Richard Rein’s 1980 documentary Apparence féminine is a rare gem in French cinema, an unvarnished, cinéma-vérité portrait of a trans woman at a time when transgender identities were largely invisible, ridiculed, or reduced to medical oddities. Shot with a fixed camera, stripped of visual artifice, and devoid of dramatic music or narration, the film invites the viewer into an unmediated encounter with Dominique, a trans woman in her thirties, whose dignity, wit, and self-awareness cut through decades of social stigma.
At the center of the film is Dominique, formerly Jean-Paul, who recounts her journey not as a linear narrative of transformation, but as a complex and evolving negotiation with gender, society, and desire.
The beauty of Apparence féminine lies in Dominique’s ability to articulate her lived experience without sensationalism or self-pity. She is neither a symbol nor a stereotype, she is herself, charismatic and reflective, sometimes ironic, always sincere.
“I liked dreams, I liked jewelry, I liked women’s dresses in operettas,” Dominique says early in the film. “The world of women seemed much more tender to me, and it seemed like it was my universe.” This gentle yet piercing sentence sets the tone for the entire documentary: femininity is not for Dominique a performance or escape, but a deep resonance with a world she longed to inhabit. She does not claim to be "born in the wrong body"; instead, she offers something subtler, more resistant to the expectations of medical or social narratives. Hers is the story of a young effeminate boy, a confused adolescent, a reluctant homosexual, who ultimately sculpts a new outward form that better aligns with an inner softness the world had no place for in men.
Apparence féminine is a film marked by restraint. The camera stays still. There is no voiceover to guide or explain Dominique’s words. There is no probing into surgeries or anatomical curiosities. Instead, Rein lets Dominique's voice carry the narrative, and in doing so, he avoids the trap of voyeurism. But the restraint is not merely stylistic, it is political.
At a time when representations of trans women often oscillated between ridicule and eroticization, Dominique’s presence on screen is quietly revolutionary.
She does not present herself as a “mistake of nature,” nor does she speak in the language of victimhood. Instead, she reflects on what it means to be seen, what it means to be desired, and what it means to live in a body that confounds easy categorization. “I want my appearance to match my interior,” she says. “That’s what disturbs people, in the end.”
There is no claim to surgical “completion” here. Dominique is candid about refusing genital surgery, noting the psychological and irreversible weight such procedures carry. “If a castration turned into a fully functioning reproductive organ, sure,” she remarks, “but for purely aesthetic purposes, I find it psychologically difficult, because it’s irreversible and unsatisfying.”
Perhaps the most powerful contribution of Apparence féminine is how it resists the dominant images of trans women at the time: the hyperfeminized showgirl, the tragic sex worker, the deceptive seductress. Dominique is none of these. She is middle-class, employed, has an affectionate lover, and speaks with calm clarity about love, aging, and identity. She reveals that what matters most to her is not surgical status or perfect femininity, but tenderness, presence, and the pursuit of connection.
“I want to seduce, always,” she admits with a smile. “It’s the star side of me... But before all else, I seek someone’s love. I want to give love to someone. And I don’t think that has anything to do with the absence of a vagina or a penis.”
This rejection of binary expectations is echoed in one of the film’s most memorable quotes: “I think the only true femininity is the ability to bear children. Beyond that, all differences are social or due to upbringing.” In these words, Dominique dismantles the idea of womanhood as a fixed biological state and instead gestures toward its constructed and lived dimensions.
Toward the end of the documentary, Rein reintroduces Dominique's former scout leader, who expresses both admiration and disquiet toward her transformation. This moment introduces a rupture in the film’s otherwise linear flow. Dominique, caught off guard, speaks of “the magic of the other who attracts and disturbs,” naming a carousel of contradictions that queer bodies often awaken in others. Here, the film quietly acknowledges the limits of social acceptance, even in the face of personal charm and clarity.
It’s in this unscripted moment that Apparence féminine becomes more than a portrait, it becomes a document of ambivalence, not just about gender, but about human relationships and the struggle for legibility in a world that prefers certainties over ambiguity.
Though nearly forgotten today, Apparence féminine deserves to be rediscovered, especially in an era when transgender visibility is both celebrated and commodified. Dominique’s story offers a vital counterpoint to contemporary narratives focused on surgical transformation, media glamour, or victimhood. Hers is the story of quiet revolution: of adapting a body, negotiating desire, working a day job, and facing everyday sexism with poise and insight.
This documentary reminds us that visibility is not always loud. Sometimes, it is a woman sitting in front of a static camera, telling the truth about her life.
And sometimes, that is enough.
Image credits: imdb
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