LOVESONG: A Delicate Tune

There’s so many things that set Lovesong apart. It’s soft and quiet, so concerned with small moments that cinema’s love of grandiosity is hard to find. It’s a film that’s comfortable being about two people and little else, and in its controlled scale, there’s a lovely and affecting story to find.

That Lovesong happens to be about two women puts it in danger of failing what I call the Reverse Bechdel Test. I would be very surprised if two named male characters talk to each other about something other than a woman, and while that could be taken as a joyous win for women in film, it’s mostly beside the point. Men just aren’t very relevant to this story, in the same way any specific ideas about LGBTQ relationships aren’t relevant to their will-they-won’t-they dynamic. What’s attracting and pulling these two apart is entirely between them, and there’s something refreshing about setting aside broader implications in order to dive into specificity.

And specificity is what Lovesong is all about. It dwells on what makes these two women best friends and potentially more, what has kept them apart, and what they have found only in each other. Its pleasures come from revealing a very particular situation, and if that makes it seem like a small movie, well, it unabashedly is.

Character, Character, Character

In focusing so minutely on one relationship, the weight of making Lovesong work falls hard on stars Riley Keough and Jena Malone. Within the minimalist style of co-writer and director So Yong Kim, they must build a shared history, instigate the flashpoint that changes their relationship, and dance around things that can’t be taken back. It’s drama boiled down to glances and fumbled words, and it’s clear that Kim put much faith in Keough and Malone to carry a film where many things are left unsaid.

Keough as the young mother Sarah particularly shines. She is the one who begins the film at the end of her rope, having been left for long stretches by her workaholic husband to raise their child on her own. When Malone’s Mindy drops in for a visit, Keough sells not just the joy of seeing an old friend but of being around a fellow adult, someone who can share the responsibility of parenting and have a drink with you after bedtime to relax.

The domesticity of this visit is an important catalyst for Sarah and Mindy’s changing relationship, but Lovesong isn’t so gauche to leave it at that. Kim and co-writer Bradley Rust Gray (who also edited the film together) carefully show that the dynamic between them has been blurred before, something that Keough and Malone navigate rather deftly. The long-term emotional intimacy that underlies their relationship is what allows this film to thrive, and in the moments where the full extent of their relationship is revealed, particularly in two scenes that play on the actress’ faces, words aren’t needed in the least.

Keeping It Real

Kim uses a style that will be instantly familiar to fans of low-budget dramas, relying on handheld cameras and a minimal score to give Lovesong a lived-in quality. Its familiarity, though, should not be taken as a sign of simplicity. Kim’s been making low-budget films for years now, and while Lovesong is designed to feel unobtrusive, it’s doing quite a bit without drawing attention to itself.

Let’s, for instance, dig into the sound design of Lovesong. As with everything else in the film, it’s there to support the exploration of Sarah and Mindy’s relationship and to entice the audience in close. Realism is important, but this isn’t the unpolished murkiness of mumblecore. Dialogue is sharp and clear, and while this is never a loud film, background noises are occasionally faded away, shrinking the world down during particularly intimate moments. Just as you lean in and hold your breathe to match the silence, Jóhann Jóhannsson’s score starts up and releases you from the intense focus.

Instances like that, or times when Kim evocatively uses natural light or windblown hair to signal emotional states, shows just how crafted Lovesong’s naturalistic feel is. Kim is leading the audience but not towards any big, showstopping moment. She’s keeping you attune to the subtle cues Sarah and Mindy constantly exchange, things that outsiders would normally be unaware of.

Unconventional Course

All that being said, one of the strangest things Lovesong does is take an abrupt time jump at its mid-point, moving forward several years to an event that brings Sarah and Mindy’s relationship to the forefront again. The plot holds together because there’s still so much unresolved between them, but their circumstances have radically changed. Kim highlights this through a subtle shift in how the film is presented, going so far as to change cinematographers, and some viewers may find this reset frustrating.

Even outside of this time jump, Lovesong is not a conventionally told story. There’s a certain Kelly Reichardt-esque feel to the whole thing, right down to its plodding pace. It relies on small escalations in lieu of a big climax, and while it does resolve in a way that is satisfying and dare I say near-perfect, its pace does keep it from landing a strong emotional punch. All of this is true to the realistic style Kim is going for (it would be very odd if this film had big, melodramatic moments), but it does leave the film feeling smaller than it needs to be.

Conclusion

Lovesong is not, and never intended to be, a large film. It immerses the audience in a small-scale drama that is strikingly formed, and yet it and films like it have been relegated to minuscule theatrical releases. It says something about filmgoers, even the art-house crowd, that these stories are so casually denied a place in cinemas. Kim’s work deserves a grand stage, even when it peddles in minutia.

What are some of your favorite small-scale films? Let us know in the comments!

Lovesong is currently available on Netflix in the U.S. and several other countries.