Yearning, Gazing, and Scissoring: The Politics of the Sad Sapphic Period Drama

Words: Adela Teubner

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When you picture movies about queer women, the first thing that comes to mind is probably a moody, tragic romance with a washed-out colour palette, set anytime that isn’t now. The “sad sapphic period drama” (as it will hereby be termed) has existed for almost as long as films have been made about lesbians, but it has been inescapable since the mid 2010s. These films often follow similar narratives, centring two women who quietly yearn, both for each other and for more than the strict gender roles of their time. They trade forbidden touches and deep gazes that symbolise their secret desires – and they, despite becoming unfailingly devoted to one another, are rarely allowed to stay together by the film’s end. 

Among the reasons that sad sapphic period dramas have become so popular is that they create a sense of escapism and catharsis for their audience. People – especially women – have engaged with historical narratives for decades to escape the mundanity of their contemporary lives, whilst the melodramatic nature of romantic tragedies gives viewers permission to express complex emotions that they might usually repress. Focussing on queerness within these stories can heighten their emotional impact, increasing the sense of tragedy through depicting a historically “forbidden” form of love; focussing on women appeals to the traditionally female audience of these films. 

The popularity of the sad sapphic film within the heteronormative film market illustrates some level of social progress. The subgenre was seminal in rejecting the previous mainstream standard for depictions of queer women: hypersexualised and exploitative portrayals that positioned sapphic love as only existing for a voyeuristic male gaze. Period dramas instead often prioritise tender and deep expressions of affection and devotion over gratuitous sex scenes, rejecting the pressures to perform. 
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But even so, the use of queerness as a tragic motif can be alienating to many sapphic viewers, turning their identities into a shorthand for trauma. Some of these films’ reluctance to depict sapphic sex also suggests the gender essentialist idea that women possess less innate sexuality than men, erasing the complex ways in which queer people both reject gender binaries and experience sexual desire. When sex is portrayed, the direction, cinematography, and casting often still conform to hetero-patriarchal beauty expectations, limiting the portrayal of sapphics who are of colour, disabled, or are gender-nonconforming.

“The popularity of the sad sapphic film within the heteronormative film market illustrates some level of social progress. The subgenre was seminal in rejecting the previous mainstream standard for depictions of queer women: hypersexualised and exploitative portrayals that positioned sapphic love as only existing for a voyeuristic male gaze.”

Take, for example, a film like Carol (2015). The film received much of the same praise upon its release as the 1952 novel upon which it was based, The Price of Salt – which was contemporaneously (and rightfully) seen as progressive for having a “happy ending” - or rather, not killing off its leads. But its narrative comes across very differently in its new social context of the 2010s, where it feels as if it equates queer identity with cheating and sadness. The titular Carol is 16 years older than Therese, its 19 year old protagonist, and both engage in emotional and sexual infidelity to be together and are constantly afraid of being discovered together. During the film’s limited sex scenes, the camera voyeuristically caresses the actresses’ conventionally thin, white bodies whilst they lie in the missionary position, erasing the diversity of queer sex to create something recognisable and palatable for the heteronormative gaze. 

In contrast, The Handmaiden (2016) initially seems like it counteracts the lack of sexuality that fills many queer period dramas, framing these scenes as the characters’ abilities to reclaim their bodies within the colonialism and misogyny of their world. Yet it depicts its protagonists repeatedly engaging in sex acts like scissoring with no foreplay, mirroring fetishised depictions of sapphic sex in heterosexual porn. Their naked bodies are framed by swathes of wide frame camera angles, creating a sense of detachment that increases the feeling of performativity. By utilising sapphic sexuality to shame the male gaze, The Handmaiden ironically implies that queer women can’t have sex for themselves, reducing their sexual agency and ignoring the very group it claims to represent.

But all is not lost for old timey lesbian tales: in Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), in which Celine Sciamma presents her protagonists – Héloïse and Marianne – as imperfect, fully-formed beings, even within their idealised gazes of one another. In one scene, Marianne illustrates her growing attraction for Héloïse through describing her physical quirks: “When you're embarrassed, you bite your lips. And when you're annoyed, you don't blink.” When Héloïse and Marianne consummate their relationship, the camera allows them to take up space in ways that reject patriarchal beauty standards, lounging in poses that show their messy hair and stomach rolls and that emphasise their complete comfort with one another. The film prioritises the beauty that they see in each other as individuals, rather than their desirability under the unrealistic expectations of the external world watching the movie. Whilst the film’s ending is heartbreaking, its characters are allowed to express desire and joy in ways that truly counteract the gendered expectations that are placed on them – and Marianne, following the end of their relationship, is never forced to settle down with a man, and has a successful artistic career that evidences her agency.

The key difference between Portrait of a Lady on Fire and most other sad sapphic period dramas can be put down to one thing: its use of queer, female voices in its production. Whilst Carol and The Handmaiden were directed by men, Sciamma is queer woman who was previously in a long-term relationship with lead actress Adèle Haenel. Their lived experiences gave them unique insight into the subtleties of sapphic existence, allowing them to be synthesised into the narrative alongside its tragic period drama storyline. Whilst there is nothing inherently wrong with placing queer women at the centre of a sad, historical story, where many films go wrong is that they ignore the authentic experiences of the group that they attempt to depict. Yet Sciamma shows that it is possible to make sapphic period dramas that genuinely reject the voyeurism inherent in many depictions of lesbian relationships –  leave it to queer women to tell their own stories.