An attractive young couple from Paris, married four years, takes a trip to the birthplace of the husband, the little fishing village of La Pointe Courte on the Mediterranean coast.
Surrounding them are local folk who subsist on mullet fishing, boat building, and raising kids without frills, enjoying rare moments of joy in the age-old feast of St. Louis, complete with canal jousting and dancing. In a town without ambition, the locals don't aim high. ("We've already s___ out half our crap," says one matron wearily.)
In contrast, our protagonists look fine. Lui (Philippe Noiret) holds the suitcase as he gallantly guides his wasp-waisted, fashionably clad lady, Elle (Silvia Monfort). But there is little cheer. Lui has philandered, and Elle wants to separate.
And so the movie meanders, cross-cutting between local color and chat between our dour spouses. The villagers possess little, but seem OK with it. The couple has more, but can't find satisfaction. "They talk too much to be happy," says an onlooker.
Indeed, "there are no more surprises," Elle laments.
Twelve years in the big city haven't entirely erased the rustic from Lui. He sees reason to preserve the marriage, advising, "Don't walk backwards, my little crab."
However, it's likely too late for that. "This can't go on," Elle had told Lui even before their trip. "Everything would have been easier for us if I had been born next door to you." But one can't turn back the clock.
This 1955 black-and-white, an impressive effort by first-time director Agnes Varda, presages a new kind of alienation in a globalizing world. As distances shrink, so, too, does the potential for intimacy, and this film offers up a sad farewell.
Adding to its discomfort is its peculiar score, consisting of a single, squeaky clarinet whose manic tootling stirs anxiety.
Surrounding them are local folk who subsist on mullet fishing, boat building, and raising kids without frills, enjoying rare moments of joy in the age-old feast of St. Louis, complete with canal jousting and dancing. In a town without ambition, the locals don't aim high. ("We've already s___ out half our crap," says one matron wearily.)
In contrast, our protagonists look fine. Lui (Philippe Noiret) holds the suitcase as he gallantly guides his wasp-waisted, fashionably clad lady, Elle (Silvia Monfort). But there is little cheer. Lui has philandered, and Elle wants to separate.
And so the movie meanders, cross-cutting between local color and chat between our dour spouses. The villagers possess little, but seem OK with it. The couple has more, but can't find satisfaction. "They talk too much to be happy," says an onlooker.
Indeed, "there are no more surprises," Elle laments.
Twelve years in the big city haven't entirely erased the rustic from Lui. He sees reason to preserve the marriage, advising, "Don't walk backwards, my little crab."
However, it's likely too late for that. "This can't go on," Elle had told Lui even before their trip. "Everything would have been easier for us if I had been born next door to you." But one can't turn back the clock.
This 1955 black-and-white, an impressive effort by first-time director Agnes Varda, presages a new kind of alienation in a globalizing world. As distances shrink, so, too, does the potential for intimacy, and this film offers up a sad farewell.
Adding to its discomfort is its peculiar score, consisting of a single, squeaky clarinet whose manic tootling stirs anxiety.