The whole scene where Jenny and Orme end up shelling peas together thrills me. The comings and goings between the kitchen and the dining room are elaborated in the most efficient and simple way (though the striking close-up of Swanson's face peeping through the serving hatch is arguably an unfortunate choice that disrupts the balance of the scene) as if for the sole purpose of introducing the subsequent non-event, when the whirl of half-lies vanishes into the knowing tenderness of a blissful moment. Orme's gentle gesture when he takes a seat to join Jenny in the shelling party is striking for its surprising freshness and spontaneity. The lovely minute that follows is disarmingly simple, fading out in a murmur of awkward smiles and artless confidences with no superfluous coda. No room here to set up an effect, as if Dwan imprinted his signature through the absence of any commentary over what is shown. And it's not a piece of Americana, nor a cheap domestic satire; it's just Orme and Jenny being there together, with no before or after. We did not have to wait for the Nouvelle Vague to film a young couple talking about love and death in a kitchen as if they were in their home.