Written and directed by Levan Akin
Starring Levan Gelbakhiani, Bachi Valishvili and Ana Javakishvili
Running time: 1 hour and 53 minutes

A Public Declaration of Love for Levan Akin

by Matthew Crump

Movies are life, 3D glasses are red & blue
And Then We Danced is the movie for you

Listen, I know Valentine’s Day is over, but that doesn’t mean we have to board up the loveshack for the rest of the month. If you still are finding yourself hankering for a complex love story, look no further. After watching And Then We Danced, I was so desperate to eat my feelings that I polished off all those second- and third-tier chocolates left over in my heart-shaped candy box. When I finally managed to pull myself together, I had the wonderful opportunity to have a telephone interview with the 2019 film’s dreamy director, Levan Akin. 

Now, before I go into too much more detail about my completely delusional and imaginary love affair with ATWD’s director, let me just say that this film was shot and filmed in the country of Georgia and, yes, it is subtitled. But if The Academy can finally give Best Picture to an international film, I think you can endure the extra modicum of effort it takes to read the words at the bottom of the screen.

And Then We Danced tells the story of Merab, a young, blossoming dancer in Tbilisi, Georgia. However, from the movie’s very first dance scene, it’s clear that Merab’s silky gestures and alluring gazes are not the kind of blossoming his rigid and traditional dance instructor is looking for. “You must be like a nail,” he is told. It’s with this coarse thread of masculinity that Akin begins to weave together Merab’s coming out journey. 

“I just want to show a new room, new environments, new places to people and open up people’s worldview,” said Akin about what is now his third feature film. Just as I didn’t intend to fall head over heels, Akin didn’t intend to make a dance film, saying, “It sort of happened organically while I was researching the film.” While the choice to incorporate dance may not have been in the script’s initial draft, showcasing the intersection between queer life/love and Georgian culture was always his intention. 

Bearing witness to the attacks of a 2013 Tbilisi pride parade is what brought the Swedish-born director to start this project. While Akin is culturally a Swede, he is also of Georgian heritage and spent summers there growing up. This not only deepens the personal level this story was coming from, but it also checks off my personal preference for a well-travelled man. 

When Merab isn’t being criticised for his femininity, he is practicing dance, waiting tables and sleeping on a couch in a shared bedroom with his brother. Said brother is a fellow dancer, but is easily persuaded away from practice by booze, drugs and over-sleeping. Rounding out the supporting cast, Merab’s decade-long dance partner and vague love interest, Mary, spends most of the film trying to answer the age-old question—“What are we?”—while puffing on foreign cigarettes as a form of escapism. Along his journey, we also meet a large part of Merab’s family and fellow dance partners. Even with the smallest roles, Akin manages to offer multiple rich perspectives on Georgian life. 

Still, no substantial character development can really start cooking until Irakli enters the dance space. This hot, manscaped dancer has a rebellious streak most notably apparent in his persistence in wearing a single earring. Do you think he’s… y’know? Actually, he claims to have a girlfriend back home in Batumi and is about to use his more “nail-like” gestures to edge Merab out of a coveted dance role. However, instead of a natural rivalry being born, something much more like companionship (wink, wink) begins to develop during their early mornings practicing a traditional Georgian dance known as Kintouri. 

Being an avid fan of dance himself, Akin used a lot of words that I didn’t know to explain that what makes Georgian dance unique is its mixture of traditional folk and Russian ballet. Just in case we ever have to hold romantic candlelit dinner conversation, I did some additional research and found out that this specific dance, the Kintouri, is historically modeled after a social group from the 19th-century known as the Kintos. 

Kintos were lower-class merchants and entertainers in Tbilisi, often known for being cunning, sly, and—more recently discovered—queer. Not coincidentally, a silhouette of a Kinto with a rainbow flag is now a trademark of Tbilisi pride. Akin describes how fifty years ago, a few influential (straight) choreographers began to reinterpret these traditional Georgian dances. He went on to explain how the Kintouri, which was once “a very queer dance and was invented by queer people at the turn of the last century is now part of this super masculine routine.”

And while Levan Akin is using ATWD as a reclaimation of the Kintouri’s queer roots, there will always be the entitled protests of the people who stole it away in the first place. In this case, those protests manifested quite literally. Not only did Akin and the crew encounter so much homophobic pushback during ATWD’s filming that they needed bodyguards on set, but once the film finally premiered in country it was set and shot in, conservative Christians made a failed attempt to stop the screening.

While the response to the film’s creation in Georgia is obviously abhorrent, I’ve found in my obsessive study of this movie (and its creator) just as much homophobia present in the Western response to the film, albeit more subtle in nature. This quote from The Hollywood Reporter is a perfect example, clearly undercutting the universal nature of Akin’s work: “This is largely unsurprising material that will appeal to LGBT showcases and distributors but which will have a hard time breaking out of that specific niche.”

Ah, yes, because we all know the best characters are general and non-specific. And god forbid a story not surprise you with every new scene. That’s just feels like a coded way of saying, “Listen, I already saw a gay movie once.” I was surprised at several points in this film, thank you very much. I didn’t expect several of the plot developments in the third act or to hear songs from Abba and Robyn in quick succession to each other at a party in the Georgian countryside. Seriously y'all, this soundtrack slaps. Zvied Mgebry is in at least 4 of my Spotify playlists now.

Film review site The Spool also had a lot of adverse opinions about my husband’s Akin’s characterization, saying, “Sometimes [characters] feel intrusive to the narrative, but that’s before they come into play. When they actually matter, they’re either at the mercy of how well they fit into the protagonist’s arc or provide a setting for later scenes.”

Does anyone else notice that film critics love to make broadstroke claims without actually specifying examples from the film? I can only assume that here they are referencing a sequence in which Merab makes knowing eye contact with the only other visibly queer person on public transit—an absolutely universal experience of queer people living in urban settings—only to meet up with them later for a crash course of queer Georgian nightlife and interacting with people from most of the letters of the LGBTQ+ acronym.

“I wanted to show all facets, or at least as much as I could, of another part of the scene where there is this underground movement and there are people living their full selves, albeit marginalized from society,” Akin said in reference to that sequence in the film. “I felt that was important to show, that there is a queer subculture [in Georgia].”

Of course this was important to show. Without giving away any spoilers, meeting other queer people and realizing your entire identity doesn’t have to be wrapped up in the first person you fall for is an absolutely pivotal part of any queer person’s journey. And while I hear and recognize that these side characters do fit conveniently into Merab’s arc, I’d rather see some representation outside of the “G” in LGBTQ than none at all.

In reality, most of the “overdose of plot” or scenes that are “vying for attention” are some of the film’s most essential moments. Several articles seemed to hone their critiques in to the trip the dance troupe takes to the Georgian countryside about mid-way through. Not only is this a much needed break from the confines of the white walls and mirrors of the rehearsal studio, but it also provides some of the most pivotal plot developments. 

These are, by no means, the only unfair critiques I read, but in the interest of time, I will move on to the main issue I noticed trending in response to the film. But before I do, I just want to say, whoever wrote that one AV Club article, you will not be invited to visit once I secure my summer home in Switzerland that just so happens to neighbor Akin’s.

But seriously folks, if you do actually decide to watch this beautiful, universal love story/coming-of-age film in an attempt to fill that void in your heart, for the love of all that is sacred, please don’t compare it to Call Me By Your Name. The amount of times I saw that movie title come up in the reviews of ATWD made me so upset I almost don’t even want to mention it in my own review. 

If you don’t understand the problem with that comparison, I would be happy to explain it to you. But perhaps it would be better coming from Akin himself: “It always has to be a comparison. I remember when that used to be the case for Brokeback Mountain and every queer movie was compared... I think there can be two gay movies in the same space without being compared to each other.”

We went on to discuss how this phenomena of comparisons rarely happens to straight films. Akin brought up two of my favorite movies, Dirty Dancing and Pretty in Pink, which only further confirmed that we obviously have a ton in common. Both of those stories follow young female protagonists who have to carve out their own spots in the world. These films could be compared much more easily than ATWD and CMBYN, but somehow, they never have been. 

And don’t get me wrong, CMBYN is a beautiful film. However, completely setting aside my burgeoning crush on Levan Akin, my honest opinion is that ATWD is better. And not necessarily in extremely broad ways. In fact, it’s the subtleties of the characters and plot that my mind is drawn to in efforts to provide evidence: getting a glimpse at Georgian food and phone kiosks, Mary’s placebo foreign cigarettes, the contrast of exclusionary Western dance to the common patriotism of Georgian movement, Irakli and an elderly stranger both falling asleep on Merab’s shoulder on the bus, dancing to pop music in a Papakhas, Merab’s brother using his fists to defend him and then tenderly telling him what he already knows, and a final dance sequence that may very well move you to tears.

If we do want to speak on more broad, universal terms though, ATWD does a much better job than CMBYN of capturing the struggle of living in an oppressive environment, being a struggling artist, and developing your own sense of self and purpose. “If you’re queer or not, I think a lot of people feel they aren’t living to their full potential or that they’re being held back by norms around them or societal structures that are rigid,” says Akin. “[Merab] chooses to live in that space on his own terms.”

And Then We Danced is now screening in select U.S. theaters,  in Philadelphia on February 28th… and I'm buying a plane ticket to Switzerland.