And Then We Danced review: Georgian LGBT+ drama is giddy with the pleasures of first love

Levan Akin’s film, set and shot in the capital of Tbilisi, argues that joy itself can be a form of radical defiance

Dir: Levan Akin. Starring: Levan Gelbakhiani, Ana Javakishvili, Ana Makharadze, Bachi Valishvili, Giorgi Tsereteli. 15 cert, 112 mins

Georgian dance is all fire and fury. Percussion plays – sparse and low – as lines of men swing their limbs back and forth like they’re trying to whip up a tempest. The women are slower, and more graceful. Dressed in floor-length tunics, they take tiny steps, creating the illusion that they’re floating.

Merab is a dance student at the National Georgian Ensemble, a young man with a sharp jaw and wide, hungry eyes, here played superbly by Levan Gelbakhiani, superb. Tradition runs in Merab’s blood. His parents, now separated, were once dancers, but have become stagnant and bitter. He’s danced with the same partner, Mary (Ana Javakishvili), for years – the two are a kind of de facto couple – and spends his nights working at a local restaurant. His brother David (Giorgi Tsereteli) also takes classes, but his fondness for mid-week benders means he rarely shows up. And so everyone turns to Merab for support. The pressure has made his body taut and fragile.

His rigidly constructed world soon starts to crumble after the arrival of a new dancer, Irakli (Bachi Valishvili). This stranger moves with confidence. He’s muscular but light in his step, with open features and an easy smile. Merab treats him as both a challenger and an object of fascination. Desire swiftly takes over.

“There is no sex in Georgian dance,” his instructor (Kakha Gogidze) warns. But when Irakli gently places his hand on Merab’s thigh, in order to correct his posture, it’s immediately charged with erotic thrill. Levan Akin’s And Then We Danced is giddy with the pleasures of first love – how it pulsates through the body and mind. It’s in the way Merab habitually chews on his crucifix necklace or takes a covert sniff of Irakli’s shirt.

Homosexuality isn’t outlawed in Georgia, but the country remains in the stranglehold of conservatism. The women gossip about a dancer in the main ensemble who was kicked out for being gay. His family sent him off to a monastery “to make him normal again”. Akin (who was born in Sweden to Georgian parents) has spoken about his struggles shooting the film in the country’s capital, Tbilisi. He often had to lie about the film’s content in order to secure locations. Troops had to be stationed at the film’s few Georgian screenings, after ultra-conservative and pro-Russian protestors swarmed outside of the cinema.

Akin’s film argues that joy can itself be a form of radical defiance. Merab’s story isn’t just about the pangs of desire, but the slow untethering from tradition’s pressures and expectations. At first, he’s desperate to heed his dance instructor’s warnings that his posture isn’t “hard as a nail”. But he soon begins to explore his identity and his sexuality through movement: whether he’s out celebrating in the streets, partying to ABBA, or seducing Irakli to Robyn’s “Honey”. To Merab, those dances are an act of reclamation. The future belongs to him – and all those who dare to live free.