When watching a film like the new Loving—based on the true, and relatively well-known, story of an American couple who fought to overturn laws that, until as recently as the 60s, forbade interracial marriage in many states in the US—you have a pretty good idea of what the outcome is going to be. And while prior knowledge of their fates does make the suffering of our protagonists considerably more bearable, it also means that retaining a hold on audience interest is much more of a challenge. It’s therefore a testament to writer-director Jeff Nichols’ dexterity—and the pitch-perfect performances by a fine cast—that despite an ending that isn’t much of a secret at all, Loving still manages to keep us thoroughly invested.

The film owes its effectiveness, in large part, to the almost counter-intuitive decision to take a restrained, low-key approach to the kind of subject Hollywood would have otherwise been inclined to blare from the rooftops: we’ve seen such landmark historical moments—particularly major legal battles—being reconstructed and dramatised in films many times over, and all too often on a sweeping, epic scale, complete with grand romantic gestures and impassioned courtroom speeches. But there’s none of that in Loving: by going quiet where others would have gone loud, Nichols ensures that we stay focused on the relationship at the centre of all the commotion, between two utterly ordinary people who never saw themselves as “activists” or “heroes”, but simply wanted to be left in peace to get on with their lives together.

Caroline County, Virginia, sometime in the late 50s. Richard Loving (Joel Edgerton) has just been handed some life-changing news: long-time girlfriend Mildred Jeter (Ruth Negga) is pregnant with his child. Richard, a part-time mechanic slash construction worker, is rapt; before long, he has proposed to Mildred (she accepts him right away) and even bought some land where he plans to build a little house for their family. It looks to be all smooth sailing for these two—except we know it’s not. You see, he is white, she is part African-American, part Native American, and this is a time when such unions were not legal in the state of Virginia. Determined to circumvent this, they drive on over to the more lenient Washington DC to get married.

Marital bliss, however, is cut painfully short. No sooner have they returned to Caroline County than Richard and Mildred are arrested for defying what were called the “anti-miscegenation” laws. They’re told that if they want to stay out of prison for an extended period of time, they’ll need to leave Virginia—for 25 years. The two—as is characteristic of them—comply quietly with the ruling, even if it means having to leave their families and everything they’ve known all their lives behind, and move to Washington DC. But while they manage, over the next decade or so, to make a home for themselves and their (now) three children in the city, Mildred, a country girl through and through, has never stopped wanting to go back. So when an opportunity to challenge the laws that kept them away from their loved ones arises—buoyed by the grounds the civil rights movement had been gaining at the time—she decides to take it up, with Richard’s reluctant support. And the rest is, well, history.

Negga, whom you might remember from TV’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D, or the more recent Preacher, is the standout here; this isn’t a very chatty movie, and the actress doesn’t really have much need for words in any case—her eyes do all the talking. And Edgerton offers her great company, utterly convincing as the mumbly, taciturn, and very likeable Richard—a man who doesn’t appearsure of too many things, except that he loves his wife and wants to make her happy. Without so much as a single intimate scene or rousing professions of love of the sort you’d expect from a film like this, the two actors are able to infuse a sense of believable solidity and genuine devotion into the relationship between their characters. Indeed, while you certainly worry about the circumstances they are in, you never worry about how they feel about each other.

If you’re familiar with some of Nichols’ previous works, you’ll know that this is precisely his zone of comfort. Although known primarily for depicting America’s rural south in as authentic a manner as you could hope to see onscreen—coming from just such a background himself and therefore deeply acquainted with the lifestyle and culture, he’s able to offer a more nuanced portrayal, avoiding both pity and caricature—his real skills lie in excavating the ordinary, in pulling us into the lives and rhythms of characters. This means that emotional highs and lows, on the rare occasion that they do occur, are keenly felt by viewers, and the engagement is complete.

Indeed, as he did in 2013’s wonderful Mud, here too the director has elected to take a more understated approach to the material: rather than pummeling the audience with back-to-back high-drama moments, he chooses to focus on the small things, the details that make up the everyday, letting audiences come to their own conclusions about the larger milieu. For instance, Caroline County is shown as a diverse and fairly harmonious community to begin with: whites and blacks working and eating and playing together, with few visible restrictions. But Nichols intersperses these visions of amicability with little hints—a prolonged stare from a stranger, a sharper-than-usual remark from a loved one—to indicate deeper tensions and inequalities. This overall focus on atmosphere—instead of, say, overt dialogues about segregation and discrimination or showing stereotypically wicked racists out for blood—proves an effective tack, painting a more truthful image of the complexity of race relations in the US and the obstinacy of systemic and subliminal prejudice, an image that is, unfortunately, just as relevant today as it was back then.

Working with Nichols are the members of his usual behind-the-scenes coterie in the form of

cinematographer Adam Stone, editor Julie Monroe, production designer Chad Keith, costume designer Erin Benach and composer David Wingo—all of whom, in their own capacities, reinforce the director’s determinedly intimate and pared-down vision. Loving might feel a bit sluggish to some viewers, who could complain that it’s too simple, too muted.

But others will no doubt appreciate that choice, as a reminder that sometimes the less noise you make, the more chances there are that people will listen.