for as long as i can remember, i’ve told stories to friends and conspired to find new ways to share these stories. as a kid, i created plays with puppets, then discovered the video camera, exchanging the makeshift stage for an actual location, i’ve used friends as actors, in order to fulfill an obsession with creating skits and short stories.

i eventually found my way into the film business and worked for many years as a production designer, most of them while living in copenhagen.

i invested a lot of energy into production designing, throwing myself into intense periods of research for the feature films that i designed. i viewed environments as characters, and just as a writer might create a back story for a character, i too created back stories for each environment.

in some ways, my approach to the work was like being a detective as well as a student of the human condition.

it shouldn’t have been surprising that i designed films that were steeped in psychology. from a professional point of view, the quiet  intense thriller seemed to be the genre that suited me best.

during this time, i started to develop as a director, feeding my curiosity with stories that i created for my own projects. while working full-time as a production designer for commercials and feature films, i directed a number of short films and music videos on the side. much to my satisfaction, i discovered that there was an audience for these projects, as films that i directed were accepted into a number of international film festivals.

directing is a lot more fun that production designing. the types of collaborations are fundamentally different and i would discover that directing is a lot easier too.

while everybody who works on a film has an obligation to serve the ambitions of the script, a production designer has to juggle more responsibilities and obligations than a director. a production designer has more masters to serve in a working environment in which there is also a lot more ambiguity. i found that few decisions for a production designer were clear-cut. choices were often somewhere between painful and less painful. once the periods of research and pre-production are over, the production designer becomes a task master and a diplomat who manages a wide variety of personalities, while doing the best that one can to stave off disaster in the face of inevitable surprises and chaos.

a director is also a manager, but, in my experience, the choices have always been easier to make, even when there are constraints. as a director, the focus is entirely on the ideas put forth by the script as well as the collaborators. even though both the director and the production designer endeavor to find the best possible expression for the narrative, for some reason, it has always been easier for me to manage this as a director.

then came the move to los angeles, and with that, after thirteen years in the business, i saw an opportunity to shift my focus away from production design and onto directing.

while my directing projects in copenhagen have mostly been works of fiction, the projects that i would work on in california would all be documentary in nature.

i made a number of small films, while it took almost a year to land that first paid gig as a director here in the united states. i was asked to direct a documentary project as part of a team that was working on IBM’s smarter planet campaign. it was a very rich experience that lasted several months.

the project came to its natural conclusion and, shortly thereafter came the move to new york.

and since then, i’ve enjoyed the process of directing and collaborating so much that i’m always looking for new ways to continue this.

“before i was twenty, i mean, i used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. it would get richer and deeper each year. you kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth – ” she hesitated.

he laughed abruptly. “and now you know it’s not like that. right? it’s more like smoking a cigarette. the first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. then you begin taking it for granted. suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. and that’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.”

– paul bowles, the sheltering sky

as we edit and re-edit this trailer, we know that something is not quite right. we know that something is not working. we have our suspicions (which won’t be pointed out).

please tell us on this page what works and doesn’t work. your feedback will be greatly appreciated.

thank you very much!

it was already in the newspaper, as i could plainly see in the hands of a man seated in the row in front of us.

an image of mr. presley on the cover of a norwegian daily: this mysterious semi-tragic celebrity, dead while in his 50s.

with the death of michael jackson, i wonder how it feels for kids today?

the memories of mr. jackson are a combination of bizarre real-life experiences (i met him at spotwelders in venice, california back in 1994) and the fact that i had my first school vacation crush while “Rock with You” was a top 10 hit, or how my brothers and i used to habitually freak out to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” we improvised an oddball dance to that last number.

what a strange life he had.

do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked?

do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? or are you not terrified by it?

i have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself… in every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. but he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.”

- søren kierkegaard

i’ve known many frauds in my life. this much is true. some of them have done immensely well for themselves. i wonder what makes them tick and if they ever find happiness? and then i put those thoughts away.

one day, however, i will write about some of these frauds. not out of anger or disdain, but sincerely, out of the desire to understand the root causes of their behaviour. we’ll see.

i dreamt i survived a plane crash last night. it had been on a small jet that had made several aborted take-off attempts. as i sat in my seat, i had a premonition that things were not right. i knew that i was going to die.

. . . . . . .

let me go back to as far back as i can remember. in the dream.

a small airport in a northern city. looking out through its windows, i could see green mountains as well as pine trees.

there were only a few shops in the terminal. i remember browsing the newspaper stand, looking for spearmint chewing gum.

the queue at the gate was informal. an air of casualness that is typical of small-town airports.

airport employees had that provincial look about them. hairstyles out of date, they were a bit too tan for this time of year. i imagined that when the airport personnel are done boarding this flight, the place closes down for the day and they all drive into town to resume some second job that they might have. perhaps the ticket checker works at the convenience store or the local hotel. surely, i thought, this can’t be a full-time job.

after presenting one’s ticket, there was a brief descent down a flight of stairs before one walks directly out onto the tarmac.

it was springtime. i could smell the wet soil from a recent rain while steam rose up from the runway.

the sun sat low over the horizon.

at the end of the short runway, and there was only one runway, there was a chain-linked security fence located a few hundred yards before a tall stand of fir trees. beyond that, a development of grey, concrete high-rise buildings ensconced before a tree-covered mountain ridge.

there was a municipal park nearby, right next to the airport. i saw kids running around.

i stood in line to board with my work colleagues. i remember being one of the last passengers to step onto the rolling staircase that lead up to the plane’s entrance.

it was an older model, a three-engine plane (one on each wing, one on the tail).

. . . . . . .

i sat towards the rear of the cabin, on the right side of the plane. middle seat.

on the tiny television monitor found on the back of each passenger seat, i watched the pilot’s point of view, as the plane turned at the end of the runway and prepared for take-off.

the engines became loud. we moved forward.

with the plane’s acceleration, i made a simple wish, as i always do: i closed my eyes and asked to arrive safely.

i looked out through the oval-shaped window. we were not moving fast enough.

on the monitor, i saw the end of the runway approach and then felt the plane slow down, braking hard.

we came to a stop.

the captain’s voice could be heard on the p.a., apologizing for the aborted take-off.

passengers around me joked and there was nothing to suggest that anyone was unnerved.

the plane retraced its route on the tarmac, turned around, and prepared to take-off once more.

flight attendants took their seats.

within a few seconds of starting down the runway, i saw kids running out onto the tarmac.

the plane came to a sudden halt.

i watched as airport officials chased the children away. some of them were scooped up by a security guard and placed onto a yellow open-top airport utility vehicle. one boy managed to ride off on his bicycle. passengers laughed.

by this time, there was a bit of a circus atmosphere onboard. vociferous chatter. amusement. i realised that many of us had been drinking while in the terminal. it was oddly festive.

i felt nervous. i tried to remember the passenger bill of rights. am i entitled to insist on disembarking after two aborted take-off attempts? what are the rules?

a few friends from work sat in the row in front of me. one of them turned to me and pushed my shoulder. i smiled meekly. i was sweating.

the plane moved forward again, accelerating quickly. my eyes glued to the monitor.

a few passengers stood up, got out of their seats, and bum rushed the front of the plane. they were fooling around, like idiots who stand up on a moving roller coaster. two flight attendants intervened.

on the monitor, i could see the end of the runway. the pine trees. the high-rise buildings.

the plane lifted upwards. it seemed to climb so slowly.

wheels up; the sound of the landing gear folding back into the plane’s underbelly.

i stood up, jumping out of my seat, landing on the aisle.

we were not moving fast enough to clear the trees. i heard the piercing sound of metal being ripped, of passengers yelling. i was standing. everything shook. it was very very loud.

the plane rocked violently, as i tried to balance myself between the seats in the aisle.

suddenly there was a gaping hole in front of me. the plane swerved from side to side, and as the plane banked hard to its right, i fell out. other passengers fell too.

i saw handbags, a seat, a jacket, and shoulder bags empty out of the plane.

i was flying through the air. i don’t know how fast. i was moving forward and falling, towards the top of some of the pine trees.

i was thrown towards a hefty branch, i reached out to put my arms around it, bracing for impact and somehow held on as the tree bent forward towards the ground. i felt a dull thud on the left side of my face as i fell and landed on soft earth.

i looked skywards, finding the plane. it was still airborne, moving away from me, upside down, its red tail towards the ground. it cleared a low-lying mountain ridge, then disappeared from view.

i expected to hear a boom and then see an explosion. i saw no such thing.

there was no such sound.

i was in a field.

i saw someone lying on the ground, maybe one hundred feet away. listless.

i ran.

i scrambled up a hillside, hoping to reach the top of the ridge.

i ran through trees. cedar trees. spruce. uphill. pine needles on the forest floor.

i don’t know how long i had been running but i reached a mountain river.

to ford it, i could scramble over granite rocks. there was a chain link fence on the other side. further away, the ridge.

i realised that i must be in a secured public watershed. i reached the fence and tried to scale it. there was an electrical wire running along its top.

i gave up, and ran parallel to the fence instead, moving south on uneven terrain.

i ran for a while.

i found a service road.

there was a pick-up truck and a park employee working nearby.

i asked him to let me out.

he looked at me suspiciously.

he pointed out that i was bleeding.

there was blood on my chest, and blood on my forehead.

i tried to explain that i had just been in a plane crash, and that i was looking for the plane.

“it must be just over that ridge,” i offered, “in the valley next door.”

“there is no valley. there’s just another ridge, just more mountains.”

“i need to find that plane.”

i thought about my wife. i wondered if she knew. i wondered if she already thought that i was dead.

“i need to reach that plane.”

“get in the truck. i’ll give you a lift.”

. . . . . . .

as we drove downhill, i could not stop thinking about my wife. did she know? was she suffering?

the truck’s service radio was on. i could hear commotion. orders were being given, people were being directed to a crash site.

. . . . . . .

i never saw the plane. i never saw the crash.

the dream-state slackened, my body stirred.

i tried to stay within the dream.

i kept on thinking about the field.

where i landed.

the golden field. tall grasses. late sun.

the scent of jet fuel, the taste of blood in my mouth.

the tree.

it was damaged.

i saw myself in it.

suspended lifelessly over a limb.

was that me there?

had i not survived?

how would i tell adriana?

where was my phone?

as i began to wake, i could not determine if i was alive.

how had i made it to the top of the ridge?

i spoke to that man. he spoke back.

i had survived a plane crash. i had walked away. i lived!

but what if i died and was now walking amongst the living?

i was awake. staring at the ceiling, trying to open the door to return to the dream state.

i was awake. the sound of the city around me.

i could not return.