One of the principles that I take very seriously in life is the idea that every life has a story. While they may never fall into the conventional structuring that we see from Penguin Publishing, there are still moments in every life that is worth mythologizing, adding to the permanent text of the family tree for future generations to discover. As much as that should be true in life, it is something that feels most evident in one’s passing. The story has, theoretically, closed and it’s time to summarize everything that happened. For me, I see it as a final conversation with the deceased to thank them for everything they provided in life.
There is poetry then in the correlation to discovering Petite Maman (2021) within weeks of my grandmother’s passing. In an interview with Letterboxd’s Mitchell Beaupre, director Celine Sciamma noted that a lot of the film was a response to the loss of her grandmother and thus presented some personal challenges. It would be a film that addressed these emotions, though not through the typical big theatrics that most would be keen to. In fact, the film’s brevity at 72 minutes meant that it was restricted to the core elements, not allowing for a single minute to feel out of place as she details one of the most magical films of the past few years. Like the best of cinema, it's an interpretive masterwork that differs per audience member, but is wholly beautiful when taken as an experience.
The premise starts off simple enough. A mother (Nina Meurisse) and daughter Nelly (Josephine Sanz) are seen cleaning out the home of the grandmother. Memories fly by as each object is pulled from the walls. In such quick succession, time passes, and the sense of a moment coming to an end is established. Even within this framework, the title Petite Maman (or “little mother” in English) could be misleading as Nelly is seen in brief moments of leadership, whether it be in packing or providing snacks to her mother while driving. The sense of interpersonal relationship is immediately clear, though for those unfamiliar with where things are going it may come across as a misdirect, especially since Nelly is presented as the more open and seemingly mature one in those early conversations.
If one concept drives the rest of the movie, it’s a comment that Nelly makes early on after leaving grandmother’s now empty home. There is the insecurity that the farewell she gave wasn’t right, that she failed to convey everything she needed to. Compared to her mother, who will spend most of the film “separate” in her own grieving process, there is a disconnect between them that can be predictable. She has barely experienced life whereas her mother has a more intimate familiarity with the deceased, whose love and dependence means something greater. How could they possibly seek to understand what each other is going through and have it serve as closure?
For me, writing those eulogies for family members is the most direct way of closure. There is something cathartic about spending days (or if you need to: weeks) just mulling through the past, picking up a scrapbook of photos or an old letter, and interpreting the greater meaning this moment had. For me, it’s a very insular experience though one I do diligently through research. During that time I’m as much struggling with my own sense of closure as I am looking for stories that might trigger another forgotten memory. I turn to family who knew them better, seeing the reactions those stories give them. I look for something that brings them back to life.
That story may have played differently when I was a child and I think Sciamma realizes that poetically. Whether or not this is seen as time traveling fable, there is something wonderful about removing the conflicts of an adult world and focusing entirely on the raw emotions of a child coming to terms with complicated emotions, likely for the first time. In a move that greatly enhances the film, Sciamma casts two sisters Josephine and Gabrielle Sanz (as Marion) to play daughter and mother (or someone interpreted to be), both at the same age. Grandmother (Margot Abascal) exists as this matriarch between their homes, allowing them to explore and enjoy life. They have a homemade fort out in the woods that they use as their comfort hideaway. Time ceases to have any meaning, where an afternoon can feel like days. There is so much joy in what the film achieves that it becomes less about the intellect of death and childhood sickness (Marion is proposed to have surgery near the end of the story) and more about the direct emotion, the things that can’t be captured in academic language. Its only equivalent is a camera, capturing video or photography in such a way that their essence lives forever.
In these subconscious ways, Petite Maman explores things that are more universal. While a mother and daughter will never be the same age simultaneously, there are chances that they will experience similar revelations when they reach those hallmarks. As childhood turns to adulthood, some will be forgotten while others make formative personalities. Maybe they will make the emotions more regimented, less free-formed and desiring for curiosity. Even in the mother’s early 30s, she could slowly mold her past into something negative, warping the happiness into a collage of misery. The daughter will never understand that, but what she will understand are the times when they are simply together.
Because I have nieces, there is also something emotionally resonant in what Sciamma does with her twin actors. While it could easily be stunt casting to emphasize a shared perspective, there is something greater about them being from almost the same DNA, where there’s instinctively more life inside of them. Sure some actors could convince the audience that they were related, but it isn’t the same as witnessing the magic of a family that hasn’t known any different. It comes with them forming their own language, their own games as they fail to consider the outside world’s demands. It’s something that will never be captured in another dynamic. Because they were there for years learning the same maneuvers of life, they are able to know how to laugh and play in very specific ways.
It’s the type of magic that Sciamma captures almost surreally. This isn’t a saccharine view of life nor is it the “adult child” trope of someone being wise beyond their years. What is here is an honest portrayal of youth and experiencing touchstones that we all must face. The inevitable can be greeted with tragedy, or it can be spoken in a language that very few understand. I don’t know that this is how a mother and daughter would talk to each other if this actually happened, but there is something instinctual about the twin actors relating to each other as people first, whose ability to comprehend something more complex under the surface is beautiful. It’s why I find the simple moments of their journey the most satisfying, such as the effort to make a birthday cake that goes awry. It’s what children do. They’ll make a mess and laugh. However, because of the context that feels like a sepia-tone photograph, there’s something greater at play.
Given that I am around the same age as the mother, there is something to be said about how one views their loved ones. I have yet to lose a parent so I don’t have that personal experience. However, the recent loss of my grandmother has allowed me to comprehend the film in ways that ask me to remember what being young around her was like. What were those days like when she babysat me and I had no choice but to go along with her plans? Unless they’re absolutely formative, they’re difficult to hold onto, and yet when they pass it’s all that you want to do. You no longer have that second opinion to fill in the gaps. It’s the pain of childhood, to be free of the sense of preservation and a need to hold onto everything dear. I understand the sense that time is fragile and we’ll miss these moments, if just because we’re fine not having all the answers. Going on adventures that lead nowhere were the best. Now there’s no choice but to fit it into a work schedule.
As stated earlier, one of those ways is just trying to understand the deceased through other people’s stories. Sciamma has the gift of foresight in Petite Maman and a chance to experience a life before the loss of innocence. It’s a chance to try and formulate the goodbye better than we could with a faulty memory. It’s why I listen to my father, eagerly waiting to hear what he has to say about her life. I wasn’t there. He was much too young for that to be the case. However, there was a point when I’d reach that age. All I could really do is compare where we were on our journeys at that time and see if we hit the same hallmarks. Given that I am not likely to reach many of the age of more significant moments in my grandmother’s life for a little longer, it’s tragic to have that connection gone.
Petite Maman was a movie that I immediately loved with every fiber of my being. It’s true that I feel that way about every Sciamma movie, but this one felt unique. It felt like the honest experimentation that I’ve been waiting for her to achieve, where she dug into something personal and created something that was beyond cinematic expectation. All it could be was honest, allowing for those who connected to feel what she was saying. I love the idea that I get to the end of the 72 minutes and notice the power of brevity, where directness of emotion allows a story to happen without these grand theatrics and self-conscious running times. All that’s there is a memory we’re desperately trying to hold onto, wishing it would last longer.
As with writing my grandma’s eulogy, there are certain moments here that touch me and make me want to go back. I want to rewind and spend time analyzing certain phrasing, what made us laugh hysterically for no reason. These moments may make up the story but they’re not great conflict builders. All they represent are the reasons we continue to produce empathy in the world, if just to make each other’s lives better, to have a sense that we were here. More importantly, we want to see beyond the artifice of narrative and just accept that lives are messy and complicated, and sometimes they don’t make sense. As we get older, trying to make sense is inevitable. What’s harder is trying to just accept them for what they are: memories. Sometimes that’s just the best way to view them.
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