Emil's been kicking around this spinning globe, starting under the Tunisian sun and now freezing his bones in some corner of Norway since 2021, scraping out a living chasing art and film like some stubborn cat after a half-dead mouse. He learned the angles back home—film directing, writing, enough camera tricks and actorly nonsense to fill a cheap memoir. He shot this and that: short films, commercials, documentaries, even bothered with a few exhibitions. He wore every damn hat—actor, director, art director—like a kid rummaging through a box of old clothes, trying to find what fit.
Now he's stationed up north, calling his own shots, and still fiddling away at a feature film, because what else is there to do but try to spin a big, fat story that no one's seen before? He's got a hand in the University of South-Eastern Norway scene, snapping photos, plucking out some music, scraping for beauty and aesthetics like a drunk searching for his last cigarette. He's after something elusive, something real. Maybe he'll find it. Maybe not. But he keeps digging, frame by frame, note by note, because hell, what's the alternative?