Director: Tom Cineger
Writer: Noah Zayn Mortier
Cast: Annick Van Couwenberghe
Running time: 35mins
I’ve noted before that modern film criticism is perhaps a little unfair to the melodrama genre. While it often addresses important social issues, it is often characterised as being overly emotional, exaggerated, or lacking substance, especially in contrast to the more buttoned-down, academically fashionable medium of realism.
There are good arguments for that mode of communication being completely appropriate for delivering impactful messages, though. Sometimes, a matter is too raw, too real for us to address directly. Fiction allows us a little distance to analyse harsh or traumatic processes we are subjected to, in a less painful way – but a form of cinematic language which overtly tries to be real risks losing that framing device of the uncanny. In this case, audiences can be left reflexively alienated or even resistant to the points the filmmaker is trying to convey. But when infused with an element of melodrama, that distance can help to be maintained, and the movie – while it might be less fashionably naturalistic – might work better as a tool of communication and argument.
(Detractors of Ken Loach often snobbishly label the filmmaker’s work as “melodramatic,” despite his ties to the realist movement of the 20th century. I would argue they underestimate the fact that much of Loach’s power as one of the most effective socialist communicators of the last hundred years comes from precisely this intersection, though – of being able to draw from reality and melodrama to make his message more accessible.)
So, when I say that Mag ik nog even (which translates as Can I have a moment – but given the much less poetic English title Just Sophie) is a melodrama, it is important to understand I do not regard that as an insult, in and of itself. Indeed, the film does make various attempts to address extremely cutting social issues – in a way which make it a commendably challenging (if deeply upsetting) watch at certain moments.
The story follows Sophie (Annick van Couwenberghe) – a survivor of domestic abuse, who is taking refuge with her daughter in a friend’s holiday cottage. During her stay, as she seeks a flickering moment of joy and peace, she forms a relationship with a Liam (played by the film’s writer, Noah Zayn Mortier), a sex worker who is struggling to make ends meet for his young family.
Through their interactions, we are given insight into the hell Sophie left behind, and the desperate situation of Liam – but we also encounter glimmers of hope, as the duo take solace in each other’s company. And through this process, we are also given a space to explore how spousal abuse can be systemically abused by the legal structures of patriarchal capitalism. We are presented with opportunities to confront prejudices relating to the Muslim and LGBT+ communities – with characters from both providing a lifeline for Sophie and her daughter Hazel (Elisa Decock).
The film’s heart is definitively in the right place, then, and to some extent, it does very valuable work relating to the issues it addresses. But it is far from perfect, and suffers from two key issues. First, in terms of format, it simply tries to do too much, and leaves many of those themes underdeveloped in the time it has.
For example, Mortier’s script waits until the last moments of its 35 minutes to reveal that his character is “a trans-man”. On the one hand, that shouldn’t need to be something that defines the character entirely. But in a film where forms of abuse are so central, and in a real society where dog-whistle bigotry suggesting the trans community are a danger to women (often deployed by men who are in reality unashamedly abusive to women), it’s something that was well worth bringing to our attention.
Similarly, the religion of Aisha (Nikki Rose) and Mahmoud (Youssef Boubker) is flagged up minorly in set-dressing details or conversational tropes. But while Sophie’s two most important friends play such a vital role in helping her escape the spectre of her husband’s violence, there was also room here to use that as a front to take to task the dog-whistle bigotry directed at Muslims across Europe – again, being accused of being inherently misogynistic, by politicians who are often habitual abusers of women themselves. And considering Aisha’s character arc so optimistically points out she is about to embark on a great new career in Donald Trump’s United States, this absence feels increasingly conspicuous.
Both issues might have been more effectively handled with a little fine-tuning when it comes to pacing. Maybe we could stand to lose one of the heartbreaking flashbacks about Sophie’s home life. Or perhaps we could lose the largely superfluous, Birdemic-esque scene in the introduction, where a meeting of her colleagues celebrates her as the greatest business person of the 21st century.
That second moment brings me to the other big issue with Mag ik nog even, which is that it does indulge in one of the more problematic elements of melodrama – one which if it goes unchecked, can serve to undermine any progressive agenda a filmmaker hopes to promote. Mortier and director Tom Cineger seem to have obsessed over presenting Sophie as the perfect victim.
Spoilers ahead.
Not only is she a devoted mother, a consummate professional, an ally to the LGBT+ community, and someone who has embraced friends of all faiths and cultures. She is also a cancer patient. And with the progression of her illness, she has decided to sacrifice herself for the good of her daughter, by permanently removing her husband from the equation. The plan – which I will not detail further, in case you do happen to get the chance to see this film for yourself – goes off without a hitch (beyond the obvious repercussions Sophie clearly accounted for).
As well as delivering an utterly tension-free viewing experience, this neuters the film’s potential impact with regards to its messaging – because it seems to suggest that the key to change is simply to be the nicest, most talented person possible. As long as you stick to that path, things will work out alright in the end. One issue with this is that, having shown us just how utterly awful society is at handling marital abuse, we have no call to arms, no inclination that we might need to act in some way to change things. At the same time, this all begs the question, what if Sophie wasn’t a good mother; what if she wasn’t an upwardly-mobile professional in a visibly middle-class workplace; what if she didn’t have friends from all walks of life to show how accepting and modern she is; and what if she wasn’t terminally ill? If that Sophie was the victim of abuse, but not the perfect victim, would her story matter less?
It is an uncomfortable question to ask. But in a film which so resolutely insists its victim must be exceptional on every front, it is a question which cannot be avoided – and reminds us of the trappings of unbalanced melodrama, even when it is deployed on the side of the angels.
On a technical basis, this film is broadly fine. The performances – particularly Van Couwenberghe as Sophie – are filled with the emotional intensity needed to sell the story. And the narrative itself is good-hearted, if a little on-the-nose. With a little more balance, this could have been a really strong piece of work – but as it is, it falls a little short when it comes to encouraging us to take its messaging forward into our own lives.