// TORONTO'S LIVE OFF THE FLOOR // 

INTRODUCTION. Do all lovers feel they're inventing something? The line is whispered in candlelight, reverent as a prayer, during the climactic scene of Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019, 1:23:40). No sentence better captures the sentiment of this eighteenth century queer love story, though the film might be better categorized as a re-invention — a thoughtful and subversive alternative to the hegemonic patriarchy that dominates mass art and discourse. Hegemony, according to Antonio Gramsci, refers to a system of domination embedded in the illusion of consent and negotiation (O’Brien & Szeman, 2018); hegemonic patriarchy, then, is the system of societal norms and expectations rooted in male dominance. Particularly in film, this manifests through the male gaze, a term coined by Laura Mulvey to refer to how female representation in visual media is often a projection of male fantasy (1989). However, through the subversion of the artist’s gaze, the inversion of the muse’s role, and the dramatization of female domesticity, Portrait of a Lady on Fire not only provides a refreshing counter-hegemonic alternative to the male gaze, but is also one of the most intimate and moving queer love stories of contemporary cinema.

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THE ARTIST'S GAZE. The artist’s gaze has historically been rooted in hegemonic patriarchy, particularly when it comes to female representation. As Linda Nochlin argues in her essay “Women, Art, and Power,” the male artist’s prerogative to represent women in art is inextricably linked to the assumption of male dominance in society, and the consequent subordination of women in these societal systems (1988). In her film, however, Sciamma not only opposes the male hegemony, but makes the subversion of the artist’s gaze central to Marianne’s character arc. 

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As a female painter in the eighteenth century, Marianne’s artistry is inexorably confined to patriarchal norms and expectations. Her initial motivation for painting Héloïse is to satisfy the male gaze; the wedding portrait she has been commissioned to create is little more than a brush-stroked advertisement with the sole purpose of cultivating the male desire of Héloïse’s fiancé. “We will go [to Milan],” Héloïse’s mother explains the stakes of the portrait at the beginning of the film, “...if he likes the portrait” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 15:07). However, it is this patriarchal artist’s gaze that prevents Marianne from successfully capturing Héloïse on the canvas. Her first attempt is lifeless and dissatisfactory, particularly to Héloïse. When Héloïse questions if this first portrait, this representation through the male gaze, is truly how Marianne sees her, Marianne defends: “There are rules, conventions, ideas” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 49:33). It is only when the artist’s gaze is subverted by queerness — when it is transformed by the lover’s gaze — that Marianne achieves true artistry. 

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Sciamma intentionally makes the act of ‘looking’ a central motif throughout the film. Because Marianne’s initial glances towards Héloïse are motivated by the male gaze — the need to secretly paint her without her consent — the two women’s looks at each other are unsynchronized in the first half of the film; one is always looking away. It is only after Marianne reveals her secret, only after she gains both Héloïse’s consent — true consent; not the hegemonic illusion of consent — and emotional connection, that their gazes become synchronous. At the film’s midpoint, the two lock eyes over the raging bonfire; and in that moment, the artist’s and the lover’s gaze become one. Marianne no longer gazes at Héloïse with artistic analysis or scrutiny, but with awe and emotion. It is this ‘looking’ through queer love, unbound by the male gaze, that inspires Marianne to create the film’s titular painting, and to consequently achieve the truest form of artistic expression. Similarly, the final portrait is created through the collaboration of the two lovers, and instead of serving as female objectification for male desire, the portrait becomes a manifestation of their relationship, a memory that Marianne “can reproduce (...) to infinity” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 1:42:48). As observed, Marianne’s character arc not only critiques the limitations of the male gaze regarding female representation, but demonstrates the artistic and emotional liberation of adopting a counter-hegemonic gaze — the freedom of looking with love.

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THE MUSE. In a similar way, Héloïse’s character journey is marked by the inversion of the muse’s role, and the seizure of agency from a traditionally objectified position within the hegemony of male power. As mentioned, the portrait initially symbolizes Héloïse’s subjection to patriarchal expectations: namely, her arranged marriage. In the hegemonic patriarchy, Héloïse’s role as a muse is passive, her image commodified by another for the purposes of male desire. Of a similar portrait of herself, created for the same motive as her daughter’s, Héloïse’s mother states, “The portrait arrived here before me. When I first entered this room, I found myself facing my image on the wall” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 16:17). These women are predestined to enter rooms first as objects, and only secondly as beings. By refusing to pose for her portrait, Héloïse is introduced as a non-traditional muse, claiming agency through absence.

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While an effective method of creating dramatic tension, had Sciamma simply stopped at Héloïse’s resistance, her character would have eventually fallen back into a role of passivity. If Marianne’s character arc is marked by reframing the gaze, then Héloïse’s arc is defined by her reclamation of it. Héloïse inverts her role as the muse by embodying what bell hooks coined as “the oppositional gaze.” In her essay, hooks writes, “Even in the worst circumstances of domination, the ability to manipulate one's gaze in the face of structures of domination that would contain it, opens up the possibility of agency” (2001, p. 116). Some of the most moving scenes of the film are the moments in which, suddenly, we are made aware of Héloïse’s acts of looking. This is perhaps most evident in the scene where Marianne, while painting Héloïse, flaunts an intimate knowledge of her muse’s body language. In response, Héloïse beckons Marianne to stand next to her and points her gaze towards the easel. “When you are looking at me,” Héloïse asks, “who do I look at?” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 1:05:16) This scene begins with a close up shot of Marianne, the artist and the traditional ‘observer.’ Meanwhile, Héloïse, the muse and the traditional ‘object,’ is framed within a wide shot. As the scene plays out, the shot composition gradually inverts, ending with Héloïse in the close up and Marianne in the wide shot — a visualization of the muse’s inversion, and her claiming of agency within the act of looking.

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This role inversion is furthered by Héloïse’s artistic and emotional collaboration with Marianne. As mentioned, the final portrait is created in equal parts by both artist and muse, with Héloïse even mixing the final shade of green. However, Héloïse further transcends her initial passive role by commanding the gaze of Marianne, the artist. She directs the painter’s eyes back towards the bed upon which Sophie’s abortion plays out, and later commands Marianne to paint a re-enactment of the event. These actions not only demonstrate the agency the muse claims by inverting her role, but the art that is created from this inversion inherently rebels against the male gaze, embodying the intimate feminine perspective instead. 

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Furthermore, Héloïse’s oppositional gaze is rebellious not only in its resistance, but in its intimacy for Marianne. “You dreamt of me?” Marianne asks in the quiet, candlelit scene after their first kiss. “No,” Héloïse corrects, “I thought of you” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 1:23:56). Héloïse thoughts and actions are not passive or conditional, they are intentional, full of purpose, in spite of her role as the muse. In the film’s penultimate scene, Marianne comes across a new portrait of Héloïse, years later. At first, Héloïse’s painted face fills the frame; then, slowly, the camera pans down to her lap, where the corner of a book is turned out to show the page number: 28, the page on which Marianne had drawn her self-portrait. Suddenly, the audience is yet again made aware of the muse’s oppositional gaze; she is not passive in this painting, but alive and looking — through opposition, through agency, through time itself — back at her lover.

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DOMESTICITY AND GENDERED SPACES. Finally, Sciamma creates a counter-hegemonic alternative to the male gaze through the dramatization of female domesticity and the reclamation of gendered spaces. In her book, Daphne Spain defines gendered spaces as the attribution of certain spaces to certain genders — in other words, spatial gender segregation. These gendered spaces have historically reinforced the inequality of women in hegemonic structures of power; traditional female spaces often coincide with locations of subordination or subservience to male dominance (1998). In her film, however, Sciamma reclaims the feminine beauty of these gendered spaces, transforming kitchens and drawing rooms from locations of female subordination into female utopia. Not only are men mostly absent in this story world, but so too are the societal roles conditioned by the hegemonic patriarchy. In an interview, Sciamma states, “How do you embody sorority? (…) A long take, a wide shot, of three women in the kitchen with social hierarchy being totally turned around, with the aristocratic woman cooking, whereas the maid is an artist and the artist is looking at the maid” (VanDerWerff, 2020, par. 8). 

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Furthermore, by choosing to set the story in these traditionally female spaces, domesticity is not a passive backdrop to male action, but instead serves as a direct medium of female character connection. For instance, the scene in which Sophie provides a folk remedy for Marianne’s menstrual cramps is a small yet significant visualization of the democratization of the female gaze. The two characters bond through this gesture of sorority, regardless of class. Moreover, the moment’s intimacy is reliant purely on natural feminine connection through domesticity — the complete opposite of the male gaze and its unnatural, patriarchal focus. Similarly, the abortion scene, which again is inherently feminine in subject matter, takes place in a lower-class woman’s single room home; yet it is these close quarters that create the intimate elements of the scene: the procedure being carried out on a low mattress, the women inches from each other, the baby clutching Sophie’s hand in innocent comfort. Through the reclamation of gendered spaces and the dramatization of domesticity, Sciamma captures a feminine utopia free of the hegemonic patriarchy, and full of intimacy. As Héloïse says of her convent, another traditionally female space: “Equality is a pleasant feeling” (Couvreur & Sciamma, 2019, 31:43).

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CONCLUSION. In an interview, Sciamma says, “These stories are really dangerous for patriarchy. (...) Our stories are powerful because they are dangerous. We are dangerous” (VanDerWerff, 2020, par. 16). Through its subversion of the artist’s gaze, its inversion of the muse’s role, and its dramatization of domesticity in reclaimed gendered spaces, Portrait of a Lady on Fire embodies the dangerous edge of a counter-hegemonic narrative that resists the male gaze. But while this feminine resistance is unapologetically political, it is never forceful — rather, revolution is made manifest in fleeting glances, candlelit confessions, and soft brushstrokes.