How Marie Antoinette point­ed the way for post-feminism

We approach young women in the films of Sofia Cop­po­la almost as puz­zles to solve. She is a direc­tor who embraces objec­tiv­i­ty. This is man­i­fest in the lit­er­al seclu­sion of the Lis­bon sis­ters in The Vir­gin Sui­cides from the van­tage of sex­u­al­ly curi­ous boys. It’s in the iso­lat­ing shots of Char­lotte (Scar­lett Johans­son) ambling, awe-struck, around Tokyo in Lost in Trans­la­tion. It’s in the unimag­in­able deca­dence that sur­rounds Marie Antoinette in her new life at the Palace of Ver­sailles from Coppola’s 2006 film of the same name. The lat­ter is of par­tic­u­lar note in its fresh, mod­ern take on the seclud­ed life of the young queen. It stars Kirsten Dun­st as the title char­ac­ter and takes an expres­sion­ist approach in its del­i­cate­ly-wrought and emo­tion­al­ly dis­tanced por­tray­al of one of France’s most noto­ri­ous monarchs.

In a film packed with visu­al flour­ish­es, it might feel like aes­thet­ics take prece­dence over emo­tion. Yet it’s the visu­al cues in Coppola’s films that help us decrypt the char­ac­ters with­in them. In none of her films is this objec­tive truer than in Marie Antoinette. There were boos and jeers at the film’s pre­mière at the 2006 Cannes Film Fes­ti­val. Le Monde labelled Coppola’s third, know­ing­ly whim­si­cal fea­ture as some­thing ​“dreamt by a Miss Cal­i­for­nia.” As the years have passed, per­cep­tions of the film have evolved. There’s clear sub­stance to the style. It offers up a nuanced state­ment of post-fem­i­nist free­dom that hangs through­out the film like fan­ci­ful­ly coloured drapes.

Shar­ing a type­face with the Sex Pis­tols, the film’s title cred­its punch through the screen in bright fuch­sia – from its open­ing frames, its clear this isn’t your typ­i­cal, stuffy his­tor­i­cal dra­ma. With its post-punk, New Wave-inspired sound­track scream­ing rebel­lion, it’s clear that music plays a mas­sive role in sound­ing the film’s mes­sage. From the first moment we’re greet­ed by the pierc­ing, repet­i­tive gui­tar riff of Gang of Four’s ​‘Natural’s Not in It’. The track opens with the lyrics, ​‘The prob­lem of leisure / what to do for plea­sure,’ express­ing themes per­tain­ing to mod­ern cap­i­tal­ism, while hold­ing true to Marie’s enforced overindul­gence. As she turns and breaks the fourth wall with a coquet­tish and seduc­tive glance, her point­ed irony and self-aware­ness res­onate with the post­mod­ern inten­tions of the film.

Then, the trib­al drum­beat of Adam Ants’ ​‘Kings of the Wild Fron­tier’ estab­lish­es a pri­mal lust dur­ing an adul­ter­ous tum­ble in the sheets between Marie and Count Fer­son (Jamie Dor­nan). Bow Wow Wow’s ​‘I Want Can­dy’ chan­nels (and mocks) chick cul­ture, com­bined with a dizzy­ing mon­tage of gaudy pinks and reds. We watch as Marie and her posse lav­ish them­selves in a myr­i­ad of fash­ion trin­kets, as well as a mouth-water­ing selec­tion of patis­serie treats. Blink and you’ll miss a sneaky pair of Con­verse hi-tops, sub­tly vis­i­ble as anoth­er char­ac­ter tries on a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s time-tai­lored heels. Cop­po­la uses Marie’s fash­ion obses­sion to refract the habits of the past into a future of unchecked consumerism.

Like the music, cos­tume is of equal impor­tance. Marie’s rabid con­sump­tion of fash­ion func­tions in the same way it does for post-fem­i­nists – not only to appeal to the oppo­site sex, but as an affir­ma­tion of her influ­ence and fem­i­nine desire. She wears her fem­i­nin­i­ty as a mask. She asserts her­self polit­i­cal­ly in an oppres­sive soci­ety. Her frilly dress­es and twee acces­sories are a means of self-empow­er­ment in a man’s world. To Cop­po­la, clothes func­tion as ideas. Marie only wears black when act­ing out, a silent ​‘fuck you’ to Ver­sailles’ rules and traditions.

Nowhere is her ​‘mask’ more lit­er­al than dur­ing her escape to a mas­quer­ade ball with friends. Strip­ping her­self of her court per­sona, her new-found anonymi­ty allows her to fur­ther indulge in hedo­nism. Here­in lies the decep­tion. Dur­ing their first encounter, she sex­u­al­ly objec­ti­fies Count Fer­son in a typ­i­cal­ly mas­cu­line fash­ion. This raw desire, despite her mar­i­tal com­mit­ments, human­is­es her. It high­lights her sub­ver­sive nature. In movies, women who mas­quer­ade their true selves often get pun­ished, as ends up being the case with Marie (if you ignore the social, polit­i­cal and finan­cial ram­i­fi­ca­tions of her death). How­ev­er, Coppola’s choice to focus sole­ly on Marie’s life sug­gests a rejec­tion of this stereo­type altogether.

Marie’s place in court is final­ly con­sol­i­dat­ed after the birth of her chil­dren. Her main con­cern ceas­es to exist, grant­i­ng her true free­dom of expres­sion. Gone are the con­strict­ing corsets, tight­ly tied rib­bons and tall hair. She adopts a more relaxed and lib­er­at­ed look. The clothes she wears are loos­er and less fig­ure hug­ging, imme­di­ate­ly de-sex­u­al­is­ing her. Where once con­sumerism was Marie’s main means of expres­sion, cre­ativ­i­ty is now her obses­sion. Act­ing, gar­den­ing, music – she tries it all. The film’s tragedy lies in the idea that her artist enlight­en­ment final­ly arrives only as the shad­ow of death looms large.

Ver­sailles is to Marie what Tokyo is to Char­lotte in Lost in Trans­la­tion – a place to dis­cov­er, but with lots of hid­den and sub­tle tra­di­tions to be learnt. Marie Antoinette revis­its themes com­mon in the director’s work, main­ly the com­ing of age of young women in the ​“adult” world. These inti­mate por­traits are the director’s response to what she dubs the ​‘mopey man’ movies that sat­u­rate the indus­try. We see Marie evolve from his­tor­i­cal icon to a real young woman. Her strug­gles, her rela­tion­ships, her iden­ti­ty, her being are all writ large. Marie Antoinette is great because Cop­po­la empathis­es with the girl behind the myth with­out lion­is­ing her at the same time.