Cupcake in Versailles
At the start of the 2026 school year, an exhibition with a pop-culture vibe and a hint of vanilla frosting is set to open in Versailles. The Petit Trianon is preparing to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Sofia Coppola’s film *Marie Antoinette*. Back in 2006, Kristen Dunst—Coppola’s ultimate muse, then twenty-four years old—stepped into the role of the young monarch, whose petticoats and ruffles around her neck were not enough to save her head on that tragic afternoon in 1793.
The film chronicled part of the Dauphine’s life, opening with a glimpse of her childhood in Austria, but focusing primarily on her long and arduous journey to France (Historically speaking, she only became the First Dauphine of France upon her marriage. Before that, she was an Archduchess. There’s something of a sense of finality to the nobility.). It left a lasting impression with its pastel-hued, pop-rock aesthetic, as the director blended a period film with a contemporary soundtrack straight out of a teen movie. But when you consider that Sofia Coppola herself is part of a monarchy (her father’s) and the direct heir to an Italian-American cinema giant, how can you not see this as a slightly autobiographical sketch?
While we wait for the exhibition scheduled for September, we can do our homework: a retrospective on the film, its aesthetics, and, above all, its subtext.
Let them eat brioche!
It was in his *Confessions*, written in 1765, that Rousseau sketched out the story in which a great princess, upon being told that the people did not even have bread, is said to have replied that brioche was a good alternative. “Let them eat brioche!” This anecdote, which actually appears in several accounts—not just those of Jean-Jacques Rousseau—does not allow us to know for certain whether it was really Marie Antoinette who said it, and it was in fact quite unlikely. What is certain is that history has not done her justice in this regard. Coppola approaches the issue from a different angle, choosing to portray the last queen of France as she was at the outset: a poor little girl—at best a teenager—when she arrived at Versailles, for whom the world of the common people made no sense, since she had never been made aware that such a world even existed.
How can you blame a child who’s had her fill of powdered sugar when her whole life has been shaped by luxury and ennui?
Another aspect of Sofia Coppola’s film prompts us to question how the young woman was hurled from the Austrian court to the French court like a ball in a game of paume: with a powerful swing of the racket. Without anesthesia. The wedding scene between the future queen and Louis XVI left us breathless: there is no more beautiful setting than the Royal Chapel at Versailles to celebrate this divine union. The Baroque decor, straight out of a painting by Jean-Honoré Fragonard, is almost enough to make your eyes pop out of their sockets. We are overwhelmed by a deluge of gilded moldings, twisted wood, and flowing drapery. The organ heralds the union, and although the soundtrack is drowned out by the instrument, we can almost hear the sound of heels on the marble floor as the young woman walks toward her betrothed, resonating like a drum. The scene is marked by great symmetry, except in the close-ups of Marie-Antoinette: she remains on a third-line of the frame. She is off-center. She doesn’t fit into any box, even though she must fit into the most difficult one of all. The country that will make her its “
” queen will also make her its victim. Marie-Antoinette appears like a magician’s white dove whose trick has gone awry, killing her in the very cage from which she was supposed to escape. Moreover, at the end of the scene, we hear birds singing from outside the chapel.
Symmetry appears frequently in the film. At times, this lends a touch of irony: the day after the young couple’s wedding night, the maids, lined up in front of the bed, take a bow. The camera, positioned at the height of the bed, shows only their heads as they bow. They are, in effect, decapitated by the bed.
This, Madame, is Versailles!
While the sets—obviously baroque, given that they were filmed at Versailles—form the film’s backdrop, Lance Acord’s cinematography (Buffalo 66, Lost in Translation) reinforces the film’s soft, dreamy, “
” atmosphere. Since Marie-Antoinette moves through a papier-mâché set—smooth despite its reliefs—Lance’s softened, low-contrast imagery places her in the world of a dreamy little girl. This is a common,
e element found in *Lost in Translation*, another film by the director—perhaps her best-known.
What is interesting to note is the film’s use of pictorial references: Fragonard has been mentioned, but it is fair to say that the film draws heavily on Rococ
’s paintings—not only in the costumes and sets, but also in the composition of the frame, the contrasts, and the chosen color saturations. This is where the film’s artistic ingenuity lies: Rococo succeeded the Baroque in the 18th century. Initially, the Baroque—whether in painting, sculpture, architecture, or the decorative arts—aimed to transcend the viewer by stimulating the senses, in opposition to Renaissance Classicism. The Mannerism of the Baroque was, in a sense, highly spiritual.
The Rococo, for its part, followed the Baroque in exploring new themes: frivolity, libertinism, and humor. We move from a spiritual art form to one that is more socially oriented, satirical, and all the more mannered. In *
*, the decision to classify the film’s cinematography as Rococo rather than Baroque is not merely a choice reflecting the artistic coherence of the Louis XVI era; it is also a choice that adds an intelligent subtext to the film’s narrative. It is a simple and direct critique of a society that prides itself on being serious, full of rules and social niceties, yet is in fact so frivolous and ridiculous. By placing the character of Marie Antoinette in a Rococo setting, she is situated in a world where the senses are overstimulated, where reality is matched only by its own absurdity, and where material comfort masks deep emotional distress.
Marie-Antoinette:
“This is ridiculous.”
The Countess of Noailles:
“This, Madame, is Versailles!”
Feathered items
At the upcoming exhibition, visitors will be able to see the original costumes from the film, created by Italian costume designer and former Beaux-Arts student Milena Canonero, a four-time Oscar winner for her costume design. Film costume designers are among those professionals whose work we see without really noticing it. It’s always on screen, but rarely recognized—except perhaps in period films, science fiction, or any film that demands a modicum of aesthetic effort beyond the ordinary. Yet Milena Canonero is the one who designed the costumes for none other than Stanley Kubrick’s *A Clockwork Orange* and *Barry Lyndon*. She had previously worked with him on *2001: A Space Odyssey*. One thing she took away from her collaboration with the director: always start with the head.
In *Marie Antoinette*, beyond the simple matter of wigs used to ensure the film’s visual realism, the wigs on the protagonist’s head evolve as her character
, evolves. As a child in Austria, she wears nothing on her head except her natural steel-blonde hair. Once at the French court, to conform to the norms, wigs styled high on the head and curled right down to the roots make their appearance. But it is around the middle of the film that the film’s art direction decides to transform Marie-Antoinette’s hairstyle into something more extravagant, with the arrival of the “
” character played by Léonard. The latter, the archetype of the gay best friend (Sofia Coppola is very close to designer Marc Jacobs, to whom she dedicated her first documentary, presented at the 82nd edition
of the Venice Film Festival in 2025. (But that’s another story.) Fashion-forward and sharp-tongued. It’s just as the heiress begins to lose touch with reality—even more so than she already had—that she finds herself wearing wigs as tall as apple trees, with birds made of fake feathers perched on top.
The job of a costume designer like Canonero is to bring out the characters’ personalities through their aesthetic identity, in addition to makeup and hairstyling. There is a genuine evolution in the Dauphine’s identity as she becomes
s the film’s tone shifts. The costumes also convey information. In one scene in the film, when her valet informs her of the country’s troubles, Marie-Antoinette simply asks him which sleeve of her dress—which is still being made—he prefers: with or without ruffles?
*Marie-Antoinette* wouldn’t be such a great film if it hadn’t gone all the way in its quest for authentic costumes. The film’s production team turned to the Lyon-based silk house Prelle, which has been in business since 1752 and had produced *
* and supplied silk to the Palace of Versailles in the 18th century. The company set out to reproduce the silk for the film.
But Sofia Coppola wouldn’t be the “it” girl of women’s cinema either if she hadn’t herself made every shoe fan’s dream come true: having one of the greatest shoe designers create the footwear for the latest “
”—the Queen of France. That’s because every single pair of the queen’s shoes was designed by Manolo Blahnik. Carrie Bradshaw’s favorite shoe designer. In an interview with Vogue in October 2025, he explained: “Ms. Coppola contacted me because she wanted the shoes to be alive, not to look like museum replicas. I was completely enchanted by the idea of a young queen reimagined
, with a modern sensibility. We used exquisite silks, antique-inspired buckles, rosettes, and delicate heels. I worked alongside the legendary costume designer Milena Canonero. She
is one of the greatest costume designers in cinema, with exquisite taste. She has that rare ability to bring history to life. I felt very free while creating these designs, which I made by hand myself.”
The film’s biggest controversy: a pair of Converse sneakers proudly appearing in one of the film’s shots—which, of course, was kept in the final cut. This deliberate anachronism brings the film’
al character a little closer to its director.
The entire costume section may well be the most exquisite part of this exhibition. It’s enough to make you want to head over to
La Durée for a refreshment after visiting the Petit Trianon and revisiting the cult film, its props, behind-the-scenes stories
, and its cotton-soft sets.
