“Zlatan Ibrahimovic cannot be anyone.” This legend of Swedish football hangs over the heads of Gottsunda’s inhabitants, an immigrant ghetto in Uppsala city which has become a drug-packed no go area for gangland. He is mentioned several times throughout G–21 Scenes from Gottsunda and represents the one thing that they all have in common: he is of Balkan descent, grew up in an even poorer neighborhood (Malmo) than theirs and was involved with shady things before becoming who we know today.
But only one person will go on to do something anywhere near as successful as Zlatan did for 99 others it’s staying put with all its bad influences and zero positives. Not just another Loran Batti either; this man got out (boxing first, then studying) but came back because he wanted to show people what life is like here.
The film sticks close to its title card (“a personal rather than objective testimony”) by having Batti shoot most scenes from behind his own eyes or through their reflections there are few instances where someone else takes over camera duties but these moments feel more like accidents than anything else. The 21 scenes revolve around himself, his friends and acquaintances, and random stuff that happens during any given day; however, through this subjective approach he manages to touch upon something universal since much of what goes into it can be found anywhere.
Take aggressive police behavior for instance; so many countries share stories about officers acting like they’re above the law because they think everyone they deal with is beneath them one moment sees a cop look right into Batti’s lens while refusing to give his badge number after being asked twice or thrice. Then there’s also failed high-rise politics where buildings have turned into open-air prisons due to poor design and lackluster maintenance; it doesn’t take long before realizing how many nations have had similar experiences surrounding such dwellings.
Another thing that G–21 Scenes from Gottsunda teaches us is that the state prison is also an integral part of life for most people living in this area. It’s no wonder petty thieves and low-life thugs, whom Batti grew up alongside, use jail as some sort of holiday home they’re always going back and forth between houses like it’s normal to sleep behind those bars every other week.
This creates two genuinely funny moments; firstly characters stage a firework show at seven o’clock morning to celebrate their friend getting out but secondly director shapes another through clever editing/scene pacing: after driving around with mate who wants to hand himself over he ends up watching him wait outside gates for ages while guards check names/dates before eventually collecting him from car park inside.
These comic reliefs are one example of Batti’s skill as a director and editor. The fact that he made an embedded personal documentary on a very low budget did not keep him from trying out various things that could make the film lively and strong. He takes the legal impossibility to show a big part of his old friends’ life guns, drugs and turns it into a fascinating use of off-screen space as an equally important element in filmmaking to what is shown on screen.
Also, he succeeds in making his personal conflicted feelings the main emotional stake of the final act of the movie such that once more a universal question is raised: can one find middle ground between keeping strong attachment with your neighbourhood where you grew up and cutting all ties forever?
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