As far back as the 1930s and ‘40s, romantic comedies have enjoyed a popular and long-lasting relevance in mainstream cinema, even in the face of occasional critical dismissal. Teasing a relationship between two supposed opposites destined to fall in love and yet beset by complications is an effective formula for drama, towing a fine line between relatable and fantasy. It makes us happy by proxy when our favorite characters realize their romantic destiny, and yet there’s an inherent artifice at the core of these faux-relatable tales of love against the odds. Most people don’t look like, say, Sydney Sweeney or Glen Powell (the stars of last year’s surprise romcom hit, Anyone but You). Moreover, it’s difficult to truly imagine ourselves in situations akin to the ones these characters often find themselves. Eric Rohmer understood this, and with A Tale of Autumn, the former critic and New Wave vanguard made a romantic comedy out of startlingly pleasurable mundanity. These are normal people with normal struggles, and they’re all the more lovely because of it.
A Tale of Autumn, the final installment in Rohmer’s A Tale of Four Seasons tetralogy, is a film gently immersed in the compelling concepts of growth and change. Autumn is one of the most transitionary seasons of the year in which the last legs of summer give way to breezy afternoons and swaths of leaves falling slowly from trees. If 1996’s A Tale of Summer explored, somewhat autobiographically, the trials and tribulations of young love, then A Tale of Autumn is about the sometimes-slow-paced process of relocating those feelings again in middle age. Inspired by the romantic comedies that Rohmer witnessed in his youth, it’s light and breezy without ever feeling insubstantial. Perhaps atypical for the genre, most of the characters that Rohmer depicts are in their mid-to-late forties, with the notable exception of Alexia Portal’s Rosine. Throughout the course of 112 unhurried minutes, the 79-year-old filmmaker explores their desires and inhibitions with playful compassion.
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Set in France’s Rhône Valley amidst acres of gorgeous vineyards and picturesque golden countryside, A Tale of Autumn follows Magali (Béatrice Romand), a widowed winegrower who has resigned herself to a life of quiet solitude amidst her strenuous work. Estranged from her son, Léo (Stéphane Darmon), she nevertheless fosters a close relationship with his girlfriend, Rosine (Portal), who soon concocts a plan to set Magali up with her former professor Étienne (Didier Sandre). Unbeknownst to Rosine, Magali’s best friend—the happily-married Isabelle (Marie Rivière)—has also concocted her own romantic plan. After posting an ad in the paper, Isabelle meets handsome divorcee Gérald (Alain Libolt), assuming a false identity in order to lure him towards her lonely friend. As Isabelle puts it, Magali “expects a man to fall from the sky,” so she is determined to matchmake the two while making it appear entirely spontaneous.
Typical of Rohmer’s cinematic work, A Tale of Autumn takes considerable pleasure in casually unfurling its sunbaked portrait of human folly. There’s a Shakespearian irony to the film’s drama, but the character’s machinations are never contrived as much as deeply realistic and emotionally impactful. The threat to Magali’s happiness is her own reluctance to allow herself the possibility of love. Similarly, Rosine’s plot to set her up with the somewhat lecherous Étienne is handicapped by their own apparent and unapparent selfishness—Étienne is attracted to women much younger than himself, and he is Rosine’s former lover. Rosine hopes that by matchmaking him with Magali, this will allow the two of them to remain friends without the risk of romantic tension, but her maneuverings fail to consider everyone’s true desires. Of the three, Isabelle is the most grounded and comfortable within her own skin, and her arguably questionable—at least in an ethical sense—catfishing plot is both deft and effective. Though initially disappointed on learning of Isabelle’s true intentions, Gérald soon feels excited rather than betrayed. He and Megali become engaged in a game of sorts, one that reawakens and illuminates their feelings of desire, both to be loved and to grant love to others.
Perhaps the most impressive element of A Tale of Autumn is how it achieves the sensation of being a brisk romantic romp while remaining relatively constrained within Rohmer’s fiercely intellectual directorial style that’s informed heavily by his own strict standards for maintaining emotional and physical realism within his stories. The filmmaker disliked close-ups as well as using non-diegetic music, both of which are noticeably absent from the film. Similarly, he frames most of the movie’s conversations in long wide shots and allows his characters to reveal themselves through articulate and thoughtful conversation on the topics of love and desire. Though spare, Autumn is a beautiful film, both emotionally and visually, since the seasonal setting perfectly aligns with Rohmer’s themes of destruction and renewal. This is also complemented by the story’s thematic focus on winemaking, a trade that requires patience and careful decision-making to inform the outcome of the final product.
In true romcom fashion, much of the cast is also gorgeous. Portal’s Rosaline is, of course, beautiful, but Rohmer spends just as much time admiring the aging beauty of Isabelle and Magali, which is something rarely seen in romance movies. The men are also handsome, though not in a movie star sense, and it’s worth noting that the film’s most traditionally attractive man, Étienne, is also the most lascivious character. And as with its skillful but unadorned direction, the story begins and ends with casual grace, the credits rolling over a sequence of the characters dancing at Isabelle’s daughter’s wedding. A Tale of Autumn is not a film without incident, but rather one that sees its complications and foibles as a natural part of the human experience. There’s beauty and joy to be had, even after the summer has faded into memory.
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