Content warning: The film discusses themes of suicide and homophobia that may be triggering for viewers. Spoilers ahead.
Last week, a little boy confided in me about an ongoing problem with his friends in the neighborhood. He noticed small things that added up: always being the last one chosen for team-oriented games, as if his abilities didn’t match theirs; being told the group is full and yet seeing them welcome others nonetheless just moments later.
His voice wavered with a mix of confusion and hurt. He sought answers as to why he didn’t get the same treatment as others. This cry for understanding, amplifying the uncertainty and mystery behind what children think, remains a puzzle that defies simple explanations or solutions.
I was reminded of Lukas Dhont’s 2022 film, Close, a painful portrayal of two boys grappling with both the cruelty of other children and the harsh, unforgiving norms of society. Their friendship, once untainted by the world’s imperfections, slowly bears the scars of shame and misunderstanding.
Much like Dhont’s 2018 debut Girl, about a trans girl who dreams of being a professional ballerina, Close is filled with queer subtext. Unlike other films, though, Close lets the subtext linger beneath the surface, letting the audience interpret and engage with it on their own terms. The affection between Léo and Rémi, and their subsequent falling out brought about by homophobia and distorted ideas of masculinity, is as universal as it is piercing to the LGBTQ+ experience.
It’s a challenging watch, especially due to the subject matter of children. The film’s visuals can be misleading, using bright colors and soft lighting to emphasize the flower farm’s beauty and innocence. However, the story is far from idyllic, as a devastating twist in the second act profoundly alters and intensifies the impact of what has happened before. What follows is an even more demanding watch, as guilt and grief collide, affecting both children and adults alike.
In rural Belgium, two 13-year-old boys, Léo (Eden Dambrine) and Rémi (Gustav De Waele), share a deeply intimate friendship, often sleeping in the same bed and engaging in playful games. Their close relationship comes under scrutiny at school, leading to awkward questions and homophobic slurs. Léo reacts by distancing himself from Rémi, engaging in new activities and friendships that exclude his once-close friend.
Léo’s withdrawal causes a painful rift between the two boys, culminating in a physical fight in public. The situation takes a tragic turn when the class learns that Rémi has committed suicide, a loss that Léo feels responsible for but is unable to discuss. He tries to suppress his grief by immersing himself in ice hockey and work, confiding only in his older brother, Charlie.
After Rémi’s funeral, Léo’s guilt drives him to talk to Sophie (Émilie Dequenne), Rémi’s mother, about his role in Rémi’s death. Their conversation ends in a tearful embrace, a moment of catharsis. The film concludes with Léo visiting the now-empty house where he and Rémi used to play, finally allowing himself to grieve for his lost friend.
One of 2022’s standout performances comes from Eden Dambrine, who expertly navigates the quiet complexities of his role. Léo isn’t a one-dimensional character; the film doesn’t cast judgment on him nor outrightly condemns him for his faults. Part of that is due to Dembrine’s soulful turn, an achievement for a 15-year-old. He conveys so much with so little, allowing his body language and expressions to articulate his mentally tormented state.
Gustav De Waele delivers a poignant performance as Rémi, effortlessly evoking empathy as he portrays a character left feeling powerless by Léo’s sudden change in behavior. In the quest for closure is Rémi’s mom, Sophie, who is played by veteran Cannes award-winning actress Émilie Dequenne. She’s equally great and heartbreaking, especially in her final scene. Léa Drucker also channels her full range as an actress as Léo’s mother, who, in a gut-punch of a scene, struggles to find the words to reveal to her son that his closest friend had passed away.
Grief wraps itself around the film’s last half like a persistent fog. The pursuit of normalcy at school and in the household carries with it a charge of painful undertones. Focusing mainly on close-ups and medium shots, with wide shots only on rare occasions, Dhont’s direction urges us to concentrate on the characters’ facial expressions. We are drawn to notice their every nuanced glance and gesture, delving into what might be unfolding in their minds.
To us, the inner workings of Léo’s mind are as elusive as they are to Rémi and Sophie. We are drawn into an exploration of our own memories of guilt and shame, comparing them to what Léo might be experiencing. Mix that with Valentin Hadjadj’s beautifully composed score, and Close may resemble a classical tragedy, the difference being that its antagonists aren’t clear-cut. History, culture, and the societal conventions related to male friendship are the hidden forces responsible for molding the characters’ actions, and what’s cruel is that it cuts deep enough to also affect children.
Even though gay marriage was legalized in France a decade ago, the advancement of social progress continues to be hindered by an increase in hate crimes and anti-LGBTQ+ protests over the years. In many other countries in the world, including the Philippines, bills that afford LGBTQ+ members protections against discrimination still remain a far cry. Often, people believe that these issues solely impact adults, those mature enough to realize they are being wronged. But, in truth, these matters also have a bearing on how children in schools conduct themselves, view their own identities, and reach self-actualization.
Close portrays how society’s unkind treatment of LGBTQ+ individuals and its rigid attitudes against male affection can profoundly affect even the most innocent children. It prompts us to question: Why? Why were these children forced to endure homophobic remarks at a young age? Why did they have to wrestle with societal judgments about them? Why did they need to relinquish their closeness and suppress their genuine emotions for one another?
Posing these sweeping questions through a personal tale of grief demonstrates the true power of cinema. It has the ability to stir empathy, unravel societal contradictions, and reveal their effects on marginalized groups we far too often forget. – Rappler.com
“Close” will be shown in select Philippine cinemas from August 23-29, 2023. For more information, check out the Film Development Council of the Philippines page.