Portrait of a Lady on Fire

By: Jennifer Verzuh

Celine Sciamma’s film Portrait of a Lady on Fire is all about the power of a gaze. Unlike much of cinema though, it’s not the male gaze operating as the dominating force here. In fact, that’s entirely absent, as are men in general. This is a story about women looking at one another and being seen in all respects and the extraordinary beauty and impact in that.

It’s an unsurprising subject really as the film from early on has an artist adamantly studying her subject. Marianne (Noémie Merlant), a painter, has been commissioned by a French countess in late 18th century Brittany, France to complete a portrait of her daughter Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) for her impending overseas marriage. The complication though is that she must do so in secret as Héloïse refuses to sit for a picture in protest of the marriage. As a result, Marianne is presented as her walking companion, observing her looks by day and doing her best to replicate them on the canvas at night.

The camera mimics Marianne’s eyes as she seeks out and attempts to memorize Héloïse’s features. Cinematographer Claire Mathon’s camera delicately, intimately pushes in on her face making the shape of the back of her ear feel as hugely important and beautiful as the sweeping shots of the rocky coast she also captures. These moments establish the artist-subject relationship and the gaze that naturally accompanies it. Sciamma beautifully upends and transforms this style of looking though as the relationship between the women changes. They become friends and then, quite naturally and thrillingly, lovers.

The ladies’ glances go from those communicating art, empathy and curiosity to desire and love. For the first time Héloïse allows herself to be seen. It’s something she’s been resisting for so long as she viewed the act of being admired as the route to her marriage and, thus, the end of her freedom. However, in Marianne’s eyes she finds comfort, agency and intimacy in being known outwardly and inwardly. Meanwhile, Marianne is startled to find she’s been studied as well and sees the gaze she gives her subject returned.

Sciamma’s brilliant script demands much of its four total performers, especially Merlant and Haenel, who rise to the challenge beautifully. Everything rests in these long and short glances and small shifts in conversation or body language that are monumental to the women and audience. They each feel fully realized on their own with individual passions, personality, struggles and histories, but watching them circle each other until they’re fully intertwined in their connection is a small miracle. Their connection and chemistry is lively and aches.  Even when things aren’t explicitly said they’re deeply felt thanks to their generous, open performances.

I would be remiss not to mention and praise Luàna Bajrami, though, who plays the family’s maid Sophie. Her character is not who audiences coming out for a lesbian period romance would expect much from or who are really interested in seeing. Yet, she is wonderful and feels perfectly at place here and with the others in funny, warm moments as well as those that are more difficult.

Sciamma, as a director, seems dedicated not only to showcasing the romantic love between women, but in investigating all of their different bonds that exist between them like friendship, employee and boss and mother-daughter. Every thread of this film, including an excellently written and performed subplot concerning Sophie, are distinctly femnine experiences that can really only be shared with and seen by other women. We’re lucky Sciamma has allowed us to see it all unfold as well in this tour de force.