Divorce is never easy – at its core, it is simply the legal decision of two individuals to end their marriage or partnership. It should technically be seen as nothing more than a transaction. Yet, this is obviously a brutal reduction of what can be one of the most daunting, challenging experiences anyone could have, especially if we consider that there are always going to be other people drawn into such a situation, with children, relatives, friends and even strangers often being the targets of the intense emotions and deep frustrations that come with something as difficult to navigate as a divorce. This conversation forms the foundation for The Love That Remains (Icelandic: Ástin Sem Eftir Er), the fourth directorial outing of Hlynur Pálmason, who returns to contemporary Iceland after a memorable journey into the past in Godland a few years ago, to tell the story of Anna and Maggi, who have been married for many years, but as a result of their different career paths (she is an artist struggling to be seen, he is a fisherman who spends long stretches of time at sea) and the growing tensions that linger beneath the surface, they come to the decision that their marriage has to come to an end, for both their own individual wellbeing, as well as that of their children. Over the next few months, the pair struggle with their newfound independence, often finding their way back to one another, but stopping themselves from falling back into the same trap, knowing that it’s only a temporary reprieve from the intense emotions they are feeling. A brutally honest and often quite harrowing examination of a marriage that is no longer in peril, but rather has gone past the point of salvation, The Love That Remains is an astonishing achievement, and a perfect indication that Pálmason is one of our most essential voices in modern cinema, a quiet visionary who relishes in his ability to evoke the most simple and evocative emotions from stories that arrive as subtle whispers, capturing the full breadth of the human condition in nuanced and captivating ways.

The subject of love has been explored on film so many times, whether it is the process of falling in love, or the realisation that even the most passionate of relationships are certain to encounter obstacles, and in many cases undergo a steep decline until there is nothing left to bind two people together. Somehow, despite working on a subject that has no shortage of meaningful examinations over the decades, Pálmason manages to still make unique observations, each one memorable and compelling, while also pointing to the melancholic ideas that inform this story. How many ways can one tell a story about a couple going through a divorce and make it meaningful? The answer is seemingly that there are infinite ways to explore this concept, but it has to be done in a way that feels unique and interesting, even if it is touching on very familiar themes. In the case of The Love That Remains, it is more than just the story of two people who find themselves falling out of love, and trying to navigate the often treacherous waters of post-marital life, but rather an expansive familial odyssey, a depiction of a pair of people (they would probably loathe being referred to as a couple, even if only as a means to describe their role in the story) who go from being hopelessly devoted to one another, to near-strangers, people who would rather not interact with one another, but who are crushed by the realisation that, regardless of how much their may force their paths to diverge, they will always have certain aspects of their lives in common. They are raising children together (even though their approach to parenting is wildly different), they have formed memories in the same pastoral home, and their beloved sheepdog will always view them both as his owners, not being aware of the change that has occurred, and just viewing Maggi’s sporadic visits as longer stretches of time he spends at sea. It’s a beautiful way to look at how a relationship can end, but never be entirely erased – there will always be traces of their previous undying devotion to one another left behind, which is where the film truly focuses its attention, leading to some thrilling, engrossing ideas that form the foundation for this utterly brilliant work.

Usually, whenever an actor is described as “brave”, it’s because they physically push themselves beyond their limits or levels of comfort in favour of a more revealing performance. It’s often a lazy description, and one that doesn’t bear much relevance when we realise how impressive other aspects of a performance can be. However, in the case of the actors in The Love That Remains, we can appreciate the extent to which they went to bring these people to life, since this is not a film in which an actor can comfortably nestle themselves through relying on the same usual techniques we find in marital dramas. Instead, there is a fervent focus on naturalism, which is very much the approach that the director has employed in all of his films – the only way to convey authentic human emotions is through making sure every aspect of these characters feel genuine, avoiding all unnecessary emotions or defining features that may communicate certain ideas more effectively, but at the expense of a more nuanced, complex ideas on which the story is built. The performances by Saga Garðarsdóttir and Sverrir Guðnason are extremely impressive – at a glance, they don’t appear to be playing particularly complex people, simply two individuals that used to be married, and are trying to be as congenial and friendly with each other as possible, both for the sake of their children (who are struggling to understand these major changes), but also for their own sanity, since they cannot escape the memories of their time together. Yet, as the film progresses and we see their interactions – both with each other and with other characters – the layers begin to reveal themselves, and both actors open themselves entirely to the raw, brutal emotions that pulsate throughout the film. It’s not overly complex work, but it is nonetheless very impressive, and their commitment to these parts is extraordinary. They both say so much with just their expressions, and while we can celebrate the young actors in the supporting roles (as well as the adorable Panda, who steals every scene in which he appears), it’s Garðarsdóttir and Guðnason who anchor The Love That Remains and make it so incredibly powerful.

The brilliance of The Love That Remains isn’t restricted to the performances and the characterisation that is continuously developing throughout the film, but rather the elements around which the story circles, namely those to do with how the director brings the emotions into this film. Far too many films about marriages falling apart believe that it’s acceptable to reduce their characters to mere stereotypes, forcing them to be vessels of intense anger and deep depression. As relevant as these reactions may be, there is a lot more to the experience of seeing a marriage ending than just the extreme emotions, which is where this film finds its approach to be most appropriate. There’s something surprisingly subtle about this film – it is based around finding the truth beneath the hysteria. It’s no small feat to be able to make a film about such intense experiences feel not only meaningful, but actively quite subdued – and the method that Pálmason is one that feels very much based on magical realism. These characters live in a remote part of the country, seemingly detached from the outside world for the most part, existing in their own small world that is punctured once the marriage is dissolved and they are forced to look beyond their domestic paradise for answers, which ultimately never arrive. The director communicates these ideas through allowing the film to dwell in its emotions throughout, never pulling the camera away, even when it becomes quite uncomfortable and awkward, since it’s in these moments that the most striking truths are revealed.  Beyond this, we find that Pálmason is not afraid to insert a few surreal touches, which complement the vaguely dreamlike logic that lingers over the film, a reflection of the disorientation and confusion felt by these characters as they attempt to make sense of a world where seemingly everything has changed. It’s a fascinating way of exploring a marriage in decline, and rather than attempting to pay tribute to the many similarly-themed films that have taken the same narrative approach (the spectre of Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage will always be present in these films), the director goes in his own direction, making The Love That Remains a far more compelling and nuanced work, rather than just touching on the same general topics that we would expect.

Sometimes blisteringly funny, sometimes profoundly sad, The Love That Remains is a multilayered masterpiece, a voyage into the final days (and the immediate aftermath) of a marriage that contained a lot of love at its peak, but gradually and steadily declined until all that was left behind were the memories of the good times and the stark realisation that the only way to recapture those feelings would be to part ways. It’s not an easy film, but certainly an essential one, and in a cinematic landscape where so many attempts are made to explore the decline of marriages and the challenges that come with ending a long-term relationship, Pálmason somehow finds new ways to explore this common subject. This is a story of a single shared life diverging into two, and the challenges that come with navigating these narrow, untrodden paths alone – and the fact that the story mainly takes place in nature is certainly not a hollow motif. The Love That Remains is the kind of film that invites us to step into its world, allowing us to explore both physical and emotional terrain with which we may not be directly familiar (Icelandic cinema is sadly quite under-represented on the global stage, so we have to appreciate those who make a concerted effort to platform these filmmakers and their beautiful visions), spending just under two hours peering into their lives as they grapple with complex emotions and deeply unsettling thoughts, all of which go into showcasing their extraordinary journeys of self-discovery, something that this film uses as its primary motivation, but which is oddly missing in many marital dramas, which view the end of a relationship as more than enough to keep the audience engaged. Visually striking, narratively complex and filled with beautiful performances, The Love That Remains is one of the year’s most moving, deeply compelling films, and a worthy addition to an ongoing canon of marriage dramas that are simple but effective, showing the human side of an experience that is rarely afforded this much grace, nuance and elegance.