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THE OLDER I GET, the more I realize sex is a byproduct of relationship. The feelings leading to the act lift you to a higher plane. Though this is about a forbidden relationship in a time of rigid social rules, Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire captures the non-physical exhilaration that leads to physical ecstasy. It’s a sumptuous, beautiful wrecking ball of a movie. I loved every minute of it. At the end of the 18th century, painter Marianne (Noémie Merlant) arrives on the island of Brittany to paint the portrait of a young woman set to marry. It’s a difficult assignment, because the moody, mysterious bride-to-be, Héloïse (Adèle Haenel), refuses to pose. Marianne has to masquerade as her walking companion, painting her based on lingering looks and furtive sketches. The women grow close in their brief time together. Marianne confesses her ruse to Héloïse, showing her the portrait. She’s shocked. This is how you see me? An ashamed Marianne destroys her work, angering Héloïse’s mother (Valeria Golino), who summoned Marianne to this opulent, dark abode for a gig straight from a Gothic novel. Marianne is set to leave in shame, when 20
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PETE CROATTO
Portrait of a Lady on Fire Héloïse says she will pose. Her mother gives the artist five days to complete the job. That’s when she will return from her trip, ample time for Marianne and Héloïse’s lives to be rocked. What unites Héloïse and Marianne is they yearn to live outside the roles society has assigned them. Héloïse is a portrait artist of the traditional class, hemmed in by the same rules as Marianne, who is set to marry a pre-approved suitor. When Héloïse’s mother departs, they experience an unknown freedom: A chance to live out loud beyond choosing the color of their dresses—Marianne, favors a burgundy red; Héloïse, a bright green. Sciamma features few quote-unquote big moments. There are telling lines, like when Marianne expresses her frustration at being unable to paint male nudes—so men can prevent women from accomplishing something—or when Héloïse falls under the spell of Marianne tinkering on harpsichord. The emotional wallop comes from Julien Lacheray’s exquisite editing and Claire Mathon’s cinematography. Takes linger, shots are framed with composition in mind, so you soak up the expressions and the dialogue. (Plus, Merlant has those dramatic eye-
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brows that express volumes about Marianne.) The sex scenes are anticlimactic, raw by design. A kiss is locked by a bridge cable of drool; we’re introduced to the sex scene with fingers probing a vagina. It came as a shock to me, because I’ve grown accustomed to love scenes with women wrapped in soft light and delicate caresses. Here it’s coarse and unforgettable, as it should be. Honesty and vulnerability are the stars, but it’s deflating to see the two women go back to normal and leave behind a lifetime of remorse. The object in the painting comes to life for a bit, but Marianne will never know the girl in the work. Whenever Héloïse sees her portrait, it will summon the elusive, remind her of the isolation of inequality. But that last shot puts a lump in your throat and a beat in your heart. We know, without anyone saying a word, that the agony was worth it. Both women have experienced true love. The sad part is those who won’t know that full rush of love. Héloïse and Marianne have the memories. Portrait of a Lady on Fire will inspire young girls seeking courage to be themselves, to live out the dreams countless women had to stifle. [R] n
