(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
Journalism is – and probably has always been – a rather resilient profession. For some, the core performance of journalism is a constant quest for truth – to clarify special circumstances, to shed light on the hidden, to reveal the muddled and to bring essential knowledge to the public. Such journalists are often unemployed, tend to the work-dependent, and consider thoroughness a virtue. They navigate a strict moral compass, though they do not necessarily use the same compass in their privacy. But private life just remains private rather than being part of journalism.
In a completely different category we find journalists who are hiring – who often become a core of their story. Journalists who both use themselves and who can be used – all perhaps for the sake of history, or maybe just for their own interests. Here, private life can even be a driving force in journalistic practice.
Kringelkroge. With the book 11.11.11 Danish Mads Brügger has tried to find a viable way by using a combination of these two very different journalistic approaches. At the heart of the report is a long and rather incomprehensible case about a Danish citizen named Pierre Flensborg. Brügger contacts him after encountering the man's name in the colored press because he is fascinated by the man's life story: Flensburg has spent over 500 days in one of Mexico's worst prisons, accused of smuggling Muammar Gaddafi's son from Niger to Mexico in 2011. But is Flensborg at all guilty? And what kind of playboy / businessman / jet set did Flensborg really have had, at nightclubs, in expensive cars and in trading gold bonds across the continents? Is he an ingenious businessman or a small scammer who wants to get out of any pressure situation?
Flensburg's case is easily referenced, which is almost the primary point of Brüger's book. It is a cornucopia of lies, and takes us through a jumble of pastry hooks. Scams and humbug thrive side by side with a few information that can be tested. And then here are so many maybe that nothing – absolutely nothing – is left with no certainty after reading. Thus, the book becomes as much a study of the journalist's work process as an examination of the Flensburg case itself – and thus this time also a book about the journalist Brügger.
"Soon I only think of the time, which is the tempest of self-hatred and despair."
Mads Brügger
Back to himself. Experts of Brüggers artwork wants to know that he likes to include himself in journalism. For example, in Brüger's back catalog we find the reportage where he sends an artist to go undercover at a Chinese weapons fair and fingers to have developed a new sniper rifle. We find the documentary The ambassador (2011), in which Brügger dresses in business outfit and performs decadent diplomat among creepers and corrupt in the Central African Republic. IN The Red Chapel (2006), he travels to North Korea and pretends to be part of a theater troupe, while rather interested in uncovering the regime's brainwashing by its own citizens. Brügger has often been blamed for his journalistic practice, and perhaps that is why he is in the book 11.11.11 claims he is now tired of using himself. That he is overjoyed to finally have found a protagonist who is sharp-edged and fascinating (and who, in parentheses noticed, is even more colorful than Brügger himself), and thus can propel the narrative without Brügger himself having to go on the field. But – of course, Brügger must be on the field!
A sketch. The structure of the book follows the making of the book and mostly all the hassles of making the book a book at all. This gives 11.11.11 a nice dynamic, but also makes it sketchy – like a published working document. As the narrative progresses, Brüger's meta comments, his hesitation and doubt, and his relationship to his own process to fill up gradually, just as the conflict between Brüger and his protagonist becomes more pronounced. We get a number of backstage insights into Brüger's method, from how a suitcase is packed to how he admits to having failed after an interview. It is possible that Brügger is tired of the ego form, but hold on where there are many sentences that begin with "I" in this book.
Linguistically, Brügger is only momentarily spewing. He is effete in the small but essential details, such as when he describes a Maltese's linguistic skills as one who "speaks British English with teasing little fingers" or when he thinks alone on a bare ponder: "Soon I only think of the time, which is the self-hatred of and much of the despair. ”But much of the book is rather dry referring to it and the source or the and the circumstances.
Is not enough. A number of times you think about whether Brügger might persuade us to convince us that this story is fantastic and fascinating. There is no doubt that Brügger has a deep admiration for his own account – even to such an extent that pretty much common sense, critical sense and other important journalistic work tools are ignored.
But is the story of Pierre Flensborg interesting now? I must confess that several times along the way I thought that now that story must well end. Just as the case and the examination of it probably cannot withstand a rigorous journalistic solitude test, so I have doubts as to whether Flensburg's case can actually carry an entire book.
