More than Once

Despite the implications of the title, Once is far from simplistic. John Carney’s Academy Award winner is a beautiful and complex dichotomy between intimacy and exposure.

Once chronicles the weeklong relationship between a brokenhearted busker and a young, immigrant street vendor. As they work together to record an album, they discover they share a love not only for their music, but also for each other. Although the plotline seems basic and uncomplicated, their connection constantly struggles to establish itself.

Every moment of intimacy is shared in a transitory space. From the streets to the shops, there is no privacy. Their homes feel makeshift, riddled with exposed wires and haphazard furniture. People, both strange and familiar, flit in and out without warning or apology. When the characters perform their music, disclosing their most vulnerable, intimate feelings, they do so in the most exposed locations: among hoards of passersby on the crowded sidewalks, amidst fleeting customers in the music store, within the transparent walls of the recording studio. Even the camera, a usually invisible documenter, is an obvious intruder. It is never still, always shifting and shaking, drawing constant attention to its presence. Every intimate moment is on display.

For all the exposure, however, notice that the relations between the two characters are highly muted. They engage in almost no physical contact and never address each other by name; even in the credits they are listed as “Boy” and “Girl.” Despite this lack of obvious relationship markers, you will nonetheless finish Once knowing one thing is explicit: their connection.