Nobody did more to form the template for a particular class of literate, talky French film than Eric Rohmer. Indeed, you could almost view the film-maker, who died this week at the age of 89, as a walking pastiche of certain attitudes and gestures characteristic of the nation’s cinema.

In beautifully modulated Rohmer pictures such as My Night with Maud(1969) and Claire's Knee(1970), articulate characters – often rather beautiful – talk for hours without bothering to instigate much in the way of plot. When you watch a parody of "A French Film" you are often watching a parody of an Eric Rohmer piece. Yet his wonderful pictures had a profound influence on a generation of writers and directors who came after.

Little bits of Rohmer abound in works by Hal Hartley, Richard Linklater and Jim Jarmusch. Whit Stillman films such as Metropolitan and Barcelona would surely never have existed without Rohmer’s influence.

Rohmer’s death serves

as a melancholy reminder that the generation that instigated the French New Wave – many, like Rohmer, former critics – is now beginning to age. Jacques Demy and François Truffaut are no longer with us. Agnès Varda is 81. Alain Resnais is 87.

Mind you, Jean-Luc Godard is still a sprightly 79, and he’s too stubborn to ever let death have its way with him.