‘Slow’: Karlovy Vary Review

Dir/scr: Marija Kavtaradze. Lithuania, Spain, Sweden. 2023. 108mins

When dancer Elena (Greta Grineviciute) meets sign language interpreter Dovydas (Kestutis Cicenas), they are immediately drawn to each other. But the relationship that organically develops between them must fit around their conflicting needs: Elena is sensual and physical; Dovydas is asexual, unable to experience sexual attraction. The second feature from Lithuanian director Marija Kavtaradze, Slow is a supremely confident piece of filmmaking that negotiates the tricky terrain of non-typical sexualities with sensitivity, humour and a refreshing lightness of touch.

A supremely confident piece of filmmaking that negotiates the tricky terrain of non-typical sexualities

Kavtaradze’s debut film, the 2018 psychiatric patient road movie Summer Survivors, premiered at TIFF and enjoyed an extensive festival run. Slow should, at the very least, match the festival success of its predecessor – the film screens in Karlovy Vary, following its premiere in Sundance where it earned the Best Directing Award (World Cinema Dramatic) for Kavtaradze. And it is distinctive enough to make waves on the arthouse theatrical circuit, where it will be of particular interest to distributors looking for new female voices in cinema.

This is the kind of picture that succeeds or fails depending on the quality of the casting. Get the balance between the two central characters wrong, and the whole premise would feel dishonest and tokenistic. But Kavtaradze has chosen her leads well. Grineviciute, a professional dancer and choreographer, brings a satisfyingly fleshed-out physicality to the role of Elena. And Cicenas is excellent, his Dovydas a persuasively complex combination of goofy humour and calmly self-contained reserve. Together, they spark beautifully. As a result, the audience aches with them as they struggle to find a common ground for their love; we are wholly invested in the relationship thriving, or at least finding a shape that fits the needs of both.

Wrestling with the ideas and assumptions of what a relationship should look like, and how love should be expressed, the picture refuses to get bogged down in theoretical discussions about alternative sexualities. Instead, there’s a levity and an acknowledgement that sometimes people don’t know all the answers. The lightness comes in part from the airy hand-held camera, which is as intimate and responsive as any of Elena’s dance partners.

Both characters have their own outlets for physical expression. Elena’s dancing is powerfully muscular and thrillingly wild; for Dovydas, the sign language that he learned to communicate with his deaf brother has an eloquent kind of visual poetry. Kavtaradze punctuates the film with scenes of each – Elena channelling her excitement, her mounting frustration, her appetites into her dance exercises; Dovydas pouring his heart into the signed translation of the lyrics to a big, soppy love ballad.

But it’s when they first move together on screen that there’s a hint that they are out of kilter. At his brother’s wedding, Dovydas tries to haul her onto the empty dance floor, but Elena, self-conscious in front of his family, squirms with embarrassment. Later, in a playful improvised dance duet, they drape the laundry around his apartment. But it is abruptly curtailed when he rebuffs her sexual advances once again. “I can’t apologise every time,” he says, shutting down the conversation as well as the physical encounter. And this, ultimately, is one of the most intriguing elements of the relationship. Although it is not particularly sexual, there is physical intimacy and electricity between them that is more eloquent than many of their conversations. Words may fail them, but their bodies don’t lie.