Culture

When a Cruise Ship Is as Big as Its Port


The poet and filmmaker Odveig Klyve has lived for several decades in Stavanger, on the west coast of Norway. The city encircles its harbor, on hillsides that slope down to the seafront. It has been a site of international commerce for hundreds of years, Klyve said, first for herring fishing, then international shipping, then the oil industry. “It has always been a city linked to the sea and what the sea can give,” she told me recently, over Zoom. In the short film “View,” Klyve also shows what a maritime enterprise can take away.

The vistas from Stavanger are striking: sparkling ocean, with islands and mountains in the distance. Recently, however, a new industry’s arrival has obstructed the view and, as Klyve put it, changed the very feeling of the city. When cruise ships first came to the harbor, about ten years ago, Klyve remembers her neighbors being excited about the important economic boost that tourists would bring to the area; some residents even put up banners to welcome visitors into their gardens. Over time, however, the cruise industry has become a local controversy.

The ships have become more frequent—and much, much larger. The liners that pull into the harbor now are so tall and broad that they block out views entirely, fundamentally changing Stavanger’s atmosphere. “It takes away the sun,” Klyve told me. “It takes away the air. It’s claustrophobic.” And with the increased commerce has come noise and pollution. Klyve said that some of her harborside neighbors now have to wash their white-painted houses, which go gray because of the smog. Others simply miss being able to see the sea. In summer, up to five cruise ships pull into the harbor every day. Now townspeople and local representatives are arguing about whether the ships ought to be rerouted or restricted.

In “View,” Klyve addresses the phenomenon in a quiet way. The documentary, shot by several camerapeople stationed in different parts of the city, shows exactly what it looks like when one of the cruise liners arrives. The scale is striking—the ship looks more like a geographic feature than a mode of transportation. There is no narration, and, despite the controversy that surrounds the ships, the film itself makes no argument.

Outside her filmmaking, Klyve writes what she calls documentary poetry—poems that address current events in a sidelong way, prioritizing images over assertions. The same approach is clear in “View.” Even for a casual watcher with no ties to Stavanger and no memories of the open views from its hills, the footage evokes wistfulness. The view is gorgeous, bright, colorful—and then suddenly hidden behind a towering wall flecked with cabin windows.



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