‘Love Letters’ Review: A Quietly Powerful Portrait of Queer Motherhood [B] Cannes

Love Letters opens with a broadcast reporting France has legalised same-sex marriage; it’s a national celebration, but for Céline (Ella Rumpf), there is still unfinished business. Writer-director Alice Douard’s first solo directorial feature is a reflective but ardent rumination on motherhood and who gets to hold that label. Set in Paris in 2014, 32-year-old Céline is three months away from becoming a mother; however, she won’t be a parent on paper because she’s not pregnant. Céline’s wife, the sweet Nadia (Monia Chokri), is carrying their child, and she will be the only woman labelled as the baby’s mother.

Though same sex marriage and adoption have been legalised, Céline will be a third party on the birth certificate, and she must adopt her baby to be recognised by law as the child’s mother. Céline is even more bewildered when told she must gather 15 letters from family and friends who will testify that she will be a good mother to her daughter. Douard delivers a touching portrait of queer motherhood, intriguingly told from the perspective of the non-pregnant woman in the final trimester of pregnancy. The film is a window into a specific time, place, and experience of motherhood that stems from the director’s own experience, with frustration about the system’s incompetence radiating through every frame. However, Love Letters orbits a universal question: Will I be a good parent? 

Céline’s task of testimonial gathering is made even more challenging by her strained relationship with her own mother, pianist Marguerite (Noémie Lvovsky), who doesn’t even know she will be a grandmother. “She never cared for me, but she gets a say in my motherhood,” Céline notes, frustrated by the seemingly endless hoops she has to jump through to be recognised as her daughter’s mother. The film observes motherhood not just between Céline and her unborn daughter but also with her own mother, her wife, her wife’s mother and her friends. All these connections are unravelled under Douard’s careful lens, leading to Céline’s reevaluation of what a ‘good mother’ is. She quits smoking and suffers through babysitting her friends’ children, all in the hopes of preparing herself for the reality of parenthood that creeps up on her.

Despite the film’s heavily important subject matter, offering time for reflection on such treatment of LGBTQ+ families, the film is unexpectedly funny. Heartbreaking moments of Céline realising she has no photos with her mother are placed beside the infant she’s babysitting, pooping in the bath and putting together IKEA furniture that wobbles no matter what. These moments of laughter lift the film’s tone; this is no melancholy study of queerness but a refreshing, tenderly handled romantic drama. 

Between practice labour wards and sterile legal offices, cinematographer Jacques Girault’s floating camera always lands on Céline’s studious intensity. Then, quiet moments of delicacy where Céline caresses sleeping Nadia’s belly and talks to her unborn daughter are like an emotional reset for why she’s doing this. After delivering fantastic performances in Raw and Marguerite’s Theorem, Rumpf’s dynamic performance for this soon-to-be mother is profoundly moving. While Rumpf is all hard edges and dark features, Chokri has a warm softness about her; it’s a perfect complement. The pair have sizzling chemistry, particularly electric in a nightclub scene where they eye each other across the dancefloor and sing to Disclosure’s ‘You & Me’: “Gonna be you and me / It’s gonna be everything you / You’ve ever dreamed.”

These actors beautifully interpret Douard’s script with a nice balance of drama without shock factor. However, there are unavoidable moments that illustrate just how unprepared the medical system is for two mothers, like their doctor admitting it’s his first time encountering two women having a baby and being unsure whose family history he should take note of. Another absorbing narrative thread is Céline’s relationship with the fathers in her life: a friend for whom she babysits and an encounter with an expectant father at a hospital tour. As the non-pregnant member of the couple, there’s a point at which Céline looks to the fathers around her to understand her position. However, she quickly realises she doesn’t want to define her motherhood by their standards.

Nadia as a character also gets nicely developed, she has her moment to shine in a head-to-head with her family around the dining table after her sister remarks that her IVF journey was “easy.” Nadia argues back while Céline goes silent, terrified they’ll jeopardise potential legal testimonies. It’s a compelling moment; the family’s internalised homophobia is apparent, but the cost of challenging that is extreme, and Céline isn’t willing to take the risk. It’s another element of the film that deepens the emotional weight. 

In the final act, with the birth of her daughter quickly approaching, Céline tries to reconcile with her mother in a sequence that veers into sentimentality as the film tries to conclude with a neat bow. It’s an easy out for the pair’s complex relationship, but elsewhere, the examination of motherhood between women is the foundation of this film’s strength. Love Letters points to the system’s gaps that continue to exclude and isolate LGBTQ+ families with deeply personal resonance.

Rating: B

This review is from the 2025 Cannes Film Festival where Love Letters screened for Critics Week.