Cam, a clever and often terrifying Netflix horror movie about a cam-girl whose identity is stolen, generated massive buzz this year for its sex-positive viewpoint. It was written by an ex cam-girl, adding to the authenticity of the whole enterprise, and ensuring that sex work is presented as a viable career option — something still rarely seen in mainstream cinema. If Flemish Heaven isn’t exactly positive about sex work, the flick at least isn’t negative either or, crucially, judgmental about the reasons a woman might decide to sleep with men for money. It’s still a step in the right direction for representation.

Sylvie is a normal working mother with a young daughter about to turn six. The duo share a modest, suburban home, with the kid clearly wanting for nothing given she has a Furby — the most coveted toy in all the land, even in 2018. In fact, the only thing that’s strange about their sweet mother-daughter relationship is how they share sandwiches in the car outside Sylvie’s workplace which, as she explains to young Eline, is somewhere she helps people who need “hugs.” They can never, ever go inside in spite of Eline’s obvious curiosity about the place. 

The 10th feature from Belgian writer-director Peter Monsaert (Offline) doesn’t signpost the fact that its protagonist is a prostitute. In fact, the word “brothel” isn’t even uttered until about three quarters of the way through. Later, still, the word “whore” is used, first by a rough client and then by a confused Eline who’s being teased in school. There are hints about Sylive’s profession from the outset as she distractedly packs fancy lingerie for what appears to be a trip away, but it’s just the working day ahead, of course.

Prostitution is the family business, with Sylvie working alongside her mother, who started the brothel with her late husband (and Sylvie’s father). Monsaert’s great strength is in portraying their close-knit family unit as completely normal, in spite of the particulars of the job done by both mother and grandmother. At first, it seems Sylvie has everything under control. Although she’s straightforward with her daughter about the facts of life — even explaining where babies come from — she shelters her, too. 

Their whole world comes crashing down, however, when, after venturing inside the brothel, Eline is sexually abused by a client. The doctor examining her believes Sylvie might be involved somehow, given the nature of her work, while a well-meaning but stern police officer points out that the crime scene isn’t exactly “innocent.” Sylvie weeps openly on the drive home, making futile attempts to wipe the abuser’s fingerprints off the steering wheel. She clearly blames herself for what’s happened to her kid, along with everybody else.

Everybody Sylvie comes into contact with passes judgment, but Monsaert makes an impassioned case for her as a single mother just trying to do the best for her family. As played by a steely-eyed Sara Vertongen, recalling a young Meryl Streep in the way her eyes narrow after being patronized or judged, Sylvie looks like a regular working mom. She’s not 20 years old, dressed trashy or hanging out on street corners. Nor is she saved by the affections of the well-meaning Dirk who, unbeknownst to Eline, isn’t actually her uncle. 

Pretty Woman this assuredly ain’t, which is particularly impressive given how prostitution is usually represented in film as either a last resort or the mark of a woman on the edge. Sylvie is completely in control of her family life, until she isn’t. The final act of the film sees both she and Dirk desperately trying to locate the random john who abused Eline. Meanwhile, the once curious kid (who has to return to school in the aftermath, like nothing has happened), retreats into herself, drawing circles over and over again, the true meaning of which is heartbreakingly revealed in the video of her victim testimony.