Hold onto your popcorn, because the 2017 film Closeness, directed by Kantemir Balagov, throws audiences head-first into the rugged and gritty world of late 1990s Russia, precisely, the town of Nalchik in the North Caucasus. Here, we are introduced to Ilana, a strong-willed young woman grappling with her identity within a tight-knit Jewish community. Balagov’s debut is a cinematic mosaic that sheds light on the intense dynamics of family, tradition, and youthful rebellion. The film premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, snagging the FIPRESCI Prize and leaving audiences to chew on its dense narrative.
The film, aptly titled, navigates the precarious binds of familial expectation and the craving for personal freedom. Ilana, portrayed by the captivating Darya Zhovner, is stuck. Her family faces a crisis when her brother and his bride-to-be are abducted. The ransom demanded is unbearably high for a family already struggling with economic hardship. Ilana’s life takes a harsh turn as she is pressured into finding solutions that blur boundaries of morality and loyalty.
Balagov adores playing with discomfort, unafraid to anchor his narrative in grit and visceral realism. He paints a stark world where economic equality is an elusive dream, and women frequently shoulder community burdens. Though the film dwells in a specific socio-cultural reality, many of Ilana's dilemmas resonate universally, depicting how suffocating familial love and obligation can be when encased in tradition.
This movie is an emotional minefield. As a politically liberal writer, I appreciate Balagov’s approach to telling stories about marginalized communities. However, I also recognize that the film’s portrayal leans heavily on its bleakness, potentially alienating viewers who find the constant exposure to darkness overwhelming.
Interestingly, what stands out is the film’s use of close-ups and intimate shots to pull viewers into Ilana’s tumultuous inner world. The director doesn’t shy away from nudging silence to speak louder than words. Every unsaid word, stolen glance, or suppressed sigh becomes significant.
One might argue that Balagov’s style is almost relentless in its rawness and can be misconstrued as overly grim, but that’s precisely the film’s strength. It prompts viewers to grapple with how personal decisions affect the larger weave of community history and identity. This conundrum is something Gen Z, known for its questioning nature, can deeply relate to.
It’s essential to note that Closeness does not provide easy answers. Just as Ilana represents a modern figure in a traditionally bound world, the movie challenges you to reflect on the sometimes isolating nature of family and identity. In a globalized world, similar socio-political undercurrents exist everywhere. True to the spirit of good cinema, it provokes thought and discussion.
Opposition exists, with some viewers potentially finding the narrative’s unyielding tension and bleakness exhausting. The graphic depictions of violence might seem over-the-top in making a point about societal failures. Yet, one might perceive this as a necessary illustration of the grim realities Ilana and others like her face daily.
Despite its intensity, there is an undeniable beauty in Closeness. It lies in the moments of connection, the fleeting moments of tenderness that break through its raw exterior. Perhaps what Balagov skillfully constructs is the understanding that despair and hope coexist, challenging us to navigate between them.
Many might insist that movies should primarily entertain, but Closeness dares to discomfort. It serves as a testament to the profound contours of human relationships that are seldom simple or straightforward. Audiences may leave feeling shaken but also enriched, with a fresh perspective on resilience amidst adversity.
The film reminds us that life is a patchwork of difficult decisions, and it urges viewers not to shy away from taking a closer look at those moments when paths converge and diverge. For young viewers adamant about societal change, like Gen Z, Kantemir Balagov’s Closeness is a vivid prompt for contemplation and dialogue.