It takes confidence to name your film––simply and so very unspecifically––Love. Michael Haneke could get away with it for giving us the classic that is Amour. Gaspar Noé, on the other hand, came across poorly in his take on the L-word. Does Norwegian filmmaker Dag Johan Haugerud have something vital to say on the subject? In a breezy tone that soothes rather than shocks, yes. His film contemplates the many forms and possibilities of love while luxuriating in the Nordic vistas of Oslo. Not the most groundbreaking filmmaking, perhaps, but it’s pure cinematic balm that celebrates the basic, beautiful human need to connect. Fans of Joachim Trier’s work and Linklater’s Before trilogy, take note.
Itself part of a thematic trilogy about sex, dreams, and love, the relationship drama features Marianne (Andrea Bræin Hovig), a urologist who often has to give male patients bad news about their prostate. Successful and happily single, Marianne agrees to meet divorced geologist Ole (Thomas Gullestad) mostly for the sake of a friend who’s keen to set them up. There’s an instant attraction between the two, even though the divorcé comes with an alcoholic ex-wife and two kids who live next door. Meanwhile, Marianne’s assisting nurse Tor (Tayo Cittadella Jacobsen) is a young gay man who cruises the ferry between Oslo and its neighboring island for sex. On one such occasion he meets an older gentleman, Bjørn (Lars Jacob Holm), who turns him down, only to show up later at the hospital seeking medical attention. Despite the prospect of another rejection––to say nothing of other ethical concerns––Tor decides to approach the handsome stranger again.
What’s most remarkable about Love is that nothing terribly dramatic happens. The characters live their lives, bump into other characters, and they… talk. Like Trier and Linklater, Haugerud trusts the power of words, and with this gorgeous piece of screenwriting, he proves how captivating it can be to watch two humans have a conversation. When Tor and Bjørn first meet on the ferry, the encounter is charged with sexual tension. They don’t know each other, their paths only crossed because they’re on the same app at the same time and may never meet after the boat docks. In that brief window of time where they can speak without baggage, we get a peek of two men at their most unguarded and exposed. And while it turns out the night will not end the way Grindr intended, you find yourself hanging onto every beat of the exchange, one that vividly captures the sweet awkwardness and sudden intimacy of the moment.
Marianne, for her part, gets personal in a few unexpected situations as well. After a perfectly romantic second date with Ole, she hooks up with a random guy on her way home. Without a trace of judgment, the film observes the couple of happy hours she spends with the nameless carpenter, at the end of which they have an open, unsentimental heart-to-heart before going their separate ways. No promises are made, yet there’s something quite innocent and bracingly honest about the encounter.
Built around an idea of love that feels forgiving and wise, the film considers relationships for their human core and not whatever label’s attached to them. Is Tor nursing a patient when he takes up caring for Bjørn? Are they friends? Hook-up buddies? Lovers? Following a quietly heartbreaking monologue where Bjørn explains to Tor why he reacted with mixed feelings to the news of a possible HIV vaccine, the young listener cuddles up to the older confessor, asking that they be each other’s painkillers for a while. It’s a poignant scene that’s not dialed up for dramatic effect but says so much about intimacy and what it means to love. Likewise, when Marianne joins Ole’s ex for an early-morning sit-down towards film’s end, one might not know how to characterize their relationship. What soon becomes clear is that both women are trying to navigate the shared new chapter of their lives. Instead of jealousy or bitterness, the scene reveals genuine tenderness by gently suggesting that we can all find ways to care for one another, that love is not a zero-sum game.
Haugerud writes with clarity, compassion, and an exceptional command of cadence. Through wonderfully authentic dialogue he builds characters who leap off the page and draw you into their joys, fears, and doubts without resorting to showy plot twists. His direction is sensitive and understated, delivering a film that doesn’t wow you with stylistic flourishes but invites you to fall into it like a warm, welcoming hug. Everyone in its terrific cast is on the same wavelength, giving naturalistic performances that engage but never distract. A special shout-out to composer Peder Kjellsby’s dreamy, jazzy score, which not only nails the film’s amorously melancholic tone, but is such ravishing music you just want to swim in it, to be absolutely immersed.
We rarely get films that are as truthful and articulate about romantic relations as Love. By rendering life where people deal with their feelings sans cynicism or shame, it reminds one how simple and unspecific connection can be.
Love screened at the Filmfest Hamburg 2024.