The Summer Book is stubborn to a fault in its metaphorical methodology, yet eloquent filmmaking and committed performances make it a thought-provoking and poignant feature.
The Summer Book prefers to share its pages through imagery and implication. This is one of those pictures in which reading between the lines forms the basis of its resonance. To some audiences, this may make it a double-edged sword, and that opinion is legitimate. However, it moves well and props up a poignant emotional truth to its minimalism, resulting in an intriguing drama.
A family is holidaying on an island in the Gulf of Finland for midsummer. The only one named is the young daughter Sophia (Emily Matthews), who is staying in a quaint cabin with her distant father (Anders Danielsen Lie) and her frail but mentally sharp grandmother (Glenn Close). Immediately, the picture compels us with its stellar cinematography. Shot on location in archipelagos in the Gulf of Finland itself, Director of Photography Sturla Brandth Grøvlen photographs the beauty of their holiday location in spades. Warm colours leap off the film’s palette, capturing the tranquillity of the vast landscapes while also hinting at the loneliness and contemplation such beautiful swathes of nature can give rise to.
Fitting that this is the case, for a dark cloud hangs over the family. It is mentioned early on that Sophia’s mother has recently passed away. This loss has affected her father tremendously, who slaves away at his illustration job despite being on holiday, seemingly as a way to cope. Sophia is clearly suffering too, but is at a young enough age where the finality of death is still somewhat nebulous; the weight of it all is only just starting to make sense, in part due to her father’s behaviour. Throughout her holiday, she and her grandmother interact and pass the time, exploring the Finnish landscape together as grief lingers like an elusive shadow.
Based on the 1972 book of the same name by Tove Jansson, the narrative is a mostly uneventful affair – or at least the most prominent events occur within the characters’ minds. That will probably dock the film points among select audiences, and not unreasonably. But it’s a narrative choice that largely works within the parameters of the themes and emotional ambitions. When coping with grief or irreversible change, much of our growth happens not through outbursts and physical altercations, but through large periods of silence; through self-reflection and internal navigation. What may seem like a peaceful, if uneasy, coexistence on the outside can mask emotional turbulence on the inside.
Director Charlie McDowell and writer Robert Jones are fully aware of this fact, imbuing their film with this disquieting sentiment throughout, the film’s various departments wilfully playing ball to this unorthodox approach. The passing of Sophia’s mother is only discussed once as far as I can recall, yet her absence could be a physical scar on the landscape; it’s that omnipresent. The dialogue skirts around the edge of whimsy, despite its heavy realist premise, yet this only makes the body language of the actors more pronounced, elevating their acting.
Danielsen Lie has turned in consistently strong performances since The Worst Person in the World. Here, he uses stilted, uncomfortable restraint to physically portray the role’s inner conflict – a man who wants to be there for his daughter but is struggling to get out of his own way. Matthews holds her own wonderfully, embracing the joyous innocence of childhood while also showcasing a similar show of restraint as her role tries to make sense of this new normal.
Close gives the best performance as the film’s most fascinating character. Just as the grandmother plays games and attempts to explore the Finnish wilderness with Sophia, sharing stories of her childhood with her, she also tries to encourage her son to take the necessary steps to help Sophia too. She does this despite her own relative frailty – she uses a walking stick and vocally muses on how her own death is much closer than she’d like to admit. Yet the character is mostly smiles, balancing her own anxieties with her sageness, using the latter to help Sophia even as she struggles to accept the inevitability of death herself. Close imbues the role with a palpable wisdom and grit, creating a mentor figure whose trueness to life is as wholesome as her relationship with her grandchild.
The character dynamics are a bittersweet but sobering triangle of need – Sophia needs her father to come to terms with her mother’s passing; her father needs Sophia’s grandmother (his mother) to guide him on how to be there for his daughter, and Sophia’s grandmother needs Sophia to reconnect with the world and not worry about her own passing. This amounts to engaging themes on life, something that the filmmaking reflects delicately. Its picturesque cinematography, graceful music, and languid editing all exist to serve as a form of appreciation for what life can offer. Even death, a nebulous finality, is sought to be understood rather than feared by this film’s allegorical approach. The uncanny beauty of the imagery recalls titles like Midsommar, and yet it works both as an eerie reminder of death and a touching tribute to life itself.
One could argue that these are obvious techniques when it comes to audiovisual depictions of grief and loss. These claims are legitimate, and at times the film’s insistence on slow-burn pacing and placid storytelling can try the patience. It’s powerful, but not necessarily groundbreaking. However, for those who can get on board with the film’s ambitions, there is much to admire. The Summer Book is stubborn to a fault in its metaphorical methodology, yet eloquent filmmaking and committed performances make it a thought-provoking and poignant feature. If nothing else, it’s further proof that Glenn Close, paired with the right material, really is an unstoppable acting force.
The Summer Book is now showing in cinemas nationwide.
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