Lux Æterna opens with a brisk montage of 1920s-style documentary footage about a witch trial, then cuts to Charlotte Gainsbourg and Béatrice Dalle playing fictional versions of themselves. The pair are about to shoot a film, a meta-project titled “God’s Craft” that centers on witches burnt at the stake, and they settle into a conversation on a nearby set about how witches have been depicted on screen, how women are treated on film sets, and the many anecdotes that color their long careers. The moment feels playful and precarious at once, a playful self-reflection brimming with backstage truth.
Throughout the film, quotes from famous directors—Buñuel, Dreyer, and Fassbinder—float across the screen, underscoring a recurring theme: a director’s hunger for absolute control. The conversation among Gainsbourg and Dalle is interwoven with the presence of a producer and an assistant, who bustle about as Gainsbourg is escorted toward her dressing room and Dalle steps aside to manage directorial duties. In a split-screen rhythm, viewers watch the actresses receive makeup and costumes while a whirl of behind-the-scenes tensions unfolds: the two other actresses playing witches, one of whom speaks English, are perturbed when their outfits reveal more than expected, and the mood on set grows tenser as rhythms of time and permission collide.
Abbey Lee joins the fray as another performer on the set, becoming part of the cacophony of voices and opinions that color the shoot. Dalle, frustrated by a five-hour wait to shoot a single scene, argues with the director of photography about giving the actors time to rehearse, while the DP resists and the producers monitor every moment for signs that could justify firing her. A behind-the-scenes cameraman captures unflattering fragments of crew life, while friends of the crew drift by, trying to strike up conversations with Gainsbourg and the others between takes. The atmosphere is a study in contradictions: artistry and spectacle collide with surveillance and pressure, all under the glow of the camera lights.
As the production careens toward the pivotal witch-burning sequence, the DP presses for longer takes and insists that the performers hold their poses without even the slightest movement. Mid-scene, the rear projection glitches, throwing red, green, and blue strobing colors across the screen. The music playback falters, replaced by an ominous, droning roar. Dalle pleads with the projectionist and the sound team to fix the problems, but the DP remains single-minded—snapping orders at Gainsbourg to stay in character and to weep as if she’s aflame, even as the chaos swirls around them.
Gradually, the other actresses break free from their bonds and slip away, leaving Gainsbourg alone on set, unable to break her own restraints. Dalle sobs, lamenting how no one else is there to help as only she, Gainsbourg, and the DP stay immobilized in the ongoing take. The tension distorts the image: Gainsbourg’s silhouette seems to dissolve into the corrosive colors, and the pole to which she is tied morphs into a Christian cross, a stark visual that lingers long after the on-set turmoil.
After the credits roll, one final Buñuel quotation lingers on the screen, a sly coda to the film’s meditation on control and art:
> Thank God I’m an atheist.
The film’s long, braided texture invites viewers to read the on-screen debates as a meditation on cinema itself—on authorship, gender, and the fragile dance between creation and crisis. It’s a backstage drama that never loses sight of its own theatrics, a celebration of performance even as it scrutinizes the power dynamics that shape what we finally see on screen.
