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These days, pretty much any piece of art featuring a female lead or a tale of abuse is scrutinized through the lens of #MeToo. And sometimes, the movement’s label is slapped on films that don’t necessarily warrant it. Benedict Andrews’ Una, originally released prior to this watershed moment, fits into a special, under-discussed area of the conversation. An area that sees a survivor granted the opportunity to confront her abuser head-on – and reckon with the lingering effects of what was done to her.
Adapted from David Harrower’s play Blackbird, Una tells the story of a young woman who was sexually abused at just 13 years old by a friend of her father’s, Ray (Ben Mendelsohn). While Una believed at the time they were in love, Ray was eventually caught and sentenced to prison for four years for statutory rape. Fifteen years later, living under a different name, Ray is confronted by Una at his workplace and the two are forced to reckon with the events that changed both of their lives forever.
Rooney Mara stars as the eponymous Una, conflicted about her feelings and what really happened all those years ago. She can’t quite decipher if she still has affection for Ray or if she’s living in the past, still affected by all the grooming Ray subjected her to at such a young age. Ray tries to convince us over and over again that this was a one-time thing, that he was in love, that he wasn’t really a predator or a pedophile. But there’s the underlying truth, the truth that a 40-year-old man should not have sex with a girl barely in her teens, let alone fall in love with her, as he claims to have.
It’s these questions – Una’s muddled feelings for Ray and Ray’s own version of what happened – that may leave viewers uneasy. Why can’t things be black-and-white? Why can’t Ray be a straightforward villain and Una be repulsed by his touch, out for vengeance? These things don’t happen because that’s not how they play out in real life. People and events exist in grey areas, and there’s no one right way to feel about something. Embracing this is what makes the film so effective in tackling this subject matter.
Not fully understanding what Una wants – hell, she doesn’t even fully understand herself – is confounding and occasionally frustrating, but it’s authentic. Abuse and its effects exist on a spectrum, and everyone emerges from the wreckage differently. Ray tries to leave it behind, picking up a new name and a new family and a new life. Una is stuck in it forever, never having moved from her hometown and never having quite recovered from what Ray did to her. It’s in this depiction of the world and of abuse that Una finds its strength, as unsettling and uncomfortable as it may be.
Una is certainly not a perfect movie; Andrews tries so desperately to distance himself from Harrower’s play that some of the original tension is lost, but thanks to the two leads, it remains compelling. Una may be a difficult watch, but it’s an important one, one that asks questions many viewers may not want to consider. The complicated nature of the lingering effects of abuse is one that rarely is explored on screen, but it remains a vital part of the conversation. Having these conversations may not be enjoyable, but they are necessary. And Una never shies away from even the ugliest of talking points.
