By Sara Bright
In the chiaroscuro of history, few figures embody the paradox of creation and destruction as hauntingly as Lee Miller. Once the face that launched a thousand Vogue covers, she became the eyes that documented humanity’s darkest hour. Lee (2023), Ellen Kuras’ directorial debut, isn’t merely a biopic – it’s a visceral excavation of a woman who defied categorisation, weaving surrealist poetry into photojournalism while staring unflinchingly at war’s grotesque theatre.
From Muse to Maker
Miller’s journey from art-world darling to documentarian of doom forms the film’s pulsating core. Kate Winslet, in a career-defining performance, captures the metamorphosis of a woman who refused to be framed – literally or metaphorically. The camera lingers on her transition: the gloss of 1930s Parisian studios, where she collaborated with Man Ray, giving way to the ash-choked skies of Dachau. Kuras, known for her cinematographic genius in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, paints Miller’s duality with arresting visual metaphors – a silk glove clutching a Rolleiflex, a couture gown splattered with mud.
Surrealism’s Sharpest Eye
Miller’s partnership with Man Ray wasn’t just a love affair; it was an alchemical fusion of minds. The film dissects their symbiotic creativity, from solarisation techniques to the infamous Exploding Hand series. Yet Lee resists romanticising her as a muse. Instead, it positions her as surrealism’s unsung architect, whose wartime photography would later echo the movement’s grotesque absurdity. A scene of her developing photos in a makeshift darkroom, surrounded by the debris of Blitz-era London, becomes a metaphor for finding order in chaos – a skill honed under Ray’s tutelage.
Vogue’s Visionary Voice
Before Don McCullin’s harrowing Vietnam shots, Miller redefined fashion photography’s potential for grit. The film showcases her pioneering Vogue spreads – modelesque women posed against bombed-out landmarks, haute couture juxtaposed with homelessness. These images, once deemed controversial, now stand as masterclasses in subversive storytelling. Costume designer Jacqueline Durran (Little Women) meticulously recreates Miller’s editorial audacity, threading wartime austerity with flashes of Schiaparelli surrealism.
War Through Woman’s View
Lee’s most gut-punching sequences unfold in liberated concentration camps. Kuras and cinematographer Pawel Edelman (The Pianist) eschew gratuitous horror, focusing instead on Miller’s psychological unraveling. Winslet’s face – a canvas of suppressed rage and trauma – mirrors the famous 1945 Vogue essay where Miller wrote: “Believe it.” The film resurrects her most iconic image: Miller in Hitler’s bathtub, days after his suicide, her boots soiled with Dachau’s mud. It’s a surrealist punchline to fascism’s demise, crafted by a photographer who understood propaganda’s power.
Penrose’s Personal Portrait
The script, adapted from Anthony Penrose’s memoir The Lives of Lee Miller, avoids hagiography. Miller’s alcoholism, fractured motherhood, and postwar disillusionment are laid bare. Yet Penrose, portrayed by a nuanced Josh O’Connor, frames these flaws as extensions of her brilliance – a woman who poured equal passion into developing photos and demolishing societal expectations. Archival audio of the real Penrose dissecting his mother’s legacy plays over the credits, blurring documentary and drama.
Kuras’ Cinematic Alchemy
For her first feature, the veteran cinematographer-turned-director employs a radical visual lexicon. Flashbacks bleed into wartime footage; Man Ray’s solarised portraits melt into bomb craters. A standout sequence cross-cuts Miller’s 1920s nude modelling with her 1945 Buchenwald shots – a provocative commentary on the female body as both commodity and chronicler. Edelman’s lighting oscillates between surrealist gloss and newsreel grit, mirroring Miller’s aesthetic whiplash.
Winslet’s Transformative Gaze
Winslet doesn’t impersonate Miller – she channels her. From the clipped RP accent to the way she cradles a camera like a lover, this is method acting at its most transcendent. A scene where Miller photographs a dying SS guard – her hands steady, her voice a whisper of “Got you” – becomes a masterclass in silent fury. The actress worked with Miller’s original cameras, studied her diaries, and shadowed war photographers to capture the physicality of a woman balancing artistry with reportage.
Legacy in Light and Shadow
What Lee understands best is that Miller’s greatness lay in her contradictions. She was a surrealist who documented reality, a model who hated vanity, a war correspondent who never claimed objectivity. The film’s final montage – her photos projected onto modern-day conflict zones – asks uncomfortable questions about art’s role in atrocity. As feminist scholars revisit her archive, and new generations discover her Vogue spreads, Lee arrives as both eulogy and resurrection.
In an era where female narratives are too often diluted, Kuras’ film is a thunderous reminder: some women can’t be contained by frames – they shatter them. Miller’s lens didn’t just capture history; it challenged us to see beyond the visible, to find beauty in brokenness. As the credits roll, one leaves not with answers, but with the echo of her lifelong question: What will you do with what you’ve seen?
