ONCE

These cinema verité wanderings through the day and night streets of Dublin are neither mine nor those of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom. They are those of a guy (Glen Hansard) and a girl (Markéta Irglová). The dark red light of Dublin evening sings along with the girl; the afternoon and dusk blues are the chorus for the guy. The warm, soft, and yellow light of interiors, lit by candle and low-wattage lightbulbs—later to be washed in the bright light of morning sun—take us to another place, give us other music to "see," even as we listen.

True, this is not cinema verité. There is a director acting as overseer. But, the illusion is there.

True, the colors do not sing. They are atmosphere. But, once again, the illusion is there. This "modern day musical" is infused with song.

The traditional romance is subverted, turned upon its head. Once is fiction, although it feels documentary. It is intimate, without being obsessed with sex. There is the flesh, there is the lust and longing, but we do not see it. That is due to the intricacies and messiness of life, the loss that interferes and sculpts us.

Therefore, the consummation of the relationship, rather than involving "hanky panky," occurs with keyboard and guitar and voice. It is recorded, not only on film, but on master tapes in a music studio. This consummation is the culmination of passion lived out, in its best sense, in its meaning of suffering for that which you love.