Romantic comedies have become a dime a dozen, which means it’s become increasingly difficult to find one that’s more than just decent. There are plenty of films that slap together a collection of tropes, hire a few beautiful or interesting-looking actors, and call it a wrap. But Fallen Leaves, an international selection from Finland that screened Sept. 26 at the New York Film Festival, is primed to invigorate a genre grown stale—and do it in the most deliciously glacial, unassuming way possible.
Fallen Leaves is the latest feature from renowned Finnish writer-director Aki Kaurismäki, whose sharp, deadpan writing, and distinctly sparse visual storytelling have made him a beloved figure in international cinema. Fans of the director’s work, who might have assumed that Kaurismäki had honed his signature style to minute perfection, will be stunned by his latest film. Fallen Leaves is not only a deft combination of all of Kaurismäki’s best traits as a filmmaker, but it’s a damn good romantic comedy too, turning the innate exhaustion of being human into keenly constructed set dressing for one of the genre’s finest surprises this year.
Set against the backdrop of Russia’s war in Ukraine—by way of multiple dismal radio transmissions coming through to Finland—Fallen Leaves instantly asserts itself as a political film. What’s most interesting is how Kaurismäki combines political conflict, and its effects on working-class citizens, with quiet romance. Late one night, Ansa (Alma Pöysti), who has just been laid off from her job as a supermarket stockist for “stealing” expired goods, meets Holappa (Jussi Vatanen), an alcoholic metalworker,at a grungy karaoke bar, the kind of place where Finnish folk tunes are as welcome on the mic as original pop songs about death.
This is less of a meet-cute than it is a shrug; Kaurismäki isn’t a fan of writing sparks into his screenplays. Rather, he lets his actors generate the necessary amount of fire that their characters need to make their romance convincing. In the case of Pöysti and Vatanen, there’s just enough kindling to make their connection energizing—something Fallen Leaves needs after its frigid first 15 minutes. Kaurismäki even writes a line about time being precious into the script at this beginning stage, seemingly a meta wink that the film’s more abstract opening will not reflect the rest of its 81 minutes.
But even when Ansa and Holappa have yet to meet, Fallen Leaves is pure cinematic eye candy. The thoughtful set design is complemented by artfully composed shots highlighting the characters’ homes, making them feel completely lived-in. Beautifully chosen costumes glow cherry red to balance the soft blues and olive greens of the on-location Finland streets, which already look reminiscent of ’70s European dramas thanks to Kaurismäki’s choice to shoot on film. In fact, the director’s inspirations are on overt display in the context of the actual movie.
Holappa and Ansa frequent the Ritz, their local movie theater, where they catch a showing of a certain American film that will bring big laughs for stateside audiences. The director of that film is one of Kaurismäki’s contemporaries, and the cinematic references don’t stop there. Movie posters for Pierrot le Fou and Rocco and His Brothers decorate the background of shots at the theater and karaoke bar, nodding to Kaurismäki’s clear affection for the kinds of unconventional mid-century romances that Fallen Leaves borrows from. These tributes are loving nods, but the film itself is anything but a copycat.
As Holappa and Ansa’s romance blooms—or, perhaps, slowly matures—so does the movie’s clever script. Several of the best gags are saved for background jokes or wordless actions, which say so much more about the characters in a few moments than hours of exposition ever could. When Ansa gets a job washing dishes at the California Pub (just down the street from the Buenos Aires cafe, naturally), she opts to stack about 20 glasses atop one another and carry them around, instead of making multiple trips. She needs the money and has no time for bullshit, even if she’s working with a precarious tower of terror among a bunch of winos.
Her efficiency is reflected back in her relationship with Holappa, who has no intention of putting his hidden supply of booze down for a woman he met in a karaoke bar. Well, at least not until he realizes that there is a tenderness that’s missing when he’s not with her, one that a drink can’t seem to fix. Though Kaurismäki’s screenplay is at times a little too straightforward and predictable, Ansa and Holappa have enough edge to them to make Fallen Leaves feel like something new—both for the genre and the director.
Pöysti’s stunning features would be enough to make Fallen Leaves an absorbing watch, but it’s what she does with Ansa that makes the film especially gratifying. Her performance is sparse and hushed, but that tranquility shouldn’t be mistaken for dullness. Ansa functions as a symbol of the working-class citizen, one who has become content with not having it all, but doesn’t believe that means giving up on simple pleasures, either.
Ansa finds more satisfaction with companionship than she does material things, and Kaurismäki does the same with the film as a whole. There are no flashy set pieces, no sweeping romantic gestures or big kiss moments to make the audience swoon. Instead, he weaves the romance into the finer details, letting his characters find their way back to one another over and over again on their own terms, without pesky fate getting in the way. It’s Kaurismäki’s acerbic way of suggesting that we’re capable of making our own destiny, and that waiting around for something to change is nothing more than a waste of time.
