Das Gespräch wurde auf Englisch geführt.
Barbara Wurm (BW): Let me start by congratulating you. Is this the first time one of you films is screening at the Berlinale?
Kim Ekberg (KE): Yes, definitely.
BW: We are very happy that your Berlinale journey begins at the Forum. I would like to start with a question about the origins of DOGGERLAND. When does a film take shape for you? At what point do ideas become a film?
KE: This film was made very intuitively. When we started shooting, we only knew the main characters we wanted to work with, and that I wanted to make the film with a very small team — in fact, the entire film was shot by just four people. The first thing we shot was a trip to the summer house with Alf [John Holm] and his mother, Monica [Anita Holm], which appears toward the end of the film. We went there without a script. We invented scenes together, tried different approaches, because the actors are non-professionals and we wanted to understand what they could do and what felt natural for them. At first, I thought the film would contain much more dialogue. They have a very particular way of talking to each other — almost like two parallel conversations happening at once, with each person following their own line, but still being together. This turned out to be very difficult to capture on film, especially when shooting on 16mm, where you can’t just keep rolling endlessly. So we gradually arrived at a more stylized form. Along the way, I realized that I wanted to make a film about a mother’s worries about her sons life choices — or, more broadly, about contemporary ways of living and expectations.
Igor Soukmanov (IS): In one of your letters you mentioned that DOGGERLAND was made within a ‘small and local bubble’. Could you tell us more about this bubble — about the community, the city, and the atmosphere in which the film was made?
KE: The film was shot in Norrköping, the city where I’m from, although I now live in Stockholm. Norrköping didn’t really have film productions before. Recently, a film commission was created, which allowed me to apply for funding and to meet people locally. What’s special is how open people are — many are not actors but willing to participate. Some of these people – John Holm, Roger Carlsson, Astrid Drettner – already appeared in my previous film XXL, and I like the idea of returning to the same faces, the same names, the same relationships. It’s a modest, almost Balzac-like universe, where characters reappear in different stories over time. Maria Lundström, who is our line producer, casting director and location scout, knows everyone and everything in Norrköping, and is essential when it comes to the expansion of this universe.
BW: So the characters are shaped by the actors themselves?
KE: Yes, exactly. They are not playing themselves, but they are not entirely fictional either. Often they start from who they really are, and then gradually move away from that. John Holm who plays Alf was actually a set designer before he became an actor in my films.
BW: That also seems to influence locations and spaces in the film.
KE: Very much so. We don’t do set design in a traditional sense, that's why we could set up John with an additional task. We work with real places, real rooms. Sometimes we just try to find spaces that feel right, and then the film itself transforms them. Things that might look quite ugly in reality can suddenly appear warm or intimate on film. It feels as if the film itself slightly changes the world it records.
IS: The film centers on a mother and son. Why did you choose this relationship?
KE: They are a real mother and son — Anita and John Holm — which immediately interested me. During an earlier shoot, they mentioned wanting to collaborate on a film, and proposed this summer house set-up. I liked that idea, because it fits how I work: I start with people, not with ideas. I start with characters.
I start with people, not with ideas. I start with characters.
IS: What in their story comes from reality, and what is fictional?
KE: It’s fictionalized. Many ideas come from their real relationship, maybe from earlier phases of their life. John used to perform Diablo years ago and revived it for the film with a real friend, with whom he even toured. In real life, John and Anita don’t live together, and their relationship isn’t as conflicted as in the film. What is real is their way of interacting: they operate on different frequencies, have their own interests, but yet enjoy being together a lot.
IS: The title DOGGERLAND has a very strong, mysterious resonance. It refers to a prehistoric land, a kind of northern Atlantis. What does this name mean for you?
KE: Originally, the idea of Doggerland [an area of land inhabited by humans during the Stone Age but now submerged beneath the North Sea] was more explicitly present in the film. The mother watches a documentary about it on television, hears about it on the radio, and becomes slightly obsessed with it. That material didn’t remain in the final cut, but we kept the title. Now the title works more on a metaphorical level. The film was shot in Norrköping, a city built around old textile industries and waterways. Parts of it look like a flooded city, with buildings emerging from the water in the opening shots. Norrköping used to be a strong cultural city, but with a shift toward right-wing leadership, funding for culture, including cinema, was drastically reduced by the time when we shot the film. So, for me, the city started to feel like a kind of sunken Atlantis — something that once existed and is now disappearing. That feeling became the emotional ground of the film.
BW: Do you see the film as political, especially considering the transformation of Norrköping?
KE: Yes, but more in a cultural-political sense. For a long time, Swedish cinema has felt very narrow-minded to me, as if all films follow the same language and narrative rules. We must understand that these ‘non-political’ films are also highly ideological, they just want to sell a product, themselves or some other brand. I try to step away from this ‘storytelling’ thing and create something more direct.
IS: You also introduce a theatrical episode about Kata Dahlström, one of the early figures of the social democratic movement. Why was it important for you to bring her into the film?
KE: This relates both to Norrköping’s history and to Sweden’s political development. Early in the film, Alf encounters Social Democrats campaigning on the street. There is a feeling in Sweden today that social democracy has sold out many of its ideals, and the country has become highly privatized, even in areas like welfare and culture. I wanted the film to exist in a parallel universe where socialism might work again — a world where people are kinder to each other and find art important. Kata Dahlström was a key figure in the women’s rights movement and had much more radical socialist ideas than her comrades such as Hjalmar Branting, so it felt natural to return to that point of origin.
I wanted the film to exist in a parallel universe where socialism might work again — a world where people are kinder to each other and find art important.
BW: There’s also a strong sense of inclusion in the film.
KE: Yes. There is an old concept in Sweden called ‘the People’s Home’ — the idea that society should be a home for everyone. In a way, DOGGERLAND imagines the Sweden people once dreamed of: a society where people remain passionate, where culture matters, and where everyone can, and should, be part of it.
IS: You shot the film on 16mm. Could you talk about that choice?
KE: I’ve been working with the same 16mm camera for several films. I bought it from Gunnar Källström, an older cinematographer who shot many important Swedish documentaries in the 1970s and 1980s. This documentary tradition is a major aesthetic reference for me. Practically, shooting on film limits you — you can’t just roll endlessly. It forces you to accept the first take and embrace chance. I like that randomness; it feels closer to capturing what’s already there, rather than imposing something artificial.
BW: That openness also applies to light. The film feels very attentive to light and atmosphere.
KE: Yes. Shooting the film myself — acting, blocking, handling light and camera — makes everything feel interconnected. Sometimes you have to wait for the right light, or plan carefully what to shoot and when. But I don’t follow strict conceptual ideas; it’s more about staying open.
IS: It feels like your cinematic thinking starts from images rather than words — from montage rather than dialogue. How does narrative form for you?
KE: Much of the story emerges during editing. You’re often surprised by what works; things you thought would be important may not be, while small moments suddenly feel essential. We shot in short periods because everyone had other jobs. Between these shoots, I watched the material and saw what was missing. For example, after filming Alf’s Diablo routine, I realized his mother also needed a physical action — which led to the floorball scene. For me, dramaturgy is often about energies rather than plot.
For me, dramaturgy is often about energy rather than plot.
BW: Music also seems to play a strong structural role.
KE: Yes. Two members of the team, Michael Cedlind and Johannes Hagman, composed the music. They were on set during the shoot — one working with light, the other with sound — and afterwards composed the music, as they did for my previous film. I usually ask for a mood or function, and they send multiple versions. I often use early drafts because I like the music to feel natural, not overly polished.
BW: There are several moments in the film that feel openly meta-cinematic: the cinematheque, the film lecture, the act of watching films itself. Could you tell us more about this?
KE: The person giving the lecture is Jan Lindqvist, a documentary filmmaker who worked extensively with 16mm film. He is very known in Sweden, especially for a film from the 1960s, THEY CALL US MISFITS, about young mods in Stockholm. We filmed an actual lecture he gave at the cinematheque — it wasn’t staged. I wanted to include it because the cinematheque played a huge role in my life, yet I had never seen it represented in Swedish cinema. In a way, that lecture became the most ‘documentary’ part of the film and also shows how cinema circulates culture.
BW: Your films seem to play with time in a very particular way. There is a strong sense of contemporaneity, but also a historical layer, as if different temporalities coexist.
KE: Yes. I mix things I like from the past with elements of the present. I don’t want nostalgic films, but I also don’t ignore older aesthetics. Shooting on analog film creates a sense of distance — like viewing the present from the future — which gives perspective.
Shooting on analog film creates a sense of distance — like viewing the present from the future — which gives perspective.
BW: You also work as a writer and critic. Does that influence your filmmaking?
KE: For me, cinema is more about seeing than writing. Watching films is always inspiring; sometimes just a small detail resonates deeply.
IS: Why is it important for you that DOGGERLAND be shown on film rather than digitally?
KE: Because it is material and physical. Film projection feels more tangible to me than digital projection.
