afraid and alone, running for their lives.

This scene takes place in Iran in 1953, but it is, as Munis observes, familiar. Its repetition is precisely the point of Women Without Men (Zanan-e bedun-e mardan), Shirin Neshat’s breathtaking film of Shahrnoush Parsipour’s novel of the same name. But even as it laments the sameness of this scenario, the movie also imagines an alternative ending, fleeting and incomplete. This other world is peaceful and removed from town, an orchard filled with graceful trees and glinting sunlight.

The otherworldly effect is bolstered by the exquisite beauty of each composition, articulating pain, joy, and sheer will in images (Neshat is an Iranian-born visual artist, living in New York). As Munis first enters this other place, her figure framed by green foliage and mist, she’s escaping from her traditional-minded brother Amir Khan (Essa Zahir). He has first appeared looming over her, face unseen but voice insistent, as he commands her to turn off the radio that grants her access to the outside world. At the moment, she’s mesmerized by news of Iranian citizens protesting England’s blockade of Iranian oil, and so, supporting Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh. You know what happens next—that a C.I.A.-backed coup will oust Mosaddegh and support the Shah, sending Iran into a spiral of bad deals and strongmen—and so the close-up of Munis’ face, so quietly frightened, anguished, and furious, seems almost to echo, far past the frame. 

Some echoes are made visible in the film that unfolds, as Munis’ story overlaps with those of three other women. Her friend Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni) at first seems opposite of her, desiring the marriage and stability Munis rejects; her visits are tinged with another interest, her crush on Amir Khan, which blinds her to his tyranny. Discussing their futures, Faezeh worries when Munis jokes that she may not be a virgin, because she paid no heed as a child when “My grandmother told me if you climbed trees, you might tear your virginity: I think mine is torn.” Illustrating precisely the myths designed to keep girls and women “in their place,” this story unnerves Faezeh, who doesn’t want to be seen or heard breaking rules.

Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad) embodies (and suffers) what happens when you follow the rules. She’s married well, to a general, but yearns for another life, as he’s a self-important bully; when she encounters Abbas (Bijan Daneshmand) a man she knew years ago just recently returned from the (mythic) West, she’s struck again—and for a last time—how much she resents her husband and all he stands for. At around the same time—as much as time might be measured in this lyrical, metaphorical, expansive film—a prostitute named Zarin (Orsolya Tóth) also comes to the end or her patience, unable to stand even one more faceless man on top of her (her dread is rendered in an image provocatively literal and poetic).

Zarin’s escape from the brothel takes her through streets where every man’s glance is a threat. Making her way to the orchard—by way of a long, lonely, yellow road stretching to the back of the frame—Zarin collapses, only to be discovered by Fakhri, who has purchased the property as an act of resistance against her husband. With the help of a groundskeeper, Fakhri brings Zarin’s wilted, emaciated body inside, where she tends to her, watching and feeding her until she’s able to join Fakhri and Faezeh at the table: here they share smiles and relief from hardship, looking forward to a less burdensome life in a world that is mostly without men.

It’s to the point that in this world, the women simultaneously embrace fantasies and feel haunted by memories of violence and oppression. The imagery is consistently exquisite, exposing pain, regret, and remarkable resilience. Activism can lead to revelation, even if it exacts a price. Silence, the film submits, may be one sure route to peace, but it is always harrowing and always costly.