The first time I watched “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” was at the very beginning of the pandemic, when my absolute desperation for human connection was totally nerfed by the universe. I was alone in bed late at night, sobbing into my laptop while two 18th century French lesbians yearned, doomed by their setting and the times. I was still young and stupid then, and had just “officially” started my first relationship in the first week of March 2020. Over the next two weeks, I hadn’t heard from her once. We dated for almost three more years, and I might have this movie, which spurned me to reach out again, to thank for that disaster. Now, I only watch this movie when I am the disaster. In my most recent rewatch, I latched on to Héloïse’s sister, who doesn’t exist on-screen; she’s already dead, after falling from a seaside cliff when out on an afternoon walk. No one knows if it was intentional, but now Héloïse angrily receives her sister’s destiny: to be shipped to another country to marry a man she’s never met. It’s a gorgeous film that utilizes a lot of silence. I’d recommend watching while somber.
losing our grip on purpose 