The Candy-Coloured Cynicism of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg

By Clayton Howard

On its face, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg should be the type of classic movie reserved solely for the so-called ‘film buffs.’ Umbrellas is a sung-through French language and self-serious romantic drama from the 1960s. That slew of qualifiers should immediately disqualify it from being even remotely accessible to modern audiences. Yet, and this is admittedly anecdotal, Umbrellas remains a surprisingly popular film among modern audiences, particularly with younger viewers. At a recent showing at the British Film Institute, I was struck by how young the audience skewed (as anyone who goes to repertory screenings there frequently will know this is not always the case). Reflecting on this, I believe the contemporary appeal of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg comes from its shockingly modern cynicism. Though Umbrellas presents the viewer with a world of twee innocence, this quaintness exists primarily to drive home the film’s unflinching scepticism of modern life. This incredible trick is what makes Umbrellas a timeless and devastating tour de force.

The first thing viewers might notice when watching Umbrellas is that the characters are singing. All the time. Through the entire film. It takes a moment to settle into this new reality, but once you have, the result is charming, or, more frankly, quaint. Director Jacques Demy’s films are some of the most daring experiments to come out of the French New Wave, but to a modern ear, the easy jazz of Umbrellas’ sung-through dialogue feels old-fashioned and nostalgic. Even at the time, the structure would have harkened back to earlier shows and operas, though the jazziness of it all would have sounded quite contemporary. The second thing anyone with eyes will notice is that this film is a stunning visual spectacle. Famous for its technicoloured sets and costumes, every place and every outfit in Umbrellas is wonderfully and meticulously arranged for maximum pageantry. Opulent, indulgent, and perhaps a little over the top, Umbrellas comes across as almost saccharine at first.

Excessive sweetness and its penchant for oversentimentality are also echoed in the now-cliché storyline of Umbrellas. In a classic retelling of star-crossed lovers (think Romeo and Juliet with far lower stakes), Geneviève and Guy, a poor auto mechanic who dreams of owning his own gas station, fall hopelessly in love much to the chagrin of Geneviève’s money hungry mother. Instead, Geneviève’s mother insists on her daughter marrying the affluent Roland, a wealthy jeweller (and intriguingly, a returning character from Demy’s earlier film Lola). To further complicate this melodrama, Guy is conscripted into the French army to fight in the Algerian War to the dismay of Geneviève. The two sing the gorgeous love duet ‘I Will Wait for You’ (a timeless ballad covered by everyone from Cher to Miss Piggy) and have a night of implied passionate intercourse (uh-oh) before Guy leaves for war.

Here, the film takes a turn. As Guy’s absence lingers and his letters become infrequent, Geneviève learns that she is, of course, pregnant with his child. Considering the seeming abandonment by the father of her unborn child, Geneviève’s possible match with Roland is thus far more pressing. To reflect this serious mood shift, the sung-through music takes on a different quality. Whereas the earlier bright jazz had a feeling of joie de vivre and the ballads a romantic sentiment of timeless love, the later jazz arrangements take on a nervous, frantic tone reflecting the urgency of the moment. The candy-coloured sets feel mismatched, almost sickening as a backdrop to Geneviève’s now life-altering dilemma. She is finally convinced by her mother to marry Roland, and thus the fairy-tale is finally shattered in its entirety.

Guy’s return brings the film to its darkest moments. Geneviève has left, his aunt dies shortly thereafter, and he refuses to talk about his experience in the war. Though his trauma and its exact source are left unspecified, he is clearly suffering from what we would now dub as post-traumatic stress disorder. This is the film’s greatest triumph. What initially feels like a cliché melodramatic trope – the lover called away from his beloved to fight for his country – is instead treated with all the gravity that the Algerian War demands. Beyond the loss of his love, the war has irreparably broken Guy. He now feels out of place in the brightly coloured Cherbourg, and when he returns to his job, the lively jazz turns as violent and confrontational as he does. The sense of innocence the film has curated through set and costume design comes crashing down against the depictions of a man haunted by war and loss, further highlighting his misery through this juxtaposition. Eventually he is pulled out of the depths of depression by Madeline, his aunt’s former nurse, who confesses her love for him. Guy and Madeline’s romance feels tepid, as their duets are pleasant, but tame compared to the overwhelming majesty of ‘I Will Wait for You.’

The film jumps ahead in time, and Guy is living a picturesque life. Now operating a gas station of his own (arguably the film’s most impressive set), Guy celebrates Christmas with his beautiful wife and adorable child. As luck would have it, Geneviève pulls into his gas station one night as Guy’s family is away, but there is no cliché rekindling of a long-lost flame of love. Their interaction is brief, chilly, and devastating. Though set to ‘I Will Wait for You,’ the lines they sing to each other are now brief and matter of fact, a far cry from the lingering declarations of love they used to sing to each other. Geneviève’s unhappiness in her marriage and the presence of the child she shares with Guy reveals the reality of what Guy’s life has become: a compromise. Contrasted with this fact, his gas station, already beautiful beyond belief, now seems somewhat false, like the fantasy of a truly ideal life he can no longer reach. Having faced the cruel actualities of life, neither Guy nor Geneviève can recover from what they have gone through. They each must, however, carry on and make the best of what they have. As Geneviève drives away, ‘I Will Wait for You’ plays one last time, its soaring strings no longer a celebration of the possibility of true love, but a lament for what could not, and will never be. In the end, despite their intense affections for each other, Geneviève and Guy did not wait for each other after all.

This emotional gut-punch of an ending is the capstone of Umbrellas’ unexpected cynicism. Against the backdrop of a fairy tale world, the film’s characters have settled into mundane lives decided for them by circumstances beyond their own desires and hopes. Despite fulfilling his professional dreams, Guy could not achieve a life with his ideal partner, overall becoming a colder, more weathered man than he was before the war. Geneviève has wealth and prestige but a seemingly loveless marriage to a distant husband (and her mother, who wanted that wealth far more than Geneviève did, died before she could enjoy it). The innocence of the film’s first act is not, as a modern viewer might expect, the yearning for some idyllic and artistic past. It is the innocence of youth, of a young couple who have yet to encounter life’s true hardships. Geneviève and Guy’s naivety lingers visually and sonically even as the story moves past it, remaining a heart-breaking reminder of their unactualized dreams of the first act. Yet, the film remains in its meticulously and colourfully crafted world. Thus, the film and its impossibly beautiful atmosphere is staunchly at odds with the quotidian tragedy of its narrative. Through its revelations of grim realities, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg continues to resonate with audiences across generations and that, I think, is why I weep every time I watch The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.