Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2015, Blaðsíða 26

26 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 12 — 2015DESIGN
Saga recently made her feature-film debut
in 'Bakk' (“Reverse”), as the hitchhiker
who joins two friends attempting to drive
Iceland's Ring Road in reverse gear—but,
she says, “I want to participate in every
decision” on creative projects. Though she
got her start at Iceland's National Theatre,
she elaborates, “I like it more when I’m
able to say things I want to say, not what
somebody decided in the 18th century
I was supposed to say.” So, with fellow
comic Dóri DNA, she's writing a play in
which the two will play stand-up comics,
who are also in a relationship. The play is
tentatively titled 'Je Suis...', as in “Je Suis
Charlie,” with a new name to be selected
regularly, in tribute(?) to someone in the
news for controversial statements.
When I began recording our conversa-
tion, Saga had just finished describing an
idea for a character who lives his everyday
life according to the dramatic conventions
of opera: in the middle of a conversation
with his wife, he might turn ninety degrees
and begin singing an aside to the audi-
ence, while his wife is like, “Um, honey, I'm
standing right here.”
Do you ever workshop material
in conversation?
After I’ve talked to someone I’ll sometimes
think, “Hmm, that could maybe work…”
But I never go into a conversation think-
ing, “I’m going to try this joke,” and use the
person I’m talking to like a laboratory rat.
I notice other comedians do that, and I
get so frustrated. I don’t want to participate
in that conversation because I know that
they’re not really talking to me. We were
having this discussion, me and Dóri, about
how it’s so difficult when you’re asking a
comedian if he thinks something's funny—
we never laugh, we’re being so focused:
[in robot voice] “YES. THIS IS REALLY
FUNNY. IT’S REALLY FUNNY AND YOU
SHOULD WORKSHOP IT FORWARD.”
“Yes, but you’re not laughing.” “NO, BUT I
UNDERSTAND IT AND I THINK IT’S FUN-
NY.” It’s weird, I almost never laugh when I
go to stand-up. And I hate that.
Do you know when something’s going
to be funny?
The best jokes usually happen when
you’re not sure and then they work. It’s
also the worst moment, when you’re not
sure and they don’t work. My mother’s my
greatest critic, she thinks only a few things
I do are funny. She’s always asking me,
“Oh, what are you going to say?” “Uh, I’m
quickly going to talk about lesbians, then
I’m going to talk about my youth, and…”
And she stops for a second and is just… “I
don’t think it’s funny.” And it’s like, Mom! I
have to go on in like ten minutes, just clap
for me, or tell me that you love me and I’m
your baby girl or something. And she’s like,
“I would rather you just made jokes about
climate change,” and she walks away, and
I’m just like, “Fuuuck.”
And then I have had conversations
where she says, “This joke is not funny,”
and I tell her, “Yes, I know it’s not funny
when I tell it to you alone, but [striking
hand firmly on table] I know. it will. be
funny.”
But this thing where you really believe
in a joke—I’ve also had difficult jokes.
Difficult jokes
In another interview, you discussed
a favorite routine from your last
stand-up set, where you tried to get
inside the absurd mindset of a rapist
at the Westman Islands festival, as he
debates between committing a rape,
and partaking in other festival ac-
tivities—like a guy going through the
Airwaves schedule with a highlighter.
It’s really a difficult subject—also to make
jokes about. Often people don’t laugh, just
in case a joke is going to be brutal. Even
though it’s funny and not brutal. They
choose not to laugh because they want to
be safe; and I totally understand.
In the end, because I knew people
would feel uncomfortable, I decided to say,
“Now, in my performance, I will tell you a
rape joke. Which is extremely funny, but
it’s really difficult, but the underlying text
is, Do Not Rape, so I’m just going to tell
the joke like that instead: Do Not Rape.” I
didn’t tell the joke, I just told the underlying
text, which I thought was funny.
Do stand-up routines have trigger
warnings now?
Today you have this Twitter thing where
people try to be first to point out mistakes
others make, what can be
interpreted as bad jokes.
And that is difficult, be-
cause you can’t ignore
it, but still you have to be
free to tell whatever you
want. Most jokes are sup-
posed to be on the edge.
You’re supposed to end
up asking, “Why exactly
was it funny?” It’s funny
because it’s telling some-
thing uncomfortable, or
putting you in a bad spot.
When you’re onstage
presenting a perspec-
tive on sensitive sub-
jects, are you playing a
character?
I take my worst things, and I ultimate them.
I think that’s necessary—I don’t believe I’m
such a bad person that I’m the only one
who has these bad opinions. So if I talk
about them, it can be a release, for me and
others: “Somebody is as stupid as I am,” or,
“Somebody else is also such a small soul
that he gets irritated in traffic”—not that
I'm doing traffic jokes a lot.
Am I talking too much? I’m thinking
about it a lot these days because we're
writing this thing, me and Dóri. If I think
something is funny, like for instance my
rape joke, which is absolutely not mak-
ing fun of victims... And if the festival's not
going to address it, or work on it, then it’s
really stupid to have it. Like if I was going
to have my birthday party, for instance,
every year, and every year someone at my
birthday party was raped, then I would not
want to have my birthday party. “Uh, we’re
just going to skip it this year, you know, it’s
not worth it?” Or talk about it and really try
to prevent it.
And of course, when people do this,
try to prevent jokes from being racist or
male-chauvinist or whatever, they’re trying
to make society better. But it’s just such a
dangerous thing to be making decisions
about: This is funny, this is not funny.
Of kiwis and authorship
In 'Bakk', you play a character written
for you by Gunnar Hansson, the film's
writer/codirector/star.
Often, I was asking Gunnar, “I don’t think
I’m acting enough, shouldn’t I talk like
[lisps], or walk like [stands and walks
around table with a hunch, like Marty Feld-
man in 'Young
Frankenstein'] ,
so I have some-
thing to play?”
I didn’t think I
was doing my
job enough, be-
cause I was be-
ing so normal.
But he always
said, “No no no
Saga, you’re do-
ing it just like I
visualized her.”
Camera work is
so much about
relaxing and do-
ing nothing. I
had a hard time
doing that—I really wanted to be eating a
kiwi. That was my idea for every scene: I
would be eating a kiwi, with the skin on it,
which I think is a bit like eating a hamster.
It would be weird, but still subtle. It was al-
ways like, “Ok, what if I eat a kiwi?” “No, I
don’t think you should be doing anything.”
Did they ever placate you, like, “Let’s
do one take with the kiwi and see
how it looks”?
Yeah, they said, “If you bring the kiwi
tomorrow, we'll do it.” So I brought like
twelve kiwis, but they rotted before they
left me do it. I felt really bad, playing be-
hind them. I was supposed to be listening;
I always felt like I was doing nothing, so I
was also really afraid that I was doing too
much, over-active listening like [strokes
chin] “A-ha!”
We stopped shooting, and I called my
best friend: “I have ruined the film. I, on
my own, managed to ruin a whole film. I
took these millions and threw them in the
garbage.” She was like, “No no no,” but I
was so sure I had over-acted or under-act-
ed everything. And then I called Gunnar
like a month after that because I thought
about it constantly. Like, I have to say sorry
to him, I have to ask for forgiveness that
I did not do enough, or did too much—I
was sure he was mad at me but couldn’t
say. Because it’s a really rough thing to
say—“You ruined my movie, you killed my
baby.” And then I called him: “I know what
you’ve been thinking, and I agree with you:
I ruined your film.” And he just laughed
in my face. But I was really convinced I
had sucked.
This play you’re writing now…
Writing is so difficult, because you have a
thousand options, and you decide to say
one of them. So you have to be really sure
of yourself. I’m always doubting, which
is maybe something I should be talking
about to my psychiatrist instead of in this
interview.
But this play is going to be awesome,
I think. Mostly just because working with
Dóri has been so energizing. It’s so impor-
tant, when you’re working this closely with
someone, that you’re able to say, “I don’t
think this is funny.” And it’s a really hon-
est show. We’re supposed to be criticizing
each other in it, so we’ve been, “I think my
character will hate this about you,” and
he’s just like, “Ok, I think I hate this about
YOU.”
The play is about: What is funny? What
are we allowed to joke about? When is
it freedom of speech and when is it just
being rude and violent against others?
Where’s the line?
Last seen in these pages in our group portrait of Ice-
land's stand-up comedy scene (Issue 4, April 2015), Saga
Garðarsdóttir is one of the country's rising stars—even if,
as she said when we caught up with her again earlier this
summer, “stand-up is just me, alone, writing things and
then standing on a stage, and every time I’m sure people
will hate me and I’m really happy when they don’t.”
Words Mark Asch
Photo Anna Domnick
“Why Exactly
Was It Funny?”
Talking about political correctness,
self-doubt and kiwis with comic, actress
and playwright Saga Garðarsdóttir
CULTURE
I really wanted to be
eating a kiwi. That was
my idea for every scene:
I would be eating a kiwi,
with the skin on it, which
I think is a bit like eating
a hamster. It would be
weird, but still subtle. It
was always like, “Ok,
what if I eat a kiwi?” “No,
I don’t think you should
be doing anything.”