It’s Christmastime in early-1950s New York and Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) is feeling more than a little lost. She has a far-from-dream job running the toy counter at Frankenberg’s department store—not least because her cow of a superior insists that she don that silly Santa hat all the time—and kind-of boyfriend (Jake Lacy) is much too keen on their relationship than she could ever be. She does like taking photos, but doesn’t really have the right equipment, or know if she’s actually any good at it. And so she just spends her days in an apathetic trance, trying to get through her shift at the shop without exploding, fending off Richard’s multiple marriage proposals, drinking the evenings away at the local bar, before heading back to her teeny apartment—all the while wondering if this is all there ever will be.

Quite a ways from Therese’s bohemian world is the older, more assured Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett). Decked out in exquisite dresses and furs, her hair an immaculate golden cloud, nails lacquered to ruby perfection, she is elegance personified. But live as she might in a big house, surrounding by all manner of beautiful things, she too suffers similar pangs of despair and loneliness as Therese—perhaps even more so. She has had enough of pretending to be in love with husband Harge (Kyle Chandler) and would just like to go her own way now, except he’s not about to leave her be that easily, and there is their little girl, Rindy (KK and Sadie Heim), to think of. 

Todd Haynes’ Carol, adapted from Patricia Highsmith’s 1952 novel The Price of Salt, traces how these two women find each other, how they connect almost immediately, become friends, and how that friendship soon blossoms into love. It’s a beautifully-crafted, beautifully-acted, very absorbing portrayal of a relationship, a film that is equally a treat for the eyes as it is for the mind, and very easily one of the most moving love stories we’ve seen on the big screen for a good, long while. 

You’ll have noticed that I’ve avoided categorising Carol as a “lesbian romance”, even though that is how most of us will have been introduced to the title. This is because that kind of label is very reductive anyway, and more precisely, in this case, it’s simply not the sort of perspective that Haynes, or screenwriter Phyllis Nagy, is working from. Of course, you can’t ignore the politics that frame the film, in terms of referencing a repressive era when non-heteronormative relationships were much less understood and accepted than they are today (even though, if we’re honest, we’ll admit that mindsets haven’t quite changed to the extent that they should have in that time), and where the societal repercussions of an affair of the kind that Therese and Carol startwould have beeninstant ostracism and ruination. With the result that such things were necessarily hidden, and so many people forced to lead double lives—unable to ever really be true to themselves or with others around them. In fact, Highsmith’s novel, based on her own experiences, was considered so bold for its time that the author—whose other successful book-to-film adaptations include Strangers on a Train and The Talented Mr Ripley—had written it under a pseudonym, something she only admitted to many, many years later. 

But whatever commentary on the dangers of oppressive social mores emerges from Carol does so organically; there is no sense of a statement being phoned in: this is ultimately a film about two people, coming from very different circumstances, who fall in love—they just happen to be women. Yes, the stakes are certainly heightened given the time and place in which the story unfolds, but Haynes, much like in his earlier Julianne-Moore-starrer, Far From Heaven (2002), also set in a similar society in a similar age, appearsmore interested in examining the nature of human attraction itself—“You don’t know why you’re attracted to some people and not others, the only thing you really know is you either are, or you’re not,” as one of the characters puts it—rather than pushing a message on gender identity as such. That approach makes Carol feel unmistakably universal, despite the inevitable specifics of its context. 

And, of course, it doesn’t hurt that the film looks and sounds as gorgeous as it does. Haynes has brought on cinematographer Ed Lachman, whom he has collaborated with in previous projects, including Far From Heaven and the Mildred Pierce miniseries, and who does some terrific work here. The colours are largely toned down—dull browns and beiges and sombre greens—but this general sparseness also allows certain components to really pop in contrast, such as the flashes of red that have been strategically placed throughout. The visual language serves to underscore the themes of the story; characters are often shot through windows made opaque by rain, half-hidden in the shadows of a dimly-lit restaurant or in a dark corner in someone’s home—there, but not quite. And the design team manages to recreate in impressive detail the atmosphere of conservative postwar America, when appearance was the be all and end all, and anything that posed a threat to that façade would be quickly swept under the carpet. All these elements are then held together by the invisible thread of Carter Burwell’s score, with its elegant, poignant emotional undertow. 

What clinches the deal, however, are the performances by the leads—by god, are they good. There’s hardly anything left to say about Blanchett: she just seems to surpass herself each time and is an absolute force in Carol, so controlled, so intense, and so intriguingly unreadable that you’re just as mesmerised by her character as you imagine Therese to be. And speaking of Therese, Mara—whose last big release was the American version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo some years ago—proves, if that’s even possible, even more formidable than Blanchett. Part of the joy of watching her here is to see how she changes, from the timid, unsure little shopgirl with the short fringe being courted by the older woman, to someone who suddenly understands who she is and what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it. Together, they’re even better. While the supporting actors are all fairly reliable, of particular note is Sarah Paulson as Abby, whose relationship with Carol adds a nice layer of complexity to the story. 

Watching Carol, you might complain of a sense of detachment in the proceedings—even the interactions between our two lovers, it’s not the sort of high-octane, bleeding-heart, explosive sort of stuff we might be used to seeing, but a cooler, more restrained affair. That’s all part of Haynes’ plan, however; instead of plying viewers with one emotionally charged scene after another, he takes a more subtle approach, reining in the sentimentality for the most part, focusing more on the little looks, touches and expressions and other markers of growing desire and intimacy rather than grand gestures or theatrical dialogue. And so when the emotions do spill over on occasion, our response is all the more powerful, and feels genuinely earned. The film’s loose structure adds to the effect, and there are no minor plots or too many minor characters to keep track of: all we have to do is surrender to the slow-burning pleasure of watching our leads move ever closer, inch by delightful inch.