Film Review: Priscilla Proves To Be a Story Worthy of Its Own
Lauren Nolan ‘24
It's hard not to discuss Sofia Coppola's newest film, Priscilla, without mentioning Baz Luhrmann's Elvis from 2022. When two polar opposite entries into the Presley canon are released only a year apart, the comparisons are inevitable. Luhrmann creates a bombastic blitz on the senses with Elvis, while Coppola keeps Priscilla purposefully mundane. Elvis' non-stop soundtrack includes the likes of Britney Spears and Doja Cat. Priscilla couldn't even acquire the rights to Presley's discography. Only one of these films contains a scene where Elvis turns into a comic book Roy Lichtenstein-style superhero—I'll let you guess which one. Even the titles, Elvis and Priscilla, are opposites. The two naturally give way to analyzing each other. Though rather than competitors, the films stand better as companions. If Elvis is the grand mythos of the performer, Priscilla is the grounded look into the person. Based on the 1985 autobiography Elvis and Me, the 2023 biopic recounts Priscilla Beaulieu's (Cailee Spaeny) transformation into Mrs. Presley, examining their relationship through the eyes of a young girl trying to make sense of this "king" figure as well as herself.
More than Elvis, a better point of comparison is within Coppola's filmography. Priscilla follows in line with the director's previous works as a film about girlhood in gilded cages, most notably Marie Antoinette. There is a passing line in the 2006 film where a noblewoman whispers, "She looks like a child," while glaring at the 14-year-old newly appointed queen of France. In Priscilla, a near-identical scene occurs where a woman gawks at how young a then-24-year-old Elvis' girlfriend is, smirking, "She's like a little girl!" Like Antoinette, Beaulieu was only 14. Priscilla is unrestrained in depicting the Presleys’ relationship, honing in on the musician's predatory behavior. 'Priscilla Presley' is not a person but an image, and one that she is groomed into becoming from adolescence.
Coppola's directing style is detached. Her scripts are of few words, with implied conflicts and internalized feelings. Even her renowned film, Lost in Translation, ends with the protagonist whispering a message the audience never hears. Because of this passiveness, Coppola's works require a specific type of actor that Spaeny fills perfectly. How she acts is dynamic, constantly contouring herself, trying to elongate her body to appear taller. It captures that desire for maturity with the physicality of a child who inherently cannot be. Scenes of just her eyes are captivating. Underneath the iconic cat-liner wing and heavy lashes, Spaeny conveys the emptiness of upholding this facade.
In some of Coppola's past work, this removed style felt more of a detractor, creating a barrier too far between audiences and the characters, but in Priscilla, it works. The script demonstrates Priscilla Presley's struggle with self-agency. It is a teenage girl controlled by a longtime idol; all aspects of Priscilla's being–her appearance, personality, and sexuality reflect Elvis' commands. Coppola tells the story from Priscilla's point of view, and because she is a passive player in her own life, the film's style echoes this. In one of the first scenes, a Presley employee walks up to teenage Priscilla in a diner, asking if she likes Elvis Presley and would want to meet him. By the next shot, the young girl converses with the singer at a party. The movie never shows Elvis requesting the man to talk to her or why he wants Priscilla in the first place--in classic Coppola fashion, it happens and then immediately moves on, much like how things happen to Priscilla that she forcibly accepts.
The cinematography brilliantly utilizes space. Jacob Elordi, who plays Elvis, is 6-foot-5, significantly taller than the actual singer. Coppola takes advantage of this by placing the camera in numerous long shots to highlight Elordi's towering presence over the petite Spaeny. Every location Elordi steps into, even in spaces as intimate as cars and beds, appears smaller. In contrast, Elvis' estate, Graceland, feels massive. While Elvis is on the road, he forces Priscilla to stay in the house with no permitted guests. It is a desolate, middling existence for a girl in the prime of her youth, and the wide-angle lens renders the space even lonelier.
Baz Luhrmann is an Elvis lover. His fanaticism exudes into every shot of Elvis, framing the man as a god rather than a mere king. What results is an entertaining film not without its flaws—Tom Hanks' uncanny Muppet voice remains baffling—but is too passionate not to enjoy. Sofia Coppola is not a fan of Priscilla. She clearly admires her, but there seems to be a more human connection. In several of her films, she tackles the issue of young women looming in the shadows of their more famous partners with themes of celebrity, image and toxic relationships. It forces one to think of Coppola herself, whose last name is its own legacy. Her empathy for these women comes from a real place, and it translates. Priscilla is a story worth telling. The biopic does not just feel like a life story but a universal portrayal of abuse that teenage girls often experience. It is the film that Copolla's career has been building up to, exploring all the issues important to the director herself in the most effective way yet.