Before the romance starts in Slow, the new romantic drama from Lithuanian, writer/director Marija Kavtaradzė creates a genuine sense of credibility. Her two leads stumble into a relationship, speaking quietly, to the point where we’re eager for them to act on the chemistry they sense, and we observe so plainly. Actual romance does not move so fast, so part of the film’s pleasures is in how it regards how two smart, good-looking people let down their natural defenses.
There is an impasse to the relationship, one that starts small and looms larger as they get more involved in each other’s lives. It does not come out of nowhere, a contrivance or roadblock for the sake of drama, and is borne of characters who cannot surmount significant differences. That is compelling enough on its own, and yet Kavtaradzė deepens them with thoughtful, tactile formal choices. Whereas many movie romances look like stylized Hallmark cards, this is the rare one that looks like the real thing to boot.
When we meet Elena (Greta Grinevičiūtė) and Dovydas (Kęstutis Cicėnas), they try to keep their relationship professional. She is a modern dancer and choreographer, while he works as a sign language interpreter, so he visits her studio when a group of young deaf people plan a new performance. They chat a little, becoming friends at first, and yet they cannot deny their connection might be deeper than that. Shortly after they create emotional intimacy, Dovydas has no choice but to confess to Elena that he is asexual. He does not have sexual feelings toward men or women, which creates a problem for a sensual person like Elena, for whom physicality and touch are a significant part of her love language. They like each other enough for an arrangement wherein Dovydas is physical with Elena, just not to the degree she would like. It goes well enough until it really does not. They understand their POV on an intellectual level, and yet no rationalization can stop what they feel in their hearts.
Kavtaradzė and her cinematographers shot their film on 16mm. Unlike the clean, borderline sterile look from digital photography, celluloid gives Slow a grainy look and rich colors. There is a languid, hazy quality to the summer where Elena and Dovydas get to know one another, a roundabout way of suggesting long nights where anything is possible. There are many close-ups and several sex scenes in Slow, and the 16mm photography means the bodies look more lifelike, like we are right there with these characters, rather than watching them from afar.
Both Grinevičiūtė and Cicėnas are attractive actors, and Slow depicts them with frankness. As a dancer for whom emotionally charged movement is a career, not just a way of life, somehow Elena’s every movement has an erotic charge, whereas Dovydas is more inward and reserved. Whenever the couple has a fight or disagreement, there are important scenes where the film lets us watch them recharge. Elena is more extroverted, getting released from rehearsal and performance, while the more inward Dovydas opts for something more solitary. The film’s tension is not whether they will overcome this difference. It is about when they have the courage to realize they are in an untenable situation.
Most romances do not end with lovers riding into the sunset, or living happily ever after. That is a cliché, and yet Slow avoids obvious choices because it understands that romance, especially the ones that end, can be meaningful and significant. The film’s final scenes are wistful, the kind of bittersweet tone that many movie romances want but do not actually earn. But because we believe these lovers, the kind of sensitive people who are capable of deep affection and yet must be true to themselves, there is a rare poignance to the film’s last few minutes. The final scene only deepens that feeling, a reminder that being true to your nature is no guarantee of anything more than piece of mind. A tough ending, sure, and yet Slow is too kind and observant to linger on the associated pain of that wisdom.
Photo courtesy of KimStim
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