'Pieces of a Woman' is about the cascading effects of grief

[ Written by Shreehari H. ]

The bridge is incomplete.

Bostonian construction worker Sean Carson (played by Shia LaBeouf) has promised his as-yet unborn daughter that hers will be the first feet to cross this concrete beast: his missus, Martha Weiss, has been expecting for the better part of a year.

The air is rife with anticipation and prenatal discussions. At one point during a baby shower, the mother nonchalantly eats away at a sugary little infant head on her plate. There’s no foreshadowing yet of an impending tragedy that looms ever so slightly in the distance.

In the case of this happily wedded couple, death is destined to precede life.

Pieces of a Woman is about the cascading effects of grief.

Directed by Hungarian filmmaker Kornel Mundruczo, it’s a somber yet masterful tale of fractured lives and emotional solitude, of repercussions and the importance of moving on. The film doesn’t downplay the fact that depression can be a recursive, self-perpetuating ailment, and that time doesn’t necessarily heal all wounds.

In this, it stands as a most worthy companion piece to Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester By The Sea, and the cold, dreary climes in the film mirror the icy humanity of its narrative.

Vanessa Kirby is terrific at playing embittered, grieving characters with an unshakeable sense of agency, and her portrayal of a would-be mother in mourning is an absolute knockout.

Of all the possible choices that a parent might need to make over the course of his or her lifetime, having to shortlist the typography to be used in a child’s epitaph must rank among the absolute worst, and the British actress is spot on when it comes to capturing the physicality of bereavement.

Martha gets reduced to a hollow, gaunt version of her former self, joy becomes an alien feeling, and life loses its lustre.

A scene where Martha comes face to face with another kid is particularly astonishing, just for how she flits from longing to envy in the blink of an eye.

The performance earned Kirby the award for Best Actress at the Venice Biennale last year, and deservedly so. This time, the crown is hers.

The scene of Martha’s labour itself is a stunning 23-minute masterclass in staging: one that’s rivalled in its intensity and ambition only by the deftness of its choreography.

It begins (relatively) innocuously, with Sean attempting to make a wisecrack or two to make light of the situation (“You know what is broccoli’s favourite music? Brock and roll!”).

Soon enough, a tiny little head comes into view, and yet something seems to be palpably wrong: something “outside the realm of normal”.

Amidst the whirring of a medical instrument, the word “blue” acquires a horrific, arrythmia-inducing connotation, and when we finally see the title card appear over the blaring of an ambulance siren, the conclusion deduces itself.

The fallout is multi-pronged.

Both Martha and Sean suddenly find their relationship in a state of irreconcilable upheaval, and everything from infidelity to boorish attempts at seduction to calling each other names to filing civil suits against innocent midwives becomes par for the course.

There’s no sliver of sunshine – both literally and metaphorically – to be found, and even the act of keeping conversations frothy becomes an onerous burden.

It’s hard to watch the relentless toxicity of the manner in which these characters disintegrate, and we end up seeing pieces of a man as well.

When acceptance eventually arrives, it is at a cost. Martha upends the ashes of her past into the umbilical depths of motherhood. She’s a chrysanthemum in full wilt, but perhaps she can dare to bloom again.

The cycle of grief is finally complete. So is the bridge.