They did not yet get over the discovery that the IKEA-boss was an
enthusiastic collaborator, and quite a couple of them still watch most
happily the old Leni Riefenstahl reels, for the wrong reasons.
All these themes come back in Anderssons new movie.
His characters are all losers, like in Todd Solondz (see Happiness).
But the difference with other dramas, where losers get entangled in
their own fate, like in the Greek tragedy, (and for an example see
Anton Corbains Control) Solondz and Andersson jerk off the whole
humanity from its marble pedestal. With sledgehammer blows. The
humanity is nothing more than Universes sewer.
It is an answer to the proposition that material prosperity would make
everybody happy. It should be mentioned that Sweden currently has one
of the world's lowest poverty levels, (6% according to the United
Nation's Human Development Report, and is among the top five most
egalitarian countries in regard to income distribution.) But the
Swedish are far from happy and the movie shrink illustrates this
shouting that he has had enough of making everybody happy and just
stuffs them with prozac.
No wonder that Andersson shows us in the last scene a formicary of B52
bombers, just coming to clean up this Swedish dream. And the Swedish
watch this numbly.
A commentator on IMDB says that the last scene might be inspired by John Betjeman's Slough
by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.