Triumph and Tenderness: a feminist review of Close (2022)
The Cinematic Embrace of Emotion
Close (2022) offers its viewers an intimate dance between triumph and tenderness, an exploration of the deep currents of human connection articulated through the lens of two young boys. As the camera lovingly lingers on their tender friendship, we are invited into a visual and emotional landscape that reveres the subtlety and power of unspoken bonds. The artistry of Lukas Dhont’s direction is captivating, capturing moments of innocence and vulnerability with a poignant realism that feels as soft as it is profound. Here, the work achieves what cinema should aspire to: drawing us into a world only to leave us both moved and contemplative.
Yet, beneath this gorgeously painted surface, lies a field ripe for probing with a feminist lens. This is not primarily a story about women, but rather an exploration of the ways masculinity is shaped, restricted, and at times, tormented by societal expectations. As such, while female characters linger more in the periphery, their influence is felt, suggesting that the shaping of masculine identity occurs not in isolation but in tandem with the forces of familial and social norms often upheld by women too.
Gendered Communication: Silence Speaks Louder
In Close, conversation occurs as much in the spaces between words as in dialogue itself. The communication between Léo and Rémi, the film’s focal characters, eschews verbosity for the eloquent silence of shared experiences. There is a gendered reading here: the expectation placed on boys to repress overt emotional expression is subtly critiqued. The lack of a language that allows them to verbalize vulnerability becomes its own kind of conversation – a silent but poignant rebuke of traditional masculinity.
Women in the film, particularly the mothers, play nuanced roles within this communication framework. They embody societal channels for emotional labor, acting as stewards of soft empathy and caretakers of psychological spaces. Nevertheless, their presence is often supportive rather than autonomous, pushing us to question whether they hold agency or are presented largely as catalysts or nurturers to the male narrative. Their dialogues, while heartfelt, seldom drive the plot forward independently, suggesting a persistent relegation of women’s voices to the realm of care rather than command.
Challenging and Reinforcing Gender Norms
The film’s narrative arc teases out the complexities of gender norms with a fair amount of intricacy. On one hand, Close challenges the audience to confront the toxicity of stereotypical masculinity; the gentle interactions between the boys and the world’s harsh response to their intimacy underscores a societal discomfort with vulnerability in boys. Through Léo and Rémi’s experiences, the film critiques the enforcement of gender binaries and celebrates a tenderness often deemed suspect or unmanly.
However, this subversion of expected norms does not entirely liberate its female characters from traditional molds. They support, they grieve, and they console. The film occasionally steps back from fully empowering them with narrative control. Their ambitions are peripheral, their stories partially told through the framework of motherhood or silent observation, rather than autonomous action. This insistence on tradition, even in a story where masculinity is questioned, leaves room for further feminist conversation: does the film miss an opportunity to challenge systemic gender narratives more fully?
Aesthetic Grace and Emotional Depth
Apart from its thematic inquiries, Close is a masterclass in visual storytelling. Cinematographer Frank van den Eeden crafts an aesthetic that is both intimate and expansive, utilizing a naturalistic style that allows characters and environments to breathe. The film’s palette, soft and subdued, serves as a fitting backdrop to the delicate emotional arcs portrayed on screen. The sound design further complements this, opting for an unobtrusive presence that enhances rather than overpowers the viewer’s emotional journey.
Ultimately, the film succeeds in engaging both the mind and the heart, never allowing one to eclipse the other. This dual achievement, though impressive, invites reflection on the inclusion of women’s voices and agency within its structure. Integrating such perspectives could deepen its exploration of human connection even further, enriching its philosophical undercurrents with a fuller vision of equality in intimate storytelling.
Conclusion: A Call for More
Close is a film of myriad strengths – it is tender, evocative, and achingly beautiful. It takes significant steps to unravel the knots of masculinity, showcasing vulnerability as a form of strength. Yet, the narrative remains somewhat tethered to traditional representations of femininity, leaving an open invitation for further dialogue on how films can better incorporate feminist principles without sacrificing their emotional resonance. In a cinema landscape ever-hungry for profound tales of human intimacy, Close inches toward, but does not completely capture, a feminist vision that is as comprehensive as it is compelling. For all its triumphs, it reminds us that the journey toward authentic representation, though marked by significant strides, is far from complete.
