by Jon Gnarr
Are you mad at the politicians and the conditions prevailing in this country? Would you prefer to write something in a blog or organize a demo? Why not use your time and creativity to find out how you can actively participate in democracy? Found a party or run for office!
How do you do that? It’s actually pretty simple—you need a little imagination and some courage, and the rest follows. But before you begin, you need to make a few principles clear: What bugs you? What’s wrong? Where’s the problem? You’re committed to environmental protection, but there isn’t a Green Party in your country? Then just found one. Or there is a Green Party, but it’s not working effectively enough? Then become a member and lend a hand. But be prepared to invest a bit of time that you’ll have to take from other activities. Be prepared to make certain sacrifices. Time that you would have otherwise devoted to your family, your friends, your hobbies, or your work.
In earlier days I’d sometimes ramble on about what it would be like to found a party and become minister of culture. I’d make sure I could have my own comedy show with the public broadcasters, then admit to corruption and resign from ministerial office—but continue with the TV show. Even with my friends I kept starting off on this track, over and over, until they said, “So why don’t you do it, instead of just talking about it? Why don’t you just found a party?” And so that’s what I did. The craziest, wackiest party that ever saw the light of day. I posted it on Facebook and created a blog in which I circulated surrealist prose on social issues. One article attracted some attention, and so it happened that the media dropped by and asked me for interviews.
So I went to the tax office and entered the Best Party as a not-for-profit organization. That’s how you apply to found a political party. The whole thing took about an hour and cost 5,000 krónur, or about 30 euros.
As the Best Party had only just seen the light of day, the media paid me a certain, slightly patronizing interest. At first I must have been a kind of comic relief for them. I tried to use this to draw attention to myself, pulling out of an interview, giving impossible replies, or coming out with totally absurd statements. The political conditions in the country were, as far as I could see, completely out of control. One scandal followed the next. Public funds were being squandered on poorly planned, dubious projects. Politicians vied with each other to keep the citizens happy and promised economic stability, reliability, and responsible use of taxpayers’ money. One hundred percent transparency. Meanwhile, the financial system had long since swelled into a giant monster that grew bigger and rolled on relentlessly.
I won’t deny that the prospect of a steady job with a fixed salary—instead of never-ending, poorly paid drudgery—has played no small role in my political commitment, but I hoped to kill two birds with one stone: to have a job, and to commit myself to a good cause at the same time. And I was sure I wouldn’t be a worse mayor than my predecessors. Many assumed that this would mean I’d cross comedy off my list of activities. But I can’t say this has happened. I’m as much a comedian as I ever was. That’s what I am, it’s part of my personality. Comedy is neither my hobby nor my day job—it’s my life.
THE CAMPAIGN
Half a year before the elections for the city council on May 29, 2010, the first opinion polls were published. The Best Party got zero-point-something percent. The public TV station interviewed me, and I didn’t make anything of it. I laughed and said that, after all, it was still just the beginning—the run-up to an epoch-making victory. At that time I was acting as court jester at Reykjavík City Theatre for a pittance and at the same time writing a play.
Some politician had uploaded a yawn-inducing, tedious monologue onto YouTube. I looked at it. The whole thing was incredibly bogus and embarrassing, so I decided to do something similar. As a backdrop I chose a theater poster that was stuck behind the desk where I worked—the announcement of an American stage comedy from the fifties. With the morose face of the female lead in the background, my confused election twaddle took on a downright surreal quality.
At about the same time I was the guest on a popular talk show. With my TV make-up on, I met a woman who greeted me kindly. I greeted her back.
“We’ll be meeting on the campaign trail!” she exclaimed to me in a jocular tone of voice.
“Yes, we will,” I replied. When she’d gone, I asked the make-up artist who she was. The lady was called Hanna Birna Kristjánsdóttir, the incumbent mayor of Reykjavík. I clearly didn’t have much of a grasp on Icelandic politics.
Our campaign played out primarily on Facebook, YouTube, and Blogspot. I didn’t put in an appearance on any of the official candidates’ tours. I declared on my Facebook page that I did not intend to waste time on sterile let’s-get-our-sleeves-rolled-up conferences. When I was interviewed on TV, I tried to provide a large dollop of complete nonsense. When it came to unemployment, I suggested opening a Disneyland in Reykjavík. After all, it would create a lot of new jobs, and there would definitely be plenty of people who’d be willing to get into Disney costumes and sell cheap trinkets for a few krónur. And we could attract the unemployed with special offers—free admission on Mondays, for example, plus a personal photo with Mickey Mouse!
My friend and collaborator Heiða Kristín Helgadóttir took care of all the practical and organizational questions of Party work. I would have an idea—and she’d already implemented it. My sons also energetically joined it. We decided to create a homepage with the name bestiflokkurinn.is, and to make it the ugliest website that a party had ever put on the Internet. “Thumbs up,” the international symbol for friendship, approval, and recognition was to be our motto and trademark. On the logo, the thumb was deliberately made a tad too long, which gave the gesture a somewhat racy look.
We chose the ugliest typography and most hideous color combinations that we could find. We unabashedly pilfered stuff from the websites of other parties. We copied fragments of text from their respective election manifestos and mixed it all up (in the proper surrealistic manner) into a unique cocktail, completely meaningless but totally positive. Early in the spring we moved our campaign office to the center of Reykjavík. We designed and sold buttons, stickers, and T-shirts, and tried to attract external sponsors. But no one wanted to give us any money, so we were more or less on our own.
As the election approached, poll numbers for the Best Party climbed inexorably higher. It was obvious that this was largely due to votes from the left-wing electorate: their loss was our gain. And the left-wing intelligentsia woke up too, and the movers and shakers in that camp came after me guns blazing. So I was reproached with, among other things, having formerly been a member of the Independents and the Association of Icelandic Libertarians. They also mentioned that I wanted to legalize cannabis. Some went so far as to put me on the same level as Silvio Berlusconi. Others went even further and compared me to Hitler. I myself was mainly amused—all this, after all, just proved that people now saw us as a serious threat.
The Independence Party initially seemed happy about our success, because it was at the expense of the Left. Otherwise, they didn’t appear all that worried; in any case they didn’t think we’d ever get serious. But when the poll numbers left no doubt that the Best Party was nibbling away at the Independents’ vote as well, they realized they couldn’t just stand idly by. The party dominates the executive suites of all the major media companies, and from those quarters the cry started to echo ever more loudly: the country’s problems weren’t going to be solved by silly antics. I responded with even more silly antics. Every time another party made any election promises, we sat down together and discussed how we could top them. The Left-Green Alliance promised children and teens free access to swimming pools—our response was to offer free admission for ALL—with free towels INCLUDED!
On the whole, all the parties kept their language politically correct. As soon as there was talk of immigrants or women’s equality, they all trotted out their standard formulations, and their waterproof, carefully rehearsed slog
ans. Meanwhile I took the liberty of saying that the Best Party would also do something for women and girls, and even for the elderly and disabled. For the underdogs, you see. On the subject of immigrants, I reminded them that the man who had brought the toilet to Icelanders had also been a foreigner. To begin with, nobody had taken him seriously—but it was unlikely that anyone now would be prepared to go without his invention. Then I suggested launching a major campaign to promote the immigration of Jews—they’d definitely help us float the economy again.
Furthermore, I wanted to have a woman with a foreign last name on our list of candidates. I remembered Elsa Yeoman, a woman I knew from my time in the advertising agency, where she’d been in charge of catering for the workforce. Elsa was a clever and open-minded person and immediately said yes. When I learned of her Jewish heritage, I missed no opportunity to present her proudly and brag a bit about her: “The Best Party is not only the first smoke-free party in Scandinavia, but also the only party in Iceland that’s happy to have a Jewish woman among the top candidates.”
At that time, parties often flaunted their election propaganda on the pages of newspapers. They outdid themselves with their full-page ads and resorted to completely shopworn clichés. The slogans were devised by advertising agencies and were modeled generally on any phrases that had proven successful in Denmark, the United States, or elsewhere, the usual blah-blah about home, garden, and family. Most people could no longer bear this stuff. The newspaper advertising we invested in appeared in the classified section of a greasy rag. We inserted the following: “The Best Party is looking for men and women who want to change things.” We were almost overwhelmed by the number of replies.
THE BEST PARTY: WE ARE BETTER THAN ALL THE OTHERS
This party platform, by Jón Gnarr and other party members, was written in April 2010.
1) Protection and support for Icelandic households
Families are the core of our society and are our greatest asset. The state has a duty to meet the needs of households and to campaign for the protection of families in all circumstances. Because they deserve only the best.
2) Benefits for vulnerable members of society
These people need our help and support. That’s why we offer free use of the city’s buses and free entry to all swimming pools, because everyone, even the poor or otherwise disadvantaged, should have the opportunity to move in comfort through our city after a nice clean shower.
3) An end to corruption!
We promise to fight all kinds of corruption—by indulging in it publicly and in full view of everyone.
4) Create equal rights
We all deserve only the best, no matter who we are or where we come from. We will ensure that everyone gets the best, and do our best for every individual. After all, we all play on the same team—the best!
5) More transparency!
We think it’s important that politicians always put their cards on the table so that the citizens know what’s going on. We promise to implement that concretely in our party as well.
6) Active Democracy
Democracy is great, and active democracy even better. Therefore, we are committed to it.
7) Debt relief for everyone!
On this point we will simply let the people decide—because the people themselves always know best what’s good for them.
8) City buses: pupils, students, and the disadvantaged ride free!
We can promise more cost exemptions than any other party—because we won’t actually try to keep our promises! So we could promise all kinds of things, no matter what, from free plane tickets for women to free cars for the rural population.
9) Free dental treatment for children and the disadvantaged
This is a service that, so far, doesn’t exist—so we’ll promise it along with the rest.
10) Free entrance to the swimming pool for all, free towels included!
Probably nobody can resist this offer—it’s an election promise of which we are very proud.
11) The banking crash: those responsible are now being asked to pay.
We think this too is only right.
12) Absolute gender equality
We promise absolute equality, because that is the best for everyone.
13) We also take women and the elderly seriously
Women and the elderly are in fact rarely given a proper hearing. Everyone seems to agree that these people have nothing substantial to say. We will change that.
JOKE!
Four weeks before the election, the polls left no doubt: The Best Party was now the strongest political force in Reykjavík. After each new poll, we got together and held a war council. We finally had to put in an appearance on the campaign trail. Also, we needed to tone down our silliness and come up with something sensible to say. So in interviews I was now serious and prudent. We took turns appearing at the campaign events, and soon realized that we didn’t necessarily have undecided voters in front of us on these occasions, but rather the members and supporters of the respective parties. The cheerleaders, so to speak. They looked like normal people who came because they took an ardent interest in these matters. But if any average normal citizen drifted in, it was guaranteed to be some old fogy or whiner. It was pure theater.
In addition, we were invited to club meetings and gatherings of large companies for Q&A sessions with the public. I answered all questions honestly and conscientiously, but also took the opportunity to switch to a more casual tone. My message was roughly: “I’m doing this because I feel like it. Because we enjoy it. But if you vote for us, we’ll take it very seriously and see the thing through. Is that a deal? If that’s not what you want, just vote for the same lot as last time, and I’ll start looking for another job. No hard feelings!”
When it became clear that the Best Party was well on the way to evolving into a serious political body, I found myself giving constant interviews and expressing myself on boring and complex topics such as kindergartens, the Reykjavík domestic airport, and various financial matters. After all, the voters had a right to know what concrete plans the Best Party had for seniors, children, or this or that interest group. I thought this was more like a poorly disguised attempt to lull us to sleep with the greatest possible boredom.
I responded doughtily, but every answer threw up two new, even more complicated questions. Finally, I pulled the emergency brake and said that until further notice I wouldn’t be making any additional comment in the Icelandic media. Now that the truth about the financial crisis had come to light, the whole quagmire of corruption, racketeering, and money-grabbing in which they’d all—political parties, business, and the media alike—been involved was exposed. As such, I decided that I would only be made available to foreign journalists.
In those weeks we were out on the road all day, from here to there and back again. Everywhere it was nonstop talking, and I often turned up at meetings totally unprepared and with no idea what was really going on. The rest of the time we hung out in our campaign headquarters, drank coffee, and discussed things.
From time to time my wife Jóga came along with a proposal that I meet this or that person. For example, we still needed someone in our ranks with legal expertise. Jóga suggested Haraldur Flosi Tryggvason, about whom I knew nothing except that he’d once played saxophone with the Jupiters. And now I knew he was also a lawyer. So I met with him and his wife over a cup of coffee and mentioned that we were still looking for a lawyer. At first he was skeptical, but his wife spoke to him and begged him to accept the offer. He mulled it over, took counsel with his father, and finally said yes. After the election, Haraldur Flosi was made chairman of the energy company Orkuveita Reykjavíkur. He would play a key role in the financial restructuring of that company.
It proved particularly difficult to get women to join the Best Party. I emailed a lot of my women friends and encouraged them to join us, but most remained dubious. Those who did finally decide to join mostly stayed discreetly in the background rather than musc
ling in on the front line. I would love to have seen a greater proportion of women among us. Politics has always been an almost exclusively male world, and it often strikes women as daunting and alien. Trying to persuade a woman to join the Best Party was a bit like trying to get a woman to run riot with the boys in the football stadium. Difficult and well-nigh impossible, but I wish it had been different during the election.
The last days before the election went by in a total trance. I slept no more than two or three hours per night. We held endless meetings. The rest of the time I went on the Internet, and when I dozed off at my computer I immediately woke up with a start because I’d just dreamed that I urgently needed to update my Facebook status. In the meantime I was alternately in the grip of abysmal resignation and naked panic.
Gradually, the highest-ranking members of the Reykjavík city council had come knocking on our door wanting to talk to me and my party friends. All were educated and experienced politicians who had been on the council for years and years, some of them for over two decades. I had no idea what kind of people they were and what they did exactly. They said they wanted to address a few urban policy questions with us, something about budgetary and financial measures, schools and kindergartens. In fact, they wanted to sound me out, to get a feel of what could be expected if I actually ended up sitting in the mayor’s chair. I promised that, if this happened, I would treat them with trust and respect. I would show full appreciation for their know-how and their professional experience and would expect the same from them in return.