TIFF 50: A star is born in "The Little Sister"

by Cláudio Alves

Like The Sun Rises on Us All in Venice, The Little Sister suffered quite a bit of backlash after its lead actress won Cannes' highest honor. And like Xin Zhilei, Nadia Melliti is an eminently deserving victor, unfairly maligned by the online badmouthing and stan nonsense that reached a boiling point as Jennifer Lawrence left the Croisette empty-handed. Indeed, hers is one of the year's most captivating performances, a complex and tender portrait that feels all the more special when one remembers this was Melliti's debut. As she did in previous efforts behind the camera, Hafsia Herzi has proven herself prodigious at directing actors, turning The Little Sister into a must-watch for anyone who values such artistry and the wonders of character-based drama…

Adapted from Fatima Daas' autofiction La petite dernière, The Little Sister considers the matter of queer girlhood in a context seldom depicted in these terms. Its specificities are apparent from the start, as, before the black screen gives way to action, we hear the trickle of water and the rite of cleaning oneself for prayer. "In the name of Allah" sounds over the void, and at last, the sight of a small bathroom appears on the screen. It's a quotidian tableau of Muslim rite, commonplace yet rarely given such cinematic emphasis or such an intimate lensing. Fatima has her morning prayers to make before the day properly starts, and Herzi's camera captures it all. 

If the actress-turned-director's ideas in composition and mise-en-scène have, perhaps, stagnated, her filmmaking is nevertheless growing more polished and confident, attuned to the graceful beauties of everyday life. She sees Fatima's routine bathed in dawn's blue light, lonely actions exuding a sense of serenity that seeps off the screen and seems to touch the viewer. It contrasts with the warm ensemble dynamics of breakfast in the French-Algerian household, yet the transition doesn't destabilize. The same can't be said of the first sight of high school, where bedlam reigns, sights and sounds and adolescent posturing pummel Fatima and her audience.

This first narrative movement isn't over, and already Melliti's performance is a miracle of granularities. Her switching masks establish different facets of who Fatima is, code-switching or merely figuring out her place. With herself, with God, with family, from the world she faces with a chip on her shoulder to the friend with whom she opens up sans the sweetness extended to her sisters and mother. Notice the strain of being one of the boys while closeted, hearing degrading talk of women and keeping silent, caught in the ambivalence of wanting to belong but doubting that decision, of someone who doesn't know who she wants to be or who she already is. 

In dark corners, she's further chastised by a secret boyfriend for not presenting feminine enough. Honestly, you almost want to laugh in his face. There's no comfort in Fatima's body language or expression, merely a stony façade that Melliti wields as a soldier's shield against the boy's daydreaming of a life together, marriage and kids. What's most interesting is that the liaison would probably be frowned upon by her parents, yet Fatima pursues it out of perceived obligation. The irony is evident, as this is her form of compromised rebellion, going against the rules while still adhering to gender expectations. Her entire being is a powder keg of contradictions, ready to explode.

And explode she does, when a gay classmate calls her a lesbian after another bout of bullying at the hands of her pals. Rather than back down, she goes berserk, breaks his glasses, beats him with such fervor even the camera seems unequipped to keep up. She is rage personified, yet her face reveals a mess of guilt and vulnerability, the abyss of a panic attack peeking at the margins. Heavy breathing transitions the scene to her bedroom, where Fatima cries alone, the flush of the fight giving in to asthmatic wheezing. Her search for emergency meds feels like a reflective gesture, hinting at something bigger than the moment, the need for a panacea that will solve the chaos within. 

For her part, Herzi remains harmonious with the character, formal strategies mirroring a downturn look and evasive countenance, as if the film itself were working through the trouble of seeing Fatima for who she truly is. These issues are exacerbated by a plunge into dating apps, though the clandestine meetings with older women introduce new tones into a film that, at first glance, might seem a tad too self-serious for its own good. But don't fret, for this isn't another of those portraits of queerness so invested in tears it forgets to find space for joy. In fact, early encounters mostly involve exploratory conversations, rhapsodies of awkwardness that break out in shy smiles, some humor.

Later, keeping in step with its protagonist's developing self-assuredness in sex, the film will see her go further but lose the act between cuts. There's a conversation at the lesbian bar and a brisk jump to the morning after, Fatima a smoking enigma as she admires her lover who poses like Goya's Maja undressed. A third liaison is yet another step up in audiovisual escalation, the tactility of sex suddenly ripped from the void between cuts and explored more graphically, full-flushed with the thrill of passion, anticipation fulfilled, the trepidation of fucking someone who matters more than just an orgasm. Because, at last, love finds Fatima in the form of Ji-Na, a French-Korean played by Return to Seoul's Ji-Min Park. 

The advent of romance opens up two significant paths that Herzi follows with varying interest. On the one hand, The Little Sister almost becomes a corrective to the critiques lobied at the likes of Blue is the Warmest Color, approaching the lesbian relationship at its center with a gaze that's probing but never intrusive, much less prurient. That's not to say it elides the pain as it runs far from exploitation. Instead, it attacks the problems of Fatima and Ji-Na's bond with restraint, a level of maturity that only makes depressive episodes hit harder, acknowledging what's not working all the more heartbreaking for how reasonable it sounds. 

On the other hand, connecting with another person who can recognize the cumulative isolations of queerness and non-whiteness and an immigrant culture cloistered from the French mainstream opens something up in Fatima. It also opens the film, deepening its exploration of what it means to come to grips with non-traditional desires from a Muslim POV. In a bold cut, long after Fatima's first breakup and a series of college flings, Herzi clashes the provocation of sexy underwear pulled down over silk smooth legs with the solemnity of a mosque. Sure, it flirts with blasphemy, but the director's light touch keeps it from feeling like a shock for shock's sake.

Pace quickening as it goes along, the narrative folds into solipsistic abstraction at points, the product of an abridged text originally structured for the page rather than the screen. The cast keeps it afloat at its worst, and helps it reach stratospheric heights when Herzi's project is firing on all cylinders. Nadia Melliti, in particular, is a natural-born movie star, able to hold the camera's gaze and all the responsibility that comes with it. She makes you believe you've gotten to know Fatima and bask in the privilege of that knowledge. Through her, The Little Sister finds grace, purpose, sticks the landing after a perilous final act and stakes its claim as one of the essential texts in 2025 queer cinema.

At Cannes, The Little Sister won the Best Actress prize and the Queer Palme. At TIFF 50, it played in the Centrepiece section.