Agnès Varda’s Le Bonheur (1965) is a film that invites you into a sunlit meadow and then leaves you questioning if the flowers were ever real. With its deceptively picturesque visuals and slow, creeping realization of its disturbing exploration of morality, Le Bonheur challenges the viewer with the complexities of “happiness,” fidelity, and a veneer of perfection in domestic life. The film’s photography will often make you feel like you’re looking at a painting, and like a pastel portrait that conceals darker hues, it offers an unsettling juxtaposition between surface beauty and the disquieting themes lurking beneath.
The story is as straightforward as domesticity allows. It follows François (Jean-Claude Drouot), a carpenter who appears to have it all: a beautiful wife, Thérèse (Claire Drouot, Jean-Claude’s real-life spouse), two adorable children, and a fulfilling job as a carpenter. François exudes contentment as he moves through life in an idyllic French countryside bathed in golden light. When he meets Émilie (Marie-France Boyer), a charming postal worker, he begins an affair, believing it is possible to expand his happiness without diminishing his love for his wife. The quaintness of this film, only more potent with age, has us believing it too. François operates under the philosophy that love, like sunlight, is limitless and should be shared freely.
What unfolds is a masterclass in tonal dissonance. Varda’s vibrant cinematography, heavily inspired by Impressionist paintings, bathes each frame in warm, saturated colors. Fans of Wes Anderson will see a strong influence here. Flowers burst into bloom, children frolic in fields, and even the mundane rituals of family life feel like a postcard from paradise. Varda’s use of Mozart’s lilting music reinforces this sense of idyllic harmony. And yet, a gnawing unease settles in. The film’s brightness begins to feel oppressive, its beauty a trap.
One of the most striking elements of Le Bonheur is its refusal to moralize. Varda presents François’s choices without overt judgment, leaving the audience to wrestle with the implications. Is François a hedonist, oblivious to the consequences of his actions, or is he simply following an honest interpretation of happiness? The film’s title becomes a loaded question: Can one person’s pursuit of happiness come at the expense of another’s, and if so, is it indeed happiness?
The film’s climax is one I wasn’t ready for despite reading numerous non-spoiler reviews comparing the film to many all-time horror greats. It speaks volumes about the silent sacrifices and unspoken rules within marriage. Varda’s genius lies in her ability to provoke without preaching. Le Bonheur doesn’t provide easy answers because it isn’t interested in them. The colorful visuals and Mozart’s soundtrack aren’t there to dazzle us with the ideal; they’re there to challenge us to question whether the beauty we see is real or simply what we want to believe.
Ultimately, Le Bonheur is a film that lingers. It lures you in with its surface charm, leaving you wrestling with its more profound ambiguities. It’s a testament to Varda’s brilliance that a film so visually sumptuous can feel so emotionally unsettling. For those willing to look past the flowers, Le Bonheur offers a sobering reflection on the cost of happiness and the fragility of human connections.
Le Bonheur
Written and Directed by Agnès Varda
1965
80 minutes
French
Recommended way to watch (at time of publication): Streaming on Criterion Channel and Max
You’ll like this if you like: The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964), Midsommar (2019)
What a phenomenal article! Thanks for sharing!