Here’s something special – a terrifically engrossing drama about two wholly believable characters, made with the kind of wit, honesty and raw emotional intimacy that pierces right to the heart of their relationship. Vividly rendered, and filled with tangible yearning, it strikes a balance between romantic passion and mundane domesticity, as the skin-prickling attraction of new love is tested by the day-to-day tribulations of real life.
At the heart of the film’s charms are a pair of flawless performances by Laia Costa and Josh O’Connor, both superbly directed by writer-director Harry Wootliff in her very impressive feature debut. Costa, who did such breathtaking work in the one-take German drama Victoria, is Elena, a Spanish émigré living in Glasgow. Stumbling home from a New Year’s Eve party, she finds herself sharing a cab with fresh-faced postgrad-student-cum-DJ Jake, played with wide-eyed charm by Josh O’Connor, the arresting star of God’s Own Country. One thing leads to another and they wind up back at Elena’s flat, where Jake compliments her vinyl collection (“it was my dad’s …”) and they dance to a classic cut from Elvis Costello’s Blood & Chocolate album. “How old do you think I am?” she asks when he tells her he’s 26. “My age, or maybe older … 28?”
A relationship begins – tentative, yet thrilling – and Jake moves in, countering Elena’s falteringly offered revelation that she’s actually in her mid-30s with the words: “You are everything I ever wanted.” She’s convinced that his youth will be their downfall; that their lives and desires will be out of sync in a few years’ time. But Jake insists that he’s “a grownup” and they are meant for each other. In fact, he says, they should start a family straight away.
What follows is a beautifully observed slide from the romance of “Let’s just see what happens” into the more testing waters of actively trying for a baby, with all the hopes and disappointments that ensue. While Elena’s friends all seem to be conceiving without effort, the mechanical routine of calendar-watching – and the prospect of possible medical intervention – starts to cloud the changing seasons of their relationship. “Maybe this isn’t how I imagined us having a baby,” admits Jake, seemingly confirming Elena’s fears that he’s not yet ready to face reality, but is still chasing some idealised dream of love.
It’s hard to overstate the dexterity with which Wootliff (who was Bafta nominated for her short film Nits in 2004) juggles the tough and tender elements of this remarkably clear-eyed drama. Aided by Shabier Kirchner’s up-close yet unobtrusive hand-held cinematography, Wootliff conjures an electrifying intimacy between her central couple that reminded me of the spark between Felicity Jones and Anton Yelchin in Drake Doremus’s 2011 gem Like Crazy. There’s genuine tenderness here, along with the flirty excitement and heady rush of new love. But Wootliff (who shares story credit with Matthieu de Braconier) is equally adept at evoking the pressures of a relationship under stress, as aspirations turn to anxieties, and dreamy embraces are augmented by more clinical interventions. At times, I was unexpectedly reminded of Nic Roeg’s Don’t Look Now – that strange but familiar blend of passion, grief, and aching longing that is so rarely seen on film.
Smartly flipping age and gender stereotypes, Wootliff evokes the background noise of her lovers’ dilemma, showing them in outwardly happy situations (a gathering of Elena’s family-building friends; a visit to Jake’s dad, played with huge warmth by Peter Wight) in which fleeting glances speak volumes about their growing detachment. Anyone with experience of the struggles Jake and Elena face will recognise the acutely observed details of Wootliff’s drama. Yet on a more universal level, it’s the depiction of the underlying imbalances and imperfections of any relationship that hits home. Whether it’s Jake’s idealised memories of his parents’ marriage, or Elena’s inherited fears about her own perceived failings (“sometimes I think it’s because I’m a bad person…”), this is strikingly perceptive and insightful storytelling.
Musically, the piano and cello themes of Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch’s sparse score are counterposed against an eclectic jukebox selection of tracks, most notably the anguished vocals of Elvis Costello’s I Want You – one of the most emotionally astute deployments of a pop song in a movie since Barry Jenkins’s killer use of Barbara Lewis’s Hello Stranger in Moonlight. As the title Only You ironically suggests, with love comes loneliness that can both create and fill a void. This film captures those competing elements perfectly. And I loved it.
