A resurfaced Norwegian magazine essay by Kristoffer Borgli — now drawing attention on Reddit — is raising fresh questions about the filmmaker just as his profile in Hollywood continues to rise.
Borgli, the director behind the upcoming feature The Drama starring Zendaya and Robert Pattinson, has been the subject of a viral thread on the platform, where users have shared scans of a 2012 print article from D2, the weekend magazine of Dagens Næringsliv — Norway’s leading financial daily, ocomparable to the Wall Street Journal. D2 is its glossy culture and lifestyle supplement known for long-form essays and profiles.
The piece, written by Borgli himself, then 27, reflects on a recent relationship he had with a teenage girl. The scans, which are not widely available online, have begun to circulate and have been translated by users.
The renewed attention comes as Borgli transitions from cult indie filmmaker to a more mainstream presence. Borgli’s The Drama — his latest English-language project, following 2023’s Dream Scenario starring Nicolas Cage — features two of Hollywood’s biggest stars, Zendaya and Pattinson, further elevating his profile internationally.
The Drama follows a soon to be married couple whose relationship takes an increasingly unsettling turn, blending intimacy with unease. It’s in line with Borgli’s brand of black comedy, which leans into discomfort, taboo and provocation — a sensibility that aligns with A24‘s taste for bold, conversation-driving, filmmaker-led work.
While the legal age of consent in Norway is 16, relationships between adults and teenagers remain socially contentious in the country, a tension Borgli grapples with in the essay.
The Hollywood Reporter has reached out to A24 and Borgli’s team for comment.
Below is the full translated text of the essay, as shared and translated from the original Norwegian:
Wikipedia lists 266 films that deal with so-called May-December romances.
The term “May-December” is explained here as when the age difference between two people in a relationship is so large that it risks social disapproval. The reason I know this is because I met a girl ten years younger than me whom I liked very much – a girl who wasn’t old enough to vote – and I had to find something that could recalibrate my moral compass. The few friends I confided in about my situation responded that it was not “within bounds. ” That confirmed that it was precisely a May-December romance.
I woke up in the cramped little apartment I was temporarily renting after I moved out – or was thrown out – by my ex half a year earlier. Beside me lay a blonde girl, a high school student enjoying the sporadic holidays in May. I chose to see her that way, to define her by her age, and I chose never to see her again. But you can’t choose what the heart wants. A post on Facebook, a text message, small digital exchanges in the days that followed.
In my previous relationship, the age difference had been in the opposite direction; she had lived seven more summers than me. Age then proved to be more of a problem than an attraction. Emotional dilemmas like these drive me to seek out films and books with similar and relevant themes (and suddenly all songs are about me). Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson portray a May-December romance, aged 53 and 18 respectively, in Lost in Translation. In Ghost World, the age difference between Steve Buscemi and Thora Birch is significant, but it was revisiting Woody Allen’s Manhattan that completely changed my attitude. The relationship there is presented as entirely open and romantic. If a film made in 1979, in which Woody Allen’s 42-year-old character has a public relationship with a 17-year-old girl, is portrayed exclusively in a positive way and causes no controversy in its own time, then why shouldn’t my relationship – with a considerably smaller age difference – in 2012 be “within bounds”? I chose to listen to Woody over my friends.
I was fascinated by her life. Unlike me, she was born and raised in Oslo, in Grünerløkka, and must have been exposed early and clearly to literature, music, and film. When I was 16, I played PlayStation, drank homemade liquor at house parties, and made splatter films in the backyard. She played piano, drank cava at gallery openings, and wrote texts that were published by a press. I think my cultural insight (and therefore, because I am who I am, my life insight) was delayed by ten years as a result of growing up in the countryside versus Oslo. In many ways, we were strangely quite equal. She never laughed at my Seinfeld references – naturally, since she had never seen a single episode – but in return she could recommend books to me, such as Self-Portrait by Édouard Levé.
I could watch her as she read the ever-new books she brought into my apartment. Her curiosity was admirable and contagious. I developed a bigger appetite for everything. Suddenly we were together all the time – long days in my apartment, eggs and bacon with Woody Allen films for breakfast (she was also a fan), long walks with her parents’ dog, and late midweek evenings at restaurants and bars (where they didn’t check ID). When her parents were away, we began spending entire days in their large apartment; we drank her parents’ wine, we read her parents’ books. Some days we didn’t go outside because it was dark (and only then did we get dressed); sometimes we could sit at the large kitchen table from breakfast until dinner without moving, just talking and laughing. She played completely unfamiliar music that I often liked on first listen, and my favorite films became her favorite films. She told me what clothes I should and shouldn’t wear (crew neck, not V-neck). We shared a fascination with Fleetwood Mac, and we both had a childish attachment to peanuts. That summer, I didn’t travel – for the first time as long as I can remember – but the time we spent together that summer in her parents’ apartment was nonetheless the best and most exotic summer I’ve ever had. Her parents came home unexpectedly early from vacation, and I had to climb out the window (first floor). The summer ended, and our weeklong weekends became ordinary weekdays. She was May; I was December.
