Éric Rohmer’s conversational romance rewards patience, chiefly through Charlotte Véry’s funny, unforced presence. Its discussions can become wearing, but the sympathy behind them makes this a worthwhile evening for those who enjoy people talking themselves into trouble.
A Tale of Winter is a good romantic drama for anyone who finds the discussion of a feeling almost as interesting as the feeling itself. Éric Rohmer gives romantic uncertainty room to become awkward, funny and occasionally exhausting. The pleasure comes from listening closely, rather than waiting for the conversation to finish so that something can happen. There are stretches when that distinction will offer little comfort to an impatient viewer, but the people remain worth our attention.
Charlotte Véry is the principal reason to stay with it. Her Félicie makes the business of trying to understand oneself amusing without making the person doing it look foolish. We found her funny, and felt protective of her: the humour comes from the difficulty of explaining a feeling while still being subject to it. Véry keeps that difficulty recognisable, so that a conversation need not produce a satisfactory answer to hold our interest.
Rohmer’s screenplay is generous about the explanations people give for their behaviour. It allows us to hear them out, including when we suspect that further discussion will not settle anything. That generosity can become a weakness, since the attention paid to a romantic problem sometimes exceeds the interest of what is being said about it. We occasionally wanted a conversation to stop sooner, particularly when its value lay in confirming an uncertainty we already understood.
The naturalistic filmmaking helps prevent the discussions from feeling like a succession of prepared speeches. Luc Pagès’s cinematography suits the wintry setting without making the season more important than the people, while Mary Stephen’s editing gives the exchanges breathing space. The restraint is welcome, although it also means that a passage which loses our interest has little else to distract us. The music credited to Sébastien Erms belongs to that unobtrusive approach; the voices are what command our attention.
Within romantic drama, this is an appealingly patient way of treating people whose feelings resist tidy explanations. Rohmer does not need us to agree with every speaker, and the film is more enjoyable when we stop treating each exchange as a proposition to approve or reject. Its compassionate humour matters here: it permits irritation without encouraging contempt. The limitation is that such patience can make different conversations feel too similar, however carefully the actors distinguish the people having them.
The balance is favourable, though we would recommend it with a fairly specific caveat. Enjoyment depends on taking an interest in how people describe their romantic troubles, including the descriptions that are incomplete, repetitive or unpersuasive. Véry supplies enough warmth and amusement to make that attention feel repaid, and Rohmer’s refusal to hurry gives her room to do so. Choose it for an evening when listening to someone reconsider a feeling sounds like a pleasure rather than an additional obligation.
