The tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice is one often referenced by painters and artists, and one that’s seen a pop culture resurgence, in theatre as the anti-capitalist folk opera Hadestown, as a cameo in roguelike video game Hades, and as the core allusion of Céline Sciamma’s 2019 feature Portrait of a Lady on Fire. With its usage of the famous tragedy, Portrait continues a lineage of adapting the famous story, often used to explore gender roles, power dynamics, and queer relationships. Portrait is no different, however, it utilizes the myth in a new way that pairs brilliantly with the film’s cinematic form by exploring the myth as an examination of the power of the gaze.
The myth of Orpheus, firstly, is centered on the idea of gaze, as the mythic poet Orpheus must descend into the underworld to retrieve the spirit of his wife Eurydice, but only on the condition that he leads her out of the Underworld without looking back at her. The myth has become emblematic in media of the male gaze, or the idea that men behind the camera can affect the perception of women in front of it. To many, the male gaze is a powerful and dangerous concept, one that has for decades warped the perception of women in film and, as a consequence, in the world at large. However, Portrait lacks any sense of the male gaze. In fact, Portrait lacks any significant male presence whatsoever, both through the eye of the camera and in front of it. But that does not stop the depiction of the historically heterosexual myth onscreen. The myth plays out in its entirety the moment Noémie Merlant’s Marianne first meets Adèle Haenel’s Héloïse. They walk in a straight line, with Héloïse leading, face obscured by her hood, and Marianne following. As they continue further toward the coast, Héloïse breaks into a sprint, heading for a cliff and igniting Marianne’s fear of her following her sister’s untimely fate. However, at the last second, Héloïse stops, looks back, and meets Marianne’s eyes. At death’s door, Orpheus looks back at Eurydice. Though their roles in the myth are clearly established in this scene, the dynamic of looking, and who has the power through looking, causes a constant swapping of roles.
One of the best examples of Sciamma’s subversion of traditional power dynamics happens when Héloïse finally sits for Marianne’s portrait. Traditionally, the understanding of power in the relationship between painter and subjects is that power lies in the hands of the painter. After all, it is the painter who tells the subject how to pose and decides how the subject will look on canvas. It is the painter who looks at the subject, much like Orpheus is the one looking back at Eurydice. However, after pointing out certain mannerisms that Marianne has taken note of as a result of Héloïse’s posing for long periods of time, Héloïse reverses this same description, citing all of Marianne’s nervous mannerisms as she paints. She calls Marianne to her side, explaining that while she is the subject, Marianne is being equally observed. After all, isn’t Eurydice already looking at Orpheus when he looks back? The power dynamic of painter and subject is dissolved and the two are placed on an equal field, one driven by a shared sense of looking. Here the distinction between their roles as Orpheus and Eurydice is blurred, calling into mind their earlier conversations about whether it was Orpheus or Eurydice that decided Orpheus should look back. In the end, the decision has to be a mutual one, for their looks are mutual, their contact and study of each other an equal exchange of power.
The myth comes into play a few more times in the story, most notably toward the end of Marianne and Héloïse’s time together and twice more after they have been separated. After using a mysterious balm that supposedly makes “time last longer,” Marianne helps herself to a glass of water in the kitchen. As she leaves to return to her studio, she crosses the threshold of the kitchen door, and as she does, a ghostly Héloïse appears in the darkened doorway, dressed in a pale white wedding dress. Eurydice follows Orpheus, looking here much like the Héloïse Marianne fears: a woman married off, no longer able to love her, no longer able to be with her, dead to the world and stuck living somewhere in Milan, becoming a mother and wife. In a way, Héloïse’s oncoming marriage is a death to Marianne, as it is both inevitable and will mean the end of their relationship. Eurydice’s ghost is one of a married Héloïse, and Marianne turns around, this time becoming Orpheus witnessing the pseudo-death of the one she loves. Obviously, this vision isn’t real. It’s a representation of Marianne’s fear of the inevitable, so she knows exactly what she’s turning around to face. As she says earlier in the film, she chooses the memory of Héloïse. It is not the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.
The final two times that Marianne sees her Eurydice come at the end of the film, and through two distinct artistic mediums. The first, Marianne encounters a portrait of Héloïse at a gallery showing where Marianne herself is showing a painting depicting the myth, taking place on the beach the two frequented so often, where Héloïse swam for the first time and they shared their first kiss. It’s worth noting that in her depiction of the myth, Marianne embodies Eurydice as a blond woman in white, and the man who comments on it mentions that unlike most depictions, it appears that Orpheus is not just looking back, but saying goodbye. Suddenly, Marianne is drawn to a familiar face painted across the room. Héloïse’s portrait hangs as she approaches, a memory of her, but this time with a child at her side. Marianne studies the work, recalling the time and love infused into her own tragic portrait. She looks to Héloïse’s hands — they hold a book, with the page number revealed as page 28. It seems Héloïse, too, has chosen the memory of Marianne.
The second and final time the two cross paths, Marianne sits for a performance of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”. Seated on a high balcony, she looks across from her only to notice none other than Héloïse, sitting alone and not meeting her eyes in return. Héloïse doesn’t even notice Marianne, but Marianne watches as the orchestra begins, echoing the same tune Marianne played on the harpsichord for Héloïse years ago on that island, before everything. Héloïse is instantly brought to tears. Marianne, this time reassuming the position of Orpheus, watches the unattainable Eurydice. This positioning allows Marianne to once again possess the gaze, though the difference here is that Héloïse does not return it. Their relationship has been defined by an equal exchange of the gaze, but now Marianne’s goes unmatched. Yet, Héloïse’s reaction betrays that her memories of their relationship persist despite her being forced to move on, while the relationship through Marianne’s eyes is not a memory but a bitter, continuing reality. Héloise has relegated their love to memory, while Marianne still holds on to her love in the present. Their separation divorces the gaze, transforming their final meeting into a goodbye, with only one party looking, much as Orpheus looks back at Eurydice for the last time. Though separated, the two never forget each other, and Orpheus and Eurydice become immortal, always looking back, always saying goodbye, yet forever in love.
