In And Then We Danced, Levan Akin wields empathy and dance like weaponry. Equipped with mesmeric close-ups and a propulsive rhythm, he unflinchingly cuts into the fabric of Georgia’s homophobia and fills that space with such radiating queer joy, longing and desire for self-expression that being homophobic ends up seeming plain silly in comparison. Akin isn’t out for blood. He centers his film around the romance of two young dancers; his gleeful excitement for their shared longing palpable in every shot of their sweat-drenched bodies painted by the film’s lush colors. But the traditions the two boys are forced to reshape and overcome are so deeply entrenched into their environment that radical change seems unavoidable. A sentiment only validated by the public outcry surrounding the film’s release, as several groups of ultra-conservatives tried to forcibly disrupt the screenings.
The plot that Akin imbues his invigorating energy with leans on well-trotted frameworks; splitting the difference between Call Me By Your Name and Whiplash: Merab (Levan Gelbakhiani) has been dancing ever since he can remember, training at the National Georgian Ensemble with manic devotion in the hopes of turning his passion into a profession. His life cycles between dancing, working, sleeping and sharing a cramped apartment with his family – until Irakli (Bachi Valishvili) joins the ensemble. The new member quickly turns from rival to friend to lover, his mesmerizingly elusive appeal practically engulfing Merab at first sight. Yet, the threat of being found out seems ever-present and just around the corner.
It may never be hard to guess where the film will take you next, but Akin paints Merab’s journey towards adulthood with such an earnest and youthful spirit that you can’t wait for the film to present its rendition of those familiar story beats. Edited by Akin himself and Simon Carlgren, the film quickly finds its rhythm and doesn’t stop until the credits. As if adhering to an inaudible beat, it elegantly flows between the enrapturing physicality of its dancing scenes, close-ups that treat faces like canvases and the intimacy the film conjures in its quiet moments. It’s often only when characters start to speak that you realize how long Akin has let the camera and sound design do the talking.
What makes And Then We Danced special, however, is that its intoxicating energy is more than mere flourish, it is part of its message. Merab’s instructor may insist on the virginal and innocent nature of Georgian dance, but the verve with which the leaping and twirling bodies are filmed exposes his shortsightedness. The choreography is always performed in pairs, with the two dancers circling and mirroring each other as if in a mating ritual, and the film makes sure to catch every glance, touch and smile between the two. With the camera always in the middle of the action, we become a part of the choreography, turning the dynamic between the dancers immediate and graspable. Safe to say that once Merab and Irakli had danced together, their bodies had become inextricably interlinked, making their eventual romance feel like the logical, virtually unavoidable next step.
Akin doesn’t frame queerness as a foreign concept being put atop Georgian tradition. Rather, he shows how queer sensibilities have been an inherent part of it all along; it’s only that some go the extra step and turn this implicit sensibility into action. And Then We Danced is a cinematic refusal to be labeled as other, a refusal to accept the treatment one has to endure when being marked as other, as less than human. The film claims its space. In a later scene, Merab is taken on a night out by a prostitute he met on the bus. Engulfed by the pulsating bass of a gay night club and surrounded by a sea of dancing bodies that turn togetherness into lived practice, Merab is shown an alternative register of self-expression. The different worlds aren’t presented as mutually exclusive or even put into competition against each other – Akin merely undermines the inescapability that tradition and heteronormativity often claim.
The same goes for how it treats the cultural rituals it depicts. Tradition creates community, one often direly needed. In lingering shots, the film takes in the convivial atmosphere of people standing or sitting together, playing and drinking. When communal norms turn into homophobia, it isn’t shy to throw punches, and the contrast between its lively togetherness and romance forced to silently hide in darkness and obscurity is powerful, but Akin doesn’t want to destroy, he wants to help his characters be better. After all, And Then We Danced is a story of individuals. A few are framed as irredeemable, others get left behind, but some escape. Akin doesn’t seem confident that the hateful status quo will change any time soon. At best, he hopes that some are able to transcend it. But for those that do, his film may serve as inspiration, an invigorating look at what’s possible. In the words of the great José Esteban Muñoz: a glimpse of the not-there-yet.