Portrait of a Lady on Fire

Picture the moody period-drama and queer love affair of The Favourite mixed with the tender, heartbreaking tone and sultry cinematography of Call Me By Your Name, and maybe you’ll come halfway close to the beauty that is Portrait of a Lady on Fire. French writer/director Céline Sciamma (Girlhood) has given us a female-focused masterpiece about the creation of art, the emergence of love and the most honest lesbian romance ever depicted on screen.

Sciamma’s fifth feature stars an intensely transfixing Noémie Merlant as Marianne, an 18th-century painter commissioned to create a wedding portrait of Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) — an act that will be used to ensure her subject’s arranged marriage to a Milanese nobleman. The only problem is that Marianne, contracted by Héloïse’s mother (Valeria Golino), must paint the portrait in secret. The bride-to-be has previously scared off another artist, a man, by refusing to pose for him — a surefire sign of rejection of her daunting fate. She’s also overcome with the grief of losing her sister to a sudden, tragic, possibly suicidal death and has been forced to leave her convent in order to take her sister’s place and effectively secure her family’s financial stability.

As Marianne embarks on her confidential quest — under the guise of a hired companion for Héloïse’s seaside walks — she unknowingly embarks on another journey, that of an unforeseen love affair with her subject. At the same time, she must reconcile the guilt she feels by effectively sealing Héloïse’s fate of nuptial oppression. The narrative that unfolds is not the typical secret-ruse-turned-angry-betrayal-turned-eventual-love-story but, rather, is so much more intelligent, evocative and compassionate than that.

The production design, costuming and images all strike the perfect tonal balance of indulgence and modesty, a notion that feels authentic and of the time without feeling like a stuffy, pretentious period piece. The massive, echoing castle in which the women reside is stark but still comfortable, as are the gowns they wear, which are few and unfrilly but still elegant.

The exquisite cinematography by Claire Mathon is especially striking and genuinely looks as if it has been lifted directly from an oil painting. Featuring myriad stunningly intimate interior scenes glowing with candlelight and gorgeously sweeping shots of French island seascapes, the lighting, colors and textures are nothing short of visual poetry. Mathon’s lens moves as slowly and deliberately as the women it focuses on, using long takes that subtly savor the unconscious conversation in their body language and close-ups that peer deeply into each character’s silent internal monologue.

Along with the anxious zoom-ins of classically trained painter Hélène Delmaire’s drawing hands (standing in for Merlant’s) and the tense eroticism created as the women kiss for the first time after removing their scarf-veiled lips, Mathon and Sciamma have effortlessly captured the intense emotional and physical metamorphosis of their subjects and created a gaze all their own.

In an exciting departure from other romantic dramas, the filmmakers sidestep the trope of power imbalance between two lovers. Here, there’s hardly any disparity between each woman — both are relatively the same age and of the same mind. Though Héloïse is of a higher social status, she must endure a much heavier social burden and thus enjoys far less freedom than Marianne. As such, their mobility — both socially and emotionally — feels nearly equal. There’s an equity to their romance that makes the film feel fresh, freeing and truly one of a kind.

Furthering the film’s compelling dynamic is the electric and altogether intoxicating physical chemistry between the two primary actresses. Nearly every scene they share creates a new type of silently sensual choreography. The way they interact — slow, stolen stares; long, heavy breaths; hands ever intertwined — masterfully conveys the quiet, intensely rhythmic dialogue of two women falling in love. The palpable tension crafted between each yearning glance suspends the film in an all-consuming way — viewers are completely enveloped as the camera not only focuses on the female gaze and its desire but unapologetically revels in it.

All these facets work in unison to create a pleasing blend of historical accuracy and contemporary sensibility — an understanding that does not fetishize feminine fashion or desire but instead depicts it honestly and truthfully.

Adding to the film’s many assets, the role of art as a means of unspoken expression is never more apparent or valuable than in Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Marianne comments on her relationship with painting, explaining that she’s unable to paint nudes of male bodies — a symbol of genuine artistic prowess, according to the time — because she is a woman, and it would be considered improper. She remarks that she does so in secret and laments the notion that only men are afforded the title of greatness, primarily because of their access to practice it.

The moment that most explicitly exemplifies this sacred artistic freedom is a gorgeous nighttime beach scene in which a group of townswomen surround a large bonfire and begin humming a Latin psalm in unison. At first, it sounds like a melodic church hymn but quickly evolves into an anthemic chant — witchlike and poignantly female in its pitch and tone — that unites each woman in its deeply cathartic expression. The scene serves as a crescendo for the central figures’ emotional tumult, as the translation of the song reiterates, “I am trapped/We rise.” It’s an achingly moving scene and a smartly stirring use of diegetic music, culminating with Héloïse’s dress catching fire as she openly sobs for all she has lost and is about to lose.

The film’s use of music, though lean, is incredibly impactful. As Héloïse admits that she has never seen an orchestra and rarely listens to it outside of religious services, Marianne plays a piece she loves — the “Summer” section of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons — on an old piano for her. Describing the music as “not merry, but lively,” she affectionately explains the impetus behind each tempo change — conveying the anxiety of an incoming storm and the subsequent awakening of nature just before it — and secretly relays her own romantic awakening with Héloïse. It’s a moment so tender yet intimate that when it’s reflected in a crucial scene later on, it serves as a brilliantly identifiable emotional gut punch.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire thoughtfully explores the idea of love as not only a feeling, but as a memory — love is flexible, ever-changing, growing and, sometimes, haunting. It’s a memory that can sustain you long after the feeling is gone. With Marianne’s painfully heartbreaking line, “Don’t regret. Remember,” the audience is invited along with Héloïse to feel the deep anguish that inherently accompanies the inevitable farewell of star-crossed lovers.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire also argues that art, in all forms, represents both the limitations and freedoms that all women must grapple with. Through music, painting and the reading of myths, our heroines communicate their hushed desires and freely revel in their deepest emotional truths. In this way, art is positioned as a means to look deep inside the parts of women’s lives that have been almost entirely absent from history. Women’s work— be it domestic, artistic or aristocratic — and their private lives are deeply underrepresented in historical artistic depictions. Sciamma aims to not only highlight a glimpse of what’s long been missing but advocates for its continued importance.

The film additionally reflects the fact that women, particularly queer women, have always lived full, significant lives, though much of it has had to take place in secret or silence. Portrait of a Lady on Fire masterfully celebrates this clandestine feminine truth while thoughtfully acknowledging the suppressive constraints of society and begs the question: What other facets of women’s history have been concealed? What other great works of art have been hidden at the expense of societal shaming? These quandaries, while bittersweet, ultimately leave me feeling hopeful and intrigued at the thought of other lost but nonetheless great women artists.

Starts Feb. 28 at Grail Moviehouse