Berdreymi

Beautiful Beings

A film by Guðmundur Arnar Guðmundsson

Four troubled young teen-aged boys in a suburb of Reykjavík struggle to find themselves in this gripping drama. This is not an easy film to watch; the pointless violence of the teens is reflected in the wreckage of the broken lives of their parents. This movie won’t bring any tourists into Iceland, but much of it rings true to me, especially with the very limited experiences I’ve had with young males and single mothers in Reykjavík, and with my own experiences growing up in the 60s.

Set in the late 90s/early 00s (computers but no smart phones) the film plays out over the span of a couple of weeks, following the boys in turns as they bluster, smoke, drink and do drugs on their way through one self-generated crisis after another. There is a bit of supernatural nonsense thrown in but the narrative is generally straightforward and reaches a conclusion that I found satisfactory. The entire cast is excellent, especially the boys who will probably become the next generation of Icelandic film stars. Anita Briem appears as a mother of one of the youths and, in an horrific cameo, Ólafur Darri Olafsson makes an appearance (and manages to get naked as usual). I saw both Páll Óskar and Samaris listed in the musical credits.

A limited recommendation. It is thought-provoking but difficult to watch.

20 Years Ago on FITK

Kolaportið

On a Saturday or Sunday in Reykjavík, down by the harbor in an old customs warehouse, is Kolaportið, billed as the ‘world’s northernmost flea market.’ There is something to be said for examining a culture from its dregs, and this weekly gathering does not disappoint.

It isn’t terribly big (like Iceland) and certainly not pretentious in any way (also like Iceland). The first thing you notice is a lot of reading material. Most of it is Icelandic, although a fair smattering of English and other Nordic languages is in evidence. This is a country where people like to read. Pop culture isn’t ignored, there are plenty of videos, CDs and computer games. I had a great talk (and audio demonstrations) with a vendor about the ‘Keflavík Sound.’ Second hand clothes were in evidence, with several booths having fashion dresses and accessories: stuff that looked like a lot of fun.

Did I mention the food?

There was an area with vendors selling varieties of dried fish (don't knock it till you've tried it—it is about the most nutritious snack food you will ever eat.) There was also frozen lamb and fresh fish, Sort of like Seattle’s Pike Place market, albeit on a tiny scale. There was also a food court where you could buy sugary pastries and light sandwiches. A nice touch about the food court was the live entertainment; a folk singer, playing traditional and international songs. Corny, sure, but really sweet. The performer just stood in the middle of the tables, and people of all ages enjoyed the music, even singing along on many songs. It was as if I had gone back in time, to rural American market day. It is this sense of community that has been lost in urban (and suburban) America and it is something that we could really use.

As I was enjoying the atmosphere, I thought it might be a good idea to capture on film the splendor of my environs. I didn’t have my tripod, so I set my trusty camera upon a conveniently placed trash bin. I focused, framed, and shot and I was about to put my camera away I was suddenly surrounded by three preteen girls on roller blades. “Camera?” the boldest asked, and pointed at it and then herself. Hmm. Should I give my $500 camera with a $300 lens to a rollerblading 11-year-old in a strange country? I must have had Loki whispering in my ear as I gave it to her and her friends to examine. I had the fish-eye lens on and they thought that was great fun. I feebly attempted conversation, but they didn’t speak English or didn’t care to. As quickly as they had come, they were gone, their photographic interests satisfied, they were off to another adventure. When I developed the picture later, they were in the center of the frame, the roller-princesses of Kolaportið.

Hvítur dagur

A White, White Day

A film by Hlynur Pálmason

The last time I saw Ingvar Sigurðsson was in person, in Vestrbæjarlaug, sharing water with him in one of the larger hot pots. With 91 acting credits on IMBD, Ingvar is arguably the preeminent Icelandic film actor. I’ve also seen him on stage; he is a commanding presence in any medium. In A White, White Day, Ingvar portrays Ingimunður, a police officer in a small town on the eastern coast of Iceland. He is old enough to have an eight-year-old granddaughter but still young enough to work. He is stoically grieving his wife, who died in a car accident. His family and friends (and a horrible psychologist) all try to help but, as the film develops, Ingmunður regresses from anger into rage as he learns more about the circumstances that led to his wife’s death.

This is a very stylized, fugue-like film; lots of static scenes are repeated with variations. Verry arty! It is also extremely sad, the slow-burn of its pacing might drive you crazy. Special note must be made of Ída Mekkín Hlynsdóttir as the granddaughter Salka. She is the female lead and is pitch-perfect as a child who must deal with a adult world twisted by events beyond her understanding.

Recommended, respecting the above-mentioned caveats.

The Camden Motel

When I was young The Camden Motel was an outlier for the world of civilization beyond the limited range of my childish pursuits. I couldn’t understand why a motel had been plunked down on the edge of a residential district. Our family had gone on vacations before, but not in such nondescript locales as my neighborhood.

But this establishment aimed at adults, not families. It was the local no-tell motel, a place to where temporary lovers could escape their middle-class humdrum (and families). And it did have TV! It had been built in a u-shape (in the cookie-cutter mold of the late 40s-early 50s) that allowed for easy access to Lyndale Avenue, which was, at the time, also U.S. Highway 169, the Great River Road.

20 Years Ago on FITK

Sunny

About fifteen years ago, the Professor was not the cheerful, happy-go-lucky man who exists today (even though he has a disconcerting habit of writing death blog-posts).

Down at the lab, every day was unrelenting torment. Everybody was cranky and/or uncommunicative, and Batty WAS going batty.

One day a new employee started, and things began to change. Was it something she said? She was fun to talk with, but definitely not a Shakespeare. Was it her disposition? She was generally upbeat, but not always. But as their working relationship developed, his disposition gradually improved. It was fun to go to work. He no longer dreaded Monday. As he got to know her, he realized, from her example, that his approach to work had been wrong-headed. She was not a philosopher, not a comedian, not a psychologist. But she was honest. She was pragmatic. But the most important thing was that she saw the worth of living fully, and did not let petty circumstance bring her down.

Ultimately she did leave, however, our Minnesota winters were not to her liking. She moved to Hawaii, and then worked her way up to a better job and a home of her own. Some people in the lab thought they were lovers, but they weren't, they were just good friends. The Professor did kiss her once—when he said good-bye.

“… we sang in the sunshine, you know we laughed every day… we sang in the sunshine, and then she went away… ” ~ Gale Garnett

Mailboxes of Santa Fe

Santa Fe, where colors breathe and dance,
Adobe walls whisper tales of ancient times,
Ochre and red, kissed by the desert sun,
Every corner a burst of life, a story,
Coyote calls echo in the twilight.

Mountains stand as silent sentinels over
Wildflowers blooming in hidden arroyos.
A symphony of hues in the high desert air.
Ancient spirits whisper in the wind,
Through the sagebrush and juniper.

History etched in the stones and sands,
On a canvas of time and tradition.
Even the mailboxes are painted
With the colors of the earth and sky.
A kaleidoscope of life and light.

Absolutely Elvis!

The King will never die!

Elvis impersonator Todd Anderson, Anoka Minnesota, July 10, 2024

No to be outdone, Johnny Cash showed up a week later:

20 Years Ago on FITK

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Image: Universal Pictures

Coupeville…

April, 2016

… is a harbor town in Washington State, mostly dealing in tourism nowadays. Its weathered buildings testify to its history. Coupeville is located near the center of Whidbey Island, which lies in Puget Sound between the mainland and the Olympic Peninsula. On the north side of downtown is Penn Cove, an inlet of the Saratoga Passage.

I spent an afternoon here, not enough time to develop an understanding of the port’s history or culture, but long enough to become visually enchanted by this place out of time.

Gandy Dancers…

Outside of Radium, Minnesota, 1982

… were railroad workers who worked in section crews, maintaining railroad lines. This Wikipedia link gives the full story.

While the workers may not have been actually ‘dancing’ (it was brutally hard work) they did have chants that were used to coordinate the crews’ actions: