“It wasn’t my plan.”

It’s April outside Umeå in north-central Sweden, and Rolf Nylinder is sitting in the little room in his house that occasionally makes appearances in his films. The window behind him is covered by a Venetian blind lit from above, while on the sill sit a few candles in brass holders, a small plant in an earthenware pot, and what appears to be a small wooden horse. In the corner a kind of cylindrical wooden crate is packed to brimming with fishing rods and other implements—walking sticks, maybe. The fishing that Nylinder really looks forward to each year—dry fly fishing for superlative brown trout under Scandinavia’s midnight sun—is still a couple months away. 

“I grew up in Uppsala, a city close to Stockholm,” he says, scratching at a few days’ growth of beard on his cheek. “And that’s probably the worst place in Sweden if you want to be trout fishing.”… 

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