Exam Post 2: Borgen review

Borgen

Immediately following the international success that The Killing became, Danmarks Radio, the Danish public service channel which is also one of the leading channels of the country, has enjoyed a considerable amount of acclaim for its new(er) TV series, Borgen (the short name for Christiansborg, the Danish parliament) of which the 3^rd season is currently being aired in Denmark. It does what nice Sunday evening primetime TV does; it’s well acted and scripted, it’s familiar with a slight twist of exoticism and it raises contemporary issues of gender, family and politics in a pleasant, not-too-intrusive way (not in its storyline at least), all on top of a generous layer of page-turning fiction served up by a strong female character in the lead. Voila! There is little doubt that Borgen is a competently crafted series that even performs the occasional genius move now and then, carefully constructed to suit the mass audience of Danish viewers (who paid for the series through their taxes). And that is perhaps the shows biggest problem.

To the outside world Denmark, and the rest of Scandinavia, seems a safehaven of benefits and gender equality: In example, maternity leave for new mothers is fully paid for 12 months, and can be shared equally by both parents if the father wants to stay at home too (it’s a popular option to share the maternity/paternity leave), and Mom is typically back at the workplace once baby turns 1. Childcare options for working parents are readily available, and while it can be difficult to get both your children (or more) in the same institution if you live in a large metropolitan area with high demand, there is always another option. On paper everything looks great, however underneath the surface even Danes battle gender issues – and Borgen’s subtle comments on this battle is the true quality of the show.

Birgitte Nyborg spends the first two seasons on Borgen as the first female Prime Minister of Denmark and leader of the fictitious political party, The Moderates. At the outset she is married to a hunky, brainy man, has two school aged kids and a lovely home with a democratically appropriate amount of Scandinavian design items. As the tedious job consumes her more and more it all begins to crumble; her husband divorces her, her daughter suffers significantly under her absence from the home, she loses what should have been her reelection, in short: life is tough going when you have to parent, govern a country and discover that a happy family life doesn't necessarily fit in two full-on-careers at the same time (or was it the other way around), but most of all the show seems to be saying, when you're a woman. In the beginning of season 3, two years have passed – a wise move of the writers of the series - since last and Birgitte is trying to make a comeback in politics after having pursued her career in a private corporation abroad for a while.  

Borgen presents itself as a political drama, but the political plot often reads predictably as a recapitulated Stratego match ("we have to give them this so that they will give us that") that looks to occasionally be needed merely to legitimize it as a political drama, a tendency that is strengthened throughout the 3rd season. For Birgitte is through-and-through an idealist and although some corners just aren't made for cutting, as she's told over and over by her colleagues, she wants to do it all, implicitly understood in the morally correct ways, that is. When, for instance, she is served a juicy piece of dirt on a silver platter and has the choice to take out a political opponent whose methods against her have been repulsively low, we already know it won’t happen. Her incorruptible ideals become a blockade that hinders her from entering into personal conflict in the political drama, which we must then look to her personal life for.

While Borgen claims to be a political drama, it seems more a gender drama at heart. Three seasons in this is the emerging image one gets as Borgen wrestles itself over and over: If Danmarks Radio wanted to actually make a true political drama for the masses, they would, according to the premises they themselves set up, have been better off casting a male Prime Minister, for with Birgitte comes the (apparently still) inevitable question without which this show could not legitimize itself as 'realistic' according to its creators: how can a woman run a country and a household with two kids successfully at the same time? This conflict which is constantly at play in the narrative functions almost on a meta-level that ultimatively is a social comment. The discrepancy between the genre of political drama and what Borgen really becomes corresponds to how gender equality in Denmark is an official fact, yet shatters in real womens lives on a daily basis.

Legislation can only create a certain amount of gender equality – and perhaps Denmark is nearly as close as a developed, capitalist-economy country can get. A good example of this is how a full year of paid maternity leave works as much against women as it works for them. For what happens when a small business is looking to hire much needed labor for their growing enterprise and their qualified but childless, 28-year old female candidate indirectly presents them with the severe risk of having to fund one, two or maybe even three full years of maternity leave and bring in temps, taking up even more ressources? The sort of discrimination that takes place when employers chose to not run such risks is hard to track and document, yet many women are left with solid clues that it has happened to them. Birgitte represents the next issue of mothers who also have career jobs, and the depiction of her life and hardships hits the nail on the head: Can you really be a good mother while being out of the home 55 hours a week or more? Can your marriage survive if you deny your husband his career in sacrifice of your own? Can we trust that leaving our children in institutions will not damage them? All these questions are prominent in shaping the discourse of Danish gender discussions.

One might speculate that such questions are only the manifestations of how gender inequality is being legitimized, but for some women who leave their children to be raised in the hands of strangers, it becomes a nagging question. And for a nation who has taken pride in this practice for decades and constantly receives praise for having done so, there comes a day when it must ask itself: is this truly the best for our children or could we do better?

If you hope for West Wing, Borgen will likely let you down. But if you’re curious to see how gender equality intersects with the politics of real life in Denmark, give it a go. Whether or not Denmark’s issues are too hypocritical for your taste will likely depend on your own origins.

Exam post 1: Nail Polish revised

What a nail polish stash says about society at large

Before I moved to Honolulu to study abroad for the final year of my BAs nail polish was something I would randomly smear on my nails whenever a significant occasion would present itself, and then gradually pick off over the course of the following days/weeks (depending on how many boring lectures I'd attend). I had already been to the US for vacations prior to my move and knew it was a shopping mecca for a heavily taxated North European, so for months before going I refrained from any material temptations. As a result I arrived in Honolulu with savings specifically dedicated to shopping and an empty suitcase.

As those savings emptied I discovered a nifty trick: A bottle of nail polish could spice up almost any boring old look at the passable cost of 5-8 dollars, and so the seeds to my polish infatuation were sown. Before long I could intuitively spot the outline, shadow or logo of a bottle of Essie or OPI at astonishing distances and would track it down without any hesitations, thinking to myself "is that a bottle of Big Apple Red?". Soon I would roam the streets of Honolulu hunting for new polish joints. The best places would always be the dodgy drug marts / souvenir shops where a large plastic bin would typically hold the potential of delivering an amazing find. Before long I had, needless to say, accumulated a solid collection of varnishes. Little did I know what I had come across.

Not so many decades ago, women had to search long and hard to locate more than a dozen or two of shades if they wanted to paint their nails for special occasions or everyday indulging. That all changed in the early 1980's as two of the now leading brands of nail lacquers, OPI and Essie, saw the light of day and largely changed the way women thought about nail varnish. The signifiers of their products were not the then usual numbers that had previously been used to identify that burning coral red or the subtle baby pink; instead (I don't know who started the practice, both brands are recognized for it although OPI tends to do more word play that Essie, the more conservative one of the two) you could now go to the salon and have your nails painted in the hue of "Ballet Slippers" or "I don't give a Rotterdam". It was a brilliant move, not only filling a gap in the consumers' life they didn't even know existed, but giving those gaps names that would stick even after the polish had been removed. Since then the market for nail lacquers has exploded, it's an affordable luxury item. Today a quick google search will reveal an excess of nail bloggers who will review formulas, swatch colors (nail/color lingo for uploading - preferably - high quality photos in good lighting that displays the true color of a polish as it may be impossible to tell all the qualities of a color while it's in the bottle) and analyze the details of new collections (brands like OPI and Essie typically release 4-6 collections per year), identifying dupes  or duplicates (colors that are indistinguishable from each other across brands and years), debating similarities between China Glaze's For Audrey and Essie's Mint Candy Apple (one has more green) and listing detailed facts about personal polish collections sufficient in size to repaint The White House into a thousand similar, slightly different whites. Surely, the internet has made this galore possible, but one may ask herself as she's about to buy her 5th cobalt blue polish (they're not the same, they're similar), what's in a color?

As my own collection has grown (yet not to the point of making possible a White House paint-job) I have been increasingly confronted by this question. Not so much by myself as by my better half with whom I've cohabited for two years by now, and with whom I've moved from Canada to Switzerland. I mention this as it was the first incident when the matter of my tendency was brought up. And it was, for the apparent reason that if you're suddenly faced with the need to transport 7 kilos worth of nail polish across the atlantic in a check-in bag, you may find yourself endeavoring to devise a protective russian doll-like construction of nail polishes in ziploc bags in socks in shoes. This venture will be noted. And comments will be made. In my case they were not understanding.

Following this confrontation I found myself much more aware to keep my 'hobby' under the radar, because I knew he would never understand it, similar to how I would never understand the need to own five pairs of skis or four pairs of soccer shoes – yet I didn’t judge him, nor did anyone else it seemed. It boggled me: to me they represented the same material refuge from everyday life. when you're painting your nails, racing across that field, flying down that slope, you're not thinking about your tax returns or the constantly returning task of vacuuming your white tile floors - You're simply suspended from reality for a short while.

But at some point a collection of anything material grows beyond the point where it's a simple afternoon or hours worth of serene, thoughtless refuge.

As pastime hobbies and leisurely pursuits are being transformed from exactly what they are - relaxing diversions from the stresses of modern life that we engage in solely for our own, selfish enjoyment - into resources increasingly seen and thought of deliberately as a way of investing in our ability to be ever more efficient workers, producing ever more cost-effective, streamlined labor in all aspects of our existence, exorbitant collections of nail lacquers, skis or soccer shoes may serve as a form of seizure of power against the fiscalization of our lives. Yet they do so through the means of it, thereby possibly mocking it further. "Oh, how joyous it is to be the owner of something as useless as 500 bottles of nail polish!" In your face, cost efficienct society. I refuse to play your game.

The differences in how our respective collections of polish and ski-gear were perceived (even by myself) I now know has to do with gender ideals- and images more than anything else. Nail polish is a product tagged as overly feminine and perhaps therefore frivolous and excessive, and there is a difference in how men and women are perceived engaging with these terms. The playfulness which women enter into by collecting and using nail polish has to do with enhancing femininity and sexuality, but in recent years have also changed from being ghetto to fashion. Being a little girl in the 90´s I still remember some of the nail polishes my mom would wear on special occassions, and I would sigh at the thought of getting to wear them myself, they were like breasts - aspirational and completely representative of the womanly. My parents were openminded people, but they didn't feel it was appropriate for their 6-year old child to sport a vampy red nail color, and thus it was forbidden and therefore even more alluring to my greedy eyes. And I can still visualize the results of my renegade polish heist one afternoon; my fingertips covered in lumpy red paint and my moms reaction when she discovered the marks on the couch. There's something so ridiculously femme-fatale-sexy, in that completely stereotypical understanding of what sexy embodies, about red nails. Today the range of colors considered appropriate to wear is ever expanding and I can wear red any day if I want to, the aspirational level inherent in the product is of course intact even as one reaches polish maturity.

Given the thoughts I've been giving to my silly obsession it struck a cord in me lately when I saw that OPI had released a Bond Girls-themed collection of colors. (Yes, as in James Bond; they often pair up with singers or film productions.) Now, sure I'll buy a polish from a Shrek- or Muppets collection, but were they really designing and selling women nail colors representing the possibly most blatantly misogynistic series of films ever produced? Were OPI mocking those who bake their bread and churn their butter? I had the feeling they were. What was I to make out of this? What aspirational level was implied in this line of products? As I stood there, examining hues like "Pussy Galore" - sure, naming the female lead 'Pussy' is totally fine, not discriminating at all - I suddenly lost my appetite for color.

This was all until I made the realisation that perhaps something entirely different was at play here. That polish-mania, both my own and the overall polish-mania of the entire blogosphere, perhaps serves as a way of claiming the female right to frivolousness and a way of taking charge of previous depictions and imagery of female sexuality through its excesses. But who really knows? Until I know more, I will keep calm and paint on with a smile on my face and a polish collection that is now living a public life on display in our shared home.  

BEA

BEA,  3-12.5 2013, Bern Expo

As I have spent an approximate 10 months of my life in Calgary, home to the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth, The Annual Calgary Stampede (which I duly attended for a nauseating full day and heard about for a full nauseating year), visiting the BEA this Sunday felt like a flashback to a place and time when I better understood what people around me were saying and owned way more plaid shirts. Besides these two significant factors the only thing different was the lessened number of slutty cowgirls and the equally lessened number of tribal-tattooed douchebags. Don't take this as if there won't be magnificent stereotypes at the BEA. They've just shifted. 

The BEA was first held in 1951 and has since grown to become the third largest trade fair in Switzerland, nowadays attracting more than 900 sellers and exhibitors to the grounds of the Bern Expo site every Spring. It was established with the purpose of hosting cultural highlights for the entire family, including even a Hausfrauentag and free cinema showings in its first year. The curious concoction of livestock on show, food stalls supplying various greasy goodness, whirlpools or waterbeds on sale, corporate networking, themed displays and zippy amusement park rides that make up the present day BEA is in all its randomness at the heart of the experience. The grounds are enormous and come in many sections, both indoors and outdoors, with the Bern Expo main building housing the absolute largest body of represented businesses of all sizes and purposes. A permanent part of the BEA is the annual exhibit of a Swiss region, Kanton or city (this year it's Bern's time to shine, last year it was Berner Oberland and the year before Emmental), and nostalgia for the national is found throughout the Bernese happening that BEA is. Take a look at this years advertisements for the BEA, which I'm sure you've seen on public transit lately, and you'll see where I'm getting at. 

http://bealea.beapferd.ch

The BEA succeeds in the perplexing task of catering to an incredibly wide, yet narrow audience. The BEA's longstanding affiliations with the agricultural industry guarantees a certain audience, the tivoli vibe pulls in teenagers and the petting zoos entice children of all ages. And the rest? Walking through the entire thing I felt like hiking through the physically embodied version of the internet; the place where pop-up ads / corner stalls will notify you of desires that had never even registered with you before. Unidentifiable artifacts embossed with wolf packs howling at the moon, portable whirlpools or the hottest new vacuum cleaners, things you'd never even thought would exist are all there. It is different and even charming, but the value of the BEA lies not within its selection of oddities. It lies, like for the Calgary Stampede, within the social significance and identity it accommodates for the city of Bern - although not specifically so. 

The BEA in all its strange glory is so specific yet so random that sense is lost on multiple levels. Call it a late Monday night, but my google research did not even reveal what BEA stands for. It is, however a Bernese institution and piece of local history, and if nothing else you would cheat yourself out of a charred Bratwurst, a beer and some sore feet and laughing muscles if you skipped going. But hook up with another foreigner; I'll bet you a candy floss and a wolf pack t-shirt that all your Bernese friends have already been BEA'ed out as kids. 

What my nail polish stash says about society at large and what OPI thinks of their customers in a worst case scenario.

Before I moved to Honolulu to study abroad for the final year of my BAs I had little experience with nail polish. Up until then it was something I would randomly smear on my nails whenever a significant occasion would present itself and then gradually pick off over the course of the following days/weeks (depending on how many boring lectures I'd attend). I had already been to the US for vacations prior to my move and knew it was a shopping mecca for a heavily taxated North European, so for months before going I refrained from any material temptations. As a result I arrived in Honolulu with savings specifically dedicated to shopping and an empty suitcase. 

As those savings emptied I discovered a nifty trick: A bottle of nail polish could spice up almost any boring old look at the passable cost of 5-8 dollars, and so the seeds to my polish infatuation were sown. Before long I could intuitively spot the outline, shadow or logo of a bottle of Essie or OPI at astonishing distances and would track it down without any hesitations like a cat in heat, thinking to myself "is that a bottle of Big Apple Red?". Soon I would roam the streets of Honolulu hunting for new polish joints. The best places would always be the dodgy drug marts / souvenir shops where a large plastic bin would typically hold the potential promise of delivering an amazing find. Before long I had, needless to say, accumulated a solid collection of varnishes (and a ditto tan). Life was good. 

Not so many decades ago, women had to search long and hard to locate more than a dozen or two of colors if they wanted to paint their nails for special occasions or everyday indulging. That all changed in the early 1980's as two of the now leading brands of lacquers, OPI and Essie, saw the light of day and largely changed the way women thought about nail varnish. The signifiers of their products were not the then usual numbers that had previously been used to identify that burning coral red or the subtle baby pink; instead (I don't know who started the practice, both brands are recognized for it although OPI tends to do more word play that Essie, the more conservative one of the two) you could now go to the salon and have your nails painted in the hue of "Ballet Slippers" or "I don't give a Rotterdam". It was a brilliant move, not only filling a gap in the consumers' life they didn't even know existed, but giving those gaps names that would stick even after the polish had been removed. Since then the market for nail lacquers has exploded, it's an affordable luxury item. Today a quick google search will reveal an excess of nail bloggers who will review formulas, swatch colors (nail/color lingo for uploading - preferably - high quality photos in good lighting that displays the true color of a polish as it may be impossible to tell all the qualities of a color while it's in the bottle) and analyze the details of new collections (brands like OPI and Essie typically release 4-6 collections per year), identifying dupes  or duplicates (colors that are indistinguishable from each other across brands and years), debating similarities between China Glaze's For Audrey and Essie's Mint Candy Apple (one has more green) and listing detailed facts about personal polish collections sufficient in size to repaint The White House into a thousand similar, slightly different whites. Surely, the internet has made this galore possible, but one may ask herself as she's about to buy her 5th cobalt blue polish (they're not the same, they're similar), what's in a color? 

As my own collection has grown (yet not to the point of making possible a White House paint-job) I have been increasingly confronted by this question. Not so much by myself as by my better half with whom I've cohabited for two years by now, and with whom I've moved from Canada to Switzerland. I mention this as it was the first incident when the matter of my tendency was brought up. It was, for the apparent reason that if you're suddenly faced with the need to transport 7 kilos worth of nail polish across the atlantic in a check-in bag, you may find yourself endeavoring to devise a protective russian doll-like construction of nail polishes in ziploc bags in socks in shoes. This venture will be noted. And comments will be made. In my case they were not understanding. 

Since then I've been much more aware to keep my 'hobby' under the radar, because I know he will never understand it, similar to how I will never understand the need to own five pairs of skis or four pairs of soccer shoes. Yet they represent the same material refuge from everyday life: when you're painting your nails, racing across that field, flying down that slope, you're not thinking about your tax returns or the constantly returning task of vacuuming your white tile floors - You're simply suspended from reality for a short while. But at some point a collection of anything material grows beyond the point where it's a simple afternoon or hours worth of serene, thoughtless refuge. 

As pastime hobbies and leisurely pursuits are being transformed from exactly what they are - relaxing diversions from the stresses of modern life that we engage in solely for our own, selfish enjoyment - into resources increasingly seen and thought of deliberately as a way of investing in our ability to be ever more efficient workers, producing ever more cost-effective, streamlined labor in all aspects of our existence, exorbitant collections of nail lacquers, skis or soccer shoes may serve as a form of seizure of power against the fiscalization of our lives. Yet they do so through the means of it, thereby possibly mocking it further. "Oh, how joyous it is to be the owner of something as useless as 500 bottles of nail polish!" In your face, cost efficiency society. I refuse to play your game.

But there is another aspect of the polish-mania that I can't help to notice. It's a product loaded with so much femininity, an almost mythical femininity. Being a little girl in the 90´s I still remember some of the nail polishes my mom would wear, and I would sigh at the thought of getting to wear them myself, they were like breasts - aspirational and completely representative of the womanly. My parents were openminded people, but they didn't feel it was appropriate for their 6-year old child to sport a vampy red nail color, and thus it was forbidden and therefore even more alluring to my greedy eyes. And I can still visualize the results of my renegade polish heist one afternoon; my fingertips covered in lumpy red paint and my moms reaction when she discovered the marks on the couch. There's something so ridiculously femme-fatale-sexy, in that stereotypical understanding of what sexy embodies, about red nails. Today the range of colors considered appropriate to wear is ever expanding and I can wear red any day if I want to, the aspirational level inherent in the product is of course intact even as one reaches polish maturity.

Given the thoughts I've been giving to my silly obsession it struck a cord in me lately when I saw that OPI had released a Bond Girls-themed collection of colors. (Yes, as in James Bond; they often pair up with singers or film productions.) Now, sure I'll buy a polish from a Shrek- or Muppets collection, but were they really designing and selling women nail colors representing the possibly most blatantly misogynistic series of films ever produced? (If you're a cultural dyslexic or just plain forgetful, here's a list of examples of some of the stellar sexism brought to the world by James Bond over the years. http://movies.uk.msn.com/features/james-bond-sexist-misogynist-dinosaur?page=8#image=1) Were OPI mocking those who bake their bread and churn their butter? I had the feeling they were. What was I to make out of this? What aspirational level was implied in this line of products? As I stood there, examining hues like "Pussy Galore" - sure, naming the female lead 'Pussy' is totally fine, not discriminating at all - I suddenly lost my appetite for color. 

For reasons entirely selfish I don't want to call nail polish a latently misogynistic type of product, but there is a conflict between the way it is marketed in for instance OPI's Bond Girls collection and the way it's consumed by women. Women who, in spite of these products being affordable (yet OPI costs 23,90 francs per bottle in Switzerland making it significantly less affordable than it is in North America where the going rate for a bottle is between 9-11 bucks) still need a certain financial leverage to accumulate collections as large as those I've seen documented online, thereby obviously being independent members of society. What do we fantasize about when we paint our nails? I think I need some more time to sort through it, and maybe there'll be a part 2 some day if it turns out there's any more to it, but for now rest assured that you won't see any Pussy Galore on my fingertips any time soon. 

The Place Beyond the Pines

The Place Beyond the Pines

From the moment the film starts I am pleased. We're at a traveling circus and we're following right behind Luke (Ryan Gosling) as he's walking through the grounds to the tent in which he's simultaneously being presented. Here he tosses his smoke, gets on his bike and accelerates off into the perfect visual metaphor which the globe of death is, in which he makes his living as a stunt driver. On the carnival grounds we feel the stickiness of candy floss and we smell the burnt popcorn as he post-show is confronted with an old flame; Romina (Eva Mendes). Not many words are exchanged, but oh, don't we feel the gazes between them holler out for the past? 

This is a difficult movie to review without spoiling it, and therefore I have to be as wordless and yet as descriptive as our two former lovers. One thing I might as well reveal straight off; I enjoyed this film and did not, in spite of its length (almost 2,5 hours), check my watch even once. I tend to have the attention span of a golden retriever, only if there are treats or cuddles awaiting me will I dedicate myself for such a wealth of time, but for this I remained calmly in place.

The film very clearly functions as a play in three acts, each focusing on its own main character, ensemble like. Luke and Romina have had a brief, but seemingly passionate affair last time the circus was in town, for as we learn a baby boy is now the result. Luke (always wears t-shirts inside out, overly tattooed) sees the boy and quits his job on the spot to stay behind and provide for his new family. But he's an outsider to society and the only way he's successful in raising money is by robbing banks which is going pretty well due to his…. stunt driving capabilities. Yes. Ding-ding-ding, the bells are ringing; and if you saw Drive from 2011 you know what bells I'm talking about. I'm still impressed by Drive, sadly most by its enthralling aesthetics and score, and not so much by the underdeveloped characters. Here Gosling also plays a mythical, mystical stunt driver who acts as a getaway driver for hire for bank robbers. This particular character is apparently on stock in Gosling and although I couldn't think of anyone else to portray Luke, I had the feeling that Gosling is slightly overcast and doesn't do enough to shake off Drive. Gosling does what he's good at, and what producers and directors hire him for, he delivers great close ups of his puppy-dog-macho face which most of the films he's in takes consistently advantage of. It's fair play, but I miss seeing more. (As a matter of fact, Gosling recently announced his retirement from acting which disappoints me as I have a feeling we haven't seen all he's got yet.) 

After a series of good runs things turn sour for Luke however, and in steps Avery (Bradley Cooper), and idealistic lawyer turned street cop who's now on the hunt for Gosling. But life is hard on a good man like Avery, probably harder than it is on most, because he suddenly finds himself in a hornet's nest of corruption at his workplace. Avery represents the discrepancy between theory, the law, and practice, the police force in which he's working his way up, and the film largely operates from within this vacuum between the two, refreshingly without much judgement or presupposition. And this is the greatest virtue of The Place Beyond the Pines, which it unfortunately lets increasingly go off as the film moves into its 3rd act which is the most troubled of them all (for good reasons that I won't mention here out of respect for those who like surprises.)

In a peculiar way this film is at the same time completely clear in its agenda, it is also elusive and vague. There is an obvious and weighty thematic of father-son-relationships that remains somewhat floating, there is the thematic of human morale which is similarly afloat but to my great joy. This leads me to my ultimate problem with The Place Beyond the Pines; it is a difficult excersise for a piece of fiction to not pass judgement on morale, and although it does in glimpses, it remains surprisingly free of it. But there's a fine line between letting a motion picture speak for itself and washing it out in oblivion. 

The Place Beyond the Pines is tilting towards washing itself out for me as I ultimately left the cinema with an unsettling feeling that director Derek Cianfrance (Blue Valentine) wanted more to make a great film than a great film with a voice. The fact that Cianfrance recently made the plunge into directing cinematic film from having established an entire career on making TV documentaries ("Black and White: A Portrait of Sean Combs" from 2006; the title alone describes the issues of The Place Beyond the Pines pretty well), and we're still seeing remnants of his inner documentarist. Although the documentary genre, when well done, possesses some of the same qualites as cinematic works of fiction, they too have to balance fine lines. I would claim that whereas great documentaries (and I didn't see Cianfrance's Sean Combs portrait, no.) utilize storytelling as a technique to bring alive and appropriately dramatize a story that the director is cutting like a diamond (preexisting before his interest, latently waiting), cinematic film needs another level of nourishment to come alive and stand out, and Cianfrance doesn't deliver enough. Perhaps this will be his trademark, but he clearly has his stories to tell, and I think I'd like to see more of those.

Cheryl Strayed, Wild

Published March 2012

"But it was too late now, I knew, and there was only my dead, insular, overly optimistic, non-college-praparing, occasionally-child-abandoning, pot-smoking, wooden-spoon-wielding, feel-free-to-call-me-by-my-name mom to blame. She had failed. She had failed. She had so profoundly failed me. Fuck her, I thought, so mad I stopped walking. And then I wailed." 

In the wake of the sudden death of her mother, a marriage failed by her own numerous affairs and flirtations with drug abuse, Cheryl Strayed decides to wander the Pacific Crest Trail during the summer of 1995 in an effort to bring her life back on track. Written some 17-18 years later, Strayed relives the life altering trip while offering occasional glimpses of her unstable early childhood, atypical upbringing in Minnesota and the painful loss of her mother and her subsequent marital crisis and divorce. All of which contribute to her arrival at the breaking point that makes her hit the trail with virtually no expertise, a helpless excess of weighty items and a shattered heart full of ambivalence. This autobiography looks and reads like something you pick up in the airport bookshop before heading out for a week under the sun, but in addition it packs some great moments that, although this book would amount to be only a minor literary feat at the very best, makes the book a real page turner with an honesty and freshness that I haven't encountered in a while. 

There is an almost banal yet universal Kierkegaard-esque "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards" truth to Cheryl's experiences as she describes them, but although I found myself sympathetic to her throughout most of the book I could not help to get annoyed with the fact that she seems weirdly unreflected about her own situation through vast portions of the book. In a peculiar way I felt this lack of reflection projected onto my own reading experience. I chugged it down over the course of two days, crying unwillingly over sections that I suspect were perhaps put there to make me cry, rooting for Cheryl as she made her way up North towards her goal, feeling the tension as the last cents are being counted, cringing at the various descriptions of lost toe-nails, blistered feet and bleeding limbs. Now, writing this, I pound myself on the head. Why did I fall for this? When my mom endorsed Eat, Pray, Love to me some years ago I promised myself to never spend my precious time reading through it. Coming from Scandinavia where we're bottle-fed a multitude of tales about hurt but strong-willed, adventurous, in-transformation women I asked myself: how many of those does the world really need?

Perhaps more than I thought. Like Eat, Pray, Love came into its filmic being with Julia "I'm-gonna-eat-a-pizza-and-change-my-life-by-not-counting-the-calories" Roberts, Wild is now also making the transition onto the silver screen starring Reese Witherspoon. Whether it's romanticized India or 

the nostalgic yearning for the authentic Italiy or the rough, demanding terrain of the Pacifc Crest Trail, there seems to be a significant interest in witnessing women's real life experiences as they venture out into the great unknown in times of deep personal crisis. Several elements feed into this type of novel: They undoubtedly romanticize the mobility theme in order to be picked up by the very audience that would also devour the common low brow chick lit novels. They mostly function at the level of amplifying the banal ("I'd set out to hike the trail so that I I could reflect upon my life, to think about everything that had broken me and make myself whole again." Strayed, pp 106 in the e-book). Contemporary, easily devoured Bildungsromane that follow the standard trajectory of rock-bottom, crisis, action, emerging. Let's make clear that there's nothing new to any of the formal aspects of Wild. And while the content is not exactly ground-breaking either, I feel compelled to recognize that Wild represents a break from the passively waiting for Mr. Right, mind numbingly chattering Carrie Bradshaw's who have pestered us in the past decades with their layers of couture and make-up. While Cheryl Strayed doesn't teach me anything fundamentally revolutionizing, she does assume an agency that I have missed witnessing in the lighter genre literatures written by women, and she does tell her story with a pleasing amount of self irony. But ultimately she leaves me with the same ambivalence she herself carries throughout her journey: the uncertainty of whether it's love or hate that drove me through 400 pages of hurting feet.

Lunch at Crêperie le Carrousel

Situated strategically on a prominent corner on Länggasse, next to the similarly bohemian Parterre, this (literally) little creperie functions as a bright spot in the concrete landscape as you approach it. Lunch hours are busy, as are the after-work hours, where the clientele seems to consist of both the dedicated stream of university students who are easily and generously absorbed from the main street, as well as what looks like a steady audience of friends and acquaintances of the staff and owners continuously riding along (pun intended). The decor is a familiar one of romantic elements like chandeliers, wooden chairs and slightly creaky floorboards, although it also appropriates the occasional kitschy gum ball machine to break it up. The staff is less French than the place otherwise proposes to be, happily taking orders and making suggestions. The limited scope of the menu is both a strength and a weakness, the strongest focus being on sweet crepes and savory galettes, all readily prepared in the open bar/kitchen in the front of the creperie. Both are consistently satisfying although at risk of being uniform in their expressions; sweet is often overly sweet and dolloped with favorites such as caramel, chocolate and fruits that give rise to the empty belly's yearning but runs the risk of leaving you slightly nauseated. The strongest cards on the menu are where contrasts are at play in evergreens such as lemon and sugar or manchego and figue, complementing each other and making you want more. Portions are on the small side, generally suited for a light lunch or large snack if you are a petite French woman, which neither in the our party of 3 was. The different variations of coffee were randomly similar and seemed distinguished merely to the same extent as buttons on an industrial coffee machine, although strong and generally satisfying for those who don't discriminate too harshly between their lattes and cappuccinos. 

Crêperie le Carrousel

Hallerstrasse 1
3012 Bern