“In solitude, I felt the liberty you spoke of. But I also felt your absence.”
There’s a scene in Portrait of a Lady on Fire, where Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) reads aloud from the Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice. The passage in question comes right at the end, when Orpheus, having the chance to return from the underworld with his deceased love, turns and look at her in defiance of Hades’ warning to the contrary -in so doing losing her forever. It prompts an in-scene debate about why Orpheus turned at the risk of his eternal love. “He chooses the memory of her,” asserts Marianne (Noémie Merlant). “He doesn’t make the lovers’ choice, but the poets’.” Still, Héloïse insists Orpheus could not help it, citing an audible farewell Eurydice gives him, “Perhaps she was the one who said ‘turn around’.”
That Orphic theme returns throughout the film, to give context to the relationship between the engaged young noblewoman Héloïse and her portrait painter Marianne, during their brief time together on an island off the coast of Brittany. Staving off an inevitable parting with the spectre of Héloïse’s wedding and the completion of Marianne’s portrait, they have the advantage over Orpheus in that they know the other is really there in the dark with them, but also that their permanent severance is a certainty.
Portrait of a Lady on Fire represents the filmmaking maturity of its writer-director Céline Sciamma, her first truly adult film following sterling coming-of-age dramas Water Lilies, Tomboy, and Girlhood, each of which approaches youth in a different yet personal way and improves ever so slightly upon the last. This film though reveals a wholly new filmmaker, linked to the themes and ambitions of those past works but with a much wider scope. Her trademark feminist and LGBTQ subject matter remains powerful, but employed here with much more nuanced depth for her great adult love story.
And it really is an exceptional one. Portrait of a Lady on Fire is far from the first period-set drama about a forbidden homosexual romance -that’s something of a cottage industry in of itself. But it might just be the best, transcending each and every convention of such stories with expertise and unmatched conviction. Marianne and Héloïse’s relationship is equal parts passionate and profound from long before they act on their feelings, when the former is merely posing as the latters’ new walking companion because she will not pose in the literal sense for anyone. Because to pose for a painting is for Héloïse, to resign herself to marriage, to a life she doesn’t want. And so Marianne must see to her task secretly, engaging Héloïse, watching her, memorizing her face; and as she does, we’re privy to the spell falling over her, not just in Héloïse’s beauty but her spirit -her indomitable, ponderous nature. Reciprocally, Héloïse is allured by Mariannes’ intellect, freedom, and willingness to understand her own despairs about a perceived lack of such things. And a lot of these effects are explicitly subliminal, the women don’t actually talk to each other much for a while. But when they do, it’s some of the most poetic, contemplative dialogue I’ve seen in the cinema.
Sciamma thrives on these moments of pure feeling and thought, in writing such evocative musings on love and freedom, the films’ greatest themes. And the not so subtle undercurrent to such opining is a deeply resonant desire for equality, for choice. Héloïse and Mariannes’ week together is meaningful not only for the growth of their intimacy but in that, in their isolation, they (and their otherwise restrained servant Sophie, played by Luà na Bajrami) can experience an autonomy restricted to them in the world outside. It enriches their relationship, makes it that much more touching and precious. Because when the portrait is done, it’s not only their love but that fulfilling liberation that comes to an end.
Haenel and Merlant are great on their own, delivering powerhouse performances worthy of accolades and greater exposure; but together they are breathtaking, exuding a natural, sensual chemistry that’s a key to the resonance of this relationship and a large part of what makes the movie so captivating. Each actress builds off the other through both subtle cues and larger gestures in unrehearsed scenes bristling with sexual energy and emotional tension, evoking strong feelings out of a mere cursory glance or a subtle smile. Sciamma has talked a lot about the male gaze in the press tour for this film, and in Portrait of a Lady on Fire she succeeds at subverting it in a number of ways, not least by the near total absence of male characters to identify with. There is no gendered power dynamic, and no objectification of its women -at least not in the way cinema usually does, choosing more interesting ways to illustrate their intimacy than mere run-of-the-mill voyeuristic eroticism.
A lot of this is inherent in the framing, the lighting, and the performances, which render a new but potent sexiness to such scenes of humble passion. But the cinematography through the whole movie is as astoundingly intense. The compositions are magnificent, cinematographer Claire Mathon appropriately shooting the film as if it were a living portrait, with rich colours and daring contrasts. The imagery of the movie is ecstatically memorable, numerous shots being exquisite works of art in their own right. Sciamma and Mathons’ vivid artistic eye in conjunction with the vibrant costuming (colour coding Héloïse and Marianne may have been one of the films’ best choices!) and gloriously atmospheric lighting casts the whole film in a deeply and gracefully mesmerizing splendour of a kind exceptionally rare for a film shot digitally. The music is equally stirring when it rears its head, the two main motifs almost shocking in their grandeur. One is a chilling, operatic chant at a bonfire emblematic of the loudness of the womens’ suppressed desires, and the other is a sampling of the “Summer” concerto of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons –a sneakily significant piece that is used as perfectly as any classical music reference in a movie.
A portrait is often said to be a means of immortality. It was especially so in those days before photography and film when it was the only way to preserve the memory of ones’ likeness. A movie enamoured with the artistic process, Portrait of a Lady on Fire puts a lot of stock in that function of art, and towards the end of the film, greater emphasis is placed on the theme of memory and memento as Héloïse and Marianne must confront the termination of their romantic utopia. Returning to Mariannes’ thoughts on Orpheus and choosing the memory of Eurydice as he turns to see her one last time, there is great value in that sentiment, especially given the foregone hopelessness of this particular love story. But as poetic as it may be, if there is one thing proven by the final long take, one of the most beautifully devastating endings to any film, it is that the memory is not enough for everyone. Thus why she said, “turn around”, and why her lover couldn’t resist the beckoning.
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