Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.05.2004, Blaðsíða 10

HALLGRÍMUR HELGASON
Hlynur. Five consonants and a vowel buried somewhere towards the end
make it one of those awkward Icelandic names that are difficult to get your tongue
around. It is not the only difficult thing about the main character in
Two years ago and newly arrived in Iceland, 101 Reykjavik
failed to give me the fuel for my romanticised notions of the
country. I put the book to one side after reading a few chapters,
but over time I recognised that it was impossible to live here and
ignore a book that has achieved the most elusive of all Icelan-
dic prizes, international success. It is also impossible to ignore
Hallgrimur Helgason.
I again started the book a few months ago and this time found
myself a willing inhabitant of Hlynur’s psyche. I realised that
Hallgrimur had created one of the
more fascinating and compelling
characters that I have come across in
contemporary fiction.
Hallgrímur is one of the most
instantly recognisable ´characters´
in Reykjavik. The ‘pork pie’ hat, the
overcoat, the chiselled cheeks, the
flinty eyes, the ambiguous smile; all
are trademarks of the writer who gave
an Icelandic postcode international renown and, through his
novels, plays and articles, has established himself as a prominent
and lasting figure in the world of Icelandic literature.
Summer had been ‘declared’ (according to tradition, this takes
place on the 22nd of April, although it has been known to snow
on that day) a few weeks before I met him and to celebrate,
Hallgrimur had bought himself a bicycle; he peddled up to
Café Thorvaldsen, sat down ready to talk, and we started on
Reykjavik 101.
101 Reykjavík wakes up from its coma
“It is a book that follows me forever. Sometimes I get tired of
talking about it but one should never complain about success. In
the beginning the book didn’t do that well. It had been laying
half dead in a coma for four years when the film came out in the
year 2000. It was shown at various film festivals, got prizes and
was distributed in 22 countries. Then everybody wanted to have
translations of the book. There are now 12 language versions;
it’s really what I am known for outside of Iceland.”
We talk about the growing international interest in Iceland. It
is a subject that he warms to and I ask him whether Reykjavik
deserves the reputation it receives.
“Sometimes I really can’t understand why, because on your
average Tuesday it looks like a small town in Sweden. It’s like
Eskilstuna. You go downtown, it’s raining, there’s nobody
around and it’s very far from this glamor-
ous image that it’s received in recent years. I
guess that there’s something foreigners see that
we don’t see.
But I used to hate it as a boy. It was a horrible East European
town where nothing was happening and everything was gray
and state run and most things were closed. There was only
´One’ of anything: One restaurant, one bar, one hot dog stand,
one tree, even only one guy walking around downtown.
He’s dead now, bless his soul. The pre-war downtown
culture had been wiped out and replaced by the hor-
rible suburbs. It was the same old story but here we
saw it happen in a bit more exaggerated form. After
the war, Iceland finally found prosperity. After a
thousand years in isolation, we finally became a part
of the real world. And the generation of my parents
went on a shopping spree. They wanted everything
new; new cars, new hairdos, a new life. They built
new houses and tore down the old ones. They had no sense of
history; they just wanted everything new. They remembered the
poverty, they were ashamed of their origins, and they wanted
to be an active part of the new world. The seventies in Iceland
were ugly, tasteless and boring. The books were boring, the
paintings were ugly and everything we did was a total failure.
We lost every football game and the rock bands always came
empty-handed home from London. My generation was brought
up feeling that we were out of place, a nation of losers; too small
and provincial. I mean, we didn’t even have beer until 1989 and
the first Icelandic pizza was baked
in 1990. In my youth the word “red
wine” had an exotic ring to it, a bit
like “balsamic vinegar” has here
today. We really didn’t feel proud
of our country. But now everything
has changed. All thanks to Björk, I
guess. We’ve gained our self-esteem
and our self-respect, a generation has
grown up that is more internation-
ally thinking.
At the moment many fine talents are growing up in Iceland.
Many bands are getting exposure abroad, every once in a while
we make a decent film, our literature is being translated like
never before, an Icelandic theatre production is a hit in London,
Gudjohnsen has secured his place on the Chelsea football team
and the Baugur Group is buying all the shops in the UK. We
should be thankful, we should be grateful.” He stops for a pause
to reflect, and smiles. “Yes, now it’s very cool to be Icelandic.”
He says the word cool with more than a hint of irony.
The country you love to hate
I ask whether he ever feels like leaving Iceland.
“Iceland is a country that you love and hate. Every
week you think about leaving. Like last week, when
the polar wind blew solidly from Monday to Friday.
It was hell and I was thinking: How do the tourists
cope? It gets me down and I think of going but I’ve
’s novel, 101 Reykjavik.
The reader is asked to live in Hlynur’s head, sharing his thoughts and observa-
tions. A head which spends a significant amount of time conjuring up the mas-
turbatory images that play in the desultory mind of a slacker. I found it was not a
particularly easy place to be.
by Robert Jackson