Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.05.2015, Qupperneq 18

So because of ‘Lost Weekend’s
success, you could convince
people to invest in ‘Nói Albínói’
and have faith in you to make it?
Indeed, it was a major turning point,
paving the way for various opportu-
nities, enabling me to meet and get
to know all kinds of people who then
helped me realize ‘Nói Albínói’. The
source material for Nói was something
I’d carried around since I was sixteen...
I already had a load of scenes and situ-
ations, so when I knew I had a real shot
at making it, completing the script didn’t
take long.
Wait, you started writing ‘Nói
Albínói’ at age sixteen?
Just this character, Nói. He’d been with
me for years. He was kind of a fantasy
figure, a bit of an alter ego... well, not an
alter ego, rather the opposite of myself,
the opposite of who I was in my junior
college years, at least. There were a lot
of things I wanted to do at the time, or
wished I could do, but didn’t have the
courage to, so I relegated certain sides
of myself into this character I called
Nói. He predates any ideas I had of be-
ing a filmmaker—he could have turned
into anything; a comic strip, a cartoon or
a short story... Little by little, I amassed
a bunch of situations and events con-
nected to this character that I then used
for the script.
So it’s a very personal film?
Yes, it’s a kind of a testament to what was
going on in my head at that time, grow-
ing up and beyond.
The film gods
‘Nói’ was filmed in the northern
Westfjords, where I hail from,
in Ísafjörður and Bolungarvík.
Watching the film, I felt few
works of art better describe what
it feels to grow up on the edge
of nowhere. Was the location
important to the film?
Yes. The isolation was important, and
that feeling that you’re on the edge of
the world. And all that snow. It was very
important for the film, that everything
be covered in snow.
I actually had no experience of small
towns like that prior to making ‘Nói’. In
fact, I had never been to the Westfjords
before we filmed it. It was pure luck
that we wound up there. We filmed it
over one of those rare Icelandic winters
where it barely snows at all. So we sort
of made a bet, we counted on that if it
would snow anywhere, it would be in
the Westfjords. We made our decision to
shoot there based solely on that assump-
tion.
And then it turned out to fit so
well...
We showed up and I instantly fell for the
place. For the fjords and... it was kind of
like it had been writ-
ten specifically for that
environment. Down to
specific locations that
the script described
in detail, and I didn’t
envision ever coming
across.... I thought we’d
have to build some of
them in a studio. And
then, we repeatedly
just... encountered them. It happened
time and time again, we would just walk
right into the world that I had written.
It really felt like the film gods were
on our team for that one. Indeed, it
hadn’t snowed at all in the Westfjords
that winter, so we were sort of blindly
stepping into it. We just booked a cam-
era crew and hoped for the best. The
day we landed in Ísafjörður, it started
snowing and it kept snowing constantly
for the two weeks we were shooting the
outdoor scenes. And that was the only
snow we had in Iceland that winter. In a
way, it felt meant to be.
I felt it was so nice how respect-
fully you depicted the small
towns and its people, it steered
clear of that grotesque, skewed
image you’ll often come across
when filmmakers tackle small-
town Iceland. Very human.
That’s maybe something that’s
recurring in your art, this kind of
respect or care for humans. Are
you into people like that?
I quite enjoy studying people. The com-
ponents that make up a character. I can’t
deny it.
Falling in love with Gussi
So ‘Nói Albínói’ was about Nói,
this fantasy side to yourself.
Then, ‘Fúsi’ is also named after
its main character.
However, he’s far
removed from Nói.
Does he perhaps
represent a different
side to you? How did
he come to be?
The making of Fúsi, the
character, was a process
that’s both complicated
and simple. It started
with me falling in love with Gussi [ac-
tor Gunnar Jónsson] when I saw him in
[celebrated Icelandic skit show] ‘Fóst-
bræður’. I immediately had the sense
that he was a total genius—he has this
on-screen presence that’s just complete-
ly unique.
So, I fantasized about seeing him
in something beyond just serving as a
sidekick in a comedy show, I wanted to
see him doing a massive leading role in
a dramatic film. This has been on my
mind for years. In the meanwhile, after
Nói, I made films in Denmark and New
York. After the latter, ‘The Good Heart’,
I kind of burned out for a while. I just
lost all desire to make movies.
I was planning to do something else.
While attempting to explore different
avenues, I found myself in Keflavík,
waiting for a plane. And I’m sort of look-
ing out the window, and I see these small
vehicles skirting around the airplanes,
bringing the luggage or whatever. They
have these tiny cars that kind of look
like toy cars, and in my mind an image
just pops out, Gussi riding one of those.
And that becomes the core metaphor for
the film, the story of an adult that hasn’t
quite cut the umbilical cord and left the
world of childhood.
As I awaited the plane, a simple ver-
sion of the story lined up in my mind.
So you could say it just came to me. But,
then, it’s complicated, because a charac-
ter or a story doesn’t just come from one
direction. For me, they are an interplay
of everything I’ve thought and pondered
for years, all kinds of ideas I’ve had
aligning and turning into something
new.
You assume many roles as a
filmmaker, from writing the script
and then directing it, to creating
the score. You’re basically realiz-
ing an idea that starts off in your
head, bringing it to life...
Well, directors are very different, but
for me it’s always been about the whole
package. What drew me to film in the
first place was how the art form com-
bines everything I’m interested in. For
me, the screenwriting process is just as
important as... you know, the shooting,
and then the editing... and then, making
the music. They all form equal parts of
the whole.
Scoring the films is actually one of
my favourite things about the process,
it’s kind of like enjoying dessert after a
good meal. Everything’s ready, but you
can sort of use the music to amplify
emotions and moods that are already
present. The film is basically ready, the
stress is over, and you get to play around
with it and have some fun.
You make the music with your
partner Orri from Slowblow,
right? So what, do you two just
sit down with some guitars and
beer and roll the film through,
jamming over it?
No. We work separately, we never write
together. I usually start writing while
I’m in the editing process, I think it’s
fun to do those two together, so the mu-
sic can also affect how I edit the movie.
We’re not making music for a film that’s
been locked, we sort of meld our tunes
to the film.
That seems like a fun process.
Do you think you’ll make more
records as Slowblow?
Well, we haven’t made pop music in
more than a decade. We’ve just made
film music, mainly for my movies, but
also for a few other projects. Sitting
down with the intent of writing verses
and choruses has been a distant idea.
But it’ll probably come back at some
point. We’ll make some horrible middle-
aged record when we’re pushing fifty,
I’m sure. Something totally dated and
hopeless. I’m certain it will happen.
Emotional
Are you saying old people can’t
make good music? Is that differ-
ent with film?
No, I don’t think so. I’ve often thought
about it. You know, considering how
powerful a medium pop music is, it’s
We’ll make some
horrible middle-
aged record when
we’re pushing fifty,
I’m sure. Something
totally dated and
hopeless.
18
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 5 — 2015