‘The Love That Remains’ Review: Hlynur Pálmason’s Exquisitely Tender, Increasingly Haywire Portrait of a Family in Limbo

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The term “Separated” can carry different meanings and cause misunderstandings in human relationships, especially when partners are often argumentative. In the poignant marital drama “The Love That Remains,” directed by Icelandic filmmaker Hlynur Pálmason, artist Anna (Saga Gardarsdottir) is willing to part ways, while her seafaring husband Magnus (Sverrir Gudnason) stubbornly remains in the family home they share with their children. Although this arrangement provides a façade of domestic tranquility, it offers Anna less and less sense of security.

Delving deeper into surrealism, Palmson’s fourth film captures a poignant, darkly comical, and progressively chaotic portrayal of a crumbling marriage. While distinct from his 2022 masterpiece “Godland” in form and subject matter, the new movie echoes its predecessor with an ethereal, subtle elegance, a fascination with the ever-shifting moods of rural Iceland, and a unique, offbeat humor stemming from human quirks. Despite missing out on a Competition slot at Cannes, it was screened in the Premiere section, yet it underscores Palmson’s rising prominence and individuality as a filmmaker, marking him as an auteur on the rise.

In this piece, although it’s smaller compared to “Godland,” it’s packed with intricate textures and a range of deep, vibrant tones. Similarly, Anna’s stark, earthy artworks from her newest collection could be described in the same way, minus any hint of smallness. Tragically losing her studio to developers, she now uses the outdoors as her creative space. A poignant opening scene captures the demolition of her studio from above, symbolizing discomfort. To cope, she paints on bedsheet-sized canvases exposed to the elements, letting dirt, moisture, and rust mark them. This simplistic method might signify her longing for a fresh start and a more straightforward lifestyle.

Despite his preference for maintaining things as they’ve always been, Magnus often finds himself away from home due to his job on an industrial fishing trawler. This means that Anna has shouldered most of the parenting responsibilities towards their children – teenage Ida (Ida Mekkín Hlynsdóttir), younger Grímur (Grímur Hlynsson), and Þorgils (Þorgils Hlynsson). Over time, this arrangement has led to Anna’s commands carrying more authority in the household than Magnus’, even when he is present. Though Magnus still occasionally spends nights at home, Anna is trying to limit this to prevent confusing the children. As a result, Magnus increasingly feels like an unwelcome visitor in his own home.

Throughout the span of a year, Pálmason’s script is primarily constructed from diverse scenes depicting family interactions that range from peaceful to strained: meals where conversation may be lively or tense, a leisurely picnic on a warm day that unexpectedly triggers Magnus’ erotic daydream, and a chaotic trip to the emergency room following an unimaginable accident. The narrative progression is minimal, but the film acquires shape and momentum as the sense of reality gradually deteriorates – starting off with a dry humor when Anna, after enduring a day hosting an arrogant and eventually dismissive Swedish art dealer, visualizes his plane plummeting from the sky.

In other parts of the story, we delve deeper into intricate fantasies, leading to extended dream sequences featuring strange characters such as the mysterious armored scarecrow crafted by children in Anna’s outdoor studio, or the vengeful giant rooster that haunts Magnus’ mind. While these are entertaining detours, the tale becomes most engaging when the line between reality and fantasy grows hazy: A character’s apparent destiny might be a genuine event, their self-inflicted hallucination, or another’s deepest, hidden desire. As this seemingly conventional relationship drama veers further from its course, it powerfully illustrates the hidden turmoil and suppressed violence lurking beneath the surface of “normal” households that mask their inherent dysfunction.

Pálmason scrutinizes the gradual unraveling with tender empathy towards everyone involved, noticing fleeting instances of tranquility or happiness that unexpectedly emerge during periods of intense emotional upheaval – such as a chaotic, purple-splattered family jam-making session, or relaxing evenings spent watching David Attenborough documentaries following a stressful family conflict. Editor Julius Krebs Damsbo’s innovative and sharp editing style captures the sometimes volatile energies of a day’s parenthood, and Pálmason’s own 35mm cinematography, although often soft and twilight-like, pays close attention to how changes in weather and surroundings can affect a character’s emotions or mirror them as the film strays from strict realism.

Both leads are exceptional, equally tense and frustrating, fragile with underlying anxieties that every now and then give way to a tender vulnerability. In contrast, the director’s own offspring bring an awkward authenticity and peculiar charm to their on-screen family — a daring casting choice that intensifies the tangible warmth of the production.

In a naive tone, the boys question why roosters are able to mate with hens so freely while observing the activities in the henhouse located at the back of the garden. Later, they ponder if their parents engage in intimate acts when they’re not clothed, and ultimately surmise that such behavior is unlikely or no longer occurs. The novel “The Love That Remains” beautifully explores each family’s unique idiosyncrasies and the gradual bewilderment with which children view their elders as they grow, becoming smaller and more imperfect over time.

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2025-05-26 20:18