In the lovely trailer for The Love That Remains, the narrator (bring that back!) explains that there are no “far-right extremists or murderers in this film. Only normal people with normal feelings and normal problems.” It’s a pleasant spin on the notion that, although the island of Iceland isn’t as far away from either the continent of North America or Europe as one would think, that distance makes it seem like it might as well be located on another planet. Right now, that seclusion seems like it would be a great benefit, as the interconnectedness of modern life seems to only mean that we all fall together.

One of modern life’s most normal problems is divorce, which is at the center of this film. Except, this isn’t a divorce of anger or resentment, just a falling out of love. It’s as if the pendulum had swung away from the feelings that originated this relationship, with just enough momentum to make us feel like it could swing back that way again. As the title alludes, there is still love between Anna (Saga Garðarsdóttir) and Magnús (Sverrir Gudnason), just not enough for them to live together with their three children: Ída, Ágúst, and Grímur.

For any unsuspecting viewer, it might take a few reels to fully grasp the family's strained situation. There’s a sense of lightness as they sit down for meals and then go outside to play with their sheepdog, Panda. But then the mother will tell the kids it’s time for bed, which also means it’s time for father to return to his bed aboard the floor of the 15,000 ton fishing boat he works on. Fisheries remain one of the most vital parts of the Icelandic economy, with thousands of men becoming part-time family members as they must work on the boat for days/weeks at a time. Most of the men seem to be in Magnús’s situation: get married young and have their relationships tested by the weight of time, distance, and children.

Overtaking fishing as the country’s largest export is tourism, something that writer/director Hlynur Pálmason captures with his self-managed 35mm camera. The frigid tones of the frames in his previous feature, the 19th-century set Godland, have been replaced with a warmer color palette that highlights the fields, coasts, and distant glaciers. Out in the farmlands, Anna works on her art, and the kids pass the summertime by playing games, experiencing more freedom as the parents aren’t able to keep as close an eye on them. It’s a peaceful existence, one that’s also tinged with melancholy.

The children are all played by Pálmason’s own, hinting at a certain amount of reflection in this story. There’s a difference here from something like Marriage Story, mostly in its refusal to address the legal dissolution of a relationship. The harsh realities do bubble up to the surface every once in a while, with abstract sequences and images holding up the foggy mirror. The boys create a makeshift scarecrow that they can shoot arrows into. Later in the film, the scarecrow comes to life for a scene, reacting to all the arrows that have plunged into its burlap body. No one sees it, and it’s back to being lifeless the next time it appears.

For many families, this is the way things are. Things go up and down, with unexplainable moments that stick out from the overall tapestry. Pálmason gently captures that rollercoaster, with Harry Hunt’s melodic piano easing us along. There’s laughter, sadness, and a lovingly playful dog. What more could you need in life?