The Year Was 1981

My first real job in the film industry was at a production company called Moviemakers. Both my parents worked in film, so it wasn’t surprising when my dad helped me land the gig; he knew the owner, after all. What I didn’t know was how much this first foray into the industry would shape me—or provide endless material for dinner party stories.

Moviemakers was small but notorious for two things: never blowing a budget and having Bert Sundberg at the helm. Bert was a relic of the old-school directors who had ruled the 1940s and 1950s. Imagine a corpulent man in his mid-fifties, perpetually chewing on a fat cigar, dressed in a suit so immaculate it looked bulletproof, and driving a gold Mercedes 280. That was Bert Sundberg—larger than life, in the most intimidating and occasionally absurd way possible.

For me, working at Moviemakers was intoxicating. It was my first real taste of life on set, the constant buzz of production, the sense that we were creating something that might last longer than any of us. I spent my days maintaining the equipment: lights, dollies, sound gear. When we were shooting, my artistic inclinations often found their way into set design and props. By my second year, I’d contributed to a handful of films, and though I felt proud, I also felt like a kid playing dress-up in an industry dominated by larger personalities.

Bert was one of those personalities. He didn’t just fill a room; he commandeered it. My parents had raised me to ask questions, to push back when necessary, and to think independently. That didn’t mesh well with someone like Bert. He belonged to an era where subordinates were seen, not heard—preferably while holding a clipboard. We clashed frequently, often loudly. Yet between these moments of friction, we somehow managed to coexist.

When Bert was in a good mood—a rare phenomenon—he’d suddenly appear in the basement where I worked. “You’re not doing anything important anyway,” he’d say, cigar smoke curling around him like a sinister halo. “Take the Mercedes and fetch something from the liquor store.” I’d grumble but oblige. Looking back, I realize those errands were his version of an olive branch—if a slightly condescending one.

The Breaking Point

After a few years, the job began to weigh on me. I was no longer the eager kid starstruck by the industry. Bert’s domineering presence, once fascinating, became suffocating. One sleepless night, I rehearsed my resignation speech, going over every word like I was preparing for a courtroom drama.

The next day, I saw Bert just before lunch. My stomach churned as I approached him. “I’ve been thinking about quitting,” I said, my voice steady but my hands trembling. “I’d like to freelance, try working on other productions.”

For the first time, Bert looked genuinely stunned. His mouth hung open for a beat too long. “Come to my office after lunch,” he said gruffly before turning on his heel.

I was floored. Was that all it took? Just standing my ground? During lunch, I joked with the secretary about finally getting a raise or maybe my own office. My nerves began to settle, replaced by a glimmer of hope.

The Final Conversation

At 1 p.m. sharp, I knocked on Bert’s office door. Moviemakers was housed in a sprawling 1940s villa, perched in an affluent suburb of Stockholm. Bert’s office occupied almost the entire first floor. The decor was Danish modern, all sharp angles and polished wood. His desk was enormous, flanked by a leather chair that looked more like a throne. The room reeked of cigars and leather—a scent that, to this day, brings me back to that moment.

“Sit down,” Bert barked, gesturing to one of the visitor chairs. These chairs, I later realized, were intentionally uncomfortable—another subtle power play. I perched awkwardly, my confidence wavering.

Bert didn’t speak right away. He stared at me, his expression unreadable. I began to imagine what he might say. Would he offer me a raise? A promotion? A company car? My mind raced with possibilities.

Instead, Bert opened a cigar case and pulled out a fat cigar. He rolled it between his fingers, studying it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Finally, he clipped the end, moistened it with his lips, and lit it with a ridiculously oversized lighter encased in glass. After what felt like an eternity, he exhaled a plume of smoke so dense it could have blotted out the sun.

“Rickard,” he said at last.

A long pause. The smoke hung in the air like a portent.

“I want you to know something.”

Here it comes, I thought. The apology. The plea to stay. Maybe even a heartfelt acknowledgment of my contributions.

“The work you do here…” Another pause, long enough to make me shift uncomfortably. “I could have a trained chimpanzee do it.”

I stared at him, half-expecting a smirk. Surely this was a joke? But Bert’s expression remained stony. My mouth twitched into an incredulous smile, but his unflinching gaze wiped it away.

“Well, I guess that’s settled,” he said, turning back to shuffle papers on his desk.

I stood, nodded stiffly, and backed out of the room. The absurdity of it all hit me only later, as I walked home. To argue that I wasn’t a trained chimpanzee would have been futile. Bert had mastered the art of dominance; this was his final checkmate.

I never returned to Moviemakers. That was the last scene in my chapter with Bert Sundberg, and honestly, it was less a tragedy and more a perfect punchline to a story only he could direct.

Rickard Molin

Locamundo