The Black Swan follows a repentant master criminal as she sets up corrupt clients in front of hidden cameras. But is she really reformed – and is the director up to his own tricks?
The trap was laid in a rented office: two rooms in downtown Copenhagen, furnished without a whisper of Scandi style. If it wasn’t for a Frida Kahlo print on one wall, the premises might have felt as impersonal and stark as a confessional. That, in any event, was what it became. For six months, beginning in mid-2022, a parade of people – members of motorcycle gangs, entrepreneurs, lawyers, real-estate barons, politicians – trooped through to recount their sins to Amira Smajic. They didn’t come for expiation. They knew Smajic to be one of them – an outlaw, and in her particular case, a business lawyer so skilled at laundering money that she’d enabled a couple of billion kroner in financial crime over the previous decade. They called her the Ice Queen, because she showed not a flicker of regret for what she did.
In her office, Smajic’s visitors bragged about dodging tax, bribing officials or exploiting the bankruptcy code. She offered them coffee and coaxed forth their confidences. Six cameras and three microphones, secreted in power sockets, captured it all – footage that was turned into a documentary called The Black Swan. In its surreptitious method and breathtaking drama, The Black Swan bore all the fingerprints of its director, Mads Brügger, a provocateur who has spent his career searching for bombshells to drop but who had never quite managed it as well as he did here. Denmark’s national bird is the Cygnus olor, a swan as white as virtue. The Black Swan, in showing such easy, unbridled formulations of crime, blew up Denmark’s idea of itself.
