Delphine (Izïa Higelin) is a strong-backed, olive-skinned tractor-driver on her father’s farm. He would like it if she’d get married; she would like it if they planted maize this year.
A brief snapshot of Delphine’s life suggests that marriage - despite the attentions of besotted boy-next-door Antoine - is not on the cards; by night, Delphine sneaks out to see another local girl, one who immediately announces her intention to marry and move away. That’s that.
We’re awfully glad for our heroine when she relocates to heady 1970s Paris. She soon falls in with a rowdy, passionate women’s group who get through almost as many mimeographs as they do cigarettes, and falls for the older, glamourous (and married) Carole (Cécile de France).
After some negotiations and romantic dilly-dallying, the two women become embroiled in a relationship, which, only a few sex scenes in, is disrupted by the news that Delphine’s father has had a stroke and she’ll need to resume duties on the family farm.
Carole follows her new love to resume their relationship, albeit in secret. What woud maman or the neighbours think?
There are many things to recommend Catharine Corsini’s erotically charged drama: the opening Parisian scenes, wherein young women tear through the streets demanding reproductive rights, are energetically staged; Jeanne Lapoirie’s golden-hued cinematography is unfailingly gorgeous and pastoral, Higelin and de France bring heat to the director’s sensual approach, and veteran Noémie Lvovsky, playing Delphine’s mother, makes for an unforgettably quiet steeliness.
Against these attributes, the plotting does feel a little convenient - oh, what a tacked-on denouement - and, too often, the characters are contradictory in a way that suggests foggy writing rather than human complexity. It doesn’t help that Carole, as the power balance in the central relationship shifts, becomes increasingly whiny and unsympathetic, yet paradoxically, continues to look glowing and perky.
Whither tragedy? A bit of snot-crying (as in Blue is the Warmest Colour) or indie-grit (as in Mary Jane's Not a Virgin Anymore) would not have gone amiss.
