Movie review by Greg Carlson

Photographer and music video veteran Autumn de Wilde makes a bold statement with her feature directorial debut, punctuating the title of the oft-adapted Jane Austen favorite with an emphatic period as if to suggest she gets the last word with this particular edition of “Emma.” Sumptuously designed, elegantly appointed, and spectacularly costumed and coiffed, de Wilde’s fresh rendition has a piquant flavor complemented as much by self-aware sexiness as the abundant pastel hues on display. Anya Taylor-Joy joins the ranks of confident Emma interpreters, handily managing and navigating the character’s meddlesome insensitivity along with her expressive capacity to learn from ugly mistakes.

De Wilde’s tone might not please every Austen purist, as the filmmaker opts more often than not for a kind of comedically arch and ironic detachment from what some critics have identified as Austen’s serious subtext: the high stakes of negotiating the most advantageous marital match in a sphere both limited and limiting for young women disadvantaged by patriarchal norms. The economic prospects of key female characters are most certainly not ignored by the director, however, who deploys Harriet Smith (Mia Goth, doing her best work to date) and Miss Bates (Miranda Hart, stealing every scene in which she appears) as important reminders of and contrasts to Emma’s own privilege.

As Emma’s longtime friend and eventual husband, Johnny Flynn makes a charming George Knightley. The novel’s sixteen-plus year gap between the pair isn’t too far off from the thirteen-year difference between Taylor-Joy and Flynn’s birthdays, but the common May-December convention and its typical Hollywood disparity isn’t terribly obvious either. De Wilde also capitalizes on Flynn’s physical beauty, working in a backside nude scene that would most certainly have scandalized Austen and her original readership. “Emma” is a movie of lusty gazes aimed in all directions, and de Wilde incorporates several scenes in which characters are elaborately dressed and undressed.

Emma and George remain fully clothed for the movie’s hottest interaction: a formal dance in which the opportunity to look and touch is briefly sanctioned. The scene is expertly handled by de Wilde. She manages to communicate the lightning-quick moment of discovery and surprise shared simultaneously by George and Emma as they realize they are into each other. The audience is equally caught up in the confusion and excitement, made all the more delightful by Knightley’s kindness and decency toward a harried Harriet. That gentlemanly behavior will come back to (briefly) bite Emma for her shabby and misguided treatment of her best girlfriend, but de Wilde, working from a script by novelist Eleanor Catton, smartly endeavors to update and excise Mr. Knightley’s tendencies to mansplain.

De Wilde’s penchant for Easter-egg color combinations calls to mind some of the opulence on display in Sofia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette,” but “Emma” holds in check the boldest acts of blissful anachronism flaunted by Coppola. Both movies, at heart, are unafraid to embrace a rock and roll sensibility that acknowledges and powers a distinctly female point of view. Austen’s heroine, who arrived in December of 1815, was as flawed and complex then as she would continue to be interpreted across the centuries. Her fallibility, narrowness, and humanness coexist in equal measure with our fantasies of “handsome, clever, and rich” to make Emma so timelessly compelling.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Goodnight Mommy” filmmakers Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala continue to carve up chills, thrills, and nightmares in “The Lodge,” a Sundance 2019 favorite finally receiving the theatrical release it rightfully deserves. With an unrelentingly oppressive atmosphere in the claustrophobically framed location of the title, “The Lodge” is perfect slow-burn arthouse horror that never cheats and always rewards the patience and intelligence of the viewer. Accordingly, jump scares are mostly banished in favor of a psychological head trip that hides the dread in plain sight and lingers long after the lights come up. The less one knows about the film the better, and woe to the many reviewers who have already revealed too much.

Like Ari Aster’s “Hereditary” and “Midsommar,” “The Lodge” explores familiar experiences of trauma through the lens of horror. In this case, the particular facet of grief is a painful divorce that unravels the children of Richard (Richard Armitage), a journalist who has, perhaps inadvisably, fallen in love with his subject Grace (Riley Keough), the sole survivor of a fanatic doomsday cult’s mass suicide. With that bloody red flag firmly planted, Richard’s kids Aiden (Jaeden Lieberher) and Mia (Lia McHugh) understandably want absolutely nothing to do with the strange intruder threatening to replace their mom Laura (Alicia Silverstone, making every moment count).

In a set-up worthy of Shirley Jackson or Rod Serling, a planned Christmas holiday at a remote cabin trades comfort for panic when Richard leaves Grace alone with the children for a few days. With all the necessary two-way animosities well-established, it is only a matter of time before the past comes calling on the present. The carefully constructed back-and-forth fuels the core of “The Lodge,” and Franz and Fiala improve on the themes they established in “Goodnight Mommy” by manipulating audience sympathies between the children and their stepmother-to-be, who take turns as antagonist and protagonist in seesaw balance.

The straightforward brilliance of the movie’s premise allows two equally plausible explanations for the unsettling occurrences unfolding before our eyes. The scenarios compete for logical primacy in the viewer’s mind. Grace’s sinister past, rendered via indications that she must work very hard to function with a degree of self-control and a sense of safety, provide her with a motivation equivalent to the expression of anger and frustration expressed by Aiden and Mia. All the performances are true, but Keough is especially riveting.

Franz and Fiala beautifully capture the film’s locations. Interiors are a set of rooms so deceptively simple that the prowling camera is all it takes for us to begin projecting our own visions on the chilly spaces. Winter’s icy presence can be felt outside as well as inside, and in both realms the compositions arrestingly juxtapose the long shot with the close-up, disorienting us in parallel to the mounting anxiety. “The Lodge” has already drawn comparisons to “The Shining,” which does share a preoccupation with eroding mental health via the metaphor of isolation and cabin fever. But Franz and Fiala scale down Kubrick’s more expansive vision, and the result offers its own kind of skin-crawling satisfaction.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Stella Meghie writes and directs “The Photograph,” a romantic drama that weaves together the cross-generational journeys of a mother and daughter finding themselves with and without the love that might otherwise nurture and sustain them. Starring Issa Rae and LaKeith Stanfield, Meghie’s earnest valentine demonstrates enough restraint to transcend the soapiest coincidences of the story, which is occasionally burdened by a comfortable pace that allows viewers time to get ahead of the action. Fortunately, the appealing leads spark with genuine onscreen chemistry, and Meghie capitalizes on a terrific supporting cast to vividly render past and present in complementary balance.

Rae’s Mae Morton receives a pair of sealed envelopes following the death of her photographer mother Christina Eames (Chante Adams), who left Louisiana for New York City as a young woman in search of something bigger and more satisfying than rural stasis and her own mother’s implied disapproval. While one letter is addressed to Mae, the other is for Christina’s long-ago love Isaac (Y’lan Noel then, Rob Morgan now). Writer Michael Block (Stanfield) crosses paths with Isaac while working on a story and we know it won’t be long before he and Mae will forge their own connection. Meghie spends more time in the present than in flashback, but both timelines include detailed depictions of emotional weight as the various characters make decisions and mistakes that impact others whether they are aware of it or not.

Despite the presence of a big thunderstorm that descends on Mae and Michael with symbolic portent, Meghie keeps a lid on any overtly demonstrative outbursts from her ensemble. She elects instead to trust the viewer’s intuitions to suss out what is going on behind all those pairs of searching eyes, and the tactic is a double-edged sword: more melodrama could tip the scales into silliness, but the existing quietude mutes the possibilities to the point of occasional inertia. “The Photograph” is a series of conversations that surely could have used more visceral visual storytelling in pure cinematic terms.

Meghie is no stranger to farfetched screen passion. Her 2017 adaptation of Nicola Yoon’s YA novel “Everything, Everything” — with a “girl in a bubble” premise that amped up the anticipation of skin-to-skin contact between Amandla Stenberg and Nick Robinson — allowed hearts to swoon even if heads were shaking in disbelief. The commitment to all-consuming, exhilarating intimacy is one of Meghie’s real strengths. Mae’s gorgeous yellow dress might even remind some viewers of the striking canary-colored bathing suit Stenberg’s Maddy wore on her own fantasy getaway.

As Mae’s mother, Chante Adams must figure out a character whose actions sometimes defy logic. The unresolved tensions between Christina and Mae might have formed the basis for another movie. We are told that Christina chose herself over others, including Mae, to build the kind of big city life and career she could only imagine as a young woman in Louisiana. But Meghie withholds scenes between Christina and Mae as an adult. And all the interactions we do see indicate that Christina was not at all selfish at the expense of her child. As a result, Christina wears a shroud of mystery made even more opaque by the photographs selected for her retrospective — curated, naturally, by Mae.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Even before the release of David Ayer’s dreadful “Suicide Squad” in 2016, Warner Bros. announced a forthcoming feature in the DC Extended Universe for breakout character Harley Quinn. Producer and star Margot Robbie buckled down, developing a project in competition against other potential Quinn movies being considered at the studio. Director Cathy Yan’s “Birds of Prey and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn” showcases the two-time Oscar nominee in a colorful and appealing big screen extension of the popular psychologist-turned-criminal, but the movie lacks the emotional depth and narrative coherence associated with rival MCU titles.

Christina Hodson’s screenplay uses a sizable chunk of its opening act to uncouple Harley from her one-time partner and lover, the larger-than-life Mistah J, a.k.a Puddin’, a.k.a the Joker. So long and imposing is the shadow of the Clown Prince of Crime, this weekend’s Oscar telecast will very likely see some curious history made when and if Joaquin Phoenix collects a statuette for his work in Todd Phillips’ “Joker.” The feat would mark a second performance Academy Award bestowed upon an actor for playing the legendary supervillain and Batman archenemy. That would be wild.

But lest we forget, Harley’s mad love for her one-time patient is fraught with the complications of abuse. “Birds of Prey” references the masochistic dimensions of Quinn without ever fully accounting for her trauma. Yan shoots a parade of kinetically-staged action set-pieces with all the poses, punches, and pay-offs audiences expect from the genre. “Black Betty” and “Barracuda” fight scene soundtrack cues aren’t particularly fresh, but the speed changes highlight each bone-crunching heel kick with panache, and Robbie’s gleeful interpretation — now accompanied by less objectification and overt ogling — resides at the center of a story uniting five women in common cause against shitty fanboys.

The movie’s R-rating and comic tilt have already drawn numerous comparisons to “Deadpool.” “Birds of Prey” certainly breaks the fourth wall and winks at several comic book cliches, but the film’s raison d’etre — unfortunately tied to the overly familiar trope of saddling a jaded cynic with a plucky youngster who teaches the teacher a thing or two — parts company with the Ryan Reynolds formula by zeroing in on Harley’s embrace of sisterhood and female collaboration in a violent and misogynist Gotham City. If the title alludes to yet another origin story, Quinn also experiences her very own awakening.

The giddy mayhem might be enough to satisfy a certain segment of the public, but “Birds of Prey” relies too much on short-burst episodic structure that revolves around a stolen diamond sought by Ewan McGregor’s pastel-jacketed crime lord. McGregor, like Robbie, plays big and never takes anything too seriously, but the various spaces occupied by supporting players including Mary Elizabeth Winstead’s revenge-seeking Huntress, Jurnee Smollett-Bell’s hypersonic screamer Black Canary, and Rosie Perez’s GCPD detective Renee Montoya, never overlap in a way that transcends the routine. As proof of concept for Harley Quinn’s ability to control center stage, “Birds of Prey” works. But expectations will be much higher when James Gunn unveils “The Suicide Squad” in 2021.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The telling one-two punch of a January release date dump and a rocky production history spells serious trouble for Floria Sigismondi’s “The Turning,” a supernatural horror based on Henry James’ timeless “The Turn of the Screw.” A one-time “passion project” championed by no less a light than Steven Spielberg, the original incarnation of the film was developed for Spanish director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo before a Scott Z. Burns script rewrite failed to convince Amblin Entertainment to move ahead. Now, we can only imagine what Alfre Woodard and Rose Leslie might have brought to the table. Instead, veteran commercial and music video director Sigismondi limps through a murky ghost story that is dead on arrival.

Sigismondi probably deserves less blame than screenwriting twins Carey W. and Chad Hayes, who rather inexplicably update the novella’s original 1898 period to the weeks following the suicide of Kurt Cobain. The choice to set the events of the film in 1994 has little to no bearing on any aspect of the story, but the soundtrack conveys a grunge-era sensibility without using any Nirvana. The basic contours of James’ popular tale remain: a governess in charge of two children at a stately country house begins to see apparitions of a man and woman who may or may not be previous employees of the estate. Macabre menace ensues.

Mackenzie Davis, who was given so much more to work with in Sophia Takal’s “Always Shine,” does what she can with an empty and underwritten role. She can offer only the slightest inkling why her Kate Mandell would choose to leave a beloved teaching gig for a live-in position working with a single pupil (Brooklynn Prince, who will make you long for “The Florida Project”). Beyond Kate’s steely resolve and stubborn refusal to give up even when common sense would send any reasonable person packing, there is very little to hold the viewer’s interest. Two hallmarks of “The Turn of the Screw” — the question of the protagonist’s own sanity and a strange air of sexual repression — are both so thoroughly mishandled by the filmmakers that Davis drowns in the murky waters.

Finn Wolfhard plays the teenage Miles as a moody and manipulative creep. Even before we meet him in person, Kate recoils at his nasty handiwork: a multitude of pins piercing the breasts of a dressmaker’s dummy. Once expelled from boarding school, Miles follows a common set of forbidden and/or inappropriate relationship tropes, alternating between traumatized kid and knowing predator who tests the limits of his minder’s tolerance. Sigismondi seems uncertain how to resolve the question of Miles’ harassment of Kate, and the entire subplot evaporates when other more pressing bump-in-the-night set pieces take priority in the final act.

Like the oft-filmed “Little Women,” there is no shortage of continuing interest in “The Turn of the Screw.” While Jack Clayton’s 1961 “The Innocents” continues to hold the title of most cinematically satisfying adaptation, Alejandro Amenabar’s 2001 thematic sibling “The Others” — while an original work — is indebted to James. At least a half-dozen other theatrical features and more than a half-dozen television versions have been made. The upcoming second season of Netflix’s “The Haunting of Hill House” will be called “The Haunting of Bly Manor,” and director Mike Flanagan is loosely basing that series on “The Turn of the Screw.” Chances are good it will be superior to “The Turning.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In January of 2019, Chinonye Chukwu made history as the first black woman to win the Grand Jury Prize in the U.S. Dramatic Competition of the Sundance Film Festival. “Clemency,” which Chukwu also wrote, is only the filmmaker’s second feature, but it unfolds with the confidence of a veteran at the helm. A harrowing, close-quarters examination of the human cost of capital punishment, the film is anchored by Alfre Woodard’s sensational performance as prison warden Bernadine Williams, a dedicated professional whose proximity to death row has taken an obvious toll on her marriage to husband Jonathan (Wendell Pierce).

Chukwu revisits a number of common cinematic tropes used for decades in movies depicting the grim rituals of state-sanctioned killing. From the horror loop nightmares of juxtaposed roles so sharply imagined in the 1961 “Twilight Zone” episode “Shadow Play” to the desperate legal longshots, oppressive countdowns, and precise procedures of “Dead Man Walking,” “Monster’s Ball,” and many others, “Clemency” demonstrates the absurdities inherent in carrying out a death sentence. Williams is haunted by a botched lethal injection that sets the stage for Chukwu’s central drama: the impending execution of Anthony Woods (Aldis Hodge), a convicted cop killer whose guilt is in doubt.

Advocating for Woods is Richard Schiff’s Marty Lumetta, whose own career path has intersected enough with Williams that the two frequently communicate, despite the gulf between their vocational roles and responsibilities. Schiff’s best scenes, however, are played with Hodge, who commands our attention as forcefully as Woodard. In one of the film’s finest moments, Hodge is visited by one-time sweetheart Evette (Danielle Brooks), who reveals a secret that simultaneously devastates and uplifts the condemned man. Their exchange, a heartbreaking report of frustrations and obliterated dreams of what might have been, is as memorable in its way as the raw-nerve, one-on-one conversations between Bernadine and Jonathan in the privacy of their home.

The eventual theatrical release of “Clemency” occurred in close proximity to Destin Daniel Cretton’s “Just Mercy.” Cretton’s film, which is based on the memoir of attorney, activist, and Equal Justice Initiative founder Bryan Stevenson, looks at the wrongful 1988 conviction of William “Johnny D.” McMillan. Stuart Miller recently wrote that in “Just Mercy,” Stevenson “fights the power” while in “Clemency,” Williams “wields it.” The two movies are accidental siblings, but “Clemency,” despite its unrelentingly solemn presentation, more successfully and cinematically expresses its ideas despite being a much less audience-friendly film than “Just Mercy.”.

Chukwu’s collaboration with Woodard layers “Clemency” with significance and subtext. As Angelica Jade Bastien notes, “That Bernadine is black speaks to the ways even the marginalized are complicit in the system that controls their lives.” But Chukwu avoids any overt didacticism in her storytelling, even if the mounting pressure on the beleaguered protagonist is delivered with quiet resolve and suffocating dread. Williams masks her emotions because her occupation requires it. And yet, the hallmarks of Woodard’s skillful choices — the careful concealment, the constant reserve — have the intended effect of communicating to the viewer the systematic dehumanization of the inmate and the racism built into a justice system that is anything but just.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Nearly one year ago, Tamara Kotevska and Ljubomir Stefanov’s stunning documentary “Honeyland” collected a trio of awards following its world premiere at the Sundance Film Festival. Those accolades, including special jury recognition for both cinematography and “Impact for Change,” as well as a Grand Jury Prize, were the first indicators of the film’s critical potential. The recent announcement of an Oscar nomination marks the conclusion of a successful journey that features an opportunity for the moviemakers to collect a statuette as shiny and golden as the honey harvested by the luminous central subject of their film.

Co-directors Kotevska (age 26) and Stefanov (age 45) previously collaborated on the short nonfiction “Lake of Apples.” Both filmmakers are Macedonian, and “Honeyland” is only the second movie from that southeast European republic to be honored with an Academy Award nomination (Milcho Manchevski’s 1994 “Before the Rain” is the other). Statistically, the odds for this movie to make its way to Hollywood might seem long, but the incredible craftsmanship and compelling storytelling suggest not only that the attention is richly deserved, but that we will be seeing more from these storytellers in the future.

“Honeyland” closely observes the day-to-day work of Hatidze Muratova, a beekeeper who pursues her livelihood using long-preserved traditions dependent on close proximity to wild hives. Making ends meet is an around-the-clock endeavor. Hatidze also looks after her failing mother Nazife. The interpersonal exchanges between the two women are just one of the film’s many rich pleasures. In her mid-80s, confined to bed, mostly blind, and not particularly interested in eating anymore, Nazife is nevertheless sharp and witty, and the translations of her comebacks, wisecracks, and asides convey the essence of her wicked black sense of humor.

The filmmaking techniques and directorial choices will be immediately appreciated by cinephiles and documentary lovers. Kotevska and Stefanov, who spent three years gathering more than 400 hours of raw footage, effectively skip voiceover and formal talking head, choosing instead to construct the key narrative arcs of the movie through the many challenges faced by Hatidze. Obviously, the presence of the camera makes an impact on the material gathered, but the directors accept and acknowledge this feature, linking Hatidze directly to audience members she will never meet face-to-face. Quietude and introspection alternate with the more animated and stressful encounters between Hatidze and a family of nomadic neighbors.

Once Hussein and Ljutvie Sam, accompanied by their rambunctious and hysterically accident-prone brood of seven kids, announce plans to start an ill-advised beekeeping operation of their own, “Honeyland” locates a supreme conflict that needs no subtitling to be understood. It is difficult to swallow Hussein’s outwardly greedy encroachment and overextension. His actions, and his failure to abide by Hatidze’s wise plea to leave enough honey to keep the local bee population healthy, position him as something of a villain. But we marvel at the patience of Hatidze, who treats her rival’s children with kindness. In her mysterious way, Hatidze’s character is as gorgeous and singular as the breathtaking images collected by cinematographers Fejmi Daut and Samir Ljuma.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The death on March 29, 2019 of Agnes Varda concluded a career perpetually in bloom. The legendary artist and filmmaker, unmistakable in later years under her wonderfully cartoonish yet delightfully chic two-tone coiffure, was 90 years old but operated agelessly. Working to the end with future projects in queue, Varda shares directorial credit on swan song and retrospective “Varda by Agnes” with Didier Rouget. The pair of one-hour episodes combine clips with new images and selections from Varda’s live conversations in which she weaves a spellbinding monologue interspersed with brief appearances by special guests to ponder her three most meaningful words: inspiration, creation, and sharing.

Varda’s deeply personal and self-reflective nonfiction statements have inspired fresh generations of admirers to dig eagerly into her rich back catalog. As one of the French-language moviemakers whose work predated the Nouvelle Vague, Varda also directed narrative fiction. Not surprisingly, she notes her own preference for observing, including, and interacting with the “real” and the authentic. Commenting on her famous “Cleo from 5 to 7” (1961), a film that unveils Varda’s persistent interest in the fleeting and finite constraints of time and mortality, she highlights the incorporation of location photography and the presence of ordinary citizens as integral features of the filmscape.

For the viewers familiar primarily with Varda’s filmmaking, “Varda by Agnes” includes a tantalizing look at the polymath’s other artwork, a dazzling array of mixed and multimedia installations that often include, to one degree or another, a cinematic flair. Through each vignette, Varda’s voice provides context. She shares, like a beloved instructor, practical explanations of her ideas in a manner humble and unpretentious. Even though the source of this audio comes from on-stage public conversations and presentations in front of large audiences, the effect is magically personal and intimate. Varda’s enthusiasm for making is simply infectious.

Childlike wonder and insatiable intellectual curiosity fueled Varda’s six-decade career, and “Varda by Agnes” lays out in her own words the theories that fired the master’s desire to share. The vivid colors of cheap plastic — which Varda loves even as she notes the catastrophic environmental impact — are just as appealing as the mounds of heart-shaped potatoes discarded as aesthetically unfit for display-worthy grocery store sale. The latter are symbolic of the monumental importance of “The Gleaners and I” in 2000, a kind of turning point that paved the path to one of the finest latter-career filmographies in all of cinema.

Like David Lynch, Varda was an early adopter and supporter of commercial-grade digital moviemaking tools. Her endorsement of the freedoms afforded by the compact size of the handheld camcorders and the minimal cost per tape trumpet the D.I.Y. call to action. Varda said that she compiled the contents of what would turn out to be her final movie “not to stop time but to accompany time,” and the result for the appreciative viewer is nothing less than an audio-visual textbook that works in at least two ways: as a fitting obituary for Varda that gave her the opportunity to, in effect, participate in and conduct her own cinematic funeral, and as a kind of step-by-step manual for every aspiring moviemaker, photographer, and artist who has dreamed of telling a story.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Outstanding writer-director Celine Sciamma adds another sublime cinematic work to her resume with “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.” A talent to watch since excellent debut feature “Water Lilies” (original title “Naissance des Pieuvres,” or “Birth of the Octopuses”) launched her career in 2007, Sciamma has developed into one of the most compelling storytellers in the movies over the course of just four features. Her other two, “Tomboy” and “Girlhood,” also attest to a sharp-eyed interest in coming-of-age tales, sexual identity, and considerations of societal constraints and expectations related to the performance of gender.

Sciamma’s first period piece may take place on an imposing island off the Brittany coast around 1770, but the central relationship of “Portrait” crackles and sparks with the same kind of electric charge found in the director’s present-day stories. Trained artist Marianne (Noemie Merlant) is commissioned by an affluent countess (Valeria Golino) to paint a likeness of the woman’s reluctant daughter Heloise (Adele Haenel) as part of a marriage proposal. Heloise, who refused to sit for a previous attempt, is deliberately misled into thinking that Marianne has been retained by the countess as a hired companion. Marianne works from memory to capture Heloise on canvas.

From first frame to last, “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” is alive with vibrant, confident filmmaking. Sciamma almost always favors the power of the purely visual over the use of dialogue to communicate intellectually and emotionally with her audience. There are many films about the passionate relationships that develop between artists and models, but Sciamma capably uses the process — initially complicated by Heloise’s absence before Marianne’s easel — to contemplate ideas large and archetypal as well as intimate and personal. Helene Delmaire, the artist whose hands double for Marianne, sketches and paints onscreen in real time, affording Sciamma an immediacy and authenticity free from the “cheats” of dissolves and cuts.

The gaze, the look, the construction and reconstruction of how we see what is really in front of us and how we reinterpret, reimagine, and idealize our desires through visual art — all of these components might very well fuel future essays on the many treasures of Sciamma’s movie. Equally fascinating are the ways in which the filmmaker connects women from the 18th century to women of today. “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” looks closely at female  marginalization within the patriarchy through the texts and subtexts of abortion, forced marriage, and the monumental challenges faced by artists trying to carve out respect and opportunity in a space historically structured for men.

Throughout the film, Sciamma looks to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice as a symbolic mirror for her characters, and a bonfire chanson is just one of the times the director charms living things and stones alike. Later, Sciamma locks down a blazing final act, setting up a gut-punch double ending that tops one unforgettable incident — a moment-in-time first contained and then transferred from one page 28 to another  — with equal emotional devastation. Pulling off the unlikely feat of making a section of Vivaldi’s Concerto No. 2 in G minor, best known as the Four Seasons’ L’estate/Summer, seem new and fresh, Sciamma stitches the iconic music to her own poetry.