Iceland review - 2016, Qupperneq 10

8 ICELAND REVIEW
I’ve seen people lose their sheep, seen
their mental shock and watched them
suffer from depression as a result,”
explains Grímur Hákonarson, director of
the 2015 film Rams (Hrútar), which tells
the story of two brothers, who are sheep
farmers and live side by side, but haven’t
spoken in decades. Tragedy finally forces
them to connect. The film has won more
awards than any other Icelandic movie.
Grímur’s parents grew up on farms
and he himself spent summers working
on one. While in the countryside, he got
to know men who lived alone with their
sheep, thus, becoming very attached to
them.
With Rams he had two goals: to describe
man’s relationship with his sheep and tell
the story of two estranged brothers, as
stubborn as their own sheep. It is the
kind of story he had heard repeatedly and
believed to well represent the Icelandic
attitude of independence: the refusal to
be dependent on others and the stubborn
belief you can do everything without the
help of others.
Not until the film received interna-
tional attention—it is currently showing
at independent and art house cinemas
around the world—did it become clear
FILM
Director Grímur Hákonarson’s highly-acclaimed 2015 film Rams (Hrútar) is
a story of two brothers, separated by a fence and a decades-long silence.
STUBBORN AS THEIR
OWN SHEEP
BY VALA HAFSTAÐ. STILL PHOTO BY STURLA BRANDT GRØVLEN.
to him that such stubbornness was just as
common the world over. Members of the
audience in Spain and Ireland, for exam-
ple, shared with him numerous stories of
brothers in similar situations. “There was
even the story of two Irish brothers who
ran a pub under the same roof, but with
bars in two different corners.”
In part, Grímur credits Rams’ interna-
tional appeal to the fact that “the subject
is common human traits; there is not
much talking in the film and it’s easily
understood.”
The movie was filmed in Bárðardalur,
North Iceland, chosen not only for its
remote location and beautiful sheep and
landscape, but also for the heavy snowfall
it receives every year. “We began filming
in November but I almost had a nervous
breakdown, because this turned out to be
the warmest November in the history of
the country. We were forced to postpone
shooting until January,” Grímur laments.
Grímur’s paternal grandmother was
born on a farm just south of where
the snowstorm—a key scene—was to
be filmed. “We were ready to have the
snowstorm computer generated, but the
strangest thing happened: we received
one to order, at the right time, in the
right location.” When asked, jokingly,
whether help came from the other side,
Grímur replies, “Strangely, although I’m
not superstitious, that might explain it.”
Grímur was born in 1977, and his
interest in film started early. “Dad signed
me up for an acting class when I was
eight. Then I made several short films
while I was in school. I was a member of
the school’s film club, and I also wrote
stories.” In his mid-20s, he went to
Prague and studied film for two years.
Since then, film has been his life. “Film
for me is much more than a job. It’s a
crazy passion. My only fear is that I’ll
lose this passion,” Grímur confesses.
Until making Rams, he was more
focused on documentaries than fea-
ture films. Right now, he’s working
on two projects—one of them a doc-
umentary about socialism in the town
of Neskaupstaður in the East Fjords;
the other a feature film about a mid-
dle-aged woman in an Icelandic village,
who comes out of the closet.
Judging by his enthusiastic tone of
voice when describing the new projects,
Grímur won’t be losing his passion any
time soon. *