A Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)

Directed by Céline Sciamma

Women in Space and Time Part 3/3

(Our) Space

In a delightful scene, reminiscent of an all-girls pajama party, somewhere in the middle of A Portrait of a Lady on Fire, the main characters Marianne (Noémie Merlant), Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) and Sophie (Luàna Bajrami) read Ovid’s retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice aloud. With rising tension they intone the last scene of the myth, as Orpheus, who was explicitly told by Hades not to look back before he and his beloved cross the threshold to the world of the living, looks back and dooms Eurydice to a second death and an eternity in the underworld. “Read it again!” Sophie demands, Héloïse reads the passage for a second and third time, a wild discussion erupts, giggling laughter. Orpheus was right to turn around, or was he, why would he do such a thing? Sophie is inconsolable, Héloïse thinks it was impatience, but Marianne offers another interpretation: “He made not the lover’s choice, but a poet’s.”

Art and myth are at the heart of Orpheus’ world, he is the the son of Apollo, God of the sun, poetry, truth and prophesy (to name just a few of his responsibilities), and Calliope, the muse of eloquence and epic poetry. It is no wonder, then, that their son found himself the protagonist of one of the most enduring myths of all time. A myth of opposites – love and loss, music and silence, light and darkness and, of course, life and death. A myth that has been told and retold by countless painters, musicians, writers and poets – an interpretation game for the ages. Céline Sciamma (no doubt also daughter of some creativity related deity) takes on the myth in A Portrait of a Lady on Fire, a deeply sapphic movie about a painter and her muse, her reflection.

Part 1: From under the Eyelids

Unlike the myth, the movie begins with Marianne’s journey to the underworld, as is tradition, on a boat with a lone disinterested ferryman. Clutching her painting materials, she braces herself against the unrelenting waves of the ocean, until the boat almost keels over and throws her canvasses over board. Although the ocean is no less dangerous than the river Styx itself, Marianne flings herself after the canvasses and retrieves them, while being impartially watched by the only man we’ll see for a while. Now having undergone the full passage ritual, she finally arrives at the island, where she’s supposed to paint a portrait of Héloïse, a reclusive young woman, as a wedding gift for her betrothed in Italy. Should the future prospect like the painting, he will take Héloïse and, most importantly, her mother from the dreary island in the Normandy to shimmering Milan.

On the beach alone …. you know the rest.

Héloïse is not as eager as her dear mother the Countess (Valeria Golino), about being married off to a random rich guy, as she was raised in a convent and wasn’t prepared for marriage whatsoever. Unfortunately, her older sister, the one who was supposed to get married, flung herself off a cliff prior to the events of the movie, so the younger daughter has to suffice to rescue the family from financial ruin. The Countess tells Marianne that she is to pose as Héloïse’s walking companion, as she is the second painter who tried to paint Héloïse’s portrait, after she categorically refused to pose for the first one (a man). Marianne is given the task of observing Héloïse during their shared walks along the cliffs, where her sister killed herself, and the beach below.

Prior to Eurydice’s death, her love story with Orpheus was as clear as day. He was an amazing artist, a musician to rival the God of the sun himself. When he played, the world swayed in the rhythm of his lyre. When she heard him play, it was pretty much a done deal. They fell in love and were soon married. Marianne, on the other hand, cannot directly woo her muse with her skills, she has to observe, catch glimpses, of eyes, hands, neck and shoulders, and then carefully transcribe what she saw at night in the dim candlelight of her sparse studio. The image is distorted by memory and twilight. Her inspiration, her muse, cannot be directly looked upon, they walk in silence.

Their tragic and incredibly beautiful downfall begins when Marianne finishes the portrait of the person she surreptitiously observed for days. The Countess is eager to please her daughter’s future husband and wants to send the portrait to him at once, but Marianne, consumed by guilt, asks her whether she can show it to Héloïse first and come clean. During their walks, the two women have grown fond of each other and shared enough time together that it feels wrong not to tell her at that point. Conflict arises nonetheless, as Héloïse despises the face she sees staring back at her, a face devoid of any sharp characteristics or imperfections, an idea of a beautiful woman, a mockery of the living breathing human she perceives herself to be. Here, too, Sciamma’s retelling diverges from the myth.

In any adaptation, be it Ovid, Virgil or Gaiman, Orpheus felt unapologetically real. His talent and art are real, in Anaïs Mitchell’s interpretation the natural world’s reaction to his song is even shown in occurrences like rain, sunshine or the changing of seasons. Subsequently we, the reader, experience his emotions with him. His infatuation with Eurydice, his grief when she dies, and his hubris and utter unraveling at the fateful moment in the underworld. Even his death is visceral in a sense hers isn’t. While he was torn apart by a horde of ravenous women (I mean…), she was killed by a snake, a silent killer no one saw coming.

In A Portrait of a Lady on Fire Héloïse is only silent while, she’s being deceived, observed and painted without her consent. Confronted with Marianne’s art, however, she is utterly and vocally unimpressed, even doubting the painter’s qualifications and artistry. As soon as she turns from object to subject, she demands to be heard, demands space. Something Eurydice never was afforded. Pained by the rejection, something Orpheus never experienced, Marianne destroys the painting just before the Countess’ inspection.

This physically hurt…

Mommy dearest is, of course, furious and wants to kick Marianne out, but Héloïse, having glimpsed a side to Marianne she desperately wants to explore, finally agrees to sit for the portrait. The Countess departs with an ultimatum: “I’ll be back in 5 days, until then the portrait is finished.” Both agree and the mother departs.

Part 2: The Gaze

The idea of purely female spaces has been weaponized against trans people for a while now, and it still manages to reach unimaginably dumb and horrific heights with trans athletes being denied access to locker rooms and trans women in general being harangued and labeled groomers or rapists for using the ladies’ room. The fear that is being coopted by TERFs and their best friends the Nazis to rile up the populace is simple: trans women are men in disguise, who are slaves to their perverted desires and have one purpose – infiltrate a woman’s private space (a designated space just for women) and to sexually assault them without consequence. A wisp of a scenario that doesn’t withstand even a cursory glance and falls back into the sewer, where it belongs, if afforded a full-on stare and inspection.

Nonetheless, political agenda aside, why are women so protective of purely female spaces? – The answer is simple, of course. Men (straight, cis, and all that jazz). Men, who, if they want to rape, don’t need disguises or silly plans to get what they want. They have mostly already infiltrated every aspect of a woman’s life, be it as doctors, bosses, trainers, policemen and, let’s not forget, as politicians, who still have the power to make harmful legislation regarding our bodies and reproductive systems (haha, you actually believed the “political agenda aside” thing).

It might feel overwhelming to think about all the ways one is unsafe in the world. It is for me at least. And so the idea of a purely female space (trans women very much welcome and appreciated) calms me, gives me a respite, before I have to go out there again. A Portrait of a Lady on Fire is such a space.

I mentioned before that the only man we’ll see for a while is the boatman who ferries Marianne from the mainland to the craggy island, where she is to stay until she’s finished the portrait. The house she arrives in is hauntingly empty, with only the Countess, Héloïse, Sophie (the housemaid) and Marianne populating it, before the Countess’ departure in the middle of the movie. The mansion is situated not far from a tiny village with potentially some men, which we never see. This remote island is not only devoid of men, it’s also devoid of the idea of men. Except in some very specific instances (Héloïse’s looming marriage, Orpheus), they’re not talked or thought about. They are utterly unimportant.

The mise en scene and cinematography reflect that. They feel light and breezy, there’s room to breathe, to lounge about in unflattering positions and wear the same outfit every single day, no one to impress, no one to stimulate with your very being.

After the Countess’ ultimatum, Marianne restarts the process of painting, now with a proper model. In a deliberately slow and meticulous scene, she poses Héloïse, paying attention to every detail, before retreating behind the canvas watching, observing, painting. Meanwhile Sophie confesses that she is pregnant and that she doesn’t want to keep the baby. In a scene invoking the spirit of everything feminine (which I adore), they first try every home recipe they know of (in the 18th century). Sophie runs up and down the beach to try to exhaust herself, and after that doesn’t seem to work they try some kind of homebrew out of flowers they picked in front of the house, which also doesn’t work.

Sophie’s abortion is centered in the second half of the movie as one of the quintessential female experiences. It’s not a coincidence that they know at least one hack to try. Knowledge of how to deal with unwanted pregnancies (and contraceptives) has been passed on for as long as there were women around. With all that’s going on in the US now, these scenes are prescient in many ways, but mainly they show that there always will be information on abortions, as well as people willing to provide them, regardless of the legality (or safety).

When the house recipes don’t work, the three women, who are friends and (for all intents and purposes) equals by now, go to the village for a witchy rave bonfire. All the women of the area are gathered around the fire, laughing, talking, relaxed. Sophie saunters over to a wisened woman and talks to her, after which she tells Marianne and Héloïse that the woman agreed to abort her pregnancy, to which they offer to come with her. The village women then draw closer to the fire and start jamming chanting, while Marianne and Héloïse stare at each other through the fire. This being the only scene that has music in it, the entire progression. While the chant crescendos, the two women turn to each other and look each other in the eyes, until Héloïse’s dress catches on fire and she falls unconscious (I CANNOT overstate how beautiful this movie is!). Marianne offers her hand to help Héloïse up, and the scene cuts to daytime and them kissing in an alcove by the sea (OMG!).

The same night, Marianne wanders to Héloïse’s room and they spend the night together. From this moment on, she is haunted by a ghostly appearance of Héloïse in a wedding dress, signaling the impending end to their budding romance.

Meanwhile it’s time for Sophie to go to the midwife in the village to terminate her pregnancy. They’re greeted at the door by a young girl, who helps Sophie to undress. Several generations of women are shown helping with different steps of the process, until the eldest finally begins the (very painful) process. Sophie is asked to lie down on a bed, where a small child is playing with a baby (where else should they be in a one room hut?). In a lesser movie the baby would be used to showcase what Sophie is missing (or something trite like that), but the scene is incredibly powerful, because nothing like that is even hinted at. It is powerful, because we see women being in charge of everything that is happening to them. When Marianne attempts to divert her gaze from the procedure, Héloïse tells her to watch. Watch, this is reality, this is womanhood.

Afterwards, while Sophie is resting, Héloïse pulls the mattress she’s lying on to the ground and assumes the position the midwife assumed, while carrying out the abortion. “It’s time to paint!” She says, thus immortalizing this quintessential event in oil on canvas.

On the last day of the Countess’ ultimatum Marianne and Héloïse look at the finished portrait together. It has become a piece of collaborative art, as the line that separated artist and model became increasingly blurry during their sessions together. It was not only Marianne who gazed upon her muse, but in this instance, the muse looked back. She was both the assessed and the assessor. Only by getting to know Héloïse, by letting her control her image, did Marianne manage to capture her essence on canvas.

At the mention of the purpose of the portrait, Marianne becomes jealous and is promptly called out for it. “It’s terrible! Now that you’ve had me for a little while, you’re angry at me!”, Héloïse bluntly tells her. The notion of a lover as property is swiftly banned to the world of men. There is a notion that women can let go easier, but I personally don’t subscribe to that. Women can be as creepily possessive as men in my experience. They fight and then immediately reconcile at the beach, deciding to enjoy their last moments together as much as possible. They lie on the recamiere sofa, taking each other in, eyes focused on every part of their respective bodies. Héloïse asks Marianne to draw herself onto page 28 of Héloïse’s book, redirecting the artist’s gaze unto herself.

Back with Orpheus, there is a lot of speculation as to why he turned around at the last moment. Anger, doubt, hubris? Sciamma posits the artist’s choice. He looked back to take in the idea of his muse and to be able to leave the actual person behind, or as Héloïse says, “At some point you will see the picture,when you think of me.” In this retelling Orpheus accepts his folly of wanting to bring his beloved back from the dead and makes the decision to leave her alone, once and for all, while retaining her memory. Eurydice, of course, doesn’t have a say in this either.

The real world announces its presence, even before the Countess can scrutinize the portrait. In the morning, Marianne descends the stairs for breakfast and find the boatman from before behind the table being served food by Sophie.

A man. EWW!

The intrusion of this normalcy is nauseating. The Countess soon approves the portrait, pays Marianne and bids her farewell. She says her goodbyes to Sophie, who is inconsolable, and then goes up to the Countess’ drawing room to see Héloïse one last time. She meets them in the middle of Héloïse trying on the gift her mother got her – a lavish wedding dress. Marianne hugs both of them, savoring the last fleeting moment of physical contact with her muse, and flees downstairs, the camera following at her heels. As she opens the door, Héloïse appears silently behind her and demands she turn around. We end on Héloïse, clad in white standing on the stairs, lit with a ghostly blueish white light, before everything goes black. Eurydice finally took control of her ending.

Part 3: From Across the Room

There is one retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice that I like most of all. It’s a side quest in the game Hades (2021) by Supergiant Games. In it, Orpheus, still depressed even in death, is now Hades’ court musician, as he hasn’t forgotten his song from the songster’s last foray into the underworld. Orpheus still misses Eurydice and is consumed by guilt over what’s happened. He refuses to sing, and so Hades puts him in the dungeon. You, as the main character Zagreus, son of Hades, can free Orpheus from his sentence and with that begin his side quest. As soon as you free Orpheus, you can find Eurydice in Asphodel (one of the many “hells” you have to cross to get out of Hades).

When you meet her, Eurydice is content. She moved on, built a life in afterlife and seems to enjoy her new existence much more than Orpheus does. When we meet her, she sings her signature song, which perfectly sums up her feelings on what happened with her husband and her existence in general. She sings, “Farewell, to all the earthly remains. No burdens, no further debts to be paid. […] Goodbye, to all the plans that we made. No contracts, I’m free to do as I may. […]” Finally, she has the freedom to just be herself. Finally she has a song of her own. You have the option to reunite her and Orpheus. But why would I do that? As you must’ve guessed, I opted out of this option. He had his chance.

Marianne never talks to Héloïse again, but sees her on two separate occasions years later. The first time she is at a gallery, showing her painting of The Fall of Eurydice, a painting with her father’s name on it.

Just take a moment and appreciate the color palette of this frickin’ movie!

While looking at the art program she spots something and makes her way to the other side of the gallery. The crowded room is a far cry from the lofty interiors of the mansion on the island where they spent their time together. After pushing through a mass of mostly male bodies, which don’t budge when she passes (it’s not subtle), she arrives a portrait of Héloïse holding a child by the hand. Marianne looks at the portrait, the portrait impartially stares back, until she notices that Héloïse is holding her finger in the her book to show page 28.

The last time Marianne sees her is at the opera, as she spots Héloïse across the hall, sitting down. We zoom in on her face, as the first measures of Presto of Vivaldi’s Summer play. She is mesmerized, cries and laughs at the same time. At this moment, she is free.