Love's Venetian Serenade: A Cinematic Symphony of Romance

Ah, it seems that Norway is up to its old tricks again. The second installment of Dag Johan Haugerud’s trilogy, titled Love, competes for your heart and probably your attention at the Venice Film Festival. Now, you might be wondering if this film should also be gingerly dubbed Sex, which took its debut in Berlin earlier this year, or perhaps Dreams, the yet-to-come finale. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, for as you’ll quickly realize, the thematic consistency here is as strong as your morning espresso, and just as invigorating.

At first glance, Love dances lightly along the surface, charming in its delightfully correct observations of human connection. Yet, beneath this glittery facade lies an introspective exploration of daunting themes, where emotional depth and some rather troubling truths reside. This film doesn’t just watch life; it examines it through a lens that is both humorously ironic and delightfully candid. Watching it is like having a delightful chat over a cup of tea with friends—if your friends were remarkably well-read and occasionally in need of emotional triage.

The narrative unfolds over a languid stretch of August days in Oslo, with a rhythm that feels almost like a leisurely stroll through a park, where every step invites inquiry. Our protagonist? The very serious Marianne (played with aplomb by Andrea Braien Hovig), a urologist who finds herself navigating the fraught waters of male vulnerability. Imagine delivering a diagnosis of prostate cancer and then running off to meet your friend, Heidi (the textured performance of Marte Engebrigtsen), who is organizing a rather sophisticated commemorative event. It’s almost as if she’s trying to prove that life can be both liberating and judgmental at once—don’t you just love that twist?

Enter Ole Harald (the charmingly relatable Thomas Gullestad), a divorced geologist who just might sweep Marianne off her sensible feet. That is, if she can tear her attention away from Tinder—a world that offers an unexpected distraction, ripe for exploration. The underlying irony throughout is delicious: here we have a woman medically trained to handle life’s fragility, yet she’s faced with the modern chaos of dating.

Our dear Tor (played by Tayo Citadella Jacobsen), a nurse who embodies confidence and a dash of narcissism, provides some lighthearted banter. He reminds Marianne that the ferry—a public transportation vessel by day and an impromptu dating hotspot by night—is prime territory for connections. Meanwhile, he himself struggles with an unexpectedly intimate encounter with Bjorn, an older chap whose emotional walls come tumbling down, shedding the veneer of isolation for something deeper.

Visually, the film is a treat; the cinematography by Cecilie Semec captures the sparkling essence of Oslo's harbors and the deeply expressive faces of the ensemble cast, inviting audiences to linger. And let’s talk about pacing—it’s as if Haugerud is inviting us to savor each moment rather than rush off to the next scene, allowing us to explore the nuances of choice, serendipity, and, well, living in the moment while grappling with inevitable realities.

As the film glides forward, the script may wrestle with some unsettling truths, but trust me, it warms up just like the unexpected thrill of a rooftop musical interlude. Hovig embodies the earnest soul whose rigid composure begins to melt as life encourages her to relinquish her caution. And if you can get past the occasional dose of discomfort, you’ll discover a world brimming with subtle warmth and compassion.

So, grab your popcorn and prepare to be charmed. Love isn’t just a title; it’s an invitation. One that explores the delicate balance of connection, compassion, and the small moments that make life—a truly unmissable experience.