“Subtle filmmaking in which visuals and sounds are kept quite subdued, but still amount to an extraordinary sensory experience.”

A family cycles along the banks of the Danube River, trying to keep up with one another on what they feel will be a very special holiday, gleefully lost in the knowledge that they may not be sure where they are sleeping tonight, but are instead surrendering to this momentary emancipation from regular life. However, this journey will take on a much deeper meaning, as it is in these beautiful and hypnotic landscapes that a young man will begin to understand himself and the world that surrounds him. Jaume Claret Muxart has stated that the impetus for Strange River (his absolutely staggering feature directorial debut) was based on his own experiences cycling along the Danube in his youth, and the extent to which the story itself can be considered autobiographical is not clear, but it is certainly something that comes from deep within. Starting with a quietly simple premise that deceives us into thinking this will be a much more straightforward affair, the director crafts a story built around the unexpected disruptions that awaken something deep within the soul of a young protagonist who has only just started to understand life before being dislocated (both physically and emotionally) by an unexpected encounter that causes him to realise more about himself than we ever thought possible. An intimate, human story of identity that draws from a long tradition of coming-of-age narratives and stories of the birth of queer desire, Strange River blends subtle naturalism with some deep, profound contemplations that make this a truly unforgettable, daring work of pure emotional lyricism.

A river can be much more than simply a setting for a story, but can also be a powerful metaphor for deeper ideas. In the case of Strange River, we are introduced to a protagonist who is accompanying his family on a trip along one of Europe’s most important rivers, which becomes more than just the location of their holiday, but reflective of the abstract current of emotions that situate the main character in uncharted territory that he is forced to navigate almost entirely on his own, at least in terms of the metaphorical aspects. The ever-flowing, unpredictable nature of a river is perfectly encompassed in a chance encounter between Dídac (an old Catalonian name of unknown origin, which emphasises the mysterious nature of this film) and another young man who goes nameless for almost the entire film. It steadily progresses into a deeply melancholic depiction of a young man being plunged into a state of deep, unrequited desire, becoming the catalyst for an internal journey of self-realisation. It’s a relatively simple narrative, but the director infuses Strange River with many layered ideas, composing an enigmatic motif in which Dídac’s mysterious new companion is used to reflect his inner desires as he attempts to navigate unfamiliar existential terrain. Transient and delicate, but emotionally indelible in how it flourishes into a delicate, evocative portrait of youth and the process of making the memories that will become definitive in the future,

Something that we notice almost immediately about Strange River is its refusal of sensationalism – this is a film about capturing intricately human moments, and its unhurried approach to exploring the journey of not only Dídac but his entire family is extraordinary. The camera lingers on certain shots longer than usual, capturing not only the beauty of the sun-speckled pastoral landscapes but also the characters themselves, immersing us in a state of deeply rhythmic meditation. Long stretches of the film are mostly silent (such as the majority of the third act, which is almost entirely wordless and by far one of the most beautiful depictions of queer love ever committed to film), where subtle gestures and expressions say more than dialogue ever could, which is an astonishing feat for a directorial debut.  The ensemble is small but deeply realistic, the connections between them being so strong, we easily believe that they are a real family. Jan Monter is obviously a standout, his quietly devastating performance as Dídac is beyond extraordinary, his expressive eyes and ability to find meaning in even the most ambiguous, wordless moments capturing the curiosity and internal conflict with an authenticity that is truly beyond description.

Strange River is a film that captures the spirit of youth and yearning so accurately, it can often feel painful, as anyone who has ever experienced the moment of falling in love with someone who we realise is only part of our lives for a fleeting second will instantly recognise the deep sadness that pulsates throughout this film. It’s worthy of joining the canon of other astonishing queer coming-of-age stories, being as visually striking as it is narratively complex, but doing so with enough restraint and self-confidence to be unique. It uses the subject to explore adolescence as a period defined by alienation and revelation, an unpredictable phase in which time moves more rapidly than anyone can handle, and where one can only surrender to the experience, in the hopes of finding the freedom behind the sense of danger. Subtle filmmaking in which visuals and sounds are kept quite subdued, but still amount to an extraordinary sensory experience, coupled with emotional restraint that avoids the same trite conventions we usually find in similarly themed films (and in which he acknowledges the importance of allowing ambiguity to propel a story more than the eventual resolution), allows Strange River to evolve into a nuanced, complex mood piece that attempts to capture those fleeting but formative experiences that are so important in our early years, and which we carry with us on the ongoing journey to understanding ourselves.