May 2013. Tbilisi, Georgia. Dozens of gay activists proudly marching against homophobia were violently beat by 20,000 protesters, led by Orthodox Church priests. Police did nothing to prevent the incident. Around this time, 15 countries had legalised the right to same-sex marriage while many others were on their way to doing the same.
But not Georgia.
This deplorable tragedy struck a chord with Levan Akin, whose Georgian roots urged him to make And Then We Danced - a sensual tale on falling in love in a place held back by austere traditions, and the bravest act one can commit under these circumstances: staying true to who you are by opening up your heart. It's easy to compare this to Call Me By Your Name - both films are delicate and emotionally charged explorations of first love where actions pioneer over words - but to do so would be a disservice to a story so ravishingly distinct and culturally significant, one that isn't even supported by its own country because the freedom to love is still imposed by the horrors of convention. Yet, despite the contextual heartache surrounding its conception, Akin moulds a beautiful recital of yearning and acceptance, condemning Georgia's stance by joyously celebrating gay love rather than directly chastising a nation through a cynical narrative. Only those who have learnt to love against all the hate in this world can fight that way, and Akin delivers in euphoric spades.
And Then We Danced is a technical showpiece and a tender introspection on becoming who you were always meant to be. I won't stop thinking about its everlasting embrace.
But not Georgia.
This deplorable tragedy struck a chord with Levan Akin, whose Georgian roots urged him to make And Then We Danced - a sensual tale on falling in love in a place held back by austere traditions, and the bravest act one can commit under these circumstances: staying true to who you are by opening up your heart. It's easy to compare this to Call Me By Your Name - both films are delicate and emotionally charged explorations of first love where actions pioneer over words - but to do so would be a disservice to a story so ravishingly distinct and culturally significant, one that isn't even supported by its own country because the freedom to love is still imposed by the horrors of convention. Yet, despite the contextual heartache surrounding its conception, Akin moulds a beautiful recital of yearning and acceptance, condemning Georgia's stance by joyously celebrating gay love rather than directly chastising a nation through a cynical narrative. Only those who have learnt to love against all the hate in this world can fight that way, and Akin delivers in euphoric spades.
And Then We Danced is a technical showpiece and a tender introspection on becoming who you were always meant to be. I won't stop thinking about its everlasting embrace.