Resume

A Story of Theft and Justice

 

Chapter 1
Building the Case Across Borders

From the moment it happened, it felt like something out of a dark thriller—too surreal to be real. I remember sitting there, stunned, struggling to believe what my own eyes were telling me. A concept I had nurtured, a fragile idea born from a flicker on a TV screen, was slipping away from me. Not in some distant, abstract sense, but stolen right under my nose by three powerful institutions I had trusted.

The idea had seemed simple, yet revolutionary in its quiet way. What if a prison could be more than just a place of confinement? What if it could become a stage for something raw and real—a TV series where inmates weren’t just locked away but were building a cultural project together? It was a notion no one else had dared to touch, at least not anywhere in the world. I held it close, a secret spark ignited by a spark, ready to ignite something bigger.

Then came the betrayal, and it was as calculated as any plot from the crime dramas I loved. The theft wasn’t some random act—it was orchestrated, deliberate, and chilling in its precision. The person behind it? Two  colleagues, Thomas Heurlin who had know for years. He was the producer of documentaries for TV2 and also DR. Someone I’d known for years, someone I’d trusted. Watching that betrayal unfold felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I had to flollow what was happen because I was in the menu, but also because I could not belive that it was possible. DR paid by the taxpayers money, now had a person called Mette Hoffman Meier who was doing this along with  Thomas Heurlin, Anders Riis Hansen from the company.

 I confronted Thomas at a meeting close to his office in Nørrebro. “How could you do this? After everything we’ve been through?”

He looked away, his voice low. I expected him to say, “It’s business, David. You know how it works. You had the idea, but I had the connections.” But he didn’t. He said nothing for a few minutes. Then, instead of answering the question, he started blaming his friend Anders Riss Hansen. He lied. It wasn’t true. DR had no money; he was a liar. Then he finished by saying I should go to the Producentforeningen—tell them about it. It was very strange: one thief blaming another thief, shifting the focus to Anders Riss Hansen. They had known each other for years. Anders had even founded the company with Thomas. It just made no sense.

I swallowed the rage. “Connections don’t give you the right to steal.”

But the shock didn’t stop there. What shook me to my core was learning who else was involved: the national TV, the Danish Film Institute, and the very prison system that should have been a partner in this vision. To think these institutions could collaborate in such a well-organized theft was something I struggled to accept. It wasn’t just about ideas anymore. It felt like a conspiracy, a systemic betrayal that questioned everything I believed in.

As the weight of the betrayal settled deeper, another challenge loomed: the cost of fighting back. Taking legal action wasn’t just about proving the truth—it meant diving into a costly battle that could drain everything I had. Losing would mean not only covering my own legal fees but also footing the bill for the other side’s expenses. It was a risk few dared to take.

Then, almost like a lifeline tossed in a storm, I stumbled upon something called “fri proces.” Legal aid, the state’s way of supporting those who couldn’t afford the steep price of justice. It promised to cover court fees, lawyer costs, even other expenses related to the case. If approved, I wouldn’t have to pay a dime—even if I lost. And if I won, the aid would stand, protecting me through any appeals.

Still, it wasn’t a free pass. The support could be limited, especially if the court decided my case should’ve been handled through a simpler, cheaper process. And the state would judge if the costs really were a heavy burden on me, looking closely at my own finances—and sometimes even considering if others shared the cost, making it easier to swallow.

It was the first glimmer of hope in a dark maze. Should I take it? Could this be the way to fight back without losing everything? The choice wasn’t just about money—it was about reclaiming what was mine, standing up to a system that had turned its back on me.

When I told my lawyer, Peter Schønning, about the idea, he sighed. “David, you have to be careful. DR will for ever keep you out in the cold if you mention this. They will blacklist you and you will never work there again. This isn’t just about ideas—it’s politics. And politics don’t play fair.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “But if I don’t fight, who will?”

Peter shook his head slowly. “I’ll help with the meetings, but no lawsuits. That’s off the table.”

Months later, in a video call with Giorgi, my new attorney from Tbilisi, the air felt different—charged with purpose.

“David,” Giorgi said, leaning closer to the screen, “this is more than theft. It’s a coordinated effort to erase your work.”

I nodded. “They took everything—my idea, the project, even the prison itself became their stage.”

Giorgi’s voice hardened. “We’ll make sure the court sees that. Your rights are protected under EU law. They can’t just erase you.”

I finally felt a flicker of something I thought was lost—hope.

To apply for support from the Danish legal system, I needed to briefly summarize my case and describe the basis for a legal claim. Here is how I summed it up:

I was the first in the world to uncover a bold new idea for television, developed within the creative environment of the National Film School. Driven by determination, I reached out to the Danish prison system and secured their acceptance to bring this concept to life.

But everything changed behind closed doors. My work, the idea, the project, and even the carefully chosen location were taken away from me. To make matters worse, others took my concept, tweaked it just enough to claim it as their own, and used the exact same prison—and even the same prisoner—to carry out what I had originally envisioned.

This isn’t just a case of simple copying; it is a conspiracy entangling national TV, the Danish Film Institute, and the prison authorities in a web of secrecy and betrayal.

Late one night, I spoke with Marianne Secher, the deputy inspector at the prison, over the phone.

“Why did you let them do this?” I asked, voice trembling.

There was a long silence before she said softly, “I had no choice, David. Sometimes survival means playing along.”

 

Chapter 2:
Sell Your Ideas to TV

A course was announced at the Danish Film School with Bob Long titled “Sell Your Ideas to TV.” Bob was English and had taught several times in Denmark and for many years had been a producer for the BBC. Three days at the prestigious Danish Film School – a chance to learn from the great icon himself how to produce documentary films alone with a camera. And there was Bob Long. A well-known name, almost a legend. He was the pioneer of what we then called “one-camera-one-man” – a revolutionary approach made possible by the new, compact TV equipment. Bob had refined the process; he had even taught ordinary people to master it. Bob Long is a highly respected and innovative TV producer, especially known for his work with the BBC in England. He gained recognition for his groundbreaking approach to documentaries, often working with minimal equipment and crew, a style he called “one-man-one-camera.” This approach allowed him to get closer to his subjects and capture authentic, unfiltered stories.

Long is perhaps best known for his work on the BBC Two series “Video Diaries,” where he was the series producer. This groundbreaking program gave cameras to ordinary people so they could document their lives and experiences from their own perspectives. This innovative format gave a voice to individuals and communities rarely seen on TV, and it had a significant impact on the development of reality TV.

His work often explored challenging and controversial topics. He produced and directed “The Hunt For Britain’s Paedophiles” for BBC TV and also wrote a book by the same name. Bob’s BAFTA award, which he won for a documentary about political prisoners in Northern Ireland, served as a constant reminder of film’s power to expose injustice and inspire change.

Long’s career demonstrates a commitment to pushing the boundaries of TV and providing a platform for underrepresented voices. He is a true innovator who has left a lasting mark on the British TV landscape.

Since 1998, the Film School has shared Holmen with other artistic educational institutions, a creative community where architecture, music, performing arts, and film merge. Here, not just films are created; here, the storytellers of the future are born.

The drive to Holmen was uplifting. The late autumn air whipped through the open windows of my worn Ford as I crossed the bridge, with Copenhagen’s skyline a familiar comfort on the horizon. I parked near the film school’s impressive, modern building, whose glass and steel stood in sharp contrast to the historic naval buildings around it. It felt like an adventure to return to my old craft after a long break.

Here, on Holmen in Copenhagen, just a stone’s throw from the water, the most dedicated film talents meet to dive into the many facets of film production. Eight different programs are available, each designed to sharpen students’ unique abilities and give them the tools they need to create magic on screen. But the Film School is more than just a talent factory. It is also a place where professionals can further educate themselves, where new methods are developed through artistic research, and where film screenings and debates set the agenda for the future of film art.

The sun was shining, and I arrived at a very quiet school where the students had gone for the weekend. The old Film School had been a cozy labyrinth of small rooms and creaky stairs. Here, on Holmen, everything was bright, open, and pulsating. The school’s interior was a hive of activity – students hauling equipment, animated discussions echoing through the halls. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating posters of classic Danish films.

Chapter 3:
A legend Steps Forward
I finally found the room where our class was to be. It was a completely ordinary room — nothing about it stood out. The walls wore a plain coat of off-white paint, quietly peeling in one corner. A single window let in a soft, muted light, filtered through thin, beige curtains that had seen better days. The furniture was basic: a simple wooden table, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a worn-out bookshelf sagging under the weight of a modest collection of books and papers. The air carried a faint scent of dust and old paper, the kind that settles over time in places untouched by excitement. It was the kind of room you’d pass by without a second thought, unremarkable and unassuming, blending perfectly into the background of everyday life. — nothing fancy, with chairs and a blackboard, just as you know it from elementary school. We were about twenty students in total. I knew a couple, but most were new faces to me. The Film School’s courses are reserved for professionals, so everyone was an expert in their field.

There we sat, the students, and right in front of us stood Bob Long. I remember him as a very relaxed and talkative guy, a bit professor-like — a person who could become completely absorbed in working with TV, almost unaware of his surroundings. He was not very tall, maybe around 170 centimeters, with gray hair. He welcomed us all with a big smile.

On the table in front of him was a VHS machine, and VHS tapes were spread all over. Some tapes had small post-it notes on them. I think we were all hooked right away.

After a couple of hours, Bob Long came over to me and sat beside me. That moment still sticks with me as the beginning of something important.

When I finally faced Bob Long, we sat together on two chairs at the back of the class, at the beginning of the course. He was clearly excited about my VideoMarathon initiative, which was now rolling across the Nordic countries. I explained to him how the idea was born from the same thought: to give ordinary people the chance to create TV for national television in just 48 hours. He knew the project well and nodded approvingly. When I told him I needed to do something different after 10 years, he wondered and asked surprised why. “I want something else, Bob,” I said. “I led the project, started it, and now I need to come up with something new.” VideoMarathon has become big, yes, but also an institution. I’m still young, Bob. I still have new ideas, new stories waiting to be told.” Bob seemed puzzled about why I wanted to stop something that was a success, but as a creative person, boredom easily arises from repetition, and VideoMarathon found its form already the first years and thereafter I experienced it as repetition every year, and I thought life was too short to hold on to one idea and keep going with it for the rest of my life. I felt I had plenty of new ideas.

Bob Long stood again in front of the board and talked while showing one VHS video after another. It was incredible to see all that he had made, and for me, it was also very interesting to hear how he had directed ordinary people to make TV. He spoke with a hoarse voice and told stories. He had ventured into conflict zones, exposed injustice, and given marginalized people a voice. His films were raw, visceral, and undeniably powerful.

The teaching took place in a classroom, not flashy but functional. The space was cramped, but we all sat reverently listening while Bob drew and explained on the board. He said his technique was born out of pure necessity. Early in his career, he lacked the resources for a full crew, so he had been forced to teach himself to be a one-man film production machine. His goal was to carry his camera into the heart of the story, to become an invisible fly on the wall and capture unvarnished truth. The idea was revolutionary then. Now it was his trademark. While Bob spoke, I was completely captivated. His passion was contagious, his dedication unwavering. He challenged us to think differently, to embrace limitations, and to find the extraordinary in the ordinary. I feverishly scratched notes, eager to absorb every word of his wisdom.

The first day started with us watching some of Bob’s productions. Bob was alone showing the films, and it was not always easy to find the right tape. They were labeled, but many times the labels were wrong, so we ended up watching something completely different than he had planned. But it was all equally interesting. Some of the “one-man-one-camera” films were made with a terror group, where the footage had been left to local people in the area. Most of the things were produced for the BBC, which is the pinnacle in Danish TV, so everyone in the class listened intently while Bob told and showed clips. We saw, among other things, clips from “The Hunt For Britain’s Paedophiles” for BBC TV and his very well-known BBC series “Video Diaries,” where he was series producer.

 

Chapter 4:
The Big TV Idea Emerges
Holmen, once a strictly guarded military zone, has since transformed into a vibrant hub of creativity. Now home to the opera, art schools, an architecture school, and the film school, the area buzzes quietly with promise. It was early morning on a weekend, and the streets were empty, two roads running alongside the shimmering canal and harbor, reflecting the soft light of dawn.

The next day, back inside the film school classroom, we settled in, waiting for our teacher to arrive. Some of us had brought a hearty breakfast, others clutched warm cups of coffee. Despite the different starts to our morning, we were all there, waiting together. Bob arrived and the teaching took off.

 Now the real work began. We were divided into small groups and tasked with developing original TV concepts. I think there were four to five groups, and each group got its own table at the Film School. Each group was given some newspapers as an inspiration source. The idea was that by reading the newspapers, you should get ideas for programs.

This technique was nothing new to me. I had previously experienced the same when I worked – no more than 100 meters away – at an editorial office with Gregers Dicrnic Holmfrste, and my job during my education was to find stories from newspapers.

Before the others arrived, I came and read through the newspapers to find stories for the evening’s interview program called “Bright Nights.” We sat right by the window and close to the board. A group sat together in a corner.

Besides the newspapers’ inspiration, we also got a theme to work from. The theme we were assigned was “music,” but the possibilities felt endless. It didn’t mean much to me – I don’t have much interest in music beyond what I hear privately – so it didn’t excite me right away.

As I flipped through the pages, a feeling of frustration grew in me. Nothing seemed to fall into place. Then my eyes caught a small article about a rehabilitation program in a prison. It described the challenges of reintegrating inmates into society, the vicious cycle of recidivism, and the desperate need for new, innovative solutions.

Suddenly I got an idea I had never seen before. The thought was to create a cultural project inside the prison, where the inmates themselves would be an active part while the project was led by a professional from outside. Through this project, a collaboration would be built behind the prison walls.

Later that afternoon, each group presented their ideas to the class. The atmosphere was tense, a mix of excitement and concern. Some ideas were well received, others met with polite indifference. When it was our turn, I told about my idea. The room went completely silent, and Bob was also quiet. I described my vision: a documentary series that would follow a group of inmates as they created and performed a musical. The project would be a form of therapy and resocialization, a way for them to confront their past, express their feelings, and build bridges to the outside world. We would invite the public to attend the final performance, blurring the lines between prisoner and citizen, promoting empathy and understanding.

The silence remained unbroken when I finished speaking. Then Bob Long’s voice cut through the silence.

“David,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “you have no idea how good that idea is.”

His words hung in the air, a confirmation that sent a jolt of electricity through my veins. At that moment, I felt a wave of confidence, a sense of purpose I had never experienced before. I knew this idea had the power to change lives, including my own. I later checked online. There was nothing like it. No TV program had ever tried anything like it.

But while I basked in the glow of Bob’s praise, a nagging voice whispered in the back of my mind. I had no idea how difficult this project would be, the obstacles I would face, the sacrifices I would have to make. I was about to enter a world of hardened criminals, bureaucratic red tape, and ethical dilemmas. I was about to embark on a journey that would test my limits and challenge my convictions.

His words hung in the air, a confirmation that sent a jolt of electricity through my veins. In that moment, I felt a wave of confidence, a sense of purpose I had never experienced before. I knew this idea had the power to change lives, including my own. Later, I checked online. There was nothing like it. No TV program had ever attempted anything similar.

But while I basked in the glow of Bob’s praise, a nagging voice whispered in the back of my mind. I had no idea how hard this project would be, the obstacles I would face, the sacrifices I would have to make. I was about to step into a world of hardened criminals, bureaucratic red tape, and ethical dilemmas. I was embarking on a journey that would test my limits and challenge my beliefs.

The idea felt bold, almost reckless. But it also felt right. I could sense I had hit a nerve. Suddenly, Bob Long, my idol at the time, exclaimed that I had stumbled upon an incredible idea. We talked about it for a while, and I asked him how I could protect my idea from being stolen. He looked at me intently and said, “The first thing you have to do is contact a prison. If you get a deal with a prison, no one can take your amazing idea.”

Even back in film school, it was clear I was good at coming up with ideas, so it wasn’t a surprise when my idea “knocked it out of the park,” so to speak. When I came up with Videomarathon, it was also received as something fantastic. Big companies like Politiken, TV2 Zulu, Øksnehallen, Y&R, and even Apple lined up to be part of it. Completely free. They just wanted in. For example, I was invited out to Apple, which at the time had its headquarters in Holte, where I spoke with Henrik Ryle, who is still a product manager. Before I arrived, he said, “Come out, let’s meet and see what happens.” After about an hour-long meeting, Apple was on board with the idea and offered to set up 50 computers for free with staff and even offered money. When we launched the project, it aired on TV2 News, showing Videomarathon with all the computers, and it was a huge success.

The thought of filming inside a prison felt scary, but the potential impact was undeniable. Suddenly, an idea emerged. What if we could harness the power of music to help inmates find their voices, resocialize, heal their wounds, and prepare for a new life? What if we could document this journey and give viewers an intimate glimpse into a world rarely seen? The idea felt bold, almost reckless. But it also felt right.

I shared my idea with the whole class, my voice trembling slightly. Bob walked around the room, asking each of us what we had come up with. When I mentioned my idea, silence fell over the room. I could feel I had hit a nerve. Suddenly Bob Long, my idol at the time, exclaimed that I had stumbled upon an incredible idea. There was a pause. Then he added, “David, you have no idea how good it is.” We talked about it for a while, and I asked him again how I could protect the idea from being stolen. He looked at me intently and said, “The first thing you have to do is contact a prison. If you get a deal with a prison, no one can take your amazing idea.”

Even back in film school, it was clear I was good at coming up with ideas, so it wasn’t a surprise when my idea “knocked it out of the park.” When I came up with Videomarathon, it was also received as something fantastic. Big companies like Politiken, TV2 Zulu, Øksnehallen, Y&R, and even Apple lined up to be part of it. Completely free. They just wanted in. For example, I was invited out to Apple, which at the time had its headquarters in Holte, where I spoke with Henrik Ryle, who is still a product manager. Before I arrived, he said, “Come out, let’s meet and see what happens.” After about an hour-long meeting, Apple was on board and offered to set up 50 computers for free with staff and even offered money. When we launched the project, it aired on TV2 News, showing Videomarathon with all the computers, and it was a huge success.

I’m sure ideas and concepts emerge differently for different people. I remember once working with a young guy who said he got his best ideas while sitting on the toilet. For me, it’s been different. Usually, it starts with an undefinable feeling. It’s like being on a train, searching for a destination but only having a couple of meters of clarity ahead. Or the familiar image of searching for water in the Sahara. In that phase, I can feel something out there waiting for me. I can go months, sometimes years, working on the idea quietly in my mind without it pushing itself too hard—like a car idling gently, quietly working on something. During this process, I’m open to inspiration, which comes as clues for a detective. Things that suddenly bring me closer to what I’m looking for. Like puzzle pieces gradually forming a picture, and then the idea starts to take shape but still lacks a final crystallization.

Before this further education, my wish was to create something good on TV. For many years, I worked focusing on telling stories, but often they started with something that went wrong and used a person to tell about it. You kind of exploit people to tell their stories, even though in many cases it’s also nice to get a story off your chest. So I wanted now to give something back. The idea was that vulnerable people could benefit from participating in a TV program in some way.

I remember starting by visiting Reden in Copenhagen, where I had an idea to create a project for helping prostitutes. I went down and visited them, but as a man, the atmosphere was a bit strange. It didn’t feel right either. So I had to move on. Then I actually contacted the Copenhagen prisons, totally unsure what I was doing, but wanting to see if there was a way to make TV with the aim of improving the conditions for the outcasts so it could be a win-win. It was at the Film School that the idea crystallized—combining working with the prison and suddenly seeing something about creating a musical made the concept click clearly. They should make a musical, something people would want to watch, while also engaging in a collaboration that helped resocialize. That was the way it had to be done because that world was also fascinating, and it would provide a completely new angle.

Once I had a lot of support and understood I had come up with something truly unique, I asked Bob how I could protect my idea from being stolen. I’d been in the business a long time and knew how people stole from each other, so I wanted his advice.

He explained that the way to protect your idea from being stolen is by making a deal with a prison—in this case. Once you have an agreement with a prison, a place where you can test the concept, no one can steal it.

It was a huge relief to hear, and I knew my task now was to find a prison as quickly as possible. I was full of enthusiasm to get started.

 

Chapter 5:
Preparing the Pitch
The next day was the third and final day of our workshop, and the air in the classroom felt charged with a mix of excitement and nerves. We knew this was the moment we had been building toward: turning the ideas we’d spent days brainstorming and shaping into polished pitches, ready to be presented to TV stations. There was a freedom in the task—no strict guidelines, no imposed themes. Each of us could take our concept in whatever direction we wanted, whether it was a bold new drama, a quirky documentary, or something entirely experimental.

I found a table in the cantina where I could sit quietly and started putting my idea together on my laptop, just like I had done so many times before. First, a title, then a short intro, and finally a synopsis—the same steps as always. But there was something different this time. It felt good sitting there, working steadily, knowing that I had a strong idea, one that many people were genuinely excited about. The familiar routine of putting words on the screen was comforting, but beneath it was a quiet confidence that this pitch wasn’t just another draft—it was something worth sharing.

.We were free to work on whatever we wanted. The teaching was now more dispersed; since it was the weekend, the cafeteria was empty, so I stayed there while others remained in the classroom. After class, Bob approached me with a rare smile. “David, what are you going to work on?” I said I would continue developing the idea of creating a musical in a prison. He smiled and said, “I’m glad to hear that. I want to help you. I want to back you on this project,” he said, “I want to be involved. I see something special here, something that can make a real difference.”

I was pleasantly surprised. Bob Long, the BAFTA-winning documentarian, wanted to help me. It felt surreal. Bob was something of an idol in the industry, if you can call it that. In fact, one of the reasons I had taken the course at all was because of his name. The course was called “How to Sell Your Ideas to TV.” He explained he was captivated by the idea’s potential to bridge divides and challenge societal perceptions. He saw in it the same raw power that had fueled his own groundbreaking work at the BBC.

“I have many years of experience in this field,” he said firmly, “and I believe I can help you navigate the complexities of getting a project like this off the ground.” He offered to mentor me, lend his expertise to shape the narrative, secure funding, and navigate the ethical considerations involved in filming inside a prison. One of the things he referenced was his work with Scotland Yard, which he also had examples of. This was connected to a series on paedophiles, but also other series that had given him extensive experience with prisons and a great deal of trust. In that way, the collaboration was obvious and perfect; he was the man I needed, and he offered his support with no demands, simply because he believed it was a good project. Over time, it became clear that Bob invested so much time in getting it going that it was truly moving.

Bob’s involvement was not just about his experience; it was about his credibility. His name carried weight in the industry, and his support would open doors that otherwise would remain closed. I knew that with him by my side, the project had a real chance of becoming a reality. “I would be honored, Bob,” I said, as a wave of gratitude washed over me. “Your guidance would be invaluable.”

And so a partnership was formed. The eager young candidate and the seasoned veteran, united by a shared passion for storytelling and a belief in film’s power to create change. We spent the coming time together, diving into research and outlining the documentary’s structure. Bob’s insight was invaluable. He helped me refine the concept, identify potential challenges, and develop strategies to overcome them.

He drew on his many years at the BBC, shared anecdotes from his past projects, and offered practical advice on how to find a director and a prison to make it in. He also warned me about the potential pitfalls of working in a prison environment, the need for sensitivity, and the importance of protecting the inmates’ privacy and dignity.

With Bob’s guidance, the project began to take shape. We developed a detailed proposal outlining the concept, target audience, and potential impact. We identified potential funding sources and began reaching out to contacts in the industry. The road ahead was still long and uncertain, but with Bob by my side, I felt a renewed sense of hope and determination.

 

Chapter 6:
Contact with the Prison Authorities

After a long and distinguished career at the BBC, Bob had retired and settled in Málaga, Spain, if my memory serves me right. The sunny coast was a far cry from the hustle and bustle of broadcasting in London, but Bob had adapted well to the quieter life. Even though he was far away, he still kept a keen eye on creative projects and education, and when the opportunity arose to come to Denmark to teach, he saw something special here that he wanted to be part of.

Bob was invited to lead a masterclass, an honor that didn’t come often given his semi-retired status. Otherwise, he was making ends meet with small photography jobs in Spain, living a modest life but still deeply passionate about his craft. The chance to share his experience and knowledge with Danish students was something he took to heart, even though it meant traveling far from home.

We kept our connection alive through regular email correspondence, and I was genuinely touched by how much energy and care Bob put into preparing for the masterclass. Despite the physical distance and the fact that he was no longer working full-time, he threw himself into the project as if it were the most important thing he had done in years.

I paid for his flights to Denmark, wanting to support his generosity and commitment. On one of his visits, he stayed at our apartment in Adelgade, where we shared meals and stories late into the nights. On another occasion, he stayed at a small bed and breakfast in Vesterbro, making the most out of his short trips. What struck me most was that Bob did all of this without any financial compensation—he was giving his time and expertise freely because he believed in the potential of the students and the value of the work we were doing.

That kind of generosity left a deep impression on me. It wasn’t just about the masterclass itself; it was about the spirit behind it—the willingness to give back, to nurture new talent, and to stay involved even when the spotlight had long moved on. Bob’s dedication reminded me why teaching and mentorship matter so much, and why sometimes, the most meaningful contributions come from those who have nothing left to prove.

The initial euphoria over Bob’s support quickly gave way to the daunting reality of pre-production. We had to assemble a team, secure funding, and gain access to a prison—a logistical and bureaucratic nightmare. But we were determined to make it happen.

Our first task was to find a director. We envisioned someone with experience in both theatre and film, a person who could evoke the inmates’ raw emotions while creating a compelling visual story. Initially, we aimed high and contacted the renowned theatre director Peter Langdal. However, his schedule proved too demanding, and we had to explore other options.

Unfazed, we cast a wider net, contacting various theatre companies and music conservatories. It was a frustrating process, filled with unanswered emails and polite rejections. Just as we were about to lose hope, a breakthrough came. I managed to secure support from Bellevue Theatre, a respected theatre in Copenhagen, and with their backing, we attached Kenneth Kreutzmann, a highly respected director known for working with unconventional casts. I already knew the owner, Jes Kølpin, and had been childhood friends with his son, Alexander Kølpin. Jes pointed not only to a director but also to a production manager. This was important support.

Throughout the project, I maintained contact with the Musical Academy, which also helped me find a way forward. We also spoke extensively about how it could practically be done.

Kenneth’s involvement was a major coup. He had a reputation for pushing boundaries and challenging expectations, and he immediately understood the potential of our project. He was excited to work with inmates, to give them a platform to express themselves and connect with the outside world.

As we gathered our creative team, I began the difficult process of securing access to a prison. Bob advised me to start at the top—getting support from prison authorities before approaching individual institutions.

I wasn’t quite sure where to begin, but I decided the best place to start was by calling Copenhagen Prisons. As it turns out, Copenhagen Prisons is an organizational unit under the Danish Prison and Probation Service, tasked with managing the day-to-day operations of four separate facilities within the city: Vestre Prison, Blegdamsvej Prison, Politigården Prison, and Nytorv Prison. Together, these institutions have a combined capacity to hold 545 inmates at any given time, but over the course of a year, they accommodate around 4,000 individuals cycling through their doors.

Knowing this gave me a clearer picture of the scale and complexity of the system I was reaching out to. These prisons aren’t just holding cells; they’re sprawling, multifaceted institutions, each with its own history, challenges, and role within the broader criminal justice framework. Vestre Prison, for example, is one of the largest and oldest, known not just for its size but also for its efforts in rehabilitation and reintegration programs. The others, like Politigården, are smaller but no less important, often handling specific types of detainees or specialized cases.

By calling them, I hoped to gain insight into how these places operated, especially in relation to the projects and ideas I had been developing. It was a step into a world that few outside the system truly understand, a world where people’s lives are held in a delicate balance between punishment and the chance for a fresh start. My curiosity was driven by more than just facts and figures; I wanted to hear the stories behind the walls, the realities of daily life inside, and whether there was room for creativity or change within those confines.

The call wasn’t just a formality—it was the beginning of a deeper exploration into a part of society that often stays hidden, yet plays a critical role in shaping justice and humanity in the city.

I rang the reception, and suddenly I had the prison inspector on the line. I told him about the idea, and I could sense he was intrigued right away. Although I asked if we could do it in his prison, he recommended I contact Vridsløselille State Prison.

My call logs show this conversation took place on November 13, 2009. I listened to Peter Vesterheden, who explained that the state prison was particularly known for music, making it an obvious place for the project. He told me to contact Marianne Secher, who today is head of rehabilitation in the Prison Service. He also mentioned they had experience with choirs in the same prison.

Peter suggested we contact Vridsløselille State Prison, a maximum-security facility with a history of innovative rehabilitation programs. He believed Vridsløselille’s experience with music and performance would make it an ideal setting for our documentary series on resocializing inmates through a cultural project within the prison walls.

The State Prison in Vridsløselille stood as a stark and imposing presence, its high walls and barred windows an unmistakable symbol of confinement. Located amidst open fields, the prison’s austere brick buildings and fortified gates gave little hint of the lives unfolding within. Designed to be secure and unyielding, the facility housed 241 inmates and served as a closed prison for men over the age of 23. Its primary role was the enforcement of imprisonment sentences and the execution of arrests, until it was replaced in 2017 by Storstrøm Prison on the island of Falster.

The origins of Vridsløselille Prison reach back to 1859 when it opened as Forbedringshuset på Vridsløselille Mark. It was built following the principles of the “Philadelphia System,” a penal philosophy focused on complete isolation. Prisoners were kept isolated around the clock, with the idea that solitude would give them time to reflect, repent their sins, and reconcile with God. Every moment—whether working or at rest—was spent inside individual cells. When prisoners were permitted outside their cells, they had to wear masks to prevent recognition by others, maintaining strict anonymity. This practice persisted until 1924, after which mask-wearing became optional. No communication or contact between inmates was allowed. Even in communal spaces like the prison school or church, prisoners were separated into small bays where they could see the teacher or priest but not each other.

This isolation principle dominated life inside Vridsløselille well into the 20th century, defining the prison’s unique and severe approach to incarceration. The choir Peter referred to was one I had already heard of — it’s famous in Denmark. During the first 10 years of the Prison Choir’s existence at Vridsløselille State Prison, no one knew about the singing inmates. The choir performs songs written by the choir members themselves, along with sharing information about the choir’s work and life behind the walls. The lyrics are heartfelt and deal with themes like guilt, faith, mistakes, forgiveness, hatred, hope, and remorse.

Louise Adrian has worked in the Danish Prison and Probation Service for more than 29 years, where she has played, sung, and created music with some of the country’s toughest criminals at Vridsløselille State Prison. It was on this foundation that she started the Prison Choir, which includes both current inmates and former inmates.

At a time when all talk about criminals and prisons focuses solely on tightening regulations, budget cuts, sick leave, violence, and threats, she has managed to create a space where everyone can find peace and where the atmosphere is always positive. After Vridsløselille State Prison closed in 2015, she has traveled several times a week to both open and closed prisons across the country to continue singing and playing with inmates. Additionally, she tours many churches with the Prison Choir, offering both inmates and audiences a unique experience.

The songs performed are written by inmates, reflecting on their everyday life in prison, their mistakes, and their reflections on their lives. Almost all the music is composed by Louise.

Following Peter’s advice, I contacted Marianne Secher, the deputy inspector at Vridsløselille. Marianne, herself a former opera singer, was immediately captivated by the concept. She invited the prison’s education department to a meeting held in a small, sterile conference room behind the prison walls.  The atmosphere was tense. As I presented our proposal, I couldn’t help but feel scrutinized, judged. Marianne listened attentively, her expression unreadable. She asked probing questions about our intentions, methodology, and commitment to ensuring the prison’s safety and security. After the meeting, Marianne remained hesitant. She was fascinated by the idea but also concerned about the potential risks and challenges. Gaining access to a prison was no easy task.

Chapter 7:
Developing the Production Plan with the prison

Visiting Marianne in prison happened three or four times, and we also stayed in touch through phone calls and emails. It all started with the synopsis I had prepared with Bob’s help, which then evolved into a more detailed production plan including dates, participants, and other key elements. This plan would serve as the blueprint for the entire production. As we discussed these details, we also worked on creating the budget.

Undeterred, I began drafting a comprehensive budget and project description that covered every aspect of the production—from equipment costs to security arrangements. Bob was by my side throughout, providing invaluable guidance and support. I even brought my cousin on board to assist with applying for funding from various foundations, hoping to secure the financial backing necessary to bring the project to life.

Meanwhile, Marianne was conducting her own due diligence. She consulted her colleagues, reviewed our proposal, and sought assurances from the prison authorities. One factor that ultimately influenced her decision was Bob’s extensive experience working with Scotland Yard. He had filmed inside English prisons, and Marianne was impressed by the level of access and cooperation he had secured.

Bob sent Marianne a video showcasing his work, demonstrating the impact of his documentaries on the lives of inmates and the communities they returned to. The video served as powerful evidence of our project’s potential to create positive change.

Finally, after weeks of negotiations and revisions, Marianne gave us the green light. We were granted permission to film inside Vridsløselille State Prison, to work alongside inmates and staff to create our documentary. Naturally, the inmates would have the option to participate, and early indications were promising. Many were eager to get involved, to share their stories, and to contribute to something meaningful.

It’s important to emphasize that the concept I brought forward was completely new—even to the Prison Service. Never before had a series of TV documentaries been filmed in this way, where inmates inside the prison walls would collaborate. That’s why it took so long to persuade Marianne.

Her approval, however, came with conditions. She insisted on retaining the right to review the final edit of the documentary and to remove any material she deemed a threat to the prison’s operational integrity. One area where she added stipulations was under the “security” section, where she wrote: “Operational integrity: We will give prison management the right to remove content in the final program if it compromises the prison’s operational integrity.”

Despite the challenges and compromises, we were excited. We had secured access to a prison, assembled a talented team, and laid the groundwork for what we believed would be a groundbreaking documentary. The real work was just beginning, but we were ready to face it head-on.

 

Chapter 8:
Meeting with Vridsløselille Management
The meeting with the management at Vridsløselille was nerve-wracking. Walking through the prison gates felt like crossing a threshold into another world. The imposing walls, the barbed wire, the vigilant guards—it was a stark reminder of the seriousness of our undertaking.

We were led into a sterile conference room, the air thick with unspoken tension. Around the table sat Prison Inspector Hansen, a woman with a stern face and no-nonsense attitude; Deputy Inspector Secher, whose initial enthusiasm seemed tempered by caution; and several other senior prison officials. Bob participated remotely, his image projected on a large screen at the end of the table.

Prison Inspector Hansen opened with a barrage of questions probing our intentions, methods, and understanding of the prison’s unique environment. She was concerned about potential disruptions to the prison’s routine, the safety of inmates and staff, and the ethical implications of filming inside a correctional facility.

“This is not a game,” she said firmly. “We are dealing with vulnerable individuals who have made mistakes. We have a responsibility to protect their privacy and dignity.” I understood her concerns. We were asking for unprecedented access to a closed world, a world with its own rules, codes, and secrets. We had to convince them that we were not there to exploit or sensationalize, but to tell a story of hope and redemption.

Bob spoke next, drawing from his many years of experience working in sensitive environments. He assured Inspector Hansen that we were committed to upholding the highest ethical standards, that we would work closely with prison staff to ensure the safety and well-being of all involved, and that we would respect inmates’ privacy and dignity at all times. “We are not here to judge,” he said. “We are here to listen, to observe, and to tell a story that can inspire change.”

Deputy Inspector Secher, who had been relatively quiet until then, offered a more optimistic perspective. She spoke of the prison’s commitment to rehabilitation, the importance of giving inmates opportunities to express themselves and connect with the outside world, and the potential of our project to promote positive change.

“We believe this documentary can help break down the stigma surrounding incarceration,” she said. “It can show the public that these are not just criminals, but people capable of growth and redemption.”

The discussion continued for several hours, covering all aspects of the project—from security protocols to shooting schedules to editorial control. Inspector Hansen remained skeptical but open to the possibility that our project could benefit the prison and its inmates. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she leaned back and sighed. “Okay,” she said. “We are willing to give this a try. But let me be clear: we will be watching you. Any violation of our rules, any breach of trust, and we will shut down the production immediately.”

Her words were a sharp warning, but also a sign of hope. We had passed the first hurdle, but the real challenge was just beginning. We had to earn their trust, prove we were worthy partners, and live up to our promise to tell a story that would make a difference. At the core of my vision was involving ordinary citizens in the project, which I believed would significantly enhance the resocialization process. The idea was fully developed and documented in our earliest proposals, long before DR had even met us, and certainly well before DR decided to create the same project in the same prison. Involving ordinary citizens meant that inmates would be assessed, and the hope was that the surrounding community would show their acceptance.

When I first mentioned this to the prison, they were almost shocked. They explained that they had never done anything like it before. They had previously allowed family members, but never ordinary members of the public. Initially, the answer was partly no. It became a long discussion. Marianne explained that it would require everyone entering to undergo a background check well in advance. This is standard procedure when people work in or even just visit the prison, to ensure they have no criminal convictions. Our film crew underwent such checks multiple times. I told Marianne that was fine; we could invite people beforehand to make it possible. However, it took several days before she agreed.

Bob Long followed the project from the sidelines, and I kept him updated on how the meetings went. After some time, Marianne said, “Yes, you may. We will allow ordinary people to come to your project.” When we left the prison, the weight of responsibility rested on my shoulders. We weren’t just making a documentary; we were entering a partnership with a correctional facility, where inmates’ lives and futures hung in the balance. It was a daunting task, but I knew that with Bob and Kenneth by my side, we were ready for the challenge. After securing permission to film inside, I pushed my luck. “What about an audience?” I asked. “Could we invite members of the public to attend the final performance?”

Deputy Inspector Secher immediately rejected the idea. “Absolutely not,” she said. “It’s never been done before. We’ve had family members visit, but never a random audience.” I argued that the audience’s reaction was crucial for the inmates’ rehabilitation. Seeing the impact of their work on the outside world would have a profound effect, validate their efforts, and boost their self-confidence. Marianne hesitated. She explained that everyone would have to undergo a thorough background check. I assured her we could handle that, screening the audience well in advance.

This exchange highlights an important point: it wasn’t just the overall concept that was new; each component required careful consideration and special permission. Every aspect of our project was unprecedented in a Danish prison, if not worldwide. We constantly pushed boundaries, challenged norms, and sought approval for things never done before. We eventually secured all necessary permissions. Beyond the permits and project descriptions, there was a huge amount of work coordinating and assembling the right team on both the film and music sides. We had to decide how the filming would be done, what equipment to use, and who would be responsible for shooting, editing, and producing. On the musical side, there were questions about the style of the performance and the composer. We decided to hire stand-up comedian Per Vers to warm up the inmates before rehearsals.

Small and large details had to be settled, requiring numerous meetings. Contracts had to be drawn up for all participants. We also had to secure suitable shooting locations. Finally, we began the process of getting to know the inmates. Together with my former colleague from Nordisk Film, Ulf Laursen, I started teaching a film workshop inside the prison over two days. It was a bigger task than expected. Equipment had to be brought in through a special entrance to bypass normal security checks, and a guard had to be present during the entire session. We set up a PowerPoint presentation and divided the inmates into groups, each with a computer and a camera so they could make their own films. This was Bob Long’s idea: the goal was to get to know the inmates, build trust, and give them a voice.

 

Chapter 9:
A dangerous shift

We meet quite often at DK4 but as we were getting close the meetings were gettet larger and this time Kenneth was also there. The director Steen was stere and then stine and me. We were getting ready to go.

 

With a director, a prison, and a core team in place, a fragile sense of cautious optimism began to take root. Maps of Vridsløselille, carefully detailed character sketches of the inmates (each a story waiting to be told), and endless pages of notes, all meticulously organized and color-coded, were spread across the large, scarred table. It was a landscape of ambitions, dreams, and the stark, daunting logistics of undertaking something unprecedented.

The air in the room was thick with a palpable mix of excitement and anxiety. Every detail, no matter how small, was scrutinized under the harsh fluorescent lights. Any potential problem, any conceivable obstacle, was dissected with surgical precision. Kenneth Kreutzmann, our director, with his sharp theater-honed wit and innate understanding of human drama, often injected moments of unexpected levity into the otherwise serious discussions. He would crack a joke, perform an improvised impersonation, or launch into a dramatic monologue reminding us all that, ultimately, we were storytellers—artists trying to capture something genuine.

Bob Long, always the pragmatist, the seasoned documentarian who had seen it all, would then ground us with his many years of experience and unwavering focus on ethical considerations. He reminded us of the responsibility we bore—not only to tell a compelling story but to protect the vulnerable individuals whose lives were now intertwined with ours. He was the moral compass, the voice of reason constantly reminding us that the ends could never justify the means.

We had managed to secure a commitment from DK4, a smaller independent TV station offering us a broadcast guarantee. It wasn’t the coveted prime-time slot we had originally dreamed of, the one that would reach the widest possible audience, but it was a start. It was confirmation that someone, somewhere, believed in our vision. With a legitimate TV station officially on board, we were finally ready to begin the arduous process of fundraising. The hard work, it seemed, was only just beginning. As word of our ambitious project cautiously spread through the tightly knit media community, more and more people expressed interest and wanted to join our small but dedicated team. One evening, during a particularly long and exhausting meeting at DK4, Stine Boe Jensen, a producer at the station who had become a passionate advocate for our documentary, received an unexpected and rather exciting phone call. It was Søren Rasted, the internationally acclaimed musician and record producer, best known for his work with the globally successful pop band Aqua.

I didn’t actually speak to him directly that night, but i was there while Stine talked to him, Søren had become deeply fascinated by the project and expressed a strong desire to become actively involved. However, he also felt that the documentary, with its powerful message of redemption and social commentary, deserved a much broader audience than DK4 could offer. He rather emphatically suggested that we seriously consider moving the entire production to DR, Danmarks Radio, the country’s largest, most reputable, and undeniably most influential TV station. This is what I was told by Stine. I still find this very strange, that we would now have to move the produktion to DR. This move was going to be father for the project.

The proposal, seemingly out of the blue, threw me into a state of inner turmoil. I was immediately hesitant, my stomach churning with a mix of excitement and a deep, unsettling unease. I had a persistent, nagging feeling that something was wrong, that things were moving too fast, that we were losing control of the narrative. Past experiences—painful scars from earlier creative battles—had made me deeply mistrustful of entrusting my original ideas and hard work to others, especially to larger, more powerful entities.

Despite my deep reservations, the undeniable allure of working with someone of Søren Rasted’s international stature and the tempting promise of securing a coveted prime-time slot on DR—the gateway to a massive national audience—proved too tempting for everyone else to resist. It seemed that everyone, from Kenneth and Stine to the management at DK4, was completely in agreement that Søren’s involvement would be an absolute game-changer, a golden ticket that could propel our project to unimaginable heights. After much internal debate and a somewhat reluctant consultation with Steen W. Pedersen, the surprisingly supportive head of DK4, who ultimately gave his somewhat resigned blessing, I finally decided, with a heavy heart and a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach, to call DR the next day and set things in motion.

The momentous decision hung heavily in the air, casting a palpable shadow over our subsequent meetings.  The initial cautious optimism gradually gave way to an uneasy anticipation, a sense that we stood on the brink of something significant but also potentially dangerous. Meetings that had once been characterized by open collaboration and shared enthusiasm took on a different, more guarded tone, filled with unspoken questions, hidden agendas, and an undercurrent of unvoiced concerns. We were no longer just a small, tightly knit team of passionate and dedicated filmmakers driven by a shared vision and a genuine desire to make a difference; we were now a potential commodity, a valuable project that could easily be bought, sold, and ultimately controlled by forces far beyond our immediate reach.

I couldn’t shake the increasingly troubling feeling that we were slowly but surely losing control of our own destiny, that the project—our baby—was gradually slipping from our hands and into the waiting grasp of another. But I trusted Bob and Kenneth, respected their experience and judgment, and desperately wanted to believe in the inherent power and resilience of our story. I clung to the fragile hope that somehow we could successfully navigate the treacherous shifting winds of the media landscape, outmaneuver the potential pitfalls, and emerge on the other side with our original vision not only intact but amplified and shared with the widest possible audience. Only time, it seemed, would tell.

 

Chapter 10:
A Meeting at DR TV
DR’s headquarters, Danmarks Radio, dominated the Amager skyline with an impressive presence that was hard to miss. It wasn’t just a building; it was an entire complex, a sprawling media city humming with activity. The sleek modern architecture, all glass and steel, gleamed under the Danish sky, reflecting both the water nearby and the limitless ambitions of the organization it housed. To anyone stepping onto the grounds, it was clear that this was a place where ideas were born, where culture was shaped, and where influence spread far beyond Denmark’s borders. The sheer scale and design of the complex spoke volumes about DR’s role at the heart of Danish cultural life—a powerful beacon of creativity and communication.

As we arrived, a group of 34 of us buzzing with excitement and nerves, the reality of stepping into this world settled in. Among us were key figures who had been instrumental in getting us this far: Nana Lind, whose sharp eye for detail kept everything on track; Bob Long, whose experience and calm presence provided steady guidance; and our production manager, Xzzx, whose no-nonsense approach ensured the logistics were tight and everyone knew their role.

Walking through the halls, it was impossible not to feel the weight of what DR represented. The hum of cameras, the murmur of voices, the quick footsteps between meetings—all of it underscored that we were no longer outsiders. We were here, in the thick of it, ready to pitch, collaborate, and bring our vision into the spotlight. The building itself seemed to pulse with energy, a constant reminder that we were now playing in the big leagues.

However, my connection to DR went deeper than just this meeting. Anders Riis Hansen, the editor at DR who was our main contact, was no stranger. Born in 1963, he is a documentary film director and TV producer who has worked at DR as an editor, producer, and program host. He also served as documentary editor in DR’s executive editorial office from 2004 to 2007 and again from 2009 to 2011. Since the fall of 2016, he has worked as a documentary film consultant at the Danish Film Institute. In 1995, he helped establish Koncern Film & TV, and in 1997 he founded the production company Hansen & Pedersen Film and Television together with his wife, Malene Flindt Pedersen. His own films have dealt with topics such as immigrants and integration, as well as global politics and terrorism.

I knew Anders from Thomas Heurlin’s company in Nørrebro, a gathering place for creatives and filmmakers. In hindsight, I understand that Anders was already part of Thomas’s network, Koncern TV. It was also through Koncern TV that I met Claus Ladegaard, who was then establishing a film department at Easy Film in Sølvgade. I got to know Claus better when we cycled home together after a freelance dinner at Thomas Heurlin’s. I spent a significant amount of time at Koncern, and it was there Thomas introduced Claus Ladegaard as his collaborator. These introductions often took place amid discussions about viewership for various broadcasts, including those produced by Easy Film.

After Søren Rasted’s surprising proposal, I immediately contacted Anders Riis Hansen at DR and presented the core idea behind our prison documentary. To my relief, he responded positively, expressing genuine enthusiasm for the project and promptly inviting us to a formal meeting at DR’s headquarters. The invitation was an important step, indicating that DR1, the company’s flagship channel, found our concept genuinely exciting.

Four of us attended the meeting that day, each bringing a piece of the puzzle. There was Nana Lind, our diligent producer assistant, who carefully managed logistics and kept us all on track. Bob Long, the experienced BBC producer and invaluable mentor, whose presence lent credibility and weight to our presentation. Stine Boe Jensen, the longtime film producer from DK4, who had fought for our project from the start and whose experience was crucial in navigating the complexities of the TV industry. And finally, myself, Elias, the driving force behind the documentary, the dreamer who dared to imagine a world where art could transform lives behind bars.

Anders Riis Hansen, our contact and editor at DR TV, greeted us warmly and expressed his unwavering support for the project. He confirmed DR’s willingness to finance 50% of the estimated total budget, around 3.4 million Danish kroner. It was a significant commitment, a clear indication that DR was serious about bringing our vision to life.

However, Anders also insisted—and repeated no less than three times during the meeting—that the Danish Film Institute (Det Danske Filminstitut) also needed to be involved in the project. He saw their involvement as crucial, a necessary seal of approval that would further legitimize our efforts and open doors to additional funding opportunities.

This particular insistence filled me with unease. I had already been through rough experiences with the Danish Film Institute (DFI), where I felt my original ideas had been taken and handed over to other filmmakers without my consent. Those past betrayals stuck with me, casting a long shadow of doubt over Anders Riss Hansen’s seemingly innocent request. What worried me wasn’t just that he wanted us to seek support from DFI—it was how often he mentioned it, repeating it three times like a mantra. That struck me as odd, almost like a condition being set: if DFI didn’t back the project, then DR wouldn’t either. That kind of dependency felt strange and suspicious.

I knew from experience how messy things could get. One tactic that had been used before was to split a project’s production between two state institutions. On paper, this might look like collaboration, but in reality, it often led to delays at both ends. The producer of the documentary would end up stuck, running back and forth between agencies trying to get things moving. This back-and-forth made it difficult to pinpoint who was really responsible for killing the project. Meanwhile, the institutions involved had time to quietly replace or copy the production and take it over themselves. While the project was caught in limbo, a parallel production was quietly planned and executed behind the scenes.

I was certain something shady was going on. It wasn’t just that Anders Riss Hansen talked about involving DFI — it was that he kept bringing it up in a way that felt like a warning or a condition. I had a nagging feeling he was making sure everyone was clear: no support from DFI meant no support from DR. That alone suggested there might be a power play underway, a way to squeeze control over the project.

At the same time, I reminded myself that this project involved the prison system at the highest level. I wanted to believe they wouldn’t stoop to such tactics. It wasn’t just the prison authorities themselves, but also the department responsible for managing prisons and crime prevention. I couldn’t imagine, even in my wildest nightmares, that something like this would happen. Especially remembering Bob Long’s words—how if you had the prison’s green light, no one could steal your project.

Still, I carried a secret that weighed heavily on me. Claus Ladegaard had recently become head of DFI. Claus was a close friend of Anders Riss Hansen, and also a close friend of Thomas Heurlin. That connection worried me deeply. It meant there were personal alliances at play behind the scenes, alliances that could influence decisions and power struggles in ways I couldn’t control.

I felt trapped between hope and suspicion. On the one hand, I wanted to believe in the integrity of the system and the people involved. On the other, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my project was now tangled in a web of politics and personal relationships that threatened to swallow it whole. It was a secret burden I carried silently, knowing that the fate of my work might hinge on forces far beyond my control.

Despite my reservations, Anders Riis Hansen provided us with a letter of intent—a formal document outlining DR’s commitment to the proposed program at Vridsløselille State Prison. This letter was a valuable asset, a concrete sign of support we could use to help secure further funding. I received the letter by email, and at first, it felt like a big win.

But then, something struck me. The letter was dated. I’d never seen a letter like this before, and the fact that it carried an expiration date unsettled me. What would happen once that date passed? I brought up my concerns with Anders, and he assured me that he would renew it if needed. Still, in my mind, I wondered why the letter had to be dated at all. The production would either move forward or it wouldn’t, so why put a time limit on that commitment? That lingering uncertainty gnawed at me, casting a shadow over what should have been a moment of clear support.

Despite my reservations, Anders Riis Hansen provided us with a letter of intent—a formal document outlining DR’s commitment to the proposed program at Vridsløselille State Prison. This letter was a valuable asset, a concrete sign of support we could use to help secure further funding. I received the letter by email, and at first, it felt like a big win.

But then, something struck me. The letter was dated. I’d never seen a letter like this before, and the fact that it carried an expiration date unsettled me. What would happen once that date passed? I brought up my concerns with Anders, and he assured me that he would renew it if needed. Still, in my mind, I wondered why the letter had to be dated at all. The production would either move forward or it wouldn’t, so why put a time limit on that commitment? That lingering uncertainty gnawed at me, casting a shadow over what should have been a moment of clear support.

Although the production could technically proceed without the explicit involvement of the Danish Film Institute, we were now compelled to apply for funding from the institute, as Anders Riis Hansen strongly encouraged. In the ensuing period, Anders actively participated in the process, offering his expertise by reviewing and providing feedback on our proposals to the Danish Film Institute. His involvement was undoubtedly helpful but also amplified my growing feeling that we no longer had full control over our own fate, and that our project was increasingly entangled with the agendas and interests of larger, more powerful institutions.

Chapter 11:
The Rights of Art
As the project “Musical in Vridsløselille State Prison” began to take shape, I faced an unfamiliar but crucial challenge: How do you actually define what art is? And how do you distinguish a purely documentary TV project from a literary and artistic work? The question of rights quickly became central, because it wasn’t just about money and contracts, but about respect for the creators’ voices—especially the inmates who brought the project to life through their own stories.

I plunged into an in-depth exploration of what a literary and artistic work really is. It was more than theory; it became a journey into the very heart of creative processes and rights understanding. The project was not just a series of documentary recordings. It was an artistic journey where inmates, professional directors, set designers, and musicians together created something that went far beyond the ordinary.

For me, it became clear that the core of “Musical in Vridsløselille State Prison” was the belief that art knows no social or legal barriers. It was a space where inmates had the opportunity to write their own texts—raw, real, and unfiltered—and share stories that otherwise would never have seen the light of day. The collaboration with artists like Louise Adrian, director Kenneth Kreutzmann, and musician Søren Rasted ensured these stories took on an artistic form that was both authentic and aesthetically accomplished.

My research showed me that a literary and artistic work isn’t just about the finished product, but largely about the process. The creative collaboration, the mutual influence, and the genuine exchange between the professionals and the inmates were crucial. Art is not just something that happens in a studio or on a stage—it can flourish in the most unexpected places, including behind prison walls.

At the same time, I had to navigate the legal jungle around copyright. Who really owns the texts and compositions that arise from this collaboration? The inmates who wrote their stories? The professionals who shaped them? Or was it a shared ownership? It was a balancing act between recognizing the individual creator’s rights and respecting the collective work.

It became clear to me that our project was unique—not just in Denmark, but globally. Nowhere else had anyone combined documentary film, musical theatre, and inmates’ own stories in such a close and artistically connected process. This raised both ethical and legal questions but also created an opportunity to challenge traditional views of art and creation.

We aimed to achieve a high artistic level. Therefore, it was necessary to have a number of professionals involved who could elevate the artistic expression without overshadowing the voices of the inmates. The result should not just be a program or a performance—it had to be a work that spoke to the heart and mind, a work that could be published as a book or music so the stories could reach a wider audience and create connection and reflection.

This journey taught me that art is not limited by frameworks or rules but by people’s will to create and share. “Musical in Vridsløselille State Prison” became living proof that art can serve as a powerful tool for personal change and social insight—even where you least expect it.

Chapter 12:
The Narrow Path of the Film World
The film world is a small world—so small that most people know each other, or at least know someone who knows someone. It’s like an island floating in society, with its own unwritten rules, allies, and rivals. After many years in the TV industry, including at DR, I found my way into this world through the Danish Film School, which became my ticket into the film environment.

One of the most powerful players on this island is the Danish Film Institute. Here, grants—meaning money for productions—are awarded by people who themselves come from the industry. They sit in the same building as the director, who ultimately signs off on the grants. This means decisions are often made in a small circle, where relationships and networks matter far more than just ideas and talent.

The Film Institute acts as the gatekeeper, ensuring that only the right people and projects get access to resources. Many consultants who assess artistic projects know they will one day go out and make productions themselves. So it’s about playing the game right because there are only a few places to seek support—and one of the most important is exactly the Film Institute. If you haven’t lived up to expectations or played by the rules, you can forget about getting money for your next project.

But it doesn’t stop there. The Film Institute also ensures that the film world’s little island remains intact. Part of this happens by keeping the press at bay—avoiding too much publicity about how grants and decisions actually happen. The institute publishes the magazine Ekko, which receives 80% of its support from the institute. It becomes a mouthpiece that both reflects and shapes the industry.

In what is called the film industry’s trade union, Sandra Pirage sits as a kind of guardian. She often talks about “blacklists”—a kind of invisible memory list of people who don’t follow the rules. If you do as she says and play along with the system, everything goes smoothly. But if you criticize or break conventions, you risk being marked as a troublemaker and landing on the blacklist.

Sandra often encourages turning the other cheek when experiencing injustice or theft—especially if it comes from powerful institutions like DR. If you don’t obey, you are seen as a threat to the system, and the doors close quickly. You become an outsider, and it can be hard to get back in.

That’s the film world. A small island where networks and loyalty weigh heavily, and where knowing the right people can be just as important as having the best idea. For those who want to survive and succeed, it takes more than talent—it takes wise navigation in a landscape where things aren’t always what they seem.

 

Chapter 13: The 1000 Typhoons

There were many dinners at Thomas Heurlin’s company, which initially was called Hrulin Produktions and later changed its name to Koncert TV. Koncert TV was started among friends, all from the left wing: Thomas Heurlin, Anders Riis Hansen, and Lars Seidelin. I worked there quite a bit but only managed to make one program. It was during one of these dinners that I met Claus Ladegaard. We cycled home together with several others.It all started with a project meant to focus on the destruction caused by typhoons in the Philippines. Easy Film, where I worked, had taken on the assignment, and Claus Ladegaard, who at the time was director of the documentary film department, was a key figure in the company. Claus was a man with great influence—someone who knew the rules of the game and didn’t hesitate to use his power to steer things his way.

I traveled to the Philippines full of idealism and passion. My task was clear: to portray nature’s fury and the Red Cross’s heroic efforts amid the disaster. But reality proved brutal. There were no typhoons. No storms, no drama. I found myself trapped in a situation where the assignment was an illusion, and I had to quickly find a new angle.

After many days of searching and futile hopes of finding anything resembling a typhoon, I realized the story had to be reshaped. It became a weaving project—a quiet but beautiful image of rebuilding and hope. A true story, but far from the dramatic catastrophe that had been promised.

But this was exactly where the problems began. Easy Film had secured the Red Cross to finance a large part of the film, and they were unhappy with the new direction. It was an unusual situation—in DR’s world, it had never been seen before that an association could dictate the content of a documentary film. Nor was it customary to “sell” a story before ensuring the promised elements were really there.

Behind the scenes, the power play was in full swing. Easy Film was a known name, and Claus Ladegaard’s wife, Mette Davidsen-Nielsen, was a prominent editor at DR. This gave Easy Film a special status that made it possible to push projects through that otherwise would have been stopped.

The Red Cross felt cheated, and the conflict escalated. The film had to go through countless re-edits, all dictated by the Red Cross, who insisted on shaping the film to fit their expectations. I tried to voice my frustration and criticism of the situation, but it felt like talking to a wall.

Claus Ladegaard responded with a cold and threatening anger. In a conversation that still burns in my memory, he said bluntly: “You will never work again.” It was not just a threat—it was a sentence. A warning about what awaited anyone who didn’t play by the rules.

That was the moment I understood the dark side of the film industry. How networks and power could close doors, not just for projects but for people. How creative freedom could be strangled by bureaucracy and self-interest. And how one person’s anger could mean the end of a career.

But it was also a turning point. I refused to let fear control my life. I began to see more clearly how the system worked and how I could navigate it without losing my integrity. I learned that standing up to power took courage, that it required alliances and strategies.

“The 1000 Typhoons” became more than just a film; it became a symbol of the battle between art and control, between truth and manipulation. It became my story about how you can be crushed but still rise, about how you can fight for your voice in a world that would rather silence you.

And that is the fight I still fight. Not just for myself, but for all those who dare to create, tell stories, and challenge. Because in an industry where friends and enemies often blur into one, it’s art that must win—not power.

Chapter 14:
On the Way to Gusaran

In 1997, just after I finished at the Danish Film School, I got my first big call from Easy Film. They wanted me on a documentary about typhoons in the Philippines, a project with DR and the Red Cross. I remember the phone ringing, and it was Mette Mailand, the production manager, asking: “Are you ready to go to the Philippines and do something really important?” I answered without hesitation: “Of course. When do we start?”

There were eight planners in total, and everyone had to shoot and interview themselves. I bought a Canon X1 camera—new to me but exciting to learn. There was a certain nervous energy in the air, but also the feeling this could be something big.

When I landed in Manila, I was met by Jørgen Kristensen from the Red Cross. He was waiting in the hotel lobby, wearing a red blouse with the Red Cross logo. He smiled kindly and said: “Welcome to the Philippines. We have a lot of work ahead, but I think you’ll have a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

We drove the long way to Southern Leyte in an old white jeep with big Red Cross logos. On the way, I asked Jørgen: “How does the situation look with the typhoons? How badly have they hit?” He shrugged and replied: “It’s hard to say. Some areas have been hit harder than others, but we need to see for ourselves.”

After nearly a day of travel, we finally arrived in Gusaran, a small mountain village known for its weaving workshops. The trip was full of bumps, landslides, and narrow paths. I looked out the window and saw the green mountains stretch endlessly while the rain started to fall softly.

“This place is different,” Jørgen said with a mix of respect and melancholy in his voice. “The people here have survived a lot—both nature’s fury and life’s harsh realities.”

When we arrived, we were greeted by a group of women weaving on traditional looms. The oldest, Maria, stepped forward and welcomed us with a warm smile: “Welcome to Gusaran. We hope you’ll see our work and hear our story.”

I asked Maria, “How have the typhoons affected your lives here?” She sighed deeply and said: “We lost many loved ones, and our homes were destroyed. But through the weaving workshop, we can earn money and support each other. It’s our way of fighting back.”

While we talked, I saw Jørgen flip through the accounting book, but his face grew serious. “Pages are missing here,” he muttered. “And some sales aren’t recorded.” Maria explained: “We trust each other. Accounts aren’t always the most important thing. Trust is what holds us together.”

I could feel how this small village carried a big story—not just about destruction, but about resilience and community. It was clear that the documentary I was to make wasn’t just about nature’s forces but about the people who live on despite everything.

As we packed up for the day, Jørgen said to me: “You have to tell the world what you’ve seen here. Not just the disaster, but also the hope.”

I nodded, thinking this project would be far more complex—and far more meaningful—than I had ever imagined.

Chapter15 :
The Typhoons That Never Came

The day had finally come. I had packed most of my life into my camera gear and backpack. The journey was booked—first by bus from Copenhagen to Malmö, then to Stockholm, and from there a flight of about 20 hours to Manila. My girlfriend came with me to Sweden, where we said goodbye before I went on alone. I had traveled quite a bit before, but the Philippines was something else entirely. The culture, the sounds, the smells—everything was new and foreign.

Easy Film had planned everything meticulously. I arrived in Manila, found my hotel, and was looking forward to meeting my contact from the Red Cross, Jørgen Kristensen, a couple of days later. I found his hotel and waited in the lobby. He appeared in a red blouse, smiling and welcoming.

“Good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “We have a long trip ahead.”

We drove to the small office of the Philippine Red Cross, where we greeted the staff. There I also met Albert, a young Filipino man in his thirties, smiling and friendly. He wore a white shirt and a blue vest with the Red Cross logo on the back. Albert was to drive us around and serve as an interpreter.

Jørgen explained that we were headed to Southern Leyte. It was a long 23-hour trip, crossing several islands. I looked excitedly at the white four-wheel-drive jeep with big red cross logos. It felt good—it seemed like the necessary resources were allocated so we could reach everywhere, no matter how rough the terrain.

The first stop was a beach area with small, randomly assembled huts made from what looked like all kinds of materials. I stepped out of the jeep and looked around. Everything was dry, no sign of recent typhoons. I asked Jørgen, “How is this going to be used in the program? There’s no sign of damage.”

He shrugged and smiled diplomatically: “We just keep going. There are more places to visit.”

I turned on the camera and filmed a bit, but it felt out of place. It was hard to make a typhoon documentary when the sun was shining and everything seemed peaceful. I carefully told Jørgen: “If there are no typhoons, we can’t make a film about them.”

He just nodded and pointed to the next destination.

We drove on to an area with more houses and people, but still no sign of disaster. The atmosphere was a bit strange. It felt like filming a story that wasn’t happening.

Later we reached a small town with a peculiar house said to be typhoon-proof. Jørgen told me this as we walked around. I talked to the residents, who said they hadn’t had typhoons in years, and the house was only used to hang laundry to dry.

“Really?” Jørgen asked surprised when I told him. He went over and spoke with the people himself.

After a while, we were back in the jeep.

Then the trip continued to a small island where we had to sail in a narrow boat that looked like a canoe with an outboard motor. The camera got wet along the way, but luckily I could dry it in the sun, and it worked again. The island was lush with palms and sunshine, but still no sign of typhoons.

I began to understand that the project was different from what I had imagined. The stories of destruction were hard to find.

We set course north, toward the town of Gusaran in the Benguet area, famous for its cool mountains and ethnic groups like the Igorots and Ibaloi. Here we were to find the story we were looking for.

In Baguet, we stayed at a hotel, and the next morning we faced a long and challenging drive up into the mountains. The roads were narrow and steep, and the trip up took about ten hours, mostly on gravel roads.

Jørgen was optimistic: “Up here, there will be something to film,” he said.

Time was tight, and I knew I had to choose this place as the setting for my documentary if it was to become something. But the thought of the typhoons that never really showed up kept filling me with doubt.

 

Chapter 16:
On the Way to the Mountain Village Gusaran
I started filming already on the way up into the mountains toward Gusaran. The trip turned out to be harder than expected. Several times we had to stop and take long breaks due to landslides. The rain had loosened stones and soil on the mountain slopes, which had fallen and blocked the roads. This meant hours of waiting while people removed the earth by hand or waited for machines to help. It created some visually strong scenes: cars in long queues, frustrated drivers, and the work of clearing the road. I also filmed Jørgen Kristensen and his colleague from the Red Cross. According to the project plan, Danish Red Cross was to be included if possible, and Jørgen was, among other things, to supervise a weaving workshop supported by the Philippine Red Cross.

Although there were no disasters or typhoons to film, I thought it was a good angle. The weaving workshop was an activity for widows left behind by typhoon attacks, where through sales they could earn money for disaster prevention and their own wages, Jørgen explained. It felt like a small story that could tie the project together and give meaning to the journey.

After ten hours in the mountains, we finally reached Gusaran, a small village built at 2,500 meters altitude. The houses looked more like wooden huts, and around them spread rice fields in characteristic terraces. The sun was shining, and women walked around in clothes protecting them from the sun. The white jeep drove through the village, and suddenly a group of about ten people appeared in local costumes, playing music and dancing. We stopped at a small square in front of a slightly larger house, which served as a meeting place and daycare center.

Food had been prepared for us—a soup with meat and rice from the surrounding fields. We ate inside the daycare center, and beneath the building was the weaving room for the widows. After lunch, Jørgen started his work. I asked if I could continue filming, which he agreed to. Now he was to go through the weaving workshop’s accounts together with the women, who brought out a small book.

At first, it looked fine—there had been sales since last time. But then problems arose. A page in the account book was missing. Jørgen explained to the women that pages were not to be torn out and that goods had been sold but not paid for. One of the women, Priscilla, admitted that she had taken goods on credit. Jørgen asked who the customer was, and she said it was herself.

The sun shone warmly through the open windows, and flies buzzed quietly around us. The place was not dirty, on the contrary—it was clear that care had been taken, and the surroundings showed it was a place people cared about.

Then Jørgen discovered that a page in the book had been torn out. He asked the women directly, and silence fell. Priscilla explained that in the village, trust was valued higher than paper accounts, and that accounts were not always taken so seriously. The solution was not immediately clear, but Jørgen was patient and determined in his approach.

At night, Jørgen and I slept in the daycare center. We enjoyed local coffee, made from beans from the mountains. The next day, we went down to see the weaving workshop, which I decided could become the heart of the film. Only one of the women working there had lost her husband in the typhoon; the others were young with intact families. Another woman in the village had lost her husband, but that was long ago, and her emotional outburst during the interview felt unnatural. Therefore, I chose to focus on the women as a group.

I wrote to Easy Film and told them there were no typhoons to film but that I could make a story about the weaving workshop. Esben approved it immediately. Jørgen reviewed my footage of the accounts and also gave the green light. I explained that the story would be about the weaving workshop, the accounting challenges, and the course the women were to attend in the end.

The weaving workshop was in the basement under the daycare center. It resembled a raw concrete cellar with two or three large looms placed close together. I filmed the women while they worked and talked to them about their lives, the typhoons, and the workshop. The village was beautiful, with primitive houses and gravel roads, surrounded by mountains and the characteristic rice terraces.

I interviewed four women: Priscilla, Rosa, Kristine, and a fourth. Not all had experience with the typhoon, but Kristine told a strong story about having lost her husband five years ago during a typhoon while working in the tomato fields. The police had found his body covered by earth after a landslide. She told this in the film to support the title, which ended up being “Typhoon Widows.”

Jørgen and Albert walked around outside, considering the situation. They decided the women should go to a bigger city to get help through the cooperative movement, Konto, to manage accounts correctly. After the course, it was agreed that a person from the village would check the accounts monthly.

It was clear that even without dramatic typhoon footage, we had found an important story about resilience, community, and hope.

Chapter 17:
Finishing the Film from Gusaran
In the finished film, Jørgen Kristensen emphasizes the importance of humility because we enter a culture we only understand superficially, while it is the locals who truly know the depth. He highlights patience and the necessity of building on the knowledge already existing in the local community, ending by saying the capacity is great—without a doubt. Jørgen points out that he does not think anyone has cheated but that it is about creating transparency.

The film ends with a message that the Red Cross wishes to secure the women their own weaving workshop. Right now they borrow a room under the daycare center, which is not theirs, meaning they have to give way when the center is used for meetings, and there is no space for all the looms. Jørgen says that if the accounts are kept correctly, it will give the green light to a self-sufficient weaving center for the women.

When information manager Barbara Gram from the Red Cross sees the film at Easy Film, Jørgen is back in Denmark. Barbara, with a background as a former member of the Ethical Council, city council member, and DR journalist, thinks the film is good given the circumstances. It includes archive footage and follows the village’s development so you understand both the Red Cross presence and the weaving center’s function. The ending appears positive and solution-oriented, showing the women at an accounting course while Jørgen promises them a proper building.

But Barbara Gram is not satisfied. She tells Jørgen he must have red ears, and it becomes clear the handling has been wrong. The film must be re-edited several times. On January 4, 1999, we receive a fax from Barbara Gram on Red Cross letterhead with Jørgen’s comments on “Typhoon Widows.” She acknowledges his objections but points out it is late to start re-editing again. Still, the Red Cross wants his major corrections to the voice-overs to be considered.

Jørgen replies with a letter in which he thinks the images are too dominated by “white man,” and that the film should include more about Red Cross’s constructive work. He assesses the film has improved since the last edit but still finds it unconvincing and a bit dull. He also wants to be cut down in the film, as he considers his role minimal, and wishes good luck with the further editing.

The film is re-edited and finally approved. Although we searched intensely for typhoons and evacuation work, we found none. I was responsible for production and did what I could to create a story out of the long trip, but I was tired, especially after several rounds of re-editing. The Red Cross was unhappy with Jørgen’s handling of the women, especially regarding the accounts. Maybe it was wrong to demand accounts, but Jørgen solved it by sending them to an accounting course, which the women appreciated.

The film was delivered, and production was over, but afterwards, we discussed what had gone wrong. I may have been too open when I said the film resembled an advertisement. I was younger then and should have understood more, but the task was difficult—almost impossible—because the promised story did not exist. There were no typhoons, no evacuations; the sun shone almost all the time. It was far from the original plan, which spoke of families in crisis.

I started filming early to find a story, and Gusaran was the last chance. The film got a good ending with the accounting course, which everyone was happy about, but much of the work felt wasted.

The first eight films had a budget of 2.6 million kroner, and although Danida gave 150,000, it ended up that the aid organizations and DR had to pay based on a plan you and Esben made. The programs were meant to give a realistic and nuanced picture of world problems and Danish aid. I believe it all stemmed from you initiating productions on shaky grounds at Easy Film. I’ve heard it was your wife, Mette Davidsen-Nielsen, who worked at DR, that made the production possible—others were not allowed to make such sponsorships.

We stood on the second floor. You looked toward the courtyard, I toward the offices. Your face turned red within seconds when I mentioned the word “advertisement.” We discussed the mistakes in the Philippines with the Red Cross. You said I must never make films again. Your voice broke for a moment, but you repeated the sentence with a “probably” at the end: “You probably will never make anything again.” I don’t know if you lost your breath or got a dry throat, but it was strong.

I understood your frustration over the many money spent on re-editing, and that you saw it as a lack of understanding when I called the film an advertisement. I was tired, not because I hadn’t done my job, but because the story the Red Cross was promised did not exist.

The problem was that the film was no longer judged by journalistic criteria but solely by what gave the best impression of the Red Cross. That made the film uninteresting because it had to promote the Red Cross with the money they had paid Easy Film. The situation arose because there was no match between the plan and the reality in the Philippines.

Was it your fault? Whatever the case, I don’t think you can swap around a production costing over 10 million that I created to prevent me from working—if that happened.

Chapter: 18
Was It Revenge?
Was it your fault? Whatever the case, I don’t think you can swap around a production worth over 10 million that I created just to keep me from working—if that happened.
Years went by. I worked many years as a producer at Nordisk Film with VideoMarathon, and you became director of the Danish Film Institute. I described this in a letter to DR’s director general (resocialiseringellertyveri.com).
Later, I wanted to do TV again but was rejected time and again. After so many years, I hoped you were no longer angry with me. At a meeting, you repeated the same negative questions and expressed skepticism about our application. We got support for a project in the State Prison but had to pay the money back because the Prison Service thought the projects were identical. We personally handed over the accounts to you, and Stine Boe and Steen Andersen from DK4 participated. I attached an explanation of how our production had been swapped around.
During the meeting, you looked me deep in the eyes and said they must have red ears at the Prison Service. It was the same expression Barbara Gram from the Red Cross had used about Jørgen’s handling in Gusaran. I had never heard it before, and it felt like a hint to previous incidents—a way to make sure I understood this was some kind of punishment. I don’t want to call it revenge because that would be too vile. It felt more like payback for me commenting on the production with the Red Cross.
We live in a rule-of-law society where you can’t punish without judgment and trial. Separation of powers is supposed to prevent abuse of power.
It was not a program proposal but a carefully planned concept, ready for shooting. Everything was detailed and agreed with Deputy Inspector Marianne Secher from the Prison Service. The script and schedule were reviewed sentence by sentence. I had agreements with the film crew, artist Kenneth Kreutzmann, and Søren Rasted had said yes. We had shot a trailer and made a budget. You have no right to change that if you follow the law—I see it as theft. The project was both a documentary series and an art project based on my original idea from the Danish Film School in front of about 15 students.

It was a gray, windy autumn day in Copenhagen when we first stepped into the Danish Film Institute’s building on Gothersgade. The old, sturdy brick building with its tall windows and heavy doors radiated a formal seriousness that could be felt all the way out in the hallway. Here, in the heart of the city’s cultural life, our project was to have its chance.
We had spent months polishing our proposal. Anders Riis Hansen had read it, given comments, and helped us strengthen the arguments. DR’s support was in place—50% of the budget was secured. Everything should have been fine.
Yet the dream slowly turned into a nightmare-like struggle.
We applied for development support through the consultancy scheme at the Danish Film Institute. Claus Ladegaard, now area manager, held power strongly. He was known for his sharp analytical sense but also for his ability to navigate the political game behind the institution’s closed doors. As former director of Easy Film, he had many contacts and a position giving him influence on almost every decision in the institute.
The consultants Michael Haslund and Jesper Jack were the faces we came into contact with. Michael Haslund, an experienced producer and consultant, was known for his professional approach and deep industry insight. Jesper Jack, who had interned with Bob Long at the BBC, was younger and more idealistic, but he too was subject to the invisible currents that controlled decisions.
We never even got to meet them. The rejections came like cold letters in the mailbox, without explanation or chance for dialogue. It was like knocking on a closed door that would never open.
I remember clearly sitting in the small meeting room at DR, where we gathered to discuss the situation. Stine Boe Jensen, an experienced film producer with a sharp eye for both art and business, shook her head.
“This makes no sense at all,” she said. “Jesper Jack even interned with Bob Long. He should understand the project’s value.”
“It’s more than strange,” I replied. “We are only applying for development support—not even the full production. It should be a formality.”
But every time we thought the next application would succeed, we got another rejection. It started to feel like there was an invisible wall blocking our way.
One day, I had a conversation with Claus Christensen, editor-in-chief of the film magazine EKKO, a man known for his critical sense and deep knowledge of the film industry. We met in a small café near the Institute for Art and Cultural Studies, where steam rose from coffee cups and city sounds were muted behind thick windows.
“Claus Ladegaard holds the key,” Christensen said gravely. “He has great influence on who gets support and who doesn’t. The consultants might want to say yes, but without his backing, nothing happens.”
I felt a cold lump in my stomach. It was as if our project was not judged just on artistic merit but was caught in a game of power and networks we had no access to.
“So we’re stuck in a game where the rules aren’t clear, and we aren’t even allowed to play?” I asked quietly.
Christensen nodded. “Unfortunately. That’s how it works. It’s a closed system where loyalty and connections mean everything. Those who don’t follow the ‘rules of the game’ risk being blacklisted or ignored.”
He also told me about Sandra Piras, a central figure in the film industry union, known for keeping track of the ‘blacklists.’ She was both feared and respected, and her advice to turn the other cheek—especially when conflicts arose with powerful institutions like DR—had become an unwritten rule.
“If you try to fight the system, you quickly become a ‘problem-maker.’ And that can cost you your career,” Christensen said seriously.
We left the café with a heavy realization: the fight for support was not just about quality or artistic value, but also about power, networks, and loyalty. And we stood in the middle of a storm where we had to find the strength to continue—or let the dream die quietly.
But we weren’t ready to give up yet. Because even behind closed doors and invisible barriers, our belief in the project’s meaning and power was stronger than the fear of the system’s whims.

Chapter 19:
Back to DR – When the Fund Ran Out
After months of rejection and setbacks, we returned to DR with a heavy message: “The fund is empty.” We had reached the limit where resources were spent, and financing opportunities dwindled. I sat across from Anders Riis Hansen, our contact at DR, and explained the situation. He listened attentively, but the answer was clear and relentless.
“Mette Hoffmann Meyer holds the purse strings,” he said. “And she has said no more money can come from DR until there is a commitment from the Danish Film Institute.”
I tried to argue that we could get a smaller grant of 500,000 kroner so we could seek the rest from other sources. But Anders shook his head.
“It’s completely closed now,” he said. “No more cooperation. No money. It’s sad, but that’s how it is.”
I was deeply puzzled. DR had often cooperated outside the Danish Film Institute, so this closure made no sense. I couldn’t understand why our project in particular was rejected when other similar projects had received support without problems.
Anders smiled a little and said with a twinkle in his eye, “We wish you luck. Good luck.”
But it wasn’t just friendly hope. It was a closure.
In the same breath, Anders admitted something that made me raise my eyebrows.
“Honestly,” he said, “I wasn’t really interested in the project from the start. What I wanted was to meet Bob Long.”
I could understand his fascination with Bob Long—he was a legend in the documentary world, with a career and experience that impressed anyone. But I found it hard to believe that this whole process, all the discussions, meetings, and expectations, had been set in motion without Anders having a real interest in the project himself.
It felt like the project was a means to an end, not an end in itself.
I wrote an open letter to DR’s director general, Bodil Maria Rørbye Rønn, questioning this approach. How could a project with such great potential and broad support be pushed aside? And how could personal ambitions and internal power struggles overshadow the artistic and social purpose?
It was a bitter chapter but also a necessary realization. I had learned that the game in the media industry often revolves more around people than projects, and that it takes more than good ideas to get through the needle’s eye.
But even though the fund was empty and doors closed, my faith in the project and its importance remained intact. Because I knew stories like these—about human transformation, courage, and hope—were too important to be forgotten or pushed aside.

When DR closed the doors on our project, we could have chosen to give up. But we chose to move forward in good faith—the belief that our idea still had a place and that there were other paths to take. So we contacted Steen W. Pedersen, program manager at DK4, who had earlier shown interest and support for our work. Together, we decided to apply for development support through the Public Service scheme at the Danish Film Institute—a scheme DR itself could not apply for but which gave us a new opportunity.
I sincerely hoped this path would create greater understanding of the project’s value and give us a place on the panel that evaluates Public Service projects. We knew it was a chance we couldn’t let slip away.
The meeting with the panel took place in one of the more sparsely furnished rooms at DFI. Around the table sat a small panel, including Torben Hansen, a Swedish female participant, and—as always—Claus Ladegaard. The atmosphere in the room was tense, and I could feel that we were not quite welcome.
When we presented the project, I quickly sensed the criticism was harsh. One of the first statements was that we were not the right ones to make the project. The visual side was called “boring” and lacking the necessary eye for visual storytelling. I could feel my words being weighed and turned, and many challenging questions were asked.
Claus Ladegaard repeatedly asked what my real purpose with the programs was. I answered honestly and firmly: “It is an attempt to resocialize the inmates. To give them a voice and a chance to be seen as people, not just prisoners.”
His gaze was cold, and I could almost feel the weight of skepticism in his words. He asked questions that were not just about the film’s quality but about the project’s legitimacy and my own ability to carry it out.
Still, I held on. I knew our project was more than just a TV program. It was a social effort, an artistic journey, and a documentation of something never tried before.
When the meeting was over, we went out into the cool autumn air outside the institute. There was a silence between us—not of resignation but of the realization that the road ahead was still long and heavy. But we went on—in good faith—because we believed in what we were doing and in the people whose stories we were allowed to tell.
It was not just a fight for money or approvals. It was a fight for justice, for artistic freedom, and for the possibility of change. And that fight we were ready to wage as long as there was air to breathe and words to tell our story.

 

Chapter 20:
Outside on Gothersgade
The meeting had just ended, and we stepped out into the cool autumn air on Gothersgade. The heavy doors of the building closed behind us with a sound that almost felt like a final judgment. We stood together outside—Steen Andersen, Mai Breinholt Heldam, Sine Boe Jensen, and me—all feeling empty and frustrated.
“That was really unpleasant,” Sine said, her voice shaking. “They were not open to our idea, and the tone was so dismissive.”
Mai nodded. “Yeah, and it felt like we were judged beforehand. Not on our project, but on something else.”
Steen Andersen looked towards Gothersgade and took a deep breath. “This isn’t right. We should complain. I’ll write directly to Claus Ladegaard and tell him how we experienced it.”
I stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. “Wait a moment, Steen. Maybe we should call him first. A direct conversation might solve more than a letter.”
Steen hesitated but nodded. “Okay, I’ll call.”
He pulled out his phone and dialed Claus Ladegaard’s number. We stepped back a little while he spoke quietly but firmly.
After a few minutes, Steen hung up and turned to us. “He says nothing unusual happened. He’s already spoken to me, and he thinks we’re overreacting.”
Mai almost spat the words out: “He can’t mean that! The way they treated us was disrespectful.”
Sine sighed heavily. “This is the third time we’ve been rejected now. Despite support from DR, commitments from participants, and permission to use Vridsløselille State Prison.”
I looked around the group. “This isn’t just Denmark; this is unique in the whole world. The project is new, never seen before. And yet they shut us out.”
Steen shook his head. “It feels like it’s about something other than art. About power and control.”
Mai looked at me determinedly. “What do we do now?”
I took a deep breath. “We apply again. Only for development support. We can’t let them stop us. Not now.”
Sine smiled faintly. “Good. Because we know this project matters. It’s more than just film. These are stories that need to be told.”
We stood there on Gothersgade in the autumn dusk. The cold bit at our cheeks, but there was warmth in our hearts—a shared will to keep fighting despite the setbacks.
“We move forward,” I said. “In good faith. Because that’s the only thing we can do.”

Chapter 21:
A Bird Sings
It was a mild spring day in Østerbro when I met Katia Forbert Petersen by the lakes outside the French Café. The sun cast soft shadows on the cobblestone sidewalk, and the city’s life hummed quietly around us, but the air between us was heavy with something unexpected and uncomfortable.
We sat at a small table outside, and Katia glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening.
“I had to call you,” she began quietly. “Something is happening you need to know.”
I looked at her, my heart starting to beat faster. “What is it?”
“DR and Koncern TV & Film have started making the same project. Same concept. Same prison.”
The words hit me like an icy wave. “That can’t be true,” I said, almost in disbelief.
Katia nodded seriously. “It is. And it’s not just being made in the same place, Vridsløselille State Prison—they’re also using many of the same inmates we had agreements with. Claus Meyer is involved; he’s DR’s famous chef and is part of the production.”
I swallowed hard. “How did they find out? This was our idea…”
“Thomas Heurlin and his company, Koncern TV, haven’t just copied the idea. They’ve reworked it and started production quickly. They’re skipping several important steps—casting, development—just to get going as fast as possible,” Katia explained, taking a sip of her coffee.
I leaned back, trying to digest it all. “I’ve tried to contact Marianne Secher, but she isn’t answering.”
Katia shrugged. “It’s hard to say what her role is here. But Thomas Heurlin leads Koncern TV—the same company Anders Riis Hansen helped set up. They know each other well.”
“So it’s the whole circle,” I said with a bitter smile. “They’re playing on the same team.”
We sat quietly for a moment; the city sounds seemed farther away than before.
“It feels like we’re being overtaken,” I said. “Our project, our dream, is being taken from us.”
Katia put her hand on my arm. “You must not give up. This is not the end. It’s just another battle in a bigger war.”
I looked at her and found strength in her words. “We have to find a way to fight back. For our stories, for the inmates, for everything we’ve worked for.”
The sun still shone softly over the lakes, but in my mind, a storm was brewing that needed to be tamed. The shadows grew longer, but the fight was not lost.

Chapter 22:
Meeting with Thomas Heurlin from Koncern TV
I’ve known Thomas Heurlin for many years. While the production was underway, I had the chance to meet him. He had invited me to a meeting back when I was still at the Danish Film School. The purpose was to open the possibility that I could work for him. He asked directly if I wanted to work for him. His company was out in Nørrebro, and I went there several times. Back then, as now, it was common that you only got hired after the TV station had accepted your idea. Those were the conditions most accepted.
I managed to get to work there, where I made a report from Bispebjerg District Psychiatry titled “The Soul Inside Out.” I had Lars Seidelin as producer from Koncern TV. The hunt for money and ratings was big then too, and it resulted in Koncern TV not keeping their agreements. The intention was to obscure the most vulnerable patients on TV, but the obscuring was almost transparent, even though this was agreed with the chief physician in the program. This led to many calls and complaints from him. It’s more compelling to meet a patient’s eyes when they’re involuntarily admitted, so some masking was present—but according to the chief physician, it was very transparent.
During the swap, I wrote to Thomas Heurlin asking for a private meeting to understand what was going on. I couldn’t grasp what he was up to. Although everyone in the industry knows ideas get borrowed, this was on a whole other level, especially since the Prison Service had already said yes, and we had met with DR. We hadn’t had problems caused by me before, and I don’t think he had any reason to do this. I almost considered us friends, though maybe we were mostly acquaintances, but there was good energy when we met and talked. I was very puzzled by what was happening, so meeting Thomas seemed natural.
To my surprise, he agreed. The meeting was set for Nørrebro. Before we met, he asked if I wanted to see their new office. I didn’t really want to; I wanted to talk about the swap at DR. We met at Nørrebrohallen, a former tram depot between Nørrebrogade and Mimersgade. We had coffee and sat down. I knew Thomas’s company was nearby in a concrete building, but I hadn’t seen Koncern’s new office.
I explained what was going on and how film director Katja Forbert Petersen had said he had gone to DR, which said they had no money. Thomas was my former employer, and someone I wanted to work for again, so I wasn’t angry but tried to express what was wrong without directly accusing him. I also explained how Anders Riis Hansen had said DR didn’t have enough money. There was a pause, then Thomas said that was a lie. He claimed Anders was untruthful and explained DR had plenty of money. I was surprised Thomas said this about Anders since they were friends. Thomas thought I should handle it myself and talk to the Producers’ Association. The conversation then shifted more to Anders Riis Hansen and less about Thomas himself. It seemed Thomas really thought I should do it. He thought it was a good idea to talk to the Producers’ Association because his friend had lied, and DR had plenty of money.
When I asked how they could make the swap, Thomas opened up a bit and explained that I had done some things for which I now had to be punished. He didn’t specify, but it was implied that I had done something that justified the multi-million swap. He was the employer and authority, so I was the small one. I asked if we could participate in the project at the State Prison. No, we could not, Thomas explained, but he wanted me to bring ideas so we could make a collaboration between two companies.
I gathered myself and asked for compensation. Thomas paused, then said he could arrange for me to make a project with one of his partners on Rosenvængets Allé in Østerbro. It ended with me producing some videos for a small company for Fashion Week. It was a kind of compensation but far from enough. I never got credit for the project worth more than 10 million, and I believe DR should compensate, as I have explained before.
After the meeting, Thomas wanted to show me their new office—they had moved even though I had said no. “Come on, you have to see it,” Thomas said, and I went along. On the way, the conversation took a new turn when Thomas suddenly asked if I didn’t think “life was fucked up”? I looked at him, unable to respond. He asked again and said it meant something to him to talk about it—that was typical Thomas.
We arrived at Baldersgade. The new office was a large, beautiful glass building with a view over everything. Almost the entire building was made of steel frames with large glass facades, surrounded by a beautiful white wall. A modern and expensive building. I wondered how they could afford it but thought it might have something to do with the many millions received from DR and Claus Meyer for the TV series from Vridsløselille State Prison. Thomas wanted me to come inside, and we took the elevator up. Everything looked exclusive and expensive—completely different from usual with many employees. Here, I met co-owner Lars Seidelin, whom I knew from old times, and who seemed somewhat surprised to see me but greeted me kindly. I got the impression Lars knew what was at stake. Thomas was proud of the new premises, and they looked impressive.

Chapter 23:
Meeting with Mette Hoffman, DR Employee
DR continued its work in the prison and prepared to publish the project I had conceived. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t find support anywhere. My attempts to involve my union, the Danish Film Directors, only made things worse (see attached letter). Even my own lawyer, who was otherwise supportive of VideoMarathon, refused to take the case, although he did attend a meeting with DR. Afterwards, he advised me that DR should document the origin of the idea—something they never did. Other lawyers were hesitant and seemed to acknowledge the legitimacy of the case but ultimately declined to pursue it. I will elaborate on the shifting alliances later, as Lars Krag from the Danish Film Directors was not the only one to suddenly turn against me.

My first awareness of Mette Hoffman, then a DR employee, came after a meeting with Anders Riss Hansen. After our conversation, we exchanged emails about the project, investigating similar initiatives worldwide and the music they used. Anders included Mette Hoffman Meier in these emails and identified her as the one who “held the purse strings.” I still have this correspondence since I was cc’d.

At one point, I called her and said directly: “I simply cannot accept what you are doing.” I think she understood my seriousness. She then suggested I visit her in Gentofte to propose an alternative project. It became clear that the ongoing swap was not accidental. When I told her the situation was making me sick, she implied I was somehow responsible, vaguely referring to previous actions without specifics. Even now, I’m uncertain what she meant. As head of documentaries at DR, it seemed unacceptable that she could reallocate millions without explanation and rely on mere insinuations.

Her house was on a residential street in Gentofte. Two identical small BMWs stood in the garage, presumably hers and her husband’s. I parked on the street and went inside. Her husband was by the swimming pool, and Mette greeted me. We went into her kitchen to talk.

She remained inflexible. When I asked for compensation in the form of another DR project, she suggested I simply apply. I quickly developed a story idea and presented it to her. She had a large folder with program proposals in the kitchen, and when I described my idea—a story about a dormitory in New York owned by the Bikuben Foundation—she claimed to already have a similar proposal. On closer inspection, it seemed to be something else.

The film industry is known for borrowing ideas, but this situation shocked me, especially given the agreement with the Prison Service. The thought that any of the involved parties would undermine a project with such a positive rehabilitation mission felt surreal. Mette walked me to my car and recommended a chocolate shop down the street, claiming they had the best chocolates in Gentofte.

I received a cup of coffee—that was the only compensation. My friends often ask what I got from DR for my work, and the answer is a cup of coffee. I hope that changes when this story comes to light. But telling the story so others know what happened has value in itself.

Chapter 24:
Surprising Conversation with a Vridsløselille State Prison Employee
Given how difficult it was to take on DR alone, or even as a team, I had to accept that we would do our project afterwards, even though I knew it was highly uncertain. I made Mette Hoffman Meyer aware of this. It felt completely unfair, and when DR was finally finished, our project was canceled. The Prison Service explained that it was a prison, and the two projects were identical. I was astonished that management had even approved it to begin with, and that we had agreements with all our partners, including Per Vers.

But then came a surprising message from someone inside the Prison Service. I perceived this person as someone who did not want to be part of what was happening. He told me over the phone that Thomas Heurlin had said things about me that had made “Marianne Secher raise her eyebrows.” That was the exact phrase he used: “Marianne Secher had raised her eyebrows.” Again, I wasn’t told what those things were, and had to settle for just this message.

I believe we live in a society ruled by law, and no one should be punished before being heard. As I understood it, there was again an implied insinuation that the swap happened because I had done something—something I still didn’t know. I also wrote to Claus Ladegaard stating that you cannot deprive people of values worth 10 million kroner without a court ruling, which I felt had happened. I cannot live with that, and that’s why I cannot let this case go. A project worth millions was swapped for a reason I don’t know. But after these conversations, it became clear to me that the swap was intentional, and apparently deliberately designed so that I would not be allowed to make the project I had invented and secured all permissions for.

I am convinced this was a deliberate, even cynical hostile takeover. Or, as lawyers would say, an act committed in bad faith (mala fide). Was this an organized trick? A question of ill will—a legal concept covering deliberate, conscious acts. You cannot simply run from responsibility by claiming ignorance (ignorantia juris non excusat). Bad faith involves a malicious intent, in this case a deliberate intent to deprive another company of something. A company I had built from the ground up, stone by stone. That is what I want to illuminate here. The question is whether the involved parties deliberately swapped around, whether this was a planned swap and takeover, making criminal law § 276 relevant—fraud.

Anders Riss Hansen’s insistence that DR would only proceed if the Danish Film Institute supported the project smells, to me, like a way to delay the project externally while keeping DR free of responsibility. An elegant, but transparent smokescreen. DR could later say that DFI wouldn’t support, and then they were out of the picture. “Sorry, but we cannot do more.” When Anders began emphasizing this at our meeting at DR—I remember it clearly, we sat in a sterile meeting room overlooking the city—I got a lump in my throat. I had déjà vu because I had experienced exactly the same thing twice before. I will elaborate for the director general later, as it’s a pattern that paints a picture. By sending our project on this apparently innocent detour, Thomas Heurlin was able to go to the same prison and start working with DR, copying or adapting the idea and preparing a takeover with DR’s support. And that’s exactly what happened, while Claus Meyer was being positioned. An advertisement that later earned him millions by doing it in other prisons—money he would not have earned if the swap hadn’t happened. Will we ever be allowed to see the budget for these things? How much did Koncern TV earn, and how much did Claus Meyer earn by adapting my concept? What did DR pay? I have tried to get access to documents but without success. I hope one day I get to see those numbers, as I’m sure they will paint a clear picture of what happened. Here one could argue that there has been a breach of good administrative practice if DR knowingly withheld access to relevant documents.

If I am right that a hostile takeover worth millions happened, there was one thing Thomas Heurlin had to get sorted. A piece in the game that had to be removed. I had a very good relationship with the former deputy warden Marianne Secher. She already told me at the first meeting that she sang in a choir and was very enthusiastic about my idea to use choirs and a musical for rehabilitation in the prison, where an outside audience would see the performance. Marianne and the prison management were very interested in the idea, and already at my first meeting there was coffee and cake served, and the prison education department participated. I had countless meetings inside the prison with Marianne. We talked about everything from music to the inmates’ challenges. Thomas and Mette must have wondered how to get Marianne to change her mind. How to get her to turn her back on me and my idea. Because without her support, their plan would collapse. Perhaps it involved undue influence, a form of pressure that made her change her stance. That is speculation, yes, but it is speculation worth investigating further.

 

Chapter 25:
Surprise in the Prison
We continued with an unshakable belief that justice would prevail. Our project, carefully and passionately developed at the Danish Film School, was something truly special—a creative journey giving voice to some of society’s most overlooked people. We knew it was worth fighting for.

Then came the big surprise.

As we prepared our fourth application to the Danish Film Institute, it was time to take the next step: filming the inmates in the prison. We wanted to document their expectations for participation, capture the first rehearsals of the songs, and show that we were ready to move the project forward.

Marianne Secher had found an open day in the calendar when we could enter the Vridsløselille State Prison. Everything had to be planned down to the smallest detail: all participants had to be CPR-verified, and the video equipment had to be brought in through a special entrance to ensure we complied with the prison’s strict security rules.

It’s common in the industry to produce a trailer as part of the application process—a visual guarantee that you’re ready to take the project to the next level. Our new partner, DK4, kindly financed this trailer, and we arrived with a full crew and a lot of equipment, filled with anticipation and hope.

The mood was tense, but quietly determined, as we stepped into the prison that day. The inmates who were to participate were nervous but also proud. They knew this could be their chance to be seen as more than just numbers in statistics or names on a board.

I distinctly remember setting up the cameras, adjusting the lights, and testing the microphones. Marianne was present, her face a mix of professionalism and a faint hint of support we hadn’t seen so clearly before.

As the inmates began talking about their expectations, it became clear how much the project meant to them. Some spoke of longing for change, others of fear of being let down again. The songs they rehearsed carried both pain and hope—a raw, genuine power that couldn’t be ignored.

We filmed everything, every nuance, every feeling. It wasn’t just a trailer; it was a window into something deeply human and important.

That day was a milestone. A reminder of why we started this journey, and why we couldn’t give up. Despite setbacks and rejections, we held on to our belief that justice would win—that this story needed to be told, and that art had the power to create change.

Chapter 26: With Faith in Justice
We continued with an unshakable belief that justice would prevail. Our project, carefully and passionately developed at the Danish Film School, was something truly special—a creative journey giving voice to some of society’s most overlooked people. We knew it was worth fighting for.

Then came the big surprise.

As we prepared our fourth application to the Danish Film Institute, it was time to take the next step: filming the inmates in the prison. We wanted to document their expectations for participation, capture the first rehearsals of the songs, and show that we were ready to move the project forward.

Marianne Secher had found an open day in the calendar when we could enter the Vridsløselille State Prison. Everything had to be planned down to the smallest detail: all participants had to be CPR-verified, and the video equipment had to be brought in through a special entrance to ensure we complied with the prison’s strict security rules.

It’s common in the industry to produce a trailer as part of the application process—a visual guarantee that you’re ready to take the project to the next level. Our new partner, DK4, kindly financed this trailer, and we arrived with a full crew and a lot of equipment, filled with anticipation and hope.

While the crew waited outside, I went in to say hello to Deputy Warden Marianne Secher. She was sitting in her office—a simple but functional space overlooking the prison yard. It was the first time I saw choir director Louise Adrian there with Marianne. I explained how much we were looking forward to the filming, which was to take place in the chapel where the choir always practiced their songs with Louise.

Suddenly, something unexpected happened. Louise turned to Marianne and asked if there was something she had forgotten to tell. Marianne cleared her throat, and a noticeable pause fell over the room. Then Marianne explained in a voice mixing hesitation and seriousness that DR had also begun producing a documentary series where inmates would rehabilitate together with Claus Meyer.

I felt the blood freeze in my veins. “They’re already working with DR?” I asked, while Louise sat close by.

“Yes,” Marianne replied shortly.

I had to ask directly: “Are they also making a documentary series about inmate rehabilitation? And will they also have outside guests, as I have proposed and fought to get approved?”

Marianne nodded quietly. It was like a punch in the face. What I had developed during the Film School’s continuing education—the whole concept of inviting the public into the prison to experience the cultural project—was now being copied and realized by DR.

How could Marianne suddenly betray like that? What had Thomas Heurlin told her? How could she be persuaded to switch sides?

I looked at her with mixed feelings of disappointment and anger. “So what we created has now been taken from us, and our concept is worthless?”

Louise sat quietly, her gaze evasive. The mood in the room was heavy, filled with a silent recognition that something essential had been stolen—not just an idea, but a dream and an opportunity for change.

I left the office feeling empty but with a burning will to keep fighting. Because even though our concept had been copied, our belief in the importance and power of the project remained intact. It wasn’t the end, but the start of a new fight—the fight for justice, for honor, and for the people whose stories we had been allowed to tell.

Chapter 27: The Swap
Thomas Heurlin used his close connections to turn the situation to his advantage. He pressured the prison system to cooperate with him instead of us, resulting in DR1 producing and airing a TV program completely based on the concept I had previously submitted to them. Our application and idea were well documented, obvious, and explicit—but still, it was our vision that was taken over.

The Danish film industry is a small, isolated community where the director of the Danish Film Institute holds heavy power. His influence is enormous, and it showed through the connections that tied people together. Claus Christensen, editor-in-chief of the film magazine EKKO, had also noticed the close ties between Claus Ladegaard and Thomas Heurlin. In a 2018 article about “the abused film children,” he wondered how Claus Ladegaard suddenly protected Thomas Heurlin as if he were shielded from criticism.

Our contact at DR, Anders Riis Hansen, was not only friends with Thomas Heurlin—he had also helped establish Thomas’ company, Koncern TV, which now secretly took over the production in the prison. At the same time, Anders was friends with Claus Ladegaard, and his former wife, Malene Flindt Pedersen, with whom he still shared the firm Hansen & Pedersen, worked closely with Claus. Malene had even attended our meeting at the Danish Film Institute, sitting in on the conversations.

It was like a web of relationships intertwined in every direction—a network that effectively locked us out and opened doors for Thomas and his team.

Anders Riis Hansen took meetings with us at DR while Malene Flindt Pedersen attended meetings at the Film Institute. A disturbingly close collaboration that made it hard to find space for us. On top of that, Thomas Heurlin had a close relationship with Mette Hoffmann Meyer and had made several TV productions with her, further strengthening his position.

It felt like all the pieces in the game had been moved around without our knowledge. Our project, which we had fought for with everything we had, was now slowly being swapped and taken over by people who knew the system from the inside—and who used it to shut us out.

It was a bitter realization: in this small, closed world, it wasn’t just about ideas and art, but about power, relationships, and strategies that decided who got to tell the stories.

I had reached a point where I could no longer stay silent. It felt like fraud—our idea, our concept, copied and used without our knowledge or permission. So I wrote to DR and made it clear that I considered the situation deeply problematic. The response was that we should meet and find a solution. I brought my lawyer of ten years, Peter Schønning, to the meeting. It was important for me to have him by my side.

The meeting took place at DR’s offices, with both Mette Hoffmann Meyer and Gitte Tækker present. I started by explaining the problem—how our project had been copied, how they entered Vridsløselille State Prison without informing us, and how everything had happened in secret.

Gitte, who was not previously aware of the case, cautiously asked about the funding and whether others were worried the same could happen to their projects in the prison. It was an honest question showing some concern but also a degree of distance.

Mette Hoffmann Meyer, then head of co-production at DR and, according to Anders Riis Hansen, the one controlling the purse strings, categorically denied that DR had done anything wrong. She said what they were doing was something entirely different—not a copy of our idea. When I asked to see their proposal, I was refused. I wasn’t allowed to see anything.

But the Prison and Probation Service was not in doubt—they called the two projects identical.

I explained that we had now received support from the Danish Film Institute and wanted to collaborate. But Mette Hoffmann Meyer continued to refuse cooperation. She had known about our original idea shortly after our first meeting, when Anders Riis Hansen sent her an email with cc, so she was fully informed.

By email, Anders had asked Mette if anything similar was underway, and she had replied no. She had sent a proposal, but it did not resemble our project. At the same time, Mette had a close relationship with Thomas Heurlin, which could be seen in their Facebook correspondence.

During the meeting, my lawyer, Peter Schønning, clearly stated that the burden of proof was on DR—they had to document where the idea came from. But Mette Hoffmann Meyer refused to say who had given them the idea. According to DR, it was Claus Meyer who had suggested doing rehabilitation at Vridsløselille State Prison.

I tried to contact both Claus Meyer and DR afterward but never received a response.

After all this, Mette Hoffmann Meyer left DR and began working for the WHY Foundation, with offices in Vognmagergade at the Danish Film Institute.

The meeting was over, but the fight for justice was far from finished.

Chapter 28: Bad Faith
The parties involved did not hide their malicious intentions. When I confronted Thomas Heurlin and asked how they could justify their actions, he simply replied that I “had done something.” He did not clarify what he meant, but I quickly understood he was referring to a statement from Claus Ladegaard. It was a way to deflect responsibility—implying I had done something wrong, even though it was them who had stolen my idea.

The same happened when I confided in Mette Hoffmann Meyer about my frustration and told her I was getting sick from the whole situation. She implied that I had also made a mistake, and it felt like a form of punishment—a silent accusation that made me even more isolated in the struggle.

My experience was clear: the swapping, the theft of the project, was deliberate. It was a calculated move to prevent me from realizing it. I was unjustly deprived of a multi-million kroner project, probably because of a longstanding grudge Claus Ladegaard had against me.

But even amid all this adversity, I tried to keep the door open. I contacted the prison officers and got approval from Deputy Warden Marianne Secher, who was genuinely interested in the idea. The first negotiations with the prison staff went well, and there was hope for cooperation.

Then DR1 and Koncern TV came in and stole my concept. They aired a TV program from the prison, based on my idea, and suddenly the prison lost interest in other similar projects. Despite my persistent efforts afterward, it became impossible to get any cooperation with the prison or Marianne Secher, who suddenly became hard to reach.

It was a bitter realization that even Marianne Secher herself, as a prison official, later ran the stolen project together with DR1. Bad faith was not just an undercurrent—it was blatant, and it ran deep in the system I was up against.

Chapter 29:

Theft or Rehabilitation?
When DR released their press statement about the new TV project in the prison, the tone was solemn and well-meaning. The project’s purpose, they said, was to rehabilitate the prisoners—to give them a chance to cooperate, learn, and create something meaningful that could make a difference for both themselves and society at large. This was exactly the core we had placed in our original project, which we proudly developed as the first of its kind in the world.

But what should have been a tribute to an innovation felt to me like a harsh reminder of how our idea had been taken over and rewritten without our participation or recognition.

In the press release, Claus Meyer was highlighted as the front figure of the project. He, who is very popular and respected in DR’s universe, later got his own cooking show in the prison. Meyer claimed that he had drawn inspiration from a similar idea in Italy. But despite several inquiries from me, neither he nor DR ever provided documentation to support this claim. It seemed more like a convenient explanation to hide that the original idea did not come from Italy, but from our work.

The core concept—rehabilitation on open screen—is a powerful idea. Rehabilitation is about more than just serving a sentence. It’s a process where inmates get the opportunity to reprogram themselves to accept society’s norms and values. It’s about breaking isolation, reclaiming a place in the world outside the walls, and preparing to return as law-abiding citizens.

Our project went a step further by not only focusing on the inmates but also on the role of the public. We wanted to open the prison and invite outsiders to observe, learn, and approve the work the inmates put into their change. It was an innovative approach that put transparency and community engagement front and center. It was about bridging walls and people, punishment and understanding.

But in DR’s version of the story, this unique angle was never mentioned. Their press release painted a picture of a project that was their own idea, born of Claus Meyer and inspired by Italy. Our work and years of development were overlooked and hidden behind a veil of official explanations.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. To see the idea one had fought for used without recognition felt like a betrayal—not just personal, but also toward the inmates and the society we wanted to help.

Yet despite all this, there was still something that could not be taken away from us: the original vision, the true meaning behind the project. We had created that, first and foremost for the people who deserved a chance at a new life—and that was a legacy that could not be copied or stolen, no matter how hard they tried.

Whether the inmates were tasked with creating a restaurant, producing a musical, or building a bridge, the underlying concept was always the same. This core formed the foundation of my approach to the project—a belief that community, creativity, and collaboration could be the key to rehabilitation.

Our original plan was ambitious: the inmates were to produce a musical with a live audience. It wasn’t just a performance; it was a chance to break the usual boundaries and let the inmates create something that could excite, move, and connect. The Copenhagen prisons specifically recommended this prison because it already had an established choir. It was a solid foundation to build upon.

Before we even presented the idea to DR1, we secured an agreement with the prison. It was crucial to have support from management and staff because without their trust, the project could never have come to life. We assembled a dedicated team that included BBC producer Bob Long and producer Stine Boe Jensen. Together we worked closely with the prison to create a project description that was both ambitious and realistic.

I personally began holding workshops inside the walls to get to know the inmates, understand their needs, and create a safe space where creativity could flourish. It was important to me to be present and engaged directly—not just as a remote project leader, but as part of the process.

Bringing the concept to life required countless meetings and months of hard work in development and research. I organized meetings, visited the prison over and over, and initially got the project approved by the prison officers. That approval was a turning point, giving us the energy and belief we needed.

I spent intense time seeking funding for the project. It wasn’t something that could be handled with a single meeting or a quick application. We gathered staff, held strategy meetings, and I attended numerous workshops and networking events to secure financing. At the same time, we began assembling the film crew and planning the organizational details that would make the project possible.

All this work helped create a solid base for the concept—a base built on trust, collaboration, and a shared belief that change is possible. That’s why the concept was the same, no matter the form it took. It was about people, the meeting between inmates and society, and the art of building bridges where there had once been walls.

Chapter 30:
Double Game in the Union
I’ve had multiple meetings with my lawyer and the TV station DR1. My lawyer, Peter Schønning, a specialist in rights, has represented me for many years. Despite my efforts, I faced resistance from all sides—including the union I was a member of. My attempts to seek legal assistance were rejected, making the process incredibly challenging. I have been threatened and warned that if I spoke out, I would never work in the industry again.

I started by contacting our union, the Danish Film Directors, for help but suddenly experienced unpleasant treatment from the leader, Sandra Piras. She suggested we hold the meeting alone, and when we sat together without others present, she asked if I wasn’t too old to make films, then told me about the blacklist and how hard it is for some people to be excluded from the industry. She mentioned examples of others who had been blacklisted and said she understood how tough that could be. I have written an open letter about what happened at the meeting.

A new meeting was called with Lars Krag and Mette-Ann Schepelern. Lars is a lawyer employed by the Danish Film Directors. He didn’t think DR did anything wrong, and the concept he had previously said was identical was now vastly different. I tried other lawyers, but my own lawyer wouldn’t take the case. Other lawyers showed initial interest but then backed out. No one wanted to take the case, even though they could see something was wrong.

I have had countless meetings with my lawyer and DR1, but it’s been a long and tough battle. My lawyer, Peter Schønning, who specializes in rights and has represented me for many years, has stood by me through it all. Still, resistance came from all directions—even from the union I belonged to. My attempts to get legal support were denied, making the whole process far more difficult than it needed to be.

It wasn’t just professional barriers but also threats and warnings. I was warned that if I spoke out, I would never work in the industry again. It was a cold, harsh message that sharply defined what was at stake.

At first, I contacted the Danish Film Directors union hoping for support and understanding. But the meeting with the leader, Sandra Piras, was an unpleasant experience.

In this letter, I will describe two meetings. The first was with you, as the head of the secretariat, and the second with your lawyer, Lars Krag. Both meetings took place at the Danish Film Directors’ office in Nørregade, where you previously had an office. As I experienced it, both meetings demonstrate how cases are handled based on norms that defy all reason. My own experience was that the meetings were very uncomfortable. It’s about blacklisting, manipulation, and falsehoods, as I see it.

On your website, https://www.filmdir.dk/, you proudly tell your history, but when I read it, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth given my experiences.

People outside our industry don’t know about the blacklist. I know it well, but I was surprised it was brought up like that in what you yourselves call a union for film directors. Before our meeting and after several conversations with DR, I went for a walk with my friend Carsten Rudolf. I’ve known Carsten for many years since high school. We worked together at the film workshop and DR when it was led by Dino Raymond Hansen. It was a wonderful time where you could make films and experiment. Over the years, we always talked about projects. Carsten was sent the project when I told him about this new idea before presenting it to DR—to let inmates rehabilitate themselves openly on screen through a cultural project inside the prison walls. He saw that it was something completely new. Time passed, everything went well, we got permissions, but then things got switched around, and again it was Carsten I consulted.

I explained what had happened, and my understanding was that he fully agreed it was wrong, but when I tried to talk about it, there was little support to be found. Carsten gave me examples of people he knew—skilled people who suddenly never got to work again because they had been blacklisted.

He told me about one who lived in the same building as him and was blacklisted. He was certain and said, “If you say anything, you get on the blacklist.” I tried to explain that I had to speak up with such a blatant takeover of my work, but he was firm. “Say the smallest critical thing, and they shut you out. You never get to work again.” I told him I wouldn’t want to work anyway if people were willing to swap around a project worth so many millions—it had to be because they wanted to make sure I never worked again or lost the will to try.

We walked around the lakes, and he warned me every time I mentioned how I couldn’t live with what had happened. He was firm in his belief that they would shut you out, and you would never work again. The problem for me was that the swapping that was done was so gross that I would find it hard to work if it wasn’t talked about. During the process, I found it hard to believe what I was experiencing. There was no doubt the swap was deliberate. It wasn’t a mistake. Years of work were taken, the concept slightly changed, and given to another person, Thomas Heurlin, in my eyes. This happened even though we had a whole team ready to start. I knew people would be excluded if they said anything. When you’ve worked on something for so many years, it’s a harsh experience—and then to hear it from the union you belong to…

I began working in TV in my early twenties and already then experienced how harsh this world could be. I remember being surprised how privileges were taken from a girl because she tried to get other photographers to join FAF at work. It happened immediately and without anyone noticing. The industry is tough like that, especially in production companies, but that it would also happen in the union was a shocking experience. It exceeded my wildest imagination. Here follow my experiences with the Danish Film Directors.

I remember arriving at the Danish Film Directors’ address on Nørrevoldgade. It was an ordinary day weather-wise, and I came expecting to get help from you. But then I felt like I was hit in the head—not physically, but it almost felt that way. As said, the Danish Film Directors is the union for the film world, so it feels strange that you, as chair, behaved so unpleasantly. It sounds harsh, and it was. You had always been the friendly, smiling woman one could find at the Danish Film Directors. You greeted people with a big smile, and that’s how I felt up until this meeting.

I had reached out asking for help because my experience was that a large documentary TV series, “Restaurant Behind Bars,” worth over 10 million kroner, had been swapped. Not only had I developed it, but I had also obtained permission to carry it out at Vridsløselille State Prison several years before DR. The swap is described in my letter to DR’s director-general (attached), so I will continue discussing what happened. I developed the idea at the Danish Film School, and it was unique—not just in Denmark, but worldwide. As said, it had never been seen on TV anywhere that inmates would rehabilitate themselves through a cultural project. Before the meeting, I sought help from the union, and you indeed asked questions about,

Later, a new meeting was called with Lars Krag and Mette-Ann Schepelern. Lars, a lawyer employed by the Danish Film Directors, did not believe DR had done anything wrong. He said the concept he had previously called identical was now vastly different. It was a slap in the face that made me doubt if justice was possible here at all.

Chapter 31: Second Meeting: A Doubled Betrayal
After the unpleasant meeting with Sandra, I felt a mix of shame and a desperate urge to fight for what was right. I couldn’t let it all be swept under the rug. I confided in Mette-Ann Schepelern, who suggested I write to the board members. To my relief, both she and Annette K. Olesen responded. Annette directly challenged Sandra and suggested this case was a perfect opportunity to discuss the industry’s notorious thefts. But Sandra remained silent—a silence that echoed the cold atmosphere of our meeting and her hints about the “blacklist.”

Encouraged by the initial support, I prepared for a new meeting, this time with the lawyer Lars Krag. Ironically, I had consulted Lars months earlier for help with contracts for our prison project. As a member, I thought I could use the Danish Film Directors’ resources. Back then, his advice was invaluable. He reviewed the contract for Ulrik Wivel, the director we had hired, and even pointed out the incredible similarity between our project and what DR was now producing. “Isn’t this the same project DR is making in the same prison?” he asked, confirming my worst fears.

I explained the situation: our original idea, the hard-won permissions, the sudden withholding of funds, and DR’s subsequent appropriation. We still hoped we could be allowed to make our version, based on the unique concept I had developed at film school.

But the Lars I met that day was unrecognizable. The supportive advisor was gone. Instead, there stood a man who, with eerie certainty, declared that our projects were completely different—“as different as day and night.” I stared at him, speechless. How could he do such a 180-degree turn? Sure, he was employed by the organization, but shouldn’t he have some professional integrity? Could he just discard his previous assessment and twist the facts to fit a new narrative?

He even brought Karnov’s legal books, with a wall of yellow post-it notes sticking out, giving the impression that he had spent hours preparing to dismantle my case. But his arguments felt hollow, a desperate attempt to justify the unjustifiable.

Then came the second blow. Lars told me that DR strongly disagreed with my view. They insisted the projects were different and had nothing to do with each other. That’s when I found out that Sandra, without my knowledge, had contacted DR the week before. I had no idea who she had spoken to or what was said. The rug was pulled out from under me. We couldn’t challenge Sandra’s version, we couldn’t ask questions. We were silenced and blindsided.

When I left the Danish Film Directors that day, I felt utterly betrayed. Not only had my original idea been stolen, but the very organization meant to support me had become complicit in the theft. All I wished for was that Sandra had treated the case like a union should have. Then I wouldn’t have had to write these letters to the board.

I tried to find other lawyers, but it was like hitting a wall. My own lawyer wouldn’t take the case, and others showed initial interest but backed out once they realized how complicated and risky it was. No one wanted to take the case, even though they could see something was wrong.

It felt like standing alone against a system too big and impenetrable. But I didn’t give up. This wasn’t just about me—it was about justice, about having your voice heard, and about fighting for what you believe in, even when the odds are against you.

I reached out to the press and had a conversation with Jesper Stein, who at the time was a writer for Jyllands-Posten and is now an author. We met at their office on Rådhuspladsen, where one of his colleagues was also present. I told them the whole story—what had happened, how my project was taken, and how I had experienced being shut out.

During the meeting, they suggested they might “sniff around” what was going on inside the Film Institute. That phrase put things in perspective. To have to “sniff around” something that should be open and transparent, but in reality was shrouded in secrecy and power plays. It was hard to explain how boundary-crossing it was just to have that meeting. My whole working life I had been told not to say anything. Talking openly about problems was almost taboo.

After the meeting, we sat in my apartment on Adelgade, where I was confronted with a very different side of reality. A friend I trusted insisted I immediately write on messenger that the article must be stopped. He strongly warned me. The threat of being completely excluded from the industry was repeated again and again. It was like a dark cloud hanging over me, and I was nervously shaken about what the consequences could be.

It was a hard balance between fighting for justice and protecting myself from the consequences my friends feared would come.

In recent years, I also tried to contact the film magazine EKKO, an important voice in the industry. But when I discovered that the magazine is 80% funded by the Danish Film Institute, I chose to withdraw. It felt like yet another closed door—a sign of how closely power and money are intertwined in this small world, and how hard it is to find a place to be heard without filters and interests pulling the strings.

Chapter 32:
When Did the Theft Start?
To me, it became crystal clear that the theft began the moment Koncern TV and DR secretly started making the same concept I had developed. It wasn’t just copying—it was a direct takeover that happened without my knowledge or consent. But the truth is, it didn’t happen overnight. Long before the actual theft began, there was already a kind of swapping going on. A slow, almost invisible replacement, where my idea was taken from me while I still believed we could collaborate.

My own journey began with a collaboration with DK4, a smaller TV station I approached out of fear. I was nervous about what could happen if I went straight to DR, which I knew had big resources and power. The fear wasn’t unfounded—I felt there was something behind the scenes I didn’t control, something that could take my idea from me if I wasn’t careful.

In the midst of this uncertainty, there was a meeting with DK4, where my production manager, Stine Boe Jensen, called musician Søren Rasted. Stine was an experienced producer known for her sharp project management skills and her network in the media world. She asked Søren if he wanted to participate in staging the musical, which was the core of our project. I wasn’t in that conversation; Stine later reported back to us. Søren Rasted, known as a member of the popular band Aqua and for his energy and creative engagement, was interested, but he wanted the project to be made at DR1.

That was a turning point. Suddenly, we seriously started looking towards DR, the big, powerful institution that could give the project the audience and impact we dreamed of. But at the same time, my unease grew. I felt a gnawing fear of what could happen if we moved too fast or too directly.

Despite my nervousness, I mustered the courage and contacted Anders Riis Hansen, an editor at DR I had met earlier. Anders was known as an experienced and influential person in DR’s documentary department, and I hoped he could understand the project’s value and help us move forward. It was me who called him, and that’s how the meeting with DR was arranged.

But the fear that had followed me from the start turned out to be well-founded. It wasn’t just an unfortunate incident or misunderstanding. It was the beginning of what later proved to be a conscious and systematic takeover of my work. A takeover that would change my life and my project forever.

Chapter 33:
Sudden Exit from the Danish Film Institute
Claus Ladegaard, formerly a highly respected director of the Danish Film Institute (DFI), suddenly stepped down from his position, stirring confusion and speculation within the film industry and among many of us who have followed the case closely. Originally, the plan was for Claus to resign at the end of 2024, but his departure was moved significantly forward to August 1 of that year. This rapid acceleration inevitably raises questions: What was behind the sudden decision? Was there a secret agreement between the board and Claus Ladegaard? Did he choose to leave voluntarily, or was he asked to do so by the board?

The news of his departure was first made public through Kultur Monitor on January 11, 2024, a publication owned by Politiken, where Claus’s wife, Mette Davidsen Nielsen, serves as culture editor. The article stated that Claus wished to “explore new opportunities.” But it seems unusual to voluntarily leave one of the most powerful and attractive positions in Danish film without having a new project lined up. The article also mentioned that DFI was supposed to find a new director before 2025, but in reality, the transition happened much faster.

Claus Ladegaard himself told Kultur Monitor that the announcement was made now to allow the board a thorough process to find a new director. Yet this process became redundant when the head of the Danish Film School was appointed without the expected lengthy search. It’s hard not to see parallels to the letter I sent to DR’s CEO, Maria Rørbye Rønn, which may have helped speed up Claus’s exit. It seems Claus Ladegaard was meant to leave as quickly as possible.

I strongly believe his departure is connected to what my lawyer has called theft and conspiracy. On February 11, 2022, I sent a letter to both DR’s CEO and the director of the Prison and Probation Service, explaining the case in hopes that Maria Rørbye Rønn would understand the seriousness of the situation and find a compromise. This did not happen.

Subsequently, I sent the letter directly to Claus Ladegaard and the board of the Danish Film Institute. In the letter, I pointed out Claus’s central role in the swapping of my project and his possible motives. Shortly after, I received a response from Claus, who more or less dismissed the case and wrote that I was free to come and make films. I can’t help but wonder if the review of the situation with DR’s CEO and the public attention around the matter played a significant role in the decision for his quick departure.

In my frustration over the whole process, on December 23, 2023, I wrote an open letter to both the press and the DFI employees. Already on January 11, 2024, just 19 days after Claus received my letter, he announced his sudden departure via Kultur Monitor. It was less than three weeks after I had sent the letter, and it was clear there was deep anger toward me, linked to a previous failed production at Easy Film where Claus had been director before joining DFI.

All the letters in the case are collected at https://restaurantbagtremmer.com, where my open letter will soon also be available. I still hope the board will respond to the questions I have raised—both in the open letter sent August 9 and in this context. Even though Claus Ladegaard is no longer director, I hope there will still be answers regarding his role and departure.

Okay, so, Poul Nesgaard… most know him as the big TV guy, especially for his children’s programs. I met him the first time when I started film school. He was a teacher there while I was a student. Later, he joined the board of the Danish Film Institute.

After everything, I contacted him because I was trying to find out why Claus Ladegaard left so quickly from the Film Institute. Poul promised he would raise it with the board and find out what had happened.

I waited and followed up several times… nothing. He just stopped replying. I kept trying to reach him, just to see if he had even talked to the board.

He finally came back and said the board was insanely busy with budget overruns on a construction project. Apparently, that’s where all their energy went. He also mentioned that a film scene had been replaced during Ladegaard’s leadership, and it cost quite a bit.

I followed up again, and finally, I was told to contact the culture minister directly. Like, the real minister. I wasn’t thrilled, honestly. It felt weird to have to introduce a whole new person at that moment. I tried once more, but then I got a letter from the Film Institute referring to some section that didn’t even make sense in that context.

Dear David Peter Fox,
Thank you for your inquiries to the Danish Film Institute’s board, letters dated August 9 and September 6, 2024.
We wish to inform you that Claus Ladegaard’s fixed-term employment with the Film Institute ends at the close of 2024. This is the reason he is stepping down as managing director.
Furthermore, it appears from the Film Act, chapter 7, § 22, that: “Complaints about decisions made by the Danish Film Institute under this Act or pursuant to rules adopted under the Act may only be brought before the Minister of Culture if the complaint concerns legal issues.”
Best regards,
On behalf of the Danish Film Institute’s board
Trine Nielsen

Chapter 34:
A Perspective on the Case from a Foreign Lawyer
It is clear and indisputable that I am the victim of a carefully planned and well-executed conspiracy involving multiple illegal acts. DR’s employees did not just steal my concept and groundwork—they first rejected my project, then proceeded to produce and broadcast an almost identical program. This effectively prevented me from ever creating a similar TV program again. Responsibility for these illegal actions rests heavily on several key figures: Claus Ladegaard, Thomas Heurlin, Mette Hoffman Meyer, Claus Meyer, Marianne Secher, and Anders Riis Hansen. These individuals are the main actors in the conspiracy and must share full responsibility along with DR1.

Legally, my case is solidly founded: According to Article 1.1 of the European Parliament and Council Directive 2006/116/EC, copyright applies to the creator of a literary or artistic work during the author’s lifetime and for 70 years after their death—regardless of when the work was made available to the public. Danish law, specifically § 1.1 of the Copyright Act, clearly states that the creator of a literary or artistic work holds copyright whether expressed in writing, speech, musical, dramatic, cinematographic, photographic, or other forms.

The TV project I originally developed and the associated preliminary works are clearly artistic and literary works protected by copyright. According to § 2.1 of the Copyright Act, the rights holder has exclusive rights to control the reproduction of the work, and any illegal reproduction is punishable by fines under § 76.1(i). Additionally, companies and legal entities can be punished under the Penal Code’s chapter 5, cf. § 80.

DR’s and the involved individuals’ actions, where they wrongfully appropriated my work and made an almost identical project with only cosmetic changes, thus violate both EU and Danish copyright. But the violation doesn’t stop there. These actions also constitute unfair competition practices. They conflict with EU Court of Justice case law and breach good marketing practices as set out in Denmark’s Marketing Practices Act. According to § 3.1 of the Marketing Practices Act, businesses must exercise good marketing practices respecting consumers, other businesses, and public interests. § 24.2 establishes that actions contrary to the law result in liability for damages, and § 24.3 clarifies that one who intentionally or negligently infringes on others’ rights must pay reasonable compensation.

I have also presented evidence that Marianne Secher was aware of the conspiracy against my project but still cooperated to carry out the DR1 prison project. She actively helped realize the project and assisted the conspirators in their illegal plans, making her complicit.

On a broader level, the European Convention on Human Rights, particularly Article 6, guarantees the right to a fair trial. This includes access to courts and the right to be heard within a reasonable time. Although the convention does not specify a precise time limit for filing a lawsuit, it emphasizes the importance of fairness and reasonableness. The principle of “reasonable time” must be viewed flexibly, depending on the circumstances of each case. Additionally, the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights, in Article 47, ensures the right to an effective remedy and a fair trial. This means individuals must not be denied access to courts solely because of the passage of time, especially when valid reasons exist for the delay.

In Danish law, the ordinary limitation period for civil claims is three years, according to the Limitation Act. However, there are provisions allowing extension or suspension of this period under special circumstances. § 4 of the Act allows extension if the plaintiff has been prevented from pursuing the claim due to unavoidable circumstances—for example, when new evidence emerges or access to remedies has been significantly restricted.

In light of these legal principles, I believe my case deserves to be heard, even though 12 years have passed. I have faced threats, rejection from my union, and resistance from lawyers. At the same time, I have suffered serious mental health issues, which are well documented through my use of psychiatric care and medication.

Behind the entire project was a desire for resocialization—to give inmates a chance to find themselves and their place in society. Claus Meyer still sells his concept to prisons, a concept based on the idea I was the first in the world to develop and which was taken over by DR, Koncern TV, and Claus Meyer.

Both EU law and Danish law recognize the importance of access to complaint and judicial review and allow for addressing delays when caused by compelling reasons. I therefore respectfully appeal to the relevant authorities to consider the legal frameworks established in EU and Danish law when my application for free legal aid is processed. Justice should not be denied merely because of the passage of time, especially when valid reasons exist to pursue the case after a long period.

Chapter 35:
The Fight for Justice – A Long Road Through the Legal System
After experiencing the deep injustice of having my work swapped and witnessing the actions of those involved, I decided to take up the fight through the courts. My hope was to get legal aid so I could pursue my case without worrying about the huge costs that usually come with a lawsuit. Legal aid is given to people below a certain income level to ensure everyone has access to a fair trial—regardless of financial status. For me, it was a necessity, since I didn’t have the means to fund a long and expensive legal battle.

Unfortunately, my application for legal aid was rejected. I appealed again, convinced that a case like mine should be allowed to be tried in court. But the answer was the same—my case couldn’t be won, so I couldn’t get legal aid. I couldn’t understand it. How could they judge that a case about theft of creative work and years of effort wasn’t worth pursuing? How could the Danish legal system deny me help when it was clear I didn’t have the finances?

I explained many times that I didn’t have money to develop the case, that I couldn’t bear the costs of a trial without support. But the answer kept being the same. It felt like hitting a wall, a closed door refusing me access to justice. It was hard not to feel overlooked and rejected by a system that’s supposed to protect citizens, not turn its back on those fighting for their rights.

This experience has forced me to think deeply about how our legal system works in practice. It’s not enough to have laws and rules if they ultimately don’t ensure everyone gets a fair chance to be heard. When money becomes a barrier to justice, we’re left with a legal principle that isn’t fully realized. It’s a serious weakness, especially hitting creatives, small players, and those without the resources to fight against powerful institutions.

I’m now considering whether to take the case to the EU. Once these pages are finished, I’ve decided to publish my story and share it with the entire film industry and the media. It’s important for people to get insight into how a cultural institution can be misused by people seeking power over artistic integrity.

The Danish Ministry of Culture must step in and stop the harmful forces trying to control and suppress artists within the Film Institute. We must demand transparency, justice, and respect for those who create our culture. My hope is that my fight can shine a light on this and inspire change—for myself and for all others who have faced similar injustices.

The fight is far from over. But giving up is not an option. Justice must be won, even when the road is tough and the system feels rigid. I keep fighting, not just for myself, but for everyone who deserves a voice in this struggle.