Reykjavík Grapevine - sep. 2019, Síða 14

Director Hrafn Gunnlaugsson’s house
sits on the edge of the city, dividing
the land, sea and opinions. Some-
where between sprawling junk heap
and decaying spaceship, it’s hard to
believe the structure was built rather
than formed through weird forces of
magnetism and magic.
Hrafn is a controversial figure—he’s
a childhood friend of Davíð Oddsson,
the former prime minister of Iceland
and co-called architect of last decade’s
economic collapse; he even directed
movies scripted by Davíð while he was
still in office. Over the years, Hrafn’s
political links, strong opinions, and
personal life have gained him a level
of notoriety throughout the country,
perhaps even more so than his art.
‘When The Raven Flies,’ Hrafn’s
most well-known film, is currently
being screened as part of a summer
series of classic Icelandic films at Bíó
Paradís. Created in 1984, it is consid-
ered an Icelandic masterpiece. Osten-
sibly, this is what we are here to talk
about.
Art house living
But conversations with Hrafn are
rarely so linear. Within a few sentences
of being asked about the film, he has
somehow covered Germanic languages,
drag culture, and symbolism. Midway
through discussing religion and indi-
vidualism, he leaps up, his energetic
air belaying the presence of the cane he
uses to support himself. “Let me show
you my art department,” he grins.
He gestures towards a wall a few
steps away covered in pictures, paint-
ings and figurines. In all honesty, the
‘art department’
isn’t much differ-
ent than any other
w a l l t h ere — a l l
possible surfaces
o f t h e h o u s e ,
including the ceil-
ings, are thor-
oughly covered
with knick-knacks.
Pointing at vari-
ous items, Hrafn
passionately talks
us through chil-
dren’s paintings, love notes, and even
an image of a “depressed Jesus.”
It’s hard to imagine what the house
looked like before Hrafn’s sprawling
and heterogeneous collection took
over. “I’ve been the owner for about 40
years,” he tells me, “but for the first 10
it was only used for making decora-
tions. Slowly I moved into
the set. It grew like a coral
reef; one thing came after
another.”
Cycle of change
Items from the accumu-
lated detritus constantly
catch Hrafn’s attention as
we pass them, perpetually
sending him wheeling off
in different directions.
“There is a strange inter-
est in this film,” he muses
upon taking notice of a
poster for ‘When the Raven
Flies.’ “This rock and roll
group wrote new music
and had screenings in
2014.” The group in ques-
tion, the not-insignificant
Sólstafir, has performed
their new soundtrack
multiple times. I ask Hrafn about this
reworking and he glows with positivity:
“It was fantastic because it adds some-
thing to the film. They saw something
I hadn’t noticed.” He continues, “Young
people see something different and in
a way I’m very happy with that because
for me it means that the film still has
some message.” He laughs, shaking off
his pensive tone: “Anyway, it’s not dead!
It didn’t die before me!”
But making the film was not an easy-
process for the artist. “It was an enor-
mous pain. It was made with no money
and I had to do everything. I was the
decorator, the script writer, the direc-
tor, the producer—I was completely
alone. I don’t know how I could make
it. Some kind of madness comes into
your life and you have to survive and
live with the madness for a while.”
With accolades continuing to roll in,
the longevity of the work is undeniable.
But, 30 years later, how does Hrafn feel
about the film? What legacy does it
hold for him?
“I feel very strange [in contrast
to] the man who made that film. The
changes you have in life, you change so
much. You are a child; you are a teen-
ager; you are at university. One day
you are working and one day you get
old. I don’t know the man who made
these films anymore. I’m not even sure
I would say hello to him if I met him on
the street,” Hrafn walks ahead, out an
open door. “This cycle of changing is so
fantastic.”
A walk on the wild side
There’s a distinct sense of being on a
different planet, or in another time as
we exit the house and look out over the
jagged coastline. The garden is a feral
knot of wild plants and rusted struc-
tures. Most notable are the numerous
specimens of Giant Hogweed towering
over everything. “I love these plants,”
Hrafn says, passionately. “They have
this power, they grow out of the earth
in a few weeks. In two or three months
they become four metres high. Imagine
that! Four metres
in one summer.”
He s h a ke s h i s
head in wonder-
ous disbelief.
Giant Hogweed
i s a n i n v a s i v e
species in Iceland.
It contains sap
t h a t i s h o r r i -
bly phototoxic if
touched, caus -
ing blisters and
permanent scar-
ring. Often, the victims of the plant’s
advanced defense system are play-
ful children, enchanted by the flora’s
elephantine proportions. But Hrafn is
completely undeterred by this danger.
“I don’t believe that you get hurt by
them,” he declares fiercely. “I think it’s
a fantasy. It’s like saying you get hurt by
roses—of course you can hurt yourself
with roses. You can hurt yourself with
anything.”
“I want to disappear”
By this point in the conversation we
have circumnavigated the whole house,
the wild and meandering path provid-
ing a symbolic backdrop to the surreal
metaphysical journey Hrafn has taken
us on. Hrafn is still talking in his
stream-of-consciousness way, and has
found his way to the subject of religion.
“In all these religions,” he ponders,
“we are taught about eternal life.”
Stopping to think, silhouetted against
the backdrop of the Giant Hogweed, a
beatific smile spreads across his face.
“The greatest punishment I can imag-
ine myself is eternal life. I want to
disappear. Your life should finish like a
good movie.”
“I feel very
strange to the
man who made
that film. I
don’t know him
anymore.”
Hrafn, potentially pointing at his "depressed Jesus"
Hrafn and his beloved poisonous plants
Words:
Josie Gaitens
Photos:
Art Bicnick
14 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 14— 2019News
Adventures In
Wander-Land
Journeying through the mind and mystery of Hrafn Gunnlaugsson