Advisory: The Sunken Six assumes a prior viewing of the feature. If you have not seen The Man Who Planted Trees, please return after the credits have rolled. This analysis is intended for those already familiar with the film.
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Unceasing wind. It grates the nerves and breaks the will. Exposure to wind dries your eyes and lips, tangles your hair, and leaves you in a state of constant alert. When exposed to wind for too long, the wailing sound and fluctuating pressure on your skin overload your senses. Your patience wears thin, and all you can think of is finding a way to escape it.
The coal workers of Verguns were driven mad by the wind; in their barren mountainous landscape, there was nowhere to hide from it. When the narrator arrives at Verguns in 1913, he finds an abandoned town. There is no water, and only wild lavender grows. The wind howls incessantly, forcing the narrator to keep moving in search of water and respite from the elements.
A hundred years later, we endure the maddening din and overstimulation of a tempest that began in the Information Age: the hyperconnected life. It is impossible to build a meaningful life in the digital environment. Like the scattered pockets of lavender in the desolate countryside surrounding Verguns, the digital world sustains only fleeting moments of joy and temporary amusements. Those who desire something deeper must either abandon the digital world altogether or build a fortified shelter in their mind to silence the ravaging winds.
To survive in the harsh Alpine environment, Elzéard Bouffier constructs a stone house. It is not a hut, the narrator points out, but a real house with a solid, strong roof. This substantive, well-constructed home is Elzéard’s fortress of stability. Inside, he is safe from the battering winds. Within the density of its hand-laid walls, Elzéard finds respite from the bombarding wind. Beneath the home’s sturdy roof, its torturous shrieks are kept at bay, crashing upon the tiles “like the sea upon the seashore.”
In modern terms, grounded presence in the physical world is the buffer people need to escape the digital noise that wears us thin. Today, when people are stressed, they turn to the Calm app. When bored, they scroll through TikTok. When lonely, they check Instagram to see if anyone liked their story. None of these offers real solutions to the underlying problems. They’re the equivalent of huts in the wind-ravaged wasteland; only temporary relief can ever come from them.
To do the kind of sustained, purposeful work that Elzéard did, a grounded life is essential. In the film, the narrator notes that the interior of Elzéard’s house is “neat and tidy.” Washed dishes, swept floors, and an oiled shotgun bear witness to this. A pot of soup simmers on the hearth, indicating the cooking began before Elzéard set out to work. The orderly, intentional nature of Elzéard’s home interior is evidence of a grounded mind.
The ungrounded mind can’t sustain the level of attention required to build a fortification that can keep the winds at bay. The ungrounded mind is always on the run, forever seeking the next dopamine hit. There is no mental energy left for the pesky details.
When you encounter someone in the real world who has made this commitment, it’s obvious. After noting the home’s well-kept interior, the narrator realizes that Elzéard takes the same considered approach to his own self-care. He sees that Elzéard is clean-shaven, has firmly sewn buttons on his shirt, and wears clothes darned with meticulous care. When you live a grounded life, you never overlook self-care. It’s more than just a spa day or a round of golf to recharge your depleted batteries; it is the sustained ability to recognize what you need and attend to it.
In the end, hope returns to Verguns and the surrounding countryside. A gentle breeze has replaced the harsh, dry winds of the past. The sounds of laughter, music, and running water return to the land. In place of ruins, newly plastered buildings and farmhouses emerge. Gardens overflowing with flowers and vegetables back the narrator’s point that Verguns is now a place where people want to live. In the valley, streams are flowing again. “In the maple groves, each farm has its fountain, brimming over onto carpets of fresh mint,” the narrator explains.
Mint is a symbol of hospitality. In the context of the story, this is key. In 1913, the area where the mint grows was once a barren wasteland. Were it not for the steady, deliberate work of Elzéard over thirty-plus years, that mint would never have been possible. To do that work, Elzéard needed his fortress of stability. Absent the mind, body, and soul-renewing properties afforded by his home, Elzéard wouldn’t have the patience to sort 100 perfect acorns every night. Nor the mental acuity required to identify Beech trees as the perfect specimens for the dales. He couldn’t muster the stamina required to transition from shepherding to beekeeping.
At the film’s end, the narrator says, “Counting those who lived here before, quite changed by their life and gentle surroundings, and including the newcomers, more than ten thousand people owe their happiness to Elzéard Bouffier.” It’s a powerful testament to what is possible when a person makes the effort to live a grounded life. Everyone wants a happy life, and we all do what we can to achieve it. But if a person wants to build the kind of life that turns a desert into Canaan, groundedness is nonnegotiable.
The fountain waters spilling onto mint carpets below represent a life of abundant peace. The mint is the luxury of overflowing water, and that overflow can only be earned by the man who has the awareness to mend his clothes and tend to his bees.
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