DIRECTOR: Hlynur Palmason
STARRING: Saga Gardarsdottir, Sverrir Gudnason, Ida Mekkin Hlynsdottir, Porgils Hlynsson, Grimur Hlynsson
RUNNING TIME: 1 hr 49 minutes
LANGUAGE: Icelandic
PLOT: Tenderly captures a year in the life of a family as the parents navigate their separation. Through both playful and heartfelt moments, the film portrays the bittersweet essence of faded love and shared memories amidst the changing seasons.
GENRE: Drama
FILMING LOCATION: Eastern Iceland
To check out all previous submissions for Iceland, click HERE.
STARRING: Saga Gardarsdottir, Sverrir Gudnason, Ida Mekkin Hlynsdottir, Porgils Hlynsson, Grimur Hlynsson
RUNNING TIME: 1 hr 49 minutes
LANGUAGE: Icelandic
PLOT: Tenderly captures a year in the life of a family as the parents navigate their separation. Through both playful and heartfelt moments, the film portrays the bittersweet essence of faded love and shared memories amidst the changing seasons.
GENRE: Drama
FILMING LOCATION: Eastern Iceland
To check out all previous submissions for Iceland, click HERE.
FILM REVIEW:
(This review contains spoilers.)
“Think of your family as a greenhouse, with plants, vegetables, and fresh air."
Hlynur Pálmason’s The Love That Remains is a quiet, deeply affecting meditation on loss, time, and the fragile endurance of love. Set in rural Iceland, the film captures a year in the life of a family as the parents navigate their separation while trying to preserve a sense of normalcy for their children. Pálmason, who has established himself as one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary cinema, once again proves his ability to turn the simplest of human experiences into something profound and poetic. The film’s title itself evokes both a question and an answer: what survives when love changes, and how do we live with what is left behind?
From its first frame, The Love That Remains feels unmistakably Pálmason. The story unfolds with a slow, deliberate rhythm that mirrors the natural cycles of Iceland’s landscape, the thawing of snow, the greening of fields, the long, melancholic twilight of summer. Through these seasonal transitions, the film captures the imperceptible shifts in the family’s emotional life. Rather than relying on dialogue or overt conflict, Pálmason finds truth in quiet gestures: a lingering glance, a moment of shared laughter, or the silence between two people who once knew each other intimately. This restraint allows emotion to emerge organically, making the film both tender and devastating.
Visually, the film is extraordinary. Pálmason turns nature into a silent narrator. The camera observes rather than intrudes, finding beauty in decay and grace in stillness. Every shot feels painterly yet grounded, as if the land itself carries the memory of those who inhabit it. The natural soundscape, the wind against a window, the soft creak of a floor, the rhythm of breathing, draws the viewer into the family’s world with startling intimacy. This meticulous attention to sensory detail transforms everyday moments into something transcendent.
The Love That Remains is about the persistence of affection beyond its romantic form. Pálmason reminds us that love is not erased by distance or time; it simply changes shape. What remains is the quiet, enduring bond that ties people together long after they’ve drifted apart, a love that lingers, transforms, and becomes part of the landscape of memory.
(This review contains spoilers.)
“Think of your family as a greenhouse, with plants, vegetables, and fresh air."
Hlynur Pálmason’s The Love That Remains is a quiet, deeply affecting meditation on loss, time, and the fragile endurance of love. Set in rural Iceland, the film captures a year in the life of a family as the parents navigate their separation while trying to preserve a sense of normalcy for their children. Pálmason, who has established himself as one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary cinema, once again proves his ability to turn the simplest of human experiences into something profound and poetic. The film’s title itself evokes both a question and an answer: what survives when love changes, and how do we live with what is left behind?
From its first frame, The Love That Remains feels unmistakably Pálmason. The story unfolds with a slow, deliberate rhythm that mirrors the natural cycles of Iceland’s landscape, the thawing of snow, the greening of fields, the long, melancholic twilight of summer. Through these seasonal transitions, the film captures the imperceptible shifts in the family’s emotional life. Rather than relying on dialogue or overt conflict, Pálmason finds truth in quiet gestures: a lingering glance, a moment of shared laughter, or the silence between two people who once knew each other intimately. This restraint allows emotion to emerge organically, making the film both tender and devastating.
Visually, the film is extraordinary. Pálmason turns nature into a silent narrator. The camera observes rather than intrudes, finding beauty in decay and grace in stillness. Every shot feels painterly yet grounded, as if the land itself carries the memory of those who inhabit it. The natural soundscape, the wind against a window, the soft creak of a floor, the rhythm of breathing, draws the viewer into the family’s world with startling intimacy. This meticulous attention to sensory detail transforms everyday moments into something transcendent.
The Love That Remains is about the persistence of affection beyond its romantic form. Pálmason reminds us that love is not erased by distance or time; it simply changes shape. What remains is the quiet, enduring bond that ties people together long after they’ve drifted apart, a love that lingers, transforms, and becomes part of the landscape of memory.
