October 02, 2014 - 06:02 pm
Pippi Longstocking is being improved by Swedish Television (SVT) reported Expressen in an article with the headline of “SVT Removes Racism from Pippi Longstocking.” In the 1969 version of the children's classic, Pippi referred to her seafaring father affectionately as "negerkung," which literally translates to "negro king," though the Swedish vernacular more or less means "king of the natives." This term and also Pippi's pulling on her eyes pretending to be Chinese is being reedited.
The children of Astrid Lindgren,the popular and prolific Swedish children's book author,who exercise tight control over the profitable Lindgren brand Saltkråkan, have approved the changes. They must have psychic powers because they maintain that their deceased mother would be all for these changes.
This latest revisionist maneuver by Swedish television represents yet another frightful show of political correctness and force. This summer Americans got a taste of Swedish Television's offerings on NBC primetime with the new Poehler sitcom series of Welcome to Sweden, originally produced for and shown on Sweden's TV4. As a Swedish-American I engaged in the unpleasant viewing experience of what was not a funny comedy and wrote several reviews of the show and show's episodes.
Perhaps it is funny in Sweden that the main character, played by Greg Poehler, who is the brother of Amy Poehler, who is also producing the show, appears ashamed and afraid of being an American so that when he encounters a character of Iraqi descent he begins a friendship in which he maintains he is Canadian and certainly not American. The show features several guest stars, among them Gene Simmons of KISS fame, Patrick Duffy (you remember J.R Ewing's little brother), and Will Ferrell (ever the anchorman), and it is not clear if their philosophy of life welcomes Americans being ashamed of being Americans.
The latest Pippi Longstocking debacle and appreciation for the Poehler Welcome to Sweden comedy by Swedes is part of a disturbing trend of the de-Swedification of Sweden. Like tall, proud timber Swedes have had a history of being cut down. After a long rule by the Social Democrats that included the disabling makeover of the country by Olof Palme, the country's ruling parties swung to the right, though in Sweden that would mean being to the left of the Kennedys and Nancy Pelosi, who no doubt would be flattered to be mentioned in Camelot company.
Swedish general elections were held on September 14, 2014, and while the Social Democrats will be able to maintain some power in a coalition government, the Sweden Democrats came in third. It should be explained here that the Sweden Democrats are a conservative party that has logically argued that Sweden cannot sustain mass immigration financially.
Unfortunately, the Sweden Democrats have been called racist and the Swedish people have been silenced or labeled racist if they even dared discuss the inability of Sweden to absorb a large immigrant population in need of immediate and substantial welfare, as they are entitled to by Swedish law. An editorial on Swedish elections in The Guardian should make it clear that even if Swedes want political freedom they will have to deal with propaganda such as this: "All of the action was on the right, where the xenophobic and reactionary Sweden Democrats more than doubled their share of the vote at the expense of the internationalist and technocratic Moderate party.The right wing that marches under a flag triumphed over the right wing that governs from its spreadsheets."
Any national pride of native Swedes continues to receive the harshest of criticisms and Swedish schools are giving in to have the meat their children eat butchered according to Islamic practices.
This butchery is a metaphor that serves well to illustrate what Swedes continue to encounter in their own country. But at least they appear to have a temporary stay of Islamic rule and the proposal of establishment of such a state within its borders, which cannot be said for its neighbor, Norway. Swedes and Norwegians have long been rivals like the Texas Aggies and the University of Texas, but we can only hope that these two nations get together when both the famous bonfire and Bevo equivalent are threatened with extinction due to capitulation in what is a misguided understanding of what inclusiveness means.
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August 04, 2014 - 01:24 pm
When I was a young child I lived in the Amazon. You see, long before I had heard about the famous river or about the mythological Amazon, I lived in my parents' Amazon.
This was the early 1960s, which was relatively non-turbulent in Sweden, at least compared to America and for a child. While particulars of the Amazon, such as its yellow exterior and red seats, a kind of gliding surface, made an impression on me and were confirmed when years later I looked at photos of my father's Amazon (it was more his than my mother's, a real pride in being able to drive and take care of the automobile), it is the stream of memories that stays with me and begins to flow as I write this sentence. I just cannot do a subject-verb construction and leave it at that--unless I enter the territory of, "The Amazon was safe."
How different then my father's and my Amazon from the river so huge and winding and home and death of many explorers and seekers of material things. Our Amazon came during a time when my father, and I suppose others did, too, took pride in being able to buy a Volvo Amazon, just as he took pride in being able to take his family on what would today be considered a modest vacation. It was the good kind of pride, in the form of a sense of accomplishment and the happy family life that came with it.
Much of this family life took of course place outside of our Amazon. When I said that I lived as a young child in the Amazon, I am speaking of the excursion my family took and the part the Amazon was of our protected existence.
I have memories of eating an ice cream on one of our excursions to the zoo. Visiting relatives for birthdays and weddings, when such visits were not a burden or an obligation, not even to my parents. Trips to the grocery store. My father driving our only automobile, the Amazon to work, my memory being his leaving and more exciting, coming home. The Amazon was something good, solid, comforting.
I am not a person who is usually or easily attached to cars. My head does not turn when such and such models drive by, and I could not tell you what car model I am looking at most of the time. But I can see and spot that Amazon anywhere and anytime, instinctively, if it is in the vicinity.
Sightings have been more rare recently, as I live in the Deep South in America, but perhaps there are Amazons hiding in the northern part of the state where woods and trout and a more mountainous region are calling.
But my life in the Amazon lives on with me wherever I go, and there are moments the car appears, young parents and very young child waving, all this set off today by the Volvo Amazon's birthday. Happy Birthday Dear Amazon!
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June 22, 2013 - 03:53 pm
The other night I decided to take in some Bergman. I had a few choices, thanks to Amazon's instant video streaming service. It made it possible for me to avoid my old standby, "The Seventh Seal" ("Det sjunde inseglet"). While it does feature a young, gaunt, and very Nordic looking Max von Sydow, whose hair appears blond and lit like a fire even in black-and-white, after a hectic week at work a scene of him playing chess against Death with a capital D or people dying from the bubonic plague was not necessarily the stimulating intellectual fare I had in mind.
Imagine how delighted I was to come across "Summer with Monika" ("Sommaren med Monika"). What an idyllic title and how beautiful it sounds in Swedish. In addition, frankly, remembering from years stills of the lovely and voluptuous Harriet Anderson as Monika in the nude against the backdrop of the sea and an island, both the reptilian part of my brain and its more reasoning areas were in a receptive mode.
I should have known that Ingmar Bergman would not disappoint. Even my wife, who upon learning that I was going to watch one of his films, was not disappointed, as she retreated to the other end of the house with the dogs and catalogs and a home improvement show on the television. She soon announced, while I turned down the volume, "I can hear lots of Swedish angst screaming!" "Well, that's just how he is," I said, almost feeling the need to defend Ingmar Bergman for not having worked on "Saturday Night Live!" or produced "Scooby-Doo."
I don't know why I had expected Bergman to produce something that was not full of pain, disappointment, with maybe only a moment or pinch of hope. "Sommaren med Monika" is a 1953 film, made when Bergman was young, so why should it have had peace and beauty, even the healing power of love, as offered by the more recent films of Woody Allen, a great admirer and, by his own admission, student of Bergman's work. At least Woody Allen's early works display a sense of humor that is neither biting nor cruel.
"Sommaren med Monika" offers a love story of two young persons. Monika needs no further introduction. The male character, with the unlikely name of Harry Lund, is played by Lars Ekborg. Harry Lund has a very boyish, almost pretty, and innocent look, and his hands tremble when a very assertive Monika asks him to light her cigarette in dreary a bar. She approaches Harry with an aggressiveness that today would earn her the title of "man-eater." Wonder how she came across to film audiences in the 1950's.
The young couple escapes their dead-end jobs and an unsatisfying home life on both fronts by motor-boating to a world of islands that are so lovely in the Swedish summer. Dialogue early on is idyllic in a way that unfortunately turns even the most kind and optimistic filmgoer into a snarky observer. The manner in which the couple carries on about the man getting an education so the two can buy a house, have a child, and the woman stay at home, would make even the most ardent Palme hater hiss with disgust. Bergman manages to ruin any kind of good memories we might have of youthful idealism or loving support of such we might muster. How cruel and sarcastic Bergman is!
The clouds in "Sommaren med Monika" are a recurring tableau, watchable without a soundtrack, even as they heavy-handedly spell out trouble in paradise. And how hard to tune out we are being told that the couple is on a journey when toward the beginning of the film when we are shown the motor boat owned by Harry's father running through bridge after bridge to escape the city and civilization.
We must forgive also Bergman for rendering as if he were stage and prop master intent on not remaining invisible when we watch Monika becoming savage in the absence of civilization when she steals a roast and begins to eat it like an animal. Then there is the almost-killing that the author of "Lord of the Flies" would be proud of which Bergman assigns to Harry Lund.
Since this is a Bergman film and joy and beauty must not be allowed to rule, the couple returns to civilization. And o what a paradise it is not. Monika is pregnant, Harry has to get a job that is still not fun, and what money he brings home to Monika is not enough. Monika makes this very clear. The story continues with the noble Harry trying to study and still the screaming baby while Monika does nothing to help the couple build their future together. Harry, as directed by Bergman, appears a puppet of good and one can only wonder if Bergman wants us to suffer watch the good man suffer or if he wants us to help Harry grow a spine and take action to put an end to his suffering. Monika is a bitch and whore the way Bergman depicts her (I choose these words to convey tone compliments of Bergman and not because I want to use bad language), as she sleeps around while good Harry exists only to show suffering. Even the most diehard feminist upon watching Monika and Harry will be turned into a man's rights activist if there is such a role.
On the other hand, is Ingmar Bergman's portrayal of Monika a once-in-a-lifetime situational sketch? Can we understand and forgive Bergman the artist for perhaps using the film as a therapeutic vehicle for Bergman the man? Many of us know, either from personal experience or having friends whose relationships have ended badly, that anger, even bitterness has its unfortunate place in the lives of human beings. Can we forgive Bergman's heavy-handed moving of the pieces across his chessboard of a film because it is the work of a young filmmaker? Is the lens through which we view "Sommaren med Monika" today clouded by experiences of a world so different from the 1950's that we fail to laud Ingmar Bergman for having created something that was indeed artful when the film first appeared? Do we need to make any excuses for Bergman the artist or man?
When and where will we--Swedes, Swedish-Americans, citizens of the globe--watch Ingmar Bergman films? Will his work endure and more so than simply as a national treasure or monument that is only visited dutifully or not at all? When is the last time you watched an Ingmar Bergman film? Should Swedish school children watch Bergman's work? Will they watch it or is Bergman yet another dying giant who in our current generation is dead on arrival?
As Bergman wrote on a note to his housekeeper, "Om den här osten är Jarlslbärg är jag Kalle Anka!" ("If this cheese is Jarlsbärg, I'm Donald Duck!") Perhaps we have lost our artistic taste buds and ability to appreciate anything that deviates from safe staples.
Lots of Bergman films can be found on quality DVD's. Above, from the Criterion Collection.
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May 18, 2013 - 10:53 am
Americans have a special place in their heart—and head—for serial killers. With much fanfare, NBC this April has launched a new series, “Hannibal,” based on the character of cannibal psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter played so deliciously by Anthony Hopkins in “Silence of the Lambs.” Besides paying well-known actors to populate the series, the show hired a famous chef to beef up the credibility of cooking scenes. Apparently, recipes making use of human parts must be prepared just so.
No, I have not watched the show, but I have heard much about it and Hannibal Lecter, including “Silence of the Lambs,” from my good friend Howard Stiller, who by day is a practicing attorney of quite some renown in these parts of the country where I live. He specializes in representing clients, and “getting them off,” who are often teachers who are accused of doing something sexual they should not have. I know what you are thinking--it will be revealed that my friend Howard by night eats people. Well, you are close. Just take a look at the photo below which shows Howard’s preparations for dinner to sit down to the premiere of "Hannibal."
I do not think that Howard’s obsession with serial killers is much more extreme than that by so many Americans. He is just more open about it and able to make others jealous when they see his talking Hannibal Lecter doll strapped to a gurney when they visit his house.
Mention Jeffrey Dahmer or John Wayne Gacy to even the most hardcore Southern Baptist, and you will see a look of horror and fascination flash across their face. And if you speak with these same God-fearing folk, off-the-record, you will find out they have watched “news” or read about these serial killers. There is something that appeals so very much to the Puritanical, Calvinist streak in people in America as it relates to serial killers. Add to that the element of cannibalism, which is uniquely American in our modern world, and you notice quite a cultural divide if you consider Sweden.
Why is it that Sweden does not produce serial killers? Are the words of Hannibal Lecter in “The Silence of the Lambs” to be believed or interpreted as extreme, American narcissism, when he speaks, “Nothing made me happen. I happened.”? Why does a serial killer in Sweden not happen? Are Swedes born with some kind of “safety-gene”?
It turns out that Sweden has some serial killers, but with a difference. A man named Sture Bergvall, known as Thomas Quick, admitted to at least 28 murders, though he was convicted on the evidence of his own confessions, and some say, fabrications. And in 2012 Peter Mangs was apprehended and referred to as a serial killer. But his m.o., just as Thomas Quick’s, does not fit what we associate serial killers with in the U.S.—cannibalism or something sexual-ritualistic. Mangs attempted several shootings of and killed a few persons who were immigrants.
Further research reveals a “Laser Man” killer in Stockholm. Born of Swiss and German parents in Sweden, he is said to have shot 11 people in the early ‘90’s, xenophobia appearing to have played a part in his actions.
Again, where is the m.o. of the serial killers a la Dahmer and Gacy to be found in Sweden? Are there any homegrown Swedish serial killers? And why not? It can’t be that Sweden is so pretty and the cheese so good that serial killing involving the sexual and eating of body parts cannot emanate from, happen in Sweden.
Or have we found something that is truly unique that can point to Swedes as a peace-loving people, a nation where citizens behave themselves and are not psychologically damaged to the eating extent of Americans. Is Sweden a nation of depressives that find catharsis by watching a Bergman film of psychic mayhem and so are apt to skip Hannibal Lecter and popcorn in front of television or in the movies?
I look forward to next Wednesday, the night my wife and I and three other couples go out to eat. I will have a chance to speak with my friend Howard, and I will hear about what transpired on the episode of “Hannibal” that I missed. As I recall from this week’s dinner, sausages were prepared on the TV show. I can only hope they graduate to something higher up the food chain, like filet mignon.
The American Howard Stiller's preparations for an episode of "Hannibal"--will Swedes follow suit?
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April 30, 2013 - 09:25 am
I am as guilty as many of you. I, too, have been salivating at the headlines announcing IKEA having sold meatballs containing horse meat. But is it really such a bad thing to have horse meat in the meatballs? Do they taste differently? Are they contaminated by something that will pose a health hazard? I think not.
My imagination is probably vivid, but even I am not grossed out by the thought of maybe eating horse meat in my IKEA köttbullar, as long as they taste good. I do not imagine Black Beauty running through a meadow or some cute pony grazing as I spear my meatballs in IKEA’s functional and efficient eating area. IKEA’s meatballs could contain people meat and I would chew them with relish—as long as I am not shortened my allotment of potatoes, and lingonberries remain part of the lunch experience.
Why should we be concerned about this supposed “contamination” of meat? Every time I try to assemble the furniture with the gender- and wordless instructions my flesh and the wooden products of IKEA become one. We are a covenant of curse, flesh, and blood, the distinct design of the furniture covered by a torpor of blood. Makes me want to believe in God, if only I could assemble my furniture in peace and without pain, physical or mental.
IKEA should worry more about their furniture instructions than whether the meatballs have horse in them or not.
Do we ever hear from an IKEA spokesperson addressing the non-functionality of instructions that are to produce functionality? Let’s take the words of an IKEA spokesperson about horse meat and make a substitution (I translate from an Expressen article published February 25, 2013): “We have stopped the sale of furniture [meatballs] from this Swedish producer.” And: “Swedish warehouses have not received part of this shipment of furniture [meatballs], but we are discontinuing sales just to be on the safe side.”
How reassuring. IKEA will not send out any more furniture until it can be safely assembled. And while we are on the subject of pleasing the consumer, let’s drag in the Marabou chocolate controversy, you know, our inability to obtain Marabou chocolate at IKEA stores in the U.S. and have to make do with some kind of store brand instead.
Where is an honest spokesperson to be found? Tell us why you will not provide us with Marabou, IKEA. You think meatballs containing horse meat can come even close to the mental anguish your customers are experiencing not being able to obtain Marabou chocolate at your U.S. stores?
I know, I know. It is all too easy to pick on giant corporations. It has even become fashionable these days. Mandatory in some circles. So, if we let you hear from us via Twitter, IKEA founder who has turned over the business to your sons, will you instruct your public relations people to undo the “damage” done by horse meatballs for sale at your venerable stores by making instructions that will make people stop bleeding and have some time left over during the weekend when they have entered the labyrinthine horror of IKEA furniture assembly?
I await your new instruction book, iPad app please, and while you’re at it, send me some Marabou and meatballs. I really don’t mind if they contain horse meat.
Fika with IKEA anyone?
2 comments
April 12, 2013 - 11:15 am
The other day my life was rudely interrupted. You see, I keep in a nice plastic jar—very transparent—my Sumatra coffee that I prepare every morning. But an almost unspeakable act of invasion had occurred overnight, or at least past my bedtime. The dark, beautiful ground coffee that I like to look at had been transformed into a brownish mixture of ground beans. As I held up the see-through jar to confirm, I observed there were a few dark layers, as in a marble cake, but mostly my Sumatra had been mixed with a coffee I had not bought.
So what is a man of action to do? I thought about pouring out the coffee to salvage the bottom layer that I knew was all Sumatra. But even a morning person does not want to do this immediately after getting out of bed and before having put on one’s glasses. I tried to spoon down to the dark, rich coffee blend and circumvent the brown grounds, but they fell upon my spoon as I pulled up towards the surface of the jar so that I had no choice but to fill the coffee maker basket with the strange new coffee mixture.
And the taste of the brew! I nearly spit it out! I could see the sand move around in my big coffee mug, and drinking the coffee left an aftertaste in my mouth. The coffee also kept on giving me a gift during the morning that no amount of water could dilute.
It wasn’t until my wife and I had time to speak later that night that I found out what horrible substance had made its way into my coffee jar and mug. My wife had picked up Gevalia, buy one get one free, at Target.
Civil, having had my exercise for the day and no longer tasting what only prisoners should taste, I told my wife in a very calm and polite voice that I hated Gevalia. I told her how I hated the English name of the coffee, and how it sounded made up by a marketing team, much like Häagen-Dazs was. Of course I know the coffee was named after Gävle, a city in Sweden, but after drinking the coffee I can only assign the very-similar-sounding adjective “djävla” as an appropriate companion to describe the brew.
I also asked my wife if she didn’t remember the ads that offered coffee subscriptions and, as I found out from visiting a friend’s house, tiny “free” coffee makers if you became a member who would actually drink this stuff more than once. As I remember it, Gevalia coffee was something that pseudo-intellectuals drank in the United States. And, in Sweden, I hope, prisoners had to swallow it daily if they were sentenced to “life.”
My wife mentioned, you guessed it, that incredibly stupid, silly commercial with some guy named Johan who likes to fika. Had I seen it? Unfortunately, yes. Twice almost.
While I admit to being amused and to keeping my eyeballs to the TV set where more than one attractive woman wearing a bikini has eaten fast food and the sauce or other condiments drip onto parts selling sexual intercourse, I would never buy any of that fast food. The taste of the television offering just doesn’t translate to my taste buds. Similarly, I wonder why anyone would buy Gevalia coffee after seeing a silly-looking guy with long, blond hair, wearing some kind of “fashionable” suit, telling viewers in a fake Swedish-American accent that his name is Johan and he likes to “fika.” What a terrible caricature of a Swedish male, so terrible it is not even funny. And the lowest common denominator in the world of word play. If women find Johan sexy, I worry about the continuation of the human species.
No, no more fika for Johan. We need to start a campaign to replace Johan. He needs to be replaced with someone who is authentically Swedish; I just learned Johan is an American. I also need input to what man should be chosen to advertise Gevalia. Or maybe a woman?
It is sad that Gevalia is being advertised. But then, poisons to kill animals and weeds, and foods containing little or no nutritional value are pitched across all media.
In closing, may I ask all Gevalia lovers to take a look at what the coffee grounds of their favorite brand looks like after they have brewed a pot? Oops, I have to stop writing now, my favorite Dachshund, Ilsa, just took a huge dump on the carpet.
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