After finally seeing the much-lauded and largely excellent
Portrait of a Lady on Fire (written and directed) by Céline Sciamma I'm beginning to think gay filmmakers don't generally make the best candidates to portray the LGBTQ experience on the big screen. For a long time I've hesitated to use that "generally" in lieu of "necessarily" for fear of unintentional straightsplaining, and I don't mean to single out this particular experience as something of a last straw, but now it'd be disingenuous of me to deny that I've more or less turned into a full convert.
Before we delve into Sciamma's latest feature, however, perhaps it's better to start off with Almodóvar's
Pain and Glory, another recently celebrated film by an even more famous gay director. Some of you may recall I've gone so far as to call the Spanish enfant terrible-cum-(possibly) unsuspecting tax cheat-cum-elder statesman a
talented imposter who is at his best when taking an unruly buzzsaw to gender stereotypes and sexual inhibitions, and would not be surprised that I was mostly bored by his latest sterile outing which was carefully designed to bring himself back into good graces with the film-festival crowd following the Panama Papers fiasco. Indeed as
The New Yorker's Richard Brody has pointed out, the only time Salvador Mallo, the film's protagonist, feels like Almodóvar's full-blooded stand-in is during one of its flashbacks when his youthful self sees the fully naked body of laborer Eduardo - and presumably of any adult man - for the very first time. Not one of his numerous scenes with his mother both young and old, whose real-life counterpart Almodóvar obviously misses very much, has half the emotional resonance of that fleeting glimpse as a child, nor does his fateful reunion with his former lover Federico (Leonardo Sbaraglia who for my money outdoes Banderas' celebrated performance despite their unbalanced screen time) whom the director retains equally fond memories of.
If you asked me why only 2-3 years earlier I would've said you can thank Almodóvar's sexual hang-ups. Ditto François Ozon's which, as
I said less than two years ago, he's been "pass[ing] off [...] as serious explorations of women's sexuality on the basis of his well-known affinity for actresses." But now I don't think it's quite right or fair to dismiss them as "hang-ups" of any sort, unless we're willing to extend the criticism to every other major gay filmmaker of recent vintage.
Let's consider the evidence. Gus Van Sant announced his arrival with
Mala Noche, a daring debut whose frank homoeroticism and freewheeling anarchy remain fresh to this day, and followed it up with a string of triumphs (
Drugstore Cowboy,
My Private Idaho,
To Die For) before turning insufferably mainstream (
Good Will Hunting,
Milk) and/or ponderously hip (
Last Days above all) while turning his back on his true calling. Todd Haynes has thankfully yet to sell out quite so brazenly, but
Carol, his biggest critical and commercial hit, is for all its allure and accomplishment a
relatively domesticated melodrama compared to its proudly in-your-face predecessors. I'm not familiar with Stanley Kwan's later works, but I think it safe to say he is the George Cukor of his generation in terms of their shared preference for strong female heroines struggling to triumph over the patriarchal maze they're forced to navigate. And the late Chantal Akerman famously refused to be pigeonholed, largely avoiding LGBTQ politics in favor of more universal gender and other sociopolitical themes.
What these distinguished gay filmmakers have in common, or what their career trajectories suggest at any rate, is that they tend to be more successful when they become, consciously or not, decidedly less queer. You may counter that this success is more financial than artistic and I can follow up with counterexamples, but here's the flip side of the previous paradox: when they do find success in uncompromising expression and celebration of their sexuality, it tends to come at the expense of other everyday needs shared by the queer community.
Which finally leads us back to Portrait of a Lady on Fire. If all you've seen or heard about the film is its understandable comparisons with Haynes' aforementioned Carol I suggest you check out
Sciamma's wonderful interview with Vox's Emily Todd VanDerWerff in which she propounds not only the classic mythology of Orpheus and Eurydice (which propels one of the film's most revealing scenes) but also the queerness of
Titanic (any auteur who appreciates the
supposedly too-square-for-arthouse blockbuster can't possibly be too bad in my book) and the Gothic splendor of the Brontë sisters. And it's clear that the latter two cultural landmarks wielded more influence than Hayne's superficial counterpart on Sciamma's latest effort, and for that she deserves much of the rapturous reception she's been treated to so far.
But that's not to say the Carol-Portrait link is completely without merit. Sciamma more than Haynes can be forgiven for having her heroine muster up no resistance to the patriarchal forces that render a loveless marriage all but mandatory even for a woman of her social standing, but it's harder to let her off scot-free for relegating the issue of class to, shall we say, second-class status, especially after reading the Vox interview where she hashes out "two levels" of class politics. Turns out a sisterhood of three determined women "can abolish" such quotidian "social hierarchy" as long as they stay in their lanes (euphemized by the director as "a collective, small group with a kind of friendship"). It would be one thing to succumb to this inexorable hierarchy after braving the scorn, ostracism and unforgiving economics of this patriarchy, and that would indeed earn the mythological tragedy of Héloïse and Marianne that Sciamma clearly intended. (Suffice it to say her abrupt but protracted ending - you'll see what I mean when you see it - has nothing on that of Orpheus and Eurydice or for that matter Emily Brontë's
Wuthering Heights.) For Sciamma to fall back on the sensuous eroticism of lesbian love despite her cognizance of their preordained stratification is the film's weakest point - if it has to say anything about the French Revolution during which it is presumably set, I missed it - though it happens to be its biggest selling point that has made it (and Carol) such a big hit in arthouse circles.
I'm sure many would respond that my take is an unmistakably straight one and ignores the reality that the LGBTQ community especially needs more outlets for release of their sexuality which they're forced to suppress to this day, but that actually reinforces my contention that the best gay filmmakers may not make the best gay films. I find it revealing that much has been made of Portrait's female gaze but not of its even more blatantly queer one, and just as "female gaze" is a shorthand that cannot possibly include all varieties of the female experience the sexuality, race, ethnicity or whatever socioeconomic status of individual filmmakers may not matter as much as their understanding of the world and the people who inhabit it. This may sound like a truism because it is, but one that needs repeating against our current obsession with "representation" which always seems to leave out large segments of its "represented" cohort that don't fit the fashionable profile.
It is that shortchanging of class politics that places Sciamma's otherwise laudable achievement just under
Marine Francen's The Sower among my faves of 2019 (though Portrait went wide in the US only a week ago it had two limited screenings at the AFI Silver last December). The latter's female gaze is just as perceptive than that of its better-funded/marketed sibling, and for good measure its cinematography is no less ravishing. At any rate both are well worth your time. See and judge for yourself: