Hlynur Pálmason reaffirms his standing as one of contemporary cinema’s most formally daring and emotionally intuitive filmmakers with his latest work The Love That Remains.
Though unmistakably Icelandic in tone and setting, the film marks a striking departure from regional cinematic conventions, eschewing narrative linearity in favor of something closer to musical composition or visual meditation. A hybrid of intimate domestic drama and surreal allegory, the film plays with memory, decay, and the natural elements with a raw poeticism that is uniquely Pálmason’s.
At the core of this process is Pálmason’s long-standing collaboration with editor and creative partner Julius Krebs Damsbo. Over more than a decade of working together, the two have cultivated a language of shared intuition, rejecting traditional script-to-screen models in favor of a method that allows story and form to evolve symbiotically over time, often over years of filming, writing, and re-writing in parallel. Together, they shape cinema not by imposing structure, but by listening for it.
In conversation with Screen Anarchy, conducted during post-production on their upcoming project Joan of Arc, the duo reflect on the improvisational rigor of their working method, the misconceptions around their process, and the unexpected logic behind that now-iconic giant rooster. Their approach to filmmaking is not about controlling meaning, but about cultivating possibility, and The Love That Remains is perhaps their most unfiltered expression of that ethos to date.
Screen Anarchy: You've said before that form and narrative must coexist before a project can begin. But I wonder, do you ever reverse-engineer a narrative from an image or a piece of form?
Hlynur Pálmason: I think it probably does start like that, in the beginning, you know? You start with small things that interest you. That could be an image, or a sound, or a piece of dialogue, whatever. And then you just sort of collect them. Sometimes it’s a sound recording, sometimes it's images I take, or something I see. While you're just living life, you kind of gather these pieces. You start putting them together, shaping them.
What I meant when I said the form and the narrative have to coexist is this: if I only had form, only structure, I probably wouldn’t end up making a film from it. It has to include something else too, something I’m just as drawn to. So I think it always needs both, a passionate narrative I’m really excited to explore, and a form that creatively stimulates me. I need to have both those forces working together.
But yes, it can definitely start from an image. For example, The Love That Remains really began with an image I filmed a long time ago. I always felt strongly that it was powerful, like a really compelling opening. And the question then becomes: what is that the opening of? What kind of experience can come after this image, this roof being pulled up?
That kind of thing excites me. It opens up a world of possibilities. Like, what kind of story are we about to tell if it begins with a roof lifting off? So often, by filming, recording, and just doing things, you’re almost stimulating yourself, getting yourself excited about the potential of something.
I've seen a lot of contemporary Icelandic films, and also your previous work, but THE LOVE THAT REMAINS feels completely different. You’re utilizing different forms. How did you become somewhat detached from the Icelandic filmmaking tradition, apart from the environment, which is still unmistakably Icelandic?
Pálmason: Yeah… I don’t know why exactly. But I think you always try to push against what’s been done before. You try to make something that hasn’t been made. You search for your own voice and try to do something that feels honest. And by doing that, it naturally becomes personal, and when something is truly personal, it turns out different. Idiosyncratic. That’s probably why it ends up standing apart from what others are doing. But it's also been a gradual process. Julius and I have been working together since, what was it?
Julius Krebs Damsbo: 2012.
Pálmason: Right. It’s been evolving. We're constantly exploring how to tell stories, how to shape them, how to film them, how to form them. And when you really listen to the material, when you’re honest with it, and maybe also when you don’t compromise, the form ends up becoming very distinct. Hopefully, it feels like something unique.
Did Julius know the concept of THE LOVE THAT REMAINS before seeing any material? It’s a very idiosyncratic project.
Damsbo: Absolutely. We’re in constant communication, about all the films we make. It’s a very open dialogue.
Pálmason: Yeah, like if I get an idea and start talking about it, it’s often years before we actually begin production.
Damsbo: And it’s not just about talking, it’s about inspiring each other. We start sending clips, sounds, fragments, stuff that’s not really connected to anything specific yet, but comes out of our conversations.
Pálmason: It’s like planting seeds early. For example, if Julius is talking about something, like family relationships or personal stuff, I’m always tuned in. I’ll say, “Julius, that thing you just said, it fits really well with Happy Animal.” That’s a project we’ve been working on for years. I borrow from my collaborators all the time. And they feed me a lot, ideas from life, from their experiences. That’s why it’s so important to have this ongoing collaborative process with friends and family. You plant seeds early and nurture them over many years.
And were you both together in the editing room?
Both: Always.
Because the structure, at first glance it feels like a family drama, but when I saw the film, it almost had an omnibus structure. Was that the intention from the start?
Pálmason: No, I don’t think we’ve ever really talked about structure in that way.
Damsbo: It’s never like, “Here’s the official structure of the film.” We never say, “This has to go here, and that has to go there.”
Pálmason: It’s more like music. Like a composition. We ask, “Should this section be longer?” or “Should there be more repetition here?” There’s an idea of rhythm, of balance. But not a strict blueprint.
Damsbo: It’s about shaping intuition. The film has to feel spontaneous and surprising, but also very prepared and structured.
Pálmason: Exactly. That’s the beauty of cinema. It has to feel real and intuitive, even though it’s meticulously constructed. We’re working with actors and cameras, after all. So you're crafting an illusion of spontaneity. And people are often surprised that the script is actually very close to what ends up in the final cut. I mean, we edited for six months, but we followed the script quite closely.
Wait, so there was a full script? I thought you just filmed bits and pieces over time.
Pálmason: That’s a common misunderstanding. Yes, we shoot over long periods, but when we get to principal photography with the main actors, we have a completely detailed, word-by-word script. It’s a script we’ve been writing for years. It’s a long process. But it's also writing while shooting.
For instance, those scenes with the figure in the landscape shooting arrows, we’ve been filming her for three years now. We were two years in when we shot the main production, and we’re still filming that material. So while shooting, I’m constantly rewriting. If something unexpected happens, something beautiful, I’ll go back and adjust the script accordingly.
So you’re saying there’s no fixed structure, per se?
Damsbo: People often assume we’re constantly talking about structure. But honestly, I can't remember us ever having conversations like, “This needs to be here, that needs to be there.”
Pálmason: It’s always more musical. Like, "This needs to breathe more," or "This is too repetitive," or "Let’s allow for more rhythm here." It's a very fluid, intuitive process.
Damsbo: And it's because the film needs to feel intuitive. It should surprise, even us.
Pálmason: That’s the most important thing. When we talk about doing something that hasn’t been done before, it’s not about trying to impress others. We want to surprise ourselves first and foremost.
Damsbo: Yes, if we’re excited, we know we’re on the right path.
Earlier I mentioned tradition. The way you combine the mundane with the surreal and absurd, plus the episodic structure, reminded me of some Japanese films, Sion Sono, FUNKY FOREST, that kind of offbeat energy. Any unconscious Japan or Asian cinema influence?
Pálmason: No… I mean, not that I can think of, to be honest.
Damsbo: We’ve never really --
Pálmason: No. I don’t really --
Damsbo: Sometimes other people bring up comparisons, like “This reminds me of this film,” or “Let’s look at that film and be inspired by it.” But we don’t do that. We never work like that.
Pálmason: No. The only things we really share with each other in terms of inspiration are music, and maybe still frames. But not films.
Damsbo: Though we do watch films together while we’re editing.
Pálmason: Yes, but that’s just because Julius stays in Iceland for six months. We live together, cook with the family, and in the evenings, we might watch something.
Damsbo: But not as research or reference, it’s just a movie we feel like watching.
What was the last film you watched together?
Pálmason: Oh, what was it?
Damsbo: I can’t remember. No, really, I don’t remember.
Pálmason: But I do remember watching Creature from the Black Lagoon, we were editing The Love That Remains and watched it with the kids. It was Halloween, and Criterion had a lineup of old horror films. That one really stuck with me. The underwater shots were actually really beautiful.
So when you’re making a film about separation and the kids adjusting, how do you end up inserting a sequence with a giant aggressive rooster? That’s also quite an expensive choice.
Pálmason: Yeah, it was very difficult to pull off.
Damsbo: That was insane.
Pálmason: But we wanted to do it for real, not CGI. We wanted it to feel brutal, physical. We wanted it in-camera, so we could direct it on set. And it was so much fun.
But also, I think it’s there because… if you’re exploring a man, and a woman, and their relationship, and then you start looking at their surroundings, you look at their house, their car, their chickens. And then you start thinking about the chickens. They actually have their own kind of communication.
You look at a rooster, it’s a very peculiar animal, and suddenly you see connections. You start drawing threads between the rooster, the chickens, and the family. And that’s how ideas come. Very naturally. It’s not forced. It’s just the result of spending time with these people, this environment, and letting thoughts develop. The story forms from that.
But do you have an inner critic, a sense of whether something might be too random or alienate the audience?
Pálmason: Yeah, I think that’s part of what we do as filmmakers, we work with that balance. But we don’t test it on anyone else. We don’t do test screenings. In fact, we only watched the film three times before locking the edit. We might show it to the crew, but we don’t really even discuss it with them.
Damsbo: We don’t need other opinions. It’s a very personal process. And everyone has a different opinion anyway.
Were there any scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor because they were just too much, too crazy or outside the register?
Pálmason: Very little ends up on the floor. Same with Godland and A White, White Day. We hardly cut anything.
Damsbo: And it’s never the crazy scenes we cut, we actually like those. (laughs)
Pálmason: Of course, there’s always a balance. But I think if a film is good, you can experience it more than once, and get more out of it each time. If you enjoy being in that world, or you find it intriguing, there’s value in returning to it. We never try to dictate what the film is “about.” We’re more interested in exploring possibilities. So the rooster, for us, was a beautiful surprise. We were so happy it made it in, because it became incredibly expressive.
So, what’s your next project?
Pálmason: We’ve just been working on it in Copenhagen. It’s called Joan of Arc. It’s actually very connected to The Love That Remains like a side story. A spin-off.
Photos courtesy of Karlovy Vary Film Servis.