Introduction:
Sofia Coppola’s latest film Priscilla is far more than a biopic — it is a quiet, poignant, and visually sumptuous exploration of identity, power, and the emotional cost of living in someone else’s shadow. Based on Elvis and Me, the memoir written by Priscilla Presley herself, the film delicately yet unflinchingly charts a 13-year span of her life — beginning when she was just 14 years old and met Elvis Presley while he was stationed in Germany. He was 24, a global superstar already shaped by fame and expectations. She, the daughter of an Army officer, had only just begun her high school years.
Coppola’s work has always excelled in peeling back the gloss of wealth, fame, and beauty to reveal the emotional complexities that lie beneath — and Priscilla is no exception. What might, from the outside, appear as a dream life — living at Graceland, attending glamorous parties, being chosen by one of the most iconic men in music — is slowly revealed to be a lonely and gilded cage. As the film gently unfolds, viewers are invited into Priscilla’s interior world, where the glow of love is dulled by isolation, emotional manipulation, and control.
While the film doesn’t seek to vilify Elvis, it also refuses to romanticize or ignore the difficult truths of their relationship. Priscilla was molded to fit his ideal — her hair, makeup, clothing, and behavior were all dictated by him. She was expected to be there when he needed her, yet kept at home and out of his public life, left to sift through rumors and betrayals in magazines. For years, her desires and sense of self were pushed aside in favor of the role she was assigned to play: the quiet, loyal, and beautiful girl behind the king.
Coppola brings nuance and restraint to every scene, giving Priscilla’s perspective the spotlight it has long been denied. As Priscilla matures, we witness subtle but powerful acts of rebellion — a forbidden dress, a word of resistance, a longing for more. These moments build until they culminate in her decision to finally leave the marriage. She walks away not with drama, but with quiet strength — and, as the costume designer notes, in pants, symbolizing her reclamation of self.
The film ends not with Elvis’s downfall or legacy, but with Priscilla’s first real step toward independence. At 28, divorced, a mother, and newly self-possessed, she begins a new chapter — one entirely her own. It’s a fitting conclusion to a film that isn’t about Elvis the legend, but about the woman beside him — a woman who, for decades, was defined by someone else’s fame, and who now, at last, is given the space to be seen on her own terms.
Priscilla is not just a retelling of a famous relationship. It is an intimate portrait of what it means to grow up within a dream that’s not your own — and the courage it takes to finally wake up.