Chris Flackett
For all the progress that has been made in the last one hundred years or so, it’s sad to say that we are still far away from true equality, particularly in terms of male-women relationships. The world is still skewed in favour of men, and global domestic violence figures are appalling. In Mehdi Barsaoui’s latest film, Aïcha, we see the effects of such gender disparity, in this case in Tunisia, and the danger this puts women in.
Aya (Fatma Sfarr) is a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, living a life of poverty with her parents, working in a local hotel and stuck in a secret relationship with her manager, who will not leave his wife, no matter what he promises. The grind of daily life wears her down until a serious bus crash presents Aya, the only survivor, with an opportunity to run away and start a new life in Tunis under a new identity. Initially finding happiness and companionship with her new roommate, Aya is introduced to two powerful men who soon plunge her into a world of murder, police corruption, blackmail and sexual coercion.
Aïcha is a slow burn of a movie, moving at a methodical pace that may initially challenge the patience of viewers. If you stick with it, then Aïcha is a rewarding experience. Sfarr plays Aya with a quiet desperation. She does not let her emotions overrun her, at least not at first, but her eyes betray a life of desperation and sadness. On the flip side, the sheer joy Sfarr injects into Aya as she begins to find happiness in her new life, especially as she learns to let go and dance in the club, is infectious. We may initially care about Aya because we believe in equality and safety for women, but Sfarr’s performance brings that personal touch that understatedly connects with the viewer and draws out their empathy.
The film does not make distinctions between individuals and institutions of authority; Aïcha sees both as a threat to female autonomy and safety. Aya is by no means unintelligent, but she is far too trusting; she sticks with her boss for four years, despite knowing at heart he is deceiving her with promises of leaving his wife; she works hard to provide for her family’s house, even though her parents are working her like a slave and looking to sell her off to a rich husband; she trusts her new male friend’s instruction to lie to the police, even when it thrusts her into a web of police corruption.
This is where the film widens the scope of its critique of a male-dominated society. The police are proven to be incompetent, lacking in empathy, and quick to cover up their mistakes at the expense of innocent people, and their interrogation and conversations with Aya are terrifying for exactly that they depict the police’s attitude to Aya as seeing her as an obstacle to their cover-up, and not as a person. It is curious and notable that the Minister of the Interior is the only notable female police officer depicted—all the rest are men.
This is the tension that Aïcha bears at its centre; a woman might escape her current life but the dangers of a male-dominated society remain the same. The risk never disappears. Yet, there is hope, a suggestion that safe spaces can be found, and although the journey through Aïcha is occasionally slow, the destination is well worth the effort. Recommended.
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