A French artist’s story painted in historic brushstrokes, without apotheosis

That Séraphine won seven of the nine Cesars for which it was nominated—including Best Film, Actress and Screenplay—is a testament to the biopic’s sterling quality. It also proves the French film Academy is even less commercially minded than its American counterpart. Martin Provost’s indelible portrait of naïve painter Séraphine Louis, known as Séraphine de Senlis, should draw plenty of self-respecting Francophiles, cineastes and fine artists. But the film’s placid pacing and recessive nature may pose too high a hurdle for moviegoers unaccustomed to darkening arthouse doors.

Owing to Yolande Moreau’s complete embodiment of Séraphine and writer/director Martin Provost’s objectivity in presenting his fictionalized biography, you emerge without the key to her genius and yet seemingly in possession of everything you need to know about the charwoman-artiste. Provost isn’t interested in being definitive and I suspect Séraphine will be a revelation to those with intimate knowledge of the artist’s career—and also to those who’ve never heard of her. Provost’s mesmerizing film is free of psychology, cant or hyperbole. Its honesty and purity derive not primarily from any correspondence to the facts of her life or essence of her creativity but from the aesthetic integrity and formal unity of the movie itself.

Provost doesn’t try to inflate Séraphine’s importance in the annals of art history, or establish cause and effect between her circumstances and her style or output. She remains a mystery and yet profoundly accessible—encompassed by the images and narrative line but still somehow elusive. In his third feature-length film he uses a somber palette and, appreciative of stillness, keeps his camera stationary most of the time. Working chronologically from a script informed by an academic thesis and letters by the sister of the German critic who discovered Séraphine, Provost employs short, often wordless scenes that conclude with unforced fadeouts. The effect is austere and luxurious at the same time.

Her biographical details are as fascinating as they are devastating. Middle-aged Séraphine Louis is first seen on the eve of World War I, attending to various tasks in the village of Senlis. It takes a good thirty minutes of dialogue-free running time before we realize she’s a painter. She toils as a housekeeper and at other manual jobs during the day and paints at night—sometimes all night. She does whatever is necessary to scrape by and is consumed by her painting and Catholic faith. She avails herself of every opportunity to procure ingredients—whether blood from the butcher shop and stream-bottom muck for the paints she mixes, wax from church candles, or wood and varnish for her canvases. Her dazzlingly colorful creations are pantheistic, mostly floral and arboreal scenes transposed from nature as she feels and imagines it.

In the middle of a lifetime of drudgery and after twenty years as a servant in a convent, she has the freedom to commune with her surroundings and mix her “energy wine,” brushing off, sometimes rudely, the disapproval of condescending villagers. She’s physically robust and psychologically unstable. Along with her mystical connection to the countryside, the voice of God (plus the intercessions of the Virgin Mary and wisdom of St. Theresa of Avila) provides inspiration. As presented by Provost and Moreau, whose profound performance is infused with simplicity and understanding, Séraphine’s piety and painting don’t require analysis; in fact, they are immune to illuminating commentary.

She is discovered when the German art dealer and critic William Uhde—terrifically limned by Ulrich Tukur (The Lives of Others)—rents a home she cleans. A bond forms, although he is unaware of her vocation. Uhde learns of it by accident and, stunned by her talent, begins to champion her as he did Picasso early on in his career. He encourages Séraphine to paint, though not abandon her housekeeping duties, and he and his sister spread the word. When war breaks out, Uhde is compelled to leave France. He returns in 1927, settling in Chantilly. Painter and patron reconnect, their relationship picking up where it left off but in a more tumultuous fashion. How Séraphine occupied herself in the interim and what subsequently transpires are for the viewer to discover. Divulging more of the plot wouldn’t necessarily detract from watching Séraphine, but the idea is to encourage readers to experience it for themselves.

A list of the striking images that Provost composes would be long and enticing, even though words cannot do them or the movie justice. Two stand out. The first, from late in the film, is Séraphine wearing a white bridal gown, walking barefoot through the village, muttering to herself in a state of purposeful confusion. The second, equally poignant if also tranquil and reassuring, comes at the very end: Séraphine, having spent time in hospital, walks outside carrying a chair and sits beneath a tree. From a distance, we see a becalmed silhouette and hear the wind rustling the leaves above her.

Distributor: Music Box Films
Cast: Yolande Moreau, Ulrich Tukur, Anne Bennent, Geneviève Mnich, Nico Rogner, and Françoise Lebrun
Director: Martin Provost
Screenwriters: Martin Provost and Marc Abdelnour
Producers: Milena Poylo and Gilles Sacuto
Genre: Drama/Biography; French-language, subtitled
Rating: Unrated
Running time: 121 min
Release date: June 5 NY/LA