THE AVIATOR’S WIFE (1981)

In Éric Rohmer’s The Aviator’s Wife / La Femme de l’aviateur, the protagonist François (Philippe Marlaud) is unhappy in love—as so many of the French filmmaker’s characters are. The baby-faced 20-year-old is besotted with his girlfriend, Anne (Marie Rivière), who doesn’t appear to regard him at all. He sleeps all day and works all night, seldom seeing his beloved, who shows far more interest in her ex-lover, the married aviator Christian (Mathieu Carrière). In a desperate bid to win back her affection, heal his wounded ego, and uncover Christian’s true identity, François embarks on a journey through Paris marked by chance encounters.

Rohmer is an enchanting filmmaker, but deceptively so. At first, you’re left half-heartedly hanging onto naturalistic conversation, waiting for it to become illuminating. That ‘aha!’ moment, where the everyday whims and faults of these people are suddenly imbued with wonder, often goes unnoticed at first. He lulls you into a false sense of security through lengthy dialogue sequences, until you suddenly realise 10 minutes have passed since you crossed the border into emotional engagement. From there, it’s a joyous whirlwind to witness these characters contend with one another, where overt playfulness usually belies a surfacing, deep-seated trouble.

You see it all before it happens, but that’s part of the charm. The French director sets up conflict wonderfully, especially here. The things François does and doesn’t know about the two women who dominate this pivotal day leave little knots of uncertainty throughout their interactions. For instance, when François witnesses Christian with another woman, he assumes she must be the eponymous wife. A chance encounter leads him to follow the pair, during which he’s drawn to a 15-year-old girl, Lucie, who happens to alight at the same stop. Together, these two young strangers hatch a plot to uncover the woman’s identity.

The Aviator’s Wife struggles to find second gear for its first 30 minutes, as the various pieces of François’ life—and his naïve, self-inflicted torture over a woman who barely cares for him—slowly gather profundity. Naturally, the relationship is doomed; there’s little compatibility between a pair at such different life stages that François might as well be a boy compared to Anne. He’s five years her junior, and she has no interest in the jealousy of a youngster. Their romance is uninteresting in its inevitability; the death knell lingers above them like mistletoe over a smitten couple.

Initially, the film spends more time with Anne than with our protagonist, as she meets a friend for lunch and receives a final visit from Christian. It’s only when the needy François runs into her that she appears truly miserable. Both are too selfish to see the other’s perspective, though François’ inability to grasp his girlfriend’s indifference is fascinating. He becomes the only person you truly want to understand, with other conversations feeling like perfunctory necessities to set up the character dynamics. When the film finally adopts his perspective, it feels like a reward.

Watching the protagonist’s efforts to seize his fate is remarkable, peaking when he and Lucie cross paths. Lucie and François are as unlikely a couple as he and Anne, but it’s joyous to watch a serendipitous connection—brief eye contact between strangers—evolve into a rich, indefinable dynamic. Lucie transforms before our eyes, her animation betraying her age, until she seems smitten as they drift through Parisian streets. Yet, even that description feels too limited for their connection.

Rohmer can make even Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy—a stunning trio of films about a chance encounter leading to a lifetime of memories—feel like a Hollywood production. Linklater is one of the few American filmmakers whose finest works carry independent sensibilities, with Before Sunrise (1995) tapping into the wonder of hopeful youth. But Rohmer goes further, imbuing an effortlessness so pronounced it’s as if his characters are locked in an eternal dance. Even when poking at insecurities, there’s a lyrical effect to their words.

Whether Rohmer is a phenomenal director of actors or a master curator of talent remains unclear; likely both. Whatever the case, the performers clearly understand the film they’re in—no easy task given the movie’s magic is impossible to glimpse unless you allow it to wash over you. Rohmer is a talented writer, but this screenplay isn’t replete with dialogue that will etch itself into your mind forever; it isn’t a “quotable” film. But in exploring the chemistry between these performers, it feels as though anything is possible.

That’s why, when conversations end, it feels briefly tragic. Watching these discussions dissolve is never sudden, but it feels that way once you’ve settled into a rhythm with the speakers, even as the power balance constantly shifts. Only when they end does the illusion of permanence vanish, making way for new loves and anguishes. There’s something poignant about this, though it does mean the film appears to fizzle out more than once.

There’s a brilliant middle portion featuring two lengthy conversations you could observe indefinitely, but the film takes such a long time to get there that the experience doesn’t always feel as revelatory as its finest moments suggest. It also leaves little to reflect on. However, the final scene is a winner, containing a hopeful life lesson. As François drifts through a crowd until he’s out of sight, we’re reminded we’ve only glimpsed a single day in his life. It’s Rohmer’s inimitable magic that makes us believe we’ve known him forever.

FRANCE | 1981 | 104 MINUTES | 1.33:1 • 1.66:1 | COLOUR | FRENCH • ENGLISH • GERMAN

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Éric Rohmer.
starring: Philippe Marlaud, Marie Rivière, Anne-Laure Meury, Mathieu Carrière, Coralie Clément, Lisa Hérédi, Philippe Caroit & Haydée Caillot.