If you are a lover of film, you may have heard of Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Directed by Céline Sciamma and released in 2019, this French historical romance has been hailed by many critics as the definition of the female gaze in cinema. The female gaze, a term originally coined in the seventies, has become somewhat of a buzzword lately in the film world. It refers to a feminist literary theory in which a female creator of a work depicts female characters and the world through their eyes as being inherently and more importantly, authentically feminine. We’ve seen directors such as Sofia Coppola and Greta Gerwig incorporate this theory in many of their works, and the frequency in which this term can be used to describe a film is thankfully on the rise, despite the overwhelming lack of female representation in directing.
We see excellent use of this style in Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Set in eighteenth century France, it is a tale of forbidden love, the artist and her muse, with a Shakespearean poignancy of the star-crossed lovers trope. It follows two female characters, Marianne played by Noémie Merlant, an artist who is sent to secretly paint a wedding portrait of Héloïse, an unknowing subject, played by Adèle Haenel. As the two women fall in love, we see exactly how the idea of the female gaze is so deeply entrenched in every aspect of this film. The intimacy in this film is slow-moving, lingering, and gentle with an air of softness to it – yet the anger beneath the depths of this female tenderness is ever present and palpable. It is an anger with the injustice of their places as women in a male dominated world.
Marianne struggles to paint Héloïse. Her first attempt is passionately rejected by Héloïse, who only just then finds out the truth about Marianne’s visit and is angry not only at the deception, but at learning that this is how Marianne sees her. The essence of Héloïse is impossible to capture until both women accept to live in the truth of who they really are. When their relationship deepens we see Héloïse’s character develop from being quiet, serious and unhappy (as portrayed in Marianne’s first portrait of her), to being filled with life and emotion (as seen in the final portrait.)
We often see the camera linger on close-up shots of their bodies in a drawn-out and intimate style. Something as simple as a shot of a hand resting on a lap becomes symbolic of want and desire.
The intent in which they slowly learn to understand each other speaks to the creation of the portrait. The nape of the neck, the crease behind the ear or the depths of the eyes are poured over with purposeful concentration. However, the artist must study her subject on equally internal and external levels to create her final masterpiece, the realised portrait, the fruition of requited love.
So why is this microscopic detailing of the human anatomy so common in Sciamma’s portrayal of the female gaze? When you compare the overtly fetishised representation of sexuality via the male gaze, especially that of queer women, the two couldn’t be more dissimilar. The truth really comes down to the point that female sexuality is not simply represented by carnal, full-frontal nudity and sex-scenes. Sciamma proves this point masterfully. Portrait of a Lady on Fire doesn’t need the inclusion of traditional sex scenes to evoke deep sensuality. As the two study one another, their perception is narrowed down into minute moments. When the world does not make space for the women, their scope is reduced. To leverage their power against this is to have the ability to find beauty in the minutia of moments. The narrowing of the eyes or the flicker of a hand, will speak to an entire inner world of feeling. It gives a sense of expansion in even the most restrictive of spaces. This is why the beach and the sea are such important and symbolic places in the film. At the beach, when Héloïse wants to go for a swim, Marianne asks her whether she can swim or not. Héloïse responds that she does not know and even after she goes out to swim, she still does not know whether she can do so or not. The act of swimming is a metaphor for freedom, and Héloïse, a gay woman being forced into marriage, will never know true freedom. Despite all of this, the water, like Marianne, quells the fire within her.
Their positions in their relationship are polarised and elemental. Marianne is a woman who can live with some degree of autonomy, she does not need to marry, and she can live independently thanks to her career. Throughout the film, she flows through the various stages of her life with a water-like fluidity. Héloïse however, does not have this luxury. Moreover, whatever semblance of independence she has is taken from her when she is asked to leave the monastery to get married. Her despair burns with heated anger and the elements aid her in becoming a physical manifestation of her passion. She is a lady on fire.
When they are on the beach, Marianne acknowledges the difference in their positions in life. However, Héloïse responds by saying that, ‘We’re in the same place, we’re in exactly the same place.’ The two women share the same desires and sense of injustice in the world, despite not sharing the same opportunities. As their relationship grows, they begin to see each other through one another’s eyes with Héloïse taking on Marianne’s large, distinctive eyes as her own. Their love and understanding of their similarities and differences has merged their souls into one. It is a literal representation of looking at oneself through the gaze of another female.
A noticeable element of Portrait of a Lady on Fire is its distinct lack of male characters. In this space without men, there is no need for performative smiles, laughter, or societal expectations of displays of contentment. In the female-centric space, being angry is allowed, moreover, it is understood. It is finding power in the inherent pain of womanhood. Over time, with the allowance of anger towards the injustice of the patriarchal world, laughter comes naturally. In lifting the weight of oppression, even temporarily, space is created for the ebb and flow of genuine, unrestrained emotion, just like the sea they frequent which is always in flux and never apologetic. This liminal state is brought to an abrupt end with the introduction of a man, Héloïse’s prospective husband. His presence is jarring given the lack of male faces throughout the film, he is an alien being, an unsafe intruder in their dream world, purposeful yet ignorant in representing the end of their romance.
Years on, after the heartache of losing one another, it is Marianne who sees Héloïse twice. She spots a portrait of her in a gallery she is exhibiting in and she sees her again at an orchestra performance, but Héloïse does not notice her back. From a distance, Marianne watches Héloïse finally enjoy the full form of the music Marianne modestly played for her on the piano years previously. We watch Héloïse once again, through Marianne’s perspective. Her face displays a vast array of emotions – of pain, pleasure, loss and love. She has ironically attended the performance alone, she now has the freedom to do this due to her marriage. In this full circle moment of closure, Marianne the painter studies the intricacies of Héloïse for the very last time, separated by the length of the concert hall, once again, unbeknownst to her.
Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire proves how the representation of the female gaze in film provides an earth-shattering and visceral sense of poignancy when it comes to love and romance. It is simple, idiosyncratic, and most importantly, it evokes a very rare feeling of reality and authenticity to this epic love story.
