Directed by Todd Haynes and starring Academy Award Winner Cate Blanchett and Academy Award Nominee Rooney Mara, Carol has been ranked by the British Film Institute as “the greatest LGBTQ film of all time” and “one of the best films of the 21st century” by the BBC. An official selection at the 2015 Cannes Film Festival, where it received a 10-minute standing ovation, Carol went on to win the Queer Palm and earn six Academy Award nominations along with nine BAFTA nominations.

Carol is based on Patricia Highsmith’s 1952 romance novel ‘The Price of Salt’ (republished as ‘Carol’ in 1990). Since the 1950s, Highsmith’s novel has been an important and beloved work within the lesbian community, resonating across generations. Its cultural significance undoubtedly contributed to the success of the 2015 adaptation. Highsmith’s novel is a semi-autobiographical work shaped by her experiences and her longing for a lost love. According to the novelist, the character of Therese came from her “own bones,” while the character of Carol was inspired by a blonde woman she met while working in the toy section of Bloomingdale’s during the Christmas season of 1948, as well as by two former lovers — even one who lost custody of her daughter in a divorce involving tape-recorded evidence of her affairs with women (sounds familiar, doesn’t it).

Carol had been in development since 1997, when screenwriter and playwright Phyllis Nagy wrote the first draft of the screenplay. Nagy remained committed to preserving the novel’s essence, especially given Highsmith’s doubts that the book — given its intense, subjective point of view — could ever be adapted into a truly satisfying film. It’s crazy to think that it took nearly twenty years for the project to be made, mostly because both leads were women — and lesbians at that. For more than a decade, the project survived thanks to Film4 Productions and Tessa Ross, until it eventually stalled once again, as a film led by two lesbian characters still seemed impossible to finance.

Blanchett had been attached to the project for years (alongside Mia Wasikowska and director John Crowley at some point). From the very beginning, she “knew that this story was incredibly compelling. [She] found it moving. [She] found it unique…” and she always believed in the film. But as soon as Todd Haynes, Mara and the rest of the incredible team came on board, she knew it would become something incredibly special, and she was right!

Set against the Christmas season of 1952, Carol follows Therese Belivet (Mara), an aspiring photographer quietly longing for a different life as she works at Frankenberg’s in New York. Everything begins to shift when she crosses paths with Carol Aird (Blanchett) — because, as the film promises, “Some people change your life forever.”

After Carol accidentally leaves her gloves behind, Therese returns them, and Carol invites her to lunch to express her gratitude. Soon after, she takes Therese home to New Jersey, giving her a ride from the city — a quiet, intimate drive filled with shy smiles, lingering glances, and the unspoken connection between them. This sequence is one of the most beautiful in the film — no dialogue, just glances and close-ups on their faces and hands, the Lincoln Tunnel passing by, the way they smile, the way they look at each other.

The quiet intimacy of that drive sparks something between them, a gentle awakening that makes both women question and discover parts of themselves they hadn’t fully faced yet. Each carries her own burdens, and as Christmas approaches, Carol decides to leave on a road trip to avoid spending the holidays alone, inviting Therese to come along. Therese accepts, and together they set out on a journey that will draw them closer, reveal who they truly are, and test the courage it takes to live and love authentically. Their path is not without obstacles, but every glance, every shared silence, every small gesture becomes a step toward a connection that is at once fragile, exhilarating, and impossible to forget.

Shot on Super 16 mm film by cinematographer Edward Lachman, Carol is easily one of the most visually stunning films I’ve ever seen — and I’m forever grateful I got to experience it on the big screen twice last year. The use of red and green lighting is both deliberate and emotionally resonant, adding depth to the film’s visual storytelling. Red appears in intimate, private moments between Carol and Therese, highlighting desire, longing, and emotional intensity, while subtly hinting at the danger and societal pressures surrounding their love in 1950s New York. Green conveys longing, unease, or a dreamlike quality, reflecting the characters’ internal struggles and moments of isolation. This red-and-green motif extends beyond lighting into costumes and subtle production design, with Carol and Therese sometimes positioned opposite each other in contrasting red and green outfits. These choices are not simply festive, despite the Christmas setting, but carefully underscore their emotional and narrative tension. It’s even in the small details — like Carol’s red nails at the beginning, reflecting confidence and flirtation, which later fade as she is swept into melancholy — which reinforce the story’s shifting emotional landscape. Every colour, every gesture, every meticulously chosen prop becomes part of the film’s language, revealing inner states and the unspoken currents between the characters.

When combined, red and green create a visual tension that mirrors the push and pull of desire versus societal constraint, intimacy versus fear, making each frame feel both vibrant and psychologically complex. Together with the textured warmth of Super 16mm film, Lachman’s lighting and the carefully considered colour design transform even simple gestures and glances into deeply expressive moments, drawing the audience fully into the emotional landscape of the story.

Carol isn’t just a romantic film about an “impossible” love story in the 1950s; it also explores several powerful themes that give the film a wider emotional depth, including identity, motherhood, and age difference.

Motherhood is a particularly poignant element, as Carol struggles to balance her love for her daughter, Rindy (Sadie and KK Heim), with her growing feelings for Therese. In the 1950s, her sexuality puts her role as a mother at risk. During her custody battle, she faces the painful reality that she will only be able to see Rindy for a few weeks each year — a heartbreaking restriction that underscores the cruelty of societal norms at the time. This forces Carol to make an impossible choice between being true to herself and being a mother — a choice she makes based on her own survival, explained Blanchett. Choosing herself does not come easily; it is a tragic position she’s been put in, a position that risks losing the audience’s sympathy, yet it is precisely what gives her character depth and realism.

Blanchett has also discussed this tension in interviews, noting that society often expects mothers on screen to subsume their identities entirely to their children’s needs. “When one plays a mother on screen, there’s always the sense of the right way to parent,” she explained. “You lose your identity and you become a mother, first and foremost. What I loved about Todd [Haynes] is that we never talked about sympathy.” Carol’s prioritisation of her own life and desires challenges these assumptions, forcing viewers to confront an unfair double standard.

The film doesn’t seek pity; instead, it shows how societal expectations and prejudices make Carol’s impossible choices unavoidable. A woman who lost full custody of her daughter, not because she didn’t love her, quite the contrary, but because choosing honesty and authenticity was, in its own way, a courageous act and, to me, an admirable example for this little girl who would one day grow into a woman facing all sorts of difficulties. While the film never states this outright, I can’t help thinking that it may be hard for a child to understand such a choice at her young age, but that as she grows up, her perspective might shift, allowing her to see the integrity and bravery behind her mother’s decision. Carol’s love for both Rindy and Therese cannot coexist freely in her world, highlighting the sacrifices lesbian mothers were historically forced to make — and, in some parts of the world, are still forced to make today. At the same time, the narrative emphasises Carol’s need to be true to herself and to love whom she chooses, even if it means being misunderstood or judged, offering a portrayal of motherhood and identity that is rare, nuanced, and profoundly moving.

Identity lies at the heart of Carol, not only through the lens of forbidden love but through the quiet, transformative process of self-discovery that unfolds when you meet someone who sparks something within you. Carol and Therese’s connection becomes a catalyst for both women, bringing long-buried parts of themselves into focus. Their relationship shows how identity often reveals itself through the presence of the right person, the one who awakens what had been waiting to be seen.

For Therese, this awakening is especially profound. She is young, still learning who she is — what she desires, what she rejects, and the kind of woman she hopes to become. She needs time to grow and mature into herself before she can truly understand what a relationship with Carol would mean. “I have much to do, but you, my darling, even more.” And in the world they inhabit, that journey becomes even more complicated. Their bond forces them into a delicate balance: they must blend in, be careful and discreet, navigating a society that demands silence while trying to hold onto who they truly are. This paradox — having to hide to exist — is what makes their emotional journey so moving.

Carol guides Therese through this fragile world, teaching her when to be cautious and how to protect the small moments of freedom they manage to create together. Even on their brief road trip, a moment that should feel liberating, the sense of danger never fully disappears. The detective tailing them may be tied to Carol’s divorce, but his presence becomes a harsh reminder: every move is being observed, and their love is not only condemned but actively monitored.

Through these moments, Carol captures both the beauty and the risk of loving another woman in the 1950s. It portrays the courage required to live authentically in a world that punishes visibility — and the profound, life-shifting impact of finding someone who sees you clearly.

The age difference between Carol and Therese adds yet another dimension to their relationship, shaping it in ways that are both tender and complicated. Though the gap between them is only about a decade, Carol naturally steps into a guiding, almost protective role. This creates a subtle but undeniable power imbalance, one that the film never ignores. Therese, still figuring out who she is and how she wants to move through the world, sometimes reacts with the emotional impulsiveness of someone still growing into herself — sulking when she feels dismissed, or instinctively following Carol’s lead in public as a way of staying safe. This dynamic doesn’t diminish their connection; instead, it adds texture to it. Their bond becomes a delicate blend of protection, desire, and mutual fascination — a relationship built on both vulnerability and longing. It’s this interplay, the way tenderness and uncertainty coexist between them, that makes their love story feel so intricate and so profoundly human.

“You’ll think it harsh of me to say so, but no explanation I offer will satisfy you. Please don’t be angry when I tell you that you seek resolutions and explanations because you are young. But you will understand this one day […] Please believe that I would do anything to see you happy. So, I do the only thing I can. I release you.”

For the past ten years, Carol has held a cherished place within the community — in large part because of its “happy” ending, something exceptionally rare in lesbian love stories, which too often conclude in tragedy. The widespread admiration for Carol even gave rise to a dedicated fan base, usually referred to as the “Cult of Carol.” In 2017, Allison Tate’s tribute comedy short Carol Support Group premiered at the San Francisco International LGBTQ+ Film Festival, playfully depicting a chaotic support group of people “addicted” to Carol and parodying the film’s iconic line with its own tagline, “Some people are addicts forever.”

Such devoted admiration makes the British Film Institute’s recognition feel all the more fitting, and I couldn’t agree more with them naming Carol the greatest LGBTQ film of all time. Honestly, I can’t think of any other queer film that has moved me so deeply. Every glance, every touch between Therese and Carol carries a weight that lingers long after every scene’s end. Carter Burwell’s delicate, haunting score amplifies this, wrapping the audience in the quiet intensity of their connection and the unspoken longing that defines their love. It’s a film that doesn’t just show a romance — it makes you feel it, in your chest and in your bones, capturing the beauty, fragility, and courage of two women daring to love in a world that refuses to accept them.

Regardless of how some people might feel about this film, I believe it’s an essential cinematic piece for the LGBTQ+ community. It remains both resonant and timeless even in 2025, ten years after its release. In a world in which homophobia still exists, it’s important to have that kind of representation on our screens — especially given the fact that, when it got released, the film was censored in prime-time commercials and in-flight entertainment of an American airline (I know it’s in a plane, in public space, but why would you censor even kissing scenes between two women in the year 2016 — it’s crazy to me because it was only nine years ago). 

Just thinking about this film, its importance, and its beauty makes me want to cry. The love story between Therese and Carol is devastatingly poignant: an impossible relationship, given the illegal status of their love, yet so intensely human. I love how Therese doesn’t even realize she could love a woman until she meets Carol. She senses something isn’t quite right with her current relationship, but it’s only when Carol enters her life that her world truly flips upside down — and this resonates with me on such a personal level. Before I met the girl who became my first girlfriend, I didn’t realise I could love and date women. I was completely stuck in a heteronormative bubble, just like Therese. Meeting her opened my eyes, and suddenly everything shifted — I became obsessed in that classic first-love way, wanting to spend every moment with her, willing to do anything for her. Watching Therese navigate those same emotions felt like seeing my own story reflected on screen.

I’m so glad the movie received recognition when it was released in 2015, but I truly believe it deserved even more. It is one of the most beautiful films ever made — not just visually, but thematically. And that’s without even mentioning the incredible performances of Blanchett and Mara, which are nuanced, haunting, and unforgettable. Every aspect of this film lingers with you in the most complimentary way, long after the credits roll, even after multiple rewatches.

“It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell…”