Rosalie: a young woman with hirsutism defies convention in an affecting but predictable period drama

The bearded lady got one big number in the 2017 smash The Greatest Showman, but not much more. For four minutes, Michael Gracey’s gaudy P.T. Barnum musical gave the floor to Keala Settle’s bewhiskered character to belt out some body-positive self-help platitudes, before turning its attention back to Hugh Jackman’s handsome, able-bodied ringmaster. Rosalie aims to do better by the frequently trivialised condition of hirsutism. The second film by French writer-director Stéphanie di Giusto carries itself with the noble authority of a historical biopic, though its protagonist is in fact an imagined composite of various female case studies from the 19th century. This allows Di Giusto to bend her narrative to fit a message of feminist empowerment that also doubles as an all-purpose paean to society’s marginalised misfits. The result is affecting and attractively mounted, though the filmmaking itself never strays far outside the conventional. 

Not that Rosalie sets out to shock or dazzle. It is unassumingly built around a performance of sensitivity and warmth by Nadia Tereszkiewicz in the title role, with even co-star Benoît Magimel, a craggy asset as her quietly recessive husband, content to accept a dimmer spotlight. Conceived and crafted for maximum accessibility and audience sympathy, the film stood out against cooler or thornier competitors in last year’s Un Certain Regard line-up at Cannes – it’s the kind of French heritage drama that will play to just about anyone who isn’t affronted by the sight of a beautiful woman with a fetchingly trimmed ginger beard. Perhaps there’s even a thematic point to the middle-of-the-road approach: in 1870s rural France, Rosalie may be vilified by conservative menfolk for her appearance, but this story places her squarely in the mainstream.

At first glance, Rosalie doesn’t seem like the kind of potential bride who’d require a dowry to secure men’s interest. She’s young and porcelain-pretty, with blonde curls piled atop a wide blue gaze, and dresses (thanks to her own sewing skills) like a society belle well above her working-class station. One would think she could set her sights higher than Abel (Magimel), a gruff, shy, middle-aged tavern owner who’s mainly in it for said dowry – he has debts to settle with Barcelin (Benjamin Biolay), a local factory owner with a fierce puritan hold on the community. Di Giusto teases the mystery of Rosalie’s diminished social stock to a point that slightly undercuts her film’s compassion: the eventual reveal of her fuzzy chest, as Abel undoes her primly fastened buttons by candlelight on their wedding night, is a little too lurid for comfort. Though Rosalie still carefully shaves her face to avoid others’ gawping, she’s accepted her body hair as the way she was made; the film’s coyness around showing it feels an almost prudish misstep.

But the film relaxes, and so does Rosalie – even as her husband remains wary, and her marriage unconsummated. Business picks up at the tavern, with customers drawn to the new barmaid’s beauty and cheer, and she grows comfortable bantering with them, ultimately betting one that she can grow a full beard in a month. It’s a seemingly rash admission, but her thinking behind it is pragmatic, even self-sacrificing: she doesn’t mind becoming a local freak attraction if it brings in more punters. The twist, in a perhaps optimistic interpretation of the era’s values, is that the bearded Rosalie is widely embraced by the community for her confidence and courage; it’s up to Barcelin, a somewhat one-dimensional villain standing in for an entire culture of Christian patriarchy, to start a backlash.

Di Giusto’s script, co-written with Sandrine Le Coustumer, turns somewhat schematic in its pitting of Rosalie’s free, unorthodox femininity against the censure of Society At Large. Secondary characterisation – particularly of Rosalie’s fairweather friends – is kept vague, all the better to serve the plot. But Tereszkiewicz, who has something of the younger Marion Cotillard’s guarded vulnerability, resists such mechanics, making Rosalie more than just a poster girl for living one’s truth. She gives her a perverse, self-serving streak of sensual curiosity that contrasts credibly with her dreams of socially approved womanhood, and motherhood. Rosalie wants to be accepted, but not to become invisible, as wives in this community are supposed to do: she’d rather be looked at than stared at, but either is better than nothing. 

 ► Rosalie is in UK cinemas from 7 June.