Although I'd seen a few episodes of Jón Gnarr's comedy series Night Shift / Naeturvaktin, it seemed at first that this wouldn't be enough to maintain my interest in this simply-written autobiography (part 1 of a trilogy). I'd picked up what felt like a celebrity memoir - with a plain style and short chapters to appeal to a wide audience, written as a child- narrator; perhaps also structured this way because of the author's ADHD and his openness about it. Other reviews indicate that the sort of details of childhood related here in unadorned fashion, to the readers who pick up a Deep Vellum book expecting the experimental, might only be interesting when you're a fan or friend of the person doing the telling. This is how I felt for the first 20% or so.
I nevertheless admired his courage in placing excerpts from two sets of casenotes (dated 1972 and 1977, from services that he was sent to as a kid due to troublesome behaviour) alongside his own account of his childhood. (Brave also, to have remained in a small community like Iceland and overcome the labels and the reputation in such a big way.) If you've worked in a helping profession, the moments of contrast and similarity between the person and the papers will already be a familiar phenomenon, one which I thought couldn't come alive in the same way without direct contact. But as his descriptions grew more intense, and as more started happening, it nonetheless did. Although what was more interesting and enlightening was the comparison of young Jón's view of his parents and those of the professionals, in particular their mention of his mother's communication difficulties, which made an awful lot fall into place in the main story re. what he would and would not have had the opportunity to learn at home. The most specialised material I'm familiar with in psychology relates to attachment and trauma, and I often gravitate towards literature where these themes loom large: it was really interesting to look at a fairly different set of problems for a change, and also to read a memoir by someone who'd never considered themselves intellectual.
This could also make a great pre-teen / YA book, especially for discussion. Didactically, there's tons of material here comparing how you might feel and think when you're being a bit mischievous and having fun, versus the gravity of trouble your actions might cause for you and for others. He does the kind of stuff that naughty kids in books do (Just William kind of stuff, and some worse) but not being in a fictional world, and living decades later, has a lot of ongoing consequences to deal with, and it's not presented in a fun way. For those kids and teenagers who (as I took a very long time to realise myself) haven't figured that copying fucked-up fictional characters or celebrities won't get you on the right side of anyone, it might even be a wake-up call. Gnarr also relates brilliantly the sense of being a bad kid, of feeling like people think you're inherently rotten, and that therefore you probably are, and how it keeps coming back because "you can't do anything right"; I'd three-quarters forgotten it until I read this, and I think this could cross the divide with many kids who feel that way, even whilst this boy is different from them because they're brighter or look less dorky or something. At one point Jón himself asks the big questions outright: How are you meant to behave? What are these invisible rules that I don't know? What is 'normal'? I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't know. I don't know how to evaluate things.
The book isn't overburdened with cultural material, which makes it approachable, but there's still some interesting stuff here. For instance, Gnarr's dad's Communist politics. In 1960s-70s Iceland, he seems to have been able to pursue this without much fear; it was almost just an eccentric hobby, albeit one that meant he wasn't promoted at work. (Gnarr senior was a fairly eccentric chap himself, but unlike his young son, also had a handy knack for conforming that made sure he faced less abrasion in life, working diligently as a police constable for decades.)
Young Jón is sent to work on farms during summer holidays to try and teach him self-discipline: here he encounters some punitive, and a few kind, characters - reminiscent of evacuee placements in British kids' fiction - and also traditional foods, some revolting. Whilst I don't like excess gore, it's usually the case that if I can bear to hear about something in the first place, I can also eat at the same time. However, here I read about boiled cow's udder at the exact same time I was drinking a glass of milk. It was at least six hours before I could pick up the milk again and finish it.
There is, as you might expect, quite a bit of imported US pop culture (which Jón can access because he reads Danish, the old colonisers' language, as well as Icelandic). The afterword relates some fascinating info that's hidden in translation: e.g. that Gnarr did not read Donald Duck, but Andrés Önd (the name changed to preserve alliteration), and Scrooge McDuck was Onkel Joachim. Near the end of the book Grease is a big hit with the local preteens, Jón tagging along with the craze. And he actually does a thing, the idea of which had always made me be glad to be the age I was, and not old enough to have been a teenager in the punk era - although friends reassured me that actually most people didn't do this: he pierces his ears with sewing needles stolen from home.
The title, The Indian, reflects how Jón enjoyed playing at Indians rather than Cowboys and identified with their outsider status. This echoed an interview I read not long ago with Mads Mikkelsen (a Dane only a couple of years older than Gnarr) in which he said, talking about starring in a Western, that when he was a kid he and his friends all wanted to be the Indians and it was the thing politically then). The translator's afterword sensitively points out that the adult Gnarr is aware of this as an old-fashioned Hollywood concept of 'Indian' which isn't really acceptable now, especially in the US, but the very unacceptability of forefronting the word in the title echoes the behaviour of the antisocial little boy he was.
The translated literary fiction shelves may not be the most natural home for this simply-written book, but it could be of interest to people with a background in psychology, and those who knew for themselves that feeling of being a 'bad kid', as well as school librarians, teachers and others working with children and teenagers.