Fisheries policy and the law of accidents at work

The series 'Blackport' (2021) virtuously works through a piece of Icelandic economic history surrounding the introduction of fishing quotas. Dramatic, amusing and at the same time educational, this microcosm reflects the ills of the wider world.

The first episodes of the mini­se­ries “Verbúðin” (IS, 2021), with the under­whel­ming English dis­tri­bu­ti­on title “Blackport”, give an authentic impres­si­on of the Icelandic fishing workers’ milieu of the 1980s. In order to stay awake in the fish factory, people take drugs and the after-work parties are fuelled by illegal alcohol and, if necessary, anti­free­ze. A place where a machine severs the hand from a worker instead of the head from a fish, where a bolt smacks a fisherman in the face due to the careless­ness of another worker causing the conveyor belt to rip. One almost feels a little bit of macabre satis­fac­tion when, for a change, a local poli­ti­ci­an, at the inau­gu­ra­ti­on of a new workshop at the local voca­tio­nal school, slices his finger off with a band saw. Ulti­mate­ly, however, the law of a series of occup­a­tio­nal injuries per­pe­tua­tes. Work accidents are a part of work that are seldom depicted. “Blackport” is an exception to the rule and proves that indus­tri­al accidents are also suitable dra­ma­tur­gi­cal elements.

Through the use of archive material in the opening sequences, a grandiose set and the direct visual language, “Blackport” gives us viewers an Icelandic social panorama close to life. Even the sex scenes seem more authentic, espe­cial­ly since the bodies involved are not so far removed from you and I.  The story allegedly based on “true events” spans the years 1983 to 1991, and also seems unasha­med­ly close to reality. Footage of the summit between Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev in Reykjavík in 1986 provides a con­tex­tua­li­sing temporal anchor.

To combat over­fi­shing, the Minister of Fisheries intro­du­ced a new system of trans­fera­ble catch quotas in 1983, based on the catches of the previous three years. The scheme, initially temporary, became law in 1990 and was as highly con­tro­ver­si­al then as it is today, because it favoured industry giants and those who happened to be blessed by ‘fisherman’s luck’. A small number of rich fishing fleet owners, “quota kings”, received a sub­stan­ti­al share of the annual quotas, which they could sell at a profit to the other fishermen. In effect, the fishing grounds that had been collec­tively owned by the Icelandic people became pri­va­tised. None­theless, the preamble to the Icelandic Fisheries Act states that fish around Iceland belong to the Icelandic people, which in reality is not the case and is in stark con­tra­dic­tion to the rest of the law and in practice.

Against this backdrop, the series describes the rise of Jón (Gísli Örn Garðars­son), from mayor of a small town on the Westfjord’s peninsula to fishing minister and the rise of ambitious secretary/his secret lover Harpa (Nína Dögg Filip­pus­dót­tir) to ratings queen to Westfjord’s witch. Together with her husband Grímur (Björn Hlynur Haralds­son), the captain of the town’s only trawler, and a couple of friends, Harpa builds up a veritable fishing empire over the years, despite the pro­spe­ri­ty achieved being modest compared to the ‘shoulder-padded’ turbo-capi­ta­lism of the 1990s.

The impor­t­ance of the fishing quota law for Icelandic society becomes clear when one considers that a quarter of the GDP is directly or indi­rect­ly attri­bu­ta­ble to fishing and that fish products account for almost half of all exports. By com­pa­ri­son, small Iceland catches more fish than Great Britain.

In addition to the afo­re­men­tio­ned authen­ti­ci­ty, which never slips into the docu­men­ta­ry but remains rooted in the drama, what reigns above all and beyond its enter­tain­ment value is the depiction of the intert­wi­ning of family, politics and entre­pre­neurs­hip. In the microcosm of Iceland, an interplay between families, politics, companies, labour, banks and the media unravels, becoming visible and com­pre­hen­si­ble: What is discussed at the kitchen table finds itself in par­lia­ment the next day; adultery turns into a public fistfight on a talk show; shutting down an inves­ti­ga­ti­ve jour­na­list takes just one phone call; the decision of the ratings queen to sell her company leads to the ruin of the community, and so on.

Now, one might argue that all Ice­lan­ders can be connected by one or two degrees of sepa­ra­ti­on whereas elsewhere it takes six and therefore the distances to the “Althing”, the Icelandic par­lia­ment, are cor­re­spon­din­gly brief. Needless to say, the appeal of the series lies precisely in the fact that the indi­vi­du­al sub­sys­tems or insti­tu­ti­ons (family, state, public, economy, etc.), embodied by indi­vi­du­al cha­rac­ters, directly intert­wi­ne and the mutual inter-depen­den­ci­es become evident. This makes the com­ple­xi­ty of capi­ta­lism just a little bit more tangible.

It is not the workers on one side and the economy on the other. But as elsewhere, people are wrestling with and against each other the married, the in-laws, the in-love or the hated. Garðars­son (director, writer and leading actor) sums it up in a Variety interview (2022): “Our cha­rac­ters become the embo­di­ment of the system. They become the system and the system becomes them. And through their personal journey, hopefully we get a pretty clear view of what happened.” That these “systems” are not inher­ent­ly corrupt, ruthless and ambitious appears in flashes here and there. For example, when Harpa feels compelled to break the law for financial reasons and comments on her own behaviour, “I don’t want to [have to] run my business like that.” And yet, like other busi­nes­speop­le, she often decides against the common good. This scene provides a perfect starting point for dis­cus­sions about ethical economic action and is a case-study for exp­lai­ning where capi­ta­lism goes wrong

My favourite scene and personal highlight of “Blackport” can also be inter­pre­ted through the per­so­ni­fi­ca­ti­on of the systems. In the course of a great recon­ci­lia­ti­on, Jón, Grímur and Harpa, as well as their friends and partners, get trashed and do all kinds of nonsense that one would hardly believe even the most infantile teenagers could do. When they chuck fish at each other, for example, it is amusing but also embodies the rela­ti­ons­hip between politics and business; when they stagger into the early shift of the fish factory after a night of drinking and merriment, it is amusing too, but also a back­han­ded joke by politics and capital on the workers.

The series rightly won the Icelandic Edda Film and Tele­vi­si­on Award in 2023. It is to be hoped that the creative trio Garðars­son, Filip­pus­dót­tir and Haralds­son will take on further high­lights of recent Icelandic economic history with the same tried and tested approach and tho­rough­ness. The cod wars of the 1970s between Iceland and Great Britain offer them­sel­ves as a prequel, the financial crisis of 2008 with the resulting government crisis as a sequel.

Refe­ren­ces:
Sigfusson, T., Arnason, R., & Morrissey, K. (2013). The economic impor­t­ance of the Icelandic fisheries cluster—Understanding the role of fisheries in a small economy. Marine Policy, 39, 154–161.
Gray, Tim S. (ed.) (1998). The Politics of Fishing. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Linville, JD (Jan 31, 2022). Icelandic Series Mania Winner ‘Blackport’ Brings Political Drama, Severed Limbs to Göteborg, Variety.
Yingst, A., & Skap­ta­dot­tir, U. D. (2018). Gendered labor in the Icelandic fish pro­ces­sing industry. Maritime Studies, 17(2), 125–132.
Heath, Elizabeth (Feb 8, 2022). How Iceland’s Herring Girls Helped Bring Equality to the Island Nation, Smit­h­so­ni­an Magazine