As a boy he felt “completely Willem Ruys” when he announced the plays of classmates in his parents’ village café. It was in that party room in Markelo that film director Johan Nijenhuis’ love for show and theater arose. His twentieth feature film was recently released: ‘In Love with Bali’. “Already at the Film Academy I wanted to become the Dutch Steven Spielberg.”
Don’t approach Johan Nijenhuis (55) with the criticism that the romantic comedy is a tired genre. Since he started as a film director in 2001 with the hit Costa! debuted, he makes one romkom after another. The Markelo-born filmmaker has an unprecedented drive for production; his twentieth feature film recently premiered.
If you do it right, every romkom is fresh and new, he argues. “James Bond also always has to catch the bad guy at the end to ensure that the world doesn’t end. With a romantic comedy, you know there’s that kiss at the end. But before the main characters get there, what happens in the middle is what makes it exciting or interesting.”
Is it important that it remains exciting and interesting for you? Or are you only concerned with the audience?
“I have to find it interesting myself. These romkoms change every year. If I think: I have already seen this ten times, but it will still be just enough for the audience, then you are very wrong. The audience always wants something new. That is why I always look for what we are currently facing as a society. What are the obstacles now to achieving that kiss?”
So the romkom almost sounds innovative, but it is actually always the same, isn’t it?
“I don’t experience it that way at all. Of course, sometimes I see a trailer and immediately feel: oh God, this is a very old-fashioned format, this is a love story from twelve years ago. After that insane hit by Bridget Jones, we have seen 10 years of bumbling girls in the big city with nice jobs who fell for the wrong man. You really have to add something new to it if you want to come up with that now.”
How has Markelo shaped you?
“I was lucky that my parents had a hall for parties and celebrations, a village café. There I performed plays with friends from primary school on Wednesday afternoons. At the age of 9, I was a producer, director and presenter and I felt completely like Willem Ruys when I announced my own classmates to the esteemed audience.”
Did you have examples?
“My mother had written the village revue in Markelo. I was watching that as a 7 year old. Okay, now they’re rehearsing, now they’re putting on fancy dress, now there are people in the audience. I always found the technology very interesting, the light, the music.”
Were you the only one in the family who did that?
“My brother loved football. My sister did participate, she mimed a lot of Luv and Dolly Dots songs.”
Did your parents encourage that?
“They didn’t put any obstacles in my way. But I have to be honest: after high school I sent out two applications. For the Film Academy and for Nyenrode. At the time, my mother would have preferred that I had been accepted at Nyenrode. Because the Film Academy seemed to lead to unemployment.”
It was not obvious that a boy from Markelo in Amsterdam would go to the Film Academy.
“No. But I wanted to leave the province, to the big city, to that other life.”
You were done with Markelo?
“Hahaha, yes.”
In what way?
“You could choose in Markelo: do you want to do gymnastics or do you want to do football? That’s about it. The world was small. I was lucky enough to see an advertisement for an American exchange in one of my sister’s girls’ magazines when I was 13. So when I was 16, I went on an exchange to one for a year high school . I ended up in Los Angeles. Well, that’s when the movie bug finally hit.”
How?
“In Markelo my brother could talk about football with everyone. In Los Angeles I could talk to anyone about film. When you left school, there were people there on Friday afternoon with flyers for a sneak preview. The big Hollywood films were tested on audiences. There I saw a film where a boy had to go back in time in a DeLorean and where all the effects were still in black and white.”
You saw the rough cut of Back to the future first?
“Yes, in 1985. Also a rough version of it The terminator . I remember being at that one Terminator I thought: that won’t work at all. Hahaha. That turned out differently. But at Back to the future it was already so clear in that entire room. Everyone was impressed.”
In what way are you still a Twente?
“Especially in behavior and thinking. A Twente often speaks in understatements. While an Amsterdammer says: ‘We had a fantastic meal’, a Twente resident says: ‘Well, that could be worse’. It’s all in the language. Twente tranquility versus Amsterdam bluff. There are few Pippi Longstockings in Twente, with that incredibly stupid statement that everyone uses these days: ‘I’ve never done it before, so I think I can do it’. A Twente is more likely to think: first try very carefully before I start saying that I can do it.”
He thinks for a moment. “Only now do I understand why my brother never wanted to leave. When I was 25, I thought he should leave the village. And Jan said: ‘Why? I have everything here’. Yes, now I understand that. If you have your friends there and you have your football club and you grew up in a village where your children are now also growing up…”
What did you have in mind when you went to the Film Academy?
“I thought I wanted to become the Dutch Steven Spielberg.”
And? Success?
“Ha. Not in the budgets. Not even in the adventure films that I would like to make.”
But have you achieved within Dutch proportions what Spielberg achieved on a much larger scale, do you think?
“No. He’s just way more talented than me. His films are still enviably good.”
That’s what you already had in mind at the time: making films for a very large audience?
“Yes. You ask people to spend 2 hours of their lives in that room. They won’t get those 2 hours back. You have the task and obligation to ensure that it is entertaining.”
If your film does not go gold (more than 100,000 visitors), then you have failed?
“Yes, then I didn’t do it right.”
Did your fellow students also want to become Steven Spielberg? Or did they prefer to make arthouse films?
“We had noticeably more from the second group. Fortunately, there was a small group that did not go to the cinema. With that we just went to City 1. Especially then That hard came out, we went to see it eight times. Groundbreaking.”
Were your teachers open to this?
“Fortunately. If only you could explain what you saw and why you liked it so much. What they also taught you was: look for your own voice. When I said that I wanted to become the Dutch Steven Spielberg, I was told: Steven Spielberg already exists, Johan, I think you should learn to invent yourself.”
You were also almost expelled from the Film Academy.
“Yes, that had to do with this tension. Then there was doubt as to whether my voice would be artistic enough, or whether I brought in enough individuality. I was still able to stay through a U-turn. I was told: you owe it to your walking ability, because you are a hard worker.”
They didn’t think you were too commercial?
“No. Fortunately, these were already allowed to coexist at that time. The luck for my club friends was that RTL Veronique started in the Netherlands when we left school. As a result, there was suddenly a lot more television work. We made Rose scent and vodka lime , West wind , Good times , Gold Coast , On the way to tomorrow . There was a lot of drama at once.”
You are often critical of the Film Fund, but you also receive a subsidy from it yourself.
“They say: we are a cultural fund. But what exactly is film culture? Is that the film that wins prizes at international festivals? Or is it film culture that we can all laugh at Judeska? That all Dutch people know who Ma Flodder is? That you make the bicultural wedding of Moroccan Dutch people tangible in my film The Moroccan wedding ? That is film culture for me. It’s only film culture once you’ve all seen it. Otherwise it doesn’t exist.”
Film is also entertainment?
“Isn’t that why people go to the movies? They want to enjoy themselves. The strange thing is that of the 80 million euros in film subsidies, the largest part goes to high-brow films that hardly anyone goes to. A small part is allowed to go to films that are seen by many people. But we all pay taxes, right? If we subsidize Dutch films, let’s make films that many people can enjoy. Not just for people who have always been at the forefront when it comes to subsidized art.”
Why do your films that go at least gold and sometimes platinum actually need subsidies?
“Because a film costing 2.5 million euros will never cover its costs through cinema exploitation and streaming. We have too small a language area.”
So you didn’t get rich from all those hit films?
“Um… no. Films in the Netherlands are not a source of wealth. That is a fair conclusion. Haha… I live well on it, you know. But that’s mainly because I’ve made a few TV series in the past that ran for a very long time: Keyzer & De Boer lawyers , Penoza and Spangas . We sold the company I used to make that to Endemol. That’s mainly where I made my money.”
You are sometimes accused of mainly making commercial films in order to make a lot of money from them.
“Wanting to earn money doesn’t seem like a shame in itself to me. But many filmmakers choose to remain completely in subsidy country. You can’t make a film for 2.5 million that will only be seen by 50,000 people, right? Even if you think it is great art.”
It sounds like you think it’s immoral?
“Yes I agree. If you want to make art with a capital A, write a book or paint. But take 2.5 million euros from the government and then be perfectly satisfied if there are 40,000 people there? We really need to get rid of that.”
Such films get four or five stars in the reviews, but you usually don’t.
“A reviewer once told me that his job was to reveal new things to his readership. The reviewers of the three left-wing newspapers look for films that are interesting for their readers and these can be Dutch, but also Korean films. So I understand that a reviewer would dismiss my films for his audience with two asterisks and five lines in the newspaper.”
Aren’t you looking for recognition?
“Well, I think I already have that. The fact that I make films that attract 400,000 or sometimes even 700,000 people is the highest form of recognition for me.”
To surprise yourself, you could make a completely different film.
“The Beentjes van Sint Hildegard was different, but that is also because I am now over 50.”
Was it important to you that that film, a Twente film with Herman Finkers, was the first to be appreciated by critics?
“No. People recognized themselves in that film, that was important to me. Furthermore, I was mostly very relieved. I’m 55 now, so a movie like Costa! I wouldn’t be able to talk about people in their twenties very well anymore. Because I’m out of touch. The relief at De Beentjes was: okay, in the next fifteen years I can tell many great stories about how people over 50 interact with each other.”
Your father was no longer alive then Costa! came out. You went to your first movie with your mother?
“Yes, she really liked that. That may have been the joke: when I went to the Film Academy, my parents wondered if I would ever be able to earn a living doing it. But that was over when I ended up at Van den Ende and my name was on the title role of Good times and West wind walked. My father witnessed me attending a farewell party GTST and was serenaded by the entire cast. Then I was around 25 and they had confirmation: okay, he can make a living doing this. That was a beautiful moment for me and my father. He saw: that boy will be fine.”