Love Doesn’t Disappear, It Rusts

Hlynur Pálmason’s deeply personal The Love That Remains documents a year in a couple’s separation with stunning imagery, unexpected lightness, and relatable characters

Hlynur Pálmason may be one of the most interesting film directors Iceland has today — or, I’m not afraid to say this, has ever had. After years in Denmark, he returned to the wilderness of his native East Iceland, where he lives in a house on the outskirts of Höfn í Hornafirði without a single neighbour. He barely uses his phone or goes on the internet. Inspired by the surrounding nature, everyday life with his children, and some of the world’s biggest artists — not just in cinema — he creates films whose narrative power is not quite something I’ve ever seen. His career has been on a steady upward trajectory for years, especially after his last feature, the period drama Godland, which premiered at the 2022 Cannes Film Festival and rounded the international festival circuit, winning a number of awards, including an Edda Award for Hlynur as Best Director, and a shortlist spot for the 2024 Oscars for the Best International Feature Film. When his fourth feature, The Love That Remains (Ástin sem eftir er in Icelandic), was selected for the prestigious Cannes Premiere section this May, the audience around the world paused in anticipation, what would Hlynur bring us this time?

I got the chance to see the film months later, just one week before its August 14 premiere in Iceland. The next day, on a sunny Friday afternoon, I met up with the film’s lead actress and a celebrated comedian, Saga Garðarsdóttir.

“It was like he was reading Tarot cards for me or something. He was just like, ‘There is a lady. I see a lady. Yes, I think there are kids.’”

“He’s just like this indie prince. He doesn’t like any kind of attention or institution or anything. It’s so funny,” Saga smiles, when I tell her that I won’t be talking to Hlynur this time. “He’s not bothered by what anybody else is doing.” She adds, “He doesn’t know so many names from the Icelandic theatre world or the film industry. He just works with his crew and isn’t thinking about anything else, just doing his own thing.”

She continues, “Usually, when directors approach you with a project, they’re always pitching their idea and trying to sell it. But he was not like that. It was more like he was reading Tarot cards for me or something. He was just like, ‘There is a lady. I see a lady. Yes, I think there are kids,’” Saga recalls.

Hlynur’s unique approach and personality was what drew her to agree to the role immediately. Even though, for a while, she thought Hlynur was just mixing her up with someone else.

“I thought for a very long time that he was making a mistake by hiring me. I thought he didn’t know who he was hiring,” she says. “In our first meeting, he said, ‘So, you are a fine artist.’ I was like, ‘No?’ And he said, ‘But you studied fine arts?.’ ‘No, no, I’m a comedian. I studied acting.’” Saga laughs, “I thought he wanted someone else. But then I asked him. I said, ‘I just want to be clear. If you thought that was somebody else, I’ll totally understand it. Like, if you’re, like, just figuring out now that I’m a clown or something…’ He paused for a really long time, and said, ‘No, I think it’s exciting.’”

Photo by Art Bicnick

Going personal

The Love That Remains documents a year in the life of a family going through separation. In typical Icelandic fashion, the parents — struggling artist Anna, played by Saga, and fisherman Magnús, played by Sverrir Guðnason — are no longer together, but they share meals and spend time with their kids. There’s no divorce drama, no bad cop, good cop, just fleeting moments of everyday life, which more often than not are just midweek dinners.

Hlynur, in addition to being the writer and director, serves as his own DoP, always keeping his film camera in the back seat of his car, and filming the nature around his home base, just next door to Europe’s biggest glacier, Vatnajökull. His attention to imagery, and the way he weaves it together — focusing on the nuances in between, on moments seconds away from disappearing, rather than on the plot itself — is reminiscent of a visual artist’s work rather than a traditional directorial approach. In Godland, he spent a year filming a decaying horse corpse throughout the seasons. Similarly, in The Love That Remains, he films the same frames repeatedly, from the exact same angle — you see images transform from the family picking berries at the end of the summer to ice skating on a frozen lake in winter. These activities aren’t staged; in fact, they’re simply the things Hlynur does with his children, filming them as they happen. All three of his kids star in the film: moody teenager Ída Mekkín and carefree twins Þorgils and Grímur, whose relentless playfulness, whether real or on-screen only, manages to steal hearts.

“His kids are so adorable,” says Saga. It’s not the first time Hlynur has brought his kids into his films, though their roles have probably never before had so much weight, or character. “They have grown up in front of the camera, and are so relaxed about it. They learn their lines, but then they also improvise and go off.”

“The love might change, but it doesn’t really end, you know? It doesn’t have a two-year ending.”

The unscripted moments with the kids convey their sibling chemistry flawlessly, making you want to participate in a berry-catching competition or shooting arrows at a scarecrow from your seat in the movie theatre. But there’s one more character whose unexpected performance adds even more to the mood of the film: Hlynur’s dog, the Icelandic sheepdog, Panda, who actually won the Palm Dog Award in Cannes for her performance. “It was ridiculous how Hlynur could direct her,” says Saga. “He could make her fake sleep. He was just whispering to her like he was some kind of magician.”

Panda is not the only animal making an appearance in the film. There’s a comical moment with geese scaring an obnoxious Swedish gallerist, beautiful sequences of Icelandic horses, an impressive shot of Sverrir following an aggressive rooster through the chicken coop, and even a brief cameo of an orca.

Love corrodes

The energy between Anna and Magnús reminds you more of old friends or siblings, rather than a couple, that despite still being in the push-pull stage, is no longer together. Saga says that Hlynur intentionally wanted not to emphasise this. There was even a breakup sex scene that he decided to cut, as it was “too much.”

“The film is not about Anna or Magnús, even though you might think that they are the main characters,” she says. “I think the kids are also the main characters. And the nature, and the art. The characters are just one thread in the story.”

She adds, “Time is also a big subject in this film.”

Partly she’s referring to the footage Hlynur has been gathering for years, even before the work on the film began — the aforementioned collages of the surroundings in different seasons — partly to her character’s time-based art — huge metal plates that rust outdoors for months letting the rust transfer onto a canvas — which is actually Hlynur’s own art that has been exhibited internationally. It’s also, in a way, a metaphor for what happens to love with time.

“When you love someone, or have a deep relationship with someone, and maybe have so many things with them — kids, house, life — I think it never ends in a way,” says Saga. “The love might change, but it doesn’t really end, you know? It doesn’t have a two-year ending.”

Photo by Art Bicnick

Something about Anna and Magnús feels familiar. In real life, couples drifting apart are often unsure, struggling to end ties completely — or abruptly — especially if there are children involved. They know it’s not working, but there’s so much else to consider.

“People grow in different directions, the love changes,” Saga shrugs. She pauses, recalling how Hlynur and she were working with the rusted art in her character’s outside studio. “When we were taking [metal plates] off, you could see how it had changed, how the iron makes the cotton rust over time,” she adds, “I think that’s also a little bit about what people do to each other over time, what love and time do together. It changes the fabric.”

At the end of the film, as Magnús grows into more of an outsider to his family and feelings, Hlynur, for the first time ever, introduces surreal elements that on the first watch might be difficult to understand, but as Saga suggests, that’s not even Hlynur’s intention. “He doesn’t want to give people answers, or close things off with a really fine line. He’s looking for something real and interesting.”

She contemplates, “When I start to work on a project of my own, I really think of this — what do I want people to take away? Do I want them to be laughing, feel heartbroken, horny or whatever? What do I want to leave them with? But I didn’t make this film from scratch,” she underlines. “What it left me with was, I was in love. I went out of the movie, and I was in love with Iceland. I was in love with my family and my kids, I could see how extremely funny they were, and also how important they were to me. I don’t want to ever lose that. I think it just fuels the love in you — whether it’s for art, nature, or family. For me, it fuelled everything; it was like oil on the love fire that burns in all of us.”

The Love That Remains premiered on August 14 at Bíó Paradís and is now screening in all major cinemas in Iceland.