‘The Love That Remains’ Review: Hlynur Pálmason Follows ‘Godland’ With a Snapshot of Marital Dissolution More Elemental Than Affecting

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Through three films set in his homeland Iceland, Hlynur Pálmason has crafted a unique sense of how landscapes and primal forces mold human connections, making them stand out starkly. Emotions as personal as isolation can swell to epic proportions under the director’s lens, most notably in his 2022 release Godland, a strikingly beautiful exploration of man versus nature that combines spirituality with sharp wit and a hint of Lynchian peculiarity. Similar traits are present in The Love That Remains (Ástin sem eftir er>) although on a more intimate canvas depicting domestic disintegration.

In this drama about a broken marriage, Palmason personally handles both directing and cinematography using 35mm film in Academy aspect ratio, showcasing his expansive eye for composition that continues to impress. His unrestrained creativity produces visuals that can symbolize emotions or remain enigmatic. However, as the movie transitions into a complex mosaic of surreal and ordinary scenes, our emotional bond with the characters gradually weakens.

These screen dramas about dissolving marriages often steer clear of overly sentimental melodrama, instead offering more nuanced narratives. For instance, Kramer vs. Kramer, Shoot the Moon, Scenes From a Marriage, and Marriage Story have all made their mark in this genre. The morally complex and culturally insightful A Separation by Asghar Farhadi is a recent standout, while Our Time by Carlos Reygadas leans towards self-indulgence and may not be the director’s strongest work.

Similar to the 2018 Mexican film, Pálmason’s latest production features his own offspring – his three kids – whose natural, unforced performances suggest years spent in the presence of a father who is almost always behind a camera. The director has consistently prioritized character development, mood, and ambiance over plot, and this film’s unique narrative style goes some distance in masking its weaknesses, although it occasionally contributes to them as well.

The scene begins with a shocking sight: a rooftop from an abandoned art studio, once belonging to Anna (Saga Gardarsdottir), being hoisted and detached from the building by a crane, appearing momentarily like a UFO in the sky before it disappears from view. The demolition of this building serves as a fitting symbol for Anna’s life being exposed or unveiled.

She puts in a lot of effort to manage both her role as a busy, loving mother to three lively children, including 16-year-old Ida Mekkín Hlynsdóttir and her two younger brothers Grímur and Porgils Hlynsson, and her pursuit of the next big break in gallery representation and increased recognition.

Anna’s approach to painting, derived from Pálmason’s visual arts technique, is very hands-on, suggesting the immense power and devotion needed in creating art. In an open space, she positions large iron silhouettes onto unprimed canvases, securing them with logs or stones, and letting them endure the natural elements throughout winter. This allows rust, dirt, rain, and snow to create their own designs on the canvases.

As a devoted fan, I can’t help but notice that Anna’s split from Magnús, portrayed brilliantly by Sverrir Gudnason, isn’t explicitly explained in the film. It seems like he was living apart from our family when the story unfolds, and his long absences at sea during herring season on an industrial fishing trawel might have played a role. There’s also a suggestion that he wasn’t fully committed to sharing parental responsibilities, which could have contributed to their separation.

In some images, there’s a tense harmony between humans and the natural world. Giant nets are pulled up by mechanical hoists, pouring out schools of fish in rapid succession, which are then gathered en masse. Meanwhile, an orca swims nearby, hoping to snatch a piece of the catch.

The occasional scenes of Magnús by himself in his boat’s cabin, or his somewhat testy exchanges with thoughtless inquisitive crew members, subtly expose his deep-seated feeling of loneliness.

Magnús frequently shows up at the family house without warning, either staying for a meal or a drink with Anna. On some occasions, they engage in sexual activities, but generally, Anna’s lingering affection for him is worn thin by her feelings of irritation and exasperation. She’s eager to progress in her life, while Magnús clings like a persistent dog, unwilling to relinquish his hold. Gudnason skillfully portrays the awkwardness of these scenes with genuine emotion, contrasting sharply with Gardarsdottir’s more practical and resilient demeanor.

Instances where Magnús feels frustrated as the boys reflexively comply with their mother’s household tasks, but neglect his attempts at basic discipline – such as cleaning up after meals and placing dishes in the dishwasher – vividly show how he now feels like a stranger in his once familiar home.

Anna’s persistent efforts to establish herself professionally unfold through several scenes, where a Swedish gallery owner named Anders Mossling agrees to visit her. The tedious individual seems unimpressed by the collection of artwork Anna has carefully displayed in her newly rented studio (“Aren’t they all the same color?”). Later, over lunch, he drones on about the health benefits of wine, a monologue that Anna endures in silence.

Whenever she unveils her ongoing creations amidst the picturesque expanse of the hilltop coastline, I find myself captivated not just by her work but also by the breathtaking panorama before me. The sight of the glacier shimmering across the bay leaves me spellbound, while even a simple moment like reaching for an egg from a goose’s nest becomes a memorable part of that experience.

The moment she sees him off at the airport for his departure flight is filled with sharp, bitter tension. He informs her that there’s no room for her work and flippantly promises that she’ll find the perfect gallery, or it will find her. In response to his light-hearted remark about his mother, Anna grumbles, “Your mother’s a prostitute,” while her expressionless gaze suggests a fervent hope that his plane crashes.

Pálmason and his cast portray the sorrowful undertones of a couple growing apart following years of shared experiences. Initially, Anna deceives Magnús about the gallerist’s visit being successful, later confessing about her emotionally draining day, expressing her frustration towards the man’s self-centered and dull behavior. Despite these intimate moments, it becomes evident that while Magnús yearns to return to their past, that era has ended for Anna, who discourages him from staying overnight and causing confusion among the children. Frequently, she seems drained by his presence, yet the director demonstrates empathy towards both characters without passing judgment.

Two years prior, a scene captures the boys Grímur and Porgils constructing a scarecrow-like figure at the fringe of their mother’s workfield. Over time, as the seasons shift, this figure transforms into what resembles an armored knight. Initially serving as a target for archery practice, it hints at a troubling incident that unfolds later in the movie.

At a certain moment, the knight too awakens, making an evening visit to Magnús, much like a colossal manifestation of the rooster that Magnús had slain due to its aggressive actions in the chicken coop as Anna had complained about. However, these dreamlike episodes – inspired by the black-and-white monster movies Magnús watches late at night on TV – are more confusing than enlightening.

As a gamer, I found myself lost between the virtual and real worlds when Magnús’ sequence left me questioning what was real and what wasn’t. Was he truly stranded at sea, awaiting rescue to return to land? The image of him drifting farther away, with hope fading, gave the game a chilling final moment that lingered long after I turned off my console.

Both leads deliver powerful performances, capturing the melancholic longing of separation, reinforced by deep emotions, while the authentic portrayal of the three kids enhances the play’s emotional intimacy significantly. Ingvar Sigurdsson, memorably portrayed in ‘Godland’ and Pálmason’s previous film, the intense drama ‘A White, White Day’ (a tale of grief and rivalry), graces our screens once more as Anna’s compassionate, earthy father figure.

In Palmason’s unique style, he deviates from traditional paths often seen in family dramas. However, the surreal interludes risk overshadowing the heartfelt portrayal of a family’s disintegration.

The movie is particularly poignant through its casual depictions – accompanied by the melodies of Harry Hunt’s “Playing Piano for Dad” album – of scenes such as Anna and her three children lounging on a couch watching TV; a moment of relaxation amidst the strain of separation during a family outing involving hiking, picnics, mushroom and berry picking; the kids ice-skating on a frozen pond; delicately handling newly hatched chicks; or playing basketball with the family’s attention-seeking Icelandic sheepdog Panda (the director’s own dog) running around excitedly.

Despite the striking nature of the unusual events depicted, it’s the enchantment found within the everyday experiences of a broken family that leaves the deepest impact.

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2025-05-31 04:25