Woman Unknown Review – A Grim Portrait of Post‑War Shame

When the only female director in Venice’s main competition steps up with her sophomore feature, you expect something daring. May el‑Toukhy doesn’t just deliver daring; she hands us a bleak, almost theatrical study of sexual shame that feels both dated and disturbingly contemporary.

Set in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War, “Woman Unknown” drifts through a Copenhagen that looks like a museum exhibit: the walls are draped in gray plaster, the furniture is mahogany, and every hallway seems measured to the centimetre. In the midst of that austerity, crimson pops up like a warning sign – a swastika‑shaped stain on the front door, a scarlet dress hanging in an empty closet – all as obvious as a traffic light. Yet, for all their bluntness, those splashes of red possess a Hitchcockian sting that makes you sit up a little straighter.

Mathilde Arcel, who anchors the film as Marie, the house‑maid‑turned‑nanny, is magnetic in a quiet way. She moves through the camera’s static frames with the tension of someone perpetually holding her breath. Her eyes flit, her mouth tightens, and you can almost hear the sound of a corset cinching tighter with every accusation that hovers over her.

The plot itself is simple enough: Marie works for widower Christian (Carsten Bjornlund), a glove‑maker whose hands are as meticulous as his household standards. She tends his child, navigates the watchful gaze of head‑maid Esther (Marina Bouras), and, when Christian’s hand brushes her cheek, the precarious balance of her new “lady‑of‑the‑house” status teeters.

But el‑Toukhy, never one for tidy exposition, lets the audience piece together Marie’s past through bruised silhouettes and whispered rumors. A former classmate, Karl (Thorbjorn Hedegaard), re‑enters her life, and a quick flash of a silk wedding dress hanging in a closet signals a life she once tried to outrun. We learn, through a sparse doctor’s visit and a bottle of liquid opium, that Marie once bore a child – a boy whose existence forced her to flee her own story.

The film’s true horror isn’t the personal drama; it’s the historical backdrop that el‑Toukhy borrows from real accounts of women punished for sleeping with German soldiers. Quick, brutal vignettes show nameless women being beaten, hair ripped, and branded with painted swastikas. Those moments sit like cold evidence, reminding us why Marie clings to secrecy.

Jasper Spanning’s cinematography matches the script’s austerity. He favours static, shadow‑laden compositions that linger, letting discomfort grow. Then, in moments of heightened panic – like the grotesque scene where Marie is forced to take a mouthful of spit – the camera slides into shallow‑focused close‑ups, the world compressing to the trembling surface of her skin.

The dialogue, penned by Maren Louise Kaehne, refuses easy explanations. Instead, each line feels like a fragment of a larger puzzle, urging viewers to sit with the uneasy feeling that some stories simply can’t be neatly tied up. The narrative crescendos when the building’s entrance is marked with a Nazi insignia, a visual reminder that the past is not merely behind her – it is literally on the doorstep.

There are moments that feel almost stage‑y, perhaps a byproduct of the film’s theatrical sensibility, but that’s part of its charm. It’s uncomfortable, it’s repetitive, and at times it seems to hammer its point home a little too hard. Yet, the relentless pacing mirrors the relentless judgment that women like Marie endured.

In the end, “Woman Unknown” is less about providing answers and more about provoking questions. Do we have the right to judge a woman’s private choices? How does a society rebuild when its moral compass is twisted by occupation and trauma? El‑Toukhy isn’t handing us neat resolutions – she’s handing us a mirror, painted in shades of red and ash.

For all its flaws – the occasional over‑exposure of symbolism and the occasional melodramatic beat – the film is a potent, if unsettling, addition to post‑war cinema. It may not be subtle, but it certainly stays with you, lingering like the faint scent of opium after a night of suppressed desire.