The article addresses the early years of film in iceland, where the goal is to deepen our knowledge of the main participants in introducing and promoting cinema in iceland at the turn of the 19th century. Two years spanning a three-year period mark the beginnings of the age of film in iceland. The former is 1901 when the Dutch filmmaker F. A. Nöggerath came to film iceland and icelanders for an English film company. The latter year is 1903, when the Norwegian, Rasmus Hallseth and the Swede David Fernander, traveled around the country to screen films for the first time in iceland. These two visits mark the emergence of cinema in iceland. iceland-ers had little prior knowledge of the new medium, which was getting to be widely known around the world, apart from the coverage of newspapers and stories of lucky icelanders who had experienced film screenings abroad. Shows using a predecessor of film, the magic lantern, were held by Sigfús Eymundsson and Þorlákur ó. Jo-hnson in the 19th century. After the introduction of films in 1903, several people put together funds to buy Hallseth's and Fernanders' equipment and began to exhibit films on their own. However, daily performances did not happen until Reykjavik Biograftheater (later ,,Gamla Bíó") was established in 1906. After several attempts by various parties to hold regular screenings in Reykjavik, one could say that cinema did not properly settle in iceland until the establishment of Nýja Bíó in 1913.
This essay offers a succinct but comprehensive overview of Icelandic cinema from its early 20th-century emergence to the present day. Split into two parts, the first half focusses on filmmaking in Iceland prior to the founding of the Icelandic Film Fund in 1978, which was to establish a continuous local film production for the first time. Prior to that filmmaking in Iceland boiled down to the occasional efforts of local amateurs, albeit often quite skilled ones, and professional filmmakers visiting from abroad. Indeed, the few silent feature films made in the country all stemmed from foreign filmmakers adapting Icelandic literature and taking advantage of its photogenic landscapes. The first Icelandic feature was not made until 1948 and although immensely popular, like those that followed in its wake, the national audience was simply too small to sustain filmmaking without financial support. Although this changed fundamentally with the Icelandic Film Fund, which instigated contemporary Icelandic cinema and the subject of the essay's second half, the Fund's support proved insufficient as the novelty of Icelandic cinema began to wear off at the local box office in the late 1980s. The rescue came from outside sources, in the form of nordic and European film funds, whose support was to transnationalize Icelandic cinema in terms of not only financing and production but also themes and subject material. These changes are most apparent in Icelandic cinema of the 1990s which also began to garner interest at the international film festival circuit. In the first decade of the twenty first century, however, American genre cinema began to replace the European art film as the typical model for Icelandic filmmakers. Hollywood itself also began to show extensive interest in Icelandic landscapes for its runaway productions, as did many other foreign film crews. In this way Icelandic cinema is increasingly characterized by not only national and transnational elements but also international ones.
The regulation of film exhibition in Iceland has closely shadowed the history of cinema exhibition itself. Although regulation practices have undergone various shifts and realignments throughout the twentieth century, they retained certain core concerns and a basic ideological imperative having to do with child protection and child welfare. Movies were thought to have a disproportionate impact on children, with "impressionable minds" often being invoked. Their interior lives and successful journey towards maturity were put at risk each and every time they encountered unsuitable filmic materials. Thus, while assuming that adults could fend for them-selves among the limited number of theaters in Reykjavík, children were a whole another matter and required protection. Civic bodies were consequently formed and empowered to evaluate and regulate films. But even in the context of fairly rigorous surveillance and codification, the turn taken by regulatory authorities in the 1980s strikes one as exceptional and unprecedented. The Film Certification Board (TFCB) was, for the first time, authorized to prohibit and suppress from distribution films deemed especially malignant and harmful. Motivating this vast expansion of the powers of the regulatory body were concerns about a variety of exploitation and horror films that were being distributed on video, films that were thought to transgress so erroneously in terms of on-screen violence that their mere existence posed a grave threat to children. Two years after finding its role so radical-ly enlarged, TFCB put together a list of 67 "video-nasties", to borrow a term from the very similar but later moral panic that occurred in Britain. Police raids were conducted and every video store in the country was visited in a nation-wide effort to remove the now illegal films from rental stores. This article posits that the icelandic nasties list can be viewed as something of a unique testament to the extent to which the meaning, aesthetic coherence and the affect of cultural objects is constructed in the process of reception, while also main-taining that the process of reception is thoroughly shaped by historical discourses, social class, embedded moral codes and a social system of values, as well as techno-logical progress. in what amounts to a perfect storm of moralizing, political games-manship and the sheer panic of a certain segment of the population, the governing institutions in iceland managed in the span of months to overturn constitutionally protected rights to free speech and privacy, as well as undermine central principles of the republic. Two decades would pass before these setbacks were recuperated, and then only on a legal and institutional level. While analyzing the history of the icelandic video nasties, the article also attempts to grapple with and articulate the symbolic register of the ban, how it speaks to the status of cinema in Iceland at the close of the twentieth century, and what ideological strains, morals and/or values were being put into play and funneled into this particular debate. Then, to close, the role of the most notorious of the nasties, Cannibal Holocaust (Ruggero Deodato, 1980), is examined in the context of media coverage and parliamentary debates at the time.
A haunted house can either be a monster or the habitat of monsters, or even both. These houses have a unique attraction and a variety of methods to catch their prey. The scariest haunted house in the film Rökkur by Erlingur Óttar Thoroddsen (2017) does not provide shelter from wind and weather as it is not made of wood, concrete or stone. The ghosts in Rökkur are lurking online instead. By using the premises of the horror genre, Erlingur focuses specifically on the dangers that young homosexual men can be facing today. Chat rooms and social media are like hunting grounds for the monsters stalking the main characters. The film also focuses on the staggering silence of survivors of sexual violence, as studies have indicated that male victims are less likely to report the crimes they have suffered.
Húsið (1983) or The House, directed by Egill Eðvarðsson, was the first icelandic fea-ture-length horror film. it follows the tradition of the haunted house genre which was popular between the Seventies and Eighties. The haunted house is a graveyard of gothic secrets but also the place where buried secrets come alive. The haunted house is often a traumatic location or a manifestation of the trauma haunting its inhabitants' minds. Thus, the haunted house horror is usually first and foremost dealing with the horror within the brain of the inhabitants. This article explores how the haunted house in Húsið manifests the protagonist's trauma in terms of recent studies by the psychiatrists Bessel van der Kolk and Onno van der Hart.
The aim of this article is to discuss two contemporary Icelandic novels, Kata by Steinar Bragi and Gott fólk by Valur Grettisson, in connection to interpretations of revenge literature and films in the field of Law and literature. Both novels deal with shortcomings in the legal system and judiciary in dealing with and proving crimes involving rape and sexual abuse. This analysis focuses on how the two novels are connected to the advocacy for change, both for the legislator and the judicial system in Iceland. The novel Kata is named after the protagonist, whose daughter is kidnapped, raped and murdered. Kata decides to revenge her daughter and murder the perpetrators, one by one. Throughout the story the reader is made aware of the necessity of avenge, but still the question of righteousness remains. In Gott fólk the narrator, Sölvi, is put through the accountability process by Sara and her friends, after she accuses him of both mental and sexual misconduct during the time of their relationship. Sölvi experiences the process as revenge, but to the reader it is clear that he is guilty and cannot cope with that realization. The two novels offer a basis for discussion on sexual offence, the legal system, revenge and justice.
