Quarter-century of world cinema through a Gimli lens By: Ben Waldman Posted: 2:00 AM CDT Wednesday, Jul. 23, 2025

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 23/07/2025 (440 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Although an “I” was inserted into the Gimli Film Festival’s acronym only three years ago — , (July 23-27)for now and forever, it is pronounced GIFF — there’s no question that the largest rural festival of its kind in Canada has been an international affair since the start.

After all, the festival, which celebrates its 25th edition starting today, did begin with some pan-Atlantic diplomacy and a few long-distance calls.

In the year 2000, Janis Johnson was calling as many numbers as she could that began with 642 — a phone prefix that for Gimli denizens always rings of home.

The daughter of former lieutenant governor and Gimli MLA Dr. George Johnson and Doris Blondal, who helped found Gimli’s first kindergarten, the longtime Canadian senator had eagerly volunteered to help Winnipeg’s Icelandic Consulate with its latest mission: an Icelandic Canadian film festival on the shores of Lake Winnipeg.

When filmmaker Jon Einarsson Gustafsson called Johnson, she got to work to co-ordinate funding for a film fest to coincide with the Islendingadagurinn heritage celebrations, which have been held in Manitoba since 1890 and in Gimli since 1932.

The Icelandic government had already committed to funding the film program, and it was up to Johnson to convince Telefilm to get on board.

Johnson — a member of both the Order of Canada and Iceland’s Order of the Falcon — made a successful pitch, and on the first weekend of August 2001, the Gimli Film Festival called action for the first time, bolstered by Icelandic Festival president Harley Jonasson and his board, who offered enthusiastic support while sharing dates with the film fest’s earliest edition.

The first program included work by Canadian directors of Icelandic descent, as well as domestic Icelandic filmmakers, bringing together features by Fridrik Thor Fridrikson, Baltasar Kormakur, Sturla Gunnarsson, Caelum Vatnsdal, Gustafsson and Guy Maddin, whose Tales from the Gimli Hospital was the festival’s first-ever beach screening.

“Films shown outdoors in Gimli were not entirely new to many of us who spent our summers at the lake,” Johnson wrote in 2015. “Guy Maddin and his pals often filmed scenes from Loni Beach life and entertained us with screenings of the footage on a sheet in his or a neighbour’s backyard. We were most impressed.”

Though the festival hasn’t lost its grassroots spirit, those early years were marked by a distinctly any-hands-on-deck approach: Johnson’s teenage nieces designed the now-vintage sweatshirts.

Beginning in 2007, the film festival grew to the point that it commanded its own weekend. Why the third week in July?

“I know Gimli, and that week is the most reliable for good weather,” says Johnson, who grew up in town watching Saturday morning cartoons at the Gimli Theatre, still operating after 78 years, and on day trips to Winnipeg’s Rose Theatre with her amma.

Once they built it, and as the film program expanded its focus, audiences came. In 2007, about 1,500 people attended; in 2009, 4,000. In 2019, GIFF welcomed a record 13,000 guests.

The onset of the COVID-19 pandemic spoiled 20th anniversary plans. But after three pandemic-adjusted festivals, last year, a crowd of 8,000 returned, with organizers and executive director Teya Zuzek hoping attendance continues to trend upward this week.

Just like Islendingadagurinn, the festival has become a key cultural event in the Interlake, drawing visitors from all over. A hotel booking during GIFF is now best sought well over a year in advance, Johnson says.

While most are charmed by the festival’s and the town’s charms, Johnson does remember at least one snooty filmmaker turning up his nose at Gimli’s temporary population of malodorous mayflies.

“He got in his car and his windshield was covered by fishflies, and without sweeping it off he turned on his wipers,” laughs Johnson. “He said he’d never come back.”

More popcorn and sunshine for the rest of us.

ben.waldman@freepress.mb.ca