About fifty years ago Eric Rohmer, then a film critic, took the defense of Alfred Hitchcock, in the famous book co-written with Claude Chabrol. At that time the so-called master of suspense was gradually beginning to be recognized for the cinematic master he was, not in the least thanks to Rohmer’s efforts. Although their films seem to bear no comparison, there are intriguing parallels in their position as film makers. Just like Hitchcock, over the years Rohmer refined and polished his eminently personal minor genre, in his case the apparently frivolous, careless tale (‘conte’ was his favourite word for it) of young people’s amorous worries. Although some of his protagonists are a bit older and other concerns crop up, this is not an unfair description of the main focus of his contemporary fables as well as his historical forays. This makes it even easier to underestimate his mastery than in Hitchcock’s case, because it is not in the least spectacular, lacks obvious cinematic bravura and disguises itself as ordinariness. But Rohmer’s tales are finely labored gems. His protagonists’ dilemmas may be recognizable and seemingly trivial, but they offer razor sharp insights into human behaviour. Rohmer is known to deal consciously with philosophical dilemmas, but what makes his films so attaching is that he is mainly interested in exploring the way they present themselves in our daily lives. In this sense, Rohmer shows all of us to be everyday philosophers without being aware of it. His characters hold up a gentle but revealing mirror, laying bare confusion and self-deception beyond the appearance of self-control and good intentions. They believe themselves to be in love, honest, constant and true to moral principles. But, in spite of themselves, they get tangled up in vanity, petty lies, betrayal and slightly perverse manipulation games. Of course, they would be the last to admit all this, and the most touching moments are when their desperate efforts at self-justification suddenly collapse under their own contradictions: that is when they are utterly lost.

Les amours d’Astrée et Céladon is as fine an example of this as any. An adaptation of a 17th century literary classic seems as far removed as possible from the contemporary amorous tale, but it is not. Actually, this is not a historical tale at all: it is a fantasy about sheep herds, druids and nimphs in a bucolic 5th century France, a pure product of the bewigged, gallant nobility’s imagination. The idealised countryside innocence is consciously and ironically nostalgic, and there is an obvious titillating tension between this and the witty, libertine culture in which it was written. Nevertheless, a comtemporary audience faces impressive hurdles to enjoy Rohmer’s film: a literary frame of reference, refined French language and a very low-key, quiet style. But having crossed the threshold, one is soon caught up in the intriguing turns the story takes.

The start seems rather clichéd. Astrée suspects her loved one, Céladon, of infidelity and forbids him to appear before her eyes – the wording will turn out to be crucial. Céladon is inconsolable and throws himself into the river. Astrée realises her mistake and is tortured by grief and guilt. However, Céladon has been saved from drowning by nymphs. End of story, you might think: the lovers can fall into each other’s arms. Actually, the story is only just beginning. Céladon, apparently driven by extreme devotion and respect for Astrée’s command, decides to keep himself hidden. He seems not to realize that he is imprisoning Astrée in her grief, or might there be a touch of malice and spite behind all this? At the same time, he starts to imagine ways of approaching her without being recognized. This is of course sophistry and a play on words: as long as Astrée does not recognize him, you could say that Céladon has not ‘appeared before her eyes’. Eventually, he disguises himself as a woman and even succeeds in becoming Astrée’s confidante, going as far as sharing her bed. This makes for a troubling confusion between affection and eroticism, and produces a new and different kind of love – the title pointedly refers to ‘amours’ in the plural. This subtly erotic play on gender is being orchestrated by a druid, like some kind of Prospero. In his rituals and speeches, the druid cleverly mixes antique gods, christianity and celtic rituals. With the same savvy pragmatism he steers the lovers towards each other again.

The way Rohmer handles this stilistically is remarkable. Basically, he shoots his characters as if this were happening today. He spent a long time location scouting, to find a suitable bucolic setting. And then he simply allows his actors to act and say their lines and stands back. Hardly any camera movement, simple but precise framings, no music except for some ditties sung or played within the story. As always, he wants to capture his actors the way they are before the camera, including their voices. But he just as much captures the surrounding physical world, its light and its sounds. The soundtrack delightfully registers gusts of wind and the babble of brooks, making this into a sort of documentary of a purely imagined universe. However, as his sound technician just recently revealed, bird song was sprinkled through all this in post-production. Rohmer amazingly ordered the song of particular species at particular moments, presumably to act like a score, underlining or contrasting with the action. His actors are young and inexperienced and at times seem a bit lost with this curious story and its quaint language. But their awkwardness has a disarming freshness and in a sense serves this tale of love, confusion, stubbornness and unspoken eroticism. At 87 when shooting this film, Rohmer showed himself, as always, modern, relevant, contemporary and, above all, himself.