Quiet Moments Before the Mælstrom

AT LAST!


Reykjavík, Harbour with Sculpture and Imagine Peace Tower

I'm back on the rock. I've got a few days to settle in before the madness begins, I did some walking about, went swimming, and ate at a wonderful little restaurant recommended by Maria's Cat (see comments.) The Plokkfiskur með rúgbrauði was to die for.



Evidently this was Bobby Fischer's favorite place to eat. I may have to go back for the Hrár Hvalur Sasimi að japönskum sið.

And last, but not least:



Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.

More to come all week long...

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Tjörnin

The weather keeps getting better, in the upper 40's today with little wind. I went out biking, and for some reason it seemed especially tiring- until I looked at my brake and saw that one of the springs that holds the caliper open had slipped- I was pedaling with the brake on. It was somewhat easier after I fixed that! Along the harbour was an exhibit of past and present scenes of the waterfront area, including this locomotive, the first and only train there ever has been in Iceland:

And, of course, there is the Vesturbæjarlaug pool:



I haven't had any deep conversations in the "hot pots" this trip as yet, but there have been moments, like the one Sunday with a mother and father and their ten year-old daughter. The daughter was resting her head on her father's massive chest, talking to him quietly and sweetly. She then started to croon a plaintive childrens song- a very touching and tender scene. Monday I was in a pot with three older people when some young men from from the U.S. came in and started taking computer repair. Talk about a mood killer! They left soon enough; the ensuing quiet was most welcome. Today, (Tuesday) I was in the same pot. The sun was shining so you could bask in it while the hot water swirled all about you. Then a trio of bikini-clad teen-age girls came in. From the sound of their conversation I surmised that they were Swedish. One had a waterproof camera (normally forbidden in the pool- but who's going object to some girls snapping pictures of each other?) and I used that camera to take a picture of all three them together. The sounds of their voices were like singing as well.

Grace is real.

The evening found me back at 3 Frakkur, this time for Hvalkjöts piparsteik með piparsósu. I even managed to pronounce it well enough so that the waitperson could understand me.
This dish was a bit rich for my tastes, but still very good.

After dinner I walked the streets a bit. The Airwaves crowd is starting to filter in, but nothing is really going on yet. There is a "Rock 'n Bacon" breakfast show at 10:00 tomorrow morning with the Ultra Mega Technobandið Stefán - a wild group of young men (don't let their picture fool you.) Sounds delicious.

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Guð Blessi Ísland

Another fine, albeit breezy day. Picked up my Airwaves wristbands, my bike, and stopped in to Þjóðleikhúsið for my Saturday night theatre ticket:



I wouldn't dare miss a production with my favorite, usually half-naked, Icelandic Actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson:



My next stop was a riotously chaotic bookstore where I had a delightful chat with Sveitakall, seen here in all his glory:



We got to talking about a certain Icelandic author and we checked the shelves, but there wasn't anything I was really interested in. "Why don't you come with me, we'll go downstairs see if there is anything there..." We went through a back door and down an elevator, then down a hall with several identical doors. He opened the last door and behind it there was a room packed with shelves of "the good stuff." First editions, mostly in Icelandic, and much more. Still, the books on the shelves were not quite what I wanted. "I've got this box," he said, "there may be something in it..."



OMG!!!

After I regained my breath, we negotiated a fair price and I left the store with my treasures. Another swim 'n soak at the neighborhood pool, then a little web cam appearance for all my fans, a few minutes at Friða Frænka and some supper. I dined in early because I had seen a poster at the Háskóla Bíó for a movie I wanted to see and I'd read about:



It is a documentary about the Kreppa and last winter's protests and also about the lives of three of the people involved: a policeman, a trucker, and a witch. Not being able to understand Icelandic, I watched the movie at a certain distance, but the humanity of those involved was clear enough. The protest scenes were very intense, reminiscent of Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool. The evocative musical soundtrack was composed by Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson

Of course, this story isn't over yet, and may not be for a long time. As an outsider, I really can't comment too much on the film. I'll leave you with a link to an Icelandic blogger's reaction: Google translate is pretty sketchy in Icelandic, but the second paragraph is clear enough:

I wept
I wept when I watched about the police against protestors
I wept when Stulli and his wife had (a) Móment when he was going to Norway
I wept when Eva Hawke was to pack down (closing her shop)

Having met Eva once, and, having followed her blog, I almost wept myself.

Guð Blessi Ísland

Guð Blessi Ísland

Another fine, albeit breezy day. Picked up my Airwaves wristbands, my bike, and stopped in to Þjóðleikhúsið for my Saturday night theatre ticket:



I wouldn't dare miss a production with my favorite, usually half-naked, Icelandic Actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson:



My next stop was a riotously chaotic bookstore where I had a delightful chat with Sveitakall, seen here in all his glory:



We got to talking about a certain Icelandic author and we checked the shelves, but there wasn't anything I was really interested in. "Why don't you come with me, we'll go downstairs see if there is anything there..." We went through a back door and down an elevator, then down a hall with several identical doors. He opened the last door and behind it there was a room packed with shelves of "the good stuff." First editions, mostly in Icelandic, and much more. Still, the books on the shelves were not quite what I wanted. "I've got this box," he said, "there may be something in it..."



OMG!!!

After I regained my breath, we negotiated a fair price and I left the store with my treasures. Another swim 'n soak at the neighborhood pool, then a little web cam appearance for all my fans, a few minutes at Friða Frænka and some supper. I dined in early because I had seen a poster at the Háskóla Bíó for a movie I wanted to see and I'd read about:



It is a documentary about the Kreppa and last winter's protests and also about the lives of three of the people involved: a policeman, a trucker, and a witch. Not being able to understand Icelandic, I watched the movie at a certain distance, but the humanity of those involved was clear enough. The protest scenes were very intense, reminiscent of Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool. The evocative musical soundtrack was composed by Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson

Of course, this story isn't over yet, and may not be for a long time. As an outsider, I really can't comment too much on the film. I'll leave you with a link to an Icelandic blogger's reaction: Google translate is pretty sketchy in Icelandic, but the second paragraph is clear enough:

I wept
I wept when I watched about the police against protestors
I wept when Stulli and his wife had (a) Móment when he was going to Norway
I wept when Eva Hawke was to pack down (closing her shop)

Having met Eva once, and, having followed her blog, I almost wept myself.

Guð Blessi Ísland

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. The Icelandic title translates as "nightmare."

Frida ...viva la vida

Þjóleikhusið, before the curtain

Every time that I've returned to Reykjavík, I've made it a point to see a production at Iceland's National Theatre. This time it was Frida ...viva la vida, a new play written by Bryhildur Guðónsdóttir, who also acted in the title role of Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. This was a very stylized production, with her paintings becoming a part of the set and figures from them, most notably Óxlotl, her dog (and also the Aztec dog of the underworld), and La Catrina, the Mexican goddess of death. Her life, from her disfiguring accident until her death, and her stormy relationship with Diego Rivera, is told in a grim, nightmarish fashion, almost frightening at times. Ólafur Darri Ólafsson becomes Rivera, his immense stature giving Diego an appropriate larger than life aspect. Frida's politics are also covered, Leon Trotsky even makes a memorable appearance.

That an Icelandic theatre would produce an original play about Frida shows what an influence her art and life has had worldwide. The Selma Hayek movie version was visually stronger, as would be expected from a Hollywood movie, but this production brought out the internal struggles of Frida in a more compelling way.

And, of course, if you ever have the chance to see Frida Kahlo's paintings in person, do it. They are the reason we find her more fascinating than ever, and reproductions don't do them justice.

On the Town - Part II

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it was blustery and cold, perfect weather to attend a screening of the film White Night Wedding (Brúðguminn), directed by Baltasar Kormakur. We were on the east side of the river for the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Film Fest- now in its 27th year, still hopelessly disorganized, but a great way to see films from around the world. White Night Wedding is a loose adaptation of Anton Chekhov's Ivanov.


This tale of a miserable professor and his marriage woes has been turned into a dark tragicomedy set mostly on Flatey, a small island off the Icelandic coast. The mixed time line of the film, which could be a bit confusing for some viewers, unfolds slowly then gradually comes to a climax in a riotous wedding scene. Of course, any dramatic production which includes the sublime Laufey Elíasdóttir and a nearly-naked Ólafur Darri Ólafsson (I've seen three of them now!) is OK in my book. There is even has a cameo from my favorite girl group. It should be on IFC in the future, it is also Iceland's 2009 submission to the Oscars. Highly recommended.


The showing we went to was oversold, they may reprise it in May...

Ófærð!

Part of my recent Tucson mini-vacation was spent in Iceland. Not content to spend my days in the sun while basking in mid-70s temperatures, I had to get some blizzard action so I wouldn’t feel too guilty about missing the polar vortex.

The place where we stayed had the Icelandic series Ófærð (Trapped!) on Amazon Prime.

This is a crime drama that takes place in a remote port in Northern Iceland. A ferry comes into port at the same time a human torso is fished out of the bay. The town’s skeletal police force is pressed into service and things are further complicated when a major storm cuts off air and road access. The ferry is impounded but a fugitive manages to escape from it in a delivery truck, setting off a cascading stream of events that threatens the townfolk, already under a storm alert. The locations are all real, it is as an Icelandic experience as you are going to going to get without boarding an Icelandair jet.

Created by Baltasar Kormákur, Trapped! is full of notable Icelandic actors, all of them great, but this situation caused some problems on my part. I've seen them before in films, some of them many times, and many of them in person as well. While we only watched a couple of episodes, I had seen my fill, it really was kind of depressing (and we had to fly home before we could finish watching.) I’m sure that someone just discovering Icelandic drama would be enthralled—me, not so much. There are eight more episodes in season 1 and another ten in season 2. If you are up to to binge-watching a creepy and chilly crime drama, you could do worse.


Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson, Ilmur Kristjánsdóttir

Reykjavík-Rotterdam

So the Minneapolis - Saint Paul Film Fest is finally here, and over the weekend I did manage to catch three films. One was French (35 Rhums), one was Chinese (Dixia De Tiankong- The Shaft), and one was Icelandic- the aforementioned Reykjavík-Rotterdam. The French and Chinese films were both slice-of-family-life dramas, very minimal action, and not a whole lot of character interaction either. They both had some redeeming qualities, but entertainment was not one of them.

Óskar Jónasson's film was, in contrast, a vivid and at times sordid crime drama. Co-written by the director and Arnaldur Indriðason, it is a "last caper" movie, with Baltasar Kormákur in the lead role as a reluctant bootlegger. An excellent cast includes many regulars from the Icelandic scene including Ingvar Sigurdsson, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson, and Jörundur Ragnarsson. Although it does feature some good local color, it is more of a Hollywood style movie. Indeed, it is being remade with Mark Wahlberg in the lead! Lots of hoods, creeps and lowlifes, with some disturbing beatings and bloody violence. Realistic footage on a freighter and a wild heist scene in Rotterdam filled out the well-plotted story. Not much of Icelandic culture, but as I said, it is a Hollywood style movie, and a successful entertainment.

Winter Movies - II

CBS Films

Inside Llewyn Davis, 2013
A film by the Coen Bothers

The Coens have “done winter” before, in their icy-black comedy Fargo, but this time the laughs are few and the blackness is grayer. Llewyn (Oscar Isaac) is a not untalented “folk singer” who can't seem to catch a break—he’s too busy sabotaging his own career. Taking place over the span of about a week, Llewyn bounces from one couch to another while alienating people who are his supporters, losing a couple of cats, and taking some hard knocks along the way. This film is a character study, with nuanced performances all around. The cinematography (Bruno Delbonnel) is moody and evocative. The best “feel bad” movie of the year, it is another great film from greatest brother duo in the history of film direction.

Underlying the film lies a rumination on success, failure, integrity and authenticity.  Llewyn has integrity and failure, but no authenticity or success. It is a question posed to any artist who must not only sell his art, but also himself. A young Bob Dylan appears at the end of the film, marking the end of an era which is seems to be over for Llewyn. The ending is deliberately ambiguous, suggesting either that Llewyn has come to grips with his failure and is ready to move on or he has embraced a cycle of failure as the price of experiencing artistic success.

Highest recommendation.


20th Century Fox

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, 2013
A film by Ben Stiller

This is the other “holiday” movie which I saw this season, it is a considerably lighter and brighter (PG rated) film that I simply had to see in the theater—the middle of the film was shot in Iceland—and man, did they ever let it shine! Walter Mitty is an archivist for Life Magazine who has difficulties in engaging with reality at times. He has an interest in co-worker Cheryl Melhoff (Kristen Wiig) but doesn't have the nerve to act on it. Walter ultimately finds his “mojo” through a series of real-life adventures involving a mysterious photographer and a lost negative. It has some elements of fantasy and the shifts between reality and Walter’s imaginings are handled well. It is pleasantly non-raunchy. The film has a surprisingly satisfying ending. Walter learns the value of his own regular life, finding himself in the process and is finally able to start a relationship with Cheryl.

But forget all that analysis. Iceland is the real reason to catch this film. Lots of helicopter shots of the country (Iceland is also used as a stand-in for Greenland and Afghanistan) and an extended scene between Stiller and my favorite Icelandic actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson (pictured above). This film is a must for Icelandophiles—Iceland has never looked better on screen—and is a pleasant (if not terribly challenging) diversion for any non-jaded film buff.

One side note: Although both of these films were shot on film (and are gorgeous to look at) there have been rumors that traditional film manufacture and processing may soon cease, as early as this year! Both Stiller and the Coens have mentioned that these are probably their last movies shot on film. Secret has a sub-theme about the conflict of digital and analog photography, while Inside was post-processed to give the movie a very "60s Ektachrome" look.

Mondays in Iceland -#121

Summer Light, and Then Comes the Night

A Novel by Jón Kalman Stefánsson
Translated by Philip Roughton
Harpervia, 2021

A masterpiece of literary art.

Now that those preliminaries have been dealt with, I’ll delve into some details about this wonderful book.

It takes place in a small town on the Icelandic coast, somewhere north-west of Reykjavík. The story  develops over about ten years, spanning the turn of the 21st century. There are modern innovations; the computer revolution, DVDs and other pop culture, but the people inhabiting the area remain relatively isolated—from the world at large and each other—seemingly living with a foot in the past and an inability to openly express themselves. Eight inter-twined stories examine the foibles and passions of these people, seasoned with a fair amount of parenthetical philosophy along the way. It gives the reader a broad and unflinching look at Icelandic mores and mentality. The love-affairs that thread throughout the stories portray participants who are part of a grander scheme of things that they can only dimly see and barely comprehend: the eternal struggle between love and biology is never far from the surface. At times it is very funny and, at other times, it is heart-breakingly sad. It has been filmed and is in post-production, many of Iceland’s greatest actors are in it (including Ólafur Darri Ólafsson and Kristbjörg Kjeld), if it is only half as good as the book it should be glorious.

The writing is magnificent and Roughton’s translation flows:

We speak, we write, we tell about big things and small to try to understand, try to grasp something, even the essence itself, which is, however, constantly moving away, like a rainbow. Old stories say that a man cannot behold the face of God, that doing so would destroy him; and without doubt, it’s the same for what we seek—the search itself is our purpose; the result will deprive us of it. And of course it’s the search that teaches us the words to use to describe the splendor of the stars, the silence of the fish, a smile and sadness, the end of the world and summer’s light. We do have a task, apart from kissing lips; do you know, by chance, how you say “I desire you” in Latin? And how you say it in Icelandic?

This is one of the greatest books I’ve ever read.

Highest recommendation.

Vesturbær

Chapter 5 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

As I walked through this residential neighborhood, I saw more reminders that it was Halloween. A holiday perfectly suited to Icelandic children: a little bit exotic, incorporating motifs from legends and religion, and candy. Lots of candy. Icelanders love their lakkris (licorice), particularly with chocolate. There is even a variety with a distinct ammonia flavor (I’ve brought some back and most people hate it, but there are a few who enjoy its acrid tang.) For a while there was a late-night candy store just off of Ingólfstorg, you could see adults shopping for candy at 2200 hours.

In the hot pot at Vesturbæjarlaug the topic of Halloween in Iceland came up. “Not my cup of tea,” said a woman sitting next to me with a temporary tattoo of a flaming skull on the back of her hand, “The old Icelandic holidays are disappearing,” a man there said, ruefully. He recognized me from a visit ten years ago! I commented that I had been in Iceland once before on Halloween and it was nothing then.

My destination was the open-air swimming pool, Vesturbæjarlaug, my personal favorite. Its proximity to the university insures that the pool’s population always consists of a mix of backgrounds: a fair amount of academics, actors, students, tourists and the usual neighborhood old-timers. Geezers like me (67+) get in free, without a doubt the best tourist deal in the whole country. When I walked in and went to the reception desk the clerk asked “Is this your first time here?” when she heard my accent. The first time this trip, yes, but it is just one of dozens—many fond hours I’ve spent here in the hot-pots, absorbing heat and culture in equal measures. I even do laps— and my partaking in actual physical exercise is a rarity. The clerk handed me my ticket and, after scanning it at the gate, I went down into the locker room. I stripped naked and headed for the showers to wash with soap (special emphasis on cleaning the germy bits) and then donned my Speedo to head out to the pool complex. Four double lanes in the 25 meter lap pool, a large shallow pool with slides for children, and six soaking pools of varying temperatures and sizes. The chlorine level in the water is mercifully low which allows one to stay for hours and any traces are dissipated by the fresh sub-arctic air (bring a water container to avoid dehydration!) If you need even more heat there is also a steam bath and a sauna.

The air temp was 4°c, a balmy 39°f but the sun had retreated behind leaden clouds, giving a somber look to the surroundings. There were only about a half-dozen other bathers in the pools; I had never seen them so empty. I did my laps then went into the medium hot pot, alone. The cricks and aches from my flight quickly were forgotten. Soaking in a tepid bath of memory, my thoughts wandered in a Proustian fashion. Well, the thoughts were not exactly tepid, especially when thinking about the time I spent in the hot-pot with Ufuoma, a vivacious woman from Nigeria (via the UK.) She had married an Icelander and had embraced the country fully—including several of the pool patrons that knew her. There was a morning exercise group that morning that we joined; she was in a lot better shape than I was. Her performance suggested that she was an experienced dancer. Our conversation suggested that she was highly educated. Her name meant ‘peace of mind’, and she lived up to that moniker. The conversation flowed between us and other patrons who joined us that morning like a burbling fell stream. Life was good that day.

My breakfast cafe, decorated and staff in costumes, was down the street from the pool:

My stomach interrupted my reverie. It was time for breakfast, so I left the pool, dressed and went out, walking down the street to a bakery/coffee shop nearby. The place was decorated in a Halloween theme and the workers were also costumed. After a hard-boiled egg and coffee (I just couldn’t face a pastry) I left, heading back to the bus station to retrieve my luggage. I walked past a middle school where some kids, also in costume, were outside for recess. They seemed to be having a ball: chattering, laughing, socially interacting—the noise they made was akin to the sound of birds. Life was good this day as well.

I walked past Háskolábíó, the big cinema on campus. A poster featured the film adaptation of one of my favorite books, Summer Light, Then Comes the Night (Sumarljós og svo kemer nóttin.) I had seen the lead actor, Ólafur Darri, in an electrifying version of Peer Gynt (Pétur Gautur) sixteen years prior how could it have been so long ago? My companion on that evening was a hung-over twenty-something blogger, not a lot of conversation from her, it was perhaps the strangest date of my life. I later learned that another of my Icelandic blog-connections knew Darri in college. He has since established himself as an international movie star, working with the likes of Ben Stiller and Will Ferrell. I thought of going to the film, but my only free night was tonight, I’d probably fall asleep by the break—Icelandic cinemas usually have an intermission. I left the campus and returned the way I had come, past Norrena Husið, and took the foot path through the swamp. As I was still comfortably warm from my swim, the trek back across Vatnsmýri was even more pleasant than it had been earlier.

The bus station was considerably quieter; a mid-day lull in the flights before the flight from  from Europe began arriving.  I retrieved my luggage and headed North, toward Tjörnin, the pond in the center of the city, and to my apartment nestled behind Fríkirkjan, the sheet-metal clad church. It would be past 1100 hours by the time I arrived, late enough to be able to drop off my things before check-in at 1500 hours.



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