If people ask me why I’m learning Georgian, I tell them it’s a bit silly, it’s because I watched a film and fell in love. If they want to know which film, I answer with pride that it’s And Then We Danced – which has resulted in the response ‘oh, you know that’s actually quite controversial?’ as well as conspicuous silence. Often there’s a swift assertion that there are far better Georgian movies. From many, there’s a curious dismissiveness, a grumbling insistence that no one would have cared about the film if a few bigots hadn’t made such a fuss. But those bigots made quite a fuss: they harassed cinema-goers when the film was released in Tbilisi and they threw missiles, yet their hatred was a tiny taste of the hatred that Tbilisi’s small, determined Pride group faces when they try to hold a march each year, and a sliver of the horror that confronted Georgian rights activists in 2013 – an event that inspired Levan Akin to do the research that led to this film.
It’s legal to be gay in Georgia and it’s illegal to discriminate against someone on the basis of their sexuality – it’s a protected characteristic in laws designed to butter up EU allies, but trying to get someone convicted of and punished for a hate crime against queer people in Georgia seems to be next to impossible. Insecure gangs of men, worried that their cushy patriarchal, church-backed lifestyle will be disrupted, and spouting well-worn global Anti-semitic conspiracy theories, feed into precisely the narrative the Kremlin would love to see dominate in Georgia, even while maintaining that their fear and hatred is an act of patriotism.
So the dismissiveness makes me more determined to make it clear that I’m only interested in learning the language because of what this film did. Ignoring the hate groups behind the disruption at the premier isn’t enough to change things, it’s not enough to win protections for people who are still denied their human rights and prevented from living their lives to the full in their home country. And Then We Danced set out to raise awareness of the situation for queer people in Georgia and it set out to ruffle the plumage of those who think compromise is needed: those who would say, ‘it’s fine, it’s legal, what more do you want? Don’t rub your lifestyle in others’ faces, don’t flaunt it, don’t give the youth ideas!’ It does this by presenting an achingly relatable, warm story of young love and heartbreak, a coming-of-age story about realising your hopes and realising how fragile they are, where love of your country and its traditions is pitted against a narrow idea of what fits the national, correct narrative. It’s a warning, to my mind: lose people like Merab Lominadze from your country and its traditions at your peril. You’ll be all the lesser without such passion and creativity, and without innovation, tradition will become stale, without the youth, what is the future of the place you claim to be protecting?
Admittedly, a lot of these strong feelings have kind of bedded in since I saw the film. It took a little time to filter through my consciousness as I researched what I could about the country and the making of the film. Initial impressions were led far more by emotions and by the visuals and soundtrack of the movie, and by the stunning debut performance of Levan Gelbakhiani in the lead role.
And Then We Danced tells the story of a young man in an ensemble at the Georgian National Ballet, who dreams of dancing on stages around the world, just as his parents and grandparents did. Merab works hard, though his form is criticised by teachers and relatives alike, and he ends up reassessing his priorities after a whirlwind love affair with a new dancer, his rival at the ensemble, Irakli. Family, tradition and passion come into conflict as Merab finds out how much more complicated his dreams are than he’d always supposed.
Filmed under unpredictable, often hostile conditions, with locations denied to the crew at the last minute and ambivalence from the government’s ministry of culture, it’s a wonder to see what a coherent, subtle, beautifully produced film Levan Akin was able to put together on his tiny budget. The orange light of the sun and of Georgian street lamps unites the whole thing, bathing the film in an inviting, soft glow, and the carefully curated soundtrack – much of which consists of rerecorded Georgian folk songs arranged anew because previous performers refused to be associated with the film – soothes and invigorates as needed, amplifying the emotions of the narrative. A centrepiece is the unaccompanied, powerful polyphonic ballad Tsintsqaro (Before the Wellspring), which sits bracketed by ABBA and Robyn – Levan Akin makes sure his Swedish heritage is not neglected – undercutting the repeated message that Georgian masculinity is about strength and hiding emotion. These songs say that love is love and heartache is heartache, and Georgian men have traditionally been proud to display their emotions through art.
Ironically, the dancer who the film references when Merab is told that Georgian dance used to be softer and more suited to the way he moves, but that it was changed to be more masculine, was gay himself – though Georgians are quite happy to compartmentalise this aspect of their hero Vakhtang Chabukiani’s life. There’s no room for sex in Georgian dance, as the instructor tells his class at the film’s outset.
It’s a message that’s wasted on his young class though – that’s all they can talk about in the changing rooms, the guys swapping filthy jokes and tales of brothels and the girls gossiping about a gay scandal. Irakli, the new dancer, sidles into this setting with a cheeky smile, a prohibited earring, and a habit of talking back to the teacher. Naturally, everyone wants to get the measure of this new guy and his interests – he won’t go to the brothels because he has a girlfriend back home, but he’s curious about taking one of the girls in the ensemble out to dinner. And for all his apparent rebelliousness, he seems awfully concerned that Merab shouldn’t be mad at him when he gets swapped into the duet Merab had been practising with his lifelong dance partner and presumed girlfriend, Mary.
So much has been said, quite rightly, about Levan Gelbakhiani’s performance as Merab – he’s absolutely integral to the power of the film. The camera clings to him throughout, following close at his back, getting up in his face in scenes of high emotion, adoringly framing his dances and the blossoming of love on his features. As Merab, he’s an open book, vulnerable and fiercely determined all at once – for all that people see weakness in Merab’s dances, there’s a stubborn core in the character that is left bare by the end of the film. He ends up being more of a rebel than Irakli could be. Gelbakhiani’s background in contemporary dance gives him the experience of channelling emotions into body language, and means that Merab’s loose, graceful style of dance really stands out as something unique – if not what the traditionalists want. Gelbakhiani can pull your heartstrings with nothing more than the tightening of the muscles on his back, with a grin brought swiftly under control – or not – with any look from his mutable, striking features. He gives the film a winning hero, who you simply have to root for, who will remind anyone who’s been in love of the force of that emotion and the relentlessness of it.
Bachi Valishvili deserves more recognition for his part as Irakli, too. It’s a harder role to win praise for, his perspective is distant from the audience’s, his motivations are kept private and often seem contradictory. He’s a harder character for audiences to love because of the choice he makes in the end, though it might be said that the real tragedy of the film lies in Irakli’s future. Valishvili plays him with subtlety, as an inscrutable cool guy who swings between fun-loving openness and silent, reserved introspection. He has to tread a fine line to persuade viewers that, while he remains more concerned by others’ opinions and by family loyalties, Irakli is nevertheless as enthusiastic a participant in the affair as Merab is. And he must also make us believe that Irakli is the naturally better dancer – when Valishvili’s training was a matter of months before the film, as opposed to Gelbakhiani’s years of dance. He succeeds in this with the help of clever techniques – cunning camera angles, a focus on others’ reactions to his dance – and narrative generosity – such as when Irakli is too hungover to practise hard. But he gives the character all the charm he needs for us to believe that Merab would be smitten, and he injects a sweetness and a vulnerability into Irakli’s expressions as we – and Merab – are left to wonder whether he regrets what he’s done and which of his words were true.
The whole cast is a wonder, really. The naturalistic dialogue and the light-touch of the director’s hand leaves the actors to sell the strength of the relationships – Ana Javakhishvili as Merab’s partner, Mary, does so much with the slightest widening of her eyes or the tightening of her mouth. Her heartbreak is as real and vivid as Merab’s, though it must happen in comparatively private moments, muddied by fear and misunderstanding.
The film glides along, timescale and details left impressionistic as it builds to a crescendo at a vineyard in the countryside. In the last third things begin to fall apart for Merab, and the film mirrors the sudden aimlessness of his life as, without warning, one thing and then another goes wrong. Between the heartache, the film gets in its plug for Tbilisi’s defiant queer scene: cameos from activists and local characters make the film inclusive, reinforcing the fact that it’s not just founded on the impressions of a Georgian who lives in Sweden, but involved people who live in Tbilisi and directly face the attitudes Merab and Irakli must hide from. When, at last, Merab is told – out of love – that there’s no place for him in Georgia and he must find a way to leave, the sense of community that radiates from the club scenes is what must stand against this pragmatic, frustrating advice.
I am glad that the film does not wrap up the issue of whether Merab stays or goes. Evidently life becomes untenable for some, such as the dancer Zaza, whose scandalous downfall is gossiped about through the film, but Mate, who takes Merab to the safe havens of Success Bar and the legendary club Bassiani, shows the other side of the coin. As Matt Shally, the actor playing Mate, has said in this short about his life in drag and the queer art scene in Tbilisi, Comfort Zone (2020), Georgia is his home, he shouldn’t be expected to leave because of who he is. The advice Merab gets to leave comes, after all, from his older brother – who proves he does care for him and says all Merab needs to hear about his dance – but whose opinions can certainly not be taken uncritically to be in line with the film’s own intentions.
As well as telling a very familiar story of youth, whirlwind romance and obsession, And Then We Danced not only makes this part of its story feel as fresh and impassioned as every young love affair is to those involved – you can’t be cynical about how Merab feels, the beats of his emotions are sold so convincingly, shown in their earnestness but never patronised – but it also evokes a very palpable love for the setting and its traditions. Food, music, dance, family are all crucial to the atmosphere of the film. The pointlessness of stoking conflict between these elements is really emphasised by the amount of love the characters – and certainly the director – holds for all these aspects of life in Georgia, while also saying simply, that queer people should be allowed to love these things too.
Today is International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia. In Georgia, since 2013, it has also been the ‘Day of Family Purity’. The religious bigots who stoked violence against a tiny, peaceful group of people then have never faced any consequences – the church is untouchable. In And Then We Danced the traditional idea of the nuclear family is shown to be in tatters, an institution that isn’t fit for purpose, adherence to which does not make anyone happy – and this is a portrayal that is echoed by many other contemporary Georgian films. Merab’s parents have separated, Mary’s parents have separated, David and Sopo – carefree, cavalier, irresponsible kids – must marry to save her family’s ‘honour’, and while Irakli’s loyalty to his mother and his dying father may be laudable, it also looks like martyrdom. Nevertheless, there is huge love between Merab and his parents, and Mary and her father. These are families finding their own ways of surviving and being happy, and the toxic idea of ‘family purity’ does them no more good than it does Merab and his ilk. But more of that when we get to My Happy Family/ჩემი ბედნიერი ოჯახი. Note, also, that Patriarch Ilya II’s Easter speech this year came across almost as a parody for how closely it echoes the priest’s words in And Then We Danced, stoking vague fears of international influences and the loss of patriarchal roles.
There’s no great conspiracy here though, nothing complicated or sinister. It’s just about love, and answering hate and fear and misunderstanding with love. And no one who watches it could mistake that for weakness. This film changed me, it invited me to fall in love with the country too, despite the struggles and the attitudes that still need to change. There is such hope in the young generations involved in this film, and I will cheer them on as loudly as I can until change comes.
I enthuse 
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