Themes of race and ethnicity became increasingly prevalent in Danish cinema from the
mid-1990s onwards. Although first- and second-generation immigrant characters have
appeared across a variety of genres, representations of ethnicity, and in particular
ethnic conflict, have chiefly emerged in a particular style of film, specifically
one involving conventions associated with gangster cinema. These films share a visual
language where gritty urban dilapidation, explorations of the seedy underground side
of city life, and marginal down-and-out characters are fused cinematically with a
documentary-realist aesthetic. Most also feature ethnic or immigrant gangsters, typically
involved with street-level hustling or the organized narcotics trade. Consequently,
as these films mine transnational gangster tropes but largely set them in a recognizably
Danish context, they bring up relevant questions about the role of genre cinema as
a representative tool for capturing contemporary problems with race and ethnic identity
in Denmark. Consequently, we must also consider how these populist genre conventions
have emerged in the Nordic countries.
Recent scholarship addressing genre in the small nation film cultures of the Nordic
region has blossomed with anthologies like Pietari Kääpä and Tommy Gustafsson’s Nordic Genre Film (2015) exploring the depth and variation of the subject. Despite the enduring prevalence
and popularity of genre cinema throughout Nordic film history, the respective Nordic
film institutes were traditionally more inclined to invest in a signature style of
Nordic film characterised by “existential artistry” (Kääpä and Gustafsson 1) or socially
conscious subject matter. The government-backed funding structures of
these institutes perceived such qualities to be more valuable and artistically relevant,
and this reputation has developed through international festival circuits. However,
from the 1980s onwards, structural and operational transformations in the Nordic film
industries have radically altered the relationship between institutional support and
this form of national art cinema. Embracing the commercial potential of genre cinema
stems from an emerging generation of filmmakers influenced by Hollywood (Kääpä and
Gustafsson 1-17).
One of the unique permutations of genre film to emerge in this small region and one
that is highly relevant for discussing the films in this article forms part of what
Andrew Nestingen has identified as the medium concept film. Medium concept films represent
a merging of imported genre formats with nationally relevant topics, especially social
issues, or political debate. Consequently, such films represent a midpoint between
commercial and art cinema where:
medium concept can be understood as filmmaking that involves the adaptation of genre
models and art-film aesthetics; an engagement with political debates, lending the
films cultural significance; and that integrates with these elements a marketing strategy
designed to reach a specific audience. (Nestingen 53)
Several chapters in Gustafsson and Kääpä’s collection refer to Nestingen’s concept
when addressing the emergence of the gangster figure and how many of its associated
conventions manifest in different societal contexts. For instance, Björn Norðfjörð
explores Iceland’s recent forays into gangster territory with Olaf de Fleurʼs (Ólafur
Jóhannessonʼs) brutal thriller
Borgríki (2011) [
City State]. Additionally, Michael Tapperʼs insightful piece on the Swedish
Snabba Cash (2010) [
Easy Money] contextualizes gangster thematics alongside the neoliberalization of Sweden, where
welfare state priorities have shifted politically and ideologically from public interests
to private ones (Tapper 104–19).
We can use the medium concept label to describe the Danish examples in this article
precisely because their stark depictions of gangster-themed violence squarely challenge
any harmonious or utopian conceptualization of multiculturalism. The use of these
conventions has developed simultaneously with Denmark’s especially hard-line on immigration
and its approach to cultural integration. Although these issues are of course contested
in the neighbouring Nordic countries and beyond, I claim that the context of Denmarkʼs
conflicting ideas about multiculturalism has contributed to the prevalence of this
genre in Denmark. To emphasize the impact of changing social and political attitudes
towards immigration and multiculturalism, I focus on four case studies. I begin with
Nicolas Winding Refn’s Pusher (1996) and lead on to Michael Noer’s Nordvest (2013) [Northwest], Omar Shargawi’s Gå med fred, Jamil (2008) [Go With Peace, Jamil] and Michael Noer and Tobias Lindholm’s R (2010) [R: Hit First, Hit Hardest], which were all released during or just after the liberal-conservative coalition
government of 2001-2011. I examine how, thematically, they play around with Denmark’s
contradictory policies on diversity management by appropriating tropes from the Hollywood
gangster canon. Consequently, I explore the gangster genre and its prevalence in
Denmark as a reaction to this coalition’s fragmented and contradictory approach to
multi-ethnic realities. To understand this, we must explore both the developments
in Denmark’s recent immigration policies and examine the changes in its film history.
To understand how and why the gangster figure has developed in Denmark, we must view
the ethnic gangster film as part of the New Danish Cinema movement, where multiculturalism
has emerged simultaneously as a contested point of public and political debate. According
to Mette Hjort (2005), the concept of New Danish Cinema has arisen in response to
the increasingly global
flows of cultural exchange and hybridization brought about by technological transformations
and associated forms of globalization. These transformations have also profoundly
affected the visual style and thematic content of Danish films as well as the structure
of this small nation’s film industry. Expanding on these visual changes, Mette Hjort
states:
A key tendency within the New Danish Cinema is action film centred around questions
of ethnicity and belonging. What is apparent here is the appropriation of genre formulas
that are very much part of a Hollywood-driven global cinema for the purposes of exploring
the very issues of ethnicity and citizenship made urgent and compelling by the multicultural
transformation of a previously ethnically and culturally homogenous nation-state.
(Hjort 237)
Although Hjort uses the term action cinema to describe a wide range of texts, I focus
specifically on those involving gangsters. There are several reasons for the emphasis
on gang-related themes, especially when considering the wider context of ethnic identity
and multiculturalism. Most strikingly, gangsters invoke the theme of tribalism, where
two or more rival groups or factions clash. Here, it would be easy to associate how
the tribal politics of the gangster film function as a metaphor for contested views
on the ethnic Other in the Danish welfare state. The gangster genre also helps us
understand, challenge, and subvert the concepts of “Danish-ness” and the “Danish values”
of togetherness upheld by the dominant national rhetoric. Firstly, however, we must
examine the history of multicultural politics both on- and off-screen.
Although Denmark has a long history of immigration, particularly from neighbouring
Sweden, the Netherlands, and through its Jewish population (Schmidt 199-203), its
transition from a largely ethnically and culturally homogenous nation to a multi-ethnic
one roughly began in the 1960s and 1970s. During this period, the mass migration of
refugees and immigrants, largely from the Middle East, parts of Northern Africa, and
Eastern Europe, happened under the so-called guest worker (gæstearbejdere) programs, where foreign labour was imported to sustain post-war economic growth.
This workforce was critical to the development of Denmarkʼs welfare state model.
When the guest worker programs ended, there was an expectation that foreign workers
would return to their original nation-states (Walter 31-32). However, many made the
Nordic countries their permanent home, moving their families
over or marrying into the host nation.
Consequently, in Denmark, the arrival of newcomers has given rise to a new vocabulary.
Terms like ethnic Danes and new Danes are now employed in political and public discourse
to distinguish between those born in Denmark and those whose ethnic ancestry typically
lies outside the Nordic region. Despite this emerging multicultural reality, ethnicity
in Danish cinema largely remained absent during this period. Even with their actively
positive role during the guest worker phase, attitudes towards immigrants began to
shift in the late 1970s. Fears over rising unemployment apparently fuelled division
between ethnic groups. The other barrier between ethnic Danes and new Danes was the
perception that some cultures and religions were less susceptible to integration.
The far-right embraced this mantra and seized the opportunity to paint a picture,
particularly of Muslim immigrants, as inherently less willing to adapt to Danish cultural
and social “values” (Hjort 240–41). This particular development remains central to
the immigration debate, something
I shall explore in more depth later. With such impressions of immigrants, particularly
those from the Middle East, circulating in the Danish media, the concept of multiculturalism
clearly faced opposition early on in its development as a political tool for negotiating
ethnic and cultural difference.
Ulf Hedetoft notes that “‘Danish multiculturalism’ is an oxymoronic notion” (111).
Although immigration is a key issue across the societal spectrum, in policy terms,
multiculturalism does not exist in Denmark (Lægaard 170). Moreover, the rhetoric
maintained by successive governments, particularly the right-wing
coalition (2001-2011) who are said to have clinched their electoral success on their
tough immigration stance, was that Denmark would work to remain a mono-cultural society
and one generally opposed to globalization (Hedetoft 117). The coalition period of
2001–2011 marked the first time the Danish Peopleʼs Party
(DPP), Denmark’s anti-immigrant populists, held sway over the political and ideological
direction of the country. This attitude has created many contradictions and disparities
between what multiculturalism means on social and political levels. There are other
added complications because of the relative autonomy granted to municipalities, who
have the power to implement their own agenda on how ethnic relations are managed.
In policy and political rhetoric, multiculturalism is best understood as a series
of fragmented terms and conflicting ideas. Discussions about the ethnic Other contrast
with prevailing notions of Danish values built around the collective community-oriented
welfare ideology of the Nordic model. Significantly, debates about race tend to emerge
as matters of culture in Denmark, which is another important factor when considering
the appropriation of gangster conventions in Danish cinema. However, we must qualify
the situation. Despite the resistance to describing itself as multicultural on a national
level, in large cities like Copenhagen, there is a drive to attract skilled immigrant
workers and promote ethnic diversity. This fact is also contradicted by many of the
texts discussed in this article, not least because they are set in urban areas like
Copenhagen. Hedetoft describes how Denmark has essentially used assimilationist strategies
in its approach to integration. Perhaps most interestingly of all in the context of
the Danish gangster trend is how attitudes towards newcomers were based on a very
specific set of expectations; that immigrants were expected to demonstrate self-sufficiency
before they had access to the same welfare provisions as ethnic Danes (Jöhncke 48).
As we shall see, this is also reflected in the themes of individualism associated
with the gangster genre.
The opposition to multiculturalism is also complex. The concept has also come under
attack from critics who cite its reliance on similar hegemonic relationships to the
ones it purportedly denounces. One such critic, Slavoj Žižek, claims that multiculturalism
is dependent on the Other behaving in ways that conform to Western expectations. Without
this conformity, any sense of equality quickly disintegrates. Although multiculturalism
has risen out of the dominant ideology as a way of tackling cultural exclusion, according
to Žižek, these expectations are based on a sanitized and homogeneous image of the
Other, free from antagonisms and complexities (Žižek 1997). For Žižek, the oppressive
dimension of multiculturalism also lies in its reliance
on tolerance, a concept undermined by the very universality of multiculturalism. In
other words, to tolerate something implies endurance rather than understanding or
equivalence.
In cinematic terms, some of the earliest explorations of Danish multiculturalism in
crisis can be found in Erik Clausen’s Rami og Julie (1988) [Rami and Julie], and Brita Wielopolska’s 17 Op (1989) [17 Up] (also called Sally’s Bizniz). Although they do not conform to the same gritty gangster formats seen in following
decades, they are nonetheless both early examples of ethnic conflict in Denmark’s
contemporary urban spaces. Rami og Julie is a modern re-working of the Montague-Capulet motif, where the conflict and division
between the two families represents a cultural and political split between ethnic
Danes and new Danes. When a young Palestinian immigrant, Rami (Saleh Malek) falls
in love with a young Danish girl called Julie (Sofie Gråbøl), dire consequences ensue
when he is forced to confront her racist family. Rather than ending in a mutual suicide,
however, Clausen’s film takes a tragic turn when Rami is killed after being sent out
of the country by his father.
In Wielopolska’s film, teenager Sally (Jane Eggertsen) befriends Zuhal (Mia El Mousti),
a Turkish girl who moves into her social housing block. Initially, Sally is prone
to racist views, but amongst the poverty and social delinquency the two girls form
an unlikely friendship. As well as exploring both girls’ contrasting cultural backgrounds,
the film paints a sobering picture of Denmark in the 1980s. Both 17 Op and Rami og Julie are sympathetic explorations of immigrant experiences. They expose racial hatred
and the kind of universal suffering brought about by poverty. The wider political
and economic circumstances mitigate ethnic clashes, where opportunities, especially
for those on the economic and cultural margins, are limited. These narratives usefully
consolidate ethnic tensions, social deprivation, and confinement resulting from a
move away from the collectivist values of the Danish welfare system. This theme has
also become another defining feature of the gangster trend across the Nordic region.
The Danish welfare state developed along the same lines as what is referred to as
the Nordic model. This mix of high taxation levels and public expenditure with free-market
economic practices was idealized as a utopian balance between socialism and capitalism.
However, the model has also faced criticism for increasing privatization, especially
during the neoliberal era of the 1980s. There is also an ideological aspect to the
welfare model. It is also used to represent Danish values and identity. The conflicts
surrounding immigration in Denmark have politicized the welfare state; it has become
an ideal that must be protected from outsiders who are perceived to abuse or exploit
its limited resource base and employment market. Consequently, the welfare state has
become a political-economic tool in the immigration debate. However, it is problematic
to view the contemporary resistance to multiculturalism entirely along economic lines,
where rising unemployment has been known to exacerbate ethnic tensions in the past.
Denmark largely avoided the global economic downturn in the 1990s and unemployment
levels were at a record-breaking low (Appelbaum and Schmit 121). Rather, from the
1990s onwards, during which time the gangster genre took hold,
the right-wing anti-immigrant Danish People’s Party began an ideological campaign
against immigration in the wake of emerging socio-cultural transformation.
During the 1990s, debates over immigration intensified in Denmark. Thousands of refugees
fleeing war in Bosnia entered the country, and the crisis provoked questions about
Danish values and identity in the face of mounting xenophobia and the rising popularity
of the right-wing Danish People’s Party (Juul 70). The 1990s were also a defining
decade for race and ethnicity on Danish screens.
Given the context of Yugoslavia’s collapse, it is perhaps unsurprising that one of
the first violent gangster-orientated films to emerge in Denmark features an Eastern
European immigrant. Nicolas Winding Refn’s Pusher (1996), now widely regarded as a cult film, helped to establish the ethnic-themed
gangster
film. It also set the stylistic template for the genre, accentuating the gritty atmosphere
of Copenhagen using handheld cameras to give it a raw documentary-like feel. Pusher is also notable for its pulsating soundtrack, claustrophobic subterranean club sequences,
and brutal violence. Its narrative themes are built on a medium concept format, mixing
the fractured identity politics of Copenhagen (Nestingen 90) with the terrifying
brutality of organized crime. In this world of insipid grey tower
blocks, small-time heroin dealer Frank (Kim Bodnia) and his sidekick Tonny (Mads Mikkelsen)
become involved with powerful Serbian drug lord Milo (Zlatko Burić). Frank aspires
to rise above street-level crime and establish his own narcotics network. However,
when a deal goes wrong, Frank finds himself at Miloʼs mercy. Miloʼs fascinatingly
shifty persona and reptilian charm helped to establish Zlatko Burić as a key figure
in New Danish Cinema. He has also frequently collaborated with Winding, most notably
in Pusher’s two sequels, Pusher II (2004) [Pusher II: With Blood on My Hands] and Pusher 3 (2005) [Pusher III: Iʼm the Angel of Death], both of which involve a focus on Milo’s character development. Miloʼs subtle cordiality
thinly masks his capacity for extreme violence. He even treats Frank with a false
sense of familial inclusion, almost like a fellow brother, but one who is ultimately
one wrong move away from a sticky end. This kind of treatment subversively plays with
the rhetorical inclusiveness that multiculturalism purports to establish. Its sense
of togetherness or equal-footing is a false one or at the very least, based on an
unspoken conformity to a set of rules, behaviours, or actions.
In line with the medium concept notion, the legacy of Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese 1990) and Scarface (Brian De Palma 1983) are also notable (Nestingen 91-94). One significant difference
identified by Nestingen between American gangsters and
the Nordic variations is how “the ambivalence towards individualism captures seminal
features of the discourse in
the Nordic countries about the new values of competitiveness, entrepreneurialism and
self-interest” (Nestingen 96). I propose we can add multiculturalism to this list.
I also claim that we must develop
a more forceful connection between the gangster motif and immigration, particularly
in Denmark, where this ambivalence towards both individualism and specific cultural
and religious practices is palpable on many social and political levels. The relationship
between Frank and Milo is also a curious role-reversal of Denmark’s assimilationist
strategies, where Frank’s unquestioning compliance with Miloʼs rules is non-negotiable.
This resonates in a Danish context because, as Hedetoft highlights, the Danish approach
to ethnic diversity was less about integration and more about assimilation (Hedetoft
119).
Mette Hjort claims that Pusher presents an ironic take on the ethnic criminal gangster. In her analysis, the hyper-exaggerated
Eastern European immigrant stereotypes are designed to mock ethnic Danes and their
often baseless misconceptions about immigrants (267). She reinforces her argument
by exploring the ethnifiction of Miloʼs character and
his domestic surroundings, which rely heavily on stereotyped aspects of Eastern European
kitsch culture. This observation harks back to the exaggerated or distorted images
that began circulating in Denmark in the late 1970s when negative press about specific
cultural and religious practices began to emerge.
Produced in a post-coalition era when strict immigration policies and embedded attitudes
towards the ethnic, particularly Muslim, Other remain, I argue that Michael Noer’s
Nordvest [Northwest] is a typical example of the Danish gangster film where the perspective of the white
ethnic Dane takes priority. It is set in a gritty urban environment, in this case,
the neighbourhood of Nørrebro, which is one of the most ethnically diverse areas in
Denmark. It features a young white male protagonist caught between individual desires
and protecting his vulnerable family against a group of thugs made up of second-generation
Arab immigrants. Lastly, although it undoubtedly challenges the efficacy of Danish
integration policies, I also argue that Noer’s film reinforces the mantra of us versus
them.
Casper (Gustav Dyekjær Giese), the ethnic Danish teenage protagonist, works as a petty
thief for a Danish-Arab clique headed by Jamal (Dulfi Al-Jabouri) and his sidekick
Ali (Ali Abdul Amir Najei). The gang trade in stolen goods and as an accomplished
thief, Casper is an asset to Jamal’s operation. Jamal’s control over Casper and his
younger brother Andy (Oscar Dyekjær Giese) is clear from the outset, and he is shown
to be an uncompromising bully.
Despite his criminal activity, Casper is committed to his family, investing his profits
in his young sister and struggling single mother. However, after struggling under
Jamal’s controlling thumb, Casper begins working for ethnic Dane Bjørn (Roland Møller),
a local drug dealer and pimp. As tensions escalate between the two sides, Casper is
dragged further into the criminal underworld. When Jamal launches an attack on Bjørn’s
property, Bjørn orders Casper to assassinate him. However, when Casper can’t face
the task, his younger brother takes it upon himself to commit the act by shooting
Jamal dead at a petrol station. When Bjørn discovers Casparʼs betrayal over the killing,
Casper flees with both groups in pursuit. The film ends with gunshots ringing out
as Casper disappears out of shot, his fate unknown but predictably grim.
Stylistically, the film draws heavily on Refn’s
Pusher series. However, the film lacks the ironic depth identified by Hjort. In contrast
to Milo, the ethnic immigrant Other is largely absent. Instead, the film focuses on
developing Casper’s character and, as we experience each unfolding crisis from his
perspective, he is largely the only character with whom we identify. We empathize
with his reluctance to use violence and, despite his criminal behaviour, we understand
the enormous peer pressure he faces. Nørrebro is presented as a place of few opportunities
for Casper, and because we identify with him, it often feels as though these limitations
contribute to his participation in gangland activity. By contrast, Jamal and Ali are
simply opportunists whose interest in Casper is based on his useful abilities as a
thief. According to Schmidt:
What Danish culture (often encapsulated in the term “Danishness”) actually entails
is most frequently defined by stating what Danish culture is not,
through the term “un-Danishness.” Un-Danishness is affiliated with particular aspects
of a rather crude understanding
of immigrant culture. (Schmidt 205)
To reinforce the contrasts between these apparent Danish values and those from outside,
the liberal-conservative coalition of 2001-2011 launched the
værdikampen initiative or “value struggle” plan, an agenda outlining the type of desirable Danish-ness
allegedly represented
by the cohesive togetherness of the welfare model (Schmidt 206). This cultural offensive
was designed to reinforce apparent contrasting cultures
and practices and draw attention to those considered undesirable. The coalition’s
main targets were the Muslim minorities, who have long been perceived as a threat
to these values (Jønsson and Petersen 134).
Excluding several notable exceptions, such as Ole Christian Madsenʼs Pizza King (1999) and Omar Shargawi’s Gå med fred, Jamil (2008) [Go With Peace, Jamil], this wave of Danish genre films position us to identify with a white male protagonist.
In Nordvest, there is a clearer distinction between how the ethnic Danes and the new Danes interact
with each other. Although Bjørn is evidently cruel and unstable, there are flickers
of a paternal bond between him, Casper and Andy. This is especially resonant because
father figures are often absent in this genre. Although brief, these moments of camaraderie
are distinctly different from the boys’ experiences with Ali and Jamal. During a violent
confrontation between Jamal and Casper, Jamal declares “you’re either with us or against
us” referring to Casper’s new-found loyalty to Bjørn. However, the “us” he is referring
to is clearly a false one. Films like Nordvest represent the shattering of traditional collectivist welfare logic. Simultaneously,
the opportunistic immigrant Other appears to pose the greatest threat to the imagined
welfare values of inclusivity. These representations seem to complement the dominant
rhetoric of the liberal-conservative era. The gangster motif has, in this example,
helped to maintain a clear division between two ethnic groups. To expand and challenge
these images, I now turn to a markedly different example and a unique permutation
of the gangster genre in Danish cinema.
While ethnicity is a recurrent theme in contemporary Danish feature films, these films
are for the most part made by Danes with ancestral ties to Denmark, and not by “new”
Danes or Danes with a bi-racial heritage. (Hjort and Petrie 40)
In contrast to
Nordvest, I claim that Omar Shargawi’s
Gå med fred, Jamil (2008) [
Go With Peace, Jamil] plays with the rhetoric of the dominant host nation by challenging the so-called
parallel society concept. The concept of parallel societies is used to describe ethnic
minority communities who self-segregate themselves or refuse to adopt the practices
or values of their host nation. Parallel societies are considered deeply damaging
in Denmark, and the concept plays a key role in party politics. Mikkel Rytter notes
how in 2004, Denmark’s Minister of Culture, Brian Mikkelsen of the Conservative People’s
Party, delivered a speech where he condemned the emergence of so-called parallel societies
in Denmark citing their apparent “medieval norms and undemocratic mindsets” (Mikkelsen
quoted in Rytter 45). These societies are viewed in contrast to the perceived Danish
cultural values of
collective welfare consensus. I argue that Shargawi challenges the parallel society
concept by exploring the divisions within them.
The plot condenses the events of a single day into a fast-paced action revenge format.
In this respect, and in line with the medium concept theory, Shargawi draws on the
conventions of Hollywood action cinema, merging these familiar visual tropes with
the narrative sensibilities of an alternative Shakespearean tragedy. Before emigrating
from Lebanon to Denmark as a child, Sunni Muslim Jamil (Dar Salim) witnesses the murder
of his mother at the hands of the brother of Mahmoud (Khalid Al-Subeihi), a powerful
member of the Shia community. As an adult, Jamil discovers Mahmoud is also living
in Copenhagen and decides to take revenge by murdering one of his key conspirators.
In response, Mahmoud sends people after Jamil insisting they bring him back alive.
With his son in hiding, Jamil’s desperate father tries to neutralize the conflict
with Mahmoud, pleading with him not to propagate the cycle of vengeance. Jamil’s father
tries in vain to encourage his son to embrace the concept of forgiveness and begs
him to consider the future of his own young son Adam (Elias Samir Al-Sobehi). However,
Jamil refuses to let go of the past. When the conflict escalates, Mahmoud’s accomplices
abduct Adam. When Jamil goes on a rampage, Adam is accidentally shot and dies in his
father’s arms on the pavement.
This time, Nordic prosperity and welfare provision play no role in the lives of these
characters. For Jamil, escaping Copenhagen and returning to his homeland, Lebanon,
is the focus of desire. Nothing in the film speaks of Denmark’s contemporary allure.
In fact, Shargawi almost erases Denmark from the film entirely. There are no cultural
landmarks; the cast are almost all new Danes, and the film’s language is predominantly
made up of a variety of Arabic dialects. Traces of Denmark are evident in Jamil’s
young Danish-born son, Adam, as they speak to him predominantly in Danish. Gå med fred, Jamil is also one of the few European films to feature an almost exclusively Arabic-speaking
cast. Frustrated by inaccurate and oversimplified portrayals of Muslims and Arabs
in Danish culture, Shargawi set out to create a frank and open account of the tensions
within small, insular Arab communities, balancing an explosive subject matter with
a desire to tell an authentic story. This inside-out perspective offers a unique take
on immigrant politics in Danish cinema. Shargawi plays with the values of consensus,
conformity, individualism, and solidarity—all used in Danish political rhetoric—but
his perspective comes from inside a seemingly ethnically-segregated Denmark. Erasing
Denmark was a strategic move where the film becomes an apparent space for exploring
internal ethnic conflict. The explicit use of the gangster motif proves each parallel
society is equally divided. At the centre of each faction, families are searching
for stability and suppressing the desire for vengeance or retribution. Jamil is a
conflicted character. Like Casper, we identify with him because of his tragic situation,
trapped in an endless cycle of violence. We also identify with his elderly father,
who simply wants peace and consensus between the two warring families. Like Casper,
Jamil’s bond with his family, particularly his young son, is the driving force behind
his desire for a better life. Amid the violence, there are moments where Shargawi
emphasizes the bond between Jamil, Adam, and his grandfather. These cohesive family
values are not unlike those purported to represent Danish values. Like his ethnic
Danish predecessors, Jamil is also divided by individual desire for vengeance and
building a life for his family.
Gå med fred, Jamil grew out of a shorter project that began in 2003. After receiving 10,000 DKK from
the Film Workshop, Shargawi pitched a three-minute edit to Danish producers at the
Cannes film festival. After generating significant interest, Shargawi negotiated a
deal with Zentropa (Jørholt 237–40). Speaking of his position as one of the few “minority”
directors, Shargawi states:
I live in Denmark and I make films in Denmark, and that’s the starting point for the
film. But the story could have played out anywhere. That’s one of the reasons why
Denmark is cut out visually. I’m not trying to hide that it’s Denmark, and the characters
do sometimes speak Danish, but I’m trying to capture what it feels like to live in
those communities, how people who are part of them see the world. I think those immigrant
environments are very similar across Europe. They’re small, closed societies. (Shargawi
242)
Shargawi defines himself as a Danish director and shuns the “immigrant filmmaker”
label. What is strikingly clear from Shargawi’s experiences in the Danish film industry
is the way his status as a second-generation immigrant appeared to carry more weight
than his status as a filmmaker. Significantly, in his film, Shargawi lets the conflict
play out without the interference of authority. Those who represent the law and enforce
the authority of the state are removed. There
are no police, no legal angles or perspectives, no state interventions of any kind.
This lack of authority stands to represent the decentralized nature of diversity management.
The gangs themselves often lack a collective authority. There is no society to speak
of, and I claim this is a deliberate ideological choice designed to foreground the
tensions and universal struggles of the protagonist without the arbitrary and often
misguided policies of Danish law. The Sunni-Shia war is essentially just a framework
for Shargawi, who also draws on the universal themes of vengeance and honour that
are not specifically attached to any culture or religion. However, by removing the
Danishness, he helps us to understand the limitations faced by directors of a non-
or partially Nordic background. This is because there is no political or historical
depth to the conflict explored in Shargawi’s film. As this political edge is also
neglected in Western journalistic circles, there is a danger that choosing to use
such a framework and then glossing over it with conventional Hollywoodized spectacle
helps to maintain ethnic division.
Some film critics attacked Shargawi for failing to address the 2005 Prophet Mohammed
cartoon controversy in Denmark (Jørholt 246). However, Shargawi defended his position,
claiming that such criticism exemplified
the narrow-mindedness of the Danish film industry. This kind of criticism signifies
the institutional problems facing directors from minority backgrounds. Critics clearly
expected Shargawi, a Dane of Palestinian heritage, to address topical issues related
to Islamic fundamentalism. Not only that, but they expected him to discuss how these
issues have affected Denmark and the West. These expectations also highlight another
issue: that a single director from a minority background must represent the views
of the entire minority community. This all-encompassing expectation, where minority
directors are seen as “ambassadors,” reinforces the naïve and reductive views of the
industry.
I explore Michael Noer and Tobias Lindholm’s R as another more complex example of the tribal politics at work within Danish society.
R is a gangster film set in a hostile prison environment in contemporary Denmark. After
he is jailed for assault, young offender Rune (Pilou Asbæk) is thrown into a cut-throat
correctional facility where the rules revolve around racial “cliques” fighting over
a hidden narcotics trade. The ethnic Danes and new Danes largely made
up of second-generation Muslims each operate in separate units of the facility, and
their drug trading is intertwined with racial hatred and underhanded manoeuvring on
both sides. To survive, Rune is forced to align himself with neo-Nazi Carsten (Jacob
Gredsted), and his violent sociopathic sidekick, Mureren (Roland Møller). Through
his job as a dishwasher, Rune befriends Rashid (Dulfi Al-Jabouri), who finds himself
in a similar position on the flipside of the facility where he is a reluctant member
of the Arab faction, headed by the equally psychotic Bazhir (Omar Shargawi). When
a drug deal between the two gangs turns sour, Rune is implicated and murdered in a
horrific assault perpetrated by members of his own ethnic group. The murder is aided
reluctantly by Rashid, who helps to lure Rune to his death. The film plays with Rashid’s
character, keeping his motivations and loyalties hidden until after the murder. However,
during the final act, the perspective shifts to Rashid, and we learn that he is deeply
affected by his role in Rune’s murder. When he is shunned by his own clique for conspiring
with a rival gang, Rashid’s predicament feels grimly familiar. In an act of vengeance,
Bazhir throws boiling oil in Rashid’s face, a concluding act that indicates the cycle
of violence will simply continue.
The collectivist logic of each clique is based on specific codes. Each inmate has
a role to play in this hierarchy, and their perceived criminal skillsets define that
role. Prisons are the designated area for the people (in this case men) society has
failed. This segregated environment symbolically captures the failure of assimilation
politics and mocks the perceived inclusivity of a collective value struggle. In his
analysis of the prison environment, Pietari Kääpä discusses how “the microsociety
of the prison is premised on a similar set of rules concerning individualistic
and capitalist exploitation, all in a distinctly multicultural (though segregated)
setting” (134). There is also a contextual significance tied to the environment of
a state-run penitentiary
institution. This prison is the ultimate embodiment of state intervention, where every
aspect of a person’s life is managed, policed, and controlled. Not only has state
intervention utterly failed to integrate ethnic minorities into the system, but the
prison forms a different type of parallel society where both ethnic Danes and new
Danes find themselves trapped in parallel positions. Superficially, the ethnic divisions
between the two gangs appear to echo the sentiments of Nordvest’s divisive racial separation. Here, while the ethnic identities of each clique work
under the logic of failed multiculturalism, both ethnic groups are kept separate and
pitted against one another. However, unlike Nordvest, R goes further in framing ethnic division.
The corruption and literal backstabbing are universal traits inside this brutal anti-society.
Both Rune and Rashid are exposed to the full brutality of their own ethnic clique.
The cliques exist for the profit of individuals, and the politics of racial segregation
represent a secondary component in this ongoing battle over drug debt and superficial
codes of honour. There is virtually nothing separating these factions or the way they
operate. Both groups and the individuals within them are all driven by self-serving
greed, and use violence to control one another. As the anonymous “R” title suggests,
the film could represent either or indeed both characters. Equally,
the leaders of each ethnic faction have far more in common with each other than they
do with Rune or Rashid. Although Noer and Lindholm again prioritize the perspective
of an ethnic Dane; as the narrative develops, a parallel narrative unfolds involving
Rashid’s character. Both are trapped by the same people whose appetite for violence
is not bound by racial identity. Both men are reluctant members of their respective
ethnic groups, but they are nonetheless forced to conform and assimilate.
During a crucial scene in the white camp, a documentary on natural selection plays
in the background. The narrator espouses the virtues of difference and how it defines
us as a species. At this moment, the psychotic Mureren turns to Rune and declares
“there is no us.” This nihilistic Darwinian reference implies that the survival of
the fittest applies
to those willing to use violence. However, violence for the likes of Mureren and Bazhir
is also about exerting power. In fact, for them, it is more about power than survival.
In R, we witness the ultimate evolution of individualism; it is no longer just for profit
or survival but also for sadistic control.
R plays into the conformist agenda of Danish assimilation politics. It also subverts
and re-contextualizes the agenda of the welfare model where here any sense of sameness
is evident only in the shared capacity for violence in each unit. In other words,
their power-hungry greed makes both gangs one and the same thing. Like Gå med fred, Jamil, R alludes to the irony of the parallel societies concept in Denmark. With its monocultural
agenda and resistance to integration, Denmark’s own party politics falls squarely
into the definition of a parallel society.
Returning to Schmidt’s comments on how Danish-ness and Danish values are defined by
what they are perceived not to represent, R’s portrayal of a two-sided brutality challenges us to question the meaning of any
value system. There are no real sides in this prison environment, only individuals.
In this article, I have argued the emergence of the gangster genre in Denmark reflects
the country’s fragmented and contradictory approach to an emerging multicultural reality.
The rhetorical focus on monoculturalism in Danish politics also goes some way to explaining
the prevalence of the genre in Denmark above its Nordic neighbours. Nordvest reinforces the mantra of us versus them where social deprivation and violence are
not explored on any meaningful level. Without elaborating on the causes and complexities
of such divisions, the film fails to provide any real insight into issues of racial
segregation. Gå med fred, Jamil comes from a place of exclusion and from a film culture where minority filmmakers
are an exception. I suggest Shargawi’s film is a subversive take on the parallel society
rhetoric peddled by the liberal-conservative coalition. His inside-out perspective
is an essential development in the genre’s recent history precisely because it highlights
internal division. Lastly, although problematically shot once again largely from the
perspective of an ethnic Dane, R foregrounds the rise of individualism and greed, themes that resonate with the collapse
of imagined collectivist social values central to the welfare state model. Through
the dynamics of the prison system, the values of both gangs mirror the logic of the
welfare system in its current form, based on the competitive values of individualistic
neoliberalism. The corruption and backstabbing also complicate the politics of racial
division on both sides.
The key to understanding these films lies in acknowledging how the division is framed.
While it is clear multiculturalism has failed in these narratives, some present us
with more complex ways of understanding why it has failed. As with elsewhere, talk
of closing borders and building walls is now commonplace in the Danish media. However,
as these genre films demonstrate, problems are clearly evident within the system itself.
Curiously, most narratives are concerned with second-generation immigrants. Largely,
these are not films about cultural clashes between newcomers and the host population.
Rather, they highlight how the embedded failings of assimilation politics in Denmark
have converged to create tribal manifestations of ethnic division that now occur between
an emerging generation of Danes from different ethnic backgrounds. However, although
they are growing in sophistication, many examples fail to address the heart of the
issue, where the inclusivity of the welfare state remains reserved for the few.