Fill the Void – review

A perfectly pitched performance from Hadas Yaron and ethereal close-quarters cinematography by Asaf Sudry elevate this warm and sympathetic portrait of a young woman's struggle to balance personal fulfilment with family duty into the realms of something very special. Set within the Orthodox Hasidic community of Tel Aviv, and offering an intimate insider's view of a world which remains little seen in mainstream cinema, Fill the Void is an intelligent and moving examination of the possibilities of personal freedom within the strict confines of religion and tradition.

When personal tragedy strikes during the joyous celebrations of Purim, 18-year-old Shira finds her plans for the future thrown into disarray. Having long envisaged an ideal, match-made marriage comparable to that of her beloved big sister Esther, Shira discovers that she has the potential to heal her family's grief over the loss of a child if she agrees to rethink her own wedding plans. Should she pursue her long-treasured dream in which a carefully planned union with an equally inexperienced young man had always been the goal? Or should she agree to step into her sister's shoes, to occupy the gaping chasm which now looms within her family, to allow her self-abnegation to become the crucible of their future happiness?

Written and directed by Rama Burshtein, whose previous work is described as comprising "films for the orthodox community, some of them for women only", Fill the Void gives vibrant voice to characters who often seem to exist within a great silence. Like the protagonists of the Jane Austen novels which Burshtein cites as a primary influence, these women live within a society in which their options are limited by rigidly enforced rules, and yet it's their choices, emotions, conflicts and resolutions which drive and define the narrative. It is the maternal Rivka (Irit Sheleg) whose grief at the loss of a daughter provides the impetus for Shira's dilemma, and who initially conceives the plan which may offer both liberation and/or imprisonment for her family.

The first thing we notice about Aunt Hanna (Razia Israeli) is the defiantly strong set of her face and the directness of her gaze; it is not until we have spent some time in her company that we realise she has no arms – a factor which is entirely secondary to her strength of character. As for Shira, her youth and comparative inexperience of the outside world mask a profound and maturing sense of self, and we watch as she grows (stronger, wiser) before our very eyes, discovering the truth about her own needs and desires within circumstances which may appear to override both. A sequence in which Shira becomes lost in a melancholic fugue while playing the accordion (her name means "song" in Hebrew) is particularly powerful, part of a complex tapestry of interweaving lives in which music plays an integral role.

There is a further layer to Burshtein's creation; that of the Orthodox community's peculiarly parallel presence within the secular world. Making a point of her deliberate avoidance of any "religious-secular dialogue", she places her characters within the streets and houses of Tel Aviv through which they move with little or no interaction with the non-religious community. This is an alternative version of Tel Aviv as seen through the eyes of an insular community which exists within the wider parameters of the city; two worlds side-by-side but entirely separate.

For Burshtein, the sphere of Shira's experience is absolute; this is not a story in which retreat (or "escape") from the strictures of her society is an option, any more than it would be for Austen's Emma Woodhouse. Indeed, the omnipresent Hasidic ritual seems to set this story somewhat back in time, away from the modern world, closer to the conventions of the past than the myriad opportunities of the present.

Some audiences may find this worldview alienating; the acceptance of an existence in which all the promises and possibilities of life are bound by the prospect of inevitable marriage brings with it many problems, both personal and political. Yet Burshtein uses the limitations of her story to her advantage, focusing on Shira's unexpected independence, stressing the value of female voices within the community, reiterating the role of choice, even within arranged unions. As for Hadas Yaron, she does a brilliant job of making Shira a fully rounded character, her face a rippling seascape of reactions and responses, at once finely nuanced yet utterly naturalistic. On the evidence of this performance (which won her a Volpi Cup award at Venice last year), Yaron is a star in the making – a talented, understated screen presence who draws and holds the camera's attention with ease and grace.

The myriad contradictions of Fill the Void are all captured in Yaron's expression in the final shots of the film, which offer a far more ambiguous and open-ended conclusion to this tightly controlled tale than some may care to imagine. Whatever the trajectory of the narrative, Yaron, Burshtein and Asaf Sudry have conspired to leave us with a parting glance as enigmatic and contradictory as the closing back-of-the-bus tableaux from The Graduate. It's a fine and complex finale to a deceptively enriching film.