THE SUMMER BOOK - Mark Reviews Movies

The Summer Book, Music Box Films

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Review by Mark Dujsik | September 18, 2025

Characters not talking about what's on their mind can make for fascinating, compelling drama. It does at times in The Summer Book, a quiet and thoughtful adaptation of Tove Jansson's novel, in which a family on a remote island can't and/or won't speak of the things that matter the most to them now.

Most of director Charlie McDowell's movie is in or near a cabin on a private island in the Gulf of Finland. It is, as one would expect, a lovely location, even if the cottage itself isn't as fancy as some of the others on neighboring islands, seaweed is a common thing that needs to be cleaned off after walking on the rocky coast, and the wind knocks over a memorial sapling and gives the night an especially haunted feeling. McDowell opens the movie simply observing the house, sitting there with its windows boarded against any storms that may come while it's unoccupied, and watching as a motorboat with the family gradually approaches.

This is both the mood and pace of the rest of the movie, too. We meet a man, known only as Father (Anders Danielsen Lie), and his mother, known only as Grandmother (Glenn Close), but the story really belongs, in theory, to the man's daughter Sophia (newcomer Emily Matthews). It's her summer vacation from school, obviously, but whatever plans the girl may have to spend her days here have a gloomy air surrounding them.

Soon enough, we learn that Sophia's mother, the father's wife, has died of an unstated cause. It's little wonder no one speaks of how the mother, wife, and daughter-in-law died, considering that none of these three acknowledge her death or even the fact of her life except in rare occurrences. It is simply too painful, and everyone in the cabin tries to lose themselves in assorted adventures, busy work, and moments of relaxation to keep that pain at bay.

This means the little moments of the screenplay, written by Robert Jones, can be revelatory and somewhat affecting. There's a scene, for example, when the Father and the Grandmother are alone together, as Sophia spends some time with a newly arrived cat—arranged to be delivered along with some fireworks by the girl's grandmother.

The woman tells her son that he will need to be able to spend time with his daughter, talk to her, and actually confront the reality that he is a single father now. She says all of this softly and indirectly, because the Grandmother knows her son is grieving in his own way, but also with some practical reality. She will not, after all, be around forever or, for that matter, much longer to be the adult whom Sophia looks to for comfort, safety, and some words that might help the girl understand and accept her grief.

Jones' screenplay is wise in this way at least. When these characters break through the silence and the things of which they don't want to speak, we see their pain, uncertainty, and worry—not only for the death that unites them, but also for whatever future is left for this family.

Mostly, though, the story is about Sophia and her grandmother on their own and spending time together (The Father is busy writing a book about something or other and trying to make sure a tree he planted remains in the ground and upright). Again, the story theoretically belongs to Sophia, whose inner thoughts we occasionally hear and whose relationships with these two adults more or less defines who they are, but the Grandmother and her present worries gradually take over the perspective of the narrative.

Obviously, Close is very good in this role, putting on a broadly Scandinavian accept but playing the specifics of someone who knows her time is drawing to an end and wants some form of peace in knowing she lived well—and leaves behind a family that can do the same. The Grandmother sits and listens to nature, wanders the island and its assorted landscapes, and rests and reads in her own room, attached to but separate from the rest of the cabin. She tries to teach her granddaughter to appreciate this kind of calm, introspective way of life, too.

This is harder for the girl, of course, who wants to talk about her feelings but has observed her father not doing so. She is impatient, because she's a young child, and can occasionally become angry, storming up to the attic after her father ignores her and dropping a note saying he's a horrible person, and feels as if everything that has gone wrong is somehow her fault. Those scenes, when the girl's emotions become too much for her to bear in silence, are among the most honest here, as are some later moments when the Grandmother realizes that she's having difficulty remembering parts of her life.

All of this seems to be building toward something, but the shift in focus from Sophia to the Grandmother does also seem to lose whatever that might be. To be fair, there is probably no satisfying way to resolve the story and conflicts of The Summer Book, because these are characters and relationships that will continue to evolve and haunt beyond this tale. That we only catch glimpses of these characters and bonds, though, means that even the open-ended questions feel a bit unsatisfying.

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