Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.05.2015, Blaðsíða 16

16
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 5 — 2015
When he finally answered, he seemed
groggy and out of it, like he was just
waking up. “Oh, what? No, I’m back
home in Denmark,” he said, still half
asleep. “I didn’t stay for the awards
ceremony, I figured we didn’t stand a
chance of winning anything.”
And this is telling. Arguably one of
Iceland’s most prolific and successful
young artists, Dagur Kári maintains a
humble, unassuming stance, content to
let his work speak for itself.
We start by discussing ‘Fúsi’, which
I had viewed on my laptop shortly be-
fore our chat. I tell him that I liked it
a lot, but that I would have enjoyed a
chance to see it in the cinema....
How is it for a director? Do you
like to see everything at the
cinema? Or do you take in films
on your TV, computer or smart-
phone, like the rest of us?
It differs [sighs]. I rarely have time to
go to the movies these days, with a full
time job and three children, so a trip to
the theatre is a bit of a luxury. Because
of this, I can’t really trust my judgement
when it comes to films these days. I so
rarely glimpse the big screen that I’ll
erupt in goosebumps as soon as a Coca
Cola ad starts running—so everything
I see at the movies now is just great. I
get the chills just from the adverts and
previews.
I’ve always loved going to the mov-
ies. At one point, I’d go so often that I
got extremely judgemental. I’d walk
out after ten minutes if I didn’t like
how things were going. Nowadays, I’m
thankful just to catch a glimpse of the
screen.
What drew you to the cinema to
begin with?
I’d go with my parents as a kid, and
later by myself. It was always an ex-
perience, but I suppose a certain turn-
ing point occurred when I was sixteen
years old, at the 1989 Reykjavík Film
Festival. I was completely enthralled
with the whole roster and got sucked
into it all. I’d buy a ticket to the three
PM screening, and then hide out in the
bathroom between films—I’d blag my
way into the five, seven and nine PM
screenings, spending entire days at
the cinema. I’d see three or four mov-
ies every day; I think I saw everything
at that festival. It was mainly stuff like
Jim Jarmusch’s ‘Down By Law’, Wim
Wenders’ ‘Der Himmel über Berlin’
and Aki Kaurismäki’s ‘Match Factory
Girl’. There were a lot of good films
showing, but those three are the ones
that stick out in my mind.
That was the first time I saw film-
making as a feasible path. I realized
that it unified everything that I was in-
terested in. I was playing in rock bands,
I had been dabbling in writing, and I
had gone through a whole photography
phase... and I hadn’t quite determined
what I wanted to bet on for the future.
Then I had this revelation, that it all
came together in film.
And that’s when you started
furiously attending the movie
theatre?
Yeah. It was the time for that, too.
When you’re in your late teens, be-
tween sixteen and twenty, you’re kind
of like a sponge. You suck in all this
information, everything you get your
hands on, building a stockpile. I’d read
and watch and listen to everything I got
my hands.
That ecstatic feeling
I first encountered you through
the music of Slowblow in the
mid nineties, and have conse-
quently always considered you
a torchbearer for a certain lo-fi
aesthetic, a more understated
approach to art that stands in
contrast with the IMAX school
of high definition explosions. Is
this something you connect with
or have connected with?
Yeah, for sure. But, you know, being lo-
fi has never been a specific goal. For me,
the aesthetic maybe just evolved from
having no money. Orri [Jónsson, Slow-
blow’s other half] and I recorded our
first album on a four track tape machine
and a single microphone... by the time
we made the next one, we’d invested in
an eight track recorder and a slightly
more expensive microphone... when-
ever we had any money, we’d spend it on
new equipment.
Truth be told, I’ve always had a bit
of a gear fetish. I revere that ecstatic
feeling you get when turning on an old
guitar amp, that purring sound a camera
makes when the film starts rolling... It’s
that urge to create meeting that techno-
fetishism. That was sort of a dealbreaker
for me, and perhaps the main reason I
didn’t take to writing as a profession—it
wasn’t technical enough. I need to have
my finger on some buttons, to experi-
ence this ecstatic feeling I relate to tech-
nology—especially vintage technology.
Old machines, analogue, tube amplifi-
ers and ancient instruments. Trying to
charm the soul out of these old, weird
machines, with their buzzing and the
static and the clicks. We never tried to
filter that out for our albums, we rather
tried milking those sounds out of the
equipment. They became the basis of
our soundscapes. What others sought to
filter out, we would emphasize that.
And are there any parallels to
how you approach filmmaking,
what kind of equipment you
choose to work with... is there a
texture you’re seeking with your
films that maybe mirrors your
approach to music?
Ehrm. Yeah. I’ve always been infatu-
ated with the texture of film, and I’m
rather sad that its era seems to be com-
ing to an end, because it has this texture
and depth that you don’t find in digital,
a depth and character. I feel digital for-
mats document light, but film, it kind of
interprets it, there’s this interpretative
element that’s lost when you move to
digital.
Impossible dreams
Making a film must be really dif-
ficult. There are so many people
involved in the process, and it
seems like so many factors need
to be taken into consideration.
It’s hard to imagine taking that
first step. Did you ever think
you’d get to do it?
I signed up for film school harbouring
a dream that seemed so distant and ab-
surd. I remember thinking that getting
to make a film would be tantamount to
winning the lottery ten times in a row...
it just seemed crazy, you know, even the
act of daring to imagine it could ever
work out.
Then, for my graduation project,
I made a film called ‘Lost Weekend’,
which had a bit of success. It was sur-
prisingly well received and made the
festival rounds all over the world, win-
ning a bunch of prizes. Which in turn
helped me make my debut feature...
When news came through late one Sunday night in April that filmmaker Dagur Kári Pé-
tursson’s latest film ‘Fúsi’ (AKA ‘Virgin Mountain’) had triumphed at the Tribeca Film
Festival in New York, winning three of the main awards (best original screenplay, best
narrative film and best leading actor), we of course tried calling him up for a quote or
two, to include in a news story about the momentous occasion. We figured he could well
take a break from partying with Robert De Niro to gloat in the media, even though it was
the middle of the night.
"In A Country Where
Nothing Makes Sense,
You Feel Like
Everything’s Possible."
Filmmaker Dagur Kári is a political
refugee, and he wants to touch you
Words by Haukur S. Magnússon Photos by Nicolai Hansen
Continues on P.18