JunkDror

Embrace novel exchanges or stay alone with old memories.

How much, if at all, does self-discovery rely on autonomy and decisiveness? Can the same be asked of the immortal search for direction, purpose, and even love? Perhaps it is a game of luck and suave–you either have it or you don’t. But if that is the case, where does that leave the ill-fated and gawky…

In The Green Ray (1986), French film director, Éric Rohmer, presents these existential themes in a naturalistic and quietly profound addition to his Comedies and Proverbs (1981-1987) film series. The second of his three collections–in between Six Moral Tales (1963-1972) and Tales of the Four Seasons (1990-1998)–it is a body of work free from the exclusionary symptoms of middle child syndrome, as its worldly reputation holds true in its prevalent, multi-generational fanbase. With characters like Marion (Arielle Dombasle) in Pauline at the Beach (1983) and Louise (Pascale Ogier) in Full Moon in Paris (1984), Rohmer explores emotional and social misunderstandings in vulnerable representations of quotidian life. While The Green Ray nestles itself nicely into the mix, it is by far too ruminative to compare. 

Our protagonist, Delphine (Marie Rivière), is a sensitive Parisian woman and stubborn Capricorn who has unexpectedly had her much-needed vacation plans cancelled by a flaky friend. Though she retains a will to leave and a dreamer’s heart, it is not enough to inspire a solo trip nor keep her out of Paris for more than a few days. Now stripped of company on a typically relaxing time off, mental anguish permeates the air of the French vineyards and beaches she finds herself in, as she faces the hard-hitting reality of her solitude. And when you are heartbroken by a failed engagement that has regressed into a faceless situationship, an unreliable friend is all it takes to heighten the pains of abandonment and insecurity.

In a signature Rohmer approach to film, The Green Ray is heavy on conversational dialogue set in quaint vacation towns with lush foliage, still seas, and bistro cafes. Though these picture-perfect, idle chats may appear mundane and stretched out to the untrained eye, they are actually the most informative and nuanced aspects of the film, always revealing a typically unobvious quirk about its main character. Like in a Mike Leigh ensemble extravaganza, the supporting actors are essential to weaving in rhetorical realizations brought about by oftentimes discomforting socialization, of which Delphine is a frequent victim to. Whether it’s over lunch with girlfriends or a morning coffee with strangers, they project unsolicited advice and offer her models of how to live a more fulfilling life. Although their patronizing commentary leaves Delphine in quiet tears on multiple occasions, she never negates their comments, perhaps in distress of the life she navigates alone, lacking self-actualization and companionship.

Still, in her outward passivity and inner resistance, Delphine is beloved for her sense of self and dedication to protect it with a logical reasoning only she feels. Her decisions–rooted in an instinctual interior compass–are analytically made, but never calculated; always guided by mysticism but never spontaneous. She leaves trips before even checking into her accommodations and wanders into greenery for the sake of a private cry. It is perplexing and peculiar to any onlooker, yet embodies a stubborn certainty and inexplicable faith that no one bothers to challenge. Rivière’s performance is central to this subtle brilliance, giving Delphine a rare emotional texture—neither victimized nor triumphant, just searching. In one quick but telling scene, Delphine picks up a playing card from the ground: a queen with two horns and the letter “D.” A spiritual omen she reveres as a “personal sign,” there is no better manifestation of the graceful serendipity she religiously follows to simply help her endure. 

Approaching the latter half of the film, Delphine meets solo traveller, Lena–a foil character with flirty tongues and an enchanting effortlessness that never fails to attract fleeting adventure. Suddenly, any frustration we’ve harbored over Delphine’s introspective aloofness vanishes. Her intuitive nature is contagious, as we find ourselves in her shoes, interpreting the authenticity of her newfound friend and, with nothing but psychic instinct, walking away; almost allergic to her performativity. Precisely, Delphine’s emotional logic becomes unmistakably clear: she is not incapable of connection—she is simply unwilling to fake one. She would rather remain purposefully alone than dilute herself for the sake of companionship, preserving her energy for the rare few (or one) who “feel right.” In a world that rewards adaptability and chastises discernment, Delphine’s measured refusal to settle becomes an act of radical self-respect.

In the final minutes of the film, Delphine meets another friend–not by force or pursuit. They speak little, but their synchronicity is instantaneous, like the slow coalescence of two people who see each other clearly. On the beach, side by side, Delphine and her new companion look out toward the sunset to watch the brilliant star, fleeting and delicate, blink a wondrous marvel of light: the green ray. Legend says witnessing the spectacle will help you understand your own feelings and read those of others. But Rohmer delivers a much simpler realignment of reward, not catharsis. Instead, he encourages us to long without delving into desperation and let chance guide the polarity of human agency. It is an affirmation that Delphine’s patient heart and stubborn hope have not been in vain, as the act of waiting is sometimes the most active form of belief.