Directed by American filmmaker Charlie McDowell, The Summer Book (2024) is a tender and visually arresting adaptation of Tove Jansson’s beloved 1972 novel, a cornerstone of Scandinavian literature that has finally found its cinematic form after decades of anticipation. Anchored by Glenn Close’s masterful performance as a grieving grandmother, the film transcends its quiet narrative to deliver a universal exploration of loss, resilience, and the quiet magic of intergenerational connection. Premiering at the 2024 London Film Festival to critical acclaim, this meditative drama invites audiences into a world where time slows, emotions simmer, and the natural landscape becomes both a sanctuary and a mirror for the human soul.

A Journey to the Island of Memory

Set against the rugged, windswept beauty of Finland’s Gulf Islands, The Summer Book follows nine-year-old Sophia (Emily Matthes in her captivating screen debut) as she arrives at her family’s ancestral summer cottage with her father, Anders (Anders Danielsen Lie), and grandmother (Glenn Close). The absence of Sophia’s recently deceased mother hangs heavily over the trio, unspoken yet omnipresent, like the ever-shifting Nordic light. The cottage—a weathered wooden retreat surrounded by pine forests and pebble beaches—serves as both a refuge and a crucible for their fractured grief. McDowell’s screenplay, adapted by Robert Jones, remains faithful to Jansson’s ethos: a narrative that prioritizes emotional truth over plot-driven theatrics. There are no grand confrontations or sweeping revelations, only the gradual unfurling of shared sorrow and tentative healing.

The film’s opening sequence sets its contemplative tone: a wooden motorboat cuts through glimmering waters, carrying Sophia away from urban reality into a realm where days stretch endlessly. This transition mirrors the audience’s immersion into a story that values texture over tempo. Scenes of Sophia collecting seashells, sketching imaginary creatures, or lying awake listening to the wind are interwoven with her grandmother’s quiet rituals—rolling cigarettes on the porch, navigating rocky trails with a walking stick. Their interactions, tinged with brusque humor and unspoken affection, reveal a relationship built on mutual curiosity and unvoiced understanding. Close’s portrayal is a study in restraint; her character’s sharp wit masks a deep-seated fear of losing her family’s fragile cohesion, while Matthes embodies Sophia’s restless curiosity with a naturalism that avoids cloying precocity.

Nature as Character and Catalyst

Cinematographer Sturla Brandth Grøvlen, known for his work on Victoria (2015) and Another Round (2020), transforms the Finnish archipelago into a living, breathing entity. His camera lingers on tactile details—the coarse grain of driftwood, the play of light on a rain-soaked sauna, the rhythmic crash of waves—imbuing the environment with a spiritual weight. The island’s stark beauty mirrors the characters’ internal states: early scenes drenched in golden sunlight evoke nostalgia for simpler summers, while later storms, filmed in brooding grays, externalize the family’s unresolved tensions. A recurring motif—a newly planted aspen tree stubbornly growing between rocks—becomes a silent metaphor for hope persisting amid desolation.

McDowell’s decision to eschew modern technology (no phones or computers intrude on this analog idyll) amplifies the story’s timeless quality. The absence of digital distractions forces the characters—and viewers—to confront raw emotion. In one pivotal scene, Sophia’s grandmother crafts a makeshift raft from driftwood, a project that evolves into a metaphor for rebuilding fractured lives. The act of creation, messy and imperfect, becomes their shared language, a bridge across generations.

Glenn Close: A Masterclass in Subtlety

At 77, Glenn Close delivers one of her most nuanced performances, balancing steely pragmatism with vulnerability. Her grandmother is a woman shaped by Nordic resilience—self-sufficient, wry, and unafraid to chide her son for his emotional withdrawal—yet increasingly aware of her own mortality. Close’s genius lies in what she withholds: a flicker of panic when Sophia wanders too close to the cliffs, a tremor in her hands while packing her daughter-in-law’s belongings. These micro-gestures, amplified by Grøvlen’s unflinching close-ups, speak volumes about the weight of caretaking and the quiet desperation of aging.

The dynamic between Close and Matthes is the film’s heartbeat. Their bond transcends typical grandparent-grandchild tropes, instead reflecting two outsiders navigating parallel journeys—Sophia toward understanding death, her grandmother toward accepting life’s impermanence. A late-night scene where they trade stories under the midnight sun captures this duality: Sophia’s wide-eyed questions about ghosts are met with her grandmother’s matter-of-fact wisdom, “The dead don’t haunt us; it’s the living who carry them.” This interplay of innocence and experience elevates the film from a simple coming-of-age tale to a meditation on legacy and memory.

Cultural Resonance and Scandinavian Stoicism

Rooted in Jansson’s semi-autobiographical novel, The Summer Book inherits the author’s Finnish-Swedish heritage and her lifelong fascination with isolation and community. The film subtly critiques societal expectations of motherhood and grief, particularly through Anders, whose emotional paralysis reflects Nordic masculinity’s stoic ideals. Danielsen Lie’s understated performance—a man drowning in silence—contrasts sharply with Close’s pragmatic warmth, highlighting the gendered burdens of mourning.

Comparisons to other minimalist European dramas like Aftersun (2022) or The Quiet Girl (2022) are inevitable, yet McDowell’s film carves its own niche through its reverence for Jansson’s ecological ethos. Scenes of Sophia cataloging insects or her grandmother explaining tidal patterns echo the author’s belief that nature is “the only book we need to read.” This philosophy permeates the film’s structure, where narrative peaks are not dramatic confrontations but quiet epiphanies: a shared meal of kveldsmat (evening snacks), a spontaneous swim in icy waters, the discovery of a weathered childhood toy.

Legacy and Lingering Questions

While The Summer Book has been hailed as a triumph of atmospheric storytelling, some critics argue its pacing—deliberately glacial—may test mainstream audiences. Yet this slowness is its strength, mirroring the incremental process of healing. There are no tidy resolutions; wounds scab over but never fully vanish. The film’s final moments, devoid of dialogue, show Sophia and her grandmother sitting side by side on a sun-bleached dock, their silhouettes merging with the horizon. It’s a tableau of imperfect peace, a testament to love’s ability to endure even when words fail.

For international viewers, the film offers a gateway into Nordic storytelling traditions—where emotion is conveyed through landscape, silence, and the spaces between words. Its 112-minute runtime feels like a summer day: fleeting yet eternal, leaving audiences with the bittersweet ache of a memory they’ll carry long after the credits roll. In an era clamoring for escapism, The Summer Book dares to ask us to sit still, to listen, and to find beauty in life’s unresolved chords.

A Cinematic Balm for the Soul

More than a film, The Summer Book is an invitation—to slow down, to observe, and to embrace life’s quiet transformations. Glenn Close’s career-defining performance, coupled with Emily Matthes’ luminous debut and Grøvlen’s transcendent cinematography, creates a tapestry of feeling that resonates across cultures. It is a story not about overcoming grief, but about learning to breathe alongside it, finding solace in shared silence and the enduring rhythms of nature.

For those weary of Hollywood’s cacophony, this film is a sanctuary. As Jansson once wrote, “The most important things are the ones you cannot explain.” The Summer Book honors that mystery, offering no easy answers but infinite grace. In doing so, it secures its place as a modern classic—a whispered hymn to the resilience of the human spirit, framed by the eternal dance of land and sea.