OSLO — Late on Friday evening, a pair hundred folks have been packed right into a dimly lit, stylishly embellished bar within the coronary heart of Oslo’s downtown night-life district.
The place already was producing appreciable buzz. It had been open for solely per week, however one latest evening the road to enter had snaked down the block. Inside, it felt like so lots of the different hip spots in downtown Oslo — candlelight illuminating framed paintings on the partitions, dialog buzzing over the clink of beer glasses — besides for one small element: the chess video games taking place at each desk and countertop.
“That’s the Magnus Effect,” stated Martin Mortensen, a 32-year-old software program developer on the bar, referring to the Norwegian world champion Magnus Carlsen. “Almost everyone in Norway has some relationship to chess nowadays. It’s on T.V. and in newspapers all the time.”
He scanned the overflowing room. “It’s bizarre.”
Carlsen, 27, has been the world’s top-ranked chess participant for the previous eight years. He has gained the previous three world championships, and this month in London he has been locked in tense competitors with Fabiano Caruana, a 26-year-old American, in a bid to say a fourth title.
The Magnus Effect, because it have been, describes the assorted sociocultural phenomena accompanying his rise: the best way Carlsen, a nebbish younger man from Tonsberg, grew to become one of many nation’s most well-known folks; the best way tv producers right here turned a notoriously dawdling exercise right into a rollicking spectator sport; the best way thousands and thousands of Norwegians, most of them informal or new followers of the sport, have built-in it into their lives.
The impact then, could be seen in every single place. In a rustic of round 5 million folks, near half 1,000,000 play chess commonly on-line, in accordance with the Norwegian Chess Federation. Stores battle to maintain chessboards on their cabinets. Chess podcasts hover atop the obtain charts in Norway, and trams are full of individuals taking part in on their telephones. Children play chess on play dates. Adults play chess-themed consuming video games at chess-watching events.
Chess is omnipresent, Norwegians say. And, by some means, it has grow to be cool.
“I think per capita Norway is now the most chess crazy country in the world,” stated Lars Petter Fosdahl, 50, one of many house owners of the chess-themed bar, The Good Knight.
Carlsen grew to become a chess grandmaster at age 13, and first topped the world rankings in 2010. But that was not sufficient, initially, to make Norwegians catch chess fever. The chess god, it turned out, wanted somebody to speak his items, and the fun of the game, to the plenty.
That duty was undertaken by NRK, the government-owned tv broadcaster, which through the years has developed a popularity for taking part in by its personal guidelines and following its own weird instincts. In 2013, with Carlsen preparing to compete in his first world championship, the station made the audacious decision to broadcast the entire event.
It was a gamble. The average professional chess match consists of little more than two men in dark suits staring down at a table with their heads cradled in their hands. The world championship unfolds as a best-of-12-games series. A single game can last hours, and the whole thing can take more than two weeks to finish. In 2012, the American news program “60 Minutes” aired a segment on Carlsen in which the correspondent, Bob Simon, mused that watching an elite chess match, for nonplayers, “would be like watching paint dry.”
Undaunted, NRK developed a talk show-style program — filmed on a soundstage in front of a live audience — that employed colorful graphics and running analysis from a panel of chess experts, television personalities and national celebrities curious about the game.
The show was a hit. That first year, the final game drew an average of 335,000 viewers. The year after that, the deciding game drew 572,000. And in 2016, an average of 764,000 viewers, a 56 percent share of the national television audience, watched Carlsen clinch his third world title.
“It was confirmation that anticipation can be action,” said Reidar Stjernen, the show’s producer.
In some ways, the chess broadcasts mirrored one of the most distinctly Norwegian innovations of the 21st century: slow television.
Line Andersen, one of the hosts of the chess program, described a slow television show as one in which “almost nothing happens over a long period of time.” In 2011, millions of people tuned in to watch a live transmission of a cruise ship chugging north along the country’s coastline. Since then, long-form broadcasts devoted to chopping wood, knitting and herding reindeer have drawn comparable audiences.
“We’re weird in many ways — so many ways,” Andersen said a few hours before the show last Friday. “We like things that no one else likes.”
The chess game that night, the sixth between Carlsen and Caruana, was an 80-move draw that lasted six and a half hours. NRK said it drew a quarter of the national television audience.
Andersen pushed back on the idea that chess should be considered slow television, even if players can take half an hour to make a single move.
She said she and the other hosts — Torstein Bae, a professional chess player, and Heidi Roneid, who fields live inquiries from viewers — try to keep things lively, cracking jokes and analyzing past and potential moves, while cultivating the specific (and very Norwegian) feeling of being “in a cabin watching chess.”
On screen, a horizontal meter that displays the computer-generated odds of winning in real time provides a dose of dramatic irony and helps distill the immense but often-inscrutable tension of the game to a general audience.
“That was some of the most exciting television I’ve seen in years,” Edvin Dybvik, a 54-year-old postal worker from Trondheim, said about the marathon broadcast.
Dybvik said he liked to watch the show at home with a chessboard in front of him, so he could mirror the moves as he listened to the analysis.
Others in Norway watch at home with family or groups of friends; the show has spawned various drinking games, even as the interminable chess broadcasts have been known to interrupt professional plans and social obligations.
“I watch every day, screaming at the TV,” said Sonja Krohn, 77, a painter from Oslo, who has been struggling with her latest project while watching the games in her studio. “My work has to wait.”
The continued success of Carlsen, and the broadcasts, has led even more Norwegians to take up the game themselves.
Oystein Brekke, who owns a chess store in Drammen, said he had handled about 12 online orders a day in the years before NRK began broadcasting chess. In 2013, during one of Carlsen’s games, his son called him over to show him something on the computer: They had received 200 orders in a single hour.
“In our shop, it has never been the same again,” Brekke said.
Since 2015, the Norwegian bank DNB has financed a project through the Norwegian Chess Federation to provide chess education in 500 primary schools, an initiative that would have been unthinkable before the chess boom, according Hanne Evensen, a federation spokeswoman. But the payoff is showing up in other numbers: Sjakklubben Stjernen, a 95-year-old chess club in Oslo, has nearly doubled its membership in recent years after decades of stagnation.
“Smart is the new sexy — or something like that,” said Vegard Ramstad, the president of the club.
The chess boom even has served as a muse for some of the nation’s most famous artists. Earlier this year, the Henie Onstad museum in Baerum, just outside Oslo, put on a retrospective for the conceptual photographer Dag Alveng. Alongside other work from his four-decade career, Alveng exhibited new photographs he shot around the world at the grave sites of former world champion chess players.
To mark the opening of his show, Alveng organized a Fischer Random-style chess match between Carlsen and Hikaru Nakamura that took place over five days on the museum floor. It was broadcast, naturally, on NRK.
“Conceptual art, where art is an intellectual pursuit, exists on a purely intellectual level,” said Alveng, 65, who said he was inspired by the recent surge of interest in the game. “I think the beauty of ideas has a lot in common with the act of finding a new or interesting move in a chess game, that abstract thought.”
For all of the buzz the game has garnered in the past five years, chess enthusiasts speak in wary tones about the life cycle of another national fad: curling.
Back in 2002, Norwegians became obsessed with the game as the country’s men’s team won a surprise gold medal at the Olympics in Salt Lake City. Norwegians stayed up late every night to watch the event on television, and eventually many ventured out to try it themselves. But time passed, and interest waned. Curling lost its cool.
Thus, the question of whether chess one day will experience the same parabolic run in popularity has divided players here.
“You can’t play curling on your cellphone while you’re on the bus to work, while you’re babysitting, or in the five minutes before you go to sleep,” said Kristoffer Gressli, one of the owners of the chess bar. “So even if the worst happens in this world championship — that is, Magnus Carlsen loses — I don’t think the craze is going to fade.”
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