Like the choir from Finnmark, I had occasion to visit northern Russia during the summer of 2000. They were as astonished as I to find a very sharp contrast indeed between their settled, middle-class lives at home and the chaotic waste of Murmansk. Yet they connected, as did I, with an initially reluctant and sombre Russian people. Consider for a moment what a hellish past those souls have to live with, compared with life in a northern Scandinavian fishing village which, except for 1940-45, has been recently no more than a leisurely slide into economic oblivion.
Listening to the casual words of the old Norwegian gentlemen as they bare their own personal histories, one senses this film is more than a documentary. It succeeds in assessing life much as a novelist might, engaging in subtle character sketches against the spectacular backdrop of midnight sun, roaring sea, blizzards, and the stark, ever-present silhouette of Arctic sky. It was like listening to one of Garrison Keillor's tales of "Norwegian bachelor farmers" who are a mainstay of Minnesota folklore.
As a sidenote, I was amused to hear the choir sing a hymn that was, if memory serves correctly, penned by a distant cousin of mine from Iowa in 1857. Sung with different words and in Norwegian, of course. It began life as "The Little Brown Church in the Vale" and has evolved into something sung with exactly the same sense as a memory of a white church in Finnmark.
Crossing boundaries often results in noting that life is very much the same everywhere among common folk. Wherever you go, there you are.
Listening to the casual words of the old Norwegian gentlemen as they bare their own personal histories, one senses this film is more than a documentary. It succeeds in assessing life much as a novelist might, engaging in subtle character sketches against the spectacular backdrop of midnight sun, roaring sea, blizzards, and the stark, ever-present silhouette of Arctic sky. It was like listening to one of Garrison Keillor's tales of "Norwegian bachelor farmers" who are a mainstay of Minnesota folklore.
As a sidenote, I was amused to hear the choir sing a hymn that was, if memory serves correctly, penned by a distant cousin of mine from Iowa in 1857. Sung with different words and in Norwegian, of course. It began life as "The Little Brown Church in the Vale" and has evolved into something sung with exactly the same sense as a memory of a white church in Finnmark.
Crossing boundaries often results in noting that life is very much the same everywhere among common folk. Wherever you go, there you are.