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Éric Rohmer once said in an interview with Cahiers du Cinéma, the French publication where he began his career as a film critic, “The art of cinema takes us back to the world… It has forced us, throughout its history, to take the world into consideration.” Making movies on the streets, rather than in the studio, was a major characteristic of the French New Wave, the movement of which he was a key member, alongside fellow Cahiers critics Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut.
More than his contemporaries however, who often used technical tricks to remind the audiences they were watching a movie, Rohmer’s desire for naturalism extended to every area of his filmmaking. “You can always make the camera less visible,” he stated in another Cahiers interview, and that certainly seemed to be his goal. Though his characters liked a long, philosophical conversation, the way they interacted with their environments, whether they were relaxed or tightly-wound, respectful or entitled, provided just as much vital commentary as to who they really were. Rohmer’s camera was a tool through which we could watch this interaction take place, not a self-indulgent obstruction.
While he made films in all seasons, Rohmer’s career is perhaps mostly renowned for his summer stories. Across many a languid day, his characters would sun themselves together on a terrace, or walk along a beach, or sit in a Parisian park, as they talked and talked about whatever romantic or existential drama was plaguing them. In movies like La Collectionneuse, Pauline at the Beach, Claire’s Knee and A Tale of Summer, the characters seem to exist in a state of perpetual vacation. With the trivial of the workaday life put aside, they have time, endless time, to consider matters of the heart and soul.
Which is not good news for Delphine (Marie Rivière), protagonist of The Green Ray. She’s excited for her holiday, but her boyfriend ditching her two weeks before they were due to go away puts a real dampener on the trip. She’s desperate for a vacation, but she does not want to go alone. The film follows her over one summer, as she attempts to push herself into various excursions, trying to connect to the joy that seems to come so easily to other people. Eventually, through many an awkward encounter and aborted sojourn, she finds what she’s been looking for.
“He loved the idea of mixing documentary and fiction. He loved the idea of making a documentary, but doing it with someone who could lead it forward.” said Rivière of her director, in an interview with Mubi. Throughout The Green Ray, Rivière improvised dialogue based on a framework provided by Rohmer. Sometimes he’d give her little more direction than telling her to walk around, and his quiet camera would capture her in her solitude.
This naturalistic way of shooting adds a tangible authenticity to Delphine’s isolation. Her surroundings are idyllic, yet she looks ever hunched and uncomfortable, as if she’s trying to curl up into herself. Multiple times, both alone and with others, she bursts into tears over nothing in particular. She spends a lot of time trying to explain herself to polite but non-comprehending strangers, and gets closer to the truth the more succinct she is: “I’m not very operational in life.”