In this adaptation of Daisy Johnson’s Sisters, director Ariane Labed explores the harmful effects of bullying, and what it can do to the human psyche. Like the author’s original text, September Says concerns a pair of siblings, July (Mia Tharia) and September (Pascale Kann), at a difficult juncture in their lives: secondary school. Harassed by students at the institute, the duo decide to fight back, embarrassing their mother Sheela (Rakhee Thakrar). Opting to relocate the girls to their “father-shitstirrer-troublemaker”‘s native Ireland, the teenagers pine for entertainment in a variety of modes – boys make one tasty diversion – before some home truths come tumbling down.
Unlike Johnson’s intelligent use of language and economy, Labed’s feature is clunkily pieced together. Devoid of texture and timbre, this esoteric horror jumps headfirst into macabre territory; even the alma mater scenes feature a gruesome undertone. September steps up to challenge the bullies in a setup that’s supposed to be comic, but comes across as crass. She takes it out on a wheelchair bound classmate, cutting off strands of her hair, an action that should have more consequences on the assailant than it does. Danger permeates the screen: July unwittingly uploads a nude online, a video shared and reposted multiple times. Through no lack of trying, much of September Says feels forced.
This is no reflection on the lead actresses: two young women happily shimmying from anxious to transcendent as adolescents do. Thakrar, by contrast, struggles to find nuance as the mother, grappling with the zestier quips in the role. Sheela allows herself one night to enjoy herself with a rugged Celt, leading to some inspired one liners, but the actress’s earnest delivery kills each and every punchline dead. Worse, Sheela never truly comes across as the type of parent a gaggle of siblings would gang up against, considering her penchant for dancing and passion for photography. “Only boring people are bored,” she intones, living her life vicariously as a result.
September Says primary focus is the triumvirate of women: Males flit in and out of the work, though none stay long enough to create a lasting impression on the viewers. Sheela has had her fill of boyfriends (“Your dad was a prick,”), September says she is asexual, leaving July as the only one aching to find a partner. She encounters John, a chirpy lad who invites her to a party by the beach. This creates a rift between the girls, and September – the more outgoing of the relatives – takes charge, pushing her sister to perform a variety of heists. The hints start with innocuous instruction – “Dance around” – before they take a more sinister turn.
In its efforts to shy away from the conventions of horror, there are no masked men or protracted fantasy sequences, September Says unwittingly veers near to the genre’s surface during the opening hour; September’s predilection for knife action stems from the underworld a la Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1961).Some of the philosophical posturings are lost from the book: Labed films the trio at large, but never gets under the skin of the personages the way Johnson does in her medium. Like much of the finished work, the characterisation is surface level at best; frustratingly undernourished at worst.
Ireland is depicted with reverence, the camera padding out the pastoral sea air: an example of mise en scene done well. Labed’s zenith as a stylist comes early on in the movie, just as the family land at their grandmother’s cottage. Whizzing across the front-garden, Labed ties together three disparate stories in one scenario. There’s the mother, frantically searching for the key below a stampede of bags; September, chuckling from the inside of the domicile; and July, wondering which woman would walk towards. So much information is available in this scene – pity it didn’t translate to the rest of the runtime.
September Says showed in the Un Certain Regard section of the 77th Cannes International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. In cinemas on Friday, February 21st.
