Pieces of Potential: An Exploration of Grief in Pieces of a Woman

Like many, I had seen the teasers, trailers and read the previews for Kornél Mundruczó Pieces of a Woman (POAW). With statements like ‘deeply personal’, ‘moving’, ‘emotional’, ‘devastating’; with the common thread being that the film’s depiction of grief is one to beat; with such compliments and the promise of watching Vanessa Kirby, who I have been a major fan of since her Princess Margaret days in The Crown, I was looking forward to watching.

I watched it as soon as it was out, which was very unlike me, and, sadly, I could not find this wonderful and provoking depiction of grief that so many others have championed. Instead, I instantly thought of a film whose depiction of a mother’s loss caused me to reflect and to question what it means to lose a child. Andrea Arnold’s short Milk achieves this personal, emotional and raw depiction of grief that POAW fails to deliver.

There is no doubt POAW has captivating moments and moving performances. The opening birth sequence is powerful and emotional. The shots are varied and beautifully executed. There are moments when you can’t see Martha; instead, the camera chooses to focus on doorways or other characters, all adding to the viewer’s suspense. You find yourself looking for the tragedy you know is coming. It keeps you on your guard, keeps you guessing, but also disarms you. When all appears to go well, you and Martha breathe a sigh of relief, but of course, we know the devastation that is to come, while she doesn’t. Sadly, this is the last great moment the film has.

There is no doubt that Kirby gives an impressive performance. She is the glue keeping the film’s often odd and confusing narrative together. Her grief is expressed through silences, long moments of reflection and disconnection with the world around her. Watching a women float through a world she no longer seems to be a part of, empty and ghost-like, is heartbreaking. This internalised grief causes much anger and strain on her family around her. Both POAW and Milk introduce the idea that if you haven’t cried, you haven’t faced grief. Both films aim to challenge this notion, but only one does it successfully.

POAW is a nod to the many facets of womanhood: daughter, sister, partner, co-worker, friend, mother. There are many sides to a woman, but Kornél Mundruczó's attempt to show all aspects of a woman leads to an incredibly heavy plot that overtakes what the film sets up to be its main theme: loss. Grief is sidelined by a huge court case, a mother declining in health, an addict husband who immediately falls off the wagon once the death occurs. With so many avenues, I was left asking what is this film about? What is it trying to say or tell me? Why are we focusing on an unlikeable husband? Or a family that instead of trying to understand Martha, berate her? Is the film after all not Martha’s story?

After opening up all of these avenues the film makes a clumsy attempt to come back to its opening theme. POAW started in defiance of the convention of grief as something that must be expressed through tears, only to give in to this idea. The ending is what I found to be the most frustrating aspect of the film. It gives the viewer resolution. Why? Resolution doesn’t challenge a viewer or cause them to question. Resolutions don't start discussions. For a film whose aim appeared to be defiance, unconventionality, raw emotion and challenge, it undermines this with a soft, unchallenging ending.

It may seem a moot point to even attempt to compare a short starter film to a big-budget Netflix feature, but if we want to talk about grief and the death of a child, I believe they need to be compared.

Milk is not perfect, but what it does do is focus on Hetty and her immediate grief. It doesn’t deviate from that theme. Her husband is present and also believes grief needs to be expressed physically, but he accepts and understands Hetty’s journey. Hetty wakes up from her labour and smiles at her husband. She doesn't even know her baby is dead until she sees the expression on her husband’s face. This introduces the viewer to the emotional rollercoaster that is Milk.

Instead of the funeral, Hetty favours sharing swigs of vodka on a joy ride with her new young friend. As a viewer, it is easy to become lost in the dynamic between Hetty and her young friend and the seemingly bizarre turn the plot has taken, but just as you are trying to figure out what is going on, you are startled by stark images of a white coffin being carried by a broken father and a tiny grave covered by flowers in the darkness of night. Neither the viewer nor Hetty can escape what is really happening and Arnold does not allow us to lose focus on what’s really happening.

There is no easy ending for Hetty. The very physical gesture of having a man nurse from her breast forces Hetty to face her grief. The film ends, but it's just the start for her. The unusual turn the plot takes and that shocking final image leaves a viewer with more questions than answers and challenges them to think about what a mother feels when her baby dies before she even gets to know them.

The final thought I had after watching POAW was that men grieve too. Sean’s storyline in POAW seems to be unfair. I wondered why he had been turned into such a monster. It was predictable and cliched to have him return to his addiction and also seemed unfair. Both films want to show a woman’s perspective, which is fair, but Hetty’s husband’s grief is briefly shown, as well as supporting his wife’s journey. After all, a baby is part of two people, not just one. Both feel the loss.

It may be simplistic to assume the stark difference between the plots of these films are just the difference between an English and American mindset or attitude towards grief, but sometimes the simplest answer is the correct one.