Arne Bro’s Secret

 

I want it to be our Secret

I stand before you today with a story that remains as vivid in my memory as if it happened yesterday. It was an experience that was both boundary-crossing and deeply unsettling. It all began with a phone call from Arne Bro the leader of the Television department at The National Danish Filmschool. He wanted to meet and talk at his office, just outside the Film School, in the old B&W hall. We had some nice workspaces there, equipped with editing facilities, and at the far end, Arne had his office. The large windows of his office looked out towards the water, and though the space wasn’t large—perhaps twenty square meters—he shared it with his secretary.

This meeting was just a few days after Arne Bro had struck me in the face outside Fingerbøllet on Wildersgade on Christianshavn. It was the evening of our graduation from the TV line, which Arne headed. To this day, it’s unclear to me why Arne hit me or what the background was. We had enjoyed a pleasant graduation dinner in the B&W halls, if I recall correctly. Afterwards, some of us went down for a beer, and that’s when the violence erupted. I was chatting with a friend when Arne approached out of the blue, asking if I would join him outside. I had no idea what he wanted but agreed nonetheless. Once outside, Arne struck me in the face without comment, and then he went back inside. No explanation, nothing.

When I arrived at his office for our meeting, the building was empty. Arne was in his office. I went in, greeted him, and noticed he had placed two chairs in the middle of the room, as close as bus seats. He asked me to sit down, and he sat next to me. I wondered why we were sitting so close but didn’t question it. After a few minutes, Arne began by saying he didn’t know what had happened. He had never done anything like this before. I listened silently. There was another pause. Then Arne looked at me and suggested we keep the incident secret and not tell anyone about the violence.

It’s difficult to convey the experience. How does one sit there and do nothing? Yet, I was weighed down, sitting across from the head of my education, unsure of what to do. I wanted to ask why Arne had struck me. Was it because of my graduation film, which I was sure it was? He wanted it re-edited, but I had stood my ground. Not to oppose Arne, but because I believed the film was better that way. I had also asked my consultant, who appears in the film and is a doctor from Somalia, and she had said that the film is mild compared to reality and doesn’t actually show much.

The entire session with Arne probably lasted 10 minutes, maximum, before silence arose again. I could feel Arne signaling that the meeting was over. I said I would leave then. He smiled. It was hard to know how to react to the meeting, and I felt bound by the secrecy, choosing not to say anything.

“We don’t talk about that”

Today, I want to talk about something we often choose to ignore, especially in the film industry—a phrase we all know too well: “Det taler vi ikke om,” or “We don’t talk about that.” It’s a tacit agreement to overlook what’s wrong in order to keep the wheels turning. The first time I encountered this phrase was when Mogens Rukov passed away. A student from the Film School mentioned his importance to the industry but added that there were things we didn’t speak about. This prompted me to reflect on Mogens’ behavior at the Danish Film School, where he would pursue women in the enclosed courtyard. I witnessed him, inebriated, chasing after the girls, and I recall a particular incident where he ran into a fence, drunk. No one reacted; everyone pretended it didn’t happen.

I knew Mogens; he was my teacher. We often met at the Christianshavn library, where he was busy photocopying articles about Israel. For the industry, he was indispensable due to his contributions to screenwriting at the film school. A man you couldn’t do without. I suppose that’s why no one criticized him, even when he chased young students around in a drunken state.

Later, it was my next teacher, Arne Bro, who came under scrutiny. A student wrote on EKKO’s website, following an article about Arne being sent home from the Danish Film School, that Arne had violated boundaries. According to the student, Arne used the admissions system at the Film School to get close to the girls, claiming he collected blonde girls with large breasts. When I read this, I thought it couldn’t be true. I had Arne as a teacher myself, and while it was clear he had crossed lines, the idea of him using the admissions process to seduce girls seemed outrageous. I checked the Film School’s website and saw the students from those years, noticing there were indeed some very beautiful, blonde girls among them.

This story isn’t about things I haven’t experienced myself; it’s solely about what I saw Arne do during my first year there, with a particular focus on the violence—why it arose and how it was handled. Through this narrative, I believe we can learn and improve.

How the violence started

I want to share a story about a moment when violence erupted—a moment that underscored the tensions and challenges we sometimes face in the pursuit of our creative vision.

As part of our education, we were tasked with creating a graduation film, a final project that would encapsulate our learning and creativity. I directed a film titled “Det Bedste for Min Datter,” which stirred controversy at the Danish Film School. The film follows Muna, a 25-year-old Somali woman living in Denmark, grappling with whether her daughter should undergo female circumcision. This is a decision faced by many in her community, as her daughter approaches the traditional age for this procedure. Muna seeks advice from other Somali women in Aarhus, finding a division in opinions—some support the practice, while others oppose it, having experienced it themselves. Muna shares her own childhood experience with circumcision, and the film also features Dr. Fatuma Ali, a Danish international doctor who has undergone the procedure. This culturally rooted practice involves the partial or complete removal of external female genitalia and is prevalent in certain North African countries.

Despite being approved by a committee at the Danish Film School, the film was halted by Arne Bro, who felt the controversy surrounding it was too great. With a budget of only 10,000 kroner, he believed it was too risky to proceed. Having spent many years working in the television industry, I wasn’t nervous. I had a unique connection with the Red Cross, and the committee gave the green light, allowing production to begin.

In discussions with the school’s rector, Poul Nesgaard, after filming, he remarked on the historic nature of what we had achieved. Yet, Arne remained dissatisfied, even after the footage was completed. Upon viewing the film, he insisted it needed to be re-edited or translated differently. This marked the beginning of a conflict that culminated in violence, with Arne striking me in the face on our farewell evening, all because of the film.

This experience taught me about the power and impact of storytelling, but also about the challenges and resistance that can come when confronting deeply embedded cultural issues. It’s a reminder of the responsibility we bear as storytellers and the courage required to face opposition in pursuit of truth.