CLOSE. Piercing, eye-opening cinema [REVIEW]

Running wild together through the woods, a hideout in a wrecked bunker, bike trips. Sleeping over at each other’s places, in the same bed. Late-night conversations about the day’s adventures and ideas for the future. Thirteen-year-old Rémi (Gustav De Waele) and Léo (Eden Dambrine) are as close as brothers, friends, and kindred spirits. Frequent touch, ambiguous exchanges of glances, and the feeling that this might be something more. Rémi is the more sensitive and quieter personality—more withdrawn, shy, and reserved. Léo has far more energy, mental strength, determination, and courage. Two different temperaments, the same needs. Yet a single question—non-aggressive and non-oppressive—asked by a classmate (“Are you a couple? Are you together?”) is enough to put their friendship to the test. It turns out that not everything between them has been clarified or talked through. The truth is, it didn’t have to be. Close by Lukas Dhont is not a film about feelings already established, but about their painful formation.

The two boys receive this uncomfortable, slightly embarrassing question in completely different ways. Léo, in keeping with his character, vehemently denies it. His reaction is followed by changes in habits and daily activities (joining a hockey club) and a modification of his image among his peers. This is either an attempt to repress his own sexual identity or a desire to wrestle with it, driven by a sense of—ultimately unjustified—shame. Rémi, meanwhile, stays silent and swallows something inside himself. The classmate’s bold question may be the moment he has been waiting for—a test for his relationship with Léo, an opportunity to finally lay the cards on the table and speak a little more openly about what binds them. To pause, for a moment, the half-spoken game and define themselves. That is what happens on the surface. Inside their heads and thoughts, however, there is a storm—an emotional tornado. Two little boats on a rough sea.

Close is cinema that balances on the edge of emotional blackmail without ever crossing that fragile line. Of course, every viewer places that boundary at a different height, but in the case of Close, smaller dramas are precisely written and tragedies rest on solid foundations. Sad people and a pathetically classical musical arrangement—yes, it’s a cliché, but with Dhont it allows us to touch the mood experienced by the characters. In its key moments, Close approaches—by sheer weight—the finest achievements of the Dardenne brothers. In its portrayal of youth (its violence and spontaneity, its fears and small joys), Dhont’s film has the authenticity of The Class by Laurent Cantet and the intensity of Blue Is the Warmest Color by Abdellatif Kechiche.

So much in Close happens without words and beneath the surface. Rémi’s looks, Léo’s posture, slightly parted lips, a gently lowered head, a shared run or a playful shove. Lukas Dhont tells a story about the language of the human body—about how much it expresses and how broadly it can be understood. This communicative breakdown is perfectly illustrated by several scenes in which, after exhausting days, the friends lie in bed. Every movement and gesture then carries enormous weight; the closing of eyes could fill several volumes of a novel, and turning onto the other side has the force of an earthquake. The thunderous effect is heightened by sequences of close-ups, the red of the setting sun breaking through the window, and the suggestive composition of the frame. So close, and yet so far.

Dhont’s film is a punch to the solar plexus—cinema of rare impact that, in an extraordinarily tender way, touches on demanding and complex themes. There is no artistic calculation here, only artistic clarity, purity of meaning, and a love for the power of visual storytelling. It is as much a story about children as it is about parental responsibility and being an adult—about the ability to talk, to move through trauma, to choke back tears and regret, to search for a new purpose. Somewhere, after all, a new beginning must exist. The first step is meant to be forgiveness and remorse, giving voice to what one feels inside.

And yet, in Close, no one is truly to blame. Close is piercing, eye-opening cinema—cinema of humanism and catharsis. A shining pearl that everyone should fish out of cinema repertoires.