“It seems Istanbul is a place where people come to disappear.”
What does it mean to be a foreigner? Is it a matter of tongue? Is it the distance from our birthplace, our behaviors others can’t make sense of, the gaps in our patriotism? Is it simply a matter of being away from loved ones? Is home a measure of chronological residence, or is it a feeling?
Furthermore, if we choose to leave our home, do we owe anything to it?
These are some of the questions that Swedish filmmaker Levan Akin floats in his latest film, Crossing, a story about departure and recovery and the spaces between. Akin made major waves in his mother country with the 2019 drama And Then We Danced, which also juggles themes of culture and belonging in contemporary Georgia. With Crossing, he channels his notably queer lens onto a trans woman, Tekla, who has escaped a life of provincial hardship.
But the film isn’t from her perspective. Instead, Akin traces her lineage – an estranged aunt, Lia, whose sister’s dying wish was that her daughter be brought back to her home in Batumi. Alas, the pioneering young Tekla has left for Istanbul, Turkey, without leaving any form of contact or address. With no leads, Lia is forced to hear out an offer by Achi, a ne’er-do-well suffering under the hand of his abusive brother. Achi claims that he and Tekla were friends, and that she left her new address with him. He offers to accompany Lia to Istanbul as a translator, serving up his limited Turkish and English as examples of his utility. She begrudgingly accepts, and Achi physically fights his brother to get his passport, effectively closing the door on the possibility of his return. Lia and him pawn what they can for money, and then they set off.
Meanwhile, we meet another character – Evrim, a trans woman in Istanbul who serves as a lawyer for an LGBTQ+ rights organization. Although her part in the main narrative remains unclear for much of the film, the angle of her success, even amidst a climate of occasional hostility, is cleverly interwoven. Though she is connected to a network of sex workers, her role as a protective liaison offers hope for what may be a different kind of life for Tekla. She recurs, as do the arcs of two enterprising street kids and the city’s signature plethora of stray cats.*
*If you watch this movie for nothing else, come for the cats, and then go watch the 2016 documentary about them.
Akin opens the film with the disclaimer that Turkish and Georgian are both gender-neutral languages. It’s not immediately clear why this information is provided. Perhaps the Swedish-born, Georgian-in-ancestry Akin is aware that he is fashioning this film for a foreign audience and wants to highlight the relevance of an agender tongue for a story about a trans woman. But gradually, in pairing the title and the film’s motifs, there lies correlation (at least from an English speaker’s perspective).
Crossing – crossing gendered boundaries, crossing physical borders, crossing paths and crossing fingers. Crossing purpose and minds, bearing cross. Occasionally even crossing the line.
In the case of the latter, there is a scene that sticks out to me. Like many scenes in the movie, it is just a singular vignette in a portrait of a city, but it is among the most vulnerable I’ve seen in ages.
Lia and Achi, stuck in Istanbul with very little money after days of searching, enjoy a light meal of cucumbers. A neighboring table overhears their Georgian language exchange, and one of the men shares that he is also from Georgia. He offers to treat them to dinner. Achi keeps his mouth shut as Lia and the older gentleman covertly flirt, bonding over their lack of significant other. Lia, a bit of an alcoholic, overconsumes, but she tells Achi that she has the situation under control. She plans to seduce the man and use his resources to navigate the city. Once outside, she makes a very public pass at him before heading to the restroom. His look of disgust is undeniable, and by the time she returns, he has left. She yells at Achi for letting him leave, and then throws up.
There is something very humbling about watching a 70-year-old woman make a failed romantic attempt. She laments to Achi, mid-vomit, that she used to be very beautiful. Those types of moves would have worked 50 years ago. But now she is old, and life is different. She has crossed the age threshold.
Achi has his own agenda for his international journey, and once in Istanbul, he begins to cast his net for urban employment. Like Tekla, he is a runaway. Batumi wasn’t for him, and he knew that. The actual depth of his relationship with Tekla is never clearly elucidated, but perhaps the mere word of her flit is what inspired him to craft his narrative and start anew. In Istanbul, he can escape his fate – he can disappear.
Tekla is the only family member Lia has left. Her resolve to bring her home is iron, despite the fact that she barely takes care of herself. Even in retirement, she resorts to stealing vegetables from her neighbor’s garden and drinking through the day. Will finding Tekla give her the comfort she so desires? Will Tekla, in her whim of disappearance, even want to see her?
The ending doesn’t tie up all the loose ends, like other greats of the genre. There is a subtle fantasy sequence that incorporates a hypothetical version of home, and more specifically, a garden – one that’s rooted, nurtured and sustained. How did it happen that Lia so let herself go? At least with her late sister’s wish, she has a purpose. The journey may prove more significant than the destination.
The intersection [read: crossing] of these motivations is contained by the city. As New York City is to the U.S., Istanbul is the gateway metropolis to the Caucasus. Anything is possible, and anyone can be anyone, but there is also the possibility of being swallowed up by its sheer size. Evrim wants to be a respected lawyer, and the relatively progressive environment of Istanbul has enabled that ascent. For Achi, the city is the vast, open future. For Lia, it is a nostalgic but discouraging representation of the past.
Tekla’s symbolic role as the less-than-titular Private Ryan does not reduce her importance, but Akin reminds the audience that whatever her outcome, it is purely speculative. It’s more about what she represents to these characters – a stray or a runaway, in a foreign city, tragically or hopefully disappeared.
Stream it now on Mubi U.S.
-Lydia
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