And Then We Danced (2019)

And Then We Danced is special because it turns dance into a language of longing and defiance, where every stomp and held breath says what the characters can’t safely speak aloud. Levan Gelbakhiani gives a quietly electrifying performance as Merab, and the film’s rehearsal rooms and sweat-soaked stages pulse with a raw, lived-in authenticity that makes the romance feel less like a plot device than an awakening. Director Levan Akin keeps the tone intimate and urgent—tender when it needs to be, bracing when tradition tightens its grip—so the story lands as both a love story and a portrait of a young artist fighting for the right to be himself. It’s not for viewers who want a glossy crowd-pleaser, but if you’re open to a heartfelt drama with thrilling dance sequences and real emotional stakes, it’s the kind of movie that stays in your body after it ends.

And Then We Danced is clearly aiming for an intimate coming-of-age romance wrapped inside the rigid, tradition-heavy world of Georgian dance, and when it focuses on that collision, it’s genuinely compelling. The problem is it sometimes leans on familiar melodramatic beats—jealousy, secrets, sudden turns—that can feel a bit pushed rather than organically devastating, especially if you prefer quieter, more understated storytelling. If you’re coming mainly for dance as spectacle or a sweeping travelogue, you may find those elements more atmospheric than fully transporting, with the real emphasis staying on personal turmoil. Still, the lead performance has a raw, lived-in intensity and the film’s cultural specificity gives it bite, so it’s worth your time if you want a heartfelt, sometimes messy character drama more than a perfectly calibrated romance.