When I left my hometown for London as I was about to turn nineteen, I finally felt free enough to begin what would be a yearslong journey to fully accept myself and my queerness. After graduating there and making that city home, well into my twenties, every time I would make the return train journey back to where I had grown up I noticed that my breathing dramatically changed. It became uncomfortably short and shallow. I would attempt to tune into it and take deeper breaths, but nothing would help correct it until I got off the train.
Initially I thought something external must be the cause, like I might be allergic to the liquid soap in the train toilets. Eventually it became clear that it was internal and that I was intensely anxious about leaving a city where I could be entirely myself and going back to a place where I had felt shame over who the school bullies told me I was, had seen no examples of any queer folks living openly, and had stifled my discovery of my authentic self, long before I knew that phrase.
Writer-director Dominic Savage’s Close To You, which world premiered at the 48th Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) , followed by screenings at BFI Flare and NewFest, is the kind of film that feels intended to make us empathize with its lead character to such a degree that we’re not only fully invested in them and their narrative, but also find ourselves reflecting upon our own lives as the end credits roll. As well as being cathartic, engaging with a film can leave us looking at ourselves and the world around us with a slightly different perspective than when we entered the cinema. Perhaps writing about film can sometimes be a form of therapy too.
I hadn’t thought about those anxiety-ridden train journeys for years, and love making that same train journey these days when I visit my family in the UK. After watching Close To You though, as I let the film sit with me, I was transported right back to that time, nearly thirty years ago. I think it was as a result of Savage’s visceral, in-the-moment brand of filmmaking, and the central character being at a similar stage in his life, where he is finally comfortable in who he is as a trans man, but finds himself returning to where he was frequently miserable and distraught.
Having not been back to his hometown of Cobourg on the shore of Lake Ontario (which provides some beautiful locations) in nearly five years, Sam (Elliot Page), who is now settled in Toronto, has decided to return for a family gathering to celebrate his father’s birthday. The town is just over an hour’s train journey away, but it is a tranquil suburbia that feels a world away from his life in Toronto in the vibrant, arty enclave of Kensington Market.
Sam’s apprehension about returning to his family home exudes from him on that train journey, but his mood quickly lifts when he has a chance encounter with an old friend from high school, Katherine (Hillary Baack), who happens to be traveling in the same carriage. She is also headed to Cobourg, where she lives with her husband and their young children. As the two become reacquainted, the strong connection between them is evident, despite having not seen each other for fifteen years, and the actors imbue their delicate performances with the history that these characters share as we see them discover what they still mean to each other now.
I caught the film at its TIFF premiere and returning to it now, nearly a year later, I was equally moved by this exquisite, simple but emotionally potent scene, particularly the moment that Katherine admits that she has often thought about Sam. It is breathtakingly beautiful acting by Baack and Page that—like the film as a whole—feels raw and truthful.
Intimate is a word that comes up frequently in film reviews—and I’m sure that I’ve been guilty of relying on it myself—but to misquote Carrie Bradshaw, this film is so intimate we need a new word for it. Its handheld verité style cinematography by Catherine Lutes, tightly framed on faces, often drawing our focus to Page’s expressive eyes, and the use of available light, all contribute to a feeling of intimacy with the characters and a sense of naturalism.
At first glance, those aesthetics might seem like familiar qualities in many indie dramas. The process in bringing this work to the screen though was vastly different, and the result of that is evident in every beat of the film. The story itself, by Savage and Page, was detailed ahead of the shoot, but without dialogue, leaving the actors to improvise during extended takes that allow them to deeply connect with their roles as they engage with their scene partner; to explore and be present in the moment. Some takes ran to over fifty minutes, making the cast active collaborators in the filmmaking process and that investment is clear in each frame. Occasionally, some of the dialogue does sound improvised, but the truth of what is being expressed never falters.
Intimacy is not only evoked by Savage’s filmmaking style but is also one of the themes of the film, hence the title. As the train scene explores, it is possible for Sam and Katherine to feel intimate with one another despite having not seen for fifteen years. In contrast we witness how uncomfortable it is for Sam to be with his immediate family. Katherine really sees Sam and her acknowledgement of his transition since they last saw each other is easy and effortless, with her remarking that he’s just the same, but more himself now.
Meanwhile, Sam’s parents have good intentions, but their fear of saying the wrong thing makes what should be intimate, loving and accepting encounters between parent and child feel awkward. As Sam and his sister reconnect they reflect on how they had shared a room growing up but didn’t really know each other at all despite being in such close quarters. While the proximity of Katherine and her husband at home in their kitchen after running into Sam only underscores the emotional distance between them at that moment, with her unable to express how the chance meeting has impacted her.
In contrast to the tense scenes with his family later in the film, we see how casual and relaxed Sam is in the company of his queer roommate, his chosen family in Toronto, Emily (Sook-Yin Lee). In a nice detail, she knows him well enough to pick up on the amount of jam he spreads on his morning toast relating to how much or little sleep he has had the night before.
It is also a film about human connection and communication. What we do and don’t say, and how we often struggle to articulate what we are truly feeling. While there is miscommunication between Katherine and her husband, creating a palpable distance between them, we see Sam get closer to her as he begins to learn sign language. Refreshingly, Katherine is never defined by her deafness, just as this is not a film about Sam being trans, but more about him being content in who he while others struggle to catch up. When transphobia rears its ugly head, it is in the form of Sam’s passive aggressive brother-in-law Paul (David Reale) expressing how having to stick to “the rules” about what he can and can’t say around him is such a burden. Essentially victimizing himself, rather than taking time to really listen and get to know Sam and acknowledge that him finally finding peace and joy in simply living his life as himself, does not in fact impact upon Paul in any way.
Along with the rich central performances, one of my favourite elements of Close To You is its tender and dreamy piano-led score, composed by Savage and Oliver Coates, which conveys Sam’s emotional journey and breathes hopefulness and vulnerability into this delicate and affecting film.
By James Kleinmann
Close To You received its world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival and opens in theaters nationwide Friday, August 16th, 2024 from Greenwich Entertainment and is available on demand.
