Women Talking (2022, Sarah Polley) (Patreon)

39/100

Didn't believe for one moment that any of these women—with the exception of Frances McDormand's hard-liner, who promptly disappears—had spent her entire life isolated in a community that views female subordination as divinely ordained. Every word they speak is pitched directly at a secular, staunchly feminist viewership, with even Jessie Buckley's Mariche, ostensibly the most traditionalist (or at least the most frightened), basically conceding that what they've been taught since birth is of no consequence compared to protecting themselves and their daughters. In theory, that should please me, since I wholeheartedly, almost violently concur; indeed, my initial concern, once the basic scenario became clear (knew nothing going in), was that I might struggle to empathize with self-destructive decisions deeply rooted in faith, as was the case in Scorsese's Silence. To my astonishment, "But we'll go to Hell" doesn't even land on the right-hand column of the actual pros/cons list that they make, as they're too busy agreeing that their situation is insupportable. Which it is! But creating three potential courses of action, each endorsed by one of the young name stars, is just ludicrously tidy, especially given how hollow the dissension proves to be: Nobody who remains in the hayloft really supports just forgiving the rapists and moving on, while Salome's furious call to stay put and fight conveniently declines to explore exactly what said fighting might entail. Mostly, though, I simply did not buy that a lifelong Mennonite woman would ever say something like "If I were married, I wouldn't be myself, so the person you love would be gone." Or that Mariche—who, please recall, has been instructed in deference to men from the cradle—would bore a hole right through Ben Whishaw's #NotAllMen, telling him "You have been invited here to listen to what we have to say. And write it down. Nothing more. Just listen." It all sounds like what it is: an outsider's post #MeToo wish-fulfillment exercise. (Everyone accepting the trans boy, who climactically thanks Judith Ivey's elder for not deadnaming him, likewise feels highly implausible for 2010, when the film is set. And for today as well, I suspect, in that community, but maybe I'm wrong.) Anyway, heart's certainly in the right place, but nothing whatsoever rang true.