Reykjavík Grapevine - sep. 2019, Blaðsíða 21

have a background in the countryside,”
Grímur relates. “Both my parents grew
up on farms. When I was young, I spent
a lot of time in the countryside with my
grandfather. I have a personal connec-
tion.”
Interior shot
of rural roots
The complexities of contemporary
rural relations play well on the big
screen. In a time of growing global
population counterpointed by the rapid
depopulation of rural areas such as can
be seen around Iceland, Grímur’s tales
provide refreshing takes on communi-
ties that receive far too little consider-
ation from urban dwellers.
“I made a short film a long time ago
called ‘Wrestling’ about two homosex-
ual wrestlers living in rural Iceland,”
Grímur reflects. “That was my first
attempt to make a film in the coun-
tryside. The outcome was pretty good.
I felt like I had some kind of instinct
for the lives of the people there; a good
sense for this kind of life and the char-
acters. Most Icelandic filmmakers are
living in the city and don’t have the
same sense for this kind of life.”
Moving shot of
a pure heart
Another early project, Grímur’s docu-
mentary ‘Hreint Hjarta / A Pure Heart’
(2012) follows small-town priest Kris-
tinn Ágúst through daily life. The film
opens with Kristinn’s admission that
being a priest is considered more a
lifestyle than a career, as “you give up
a part of your private life and assume a
certain role.”
The documentary’s tension between
private life and assumed profes-
sional roles proves a solid forebear
for Grímur’s future films ‘Rams’ and
‘The County.’ Though these subsequent
films are fiction, they are drawn from
true stories.
Montage of
dichotomies
‘Rams’ posits a public sheep-farming
calamity amidst the intimacy of life-
long brotherly struggle, inviting the
viewer into a tender and complex real-
ity.
“These brothers in the true story,
they died in the 1990s,” Grímur recalls.
“It’s a pretty recent story. My father
told me that story,and I based ‘Rams’
on it. There were two elements: the
story of the brothers and the conflict of
the sheep’s scrapie disease.”
Grímur elaborates on his penchant
for embedding true-story struggles
in his filmic fictions. “In most of my
movies, there are conflicts between
these kinds of old farming societies and
the newer urban society. It’s in most of
my films—the conflict between tradi-
tional Icelandic values and modern
society’s capitalism. With ‘Rams’, it’s
the romantic sheep farmer—the tradi-
tional Icelandic sheep farmer fighting
against the educated veterinarians
who want to kill the sheep. The veteri-
narians come from the city with all
their regulations from the European
Union and enter this farming commu-
nity. It’s about that conflict.”
P.O.V. is
political
‘The County’ is also based on true
stories collected by Grímur. The film
bases its conflict in subsuming patri-
archy and corrupt business practices,
Grímur explains. “In ‘The County,’ the
elements I’m mixing are a modern
farming woman who steps up from the
male-oriented community, and then
this society where one company has
the destiny of all the people in their
pockets and everyone is dependent on
that.”
His interest in true-to-life drama
informs the ethical explorations
embedded in his film fictions. “There
is always some kind of political angle in
my films. ‘Rams’ is maybe not my most
political film, as it’s much more about
the relationship between the brothers.
But ‘The County’ is much more focused
on politics in society.”
Grímur pauses, his eye contact
honest and steady. “I wouldn’t like to
make a film about a story that doesn’t
have any kind of societal or politi-
cal point of view,” he admits. “I would
never do such a film. It’s not that
I’m preaching; I’m just interested in
subjects. In ‘The County,’ there are
these two perspectives and I try to give
both perspectives a depth.”
Exterior shot:
back to life,
back to reality
Following true stories led Grímur
to seek out film locations on actual
working farms in the Icelandic coun-
tryside. ‘Rams’ was filmed in Bárðar-
dalur, a long valley between Akureyri
and Mývatn. ‘The County’ was filmed
at farms around Búðardalur and
Hvammstangi, with special focus on
the ice-cream dairy farm Erpsstaðir.
“We had a very pleasant experience
both in Bárðardalur and Búðardalur,”
Grímur notes. “To shoot in Búðarda-
lur, it’s possible to drive back home. In
Bárðardalur, if it was a weekend, you
couldn’t get back home to Reykjavík.”
The cast and crew involved in film-
ing ‘The County’ on location created
a makeshift community. “It’s really
nice to film in rural areas,” Grímur
recounts. “People want to help us. This
family in Erpsstaðir, they were really
kind to us.”
The farming community provided
not only sets and sites, but also actors.
A distinct aspect of Grímur’s directo-
rial style is that he has, as he confesses,
“this kind of fetish to use real people
for small roles. We had professional
actors for the main roles, but there
are a lot of characters played by real
farmers. It was a real experience, this
sense that people in the area weren’t
thinking about money; they were more
interested in helping us and being a
part of something, not to profit from
it.”
The location and casting weren’t
the only convenient aspects of the
filming process. “With ‘The County,’”
explains Grímur, “we had a higher
budget. ‘Rams’ was mainly made from
Icelandic money; it wasn’t really a
high budget and it was more difficult
to do that film. With ‘The County,’ we
had more grants from abroad. We
had more time to film and do some
reshoots. Everyone got paid the wages
they should get. That was convenient.”
Long shot of
Toronto and
beyond
Anticipation for public recep-
tion mounts as Grímur prepares to
premiere ‘The County’ in Iceland.
“It’s nice to start with the Icelan-
dic premiere, and then take the film
abroad. We actually already got into
some festivals, and the film has been
sold to 30 countries already.”
‘The County’ is slated for its inter-
national premiere at the Toronto
International Film Festival (TIFF) in
September. Grímur brought ‘Rams’ to
TIFF in 2015. “Returning to TIFF is an
honour; it’s an A-Festival, especially
good for marketing the film. It’s really
important for the US market. We don’t
have a North American distributor,
so this is a good festival to get US and
Canadian distributors. It’s not a festi-
val with a competition, but it’s really
important.”
Off-screen: birth
of the new
Grímur shifts his eye contact to gaze
out a window. “I’ve been doing ‘The
County’ and another film simultane-
ously. The script is ready and we’re
working on casting. It could possibly
be shot next year. I’m trying to do both,
keep on doing Icelandic movies but
also make this.”
It turns out the other project is his
first English-language film, which is
set in the United States. “I’ve always
made Icelandic-language films, so it’s
going to be my first in Engilsh. But it’s a
risky business in this English-language
world. You are never sure if things are
going to work out or not. It’s a project
that might or might not happen.”
Grímur has always written his own
films, but for the English-language
project he collaborated with an
Australian screenwriter. In addition
to co-writing and bilingual expan-
sion, the introduction of a new family
member will necessarily shift his rela-
tionship to writing. “I just became a
father three months ago. I have a baby
girl, so now I’m looking for a writer to
work with me on the next film since I
won’t have the same time to write.”
With new parenthood, the premiere
of ‘The County’ and seeds for collabora-
tions sown, Grímur’s future portends a
bountiful harvest.
21 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 14— 2019
“I made a short
film called
‘Wrestling’ about
two homosexual
wrestlers living in
rural Iceland.”