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Trine Michelsen

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Trine Michelsen

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Trine Michelsen

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Biden er stor- favorit. Giver op. Hvis Biden vinder? Hvis Trump vinder? With the face of an angel, the talent of a star, and the figure and presence of a heroine, her ambition was to look — at best — like a Playboy magazine blonde; which was not going to happen in any case.

She had an ambition to be — less than she was. I think it is this issue of ambition that is really central — even more than the matter of sex as such.

And to make clear what I mean, let us make a comparison with a woman who is in more than one way easy to compare to Trine: namely, Katharine Hepburn.

Before being tamed by Spencer Tracy, she could not be safely left next to a handsome man or woman — although she capriciously turned down John Barrymore, who was understandably miffed.

Indeed, she was notoriously bisexual, which Trine was not; and as to her approach to relationships, it was her own father who politely compared her to a charging bull.

To get there, and to stay there, she fought formidable obstacles and overcame terrible humiliations. A few years later, however, she was practically driven from Hollywood by concentrated idiocy from distributors and producers.

Her reaction has gone down in movie-industry folklore: she developed herself an excellent play from a couple of friends, made it the biggest theatre success of the year, and — when Hollywood came sniffing for rights, they found that she owned the lot, and she was in a position to dictate exactly how and by whom the movie was to be made.

She did so in the most autocratic style, and the result was The Philadelphia Story - a movie that has not aged in more than sixty years.

One thing worth noticing, however, is that, having got herself to the position where she could for all practical purposes produce a movie — whose-ever name was on the producer tag — she did not insist.

Her occasional reported talk of directing this or that piece seem to have been no more than casual spurts of her restless intelligence; at least, she did nothing to pursue such ideas in the way she went after a favoured part.

She really and truly wanted to be an actress, and her epic campaign of reconquest with The Philadelphia Story , though it remained a model for every show business professional aiming to take control of their career, proved in the end only a means to that end.

Katharine Hepburn Productions Co. Ambition gets a bad rap these days, not least thanks to our beloved JKR — who really ought to have given a bit more thought to Slytherin than she seems to have.

We are all aware of the bad kind of ambition — the inadequate who flatters his superiors and steps on his inferiors; the sneak who worms his way into favour; the demagogue who flatters his audience and encourages their worst sides.

But the ambition that has shaped history has more often meant the burning need of people who have an instinctive sense of their potential, to actualize that potential, to turn it into success and achievement.

And it is interesting that the person who asked Martin that question was Sir Steve Redgrave — the greatest Olympian Britain ever had, and a classic instance of fulfilled ambition.

I think I can say that the consciousness of unfulfilled potential is one of the most horrible things in human life, an especially refined, justified and debilitating form of guilt.

An endearing visual joke: some photographer thought Trine so small that she could be carried around in a beach bag! It is for this reason that I love to follow the successes of my younger friends in the professions they pursue.

On the other hand, ambition achieved, ambition on that level, has a common name — and that name is genius. A work of genius is the work of someone who has made successful use of an uncommon potential.

That is, as I have argued elsewhere, genius does not refer to an exceptionally high order of intelligence, or even of talent; and indeed, it is possible to have stupid geniuses — my usual examples being Niels Bohr, Corneille, the Douanier Rousseau, or Bruckner.

And the socio-cultural environment has as much to do with the rise of genius as the potential of the individual. A culture — meaning by this both the artistic and the anthropological meaning of the word — can squash, misdirect or pollute ambition to the point where it becomes impossible to imagine intellectual success, or conversely so energize it that small towns such as Athens or Florence become breeding grounds for genius on an absolutely unbelievable scale.

Now take Trine. Her main ambition was to be a movie actress. I do not think that anyone can doubt that she had the talent. She had the right face — not just beautiful, but unbelievably photogenic, full of dramatic planes and shadow, and with positively luminous eyes.

Her energy was by all accounts unbelievable, her attitude excellent — a desperate requirement in the collaborative environments of stage and screen — and her personality pleasing.

Even her reported promiscuity can hardly have been an issue in that particular professional environment. Indeed, if it were possible to breed human beings for genius, in the old eugenistic program, I have no doubt that the result would be something like Trine; even her small size means a more economical build, and more results for your buck.

However, Trine, as an actress, achieved very little. Trine made only three movies in her life that are worth anything except dumping, and none of them — not even The Idiots - have the kind of stature that would insure that she would stick in our memories.

And while a death at 42 is young, it is not too young in a business in which women peak in their twenties. What went wrong was that her career took a wrong turn at its very beginning.

Trine sought for her movie career in Italy, without, I imagine, realizing that the Italian movie business had hit a nadir.

The giants of the past had died out, and except for the occasional movie from Antonioni or the brothers Taviani, the level of production was decidedly low.

Scoundrelly sex comedies featuring the likes of Lori del Santo known abroad for her tragic affair with Eric Clapton ruled across the board, to the disgust of critics and fans, and the rise of private TV channels had not raised the overall level.

Unfortunately it was with that one that the critics, after being led by the nose for fifteen years, finally found him out, and the reviews were universally negative.

I was in Italy at the time and I was dismayed. I was and remain not sure that the movie was really so far below its original, but it was a good excuse for the critics to finally shake off more than a decade of bewildered complicity.

Naturally, there has to be a sex scene. The remaining couple are better left unmentioned; nobody unfamiliar with Italy in the mid-eighties will at any rate ever believe that they were made.

On the side of the producers, it is clear that Trine had been written down as another Sydne Rome or Maria Schneider, a young foreigner just ripe for exploitation.

A young lady from an upper-middle class Copenhagen home was certainly no match for such a pool of sharks. But as for Trine, her choice in movies brings up once again the matter of her taste.

And of its connection with vulgarity. Surely no actor would accept such roles unless they were utterly and totally cynical and jaded — which she was not even old enough to be, even if we could ever imagine her as such — or else unless there had been a total failure of taste on their part.

Trine was well known in her native country. A local restaurant named a dish of smorrbrod in her honour I spoke of culture in the artistic sense choking achievement, and here, I think, we have one instance.

Trine had grown up in the seventies and early eighties, in a household that lived and breathed cinema. The year after she was born, Hollywood threw the Hayes Code overboard; one year later, the first artistic sex movie, I am curious — Yellow , was made in Sweden, just across the sea.

In the time of her youth — a time I remember well — one of the great ideas of the dominant culture was the normalization of sex, the transformation of pornography into a mainstream genre.

This explains, among other things, the puzzling phenomenon of the movie Deep Throat - an abominably shot virtual home movie made by a bunch of chancers, which had a quite unbelievable amount of positive publicity and reviews.

Quite simply, the reviewers wanted to see pornography become art, and they saw it where they wanted. I do not have to argue that Trine believed in this idea; every step she took in every moment in her career proves it beyond peradventure.

It was her bad luck to have come in at the precise moment when the great experiment started to prove conclusively a failure. Sex would not be normalized, and pornography would not become mainstream.

And the same process was taking place across the board. However much mainstream culture, even TV and movies, kept flirting with pornography and pushing the line ever further south, the very point, and the commercial value, of their doing so, was that they were clearly skirting the boundary of forbidden things; everyone had instinctively recognized this — at least everyone at the very top, the movers and shakers.

And of all of them, it was the villains in Italy, least susceptible of all to faddish ideas and outlandish notions perhaps the effect of the realistic morality of Catholicism , who understood it first; almost from the beginning, they played porn and near-porn purely for money, and never took any artistic pride or concern to it at all.

Critics increasingly recognized it as well, not by admitting it, but by marginalizing all things that were unashamedly pornographic.

Pornography remained immensely profitable, but at the price of losing all respect. Producers did not employ them, and critics went after them.

And it was due to a cultural failure to do with the environment in which she had grown, which made it hard or impossible for her to distinguish workable material from pretentious and dangerous nonsense dangerous to her career, I mean and which also affected her taste.

However, there is another way in which the culture affected her career. Consider Katharine Hepburn, again. What did she do when her career had suffered an almost comparable check?

Which it did not once, but twice. She went back, started over again, and on the second occasion actually broke new ground, developing her own material for a stage success, in order to rebuild it.

Trine did not. Save for one or two apparitions on TV or minor roles in movies, she did not make one real performance until Idioterne , over ten years after her last Italian work.

And why was that? Had she given up? Not at all, not really. She was one of the most in-demand nude models in the world. Between and , it would have been difficult to pick a softcore mag anywhere without coming across, sooner or later, her pretty undressed figure.

This is the point: for a while, her ambition was satisfied by a lesser kind of fulfillment. And the culture in which she had grown and whose values she accepted without argument would not let her see that it was lesser.

Katharine Hepburn came from a rich family, and her father, though disapproving, always made sure in the early days of her career that she should not make bad choices for want of money; but one feels certain that if she had been in the position — like Joan Crawford before her and Marilyn Monroe after — of filming sex for money, she would have treated it as a passing misfortune, left it behind as soon as possible, and if at all possible destroyed the evidence.

Trine embraced it as a career. Her culture, the views she had adopted from earliest youth, the ideas that surrounded her and that she breathed in uncritically when she was much too young to know the difference and I should know, since in my teens I thought the same — all these things made it impossible for her to understand that it was a blind alley.

Crawford and even Monroe had understood that; but in spite of their unruly lives, they had come from a different age.

Where commercial sex is concerned, they still had a hold on human reality. We did not, or where we did, we had to regain it by our own unaided effort.

More in general, the issue of false or partial satisfactions for proper ambition is one that the social sciences have not studied and ought to study.

It explains, in my view, many damaging phenomena such as superstition, gang culture, or fringe movements. They are all ways to gain factitious satisfactions in the place of better-grounded ones that are either unavailable or too dear to buy.

Trine wasted ten years of her life on a lowlife career for which she was as fit as an emerald for the midden of a chicken farm.

We are not surprised to find that even there her kind character and ready humour made her loved; but it was a waste. The only good thing that can be said for it is that it was the avenue through which most of us got to hear about her.

That she — like many porn actresses and models — developed a serious drug habit which she had to kick, tells its own story; first, about the environment she moved in, and second, about the unconfessed and perhaps unrealized frustration involved in this life.

Addiction is nearly always a sign of dissatisfaction — indeed, the ultimate in false satisfaction. Whether or not Trine would agree, I say that it is my view that someone of her quality could simply not be satisfied long or deeply with the kind of success offered by nude modeling; and that the drugs were her way to cope.

Or one of the ways. At this point, I think it only right to touch on that figure of Greek tragedy, Ole Michelsen — the man who outlived both his wife and his daughter.

Of course, a habit of secret domestic drinking helps nobody; I have lived with someone who had it not a member of my family or even of my country, I hasten to add and I know.

But I think that it was other forces that drove Trine on her strange path. When Jan Petersen, in his account, addressed him directly and said, sir, you could not have done better than you did, I imagine that the general reaction might be along the lines of, this is a courteous act of support for a man who has suffered; but I also suspect that it might be close to the truth.

Yours truly was around then, and even he, as sociable as a hedgehog and as attractive as a squashed sausage, went through his share of parties.

If Copenhagen at the time was not different from Rome, Oxford, or London, a single parent on a full-time job could have had about as much hold on an active and socially adept teen-ager as a one-handed man on a greased eel.

I remember my mother — by no means a weak or silent woman — and my brother! It is very important, for those who were not young then, to remember that this was before AIDS.

There were no great fears; except perhaps unemployment. And the future was less important than the present. Even more than any time before or since, it was an age of parties, of teen-agers moving together, of friendship; and a person with the gift for friendship of Trine — or my brother — would find that friendship a very real thing.

We were, in some ways, a doomed generation. We did not feel threatened — we thought time was eternal; and indeed, the very precariousness of our lives, hanging between broken families, dubious college courses, and unpromising and precarious jobs, led us the more to rely on each other.

And we had no real fear. It was seen as this distant thing to do with Haitians. It may be, however, that the scale of the disaster would eventually have sobered us all anyway.

The difference AIDS made was enormous, and later generations, born with it as a background fact, cannot understand it.

The illness caused what can only be called a massacre of young homosexuals and drug users in the late eighties and early nineties; often among the most intelligent, most enterprising, most artistic of the generation.

But all of us went from a time of friendship, parties and common fun out into a darkness. My ring of friendships at college collapsed for reasons I still do not understand, and my last year there was the worst, without exception, in all my life.

My brother broke his neck one day swimming in the Tyrrhenian sea, and only the swift help of his friends saved his life. And here we come to another feature of that generation: to those who, like Trine or my brother, had a gift for friendship, that friendship was real.

Twenty years later, they are still friends. When he had to be taken to Heidelberg, Germany, for advanced treatment, they came up with him, and, being unable to pay for expensive hotel rooms, pitched a tent in the hospital grounds.

Even in my case, it was seven good loyal friends who tided me over the dreadful time. Trine lived and breathed this world of teen-age friendships and isolation from the older generation — a world in which the young felt in some ways alone, even cheerfully and happily alone, but alone, and in which they talked only with each other.

Ultimately, Ole Michelsen could not have done much to turn his daughter from her path. She was in some sense doomed to meet with reality, hard and without protection, in a foreign town.

Well, it is certain that she understood the drugs at least to be unarguably bad, and that she took steps to free herself of them. The larger picture is not clear to me.

I do not know by what steps she came to return home, to be reconciled to her father who had been angrily heard to say, in the days of her notoriety, that he could not possibly care less what she did , and to take her first major role in more than ten years.

It is certain that she was reconciled with Ole Michelsen before Idioterne had finished shooting, since he accompanied her at Cannes.

Nothing Trine did since represents a conscious abandonment of the porn world or a refusal of its pseudo-values; and at any rate, such would not be her way.

She would be the last person in the world to do anything that would amount to dropping or denouncing people she had known, worked with, been friends with.

Anyone who had not positively wronged her in a major way would be protected by her innate loyalty.

However, both Idioterne and especially Antenneforeningen represent a move away from its values, whether conscious or not. Idioterne is fiercely satirical of the whole world of Danish commonplace values, and its view of sexual freedom, though in-your-face, can hardly be called favourable.

In Antenneforeningen , however, the director and Trine attempted something more difficult and demanding: to present her character and life as a nude model as it would objectively appear to ordinary residents in a Copenhagen block of flats, in fact as the ordinary world would see it.

Now oneself is always the hardest part to play, and the reason is that one has to be able to see oneself as others see one; a task impossible without humility not a natural feature of actors and an ability to understand the views of others.

It was, in my view, an artistic success. There is one scene stands, to me, for the whole naturalness and credibility of the film. He has had a row with Kim, and she has been telling her two neighbours all about it.

As Fauli comes up, he sees the three women together, and they glower at him as he passes by. Not a word is spoken. Good Heavens, has there ever been a man who has not found himself in the same situation?

Part of the success was in the courageous decision to show Trine as she was, without clinging to the dream of agelessness of the glamour model: a woman in her thirties, with lines under her eyes and incipient folds in her neck.

The result is astonishing. On the one hand, the movie would never have worked if Trine had appeared among its other female protagonists — whose homeliness is, if anything, stressed — as some sort of glamorous golden vision of otherworldly beauty; the scene on the stair which I just described would not in a million years have achieved its effect if Trine had looked different in degree and kind from the other two actresses.

By throwing away the pretence of Barbie-doll perfection, Fauli recovered the emotional impact of real, living beauty. From beginning to end, Trine proves a far more than competent actress, down to her final reconciliation with the Fauli character in true rom-com style.

As Fauli is working on the television set that has been at the heart of the story, Trine places her arms, hands already joined , across his shoulder, then her hands separate, resting one across his shoulder, the other behind his neck.

It is not exactly an embrace, not even a caress, but it is the more touching, intimate, affectionate, for being unusual and quite frankly very low in the sensuality scale.

It has something of a joining together, since the effect is to have her body come to rest over his; it is the kind of magical moment that we demand, and unfortunately not always receive, as the climax and conclusion of the series of misunderstandings and temporary break-ups that make up romantic comedy.

Trine had gone back to the activity that suited her most and that had most to offer to her. She had achieved two solid roles, and, in the eyes of good judges, had carried them out well and more than well.

But something seems to have happened, and I am not even speaking of the thunderbolt of cancer. Antenneforeningen came out in ; the cancer diagnosis took place in For one whole year, having re-established herself as a believable actress, this energetic, active, talented woman simply vanished from the news pages.

One report said that her last relationship, with a schoolmaster, had collapsed, and that she had checked herself into a drugs clinic, fearing that the grief might bring a relapse.

Another report at the time of her death said that her greatest misfortune in life had been to be unable to develop a lasting relationship with any man; and while that is a common tabloid topic, in her case it does sound credible.

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