All the nods (real and imagined) in Netflix’s Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga
A Eurovision education for the uninitiated
I will begin by declaring, and completely owning, that I am a Eurovision nut. I fell in love with the Eurovision Song Contest back in 1997 when I turned on the TV and happened upon a Croatian version of the Spice Girls, complete with mad costumes and too-high boots. The Spice Girls — singing in Croatian! They even had a sporty one! My then-tweenage heart was filled with joy, and has remained so ever since. My husband and I did our wedding dance to the 2009 Azerbaijani Eurovision entry (it came third, but should have won). In 2016, I fulfilled a lifelong dream of going to the final — in my excitement, I tripped down the stairs and was rescued by a man in a Union Jack onesie.
I was admittedly a little nervous when I learned Netflix was making a movie about the Eurovision Song Contest. The Eurovision Song Contest is ridiculous — and that’s what makes it wonderful. I was thrilled to discover that Will Ferrell, and the movie, agreed.
For a Eurovision nut, the movie is literally filled with throwback Eurovision easter eggs. Some are blindingly obvious — like Alexander Rybak appearing with his fiddle in the “song-a-long”. Others are more subtle, and possibly entirely a figment of my imagination. To help my American friends enjoy the movie as much as I did, I decided to document them here. Here goes — with apologies if this reads like a Talmudic exegesis of what is ultimately a silly, but incredibly fun, movie.
How to read this article
There’s no need to click through every link, and you’ll be here quite a while if you do (the same “3 to 8 hours” that a Eurovision final typically runs). My suggestion: just watch the clips that pique your interest.
This commentary will make most sense if you read it after, or while, watching the movie.
The opening scene: Abba’s Waterloo wins Eurovision!
Americans are often surprised to discover that Abba came to prominence via the Eurovision Song Contest. Even more so to discover that Celine Dion did, too. (She’s Canadian, but performed for Switzerland, joining a long tradition of “ring in” Eurovision artists). Dita Von Teese made a cameo for Germany in 2009, and Riverdance became famous as the 1994 half-time act. (Yes, there is a Eurovision half-time act.)
Another fact that generally stuns Americans: the Eurovision Song Contest has more TV viewers than the Superbowl. (And, in my opinion, a better half-time act.)
The opening song: dueling pianos and snow angels
Lars and Sigrit gazing at each other over dueling pianos recalls this gem from Eurovision 2010, in which Romania’s Ovi and Paula Seling don’t even pretend to play their conjoined perspex keyboards. They do, however, sing about playing with fire as fire, subtly, flares in the background. (Eurovision is rarely subtle, as you’ve probably already realized.)
The ice and snow might be a general reference to Iceland, but I prefer to think it’s a tribute to Dima Bilan, who won for Russia in 2008 with a backup ice-skater performing on a mini ice-rink. Equally joyous, and wintry themed, was Russia’s 2002 entry, “Northern Girl”, whose lyrics include the remarkable “Northern girl, Lady Ice — how can I melt you, baby?”. You might notice both of these entries embody another great Eurovision theme — all white outfits.
Back to real life, and imitating a despot in front of a disco ball
As Volcano Man ends, we pan to Lars and Sigrit in the basement, being told off by a grumpy Pierce Brosnan. He leaves, and they imitate his finger wagging, recalling Ukraine’s magical Verka Serduchka. It’s entirely possible I was just seeing what I wanted to see, but honestly, there are very few cases in life outside Eurovision where you can “see” Verka Serduchka. In any case, I think the disco ball in the background was a subtle hint. (Possibly the first and last example of subtlety connected with Eurovision, or this movie.)
Ja Ja Ding Dong!
There is a long tradition of Eurovision entries that are best described as having been written with the help of Google Translate. Once upon a time, countries largely sang in their native languages. These days, they mostly sing in English — with mixed results.
In 1975, the year after Abba’s win with Waterloo, the Netherlands won with a song called “Ding-a-Dong”. (The song is incredibly catchy, and should potentially come with a warning.) This should not be confused with Israel’s 2011 entry, “Ding Dong”, by prior winner Dana International. Over the past ~decade, Eurovision has also featured songs called “Drip Drop” (Azerbaijan, 2010), “Boom Boom” (Armenia, 2011), and “Wadde Hadde Dudde Da” (Germany, 2000), among others.
My personal favorite of this genre is Serhat’s “Say Na Na Na” which is excellent by any measure, but particularly so when you learn that Serhat is actually a dentist. (Clearly, there is not a surfeit of musicians in San Marino.) Again, this should not be confused with Slovenia’s 2003 entry, “Na Na Na”.
Katiana
The sultry songstress singing a power ballad is another popular, and long-standing, Eurovision archetype. The competition’s first winner, Lys Assia, who won for Switzerland in 1956, arguably fit this mold. Iceland’s own 2009 entry, “Is it True?” is a great example of the genre. Other personal favorites are, in no particular order, Russia’s 2015 entry, “A million voices”, Israel’s 2005 “Hasheket Shenish’ar”, and France’s 2002 “Il Faut Du Temps”. A beautiful long dress is usually an important ingredient in this particular Eurovision formula. Alas, not always. Sometimes, an old shower curtain just has to do.
The evil Central Banker
Important context: the Eurovision Song Contest is typically hosted by the previous year’s winning country. In 2020, before the world imploded, the contest was scheduled to be held in Rotterdam, after last year’s win by the Netherlands’ Duncan. Hosting Eurovision is expensive, and rumors circulate from time to time that countries who can’t afford to host send songs that have no chance of winning. Why anyone would take that bet is a mystery to me, as there is almost no difference between a song too terrible to win, and a song so terrible it must win. But, the conspiracy theories persist. The example usually cited is Ireland’s 2008 effort, a parody of the Eurovision Song Contest performed by a stuffed turkey at a turntable. (This from the country with the most ever Eurovision wins, 7).
The love story sub-plot
The duo is a familiar sight at Eurovision, though rarely a winning one. Hard to say how many are actually couples, though there have been multiple on-stage kisses, including a woman-woman kiss in Finland’s 2013 “Marry Me”. (You’ll notice this act also includes a prominent “Ding Dong” sign in the background for no apparent reason.)
I mostly included this paragraph so I could introduce you to Romania’s 2017 entry, “Yodel It!” which inexplicably combines rap and, yes, yodeling. As if that weren’t enough, the performance ends in the world’s most awkward kiss attempt. Poor Ilinca.
The Icelandic selection competition and the first appearance of the wind machine
Each country has its own method for selecting its Eurovision entry. Many, including Iceland, choose American Idol-style with a national competition. (In others, the song is chosen arbitrarily by the broadcaster with rights to the competition, but we digress.)
The movie version of Iceland’s Songvakeppnin is every bit as wonderful as the real thing. We’ve already talked about Katiana, but I’d love to spend a minute on “21st Century Viking”, which is almost certainly an ode to Denmark’s 2018 entry, “Higher Ground”. It’s hard to imagine two people independently coming up with the idea of long-haired vikings singing intensely in front of a wind machine.
The wind machine, as you may already have noticed, is a Very. Important. Eurovision. Device. What better way to add drama! Higher Ground was merely the first time, to my knowledge, we’d seen it used by vikings.
Defying gravity (and then not)
The staging for Lars & Sigrit’s Songvakeppnin entry involves them flying above the stage wearing giant angel wings. I mean, amazing. The real Eurovision is no stranger to weird and wonderful staging devices, including Ukraine’s dancing men in boxes, Moldova’s pixies on unicycles (you read that correctly), and Sweden’s Robin Bengtsson, who looks like he’s just stepped out of a business meeting as he casually dances on a treadmill.
Even the specific sub-genre of “staging devices that defy gravity” has a rich Eurovision provenance. In 2019, Australian entrant Kate Miller-Heidtke sang “Zero Gravity” as she and her backup dancers (who, as an aside, did an incredible impression of dementors) swung about the stage on giant, waving, pole vaulting poles. Romania’s Cezar grows taller and taller in his “vampire opera” 2013 effort, no doubt with the assistance of stilts. (If vampire opera sounds odd, watch it and be amazed. You’ll be surprised how much a vampire costume and a pair of stilts can improve opera.) An earlier, but no less fabulous, example of Eurovision stilt-wearing is France’s 2004 “A Chaque Pas” and its ballerina-on-stilts.
We have clearly strayed quite a long way from Lars and Sigrit’s flying angels. But all of this is to say, in the world of the Eurovision Song Contest, angels flying above the stage are not even 75th percentile-odd, and definitely in good company.
Jon Ola Sand
Is a real person, and has an amazing job. Introduced by 2016 host Mans Zelmerlow as “Norway’s greatest export since the salmon”. One of my favorite moments of the Eurovision broadcast each year is when the hosts cross to Jon Ola Sand to make sure all the votes have been received. It’s always awkward, and always culminates in Jon Ola Sand telling the hosts to “take it away”. Bless the person on the internet who put together this compilation of Jon Ola Sand saying “take it away!”.
Alexander Lemtov, the “Lion Lover”
Can I just say, Dan Stevens is magical in this role. I loved Cousin Matthew in Downton Abbey, and I love Alexander Lemtov more. IMO, the most likely inspiration for Alexander Lemtov is Sergey Lazarev, who performed for Russia in 2016 and 2019, coming third both times. It’s honestly difficult to choose a favorite between distressed holograms (2019) and are-they-or-aren’t-they stepping stones (2016), so I’ll just leave both here. (Incidentally, I think the stepping stones also count as staging that defies gravity).
As for the song Lion Lover, I’m fairly confident it’s at least partly a spoof of Ivan from Belarus, who appeared in 2016 stark naked with a wolf. And, you know, 3 vertical lines of face paint.
Update: since writing this paragraph I’ve learned that Lemtov is actually loosely based on 1995 Russian entrant (and annual red carpet star) Phillip Kirkorov. Which is a wonderful reflection of how much depth there is in Russia’s bench of OTT Eurovision stars.
“Everyone hates UK, so zero points”
It’s true. The UK last won in 1997 and since 2003, has come dead last four times. The UK vacillates between seeming to care, and going to enormous effort to field an act likely to break the losing streak — like Blue, or Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber — and throwing in the towel and just sending “whatever”. Example of “just send whatever”: this effort from Scooch, for which I truly have no words.
The Song-a-Long!
The song-a-long falls firmly into the category of real, as distinct from potentially imagined, Eurovision tributes. Slate has written about all the real-life Eurovision stars who appear in that scene. I don’t have a ton to add other than to gratuitously share this photo of me with Conchita at the afterparty to the 2016 competition.
The semi-final begins: Perfect Harmony
Every Eurovision has a “theme”, though it makes an imperceptible difference to proceedings. It’s usually some variant on “Share the Moment” (2010), “Come Together” (2016), “Dare to Dream” (2019). You get the drift.
The semi-final continues: Moon Fang
No question, Moon Fang = Finland’s 2006 winner, Lordi. The monster costumes and the shouting are hard to miss and, in true Eurovision style, as subtle as a sledgehammer.
The semi-final continues: Mita Xenakis and her space-themed Masquerade
“Other woman” Mita opens her act wearing a space suit and helmet, which she quickly takes off to reveal a sparkly silver jumpsuit. In case you think only fictional characters wear space suits on the Eurovision stage, see Montenegro’s 2013 act, performed by two would-be astronauts and a lady wearing what looks like an early prototype of the Google Glass. Also space-themed: Montenegro’s 2017 entry, “Space” in which performer Slavko makes excellent use of his waist-length ponytail between glittery hip thrusts.
Slavko rips off his skirt, and Mita rips off her space suit. Later, Lemtov rips off his vest. Not a coincidence — the great “costume change” is another stalwart of the Eurovision bingo board. I’m convinced we owe this particular tradition to Latvia’s Marie N, who won the competition in 2002: she began her song in a pantsuit and hat, and ended it in a show-stopping red dress. (The late great BBC Commentator Terry Wogan’s take: “and people ask us why we love Eurovision”.) Since then we’ve seen literally dozens of mid-song costume changes, many of them included in this “ultimate compilation of Eurovision costume changes”.
Sweden’s Johnny John John
Eurovision powerhouse Sweden usually fields an attractive man singing a song that vaguely passes for mainstream pop music. Exhibits A-E: Mans, Frans, Eric, Benjamin, John. The only Swedish entry I’ve ever truly questioned was Martin Stenmarck’s 2005 song about “Las Vegas” — a city in which not a soul has ever actually heard of the Eurovision Song Contest. Fictional Johnny John John does a similarly excellent Swedish impression of an American, with his song “Coolin’ with the Homies” staged in front of a subway.
Lars and Sigrit perform in the semi-final!
There is so much to unpack here, so let’s begin with the hamster wheel, an apparatus pioneered by Ukraine’s “Anti-Crisis Girl” in 2009 and brought out of storage again for Ukraine’s 2014 act, “Tick Tock” — this time without the topless Roman Centurions. Will Ferrell is not alone in his enjoyment of the hamster wheel: 2016 hosts Mans Zelmerlow and Petra Mede send it up in their half-time satire, “Love, Love, Peace, Peace”, in which they outline their tips on how to write a winning Eurovision song. (Summary: man on hamster wheel helps.)
I’ll try to avoid spoilers here, but Lars’ happy hamster-wheeling is soon interrupted by a #windmachinefail. Sigrit could have benefited from a conversation with Belgium’s Kate Ryan, who discovered to her detriment in 2006 that a wind machine doesn’t necessarily work with all costumes — in her case, a dress with a thigh-high split. Another handy contact could have been 2008 winner Dima Bilan, whose attempt at a dramatic entrance into the 2009 final was foiled by a wind machine and an errant jacket. (Bonus points for spotting the giant angels suspended above the stage.)
Graham Norton
Is a real person, whose best Eurovision lines include this wonderful reaction to Albania’s 2012 entry, essentially three minutes of shrieking by a woman who appears is being strangled by her own hair: “She can do extraordinary things with her voice … not pleasant things, but extraordinary.”
“Let the grand final of the Eurovision Song Contest — Begin!”
Every Eurovision broadcast begins with this line, and it stirs the hearts of Eurovision fans every time. Another line worth knowing: “Hello Europe! This is [city] calling!” which is repeated ~43 times during the voting. You soon get the hang of it.
“The Eurovision Song Contest means everything to me. It is my life.”
This line is meant to be funny, because how can someone take a ridiculous contest so seriously? I need to check myself, because I have just spent hours writing an in-depth commentary on said contest. “This is my life” was actually the title of Iceland’s 2008 Eurovision entry, sung by a man and a woman who may or may not have been in love, and who may or may not have been from Husavik. And with that, it has just occurred to me that this entire caper may be about Iceland’s 2008 entry that came a pedestrian 14th. Oh.
Good night, Europe!
Every Eurovision broadcast ends with the winner showered in confetti and re-singing the winning song as they mostly cry uncontrollably. It’s a little difficult to emulate that ending in print, so I will tie this out with the line the hosts usually end on: “Good night, Europe! And Good morning, Australia!” Yes, Australia competes in Eurovision. It doesn’t make sense, but don’t overthink it. (This is, after all, a good general prescription for enjoying all things Eurovision.)
