AND THEN WE DANCED: A Rare Act Of Defiance

Levan Akin’s Georgian-set story of two gay dancers, And Then We Danced, is assuredly radical. It knows it is radical, it revels in it, simply because of what it is. Few films can lay claim to that. Georgia’s (in this case the country, not the southern U.S. state) anti-gay laws and attitudes made the making of this film fraught with danger. Some crew members had to remain anonymous throughout production and are even listed as such in the credits, and sets required heightened security in the face of protests. All of this, not to mention the other challenges inherent to the art of filmmaking, makes the mere existence of this movie a cause for celebration.

Akin, who is from Sweden but of Georgian descent, has defied the odds against him to create a thunderous, rapturous, film that revels in its own existence, because it means it represents something bigger than itself. I am reminded of a film from 2018 touching on similar themes, Rafiki, a Kenyan-set lesbian drama that questions a country’s hard and fast notions of sexuality, and posits a more authentic existence for its heroine. And Then We Danced draws its strength from a contrast of perspectives. Akin’s introspection of identity and nationality lends itself to a generous outward view for his hero, Merab. For a movie like And Then We Danced, so steeped in the traditional culture of Georgian dance, to embrace its taboo subject matter is defiance, artistically rendered.

There is no sex in Georgian dance

There is an echoing percussion at the heart of And Then We Danced that propels it along; few moments feel slow, even if they technically are. This percussion not only informs the way we absorb the film, viscerally and without hesitation, but also the way the characters live through each moment; it guides their every move, both literally and figuratively. There is a labored, rhythmic joy to the traditional Georgian dance here. Its choreography is a precise staccato of swinging arms and pounding feet and bending knees. The best dancers perform it with such ease, so that you can marvel at the intricacy of their movement while feeling like they aren’t even trying. It’s only when the music stops that you can take a breath with the dancers and appreciate how taxing it is.

Merab (played by first time actor Levan Gelbakhiani) is a gifted dancer, and a member of an elite group of young performers waiting for a chance to train with a professional company. His life is changed when the handsome and carefree Irakli (Bachi Valishvili) joins their company. His cavalier attitude is the antithesis of Merab’s, whose personal fulfillment from dance is weighed down by the fact that his family relies on him for money. But as their lives increasingly intersect, Merab recognizes Irakli as both his greatest competition and desire.

Akin’s watchful eye appreciates all the different forces pulling at Merab. His domineering teacher emphasizes that there is no emotion, no sex in Georgian dance, a contrast to the labyrinthine emotional and sexual relationships between every dancer in the group. And we feel it, too, especially after Merab and Irakli have gotten to know each other both in and out of the studio. Their chemistry develops like you would expect: Irakli’s newness to the group makes Merab uneasy, especially given his talent and the fact that Merab recently injured his foot. But in social settings things are easier, and they take to each other well, until eventually something like love blossoms between them. 

That’s when things get complicated

It is only when the inevitable, divergent forces pull them apart that the real intent of And Then We Danced is clear. Make no mistake, And Then We Danced doesn’t attempt to rewrite the story of first love, because in one way it adheres to many of the same tropes you see in coming-of-age romances before it, and in another it really isn’t about first love at all. So while Merab’s life is complicated by his sometimes-romantic relationship with his dance partner, Mary; and we accompany him on a sweaty, drug-induced night of dancing with other queer people much more comfortable in their skin than him, this is not as far as the movie reaches. Merab and Irakli’s relationship is a lesson in self-actualization that, more than bringing Merab out of the closet, opens his eyes to possibilities outside his limited experiences. 

Gelbakhiani, a prodigiously talented dancer in his real life and first-time actor, is undeniably at home on the screen. He has a keen sense of space and awareness of what his body is doing that translates so well to his acting. He is emotionally sensitive and is able to bring that out in his dancing, a tool used throughout as a means of saying what your words often cannot, in a way that is shocking in its maturity but never closed off to the audience. His face is lean and angular, but as limber and pliable in its expressiveness as the rest of his body is. I hope this role can open doors for him to act again, because he has a real talent for it.

Merab and Irakli experience the highs and lows of first love we have come to expect in films like this, but the inevitable, tragic conclusion is followed by a realization that there is more the world can offer someone as open and willing as Merab. Ignoring the limitations of his injured foot he declares his independence to his teachers by performing what would have been his audition for the professional company. Though now it serves as the film’s combustive final act of defiance against archaic gendered expectations, for a young man who is deserving of something better.

What are your thoughts on And Then We Danced? Let us know in the comments.

And Then We Danced is out in limited release in the U.S. February 7.