In Everybody Loves Touda, Moroccan director Nabil Ayouch crafts a poignant and deceptively complex portrait of a woman chasing artistic freedom in a world that insists on defining her limits.
The film follows Touda, a fiery and determined single mother who dreams of becoming a renowned Cheikha — a traditional Moroccan singer and dancer often stigmatized for her art. Played with magnetic intensity by Nisrin Erradi, Touda leaves her rural town behind in search of opportunity in the towering chaos of Casablanca.
The opening minutes set the tone: Touda performs with joy and abandon, only to flee from a group of leering men. Their footsteps echo behind her in a sequence that becomes metaphor for much of what follows — a woman always running, never fully free.
Touda’s path is lined with both pain and perseverance. She finds kinship in Rqiya (Jalila Talemsi), a friend who teaches her the lyrical traditions of Aita, and solace in the silent love of her deaf-mute son Yassine (Joud Chamihy). These relationships ground her, even as the city tests her resolve.
Ayouch, co-writing with longtime collaborator Maryam Touzani, slowly peels away the illusion that Casablanca might be a haven for Touda’s artistry. The turning point comes when she is invited to perform at an upscale venue. For the first time, the audience listens respectfully. The dream seems within reach.
But the moment is short-lived. A well-dressed man throws money at her and offers her more — not for her music, but for herself. Ayouch breaks the illusion masterfully: the applause may be real, but the respect is not. In the end, Touda is still expected to play a role defined by others.
The film’s title — Everybody Loves Touda — becomes bitterly ironic. They love her voice, her energy, her presence. But only so long as she conforms.
Ayouch’s direction avoids caricature. Not all men in Touda’s life are predators. Her father and a quiet, supportive violinist offer warmth. Her brother, portrayed by Abdelilah Rachid, wrestles with shame over her profession but deeply loves her son.
This nuance adds depth to Ayouch’s argument: the patriarchy is not embodied in individuals alone, but in the systems and silences that shape them. Touda’s decision to continue her son’s education despite financial hardship reinforces this. Identity, the film insists, is forged through choices — not stereotypes.
The final scene shows Touda alone in an elevator, her smile slipping as she faces the silence once again. The ending, open and unflinching, leaves viewers questioning what it truly costs to choose oneself.
Premiering at the 2025 Cannes Film Festival, Everybody Loves Touda earned Best Screenplay and Best Actress at the Critics’ Awards for Arab Films. With its bold performances and haunting musical storytelling, Ayouch’s latest work is a powerful ode to female agency — and the steep price it can carry.
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