Last night, Nayla Al Khaja’s history-making project, BAAB (translation: door), officially began its theatrical release in the GCC. Set in Ras Al Khaimah, UAE, the film is a slow burn that forces you to sit with the themes of loss, despair, and depression.
Following the lead Wahida (played by Shaima Al Fadl), we delve into her grief of losing her twin sister Nisma (also played by Shaima Al Fadl) in a mysterious death. Taking place a year after her death, we watch how Wahida’s inner world slowly collapses, almost like self-harm. She divorces her husband and moves back in with her mother, Umi Fatma (played by Huda Al Ghanem) and her caretaker, Surooji (played by Sabiha Majgaonkar), along with her children, Amal (played by Meera Al Midfa) and Tareq (played by Mansoor Alnoamani). While the move back in is a result of the divorce, it is also because of Wahida’s curiosity about Nisma’s premature death, a question that we never get a straight answer to until the very end. Another point of unease is Nisma’s room, locked behind a green door and forbidden to enter.
All of this despair physically manifests into Wahida’s tinnitus, which leads into the heartbeat of the movie: sound. Sound designer Krishnan Subramanian and music composer A.R. Rahman both play off one another, pushing and pulling the audience through the fine line between reality and fantasy. The moments of silence are equally eerie, suffocating and claustrophobic rather than a respite.
Ironically enough, the narrative is carried by old cassette tapes, a new form of noise that quiets the sounds in Wahida’s head and catapults the story forward into its horror fantasy setting. Here, the story doesn’t show much, but when it does, the payoff is intense. The bulk of this horror is built on tension as editor Sebastian Funke tightens each shot, giving us a harrowing, intimate look into Wahida’s emotions. From the eyes that slowly lose their life to each facial muscle writhing in pain because of tinnitus, Shaima Al Fadl cemented her incredible acting chops with each frame.
This decision to focus solely on character acting works incredibly well, as the film is mainly a single-location horror. Taking place mainly at Wahida’s family home, the house becomes a side character, both interacting and isolating Wahida, furthering her mental decline as her hallucinations get stronger. However, the few times we are out of the house, we get stunning visuals of the Northern UAE. From the serene mountainsides to the everyday life of the market, every frame is grounded by wind, sand, and the UAE sun.
The family dynamic is another touchpoint within the story because while grief can feel isolating, its blowback is community-wide. We see this in Umi Fatma’s own grief. Treated as an antagonist at first, further exploration of her character only reveals an older generation’s form of coping. Whereas the younger Amal is subtly thrusted as the next parent, where her values as the dutiful daughter mean picking up the pieces of her mother and grandmother, while simultaneously caring for her younger brother, Tareq. Tied to cultural norms, the grief spirals and suffocates as no one speaks about emotions or holds space for discomfort about Nisma’s death.
This ties into the true horror of the film, the raw reality of coming to terms with death, depression, and the silencing weight the patriarchy burdens women with. And Nayla Al Khaja expertly steers into it, exploring the grit and darkness, appearing on the other side with a tale that’s all too familiar to the human experience.
