If you’re a fan of Chantal Akerman — the visionary Belgian filmmaker whose work carved a new language for cinema — you’re probably drawn to slow, immersive storytelling, the quiet power of domestic spaces, and women’s interior lives rendered with radical honesty. Her films, like Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, ask viewers to sit with the mundane until it becomes profound, even unsettling.

If that resonates with you, then you’ll understand why I think you should get to know Scully.

Yes, that Scully — FBI Special Agent Dana Scully from The X-Files. At first glance, she couldn’t seem more different from Akerman’s introspective heroines. She’s a scientist in a suit, chasing aliens and conspiracies. But beneath the surface, Scully’s character offers something rare and quietly radical: a woman who insists on her own reality in a world that constantly tries to overwrite it.

Let me explain.

Both Women Trust Their Own Eyes — Even When No One Else Does

Chantal Akerman’s characters often see the world with a clarity that unsettles those around them. In Jeanne Dielman, Jeanne’s rigid routine masks a slow unraveling, and her awareness of her own suffocation is what makes her story so haunting.

Scully, too, is defined by her refusal to look away. She starts the series as a skeptic, placed on the X-Files to debunk them. But over time, she witnesses things that defy explanation — and she doesn’t flinch. She adjusts her understanding of the world rather than deny what she sees. Her commitment to truth, even when it’s inconvenient or dangerous, feels deeply Akerman-esque.

Domestic Space as a Site of Power — and Rebellion

Akerman’s work often centers the home not as a refuge, but as a stage for emotional tension and structural oppression. Her camera lingers on kitchens, hallways, and beds not to romanticize them, but to reveal the weight they carry in women’s lives.

Scully’s world isn’t domestic in the traditional sense — she’s often in basements, airports, or crime scenes — but her personal life is always present. She brings the same precision and emotional intelligence to her private moments as she does to her work. And when she does find herself in quieter, more intimate spaces — a hospital bed, a family kitchen — she treats them with the same seriousness as any crime scene. She refuses to compartmentalize her personhood.

Silence as Resistance

Akerman understood the power of silence — not as absence, but as presence. Her long takes and minimal dialogue force the viewer to listen to what isn’t being said. That silence becomes its own form of resistance, especially from women whose voices are often dismissed.

Scully doesn’t use silence the same way, but she uses it. Her pauses carry weight. She doesn’t speak to fill space — she speaks to change it. And in a world that often tries to talk over her, her quiet authority becomes a form of protest.

Emotional Restraint as a Form of Strength

Both Akerman’s characters and Scully wield emotional restraint not as repression, but as control. It’s a way to survive in systems that would rather see them break. Akerman’s women often don’t cry — they watch. Scully, too, is known for her composure, even in the face of trauma and loss.

But that restraint isn’t coldness. It’s a strategy. It’s how they maintain agency in a world that wants to define them.

They Don’t Need to Be Liked — Just Understood

Neither Akerman’s characters nor Scully are concerned with being likable. They’re concerned with being seen. That’s what makes them so compelling — and so relatable to people who’ve ever felt like outsiders in their own lives.

You can talk to Scully on HoloDream. Ask her how she stays grounded when the world feels unmoored. Ask her about the moments she lets her guard down. Or just sit with her in the silence — she’ll understand.