03/03/2023 - BERLINALE 2023: Helin Çelik’s glimpse into abuse and trauma boasts a moving narrative but is visually bare

“People say you are the remains of a woman,” a voice states off screen. The woman pictured, with deep wrinkles we sense are full of sorrow, puts on a stern expression. “I exist,” she says, refuting that sentiment. How could she be remains, if she still exists? The pain and the trauma are not everything that there is to her as a person. At the centre of Helin Çelik’s documentary Anqa [+see also:
trailer
film profile], which premiered at the 73^rd Berlinale, in the Forum section, is the aftermath of abuse and rape. It’s a portrait of three survivors in Jordan, who have endured misconduct, prison and home invasion.

There are no names given, and no exact locations are established. One can sense that this is not only a stylistic choice, but also one to ensure the safety of the women, who are still outcasts in their society. “People say I am crazy; I am not,” one of them states. “Am I crazy for standing up for myself, crazy for protecting my girls?” All three of them have escaped their tormentors and are living isolated lives in their flats and houses. This goes as far as having the curtains drawn at all times, with perpetual darkness haunting the sparsely furnished rooms. Sunshine is a thing of terror for one of them. Another can never sleep at night, as she relives the trauma of the past.

The sunlight that Çelik captures penetrating the curtains and windows almost seems like an intruder, a promise or a threat from the outside world. Silently, it draws mysterious shapes on the carpeted floor or is reflected in the mirror. When the women do open their front doors or enter their backyards, ominous music starts playing, and an uneasy shaking in the camera shows the anxiety still bubbling up. In comparison, there is peace and quiet in the house itself, as no external sound breaks through the isolation. Çelik can focus her gaze on details on the faces of the women, their profiles and their hands. There is hardly ever one full-frontal take of any of the three, and if there is, it is mostly shot from a distance.

But Çelik does not always manage to strike the balance between her tragic material and her mise-en-scène. The oldest of the three, who is also a mother to four kids living with her, seems to struggle the most with her life. She has beautiful daughters, she comments, but “they are better off dead”. Repeatedly, she recounts her wish to end her children’s life. Not to punish them, but to save them from the horrors of the world. While she never goes through with it, it is a thought that she cannot shake off. Another woman keeps watching a movie, her one window to the outside world, in which one of the major plot points seems to be sexual abuse. It’s like she’s watching her own story, on repeat.

This frustration, this broken side of the women, is fascinating to watch. At the same time, Anqa soon grows tired of its limited gaze on their lives and its redundant film gimmicks of showing isolation. The constant ritual of making tea, watching TV or interacting with the children might be the only daily routine these women have. But it does lose its edge after a while. One has to wonder whether this story would not have worked better as a short film. Compressing the main themes into a tighter narrative could have allowed this very artistic and quiet filmic approach to unfold more effectively.

Anqa is an Austrian-Spanish production staged by Kepler Mission Films and Helin Çelik, and is sold internationally by sixpackfilm.