And Then We Danced (2019) is an honest coming-of-age story, written and directed by Levan Akin – earlier films include Certain People (2011) and The Circle (2015) – with a strong point of view from first time actor and dancer Levan Gelbakhiani. Gelbakhiani’s intimate performance, which obtains devoted attention from the camera, makes it easy to engage with the story; a story about discovering yourself, falling in love for the first time, and ultimately finding support and a way forward.
Levan Gelbakhiani as Merab
In modern day Georgia, young Merab practices Georgian national dance at the national ensemble in the capital Tbilisi. One day a new male dancer, the outgoing and mysterious Irakli, arrives from the countryside. Merab is intrigued, and through a number of incidents the two quickly build a strong romantic connection.
Merab and Bachi Valishvili as Irakli
The direction and camerawork are closely linked, featuring many smooth long-take shots that track our main character, as well as focus on tables of guests and background characters that give a fuller picture of the story. During dancing, the camera tends to follow the dancers’ movements very well, but there are times where even more dynamic cinematography would have been beneficial.
Packed with symbolic characters and situations, straightforward comments about subjects like gender roles, homophobia and relationships, as well as the former Soviet rule and the country’s current situation with Russia, the film makes for an insightful look at Georgian life.
Swedish-born director Akin, whose parents came from Georgia when the country was a part of the Soviet Union, has a point of view which is that of an outsider, and an insider. Akin says in an interview with The Skinny that his idea spanned from violent attacks on Tbilisi’s pride parade in 2013, making him want to ‘go to Georgia and do something on this topic.’ However, he explains that he did not want to show violence, but rather ‘celebrate love’. Filming in Georgia also brought some issues, Akin describes being refused the use of locations ‘once they got wind of what the film was about’ and that they needed bodyguards for protection.
There is a constant threat of ‘no future’ in all aspects of life for Merab, yet he refuses to give in and succumb to what seems simple and easy. His father, a former dancer in the same ensemble, tells him to give up and go back to school, prompting that there is no money or future in this dance, something that triggers Merab to practice even harder. Furthermore as he discovers his sexuality, homophobic stories, jokes and anecdotes are all that seem to surround him, echoing the upcoming hardship that the society will offer Merab in the future. Despite it all, hope is there, and the film manages to stay tender - even slightly delightful.
There is simplicity in dialogue and in interactions, almost to the limit of being just expository, yet it functions as a style, and is easily understood. This is an interesting aspect to keep in mind, and perhaps an important factor for its success abroad – the film gained a 15-minute long standing ovation at Cannes.
The simplicity in dialogue, as well as the visual story between the characters, makes the film bear resemblance to Call Me By Your Name (Guadagnino, 2017), and if you indeed enjoyed that you might enjoy And Then We Danced, which may, if not necessarily move you as much as the 2017 romance-drama, leave you a bit more hopeful in the end.
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