“A large step forward for Bouzid, who proves herself not just an excellent storyteller, but a well-rounded director.”

Up to three years’ imprisonment ‘for sexual relations between two consenting adults of the same sex’. That’s what Article 230 of the Tunisian Penal Code says, an article drafted by the French in the early 20th century and sadly still in place. Although few are ever convicted to prison sentences, it shows that queer relationships in Tunisia should still be kept underground. Even more so female queer relationships, which are despised by the authorities. In a brazen move, Tunisian filmmaker Leyla Bouzid has put this issue front and center in À voix basse (In a Whisper), a film with a defiant message packaged as excellent cinema. Shot on location, including in the house of Bouzid’s grandmother, the film doesn’t shy away from showing ‘sexual relations between consenting adults of the same sex’, but also touches upon the cultural rigidity regarding the roles of women and the negative views parts of Tunisian society have regarding expats.

Lilia (Eya Bouteraa, impressive in her first lead role) has returned to Sousse, a city on Tunisia’s east coast. It’s the place where she grew up. She has fond memories of the house of her grandmother and of her uncle Daly. His death is the reason she, now living and working in France, came back home. When she learns of the suspicious circumstances under which his body was discovered, naked and out on the streets, she tries to piece together Daly’s hidden sexual history, to the increasing dismay of her mother (Hiam Abbass), her aunt and Daly’s widow (Feriel Chamari), and her matronly grandmother (Selma Baccar). As she unravels the mystery surrounding Daly’s death, her own life follows suit, because she herself is keeping a secret from her family. Her girlfriend Alice (Marion Barbeau) has come along on the trip, but remains in a hotel in Tunis; the funeral is a private affair, but Lilia’s motivation to keep Alice away from the family is exactly the reason why her uncle had to live a life in secret. While the women of the family seem to know about Daly’s extramarital affairs with men and have made peace with it, Lilia is conflicted between opening up about her own sexuality and defying social norms or keeping it hidden until she returns to France, which puts a strain on her relationship with Alice.

À voix basse is an almost perfect marriage between a story with relevant social subject matter and the work of somebody who remembers she is working in a visual medium. It is hard to find a fault in this well-paced and gorgeously shot film, and most of that comes down to Bouzid’s steady hand as a director. While Lilia’s story of a protagonist caught between a rock and a hard place and forced to make a decision that will hurt either way isn’t exactly original, Bouzid cleverly uses it to tackle a number of social issues that Tunisian women, in particular, but not necessarily exclusive to queer women, have to deal with. While occasionally letting characters become mouthpieces for the film’s progressive message, and giving it an ending that wraps it all up a little too neatly, Bouzid’s writing for the most part is engrossing and well-paced, and filled with nuggets that clue both Lilia and the viewer in about her uncle’s sexual proclivities. When looking through photos of Daly’s wedding day we see an absence of happiness in the man’s face, often isolated from others in the picture. In a flashback, he is the one to immediately recognize Robin Campillo’s 120 BPM, a film about gay rights and the AIDS epidemic of the ’90s, as the answer to a quiz show question. Small moments like these communicate a lot. The use of flashbacks, where scenes in the present and in the past flow into each other, are a nifty device to broaden the history of the man and the family at large without having to resort to exposition, though sadly Bouzid uses it too infrequently to create a motif.

Besides the queer angle, À voix basse also discusses the more traditional roles Tunisian women are expected to fulfil, at least in a provincial town like Sousse. Lilia is constantly reminded that she should return to Tunisia and start a family; her job as an engineer is scoffed at, even by her own mother, a career woman as a physician herself. The very fact that Lilia lives in France is a source of disdain. “Tunisia raises you, and you abandon it,” a traffic cop berates her when he pulls her over for a violation. The pressure put on Lilia by not just Tunisian society and tradition, but even her own family and friends throws her. She loves her family, but their values don’t match her life. Bouzid highlights the differences in strictness with which these societal rules are adhered to, contrasting the conservative Sousse with the more open Tunis through subtle details like the more revealing clothing Lilia and Alice wear around the city in comparison to Lilia’s demure attire in her hometown. But when she is searching the capital’s bars for men who knew her uncle, or when speaking to old friends, all of them seemingly young, forward-thinking Tunisians, it becomes clear that even in ‘modern’ Tunisia certain topics are still taboo.

Between Lilia’s family drama, her relationship with Alice, and the detective story of sorts in which she tries to clear up the mystery of her uncle’s death, Bouzid is juggling quite a few narrative balls. It’s a small miracle that she keeps them all in the air, with none of these plot strands feeling underdeveloped. The storylines don’t always dovetail with each other too well, but even smaller characters like grandma Néfissa or Lilia’s aunt Hayet are well-rounded supporting characters instead of mere plot devices. This is in part due to a string of solid performances, with Abbass and Barbeau being the stand-outs in the bigger supporting roles, but the film belongs to Bouteraa, whose mixture of disarming charm and fierce determination envelops Lilia’s heart in conflict with itself.

Through Sébastien Goepfert’s evocative cinematography Bouzid is also able to paint the contrasts visually. The home in Sousse initially has a warmth and openness, as the camera glides through stairwells and rooms to capture the dappled sunlight streaming in, but later Goepfert’s camera stays static as it films a cramped bathroom with no daylight coming in, emphasizing the pressure which Lilia is under in keeping her secret. Scenes in Tunis are more modernly lit, nicely matching the sleek hotel interiors and the mondain bars, but also underlining the different vibe compared to Sousse. An overhead shot of Alice and Lilia in a hotel bed, entangling their bodies through superimposition, becomes a sensual signifier that Lilia has found the freedom in her head, having made a decision that may change her life. Bouzid’s visual world complements and supports her narrative, showing that a social drama doesn’t always need to be told through just story and performance. With a delightful score that again mixes traditional Arabic melodies and instruments with electronica underneath the clarinet of Parisian artist and composer Yom, À voix basse is a large step forward for Bouzid, who proves herself not just an excellent storyteller, but a well-rounded director.

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