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The fraught relationship between an estranged mother and daughter takes centre stage in “Ibuku,” the fourth film from Indonesian writer-director Eddie Cahyono. Despite the first-person perspective of the title — which
translates as “my mother” in Indonesian — most of the film is seen through the eyes of Sumiati (Christine Hakim), a mother and recent widow struggling to gather money to visit her daughter Sri (Ayushita Nugraha) in a Saudi prison. Much of the film’s emotional burden, as well as its photography, lands on the face of Hakim, captured through still, observational camerawork as she enacts various rituals of cooking, gathering, dancing, even spelunking, all shaded by grief for the impending loss of her daughter, and her responsibility in driving her away from home.
Premiering in Competition at the Busan Film Festival, Cahyono’s film is most compelling when its spiritual qualities are felt rather than seen, when its story is discovered through Hakim’s layered and complex performance. The filmmaker has spoken about his personal connection to the material, which is informed by his own experience of leaving the village for a better life, to send money home. Not that this is autofiction: “Ibuku” finds its basis in the contemporary exploitation of migrant workers, and traces the tragedies of this demographic back to their roots at home.
Though “Ibuku” is mostly seen through Sumiati’s eyes, it opens with the perspective of her daughter Sri. Projections of Sumiati surround her in a sort of cage, as Sri proclaims that she wishes she could hate her mother — complex feelings that stem from a feeling of abandonment to her abusive arranged marriage. When the film next cuts back to this room, Sri explains that this is the root of her decision to leave and work in Saudi Arabia. This context of parental failure looms over the rest of “Ibuku,” with Sumiati’s every action haunted by her regret over not protecting her daughter from abusers both at home and abroad.
The next time we hear from Sri is years later, as Sumiati discovers her daughter has been sentenced to death for killing her employer and would-be rapist. Given her late husband’s gambling debts, she doesn’t have the means to visit, and instead must borrow money from her fellow villagers to attempt to see her daughter. The misery of the situation could feel overwhelming, even cruel, but Cahyono’s observation of Sumiati’s struggles is humane and sympathetic. He’s interested in the relationship between different societal pressures and patriarchal exploitations, but also in Sumiati’s own regretful culpability in these practices: Sri’s arranged marriage was a desperate play on her mother’s part to get out of debt through dowry.
Sumiati is a once-famous performer of Jathilian, a form of Javanese dance (also known as Kuda Lumping) in which the performers are “possessed,” the ritual accompanied by a shaman as well as percussion. Such spiritual communion extends to Cahyono’s intimate handheld cinematography, which, when not centered on Hakim, frames her home and landmarks in the village as though Sri and her husband are still present, the grainy and dreamlike haze of film making that connection feel ever-present.
The locations are often stunning, notably the deep-nested roots of a tree extending into a cave where Sumiati goes spelunking for water and later attempts to build functioning pipework. The water is shot with an orange glow, and the image carries a spiritual power that continues through the film’s capturing of Hakim’s sensitive and mournful performance — as Sumiati subtly entreats forgiveness from the spectres of her departed family, and in turn from the village. The village itself is represented through the kindly but put-upon figure of the chief Djatmiko (Landung Simatupang), who himself must reckon with potential transgressions between himself and Sumiati.
The effect dissipates somewhat whenever Cahyono resorts to less suggestive, more blatantly surreal imagery. In one moment, the spectre of Sumiati’s deceased husband watches silently over the tree from which he once hanged himself; in another, more delirious instance, Sumiati is suspended in the air by invisible wires after she joins in a dance performance without permission. At least there’s no further elaboration beyond these flourishes, which feel indelicate by the film’s standards. The striking opening, with its setup of Sri silhouetted against filmed images of her mother’s dance, already demonstrates the impossible communicative power of the visual artform. Audiences don’t need more help getting the message.
