
It's true Seraphine was first released overseas last year. It is no less accurate to say the picture will vacate Los Angeles soon.
None of that changes the fact it's an unequivocal masterpiece, the finest and most satisfying film I've witnessed since No Country For Old Men.
Martin Provost's take on the titular French painter (her last name: Louis) may not be an entirely on-target depiction, but it's a bona fide character study -- at once engrossing, classy and palpable. We are dropped into the story circa 1913, with ambient and dulcet sounds from the great outdoors: a breeze rustling through tree branches, clickety-clacks on cobblestone streets, and the lapping water of pristine streams.
Seraphine (extraordinary Yolande Moreau), church-mouse quiet while serving as a peripatetic housekeeper, sacrifices sleep to create small paintings. A Virgin Mary devotee, our heroine shows no chinks in her armor until revealing the only thing she lacks is time ("Cleaning takes it all.")
An art collector (ideally urbane Ulrich Tukur) soon discovers the hidden talent and vows to make her famous, a notion sidetracked by a number of factors, not the least of which is World War I.
Rest assured, Provost doesn't let this narrative drift toward any war zones. He is confidently aware Seraphine's tale is an inspirational one all by itself: In turn, its themes of faith, passion and determination will seep into your pores.
No other actress since Marion Cotillard seduced us in La Vie en Rose has been so deeply -- and convincingly -- immersed as Moreau is here; she seamlessly embodies Seraphine to the point of transforming into the painter.
From his opening shot to final frame, Provost (a longtime actor) guides Seraphine with precision and elegance, yet no inkling of stuffiness. Without fail, the filmmaker lets his camera -- and Moreau as the piece de resistance -- convey the artist's altogether enriching chronicle and fall from grace.
For more info:
The actress within the artist