52 Films by Women Vol 7. 18. SAINT OMER (Director: Alice Diop)

 

Why would a woman kill her own child? It is a question asked in director Alice Diop’s courtroom drama, Saint Omer, in which the action is seen through the eyes of an apparently disinterested woman, Rama (Kayjie Kagame) whose own background and situation bind her to the case. Co-written by Marie Ndiaye, Amrita David and Diop, the film is carefully crafted, sensitive and packs an emotional punch. It asks questions about identity and culture and has a terrific closing argument. It uses film extracts in an interesting way, as if the director wanted to incorporate her own mood board. It also puts an alarming statement in the mouth of the accused, Laurence Joly (Guslagie Malanda), the Senegalese daughter of a United Nations interpreter, who took her fifteen-month-old baby daughter, Elise, to the beach at Berck-sur-Mer at night and drowned her: ‘I don’t why I did it. I’m hoping this trial will tell me.’

The film opens with breathing and the crashing of waves. We watch a woman in profile carrying a bundle close to her chest walking towards the sea (we sense this from the increasing volume of waves against land). We don’t see the woman’s eyes; rather a light illuminates her left cheek. The light doesn’t change, which struck me as odd. The next scene partially explains it as Rama (in bed) is awakened by her partner, Adrian (Thomas de Pourquery). ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘You were calling out, ‘mama, mama’.’ Rama disputes this. As we discover through flashbacks, one of which involves young Rama making her own chocolate Nesquik drink while given the silent treatment, Rama has a very ambiguous feelings about her own mother.

In the third scene, we don’t initially see Rama, rather hear her voice as she narrates a black and white sequence of women being rounded up and shaved. This is the punishment given to French women who serviced German soldiers as prostitutes. Not that this is explained; I had to look it up. Rama quotes Marguerite Duras, in whose screenplay for the film, Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the protagonist (played by Emmanuelle Riva) has her hair shaved. Rama (and Duras) admired the strength of these women, whose humiliation is presented as theatre. In her trial, Laurence is accused of being theatrical, mocked by the prosecutor (Robert Canterella) for describing the moonlight leading her to the water’s edge.

Rama is a novelist who latest book is well reviewed and whose publisher is unsure about the title of her next work, ‘Medea Castaway’. ‘Not everyone is familiar with the Medea story,’ she is told. ‘Everyone knows Medea,’ Rama insists, Medea punishing her unfaithful husband by poisoning their two sons, an act narrated in the Euripides’ play, not shown.

Visiting her mother, along with her two sisters, Rama is visibly uncomfortable. Her shoulders are squared. Her mother is silent but smooths the cushions on the sofa, indicating that Rama should sit down next to her. She does not do so – and the smoothing goes on way longer than is necessary. The family sits down to watch a home video. Rama’s deceased father is shown eating. Rama’s mother is shown as well. ‘Amazing,’ one family member remarks, more about the youthfulness and beauty of mother. Rama is less effusive. She says little at dinner. Adrian explains that they are having some work done on their flat. ‘What work?’ he is asked. Rama is evasive. ‘Just a little remodelling,’ she replies. Asked to take her mother to physiotherapy, Rama refuses. ‘I’m going away,’ she explains. This is true. Rama leaves a train station in Saint-Omer to check into a hotel. She lifts the blanket with perceptible disgust, stuffing it into the wardrobe and replacing it with her own (black) duvet. Why she does this isn’t explained. Entering a courtroom, she takes a seat in the aisle second from front, standing up to let two (white) women pass her to take a seat on her left. A third white woman sits on Rama’s right. The prisoner, Laurence, a young black woman in her twenties, is brought in, her wrists cuffed together behind her back. We note the leather strap that binds Laurence’s handcuffs to the official behind her; it is as if Laurence is being walked like a dog. At the front of the courtroom, a photographer takes pictures of objects wrapped in brown paper, some of which are in glass cases in front of the judge. The judge asks all journalists to leave.

Diop shows the process of jury selection in a way that makes the audience uncomfortable. The judge (Valérie Dréville) draws numbers from a pot. A juror is described: name, age, address, occupation. The first two, both women, are dismissed. A third, also a woman, is allowed to take her seat. We notice her plain face and downturned mouth. Diop based her film on the real-life case of Fabienne Kabou, whose trial in 2016 she attended. Laurence’s crime took place in 2015; what we appear to be watching is a fictional version of Fabienne’s trial. Though a mixture of men and women, the jury is entirely white. Diop uses a drop in sound level of the judge’s voice, focussing instead on Rama, to indicate time passing. An audience might have forgiven Diop for skipping this necessary part of the trial. She shows it to draw attention to the trial as public spectacle.

The judge then relates the series of events that led to Laurence’s arrest. That she was a student and lived with Luc Dumontet (Xavier Maly). That she had hidden her pregnancy and stayed inside Luc’s studio apartment. That she had given birth at home, not in a hospital. That she took a train to Berck-sur-Mer. That she did not return with the child. That she told people that the child was in Senegal. That the child’s body was discovered. Laurence’s defence involves witchcraft. She was apparently told that the child had the Evil Eye. That she had the Evil Eye. The references to superstition make Rama uncomfortable.

Laurence doesn’t dispute the facts but denies murder. ‘I went through two terrible years in my life,’ she explains.  We discover, with a shock, that Laurence’s mother, Odile Diata (Salimata Kamate) is in the front row. We see, from Rama’s point of view, the back of Odile’s head.

The first session goes on for so long that we notice Diop’s formal way of filming, with each of the four speakers – the judge, Laurence, the male prosecution lawyer, and female defence lawyer (Aurélia Petit) – shown in medium close-up, facing, as it were, us. The lack of variation in shots and metronomic cutting has the effect of monotony. However, in the second hearing, when Laurence is framed in a power stance with her head turned and shown as if from the judge’s point of view, the composition has more depth.

Laurence describes her father’s unfaithfulness and the testiness of her mother, who forbade her to speak Wolof. She was told that she should only speak French, that she should appear cultured. Laurence’s upbringing separated her from other Senegalese; she had few friends. Laurence received some support from her father, who wanted her to study law. When Laurence chose philosophy instead, her father cut all ties. ‘Why study philosophy?’ she is asked. ‘I wanted to say things,’ she explains. She became especially interested in Wittgenstein. One of her former tutors (testifying in a later session) expresses a scepticism. ‘Wittgenstein is linguistic. Why not a philosopher closer to your own culture?’ The remark is racist. In any case, Wittgenstein posited that language limited human thought, that words did not encapsulate experience, but instead restricted understanding. What about the other ways we understand things? Laurence’s testimony doesn’t tell the whole story; there has to be another – perhaps non-verbal – way of accounting for her actions.

At the end of the session, Rama is greeted outside the courtroom by Odile. Aside from Laurence, they are the only black women there. They walk side by side in silence until they reach Rama’s hotel. ‘Mine is a little further along.’ ‘I’d invite you for dinner, though I’m a little tired,’ says Rama. ‘Perhaps lunch tomorrow,’ suggests Odile. ‘Yes,’ agrees Rama. It is as if through her acquaintance with Odile, Rama is working through her relationship with her mother. If you can speak comfortably to one Senegalese woman, etc.

In her room, Rama listens to the recording of the day’s sessions on her mobile phone. Adrian telephones. Rama doesn’t answer his call. Later, she lies on her duvet and opens the two top buttons of her jeans. She rubs her pregnant belly. We sense her ambiguity about being a mother.

‘How far along are you?’ Odile asks her at lunch. Rama is surprised. ‘I can notice these things,’ Odile adds proudly, as if describing a talent. ‘Four months,’ she replies. Rama orders half a beer and steak and chips. Odile is surprised that Rama doesn’t order the fish. Later, Rama vomits into a toilet bowl. Odile explains that she wanted her daughter to be cultured. The inference though is that she is too controlling, though Rama doesn’t criticise her. She is sensitive to the woman’s sadness and sense of shame. Later still, Odile testifies in court.

Saint Omer isn’t like a Hollywood courtroom drama with twists and turns. It does not ask, is the defendant guilty? Is there a key fact that will prove their innocence? Rather it is more a meditation on the justice system. The case cuts through Rama. She cries. Later, Adrian joins her. We see him in the corner of her room, almost as if Rama was imagining his presence.

Laurence describes how she spoke to spiritualists. The judge explains that they did not recall Laurence’s conversations - even Patricia, who allegedly gave Laurence specific advice; it is interesting how in French courts, testimony is admitted without the individual presenting it being present under oath; perhaps the oath was taken before the spiritualist was interviewed. There are apparently no phone records that show these conversations; either Laurence is afflicted by voices in her head or else is lying.

The prosecution scoffs at her description of the night she took her baby daughter to the beach. ‘If the tide was meant to take her away, her body would not have been found. There would be no crime.’ The inference is that Laurence held the baby underwater until she was dead. In the opening session, the judge describes there being no signs of trauma on the child.

The verdict is a foregone conclusion, so much so that Diop doesn’t show it. What we hear instead – and what resonates – is the defence lawyer’s closing argument, how in the process of pregnancy, the mother’s DNA passes to the baby and the baby’s DNA passes to the mother. They are both connected. A mother will always contain part of her mother and her child. The description makes Rama re-think her own relationship. In the film’s final image, Rama’s mother speaks; Rama holds her hand.

By inspiring Rama to forgive the past and heal old wounds, the film allows Laurence’s fate to have a purpose. At one particularly striking moment towards the end of the trial, Laurence’s gaze is fixed on the (off-screen) prosecution lawyer, but then it is turned towards Rama. Laurence half-smiles. If is as if she intuits Rama’s need. Diop acknowledges the power of non-verbal communication. 

Shortly before the climax, Rama watches Pier Paolo Pasolini’s film of Medea, speeding through footage to watch the moment in which the mother poisons her two sons. As they lie dead, she goes to the window and looks at the moon; an image that recalls Laurence’s testimony. It is as if the film had validated her. Rama is shocked and moved by this; Saint Omer is book-ended by two film clips that show the non-verbal power of cinema.

Reviewed at Stockholm International Film Festival, Sture Cinema Screen Two, Saturday 19 November 2022, 12:45pm screening

Review originally published on Bitlanders.com