'Seraphine' review

Yolande Moreau (Credit: Music Box Films)

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In pre–World War I France, frumpy and aging Séraphine Louis (Yolande Moreau) worked as a lowly housekeeper for the town's bourgeoisie. She was also a brilliant artist who would eventually be known as Séraphine de Senlis and whose artwork would be exhibited in the world's top museums. When a prominent art critic discovers her raw talent, he pushes Séraphine to ignite a furious artistry that would take her to celebrated heights and plunge her into a raging madness—her final days were spent in an insane asylum.

The buzz: Two words: true story. The acclaimed film fictionalizes Séraphine's fascinating life from 1913 until 1935, and introduces historic heavy-hitters like art critic and patron Wilhelm Uhde, who is also believed to have discovered Henri Rousseau. "Séraphine" swept the French Oscars this year, nabbing seven awards and beating high profile contenders like "The Class," "A Christmas Tale" and "I've Loved You So Long."

The verdict: The name "Séraphine" may not have the same sexy ring as, say, "Pollock" or "Basquiat"—both subjects of flashy biopics—but moviegoers shouldn't be deterred from diving into the film's darkly satisfying world. Writer-director Martin Provost presents Séraphine's tale as a kind of warped and lunatic Cinderella story, complete with snippy superiors, a fairy-godfather art patron, and a heroine whose heart isn't so much made of gold as it is a murky mush of beauty and madness. Moreau is magnetic, casting a blank but deep emotional pallor, even as she sets about painting a fantasia of flora—fiery leaves, peering fruits, restless branches—that would define Séraphine's tragic genius.

Did you know: Myth has it that Séraphine created her paints using animal blood smuggled from various kitchen jobs, oil taken from a church's candlelit altar, and an enamel lacquer called Ripolin purchased at a hardware store.

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