Every aspect of cinematic language —the cutting, camerawork, audio, and period design elements— sing harmoniously together in Mona Fastvold’s historical romance, “The World to Come.” A lovelorn lesbian story reflecting on loss and those life-altering moments which become possible when a new, impossible smile starts orbiting your world, Fastvold’s film — starring the exceptionally talented Katherine Waterston and Vanessa Kirby as Abigail and Tallie, a pair of 19th Century pioneer women who develop a connection so strong their stares could set the countryside aflame — softly breathes like pure poetry, like that rare discovery of newfound human connection.
An ethereal look at a time forgotten story which plays like the intersection of Gillian Armstrong’s “My Brilliant Career” and a Terrence Malick movie akin to “A Hidden Life” (only queer), the idea that nature is not all which nurtures us throughout existence, and the revelation that prescribed structures tend to constrain rather than clarify the reason for our being, affects all characters in Fastvold’s film: the men following daily duties, and the women who ready supper. Audiences may expect the movie to veer in a shame-bound, guilt-ridden direction, but it expressly doesn’t, and that is part of what makes this tale of two lovers stand apart.
Adapted from Jim Shepard’s remarkable short story of the same name, with an assist from Ron Hansen (author of “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford,” brought in by producer Casey Affleck, who also plays Abigail’s repentant husband Dyer), the rebellious desires of these two women is not so different from outlaw narratives, only far less reckless yet more maligned by society. Much like the narration of ‘Jesse James,’ every syllable of Abigail’s voiceover feels as considered as each element of Fastvold’s film —the score and sound design marrying the images and language in a way that feels organically composed yet completely lived in.
We sat down for an amazing chat with Mona about her new movie, which captures the sudden rush of memory as if flipping back through old diary entries. We touched on many topics, ranging from her thoughtful approach to the intimate nature of this material, collaborating with composer Daniel Blumberg on his remarkable score for the movie, and why it is that Waterston and Kirby truly feel like they’re falling for each other on screen.
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The film wrecked me, as did Jim’s short story. You translated his poetic syntax to every production element — the cinematic language as effortless as the voiceover narration. I’m assuming you were very conscious of that…
Absolutely. Some things Jim describes are impossible to shoot, unless I had a second unit nature photographer who could hide in the bushes and catch a rabbit running through the snow. You try to find other moments that bring humans in contact with nature, with animals, that have the same sort of poetry. You do what you can do without having a fox wrangler.
Given the epistolary nature of the story, the source material doesn’t have dialog breaks. Was all that extrapolated by Jim and Ron during the adaptation process, or did you and the actors become involved in the translation as well?
Because of the period, it’s hard to improvise. It’s about forcing yourself to get through the language. The actors are happy to do that work —a lot of work with this sort of text— to make it your own and to feel like it’s coming out of your mouth. There weren’t a lot of changes once we started rehearsing, but Jim and Ron were great partners and were happy to address some of the themes I wanted to add into the story, like childbirth and motherhood — not wanting that versus wanting that. They were happy to explore those things with me.
The film reflects experiences of figures we know have always existed but haven’t been documented with equal footing throughout history. I found that interesting in relation to Ron Hansen’s “The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford” (given the Casey Affleck connection as well), and how these cultural mythologies of what makes a life feeds into the stories we tell ourselves…
Both Ron and Jim are historical writers and do a ton of research – they go into the past and try to get every single detail correct. But there is something very modern about this love story. There’s aspects of Casey Affleck’s character Dyer that are quite modern and I thought it was important we lean into that and how it fits into this universe.
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Tallie is more absent in Jim’s story. Can you talk about Waterston and Kirby’s chemistry and working through the spark of that process with them? The romance is so real. We fall in love with Tallie right alongside Abigail.
I think it was very real for them too. They loved working together, so much. They really hit it off. They were excited to work with another woman. That spark was not a hard thing to create. When you have a text and a plan to execute it, you can try things out, you can try to have an idea on how to better approach these issues and come together to work through it until you crack the code on that idea. We stole any moment we had, on our incredibly tight schedule.
The film paints a poignant picture of man’s capacity for empathy, or lack thereof — the comprehension of another’s views from the masculine norm compared to the feminine; these men subscribe to rigid rituals of social structures, ones they think will bring their lives clarity, but truly it leads to disappointment: a myth of domestic reality.
Yeah, there’s such a sadness to Abigail and Dyer’s relationship. Really, he is trying to understand her now and she is trying, somehow, to be the best that she can. I feel like the question is better than my answer (laughs).
The men and women in the movie are wrestling with connection, of not being seen by those they long to see. Dyer’s transformation is quite moving. You can feel repentance, a kind of mutual reckoning; Casey Affleck clearly has passion for this material.
I felt that when he came to me with the project. I was excited for Casey to play the part. He brought a vulnerability and tenderness to the role. That was important. It would be a very different story if he were a brute, or just this farmer, who had no idea what the hell was going on, who was just angry or upset about it. Instead, it’s revealed that he’s looking for connection, and that makes it complicated for Abigail. That’s the kind of interesting space you want to hit when you tell a story like this; you want to find what is going to make it complicated.
Abigail finds emotional truth inside feeling, writing her own history recorded through her own words. I’m guessing you were conscious of the film’s own place in history alongside how that history is shown through its figures, how it explores the intersection of history and gender roles?
There’s so little that’s been written about queer relationships during this particular time period, and from this class. Not a lot of people had the time to write these things down —things might be hinted at, maybe through letters— but there’s not a lot written about that time from these perspectives, so I wanted to try and create —to imagine— that anything could be possible. There will always be a place in history for stories like this; they happen, and then they happen again, and again, and this is just one story that hasn’t been told too often.
I like what you said earlier, about the myth of an idealized, domestic, sort of hetero-relationship; I like that way of looking at it. I think when I started working on the script and trying to break it open —figuring out what it was that excited me about the material— I think that was part of it. Abigail’s movement of having had a dream of what this relationship could be, and then being confronted by something so different, that’s also so incredible, and impossible, and it turns to absolute heartbreak.
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The movie captures that marvelously. How intimacy is conveyed is a key part of these women’s relationship blossoming, and in shaping their own narrative. You’re no stranger to sex scenes; there’s a real rawness to them in your outstanding debut “The Sleepwalker.” For the most part, your approach here is a sea away from that, particularly the inspired editing of that end montage…
I really love and hate sex scenes in films. Often they mean nothing. They’re just there to titillate, but there is an opportunity to tell so much about a couple with them; it’s one of those things that excites you as a filmmaker — to work with images, with movement, with a gesture. For example, in “The Sleepwalker,” the sex scenes were specifically about the story of these two women and their relationships, told through those sex scenes; based on how they choose to show their bodies, or not, you can tell a lot about them.
With this film, I could have chosen to sprinkle some beautiful, erotic love scenes throughout, but what would that mean? That would be the same thing as spending your time on a car chase. Sex scenes are the car chases of indie movies. We know where it ends. We know what’s going to happen in that car chase. It’s boring to me. It’s not exciting. I really thought about: “How can I shoot this without just looking at two gorgeous women getting it on?” I’m not interested in that. I looked at photography by women that depicts women being together, and I tried to look at how I could shoot it in a different way. How could I make it feel like what it is? Not avoiding the body, but at the same time not trying to exploit the body. I really tried to figure out how to get inside it. If we’re going to have this scene here, I want it to feel heartbreaking; I don’t want it to feel like it has to be there. I want it to make you want to cry. If I succeed, you get this moment where, ideally; you want to cry with Abigail, and then suddenly you feel what she feels, and it grabs you —you feel conflicted and overwhelmed by it, just like her. That’s what I was hoping for, therefore giving sex scenes a different meaning. It’s not just a sex scene; you’re catching those moments of passion or love that felt that complicated. It should feel like you want to cry, scream, and comfort her all at the same time.
I think you achieved that. I’ve never thought about the way you put it; we have kind of come to expect sex scenes in indie films, but I did not expect what you did here. Daniel Blumberg’s score is also incredible, swaying from sorrowful to enrapturing. As a filmmaker how do you gauge the shifts between those dials?
Daniel came on when I got the screenplay and we started sending ideas back and forth. He worked lengthily on these improvisations and he was generous enough to share those while we were shooting. He came on set, and he would come and compose with me in the editing room; we’d do a session around these themes, ideas and instruments that we had. I would play around, find a piece and place it into the edit. We would go back and forth throughout the process. It was so organic. I could edit to a piece of music, or sometimes the music would inform the edit. It’s not common to work that way, but some of the most exciting parts of film are those collaborations, where I get to be part of learning how to make music, and making the image, and working with the actors; you get to be part of all these worlds and work closely together.
You used the juxtaposition of audio and images to convey something buried in the past in your first movie also; your instincts reveal a strong sense for how to tell a story through sound and space. With “The World to Come,” you’re using every component of cinema. That unreal blizzard sequence…
I love working on and trying to use sound. In a way, film is a memory. Right? It can be such an immersive experience and sound is something that can be hard to escape, when you’re sitting in a movie theater especially; I’ll cover my ears, not my eyes, usually. You’re sneaking in sounds, pulling things out, making them louder. Sometimes you can convey an internalized moment: having the blizzard being extremely loud, or ringing for Abigail; the scratching of pen and paper makes one feel like they’re writing, somehow. It makes it intimate. Playing with those things —making something really quiet— you can do it endlessly and I really enjoy it. So much (laughs). Because the score is so delicately composed over the picture, it’s an important marriage.
Lockdown happened right as we started the sound design. We were in a little studio out on Long Island, and we just worked on it and worked on it, much longer than we normally would have had the luxury to do. In the end, we were like, “Okay, now, it’s done.” But I could have worked on it endlessly.