“An optimistic vision of socialist politics and the power of mutual aid and community building.”
Veteran filmmaker Robert Guédiguian returns with his 25th feature film, Une femme aujourd’hui (A Woman Today), continuing his career-long study of the inhabitants of his beloved Marseille and how they respond when pushed up against adversity and institutional roadblocks. Reuniting with the three actors who have been a constant presence in his films since 1985’s Ki lo sa? (his wife Ariane Ascaride, Gérard Meylan, and Jean-Pierre Darroussin) along with newer members of his troupe (Grégoire Leprince-Ringuet, Robinson Stévenin, Lola Naymark) and a beguiling newcomer in the title role (Marilou Aussilloux), A Woman Today explores with compassion the aftereffects of sexual assault, and how in charting a new path his heroine discovers the importance of community aid in its many forms.
Juliette (Aussilloux) is a successful finance manager in her early thirties, enjoying international business trips and casual relationships, much to the chagrin of her mother Cathy (Ascaride) who would like to see her settle down and start a family. While Juliette finds satisfaction in her work, she is increasingly troubled by the distance between herself and the rest of her family, who remain in a cycle of menial jobs or unemployment. After a sexual assault at the hands of a lecherous colleague, Juliette struggles to regain her sense of self. Eventually, she connects with a charity for young mothers in need, and through working with the girls and bonding with their case worker Christian (Leprince-Ringuet), she finds a renewed sense of purpose.
As with many of his previous films, Guédiguian mixes contemporary social realism, the lingering trauma of France’s colonial history and treatment of minorities, and touches of magical realism to craft an optimistic vision of socialist politics and the power of mutual aid and community building. While not villainizing the corporate life that Juliette leads before her assault, Guédiguian shows how charity work opens her eyes to the sense of accomplishment that comes with working in a community-based structure centered on providing care over profits. After meeting the young women living in a group home and learning more about their needs and the prejudice they face, she becomes their fiercest advocate and opens up her knowledge and resources to them, embodying the best of what can happen when individuals and a community come together to help others. Guédiguian’s full-hearted belief in socialism on both individual and structural levels shines through, with Juliette’s evolution illustrating the necessity of rebuking right-wing policies and capitalist forces in favor of embracing a community that celebrates cultural and class diversity as a source of education and strength.
He also examines with clear-eyed precision the ways in which the justice system and workplace regulations serve to re-traumatize victims of sexual assault. Juliette is placed in a disadvantaged position for having defended herself against her assailant and not immediately reported the assault to the police, leaving her without a job and at risk of losing a civil suit. While never veering into didacticism, the film forces viewers to confront the flaws of a framework that is ill-equipped to handle an individual’s specific response to sexual assault and provides few resources to deal with the physical and psychological trauma that remains. Given that Guédiguian comes from a generation of French filmmakers who often display less progressive attitudes towards the impact of violence against women, his stance throughout the film is heartening. As Juliette reconstructs her life, Cathy is also shaken by the revelation of her true parentage and its link to colonial violence, providing painful echoes with her family’s past and Juliette’s present. The hints of magical realism employed here, when Juliette’s healing powers become more literal and tied to the mysterious aura that shrouded her maternal grandmother, could be clumsy in the wrong hands. But Guédiguian employs a light touch, and the film is tinged by his deep affection for his characters and the melting pot of cultures within Marseille.
Not every element of Une femme aujourd’hui is completely successful: the score is heavy-handed at times; the young mothers that Juliette encounters could be more defined rather than functioning as a collective vehicle for her personal awakening; and a subplot involving an older neighbor fixated on Juliette remains clunky despite a typically strong performance from Darroussin. However, Guédiguian explores the plight of today’s younger generation much more successfully here than in 2019’s Gloria Mundi, which often veered into caricature in portraying its twenty-something characters as craven opportunists or extremely selfish. He’s aided by an exceptional ensemble, with a promising new talent at its center. Aussilloux is a radiant presence on-screen, who also proves highly capable of tackling the film’s more dramatic material as Juliette deals with the aftermath of her assault. Amongst his regular troupe, it is fascinating to see him craft a role for Ascaride that is more acidic and conservative than the warmer roles that she frequently plays. Ascaride lends Cathy complexity that prevents her from being a one-note traditionalist and demonstrates yet again how she is one of the best (and most underrated) French actresses of her generation.
Une femme aujourd’hui doesn’t reach the heights of Guédiguian’s two masterpieces Marius and Jeannette (1997) and The Town is Quiet (2000), but it is a satisfying late-career work that proves his desire for a more equitable society and his strong belief in individual and collective action is still firmly intact. In confronting head-on the violence that many women experience, his empathetic nature is on full display, while also being attuned to the psychological mark that such violence leaves. Juliette may not be fully healed by film’s end, but she finds a sense of peace and happiness that reflects Guédiguian’s constant optimism for a brighter future.