There aren’t too many ways to express love that isn’t better personified in a look, a glance from across the room of longing and desire. It’s this deeper sense of connection that bonds people together as they feel less alone in a crowded room. We all long to have that experience as we wander aimlessly through our daily lives. When that moment hits, the world feels different. It feels fuller like we’re about to ascend to a higher calling. Even as I describe what a look feels like, there is nothing that anyone but you can get in a glance because it’s specially made for you. Your reaction can’t be the same as mine.
So, how do you capture that on film? Over the course of her career, director Céline Sciamma has done an incredible job exploring how women are seen in society. To look back at films like Water Lilies (2007) and Tomboy (2011) is to question perception, forcing the viewer to sympathize with those internal struggles. With her latest, Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), she took it in a more literal direction. It’s the story of a painter assigned to create a portrait of a reclusive woman, herself unsure of the world. They are stuck on an island together, free from judgmental eyes and together they will fall in love gradually.
The story begins at a distant date. The painter Marianne (Noémie Merlant) is now a teacher, observing her students as they form their own craft. At a certain point, they comment on an old painting that Marianne had made years ago. She calls it “Portrait of a Lady on Fire,” which finds a woman on a beach. At the start of the story, it is this flight of fancy that has no meaning. Nobody is really sure who that lady is. By the end, it has a deeper resonance.
The “portrait” is not the one that she was assigned to paint. That is more of a classical profile portrait. The only connection between her assignment and the later portrait is that they’re inspired by the same woman: Héloïse (Adèle Haenel). She is the quiet, distant type who has been rattled by the death of her sister and this feeling of imprisonment on the island. She is constantly being surveyed by people, judged for things she’s clearly not doing. She can’t connect with anyone until she finds a deeper bond with Marianne.
Marianne is observant. Not just in the way that a painter notices the small freckles on a face, but in the way that a face will change as the emotions overwhelm them. The repressed Héloïse begins to open up when it is revealed that Marianne is ravaged by her behavior. The way that she describes her facial movements, even when standing perfectly still, create this underlying sense of affection that Héloïse clearly hasn’t felt for another person. As they walk around the cliffs, overlooking the seas, they slowly begin to accept each other, giving into intimate conversations that reveal the happiness deep down inside.
The portrait almost doesn’t matter by the end, even if it’s the document for which Marianne has been assigned. It’s her lasting legacy with Marianne, and it’s all in a quest to capture some emotion in Héloïse’s face. There is this desire to free the repression.
But the “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” is different. It’s pulled from a different experience. They’re there on the beach listening to a local choir harmonize a beautiful song. As Héloïse listens, she finds herself too close to a fire. Her dress catches on fire. The moment must’ve stayed with Marianne because there’s little sense to say that she drew it during her stay. It likely came from a lingering memory, of one lodged so deep in her that it just had to come out, finally being displayed publicly in the hopes that Héloïse would see and understand, reminding her of their personal romance. They may have moved on, but there is the sense that neither has forgotten those deeper emotions.
It’s a love story about observation, about feeling seen by someone from across a room. The fact that it came from a painter only clarifies the value of art as a form of deeper expression. Painting is a laborious task, where one wrong stroke can ruin hours and days of hard work. There are times when Marianne is seen burning portraits out of frustration, tired of criticism. She can’t capture Héloïse’s soul on the canvas. Not yet, anyway. Still, she tries, waiting to feel like she’s captured it. The profile portrait maybe gets close to it, but the lady on fire feels more honest as if capturing the inner desire that both shared for each other. The outside world will think it’s just a lady on fire, but Marianne will know that it’s something greater.
Almost two centuries later, there was another woman observing her love through a different medium. Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) is a photographer who works at a retail store during one Christmas season. Life seems stable for her as she floats through life, dreaming of boat trips with her boyfriend Richard (Jake Lacy). There is nothing wrong with her life, but it feels stagnant like there is nothing worthwhile. She could be using her talents for better use, and her friend Dannie (John Magaro) encourages her to send her photograph to “The Times,” who always have a temp job going.
Whereas Portrait of a Lady on Fire finds two women largely alone on an island, Carol (2015) is far more crowded. There is always someone around the corner, creating this sense of judgmental eyes. Therese is lonely until one day when she meets Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett). She doesn’t even need to talk to her. You get the shift in Therese’s body. She becomes more upright, her eyes more focused on Carol from across the room. It feels rude when people interrupt this trance and ask her where the bathroom is. She wants this moment to work, and yet she is confined to her workspace, her own personal island. She needs to talk to Carol.
The moment is a great introduction to Carol, who is out buying gifts for her daughter Rundy. Small conversation leads to clues about Therese’s past. For one she preferred trains to dolls. As Carol begins asking personal questions, Therese trips up, feeling surprised that anyone would take an interest in her life that much. The passion grows in her eyes as a mundane task of ordering a train set leads to this deeper beckoning. Carol has a “come hither” tone like she too is in on the flirt. As she walks away, she compliments Therese with a quick “I like the hat!” She also left behind her gloves so that Therese has no choice but to personally track her down to continue this conversation.
Things evolve and suddenly Carol and Therese decide to go on a personal trip together. This is in the midst of an ugly divorce with her husband Harge (Kyle Chandler) over her previous lover Abby Gerhardt (Sarah Paulson). They weren’t even together when they married. Harge is insecure about Carol loving anyone but him, and it drives him to hire people to spy on them, finding blackmail for the court case.
From behind a camera, Therese seeks to capture Carol in all of her beauty as she wanders around. Therese has been said to lack an interest in humans, which makes her trigger finger all the more shocking. She is constantly finding angles to capture her. They buy each other gifts, laugh as they drive across the country, and find a sense of purpose in each other’s company. Together they are free, but even then there is the sense that a judgmental eye is around the corner, waiting to rat on their relationship. Even from behind smiles, the idea of them being open about their feelings seems difficult. They can be “gal pals,” but nothing more. As Therese’s ex Richard now points out, being queer in 1950s America was still seen as a mental illness. Much like how Harge was coming for a divorce, Richard denigrates Carol because there is this sense that Therese is crazy. Though if you ask Therese: she’s never been more wide awake.
Even during a third act separation, there is the sense that they never stopped thinking about each other. As Carol sees Therese, she glances despite her not looking back. There are these temptations to talk to each other, but they want to go about their own lives.
Much like Marianne’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Therese has her own personal picture of Carol. It’s not one of her in a Christmas tree lot or sitting in a restaurant. She’s clearly posing for something more intimate. Dannie compliments the picture, continuing to believe that she needs to submit a portfolio to The Times. It’s only after he sees this picture that Therese begins to see her own potential. For the first time she saw something in humanity worth photographing, and maybe she could grow to find more beauty in the world. Still, this personal picture of Carol is one that will likely hang in her room, reminding her of the wonderful times they had together.
Both stories end with smiles in a crowded room. The only difference is how each takes this moment. For Portrait of a Lady on Fire, there feels like there’s no chance that Marianne and Héloïse will ever get back together. Marianne even comments about how she didn’t see her, even as she looked across an opera house at her. Still, Marianne observes Héloïse and watches her respond to the orchestra. The audience has heard this passage before but played on an organ. Héloïse has never heard music this full of life before. There is no choice but to think that this is Héloïse remembering Marianne, as the music plays into their relationship. Is she overwhelmed by hearing a familiar melody in a new way, or does it bring up those powerful memories? Maybe it’s a mix of both, but the long take focuses on her face, crying and smiling as the song does its mystical dance.
In Carol, it plays a bit more optimistic. Having been separated for some time, Carol invites Therese to dinner. After some refusal, Therese finally barges in, looking through a series of tables. She even ignores the waiter. She doesn’t care if they’re judging her. She needs to be with Carol. As she finally lands on her table, Carol looks up and smiles. It is assumed that they are finally together, ready to take on a new era of their life together at Carol’s new house.
Even if separated by centuries and masses, both stories reflect how artists learn to form their own personal passion. Deep down their emotions are very clear. They have created these intimate forms of expression, whether a portrait or photograph, that captures just how much the love meant to them. Because we have been with them on this entire journey, we understand where the deeper symbolism lied. Having a story within this story makes us see beauty where the world around us sees ambiguity.
Love is impossible to properly capture on film without it coming across as a bit trivial. That’s just because of how earnest the act can be. We all deserve to be loved, but few know how to capture it as an artistic form of expression and have it matter to a larger audience. Love is different to us all, and that’s what Sciamma and Carol’s director Todd Haynes perfected. It’s not so much the words that are used, but how one can look at another and feel like there’s this deeper connection inside. It’s that moment where you feel less alone, even in a place as crowded as a retail store. It’s a difficult thing to find, but when you find it you feel like the luckiest person in the world. It comes at different times for us all, and it’s best to find ways to hold onto that feeling.
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