Belkis Bayrak's Gülizar is a powerful take on navigating trauma after sexual assault

In her famous extended essay A Room of One’s Own from 1929, Virginia Woolf claims that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction" — a statement that today stands as a manifesto for female artistic emancipation.

Gülizar, the main character in Belkis Bayrak’s film of the same name, which just celebrated its world premiere at the Toronto Film Festival and is currently showing at the San Sebastián Film Festival, has neither money nor privacy. Yet she will quietly, yet stubbornly, fight for an independent viewpoint throughout the 82-minute-long screen time.

The need for both physical and metaphysical personal space, Bayrak seems to argue, is not only a condition for initiating a creative process but a necessity for achieving emotional emancipation as well. Gülizar’s entire trajectory through the fable is a journey toward emotional maturity. It is also an empowering voyage toward the right to experience emotions that may not align with common expectations, even when related to practices typically considered liberating.

Still, in her 2021 short film Cemile, Belkıs Bayrak explores female temperament in a male-dominated world through the story of an ambitious kickboxer who, while preparing for her upcoming match, needs to focus not only on her physical training but also on her emotions.

In a similar fashion, while arranging the factual side of her wedding, Gülizar is overwhelmed by an avalanche of contradictory sentiments, which she needs to process individually so that she can step into marriage in peace with herself. However, everyone around her pretends to know better regarding her necessities, and while well-intentioned, their approach does not allow for autonomy. Her claustrophobic attacks throughout the plot are a metaphor for the psychological suffocation she is exposed to.

In the opening scene, Gülizar observes the extinguishing of a mild fire in the field closer to her house, and later on, she plays with matches. These scenes, on the one hand, suggest the raging ardour of her character, and on the other, are like the gun that, according to Chekhov, hung on the wall in the first act, sooner or later to explode in the third.

With a name carrying the literal connotation of “decorative rose” (in Turkish, "gül" means "rose" and "izar" means "decorated"), she was raised in an isolated and protected environment, like a flower in a pot. Her native Turkish household taught her to follow rigid gender roles and societal expectations. Eager to break free from the confines of this world that she and the women around her have always known, she looks to her upcoming marriage as a gateway to a brighter future where she hopes to start a life of her own.

Engaged to her beloved Emre (Bekir Behrem), Gülizar is filled with hope as she prepares to leave her family and homeland behind for a new life in Kosovo. However, her dream of a fresh start shatters into a nightmare when she is sexually assaulted during her trip on an overnight bus. When her fiancé finds out about the incident, he is consumed with a desire for revenge and justice, blind to her urge to distance herself from what happened and to eventually forget.

Young Turkish actress Ecem Uzun, as Gülizar, demonstrates a rare talent in silently recreating her heroine's inner resentment — from lowered gazes in soft-lit portrait shots, reminiscent of a Renaissance painting, to a steely gaze embodying her determination to stand her ground.

As Belkis explains in her Director’s Statement, for the visual aspect of the film, she drew inspiration from Asian cinema when choosing the colours and locations. The design of spaces was carefully divided between masculine and feminine environments.

Gülizar’s personal space, where she is alone with her thoughts, is depicted with warmer tones, while, in contrast, places like public institutions — with their endless corridors and wedding halls — are designed in cold, stark whites. The atmosphere and colour palette were carefully chosen so that Gülizar's emotions would "silently surround the spaces."

Bayrak aimed to achieve a constant tension between the reality of the present moment and Gülizar’s personal truth. The visuals were crafted with care, using frames that resemble a cave or well — tighter, more introspective shots that reflect "a deeper visuality compared to wider frames." This approach, the director believes, aligns more closely with the female gaze, while the deliberate pacing gives the film a "slow burn drama" quality.

In a global context dominated by the US-rooted #MeToo movement, which loudly denounces sexual assaults, Bayrak’s film offers an alternative approach to self-assertion, emphasising discretion and respect for the complexity of emotions. It contrasts with the movement's categorical stance, which claims to offer the best path to female liberation.

While #MeToo tends to point fingers, instantly judging who is right and wrong, and invariably victimising women, Gülizar suggests that resisting hasty reactions and conclusions might, in the end, be more affirming and emancipating for one’s character. This position is hardly deliberately elaborated by the director, but rather an intuitive reflection of the wisdom and cultural depth that have shaped her artistic worldview.

Mariana Hristova is a freelance film critic, cultural journalist, and programmer. She contributes to national and international outlets and has curated programs for Filmoteca De Catalunya, Arxiu Xcèntric, goEast Wiesbaden, etc. Her professional interests include cinema from the European peripheries and archival and amateur films