That early C&A adver gave me an instant soft spot — like stumbling across a lost British high-street memory, all polite colours and quiet optimising. It sets the tone: everyday life: slightly idealised, and about to get emotionally messy in the most low-stakes way possible.
In The Aviator’s Wife, François is sweet on Anne, leaves her little notes, then spots her with her airline-pilot ex and takes it personally. Jealousy writes the script: he starts tailing people like an amateur Maigret, trying to turn anxiety into evidence. A sharp, bored schoolgirl drifts into his orbit and, before you know it, he’s got a sidekick and a full-day “case” built on half-glimpsed details.
Rohmer’s trick is how seriously everyone treats their guesses — right up until reality refuses to cooperate. The talk is the action, the drama lives in people’s heads, and the whole thing stays oddly soothing: small problems, sharply observed, and genuinely good company.