The halt­ing nature of desire at BFI Flare 2017

We approached this year’s BFI Flare in search of cin­e­mat­ic depic­tions of desire. With the excep­tion of the ener­getic and explic­it female fuck­fest Below Her Mouth, in which a woman mas­tur­bates by grind­ing against water stream­ing from her bath tap while the object of her lust ham­mers in nails, the most affect­ing por­tray­als of yearn­ing all con­tained some aspect of reserve – an instinc­tive pulling back from the act that char­ac­ters want­ed more than anything.

This is espe­cial­ly present in Lee Hyun-ju’s debut fea­ture Our Love Sto­ry, a char­ac­ter study about Kore­an art stu­dent, Yoon-ju (Lee Sang-hee), who is teased for her lack of boyfriend. Enter Ji-Soo (Ryu Sun-Young), a for­ward and charm­ing young lady who blasts through Yoo-ju’s reserve and is keen to make equal­ly short work of her vir­gin­i­ty. In a sex scene ren­dered mov­ing by Sang-hee’s star­tled plea­sure (each sen­sa­tion a dis­cov­ery), there comes a moment when a hand is denied entrance to under­wear – not because it is unwel­come but because there is a lim­it to how much of a good thing one can take. Feast after famine can make you unwell.

There’s a sim­i­lar moment in Antho­ny Doncque’s short, 1992. A teenage boy has mag­i­cal­ly man­aged to seduce the hot, lux­u­ri­ous­ly-haired teach­ing assis­tant. They are back at his place because, con­ve­nient­ly, his dad works nights. The moment comes for a new thresh­old to be crossed. The boy hes­i­tates. His pause marks the moment before the point of no return. It is a mark­er before fan­ta­sy in all its weight­less­ness becomes a phys­i­cal real­i­ty down on the ground. The space between the abstract lure of desire and the real­i­sa­tion of desire is rarely flagged in per­func­to­ry Hol­ly­wood sex scenes so the inclu­sion here is full of ten­der­ness and gravity.

André Téchiné’s Being 17 (co-writ­ten by Céline Sci­amma with a plum role for San­drine Kiber­lain) pro­tracts this moment of hes­i­ta­tion over a year in two French teenagers’ lives, addling it with the basic machis­mo of vio­lence. Thomas (Corentin Fila) and Damien (Kacey Mot­tet Klein) are lon­ers and class­mates at a school in the snowy French Pyre­nees. While Damien is the emo­tion­al­ly secure and some­what spoiled child of the only doc­tor in the vil­lage, Thomas, who is mixed-race and adopt­ed, is not close with his fam­i­ly but not in the tear­away mould. He is duti­ful beyond his years, work­ing evenings on his family’s farm and walk­ing hours to and from school.

A series of point­less fights break out between the boys, fuelled, at least on Damien’s part, by the ten­sion of lust. Thomas speaks spar­ing­ly and his angle is more com­plex. The pure good news that is San­drine Kiber­lain lights up the film with wit and warmth. She invites Thomas to live with her and Damien for plau­si­ble plot-based rea­sons. Over the course of the film, the rela­tion­ship between the boys pings between fight­ing and friend­ship. The enig­ma of their sep­a­rate iden­ti­ties occa­sion­al­ly becomes their iden­ti­ties hurtling and merg­ing into each oth­er in a dense­ly-lay­ered nar­ra­tive that respects the com­plex­i­ty of desire, and the oppos­ing spring­boards that life places between people.

On life’s fail­ure to stream­line with those we desire, noth­ing in this year’s Flare pro­gramme beats So-yong Kim’s Lovesong. Jena Malone’s act­ing chops have long been pub­lic knowl­edge so Riley Keough (whose role in Amer­i­can Hon­ey was thank­less­ly antag­o­nis­tic) is the rev­e­la­tion in this under­stat­ed ode to peo­ple whose feel­ings are doomed to stay beneath the sur­face. She plays Sarah, a young moth­er to three-year-old Jessie (played by Kim’s daugh­ter, Jessie Ok Gray). Hus­band Dean (direc­tor Cary Fuku­na­ga, seen once over Skype) is always away with work and down­right irri­tat­ed at the prospect of pri­ori­tis­ing fam­i­ly life. Sarah is left to her list­less days. Par­tic­u­lar­ly mem­o­rable is an aer­i­al shot of her head plung­ing beneath the bath’s waters. It scans like her deep­est retreat yet.

Mal­one plays Sarah’s old col­lege friend, Mindy. She arrives with bleached-blonde hair and social skills, and is notable for being the first adult com­pan­ion that Sarah has been with since the film began. Kim, as she did with For Ellen and Tree­less Moun­tain, blows up and dig­ni­fies the fluc­tu­at­ing moods of low-key, con­flict­ed peo­ple. Mindy’s arrival equates to bliss. The two friends take a road trip with Jessie. Their con­ver­sa­tions are very nor­mal but the women are held rapt by each oth­er. Space is giv­en over to their relaxed smiles, hair blow­ing in the wind amount­ing to time elec­tri­fied by hav­ing a per­son by your side. Desire and the ces­sa­tion of lone­li­ness are held togeth­er in the same loaded moments. This is not a talky Richard Lin­klater dance of attrac­tion but a com­pan­ion­ship that blos­soms in silence.

Struc­tural­ly, Lovesong is a tune of two halves. Amid the fun-seek­ing and drink­ing, Mindy and Sarah kiss, and then take it fur­ther. Sarah can’t find the words to bridge her mar­ried state with what her old friend means and so Mindy, hurt, takes off, but not before cup­ping Sarah’s face in her hands. Not for these women hard wound­ed accu­sa­tions. It’s always lov­ing support.

Three years pass. Mindy invites Sarah to her wed­ding. Her blonde hair is now orange. Sarah is now sep­a­rat­ed from Dean. Their cir­cum­stances change but noth­ing changes. The won­der of Lovesong is the lack of dra­ma or despair around a rela­tion­ship that can­not be because pas­sive peo­ple capit­u­late to the forces of het­ero­nor­ma­tiv­i­ty. It is a queer oppor­tu­ni­ty missed yet also a queer love song.

For more about this year’s BFI Flare fes­ti­val vis­it bfi​.org​.uk/​flare