[Note: This review touches on the film’s themes of sexual violence that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.]
Depictions of sexual violence in film are always a tough watch, especially when the filmmakers seem to focus more on the lurid details of the assault and less on the aftermath. This can be deeply problematic, since doing so often neglects the psychological, emotional, and social consequences for survivors. Writer-director Belkıs Bayrak’s feature debut, Gülizar, does the opposite, portraying sexual violence with sensitivity and depth by focusing on its protagonist’s journey underscored by silence and compartmentalisation. And while it’s an equally tough watch, Bayrak’s emphasis on the distinct ways in which different people process and confront their emotions makes Gülizar a necessary viewing experience.
Gülizar (Ecem Uzun in a riveting performance) is a typical 20-something Turkish woman, raised in a conservative but loving household bound by traditional gender roles and societal expectations. She dreams of a fresh start away from home, something she tells her sister Esma (Hazel Torlak), “I’m happy to have a life of my own.” This promise of a new life comes in the form of Gülizar’s upcoming marriage to fiancé Emre (Bekir Behrem), which would see her leaving Turkey for the man’s hometown in Kosovo.
While initially accompanied by her mother Fatma (Hülya Aydin) on the trip to Kosovo for the wedding preparations, Gülizar decides to go it alone when Fatma had to get off the bus due to her expired passport. During one pitstop en route, Gülizar misplaces her necklace that Esma gifted her, and assumes that she might have taken it off in the restroom. Going back to retrieve it, however, Gülizar experiences hell when an unknown assailant sexually assaults her. Here, Bayrak’s sensitive direction comes into play. While not showing anything graphic, she doesn’t feel the need to. Instead, we listen to Gülizar’s struggles as the young woman tries to break free from the attacker, ultimately escaping to make it back on the bus just in time.
As she navigates the emotional aftermath of the attack, Gülizar struggles to articulate what happened, finding herself unable to process the trauma fully. While Emre is determined to seek justice and persuades her to confront the incident, Gülizar’s instinct is to remain silent, instead choosing to dissociate from the experience. All these happen as the wedding day approaches, with the weight of her trauma growing heavier.
Bayrak and Uzun portray Gülizar experiencing a slow buildup of tension between her internal emotional state and the external pressures to proceed with the nuptials. However, a chance encounter with a very familiar person unlocks her anxiety, forcing her to unpack compartmentalised memories even as panic attacks flare up inside confined spaces — the police station restroom, the fitting room at a wedding dress shop, and even the couple’s car. With wedding preparations in full swing, Gülizar becomes trapped in a socially claustrophobic environment, where she wrestles with her trauma and the suspicion that her assailant may be among the wedding guests.
Gülizar doesn’t shy away from depicting the immediate and long-lasting effects of sexual violence on Gülizar. What makes it powerful, however, is how the film layers her trauma, not only from the attack but also from the cultural silence that surrounds it. While the assault itself is a pivotal narrative moment, it’s the aftermath that the film focuses on, which is where the storytelling excels. Rather than making the assault a spectacle, Gülizar deals with its psychological repercussions — the woman’s silence, her fear, and the growing suspicion that her secret might be revealed to more people. Here, Bayrak depicts trauma as something both internal and societal, with Gülizar’s external surroundings basically pressuring her to just “move on” or not to talk about what happened. And while it isn’t in any way a judgement against a particular culture, the film nonetheless illustrates how societal norms can exacerbate trauma.
On the other hand, Gülizar also highlights the importance of a support system for victims of sexual assault. Even so, the most well-meaning person could feel frustrated with a victim’s struggle to articulate their trauma, or their utter reticence to open up. In the film, Bayrak humanises the supporting characters, especially Emre. Behrem’s performance as a loving fiancé (and later husband) radiates an air of relatability to people who provide support and comfort to victims of abuse. It’s not always an easy task to be there for his wife, but Emre continues anyway. From his understanding of Gülizar’s trauma resurfacing when they attempt to consummate their marriage, to the pivotal scene where a wordless interaction between them reveals who the assailant is; Emre embodies a healthy support system that every victim deserves to have.
As Gülizar reaches its final act, we finally understand why Bayrak opens the film with a scene showing the young woman intently watching farmers perform stubble-burning in the fields near their house. While the film is a very delicate exploration of the complexities of trauma and how it reverberates through Gülizar’s life, Bayrak’s decision to not rush her recovery highlights how trauma often leads to internalised silence, a reflection of both personal coping mechanisms and the prioritisation of social conformity over the person’s well-being. To me, framing a story about sexual violence this way is key, since it provides a space for dialogue about support systems, justice, and healing. I hope that, even with its very sensitive subject matter, more films like Gülizar would be made in order to promote a more informed and compassionate societal response to sexual violence.
