Cannes 2025 (Critics’ Week): Love Letters (dir. Alice Douard) | Review
Love Letters is a striking feature debut, presenting love as the shining armor amidst thorny obstacles—elevated by Douard’s visionary direction and nuanced attention to womanhood.
Psychologists suggest that when you write and note important memos rather than simply reading them, the message imprints more deeply into your mind and soul. Alice Douard’s Love Letters (Des preuves d’amour) writes in bold a cinematic declaration about womanhood, with equal parts fortitude and epiphany, covering every chamber of the heart with pure bliss.
My mother wants her 60th birthday to be celebrated under the Eiffel Tower in Paris, as she deems it the iconic city of love—the birthplace where affection begins. She’s not the only person who views the City of Light as the pinnacle of fulfilling love; it’s a universal spectacle, the symbolic place where eternal love resides. Just like the characters in Alice Douard’s Love Letters, who elevate their love by choosing to have a child as their next step of joy in Paris, France. Yet, beneath its optimistic surface, the film reminds us—no victory arrives without its concealed battles.
In 2014, Paris finally announced what its queer citizens had long awaited—the legalization of same-sex marriage. Céline (Ella Rumpf) anticipates her next big step: having a child, with her partner Nadia (Monia Chokri) now pregnant. For Céline and Nadia, each moment begins with its own form of expectation—those small, fragile discoveries where meaning quietly emerges: the baby’s kicks, the naming process, the joyful announcements to family and close friends. Yet every plan comes with its own set of challenges, culminating in the central question: “What does it cost to build a family when the world is watching, the laws are constrained, and buried memories must be awakened?” As Céline’s point of view becomes the film’s focal lens, the rocky road of pregnancy, legal requirements, and bitter pills of reality accumulate into a storm of breakthroughs and hesitation.
Douard uses her cinematic lens to show that, like all fledgling freedoms, legal and personal milestones arrive imperfect—riddled with loopholes and invisible struggles, difficult for outsiders to fully grasp. The weight of motherhood (co-parents included) and the unexpected responsibilities it brings gradually become clear—doubt, fear, and anxiety creep in. This is the moment when dreams are sacrificed, self-worth is questioned, and vulnerabilities blend with anticipation. Yet connections tighten, confusion becomes clarity, and challenges transform into motivation. There’s a beautiful synthesis of perfection and flaw that harmonizes in Douard’s portrayal—equal heartbreaks and heart-warms, equal breaths of euphoria and endurance. Editor Pierre Deschamps lends a balanced rhythm to the emotional engagement of the narrative. The background score by Raphaël Hamburger isn’t mere accompaniment—it’s alchemy, blending modern techno beats with sentimental melodies. It becomes a silent character in itself, amplifying joy, tension, and yearning that words alone cannot express.
As Céline and Nadia exchange a silent language of love and longing—defiant in the face of uncertainty—they realize the end result is a treasure that gives meaning to all. Love doesn’t ask for permission; it flourishes precisely when the world tries to forbid it. It is the very definition of endurance and connection, where every hollow heartbreak finds solace within love’s embrace. Love Letters is a striking feature debut, presenting love as the shining armor amidst thorny obstacles—elevated by Douard’s visionary direction and nuanced attention to womanhood. A journey into the past for the sake of the future, this testament to love becomes the light that shines when it’s pitch dark—both outside and within the heart.
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