The Love That Remains (Ástin sem eftir er)

 

Director Hlynur Pálmason

Pálmason and his three children

The Love That Remains (Ástin sem eftir er)               B+                                                         Iceland  (109 mi)  2025  d: Hlynur Pálmason

Returning to the wilderness of his native East Iceland after years in Denmark, writer/director/cinematographer Hlynur Pálmason lives in a house on the outskirts of Höfn í Hornafirði without a single neighbor (Höfn í Hornafirði | The Majestic Town in South Iceland), just next door to Europe’s biggest glacier, Vatnajökull, barely ever using his phone or going on the Internet.  One of cinema’s most singular contemporary artists, perhaps even Iceland’s greatest filmmaker ever, Pálmason has crafted a stunning family drama shot on 35mm that features his own three kids as the children, entrusting them with extensive scenes on their own, yet what stands out is the immense naturalness of the forboding Icelandic landscape mixed with the weirdness of the imagination, accentuated by an evocative old-school sounding piano that turns out to be a jazzy dulcet piano score by Harry Hunt from his 2015 Playing Piano for Dad album, Journeys YouTube (4:04), sounding effortless, becoming an intimate and at times surreal portrait of a fractured marriage.  In what was once a loving couple, industrial herring trawler Magnús (Sverrir Guðnason, an Icelandic-born Swedish actor in his first Icelandic-language part since childhood) and his wife Anna (Saga Garðarsdóttir) have now split up, though still share family meals and spend time together for the sake of the children, moody older teenage sister Ída and the more carefree twin boys Þorgils and Grímur, always accompanied by their ever-faithful Icelandic sheepdog Panda (Pálmason’s own dog), who provides one of the best dog performances ever captured on celluloid, winning the Palme Dog at Cannes.  Absence is a silent killer, as we never witness the break-up of the relationship, only its aftermath of silent suffocation, though the marriage may have been strained by his long trips at sea, where they have to balance the times he’s home and the time he’s away, with Anna convinced she’s better off without him, as then there is no one challenging her independence, which in Iceland is a special spirit that is unlike anywhere else.  With an immaculate sense of framing and pacing, and a heavy dose of humor, creating a space as strange as it is charming, lurking somewhere between Scandanavian filmmakers Ruben Östlund and Roy Andersson, the massiveness of the land commands our attention, as the family is often seen traipsing around the countryside, going on hikes, or just generally having fun and goofing off, where part of the beauty of the film is capturing the casualness and spontaneity of everyday moments in their lives and how they remain connected to the land and sea around them.  Offering a most vivid photograph of the emotions and dynamics that fluctuate under the monotony of the ordinary, inspired by impressionist artists like Sally Mann or Claude Monet, people who return again and again to what’s nearby, the film fully evokes the mantra “Work with what’s around me.”  She is a struggling artist who prefers to work outdoors, an abstract visual artist who works with time and deterioration, allowing her coarse rust prints to be exposed to the elements, whose vast and impressive works that take months to create are not appreciated, yet viewers can decide for themselves what they think, as her working methods blend into the harshness of the surrounding terrain, creating these huge canvases that are a reflection of the ever-shifting Icelandic landscape, time consuming and not easy to make, yet at the core they also reflect her inner spirit, vibrant and rebellious, standing out from the rest as an ode to a free spirit.

Strange and a little offbeat, where its infectious rhythm and narrative disruption creates an off-the-beaten-track playfulness, lending a whimsical air that certainly lightens an otherwise heavy subject matter, standing in stark contrast to the gut-wrenching despair of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage (Scener ur ett äktenskap) (1973).  Initially screening in the Cannes Premiere section, this is a departure from the epic scope of his earlier film GODLAND (2022), which won the Best Feature Film at the Chicago Film Festival that year, as this is a smaller, more contained film, more immersed in nature, accentuating what unites us and divides us, revealing the minor and major mistakes, and the confusions of an Icelandic family, including heartbrteak, miscommunication, and conflicting feelings about what constitutes family.  Exploring the times we live in, the director seems more fascinated in the small and tender moments we share, creating a film that is built from an observational perspective, capturing each nuance of the daily life of the characters, yet he’s not afraid to veer into dreamy surrealistic aspects that are absurdly funny, offering an impressionistic editing style, with a few extra-inconspicuous jumpcuts, feeling intimate and autobiographical, yet it’s an imaginary narrative.  A dark existential heaviness that might otherwise envelop some scenes is bypassed in a very playful way, which might also be related to the remoteness of the coastal town, where time is conceivably decelerated and life here follows a different rhythm.  One thing that stands out is how the kids and the dog run free, with as little supervision as possible, leaving awkward moments with their father who attempts to assert his authority to no avail, as they pretty much ignore him and do what they want, where the vast outdoors is their playground, making this feel like an extremely personal film, much like his earlier short film NEST (Hreiður) (2022), Гнездо / Nest / Hreiður (2022) dir. Hlynur Pálmason [1080p ... YouTube (22:23), where the entire film is a fixed shot from a single location, as these films feature his own kids.  While the short film shows them constructing a treehouse mostly out of sight of any adult presence, where their parents are referred to, but remain mostly offscreen, this film shows them constructing the figure of a knight hanging on a post, which resembles a scarecrow flapping in the wind, with the kids playfully shooting arrows at it, but the image changes over time and during the changing seasons, suggesting the passage of time.  However the relationship between the separated parents feels authentic, with the husband off at sea where he has to contend with vulgar, profanity-laden conversations of other men continually prying into his business, describing his relationship as “I know her and I don’t know her,” while the wife attempts to get recognition for her artwork, but the Swedish gallery owner (Anders Mossling) she meets isn’t really interested and seems more concerned with consuming local food and wine, whose offhanded remark “You’re finally single” does not go unnoticed (nor does his hilarious exit), yet it’s important to note that the interiority of her work is a product and consequence of the outside world, and cannot be fully understood if not seen in that contextual relationship.  Nonetheless, she strives to make sense of the world through her art and in raising her family, where the daily struggles of life become her personal challenge.  This revolving scenario between the lead characters constitutes the film, offering an existential internalized view of their lives, where it’s easy to get distanced and alienated from a shared journey they never expected. 

Ambitious and ambiguous at the same time, what stands out in the adult husband and wife relationship is the fragility of the experience, as both are impacted by the separation, though in different ways.  Each has their own life to lead, pursuing different careers, which entails something completely different from their partner’s experience, yet they share three kids, who still view their absent father as their Dad, and expect to see him regularly, with frequent absences, but they can live with that.  Their mother is a much less hands-on parent, allowing them plenty of freedom, where it’s hard to find anything that constitutes out of bounds, so they show a surprising resiliency, where it all feels normal after a while.  The life of an artist revolves around her work (actually the director’s own art that has been exhibited internationally), which in her case is extremely physical, requiring great dedication and effort, yet she appears driven by her own conceptionary approach, where each project is extremely well thought out, becoming a metaphor for what happens to corroding love over time.  The filmmaker takes no sides, and allows each their own complexities, which is matched by the unique intensity of the free-flowing imagery which is simply not like anything else we’ve seen, as it can be abstract, but also in-your-face, as the idiosyncratic endeavors never detract from the central emotional authenticity.  Without providing any easy answers, it’s important to understand that each has their own distinct personality, as does the nation of Iceland, which holds individuality in high esteem.  The on-again and off-again relationship of the parents feels genuine, as there are moments of tenderness and love, while also their partner can send them into a rage of anger and disgust, where the last thing they need is a sudden, unexpected visit to alter the ordinary rhythms of their lives.  This is typified in an early scene where Magnús shows up unexpectedly at her door, where she initially feels perturbed, but they share a long-held connection to what was once a family, and still is, just not the same, a little broken, leaving them each wounded and internally devastated, left adrift, but they share an unconditional love for their kids, The Love That Remains new clip official from Cannes Film ... YouTube (2:05). While there's a familiarity of a long-held love, there’s also a faint chance of reconciliation, where in one truly extraordinary scene, one of Magnús’s shipmates tells him he should be willing to do anything to save his family, likening it to a greenhouse, where you often have to repair and install new windows to keep the plants inside safe, constantly tending to them and removing the weeds.  But easily the best thing this film offers is the harmonious blend into that massive landscape, with beautiful sequences of Icelandic horses, perfectly accompanied by that pensive music, where the family romps into the great outdoors offer a supreme source of pleasure, where what’s especially impressive is the way the filmmaker weaves it all together, The Love That Remains new clip official from Cannes Film ... YouTube (1:22), delivering a poignant look at the essence of faded love and shared memories amidst the changing seasons, accentuated by that lovely piano score, raw and simple, like the Bo Harwood piano music heard as the parents tenderly tuck their children to bed at the end of John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence (1974), which feels like a summation of everything that came before.

Heartstone (Hjartasteinn)

 


Director Guðmundur Arnar Guðmundsson

HEARTSTONE (Hjartasteinn)                  B                    

Iceland  Denmark  (129 mi)  2016  ‘Scope  d:  Guðmundur Arnar Guðmundsson  

Official Website

A rather sprawling first-time feature film by a young Icelandic director, Guðmundur Arnar Guðmundsson, winner of the Q Award for Best Gay, LGBT-themed film, who previously made a series of award winning shorts, including ÁRTÚN, which won the Best Narrative short film at the Chicago Film Festival in 2014, focusing this time on the relationship of two 14-year old boys that have been friends since an early age, the more diminutive Thor (Baldur Einarsson), whose father is absent, the runt of the litter living at home with a single mother and two older sisters, and the taller Kristján (Blær Hinriksson), who is living with a physically abusive father.  No easy life for either of them, as the film provides intimate details about their lives growing up in a remote fishing village in Iceland.  Much of it spent outdoors in the rolling hills next to the sea, the boys are part of a generational hierarchy led by an older boy, Ginger (Sveinn Sigurbjörnsson), who is little more than a bully, running around with a group of enforcers where he continually picks on boys younger than him.  In an opening moment he can be seen shooting birds for the sheer pleasure of it, leaving them to rot afterwards.  This act is paralleled by another scene with the two boys hanging with a group their own age, where they are singling out a certain fish, bullrouts, calling them ugly, and then stomping them to death, creating a pervasive mood of meaningless aggression.  These seemingly tiny acts are contrasted by the largesse of the Icelandic landscape, beautifully captured by cinematographer Sturla Brandth Grøvlen, as looming out the window or off in the distance is a unique mix of mountains meeting the sea, where the harshness of the land seems to mirror the temperament of the older men, who tend to be stubborn, gruff, and at times painfully cruel.  No one represents this more than Kristján’s abusive father, Sigurdur (Sveinn Ólafur Gunnarsson), who terrorizes his wife and family, where his mean streak is a sign of his masculinity, in his eyes, as nothing ever comes easy, where you have to work your fingers to the bone just to survive this heartless world.  

Thor and Kristján have it different, as they have each other’s backs and have been best friends forever, where if you ever see one of them, the other is likely to be with him, as they are an inseparable pair, spending all their time together.  Their parents don’t seem to mind, as that’s less they have to look after, as the boys can seemingly take care of themselves, always off on some adventure, heading for the hills and faraway corners of the region, idly exploring something around town, hanging out with others, chasing after farm animals, or just generally following their curiosity, where they have plenty of time to talk about anything at all.  At home, Thor is surrounded by the presence of strong women, something he can’t fully appreciate, as his older sister Hafdís (Rán Ragnarsdóttir) recites dark and melancholic poetry at morning breakfast, where the more outspoken middle sister Rakel (Jónína Þórdís Karlsdóttir) tells her to just shoot herself already and get it over with.  All three gang up on their mother Hulda (Nína Dögg Filippusdóttir) when she has designs on a man, as the general consensus is she’s better off without them, but if truth be told, they don’t get a vote.  Hulda remains young and attractive, especially for the region, where one of the neighbors, Sven (Søren Malling), has a thing for her, handing Thor a necklace to give to his mother, something he wouldn’t be caught dead doing, instead giving it to his own girlfriend Beta (Diljá Valsdóttir) as a sign of going steady, while her less attractive girlfriend Hanna (Katla Njálsdóttir) has designs on Kristján, but only because she thinks she’s supposed to, as there’s no real chemistry between them.  Nonetheless they constantly double date, have their first kiss, spend time alone, even try sex, with Beta kind of pushing the action with Thor, which he willingly follows, while Kristján, who is tall and attractive, does his best not to be impolite to Hanna.

The interest in the girls eventually changes the dynamic between both boys, especially when Kristján playfully plants a kiss on Thor’s mouth, trying to pretend that it’s meaningless, a harmless joke, but it’s clear there’s more behind it, sending both into a tailspin of avoidance, where a mysterious gulf comes between them, neither one able to verbalize what they’re thinking, where a cloud continues to silently hang over both of them.  As if to test their mettle, Sigurdur decides to take these boys on an ominous mission, hiking quite a ways before they reach the edge of a steep cliff, where one boy will be lowered by rope on a harness to collect eggs from the vertical sea stacks, that appear like high-rise apartments stacked up on top of one another in the high cliffs rising out of the sea, with thousands of swarming birds living in the cracks on the rocks, a dangerous and life-threatening mission for men at any age, but for boys, it foolishly and deliberately risks their lives, with Sigurdur asking Thor to take the trek, almost as if that’s one way to get rid of him.  While it’s spectacular imagery, anyone who’s ever witnessed one of these bird sanctuaries realizes how foolhardy this must be, but if anything, it only brings the two boys closer together afterwards, as it’s a harrowing, near-death experience.  Perhaps in shame, that he could never carry off such a risky maneuver himself, Kristján, in an impulsive moment, apparently tries to shoot himself, but miraculously survives.  After returning home from extensive hospital care in Reykjavík, his family refuses to allow Thor anywhere near their son.  There’s a price to be paid in small towns for close friendships, as people in town gossip and carry on as if they have nothing better to do, where these two boys are taunted and tormented, even shunned by those their own age, including the two girls, who refuse to speak to them.  With Kristján secluded offscreen, where Thor has to wonder what in the hell he did to deserve being exiled in his own community, the emotional anguish and social isolation is overwhelming, as there is literally nothing he can do to change people’s opinions, reminiscent of that early scene where a fish was singled out and labeled ugly before it was stomped to death.  People grow up harboring ugly thoughts about anyone or anything that’s different, where especially in small towns, it can drive some kids to suicide.  The poetic finale is filled with the turmoil of confusion and anger, yet plays out with a unique tenderness that is an essential thread throughout every friendship.  Showing great attention to detail, the film plays out in a languorous pace, which doesn’t seem to fit the more adrenaline-paced world of kids this age, yet the detached overall manner adds a timeless, near omniscient view, as if the mountains and oceans and souls of the dead are all observing from a distance.