The Young Girls of Rochefort is a musical comedy directed by Jacques Demy and released in 1967. It follows two twin sisters, Delphine (interpreted by Catherine Deneuve) a dancer and Solange Garnier (Françoise Dorléac), a composer. They each dream of going to Paris to pursue their individual dream as Rochefort, a place in the South West of France, only seems to be a crossing point, at least for the young protagonists. Indeed, the only character to settle in Rochefort is Mister Dame, Yvonne’s (the twin sisters’ mother) old lover. 

Rochefort radiates positivity through its pastel colours painted streets and characters always in movement animated by dance, music and carefully chosen outfits that work to be extra pops of colours in contrast with the dull colours of the passing soldiers (negative elements). It all enhances the oneiric aspect of the viewing as it is extremely immersive. The film unfolds within the timeframe of a weekend of celebrations. 

With the arrival of two showmen, Delphine and Solange find themselves performing for the town’s festivities whilst they get the opportunity to go to Paris with the two men.

The narrative of the film is constructed through characters meant to meet but that (almost) never seem to do so. Each character’s aim is to find true love, like a good old musical and does not fail to provide its audience a beautiful happy ending. 

The story is constructed around couple dynamics; the twin sisters, the two showmen, the two old friends that used to serve in war together… and lovers that will eventually (re)bound. And the way they are dressed each day and how they are framed together influences audience's perception of the duos; on the first day, Delphine wears pink, Solange is in yellow, and seeing them together brings a sense of warmth and positivity, without being too visually stimulating.

On the second day, Etienne and Bill are wearing blue and orange, which are complementary colours and are, indeed, inseparable.

At the opposite, the sequence in Guillaume’s gallery opens with the latter shooting on balloons filled with paintings of different colours and ends in the same way as Delphine puts an end to their relationship. Metaphorically, he “kills” colour, and, at this point in the film and for the first time, there seems to be a visual disharmony and a rather pessimistic event. 

Looking at the characters’ clothes, Guillaume is wearing an all red suit and pants, synonymous with danger, passion and intensity, contrasting with Delphine’s white dress and touches of pink, referring to a form of pureness. Furthermore, it creates an aesthetic imbalance, whilst echoing to their different perspectives on life and love, revealed in the lyrical scene.

Here, Delphine stands out from the gallery’s colour tones, that are rather dull than colourful unlike the twin sisters’ modest, but cheerful flat.

The scene starts with Guillaume, turning his back to the camera, shooting at the filled balloons before Delphine walks in. At first, they are each contained within the frame, but then they are shot separately, enhancing this point of contention, before appearing back together when looking at Maxence’s painting of his “feminine ideal”, a portrait of a woman highly resemblant to Delphine.

A musical that changed the game and inspired more than a few dreamers, The Young Girls of Rochefort is a genuine love letter to the art of mise-en-scène as well as a rapturous celebration of the expressive power of colour. And yet, behind this candy-coloured marvel, lies a surprisingly long trail of small mishaps, compromises, and near-misses that shaped its creation, starting with something as fundamental as its title.

As Jacques Demy himself recounts, and as Jean-Pierre Berthomé relates in Jacques Demy et les racines du rêve; “I originally wanted to make The Young Girls of Avignon.” The reference to Picasso’s famous painting was, of course, deliberate. Demy explained the eventual change with characteristic pragmatism: “I couldn’t find, in Avignon, that damned square where the fairground workers arrive and set up.” After scouting and considering a number of cities; Saumur, Hyères, Narbonne, among others, it was Rochefort, with its modest population of 29,000, that was ultimately chosen as the cradle of this story.

“I fell in love at first sight with Place Colbert,” Demy declared in February 1966. “It’s a square plaza, surrounded by razor-sharp buildings, with a tiled ground where I could place my dancers and my orchestra.” What followed was an immense labor of painting and sketching, much of it carried out by the immensely talented Bernard Evein, the film’s production designer. More than 40,000 square meters of façades were repainted; countless shutters were transformed with pastel hues. Virtually everything within the camera’s field of vision was reworked at the exception of a single house belonging to an insurance company, stubbornly immune to Demy’s chromatic utopia.

Still, as is so often the case, not everything proved possible. Evein would later confess his greatest regret: “What I regretted most on The Young Girls of Rochefort was not being able to repaint the transporter bridge pink.” In his view, that single gesture would have plunged the audience headfirst into the film’s pastel universe from the very first moments. And yet, even without that sugary flourish, the opening sequence remains so iconic that it continues to inspire contemporary filmmakers, Damien Chazelle among them for La La Land. The reason for the omission? A missing 20,000 francs. The bridge, alas, stayed in its original colour.

The astonishing precision and sheer ambition of the project are precisely what give this musical its enduring power. Bathed in vivid colour, each scene feels like a waking dream. The fountain of Place Colbert, dyed an impossible blue; the softly hued shutters across the town; all serve as a constant, perfect foil for the sparkle of the film’s dresses and costumes. The story itself may lean toward melancholy, but the sets soften its edges, turning sadness into something gently buoyant.

Finally, one interior set deserves special attention: Yvonne’s café, one of the few indoor locations used repeatedly throughout the film. A large cube planted at the center of Place Colbert, it is the space where the town converges, and where the main characters almost, but never quite, do. Its wide glass walls create the constant illusion that passersby and patrons are on the verge of colliding, crossing paths without any solid boundary to stop them. And yet, this sense of permeability is just that; an illusion crafted by the décor. The divisions are very real, much like the coincidences that endlessly brush past the characters, only to pull them further from the heart of the story.

If the length of this piece betrays anything, it is our deep affection for this musical. We hope that affection spills off the page, nudging you toward revisiting the film or discovering it anew, and toward listening, with equal enthusiasm, to its soundtrack, which we recommend without hesitation.

Yours truly,

C&L