‘The Girl with the Leica’ Venice Review: The Untold Story Behind Robert Capa

This feminist reinterpretation—or perhaps deconstruction—of the legacy of photographer Robert Capa blends documentary and fiction to tell, in a deliberately non-linear fashion, the not-so-secret story behind one of the most famous names in photojournalism. As has become widely known over the years, Robert Capa was not, at least initially, a single individual. The name was shared by two people: Hungarian photographer André Friedmann (who would eventually become synonymous with the pseudonym) and his partner, Gerda Taro, who worked alongside him. The film argues that «Capa» was in fact the product of their collaboration, and that Taro’s contribution was gradually eclipsed after Friedmann continued using the alias following her untimely death.

But Taro (Emilia Schüle) was every bit as charismatic, fearless, and driven as Friedmann—if not more so. The Girl with the Leica pieces together her life in fragments. Italian filmmaker Alina Marazzi adopts an unusual approach, weaving together period documentary footage, archival photographs taken both individually and as a duo, and newly shot dramatic scenes that constantly intersect with those historical images. Yet despite its hybrid form, this is unmistakably Taro’s story. Friedmann enters the narrative only later. «Capa» later still.

The film’s restless rhythm mirrors Taro herself, a woman of remarkable vitality and independence who refused to occupy the background in any aspect of her life. It opens in the midst of the Spanish Civil War, where both she and Friedmann worked and where Taro devoted much of her energy as both photographer and committed anti-fascist. From there, the film circles back to her earlier years. Born into a Jewish family in Germany, she fled to France after the rise of Nazism, where she would build both her professional career and her personal life.

During its first stretch, the film focuses primarily on Taro’s friendship with her roommate Ruth Cerf (Luna Wedler). Gradually, other members of the émigré community —many of them refugees from Eastern Europe— enter the picture, including photographer David «Chim» Seymour (Idan Weiss). Amid odd jobs, cafés, and political gatherings, Taro meets the Hungarian Friedmann (Aaron Altaras). They fall passionately in love and soon begin working together as creative partners. To market their photographs more successfully, they invent the fictional persona of Robert Capa: a cosmopolitan American adventurer who specializes in photographing the world’s most dangerous conflicts.

The film follows their romance, Taro’s other relationships—she had little interest in monogamy—their collaborations and individual careers, while continually blending dramatized scenes with archival footage and the photographs they produced. This hybrid approach is often compelling and works considerably better than the film’s somewhat frustrating insistence on jumping back and forth in time, especially during its opening section.

Although an Italian production whose characters have little direct connection to Italy, The Girl with the Leica introduces viewers to a fascinating figure whose life intersected with some of the defining political upheavals of the first half of the twentieth century. While Marazzi’s formal flourishes sometimes keep the film from fully conveying the scope of Taro’s achievements—and it occasionally tries a little too hard to present her and her circle as effortlessly cool and modern, almost as if curating an Instagram feed—bringing renewed attention to both her artistic legacy and her political commitment remains an undeniably worthwhile endeavor.