An Iranian refugee's new life in Australia is threatened by the
appearance of her estranged husband.
Review by
Benjamin Poole
Directed by: Noora Niasari
Starring: Zar Amir Ebrahimi, Osamah Sami, Leah Purcell, Jillian Nguyen, Mojean Aria, Selina Zahednia,
Rina Mousavi
Marriage vows are fucking wild. Even before the ceremony and all attendant
verbiage, the bride is "given away" by a patriarch: "given away," not
"accompanied down the aisle," not even "earned." "Given away!" Then it
gets worse. You must promise, by decree, to stick with someone through
"better or worse" (i.e., you're going to have to suck it up if it turns
out theyre a bit of a prick); invoking the name of a god you probably
don't believe in, to enact a one-size-dooms-all template laid out by 16th
century royalists. Come off it. You'll be allowing yourself to be
"carried" across a "threshold" next. I jest (sort of), as I am sure that
there are people for whom this pantomime is a heartfelt means of
commitment, of qualifying their connection, and good luck to them. But for
certain others this archaic routine is a legitimised opportunity to exert
tenure and absolute control over someone else.
In Noora Niasari's tense and fully drawn character drama
Shayda, this sinister dynamic is observed. The first scene opens upon Shayda
(Zar Amir Ebrahimi) and six-year-old daughter Mona (Selina Zahednia) arriving from Iran to an Australian airport with all the anxious
urgency of an illegal drug run. Collected by the justifiably paranoid
administrator of a woman's shelter, Joyce (Leah Purcell), the duo
have landed in Melbourne to escape Shayda's abusive husband. The
mise-en-scene perpetuates the disquieted tone: all shaking-hand held
frames, and E.T. angles (you know, from the vantage of the
kid: Shayda is inspired by Niasari's own childhood
experiences). I couldn't find data for the 1995 era
Shayda is set in, but over
the last year
women's shelters in Queensland had reached capacity, the biggest threat to
the intake being rejected men uncovering the whereabouts of what they feel
belongs to them.
Insane for a person to believe that they own somebody else, that that
person is theirs to rape, abuse and possess. I say a person, but
let's face it, in most cases of stalking and violent retribution we're
talking male on female violence, which in certain cultures is codified by
the partisan union of marriage. "Wait until I get you back to Iran,"
Hossein (Osamah Sami) threatens when he inevitably tracks Shayda
down, and is by law granted subsequent visitation rights to Mona.
Shrewdly, Niasari keeps Shayda's estranged husband off screen for the
early part of the film, and we build up an image of a boorish monster, a
stereotypical bully. When we do meet him, he is the picture of ostensible
respectability: well groomed, educated, studying to be a doctor. Whatever
the archetype of an abusive spouse is (an absurd notion), Hossein doesn't
fit it, which perhaps explains the largesse he is afforded by the
authorities regarding his proximity to Shayda.
Most of Shayda's narrative, however, concerns the recreation of its title character's
circumscribed world; the constant looking over the shoulder, the sensation
of exposure. The film is restless and gets under the skin. Hinging on the
dignity of Ebrahimi, we see her not only attempt to escape a nightmare
world but endeavour to fit into a new one, too; a context which does not
necessarily welcome her. Certain women in the shelter, who are all
undergoing their own different shades of enforced horror, "other" Shayda
based on her ethnicity, a character dynamic which rang poignantly true:
the abused turning abuser in a destructive attempt to claw back status and
control. Consolidating the despair is Niasari's presentation of Hossein's
violence, which is clumsy but forceful, and only empowered by Shayda's
relative physical weakness.
In her first feature, Niasari displays gritty confidence in this rich
material, allowing the narrative to unfold at an insidious, compelling
pace. Most welcome is the film's central motif of dancing, and, set in the
'90s, often to the chart hits of the era: The Key, The Secret and Rozalla
- yes please. Shayda and the others dance in the same way that Dua Lipa
did in the Glastonbury footage when the fella from Tame Impala came on
stage: loose, unchoreographed, and with absolute innocent joy. Dancing is
sovereignty over one's self, a reclamation of the body and soul which is
vitally expressed here. Yet, in its final scenes, Shayda has the courage
of its convictions and ends in a way we might not expect: until death do
us part, indeed.
Shayda is in UK/ROI cinemas from
July 19th.
