The Summer with Carmen Review: Sunlit Friendships and Screenwriting Dreams

Set against the shimmering Athenian coast, The Summer with Carmen unfolds like a jazz improvisation—loose at first glance, but tightly composed beneath its sunlit surface. In a single day on a naturist beach, ex-actor Demosthenes and aspiring director Nikitas debate “the golden rules of screenwriting,” each rule unlocking a flashback: the end of a four-year romance, the bittersweet adoption of Panos’s dog Carmen, and a series of erotic encounters that map desire more vividly than any scripted line. Here, Zacharias Mavroeidis isn’t just telling a tale—he’s examining how we reconstruct memory through the act of storytelling itself.

The film’s nonlinear structure nods as much to Godard’s playful reflexivity as to Kaufman’s self-aware wit, yet it never feels like an intellectual exercise you need a decoder ring for. Brightly graded blues and golds echo the warmth of youthful creativity, while the fractured chronology reflects a broader cultural moment: today’s generation reshapes personal narratives to make sense of shifting relationships, both romantic and platonic.

On a technical level, the editor’s choice to punctuate dialogue with rapid cutaways mirrors a musician’s staccato riff, and the soft wash of ambient sea sounds underscores moments of quiet revelation. In doing so, The Summer with Carmen occupies a sweet spot between indie experimentation and the clarity of mainstream storytelling—an accessible feast for cinephiles and casual viewers alike.

Behind the Script: Narrative and Structure

Opening on a sunlit Athenian beach, The Summer with Carmen greets us with on-screen title cards proclaiming “Screenwriting Rule #1: Write What You Know,” and immediately those rules serve as gateways into memory. Each rule sparks a flashback—Demosthenes’s breakup with Panos, the moment he first meets the stray dog Carmen, even an impromptu hookup that crackles with longing. This metafictional frame calls to mind Godard’s playful self-awareness in the French New Wave yet remains grounded in genuine feeling.

Mavroeidis arranges his story in three distinct acts. Act I introduces Demosthenes and Nikitas amid their lively debate over Syd Field’s dogma, sketching their personalities as crisply as a jazz solo. When Rule #3 appears, Act II unfolds through alternating present-day brainstorming and vivid past summers—dog walks by glittering waters, hushed hospital scenes—culminating in Carmen’s fate upending both men’s assumptions. In Act III, we return to that same beach with fresh insight, watching them reshape their screenplay proposal to mirror the personal growth they’ve uncovered.

Pacing hinges on smart editing choices. Rapid back-and-forths about Xavier Dolan’s indie credentials dissolve into montages of sun-drenched memories, yet every leap between now, then, and the “film within a film” stays perfectly clear. Match cuts and brief fades emphasize emotional beats, while the ambient wash of waves and distant laughter keeps dialogue feeling spontaneous.

Comic moments—quips about crafting a “gay blockbuster” that won’t feel porny—sit comfortably alongside sincere reflections on family illness. The deliberate sequencing of rules ensures each comedic nugget lays groundwork for the next revelation. When Rule #5 cautions against too many locations, Nikitas’s grin at a single beach signals the film’s final image: a quiet, uninterrupted shot of the two friends and Carmen, marking an unmistakable emotional shift from scattered memories to shared presence.

Flesh and Soul: Character Dynamics and Performances

Yorgos Tsiantoulas’s Demosthenes arrives with a presence that feels both classical and spontaneous—think a modern Brando filtered through Godard’s lens. His broad shoulders and lantern-jawed profile catch the Greek light like a sculpture come to life, yet it’s in the subtler moments—tracing Carmen’s paw prints in the sand or staring across a sunlit cove—that Tsiantoulas reveals a man wrestling with past heartbreak. Watching him navigate nude-beach banter, you see a performer equally tuned to comic timing and quiet vulnerability, much like Elliott Gould in a Truffaut homage, only warmer and more immediate.

Opposite him, Andreas Labropoulos’s Nikitas channels a young Xavier Dolan energy, brimming with restless creativity and just a touch of envy. When Nikitas critiques Syd Field or imagines Cannes-worthy title cards, Labropoulos infuses each line with a self-deprecating spark—he’s the friend who pushes your ideas forward even while nursing his own. Their chemistry feels lived-in, as if these two have rehearsed the same dialogue in taverns and clubs across Athens, rather than delivering scripted objections on a soundstage.

Panos, played by Nikolaos Mihas, exists mostly offscreen, yet his absence carries weight: his breakup with Demosthenes is the silent engine behind every plot turn. In contrast, Thymios and other fleeting romances function like jazz interludes—brief, charged, and revealing more about desire’s improvisations than Demosthenes’s guarded heart.

Then there’s Carmen, the scruffy terrier who never says a word yet steals every scene. This non-verbal role grounds the film’s emotional stakes—her wagging tail becomes shorthand for acceptance, second chances, and the simple joy of companionship.

Beyond the leads, group moments—Athens Pride’s vibrant march or a clustered picnic on the shore—underscore genuine community. The camera lingers on real smiles and quick embraces, reminding us that, at its best, independent cinema can mirror everyday intimacy. Here, a macho exterior yields easily to tenderness, reinforcing that true strength often lies in letting down your guard.

Between Script and Soul: Themes and Tonal Landscape

Mavroeidis plays with filmmaking’s rulebook, framing each screenwriting axiom as an invitation to test its limits. When Demosthenes and Nikitas declare “write what you know,” we cut to a memory that almost contradicts the rule, reminding us that stories gain life in their departure from strict formula. I was reminded of a jazz standard’s unexpected chord—at once familiar and daring—and this meta-commentary asks whether art ever feels true if it never bends its own rules.

At its heart, the film celebrates friendship as a form of chosen family. In a world where queer men often encounter judgment, the bond between these two feels like a sanctuary. They argue, tease, and confide in one another beneath the same scorching sun, proving that loyalty can outlast heartbreak and life’s small betrayals.

Romance and its aftermath weave through the narrative like a gentle undercurrent. Demosthenes’s breakup with Panos carries weight long after they part ways; his decision to care for Carmen becomes a quiet act of reconciliation. Watching him ease a trembling paw into his hand, I recognized how caring for another life can open doors to healing one’s own wounds.

Masculinity here wears many faces—from Demosthenes’s sculpted physique to Nikitas’s theatrical flair. The film refuses a single stereotype, showing how strength can coexist with tenderness. In scenes at Athens Pride, vulnerability feels as powerful as any flexed muscle, reflecting a cultural shift toward embracing complexity in queer representation.

Finally, the impulse to chronicle one’s life emerges as both a creative urge and a form of self-exploration. Like Truffaut’s passion for cinéma vérité, Mavroeidis suggests that each screenplay is a map of its creator’s interior landscape—and that telling our own story might be the most daring rule of all.

Sunlit Aesthetics: Visual Style and Cinematography

The Summer with Carmen greets viewers with a vivid color palette that feels almost tactile—brilliant Aegean blues, sun-warmed golds, and skin tones that glow like polished marble. Flashback sequences adopt a slightly cooler hue, gently reminding us we’re in the realm of memory. I couldn’t help but recall the natural-light portraits in Truffaut’s early work, where sunlight becomes a character; here, Mavroeidis uses light to reflect emotional warmth and occasional distance in equal measure.

Framing moves between expansive beach vistas and intimate close-ups of Demosthenes and Carmen. Wide shots capture the sense of freedom on a naturist shore, while tighter angles highlight the unspoken bond between man and dog. These choices evoke both indie cinema’s love of open space and mainstream storytelling’s focus on personal connection.

Dialogue scenes often rely on handheld camera work, lending a spontaneous energy reminiscent of Godard’s vérité style. In contrast, flashbacks settle into smooth dolly movements that feel composed, almost like a scene from a classic Hollywood romance—an effective reminder that memory can feel both raw and rehearsed.

Nudity in the film feels respectful rather than sensational. Mavroeidis frames the human form with an artist’s eye, balancing eroticism with purpose: each unguarded moment underscores character or theme, never existing merely for its own sake. This visual honesty reinforces the film’s broader exploration of openness—toward others, toward creativity, and toward one’s true self.

Echoes of Summer: Sound Design and Music

The Summer with Carmen layers music and ambient noise as characters in their own right. Bizet’s “Carmen” motifs surface at playful moments—when Nikitas jokes about grand opera—and tip their hat to the film’s title while never feeling forced. The original score leans on warm acoustic guitar and soft piano lines, recalling a laid-back jazz set in a Parisian café, a nod to my weekday ritual of spinning Coltrane between edits.

Natural sounds are woven in unobtrusively: rhythmic waves lapping the shore, distant chatter from an Athens queer nightclub, even the soft panting of Carmen as she chases a ball. When the story shifts into screenplay brainstorming, non-diegetic pulses gently underscore the on-screen title cards, guiding our awareness of fiction versus reality.

Dialogue sits front and center in the mix—banter crackles with clarity, each witty jab delivered like a conversational drum solo—while flashback scenes are bathed in subtle reverb, giving memories a dreamy edge that feels both intimate and expansive.

Final Reflections

The Summer with Carmen shines brightest when its playful rulebook conceit dovetails with the warm, natural chemistry between Yorgos Tsiantoulas and Andreas Labropoulos—an irresistible pairing against those sun-kissed Greek vistas. Mavroeidis’s meta-structure feels fresh rather than self-indulgent, and moments of genuine emotion cut through the breezy, erotic fun.

That said, the film occasionally lingers a beat too long on its own screenwriting rules, which can pull focus from Demosthenes’s emotional journey. A tighter balance between clever conceit and heartfelt stakes might have deepened the impact.

This is a film for queer cinephiles and anyone who loves character-driven indie comedies infused with mainstream clarity. If you’ve ever savored a Noah Baumbach dialogue riff or discovered something unexpected in a Godard jump cut, you’ll find plenty to admire here. Dive in for a warm, sexy, and thoughtful summer tale—one that reminds us why storytelling, at its best, can be as liberating as a day on the beach.

Full Credits

Director: Zacharias Mavroeidis

Writers: Zacharias Mavroeidis, Xenofon Chalatsis

Producers: Ioanna Bolomyti, Lina Giannopoulou, Zacharias Mavroeidis

Cast: Yorgos Tsiantoulas (Demosthenes), Andreas Lampropoulos (Nikitas), Nikolas Mihas (Panos), Roubini Vasilakopoulou (Kaiti), Vasilis Tsigristaris (Thymios)

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Thodoros Mihopoulos

Editor: Livia Neroutsopoulou

Composer: Ted Regklis​