Sometimes, when we attempt to comprehend a film, we lose sight of the experience of the film itself. As a certified non-expert in the film field, and in any field for that matter, this is an old concept. The vast majority of people are of the mindset of “Stop talking and just watch the fucking movie.” I’m a part of that boat, but also on the same boat that argues any form of art demands to be analyzed and critiqued: that without critique, we run the risk of being drawn, like Romero zombies, into relentless propaganda, capitalism, racism, sexism, transphobia, and all of the other things film has been wonderfully expressive of since its invention.

What I’m trying to say is, like any film, Portrait of a Lady on Fire deserves critique and analysis. But, as a queer, feminine person, I have no critiques to offer. It is, simply and without a doubt, a beautiful celebration of the female gaze, female love, and holy shit the visuals are fucking gorgeous. Just, just watch it.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) 

undone by her gaze 
and by her hands 

undone by embers 
blazing on hems 

lifting cloth from
her mouth unveiling

lips designed
for dismantling

her every nerve
electric 

bury her beneath
the waves of soft-

ness undone by 
19th century

sensibilities 
wrap her arms 

around her waist
beg her to stay

and fall asleep 
thinking god

i’m so
fucking gay