Something that no one tells you before experiencing the death of a loved one is that there aren’t any definitive guidelines on how to mourn. The act of processing a loss takes many different forms, and it’s impossible to pin it down to a single approach. This includes both the immediate aftermath and the lengthy impact of experiencing such an incredible loss as one attempts to move on after a while. I recently saw someone describe the long-term experience of mourning as the realisation that the grief does not become erased with time, but rather settles deep within our souls, constantly being present with the ebb and flow of memories, lingering with an individual for the rest of their lives. This is very true, and something that we find informs The Summer Book (Swedish: Sommarboken), a beautiful and evocative drama in which Charlie McDowell, working with screenwriter Robert Jones, adapts the novel of the same name by Tove Jansson, a seminal classic of Nordic literature, and a cherished piece of storytelling that remains resonant all these years later. The story follows Sophia, the nine-year-old girl who accompanies her father (an illustrator) and grandmother as they spend the summer on the remote island which their family has called home for decades, returning after the death of Sophia’s mother, which has plunged them all into a state of deep despair that they believe only can be healed through returning to a place which played such an important role in each of their lives. A simple, poetic and deeply moving film that addresses themes much deeper than we would expect based on a cursory glance, The Summer Book consistently finds ways to surprise the viewer, employing a range of techniques that may seem simple at first, but have a depth that is difficult to see from a distance. All of this manifests as we gradually make our way through these seemingly never-ending summer days with a trio of characters, each one working laboriously to overcome a sudden loss, knowing that they cannot ever truly heal, but can still attempt some form of recovery, even if it doesn’t lead us back to the same sense of comfort we hope. McDowell has continued to forge a path for himself as a sensitive, daring filmmaker, and with this beautiful adaptation, he once again underlines his exceptional skills.

The original novel was first published in 1972, and yet it remains so incredibly relevant nearly half a century later. The reasons for this are not difficult to understand – this is a work built from fragments of ideas that are not exclusive to the original time and setting, even if both are integral to understanding the overall appeal of the material. In both the book and this adaptation, the focus is not only on showing the beauty and splendour of the Nordic surroundings (which is filmed on location in the Gulf of Finland, one of the most beautiful parts of Europe), but also on the underlying conversations that emerge when looking at particular topics. It is a film primarily about family – three generations are represented in this trio of protagonists, all of whom are processing a loss differently. The young Sophia is trying to make sense of losing her mother and witnessing her father descend into a state of grief that he’s unable to verbalise, while her grandmother (whether she is on the paternal or maternal side is not made clear – she feels the loss nonetheless) is struggling to deal with her own mortality as she enters into her own final chapter, being reminded that her time is fleeting, as much as she tries to evade the passage of time. So much of The Summer Book dwells on the interactions between these characters, with particular attention being between Sophia and her grandmother, who prove to be kindred spirits – separated by more than seventy years of life, but yet sharing the same joie de vivre and child-like wonder for the world in which they reside, they cannot help but forge a deep, meaningful bond that will resonate with anyone who has ever had a close connection with their grandparents or anyone of a much older generation. Loss is a very difficult subject to explore, since it’s something so personal and tailored to each individual, and therefore, we find that The Summer Book is particularly well-suited to these discussions, since the nature of the plot allows for much more reflection and introspection than it does spending time on exposition, choosing to allow everything to unfurl gradually and with incredible nuance.

Except for a small handful who exist on the periphery and appear for only a scene or two, The Summer Book essentially only has three key characters, and therefore, they needed to be cast correctly, since the entire story depended on actors who could deliver the many complex aspects of these characters. The leading role of Sophia is played by newcomer Emily Matthews, and while it’s not the most complex performance (as could be expected, based on the fact that she’s quite young), it makes up for the lack of polish with an earnestness and charm that can only come from someone fully immersed in the kind of child-like curiosity that defines the character. She’s the audience surrogate, the person whose perspective we have the most access to, and a very worthy guide for us through this challenging story, which never dwells too much on her precocious nature and instead builds itself around her more subtle charms. Much of the heavy-lifting in terms of emotions is done by the two adults, who carry the majority of the emotional weight of the film. Anders Danielsen Lie is one of the most interesting actors working in European cinema right now, and his ability to play these quiet intellectuals undergoing enormous challenges has allowed him to carve a niche for himself that the film actively tries to unpack, while acknowledging that he’s not the focus of the story. Instead, a lot of that falls to Glenn Close, who is delivering one of her best performances in years, playing this steadfast, strong-willed matriarch with both iron-clad confidence and deep vulnerabilities, the film allowing her to run the gamut of emotions. There are moments where the focus shifts away from Sophia and fixates on her unnamed grandmother, who is as compelling a character to watch as the film progresses – and Close’s fearlessness in playing such a complex character only underlines precisely why she is one of our greatest living performers, every moment she is on screen exuding authenticity, charm and sincere commitment to the various layers that make up this character. This is especially important considering the subtext that indicates that The Summer Book is as much about the love between a child and her grandmother (a relationship that will sadly not last as long as other family members), but also the connections between generations in a more metaphorical, abstract sense, which is an additional layer of nuance.

There is an earnest sense of sincerity that drives this narrative, especially one in which most of the story is delivered through quiet reflection rather than bombastic, overly elaborate statements of purpose. Considering this is a film shrouded in conversations around death, mortality and the fact that our time on Earth is profoundly short in comparison to what we all attempt to achieve in that time, The Summer Book is unusually endearing, which is quite an achievement for something that tackles such serious subjects. McDowell is smart enough to allow Jansson’s work to speak for itself – the nuanced descriptions of the region and the people who populate it allow for a more subtle, nuanced depiction of the story, and the results are incredible. Gentle and simple to a fault, it’s a film comprised of small moments sewn together to create a layered portrait of a family in grief. It doesn’t provide any answers or insights – instead, it actively focuses on showing these characters sitting with their emotions, reflecting on the changes that have immediately begun to cloud their minds, while also showing their efforts to move on, an act that they know is impossible but still worth pursuing, if only as a means to say that they attempted to find a path forward. It’s not excessive in how it explores their emotional turmoil, with the quietness of the narrative mostly being replicated in these characters’ conversations, the more confrontational moments being brief and reasonable, rather than just being randomly inserted to provide dramatic tension. It’s a masterful example of how emotions can be a powerful narrative tool on their own, and how silences can speak more than words ever could, sometimes contributing to a story in ways that are simply impossible to deliver in more conventional means. McDowell has a keen eye for detail in terms of the various components that make up such a film, and The Summer Book becomes an exceptionally moving portrait of a family in flux, struggling with an enormous loss but also committed to keeping the remaining bonds as strong as possible, and it becomes a beautiful exercise in unspoken details that work together to create something truly enchanting.

The Summer Book is a lovely film – simple and evocative, but also heartbreakingly honest in how it explores the various intersecting paths that come with grieving, showing how it is not a linear journey, and is not likely to lead to a specific destination, instead being an ongoing series of steps forward, each one depending on the pace of each traveler. It’s incredibly layered and takes a couple of viewings to spot all the details – the splendour of the surroundings conceals many complex secrets, the conversations range from trivial to silently forceful, and the performances contain so many nuances that we have to pay careful attention to spot every emotional detail that makes up the story. McDowell is a director who has been working for the better part of a decade, and despite solid work with some genuinely exceptional talents, he still resides in relative obscurity. The Summer Book is not likely to be the film that brings him a sudden burst of attention, but it does contribute to a steadily growing body of work that contains some exceptional films that may not be widely appreciated now, but are reliable, consistent and interesting in their own right. Whether seeking a complex depiction of grief and its various challenges, or simply a gentle, quietly moving film set in a beautiful region (with a lot of focus on highlighting the power wielded by the natural world in not only healing us, but being a reminder about the most important parts of life, beyond the bustling cityscapes that tend to populate depictions of modern life), The Summer Book is an immensely moving achievement, and a film that takes its time to reach a specific point, but once again makes it quite clear that it is not all that interested in the destination when the journey itself is worth discussing all on its own, a vital realisation that helps us understand not only the virtue of slow cinema as a construct, but also reflect on our own lives and personal journeys, of which this film is a constant, beautiful reminder.