Motherhood is a journey – anyone that has had any experience with it will undoubtedly mention the trials and tribulations that come from being a mother, to the point where one doesn’t even need to be a parent at all to understand the special connection that exists between a child and their parents. This is precisely why Saint Omer, the narrative debut of Alice Diop, is such a heartbreaking and melancholy affair, since it looks at a different side of motherhood, one in which someone was incapable of caring for their child, both as a result of their psychological shortcomings, and issues that surrounded them in their daily life, making the concept of being a parent nearly impossible. The film looks at two women – one of them a writer who travels to the small city of Saint Omer to witness a trial of the second, a young mother who is accused of killing her child and abandoning her body on a beach. It follows the court case from its early stages right up until the end, looking at the intersecting lives of these two women who are complete strangers and never directly interact, but seem to be bound by some celestial force that causes clear correlations between them. Diop, who has established herself as a very distinct artistic voice after years of documentary filmmaking, steps into the role of a narrative director, crafting a story that is loosely based on the actual trial of Fabienne Kabou, which she herself witnessed, much like the central character in this film, making Saint Omer a work that may be fictionalized, but has its roots firmly in reality, lending it credence and gravitas that is often quite difficult to find in many films that focus on similar subjects – and as one of the year’s most powerful dramas, it understands the right balance between artistic liberty and authenticity, which were both vital in pulling together the disparate thematic strings and forming a film that is both riveting and thought-provoking, a rare combination for such a stark and unsettling story.

The concept of simplicity is a divisive one in modern cinema – some view it as an insult, acting as if a film being considered simple and straightforward is somehow shorthand for dullness or a lack of captivating content. For others, it is a key component to telling certain stories, and a useful tool in constructing memorable narratives. Diop categorically falls into the latter category, viewing her craft as one that can be executed effectively without any need for excess or hysterics. The principle that seems to be governing films like Saint Omer is that one should never rely on overt complexity when a more simple approach would be just as impactful. In many ways, this concept actually works in certain films’ favour, since it prevents anything other than the most honest elements to be presented on screen. The only negative aspect is that it can be difficult to watch – and Saint Omer is certainly not an easy film, both in concept and execution. Diop approaches the subject with respect and sensitivity, but she is also not interested in distracting from the reality of the case being depicted. This is not a courtroom procedural aimed at determining whether one is innocent or guilty of a specific crime (it is made clear almost immediately that the crime was committed by the defendant, who nonetheless pleads her innocence based on her experiences that led to the brutal act of violence), but rather the circumstances that placed her in this position. It is raw and deeply unsettling, and Diop is unflinching in her intentions to venture deep into the souls of these women, one of them based on the director herself, the other the young woman who (much like Diop) we only encounter from a distance as she sits in that courtroom, defending her actions – and the result is a film that is profoundly moving, but also deeply disturbing, especially when it comes to the more detailed aspects of the case, which the director explores extensively, leaving very little room for ambiguity as she tells this heartbreaking story.

There is often a dissonance when it comes to the practice of “showing, not telling”, which is a fundamental aspect of screenwriting that anyone wanting to enter into the industry will learn very early on in the process. This is a useful concept, but it’s not iron-clad, as Diop demonstrates that telling can be just as impactful, if not even more so, when it is done right. The majority of Saint Omer takes place in a courtroom, with only a few brief excursions into the life of the main character (the one based on the director herself) as she finds herself growing increasingly disturbed by the details of the case which, much like the protagonist, we only learn about through the legal testimonies and judicial process. We never see the events that supposedly led to the death of the child around which the story centres, but it still feels just as emotional and profound, since the writing contains every important detail we need to know in order to be placed in this world that is being so meticulously described. Diop makes use of a very fragmented style of storytelling – the epicentre of the film is the courtroom case, with much of the detail coming through in the conversations between the legal team and either the defendant or the bevvy of witnesses and other individuals that played a part in the story. However, this is all filtered through the perspective of the other protagonist, who sits silently for the most part, observing and taking in the information, which she then combines with her own experiences and curiosities, which we see blurring together with her artistic fascination with the Medea story, which she is aiming to use as the foundation for a new work that blends the two together. Diop pieces together this film from numerous small components, some of them lengthy and seemingly arbitrary at first, but which ultimately come to earn meaning by the end, where everything is placed in context and we understand the intentions behind the film. It is a project that feels profoundly honest in its aims to be both descriptive and discursive, which it achieves through a very precise and direct depiction of a brutal crime, which exists in the past, and which we only come to understand through the subsequent conversations that surround it by the people who played some part in it, a risky but worthwhile approach to the storytelling process.

A film as dependent on dialogue and exposition as this requires actors capable of handling the intimidating amount of detail embedded in this story – from the dense dialogue (which is actually handled by the supporting cast for the most part) to the emotional elements that punctuate the film, the ensemble of Saint Omer is universally very strong. Kayije Kagame and Guslagie Malanga stand at the heart of the film, playing two strangers who are drawn together by chance, but who we see have many similarities, with the former finding several facts about the latter reflected in her own life, which is naturally a source of immense anxiety as she tries to navigate her own conflicts between being an artist and soon-to-be mother. This is a breakthrough moment for both Kagame and Malanga, who are welcome additions to this new generation of actors, where the emphasis is on subtletly and detail, which is not always seen as the hallmark of great acting when it comes to the courtroom drama sub-genre, which is often driven by hysterics and very obvious attempts at showcasing one’s dramatic prowess. These are quiet, intimate performances by actors who understand the importance of finding the internal truth beneath these characters, especially in how they never directly interact, but still have a spiritual connection that sits at the heart of the film. Valérie Dréville and Aurélia Petit are both very impressive, taking seemingly conventional stock archetypes (playing the sympathetic judge presiding over the case and dedicated barrister tasked with defending the main character respectively) and infusing them with so much humanity and complexity. Petit gives surprisingly the film’s most effective performance – she starts out quite reserved, but gradually makes more of an impact on the story, culminating in a lengthy monologue that she delivers directly to the camera, which contains every theme that the film has spent the previous two hours exploring, neatly condensed into a few minutes of powerful acting, proving that all a film needs to be effective is a strong script and actors dedicated enough to bring it to life, especially when dealing with a subject as important and timely as this challenging narrative.

Saint Omer is certainly not an easy film to watch, and some of its conversations are truly quite challenging. Even as viewers, we can feel the gravity surrounding this story, and knowing that it is based on a true case that the director herself followed (and which obviously inspired this film, making it somewhat autobiographical, especially in the sequences where the main character questions her own existence and potential for malice, a result of her experiences seeing the widespread condemnation of this woman put on trial) only makes it more unsettling, especially since this is not a film that is particularly interested in softening the blow of reality. It is two hours of heartwrenching storytelling, constructed through deeply unsettling and undeniably earnest accounts of two women that are navigating very different obstacles, but find themselves drawn together (at least spiritually) by some ethereal connection that binds them together. Diop constructs a film that makes use of different thematic levels – it is fundamentally a detailed account of the legal process and how challenging it is to navigate it without falling victim to the deceptions of bureaucratic condemnation, but it also touches on themes of motherhood, the experiences of being an immigrant and the institutionalized biases embedded deep within contemporary society, which often operate on a system where it is easier to condemn an outsider after they have been driven to the point of violence, than it is to prevent such tragic events from happening in the first place. For these supposedly sacred institutions, punishment is far easier than prevention – and considering the film ends before we know the verdict (the woman on which the story was loosely based was sentenced to twenty years in prison, but it’s unclear whether Diop had this same conclusion in mind for her version of the character), meaning that it is left up to our own interpretation to determine the severity of her punishment. It makes for a compelling but deeply disturbing drama, and one that is intentionally challenging and unsettling, since it is only from disrupting conventions and causing us to think in broader terms that any change can be incited, and whether or not this was Diop’s intention, it’s clear that Saint Omer struck a chord with audiences, who have all witnessed the powerful and disconcerting realities embedded in this tragic but fascinating psychological drama.