Le rayon vert (The Green Ray)

Le Rayon vert is certainly no exception. What is quite unique in Rohmer’s work is that everything revolves around a single character: Delphine (Marie Rivière), a woman in her twenties who works as a secretary. Abandoned by her boyfriend, their planned holiday in Greece also falls through. As Paris empties during the hot month of July, Delphine sets off too. For two months (Rohmer divides her experiences into days) she wanders aimlessly from one holiday spot to another – Cherbourg, the Alps, Biarritz – without finding what she is looking for. Each time, she is also a burden to her new surroundings. She detests travelling on her own but can stand group tours even less. The more friends and acquaintances try to help her out of her malaise, the more she deliberately drowns in it.

Gradually, the neurotic and overly fussy Delphine also reveals her secret: she has no interest in fleeting flings but craves true, lasting love. And whilst waiting for this miracle, she is unwilling to make any compromises. On the beach at Biarritz, where the monokini is all the rage, she meets a free-spirited Swedish woman whose well-meaning advice only serves to heighten her loneliness.

Le Rayon vert opens with a quote from Rimbaud – “Ah! Que le temps vienne où les coeurs s’éprennent” – which has an ironic effect. Whilst Rimbaud speaks of the moment when hearts ‘ignite’, Delphine is stuck in a situation where that seems impossible. The entire film then becomes a postponement of that promise.

The title Le Rayon vert is taken from a novel by Jules Verne and refers to the rare phenomenon of the green flash that sometimes appears as the sun sinks into the sea on a very clear day. On a bench, four elderly people share their views on the phenomenon. According to Verne and Delphine, who happened to overhear their conversation, at that moment you gain insight into your own feelings and those of others, and a young girl can look into the heart of her beloved. That ‘green light’ functions almost as a deus ex machina: a rare, perhaps even dubious phenomenon that suddenly lends meaning to everything that came before.

In Le Rayon vert, the build-up to this moment of romantic revelation is laborious and erratic. Shot in precarious conditions on 16 mm and composed of long, spontaneous discussions, this first film by Rohmer—improvised from start to finish—is one of his most experimental and personal works. In none of his fiction films is the documentary style so dominant. This is abundantly clear in the camerawork: few or no static shots, but many in which the camera pans along with the characters or zooms in on one of the participants during conversations. In short, plenty of fly-on-the-wall shots. Delphine’s search for a suitable holiday spot yields quasi-miniature reports of how families staying at home in the provinces or countryside enjoy the fine weather, or how the French spend their holidays by the sea. The scenes on the crowded beach in Biarritz in particular inspire Rohmer to employ film techniques that are usually taboo for him, such as the telephoto shots of a mass of French people crammed together in the sea. This documentary style also clashes with Delphine’s inner drama. The world is mundane, sunny, full of holidaymakers; her crisis is anything but, which gives the film its tension.

Paradoxically, it is precisely in this docu-fiction that Rohmer makes exceptional use of non-diegetic music (music not heard by the characters, but only by the audience). Sparingly, mind you, with just the occasional violin piece.

It is also the film with the protagonist who wallows most in self-pity. Delphine regularly bursts into tears, something those around her do not quite know how to respond to. But fortunately, Rohmer undermines her gloom with the necessary ironic mockery. Thus, in all her tristesse, Delphine sits in the station waiting room reading, of all things, Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. That moment functions almost as an ironic mirror: Delphine sees herself as sensitive and authentic, but Rohmer subtly suggests that her demeanour also has something unworldly about it. “I am functional but not operational,” is how she manages to articulate her dilemma.

Rohmer was, unusually, unsure of himself during filming and was therefore surprised when this seemingly loose and fragile film won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival and, following a controversial preview on Canal Plus, became an unexpected hit in French cinemas. Over the years, the reputation of this quickly shot interlude grew, and it became a favourite among many Rohmer devotees.

- Patrick Duynslaegher