The silent sea, that never really is to those who listen. There is only one verbal exchange between the main antagonists in the entire film. In a story that tells of hatred and distance and deprivation, it’s a simple, almost casual, yet monumentally surprising line—entrée monsieur, not one of closure, but of welcome.
The theme of resistance is in every breath of Le Silence de la mer. The determination of an old man and his niece in ignoring their unwelcome guest’s hearty monologues, and that of the latter in seeking politely to communicate with his hosts—or maybe deceit his inner self. There is a form of resistance in the secret attraction between a man and a woman who will never dare beyond looking at each other. Even the snow seems to have a particularly stubborn attitude in the few exterior scenes, or the clock, inauspiciously ticking in the background of most of the film. Back from a most disappointing visit to Paris, von Ebrennac bumps into three peasants who show no intention of stepping aside to facilitate his passage on the narrow pavement as he resignedly squeezes tightrope-walker-like on the kerb to go through—resistance again, and how beautifully represented. But there’s also resistance in the obstinacy of a filmmaker shooting a profoundly unconventional film against all odds, with little money and encouragement, and facing the risk of having the entire footage destroyed in case reckoned unworthy of Bruller’s novel—a première œuvre, even, and just as striking as Howard Vernon’s first iconic close up at the country house threshold.