Marnie Blok’s debut as a director, Beyond Silence, is a searing, intimate exploration of trauma, resilience, and the courage it takes to break long-held silences. Inspired by her own experiences as a survivor of rape, Blok crafts a story that bridges generations, following a deaf PhD student and her sister as they navigate the aftermath of abuse. In this interview, Blok discusses the film’s deeply personal origins, her ground-breaking casting choices, and how she used performance, sound, and sign language to immerse audiences in a world where words and silences carry profound weight.
Where did the idea for this film come from?
I’m a survivor of rape myself, many years ago, so the subject is something I carry with me—a deep focus, but also a great deal of anger. Some of that anger is personal, because I lived through it, processed it, and I’m okay now. But a large part of it comes from what I see happening in society. That anger became a powerful creative engine for me.
When I was still acting, I wrote a script about rape built around the idea that a happy life is the best revenge. At the time, I didn’t yet have the writing experience to bring it to life properly, so it never got made. Years later, after writing extensively, I revisited the script and began researching the subject more seriously. What I discovered was shocking: after the Me Too movement began, reports of sexual abuse and assault increased by 60 to 70 percent, yet the number of charges filed rose by only one percent. That discrepancy made me realize how many people are still being silenced—by others or by themselves.
I knew then that I couldn’t just tell a story about healing; I needed to explore the breaking of silence itself, and the cost of that decision.
Something else also pushed me. In the Netherlands, women my age and older began expressing frustration at the constant stream of testimonies. They said it was humourless, prudish, one-dimensional—that by speaking out, women were making themselves victims again, and victimhood meant weakness. I found that incredibly inappropriate. First, people were finally finding the courage to speak, and now we were shutting them down. And second, if you’ve been raped, you are a victim; that’s not weakness, it’s reality. Speaking about it is what makes you strong.
All of that made me want to create a story that brought two generations into the conversation—one that examines silence, the breaking of it, and everything that comes after.
“It was about authenticity as much as inclusivity; working with a deaf performer would bring a truth I couldn’t otherwise achieve.“
Your actresses are incredible in this film. Can you tell me about the casting process?
The two other actresses—apart from Henrianne, our deaf performer—are people I’ve known for many years. The older actress appeared in a series I wrote called Childhood Dreams, which I’ve recently discovered is now on HBO, and I’ve known her for nearly thirty years. I spoke to her about this project while we were filming that series, and I knew immediately I wanted her in this role.
Sigrid, who plays the sister, I’ve known since she was fifteen. She was also in a series I wrote, and we reconnected years later when we happened to meet during an Extinction Rebellion demonstration on the motorway. When I cast Henrianne, I realised she and Sigrid shared something similar, and both Sigrid and the older actress are wonderful performers, so the ensemble came together naturally.
For Henrianne’s role, I knew from the start that I needed to cast a deaf actress—if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t make the film. It was about authenticity as much as inclusivity; working with a deaf performer would bring a truth I couldn’t otherwise achieve. Before I’d even organised auditions, someone introduced me to Henrianne. We met with an interpreter, and after ninety minutes I thought, ‘She’s the one.’ It was her first acting job, but I believed we could get there together.
We spent many hours at my kitchen table—Henrianne, Sigrid, and I—talking about my reasons for making the film, about acting, and about her experiences in the deaf community. She taught me a great deal, and gradually she began to understand the emotional core of the story.
Still, on the first day of shooting, I told my DOP I had no idea what we would get from her. But I trusted the other actresses, and I knew they would support her. I didn’t rehearse with Henrianne in a traditional sense; instead, I gave her a monologue and worked on helping her move from her head into her body. At one point, I even brought boxing gloves—she boxed until she was exhausted, and then performed the monologue, and something clicked.
Henrianne is incredibly curious. She kept asking where actors ‘find’ their emotions, and I explained that every performer is different. One day she shared something very personal about her own life, something very tough, and I told her, ‘What you did there was taking your life back—and that’s exactly what Ava does in the film.’ I could see in that moment that she truly understood the character.
What was your reasoning for choosing a deaf PhD student and her sister as protagonists? And how did that shape the way that you told their story?
When I was at theatre school, I took classes in sign language. I’d forgotten most of it over the years, but it always fascinated me. In the 90s, I saw Children of a Lesser God, with Marlee Matlin. She’s a deaf actress, and she later won an Oscar for CODA. I was completely mesmerised by her performance. She played a woman who was deaf and carried so much anger, and it was powerful and devastating to watch.
I never really had a reason to use sign language in my work until this film. It struck me as a beautiful metaphor for not being heard—obvious, perhaps, but still incredibly potent. I also knew from the beginning that I wanted to set the film in a single room and in real time, because I wanted the audience to experience every step the character takes. Cinematographically and sonically, sign language gave us something very special.
What I hoped would happen actually did: because Henrianne cannot express her anger through spoken words, the sounds she does produce, and the physicality of her signing, affect you far more deeply. They certainly affected me.
The score is subtle but profoundly impactful, enriching the film’s exploration of silence. How did you approach selecting the music, and what was the process working with the composer like?
The sound designer and the composer were both crucial to shaping the film. With the sound designer, I was very open about the fact that this was my first time directing, and while I knew how transformative sound could be, I didn’t yet know how to use it effectively. In the script, I’d written moments of silence—points where the character withdraws while others speak—because I wanted the audience to stay with her. In my head, the sound would drop away completely.
But when we tried that, it simply fell flat; it didn’t work at all. So I told her we needed a different approach, and she began experimenting. What she created was really magic. We still feel that we’re inside Anna’s experience—inside Henrianne’s perspective—but without losing the sonic world entirely. It works beautifully.
As for the composer, I knew him from the Childhood Dreams series. I showed him the film and said, ‘Give me something.’ I told him I wanted a sense of voices—something reminiscent of that beautiful track in Big Little Lies. I love that song, the way the voices weave through it. I asked for something similar for the ending. He began sending me pieces, experimenting, and it came together wonderfully.
“After #MeToo, I realised how much unacceptable behaviour I’d tolerated in the industry—things I should never have put up with as an actor. We’re much more vocal now, especially younger women who are far better at setting boundaries. There’s still a huge amount to be done, but at least the conversation is happening.“
The film resonates with a broader movement of empowerment like the #MeToo movement. Did these movements influence your storytelling or affect how you framed the film’s message?
What I mentioned earlier about the start of the #MeToo movement is really where this film began for me. It made me realise I needed to write about silence. And something I haven’t said yet is that I actually understand the older woman in the film—even though I also hate what she represents. I understand her because, although I didn’t stay silent about my own rape, that wasn’t really my choice; I had three friends with me who witnessed it, though they couldn’t intervene. But I did downplay it. I tried to be tough, to tell myself, ‘These things happen. In the bigger scheme of life, a rape is just a rape. Toughen up.’ That attitude helped me survive at the time, but it also held me back in ways I didn’t recognise for years.
After #MeToo, I realised how much unacceptable behaviour I’d tolerated in the industry—things I should never have put up with as an actor. We’re much more vocal now, especially younger women who are far better at setting boundaries. There’s still a huge amount to be done, but at least the conversation is happening.
But then you see how fragile progress is. Just a few months ago, in August, a 17-year-old girl was assaulted and killed in Amsterdam by a man who had raped another woman only a week before. Women took to the streets, saying they were ‘reclaiming the night’. And then you realise: women marched under those exact same words in Amsterdam 45 years ago. It’s sobering. The progress feels painfully slow. We can’t give up—of course we can’t—but it’s exhausting, and it shows how essential it is to keep this conversation alive.
What gives me hope is the recognition that men have to be part of this. They must get involved. And we need to understand how decisive the role of a bystander can be. A perpetrator demands silence; a survivor asks you to challenge an entire system. One is easy, the other is difficult—but the difficult one is what matters.
I’m grateful the film resonates so strongly, because it sparks conversations and gives courage to survivors. I receive so many messages from people who feel seen because of it. But it’s bittersweet too—because the very fact that it resonates so deeply means these experiences are still far too common.
What are you hoping audiences take away from this film?
For survivors, my hope is that they leave the film thinking, This was not my fault. The guilt and the shame never belonged to them; they belong entirely to the perpetrator. If the film gives even one person the courage to speak to someone they trust, to reach out for help, then it has done something meaningful.
Going through the legal system is a different challenge altogether. For many survivors, the court process feels like a second assault—sometimes even worse. There’s something fundamentally broken there, and it urgently needs fixing. But speaking about it—allowing others to know what happened—can be the first step toward holding perpetrators accountable.
And for those who haven’t experienced abuse themselves, I hope they understand the role they can play. It’s not only about confronting violent acts; it starts much earlier, with challenging inappropriate jokes, boundary-crossing behaviour, all the small things that create a culture where violence becomes possible.
There’s a comedian—I think he’s Scottish—who talks about this in his show. A man he’d known for years turned out to have raped someone. He said, ‘I knew him for eight years. I saw things. I never said anything. That makes me part of the problem.’ And he’s right. Men can’t just reassure themselves that they would never do such a thing; they have to be involved, they have to speak up, they have to intervene.
That’s where real progress begins. And I hope audiences who aren’t survivors recognise the enormous role they can play in creating that change.
This is your directional debut. How did your background as a screenwriter and an actress prepare you for this moment?
Absolutely, it helped a great deal. Because I know what acting is about, I could really relate to the actresses. I know many directors have never acted and do brilliantly, but for me, having that experience was invaluable. I’ve spent a lot of time on sets, I’ve been writing extensively, and I’ve also worked as an assistant director. Writing behind a laptop can make everything seem perfect—enough lighting, enough time, actors performing flawlessly—but being on set humbles you as a writer. You quickly realise how many elements you have to manage, and sometimes what you imagined doesn’t translate exactly as you intended.
Having spent so long in the industry and having that assistant director experience prepared me for this. My knowledge of lenses and camera angles is limited, which held me back for a while, but the cinematographer I worked with—an incredible woman—made all the difference. If I hadn’t had her, the film simply wouldn’t exist. Beyond the fact that it looks beautiful, she connected deeply with the characters in the way I hoped, understood my vision, and added her own creative interpretation. She told me, ‘Tell me what you want to feel, where you want to be, and what you want to see—I’ll translate it into lenses and angles.’ That collaboration was invaluable.
“Just the other week, a girl messaged me, saying she felt inspired—if a deaf girl can find her voice, she can find hers too. It was moving.“
How have audiences responded to the film and have any of the responses surprised you?
Surprised me? Not really—sadly, I knew this was going to happen. I didn’t expect the response to be quite so strong, but once it came, the stories were all remarkably similar. People would write to me saying, ‘Thank you, now I have the courage to speak.’ Just the other week, a girl messaged me, saying she felt inspired—if a deaf girl can find her voice, she can find hers too. It was moving.
I’m also struck by how many men have approached me. Some are survivors themselves, sharing their stories, while others expressed gratitude for the insight the film gave them. They said they hadn’t realised how women have to prepare themselves just to go out at night—it’s such a blind spot. That awareness, that reaction, is something I really appreciate. It reminds me how important it is to keep these conversations going.
There are still relatively few films cantered on deaf characters or led by deaf characters. What do you think needs to change in the industry to encourage broader visibility?
That’s a good question. I was talking to Henrianne, the deaf actress, about this just yesterday. In the beginning, she said a few times, ‘Why do I need my sister to talk for me? I can do it myself.’ That’s something she has struggled with in her life—being deaf and constantly expected to need help. I explained to her that this film isn’t about her being deaf. You could have been a hearing person and still needed support—you need help because you’ve been raped and it’s terrifying to speak out. That’s the heart of it.
There are many films where characters are deaf and that’s not the issue—it’s not about their deafness. It’s about being a person in the world. In our story, Henrianne happens to be deaf, so she has an interpreter, but it’s really about the emotional experience, the relationships, the story.
Of course, working with a deaf actress comes with practical challenges. She always needs an interpreter, and the actors around her have to learn some sign language—Sigrid had to, for example—or rely on the interpreter. When we were in the States last week, I noticed sign language is used much more widely. In a restaurant, at a hotel, even on the street, people were communicating with her in sign language. I asked about it and was told it’s considered their third language, alongside English and Spanish. I don’t know why, but it’s much more common there. We need to be braver here and create more spaces for deaf people. It takes time, but it’s essential.
What’s next for you? Are you planning anything else? Are you working on anything new?
I’m working on a few projects, but my biggest wish is, of course, to write and direct a feature film. I’m seriously considering adapting this story into a feature. I’m really drawn to the dynamic between the two sisters—it’s fascinating. I’ve even written a backstory for them and would love to explore it further.
I’m also interested in how the older woman continues to deal with her trauma, and ultimately, I’d love to see the two generations become allies in whatever challenges they face. I’m not there yet, and I don’t know exactly how it will unfold, but that’s the vision I’m working toward.
Beyond Silence is more than a short film—it is a call to witness, understand, and engage. Through her sensitive direction, Blok not only illuminates the experience of survivors but also challenges audiences to reflect on the roles we all play in creating a safer, more empathetic world. With the possibility of adapting the story into a feature, Blok’s vision of intergenerational dialogue and healing continues to grow, promising a powerful cinematic voice that insists on being heard.
Megan Hilborne (Instagram: meghillbilly) is a freelance writer and film critic based in Portsmouth. She graduated with a degree in Film in 2020 and has continued her study of the medium in her day-to-day life. She takes particular interest in indie, horror, feminist and queer cinema.
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