Kitchen Stories

Despite failing to make the cut as Norway’s 2004 submission for the Oscars, Kitchen Stories received extremely favourable reviews in the press. It’s a quirky tale which subtly wrings laughs from the relationship between the Norwegians and the Swedes, and the gradually thawing of a frosty relationship between the observed and his observer.

In 1940s Sweden, a home economics company (with more than a hint of Ikea about it) is conducting experiments on how to layout a successful and efficient kitchen. Having established the best set-up for women, they turn their attention to single men, and send their team of observers to watch how Norwegian bachelors utilise their kitchen appliances.

Seated on Baywatch style high-chairs, these impartial observers neatly and methodically log all movements within the kitchen. They are forbidden from interfering with their subjects in any way, and sleep outside the host’s homes in bizarrely bubble-shaped mobile caravans.

When Folke (Tomas Nortström) is assigned to log the movements of loner Isak (Joachim Calmayer) things do not look promising. More than a little disgruntled by the Swedish interloper, the elderly Norwegian initially refuses to let him in. But just as Folke looks set to quit, their relationship begins to slowly develop – and eventually blossom…

To say that the opening of the film is eccentric would be an understatement. Scenes of domestic science have rarely been as strange as these: Scandinavian housewives test all manner of kitchen appliances whilst rigged up to medical equipment and breathing apparatus, all in an attempt to gauge their effectiveness. It’s played utterly deadpan and extremely effective for it – the gravity afforded the job of ‘observer’ is established from the outset, and emphasises the sense of the absurd from the start.

This sense of the strange is accentuated as a fleet of pastel green cars cross the Sweden/Norway border, each of them towing an egg-like caravan. These are the temporary homes of the Swedish observers – barely big enough to lay down in, yet strangely homely. It’s a good job, too, as the subject Folke is sent to observe is unwilling to let him into his house.

The film is almost wordless at this point, as a series of short scenes demonstrate the stubbornness of the irascible Isak. It’s practically a silent comedy, as Isak locks Folke out, repeatedly turns out the lights on him, and even drills a hole in his own ceiling so that he can observe the observer from the bedroom above. Not only that, but he begins cooking his meals upstairs on a camping stove.

The slow transformation in their relationship is so effective as to be almost invisible. Tentative conversations begin, small favours are done for one another, and gradually the two characters become friends. The sharing of food is key to this – having seen each character eat alone, the sharing of birthday cakes and booze is in sharp contrast to a poignant scene of Folke eating alone in his caravan.

A Swedish smorgasbord is also served up at one point, with both characters enjoying the pickled herring which Folke’s aunt has sent him. It’s symbolic of the burgeoning relationship and understanding of each others’ culture that they can share such a typically Swedish meal, but also serves as a plot device when Folke’s boss turns up, and comes close to realising that the policy of non-interference has been utterly disregarded. It’s a rare moment of tension in the film, and works all the better for Reine Brynolfsson’s performance as the slimy jobsworth Malmberg.

The danger that the pair will be ‘discovered’ becomes central to the plot, as a number of near scares ensue. Isak repeatedly falls asleep in Folke’s observation chair, and is caught there by Malmberg. As well as talking his way out of trouble, he makes excuses for Folke, and thereby saves their friendship. But, more importantly, he saves the Swede’s life in a tragicomic scene caused by the jealousy of Isak’s best friend Ralph.

Clearly this is a touching and tender tale of friendship – and the fact that the characters are in the twilight of their lives makes it more touching still. But beneath the surface, the film has more to say. There are a few mentions of World War II, and its influence on the themes of the film is obvious – initial animosity between the Swedes and Norwegians has roots in resentment over their roles in the conflict. Whilst Norway fought, Sweden remained neutral, and it’s very apparent that the role of the Swedish observer in the film is a comment on their non-violent stance – perhaps implying that it’s not possible to remain neutral after all.

Kitchen Stories is a wonderfully understated – yet affecting – movie. Its heart-warming tale of friendship is what holds it together, but there is a smorgasbord of weird and wonderful events and characters which lift it above many similar films: silver fillings which transmit radio signals; a room filled with pepper; caravans pulled by horses and mishaps with mousetraps. Strangely, it’s not really a story about kitchens at all – cooking takes place elsewhere, and the kitchen scissors are used to provide haircuts. But that’s entirely apt in this beguiling, charming film.

The Bothersome Man

Urban dystopia has been a popular theme for filmmakers over the years. The Bothersome Man takes that tried, tested and clichéd formula and breathes new life into it by combining Orwellian menace with black humour – and more than a touch of Groundhog Day.

Following his apparent suicide, Andreas (Trond Fausa Aurvaag) arrives in a nameless Scandinavian city where he is employed, provided with an apartment and falls effortlessly into a relationship. Unsurprisingly, he soon realises that something is amiss: life is too easy, food is tasteless, and children are conspicuous by their absence. Worse still, booze no longer gets people drunk.

Increasingly anxious, Andreas attempts to inject some excitement into his life by embarking on an affair, before realising that his only option is to escape the homogeneity of the city. Predictably, his efforts are thwarted and hope seems lost – until he befriends Hugo (Per Schaaning). Secreted in Hugo’s cellar is a crack in the wall from which beautiful smells and music are emitted – could this be the escape route Andreas is looking for?

The film opens in a railway station with a scene of the least romantic kissing ever committed to celluloid. It’s distinctly uncomfortable watching a male and female character joylessly chewing each other’s mouths off as the sounds of their lip-smacking are amplified. So uncomfortable, in fact, that Andreas – the tension building on his face – takes the only way out. From the platform, he throws himself under the wheels of an oncoming train. It’s testament to how effective the scene is that his extreme actions seem entirely appropriate.

The film is ambiguous about exactly where Andreas wakes up. Clearly, he ought to be dead. But following a silent bus ride, and a half-hearted welcoming committee, he finds himself in an apartment which apparently belongs to him. Utterly impersonal and decorated in muted colours, it sets the tone for the rest of the unnamed city in which he finds himself. After reporting to an equally nondescript office block, he is given a vague job description, a functional office, and left to get on with it.

So, where has our protagonist found himself? There is a certain Ikea-style blandness and coolness which marks the city out as Scandinavian, but that remains the only certainty. There’s easily enough evidence to suggest that Andreas is in heaven – life is simple, everyone is provided for, and everyone has a purpose. But by the same token, a world where everything is bland and ‘pre-packaged’, detached and emotionless could well be interpreted as hell. Maybe he’s in purgatory? Or perhaps the film is an attack on modern, homogenous living? It’s a strength that events can be interpreted on so many levels so effectively.

It requires an excellent performance from Trond Fausa Aurvag to carry such ambiguity so convincingly – and he really delivers. It’s a role which requires a range of acting talents and Aurvag pulls off slapstick, hangdog, understatement and wild-eyed delight with aplomb. He carries the movie from start to finish: there’s barely a moment without his enigmatic presence.

A number of scenes are key to establishing the other-worldliness of The Bothersome Man, all of which are stylishly underplayed. The first of these occurs as suspicions begin to grow in Andreas’ mind that things are not as they seem. He subsequently severs one of his own fingers in a paper-cutting machine. Spouting blood, his colleagues seem oblivious to the harm he’s done himself – despite the fact that the scarlet blood seeping from his wound is the most colourful thing in their office.

A wonderfully matter-of-fact montage explains the story of how Andreas comes to be in a serious relationship with a woman he barely knows. Over the course of a meal in a restaurant, he flirts clumsily. This leads to a series of short scenes of perfunctory sex and dull interior décor, which perfectly illustrate the alarming ease with which such events occur in the narrative.

Thoroughly disenchanted with his ‘off-the-shelf’ life, Andreas again seeks the answer in suicide. In a revisiting of the opening scene, we again see torturous kissing and a man throwing himself in front of an oncoming train. Only this time it makes more sense – and carries an air of déjà vu. How Andreas survives this attempt is more clear cut – although no more explicable.

Perhaps liberated (or reawakened), Andreas becomes determined to get to the bottom of his predicament. His focus becomes the mysterious Hugo – a man who wears black and white shoes, grumbles vociferously whilst defecating, and lives in a cave-like cellar adorned with a sea of light bulbs. It’s a beautifully understated set, and it becomes key to the denouement of the film, as Andreas and Hugo attempt to unravel the mystery which lurks behind the magical (and peculiarly vaginal looking) crack in the basement. Here, the film seems ever more absurdist (and calls to mind Being John Malkovich) as it speeds towards its inevitable conclusion.

The Bothersome Man is an excellent film. The visuals are stylish, the performances assured and the direction skilful. It draws the viewer into a world which is indefinably strange yet utterly compelling. It adds a new twist to an old and familiar story, weaving elements familiar to the audience with imaginative new ideas to create a film worthy of the many awards it has garnered – and worthy of wider notice than it has received.