Sometimes the simplest stories can be the most rewarding.
Wadjda is a film about a young girl whose only desire is to own a bicycle so
she can race her friend. It sounds like a minor picture, but consider the
circumstances under which Wadjda was made; this is a film made in Saudi Arabia,
a country with no cinemas, and it is a film about female independence made by a Saudi woman. The existence of this movie in itself is something to celebrate, but
what's more worthy of applause is the skill with which Haifaa al-Mansour has
told this story in her feature debut, and the way she has woven layers of
political subtext and cultural insight so delicately into the narrative. It is a fine filmmaking achievement in every sense.
Through her short films and TV appearances, al-Mansour has
been an outspoken advocate for women's rights in Saudi society, and Wadjda
explores these themes by showing us the daily obstacles faced by a mother and
daughter. The title character, played with feisty charm by Waad Mohammed, is a 10 year-old
who lives with her mother (Reem Abdullah) in Riyadh. Her parents are still
together, but her father is often absent and the mother is troubled by the
nagging suspicion that he is looking for a second wife, one who will be able to
bear him a son. In Saudi society, women's prospects are limited to the roles of
mother and wife from a very young age – one of Wadjda's classmates has already
been married off – and we wonder how an independent spirit like Wadjda will be
forced to conform in years to come.
Right now, all she wants is a bike, and this motivation is
the driving force behind the story. She pleads with her mother for the 800
Riyals needed to buy it, but she is told in no uncertain terms that riding a
bicycle is not a pastime for girls, and that it can even damage her ability to
have children. Undeterred, Wadjda begins looking for other ways to make money,
but every attempt seems to contravene some aspect of the strict moral code imposed
upon her. She makes armbands to sell at school; she demands cash to facilitate
a meeting between an older girl and a teenage boy; she even enters a Qur'an
recital competition that is offering a cash prize. These enterprising route
almost inevitably land her in hot water with the school's headmistress Ms.
Hussa (Ahd Kamel), who strictly lays down the law even as rumours circulate
that she may not be so virtuous herself.
The manner in which al-Mansour drops brief but telling
examples of the everyday patriarchy and oppression faced by Saudi women into
the screenplay – from being told they cannot touch the Qur'an if they are on
their period, to the way in which they must serve food to a roomful of a men
without being seen – is an impressive feat, as is the fact that she has brought this
tale to the screen in such an accomplished fashion. In a country where women can't drive, mix with men they are
not related to, or been seen with their faces uncovered in public, the director
often had to hide out of sight while directing exterior scenes for her film. But
there is no hint of such obstacles in the finished product; no shaky camerawork
or evidence of scenes being caught on the fly. Her direction is composed and
fluid, simultaneously conscious of the tale she's telling and the environment
in which it is taking place.
Throughout Wadjda, the female students at Ms. Hussa's school
are told not to raise their voices outside in case men overhear them – "Your
voice is your nakedness," they are warned – but al-Mansour's clear,
perceptive voice is one of the most welcome sounds in this year of cinema. This
witty, involving and moving drama develops beautifully towards its emotionally
satisfying climax, and it is a tremendous breakthrough for both Saudi cinema and female filmmakers. All of that in a simple story about a girl who just
wants to ride a bicycle.