Writer: Alice Douard and Laurette Polmanss
Director: Alice Douard
There is a touch of Nora Ephron in Alice Douard’s charming comedic drama Love Letters, particularly in its blend of warmth and wry observation. The film follows a bohemian, middle-class lesbian couple—DJ and sound technician Céline (Ella Rumpf) and dentist Nadia (Monia Chokri)—as they navigate the messy path to parenthood. Set in 2014, it opens against a bold red backdrop, underscored by archival audio from the 2013 French National Assembly vote that passed the “Taubira Law” legalising same-sex marriage. While this introduction suggests a weightier drama, Douard instead adopts a light, serio-comic touch, charting the couple’s pregnancy with perceptiveness and ease. Along the way, the film weighs fundamental concerns: the kind of parents they hope to become, the way they choose to love, and the difficult task of reconciling with their own upbringings.
The legal limbo of queer domesticity presents a distinct set of challenges, placing the pair within a complex and often confusing bureaucratic framework. Though marriage is now permitted, access to medically assisted reproduction remains restricted for same-sex couples, forcing them to travel to Denmark for IVF. As the pregnancy progresses, further complications arise. In her role as the non-pregnant partner, Céline must undergo “second-parent adoption” to be legally recognised, effectively requiring her to adopt her own child. The procedure involves gathering fifteen legal testimonies or “love letters” from friends and family—a farcical bit of social theatre that Douard mines for genuine comedy. The added suggestion that these letters must not come from “too many lesbians” acts as a piece of arbitrary red-tape designed to satisfy traditionalist sensibilities, only heightening the inherent paradox of a system that requires the couple to dilute their own identity to prove their fitness as parents.
Drawing on her own experiences and her César-winning short L’Attente, Douard crafts a portrayal that feels specific yet gently hopeful. Crucially, she set out to create a resolutely optimistic film, consciously moving away from the tragedy or struggle that so often defines lesbian cinema in favour of a lighthearted, aspirational sensibility that borrows from the classic romantic-comedy. This outlook remains a rarity in depictions of LGBTQIA+ pregnancy; visually, the film is warm and inviting, avoiding the dourness of traditional social realism. The soundtrack shifts between contemplative classical pieces and the driving electronic rhythms of club scenes. Shot with a throbbing, neon intensity, these moments place the couple’s joy squarely at the centre of the frame—positioning their love at the heart of a thriving queer community, far removed from the pressures of their domestic and legal complexities
The film also explores the concept of motherhood more broadly, particularly through Céline’s strained relationship with her mother, Marguerite (a wonderful Noémie Lvovsky), a celebrated concert pianist. Her emotional distance and physical absence shaped Céline’s childhood, and although she expresses delight at the couple’s marriage, buried tensions persist. The adoption agency even suggests that her mother’s fame could strengthen Céline’s adoption case, adding a further layer of irony to their already complex dynamic.
Douard’s script consistently finds humour in everyday mundanity, from chaotic dinner-table conversations where heterosexual couple friends trade parenting “war stories” to a scene in which a young doctor awkwardly queries Céline on her medical history, lacking a clear script for dealing with same-sex couples. While some male characters are portrayed as hapless—most notably Félix Kysyl’s nervous expectant father, who faints during a hospital tour—Douard avoids caricature, instead suggesting a broader parity between parents of all genders and sexualities. Being a parent is difficult for everyone.
If there is a flaw, the gentle tone occasionally softens its sharper edges. A brief mention of financial anxiety remains a dangling thread—a missed opportunity for added depth given the couple’s otherwise comfortable existence. The final act, too, resolves with a perhaps overly tidy sense of inevitability. Even so, Love Letters remains a well-acted and affecting drama. By prioritising intimacy and universality over gritty realism or overt political flag-waving, Douard captures a pivotal moment in French history with a story that feels both incredibly personal and subtly uplifting.
BFI Flare runs from 18-29 March.
