Eric Rohmer’s last wave. By STEVE GARDEN.

NO OTHER film in this year’s Festival arrived with more divided critical opinion than Eric Rohmer’s The Romance of Astrea and Céladon. Rohmer has intimated that this will be his last film, so critics and reviewers have looked to it for the kind of life’s-work summation that neatly enables them to acclaim the artistic continuity of one of the great auteurs. However, many haven’t been able to get past what they regard as its banal anachronistic superficiality. It’s unlikely that Rohmer set out to scuttle them, but this one-time critic has nevertheless produced a work that appears to challenge the cine-literacy of many film commentators. Admittedly, it isn’t immediately apparent where Rohmer is going with this relatively straightforward tale of a romantic misunderstanding that inevitably works out happily-ever-after. We’ve seen it all before, and we’re bound to see it many more times before we see nothing at all, but I wager that few filmmakers will manage such buoyancy and critical potency. Contrary to its seeming triviality, there’s a teasing sense of subtext behind every frame of this deceptively simple film.

He may be almost 90-years-old, but like Manoel de Oliveira (some ten years his senior!), Rohmer’s cinematic heart beats with the clear-eyed integrity of an iconoclastic youngster. Rohmer has proven time and again that he is an insightful observer of human foibles and a master at depicting romantic self-deception. His films are remarkable for their sophisticated and penetrating perception, intelligence, compassion, wit and wisdom. No matter how absurd or embarrassing things get, we never lose empathy for Rohmer’s characters, but in Astrea and Céladon he tests that more than ever.

At the beginning of this partial adaptation of Honoré d’Urfé’s L’Astree, we are told that the film will depict a 5th century tale of romance refracted through the 17th century sensibilities of the folk it was originally intended for. What Rohmer doesn’t tell us is that it’s actually an examination of 21st century cultural and social mores told from a 21st century perspective. Put simply, it’s really about us. We’re also told that it was shot in a location far from where the novel was originally set because that area has been replaced by concrete jungles. This tells us something about Rohmer’s green-tinged sensibilities, and an early indication that the film is likely to have a contemporary critical component. Rohmer doesn’t hide the fact that everything is staged expressly to illustrate his themes, and if one commits to looking beyond the surface frivolity, one might discover a deeply felt criticism of socio-political intolerance and manipulation. There are big themes behind the deceptive facade of this bucolic fable of pure and inevitably triumphant love, but Rohmer’s life-affirming optimism and faith in humanity is never in doubt.

Taking the form of a pastoral romance (which recalls, and might even be a passing homage to Jacques Demy’s Peau d’Ane), the whimsical theatricality barely conceals the fact that this is another of Rohmer’s wry meditations on the intricacies of love, replete with philosophical ruminations on morality, fidelity and the temptations of hedonism. At times the narrative is reminiscent of mythic stories where the gods (embodied here by druids and nymphs, but subtly implicating filmmaker and audience alike) amuse themselves by manipulating the passions and destiny of their lowly human playthings. While Rohmer’s film is as breezy as the gossamer fabrics that drape the numerous nubile damsels on parade, it gradually reveals a thematically modern concern for the vulnerability of the innocent and gullible in the face of powerfully persuasive forces (religious, political, social, etc.) intent on perpetuating ignorance in order to exert control and influence. The implications stretch to the equally manipulative tropes of commercial mainstream cinema and our acquiescent relationship to it: the proliferation of stories that pander to (and reinforce) expectations of safe and reassuring notions of the world.

A key to appreciating the film is the realisation that the deception under examination this time is not that of Astrea and Celadon so much as that of the audience. As I see it, Rohmer has thrown down a subtle gauntlet. In light of the mixed response to his film, one might be tempted to say that it was too subtle, but the more one thinks about it the more one realises that he couldn’t have pitched his argument better, particularly as it seems to have been very effective at separating the sheep from the goats within the critical community. The film’s critical subtext is balanced by an abiding faith in the clarifying and transformative power of love, which is as genuine as the attractive and unforced eroticism, handled with chaste delicacy and without a hint of prudishness. As such, the film can be seen as a heart-felt plea for tolerance: sexual, political, religious, etc. The fact that love eventually wins the day constitutes a rare happy ending for Rohmer, an ending that leaves us in no doubt about the point he ultimately wants to make. He expresses tender affection for those who are smitten by passion, and therefore willing to embrace the requisite naivety romantic love demands. To confuse the gaiety and optimism of the film’s ending with the facile habit of mainstream cinema is to miss the conviction and relevance of Rohmer’s gentle wisdom. As relaxed and sensual as a warm summer’s evening, the film is as insightful as anything in Rohmer’s oeuvre, and those willing to suspend disbelief and delve beneath its surface charms will be richly rewarded.