54325: Touch

Memory is miraculous. There are years and decades of our history hiding in the wrinkles of our brains, from the biggest moments to the tiniest. Our memories help us navigate our worlds, relate to each other, and connect us to who we were. It's terrifying and heartbreaking when you realize you can't rely on them anymore. But it can also be motivating.

Touch is a film about memory, about chasing those memories, and living up to the promise of the past. Set during the outbreak of COVID-19, the film introduces us to Kristófer, an elderly Icelandic restauranteur, living alone after the death of his wife. We first meet Kristófer, played as an old man by actor and Icelandic singer Egill Ólafsson, outside of a rural church. He is singing along with a choir, belting out lyrics about memory, as the filmmakers are uninterested in playing coy about the theme here. We soon find that all is not well for Kristófer. He is experiencing the early stages of an unidentified neurological ailment, one which isn't physically affecting him yet, but leads him to tell his doctor, "I have a hard time trusting my memories."

Kristófer, as we see him at the outset, is a man whose ideal companion is the past. In his home, at his restaurant, we only see him alone. He looks through old notes, mementos, physical connections to his past, while seemingly eschewing similar connections to his present. His adult daughter, for example, only exists in the film as a voice on his phone, one which he appears to only begrudgingly engage with (including on her birthday). Writer/director Baltasar Kormákur explicitly avoids explaining Kristófer's past, laying in enough hooks to make us want to find out what happened to turn Kristófer into the mournful man of 2020. And that's fortunate, because the rest of the film follows Kristófer on a globe-spanning trek to reconnect with a lost love from his time in London in the late 1960s. Oh, and we also get to watch that romance, too.

Touch bounces back and forth between 2020 and 1968 as Kristófer journeys back to his youth, as a class-conscious, pseudo-socialist revolutionary bent on tearing down the system while ...ahem... studying at the London School of Economics. Kristófer, now played with irresistible charm by Palmi Kormakur, expounds upon the plight of the working class to his fellow students, who quite rightly call BS on his red rhetoric, given his class and status. Rather than own up to his hypocrisy, Kristófer drops out of school to apply for a job washing dishes at a Japanese restaurant. (side note: it's probably easier to chuck your grad school plans if you're not saddled with huge student loans but anyway...)

It is here that Kristófer meets Miko, the woman he would fall in love with and, for reasons we still don't know, fail to spend the rest of his life with. Their romance is pretty standard star-crossed material. Miko, brought to life with grace and humor by singer/actor Kōki, is the daughter the restaurant owner/chef, Takahashi. Takashi, played by Masahiro Motoki, becomes a father figure and mentor to Kristófer, and is highly protective of Miko. Oh, and Miko also has a boyfriend. And did I mention that they're from completely different cultures? Despite these complications, Kristófer and Miko fall madly in love with each other, as we know they will. We also know how it ends, if not why.

As such, we watch the romance play out against Kristófer's efforts in 2020 to find Miko before his memories desert him. We find Kristófer back in London at the old restaurant, which is now a tattoo parlor. Kristófer's past has been erased and replaced, in a cosmic joke, by the indelible ink of tattoos. Of course he gets his own tattoo before he leaves.

Watching Kristófer's present-day search for answers play out alongside the love affair is tough, at times. The elder Kristófer has burned his present to try and go back to his past, at one point telling his daughter that he won't be coming back to Iceland. This is it. It's his final ride, and the more we get to know the Kristófer of 1968, the more we feel the pang of his loss. But we also take heart in his victories, as he comes closer and closer to finding Miko. Kormakùr's script and direction, powered along by editing from Sigurður Eyþórsson, manages to keep things light enough to keep us invested in the journey.

Let me be clear: this movie is not a downer. It could have been! But it isn't. I won't spoil the conclusion or the mysteries for you, but I will tell you that Kormakùr delivers us a happy ending. (except for Kristófer's daughter, who probably never sees her father again nor finds out why he left, which, when you think about it, could be the basis for a sequel in 20 years)

There's basically zero chance of seeing this one in the theater at this point, but if you can catch it on streaming, do yourself a favor and check it out. Also, the score by Högni Egilsson is absolutely brilliant. Pick up a copy if you can.