Finding Wisdom

Have any of you seen Woody Allen’s latest movie, Midnight in Paris? Owen Wilson’s character encounters all his heroes in the bars and salons of 1920s Paris, and drinks in their personalities, philosophies, and advice first hand.

I recently had my own Midnight in Paris moment when I happened upon a photography exhibit in the Galleria at BCE Place (or Brookfield Place, or Hamburglar Place, or whatever the heck they’re calling it these days). The project is called Wisdom, and is a combination of a book, an exhibit of portraits, a film, and a web site (http://www.wisdombook.org/) by photographer and filmmaker Andrew Zuckerman that features the images and words of a selection of the world’s elders. Unfortunately, due to my usual propensity for arriving on the scene at the Very Last Minute, the exhibit had actually wrapped up the day before, and was in the process of being disassembled. Along with the book, only twenty or so famous faces were still on display, while their confrères, sandwiched together on nearby dollies, waited patiently, staring out of their heavy travel frames next to a bored young security guard.

As Zuckerman says, these are the elders of the global village, and he was struck with the idea that he should record the “gift” of their thoughts, advice, and yes, wisdom, for the next generation. With the help of Desmond Tutu, who wrote letters to 200 prospective participants worldwide, Zuckerman tracked down the 70 or so who agreed to sit for him (I believe 50 of those are part of the exhibit). Membership in this club was restricted to over-65s. The late Edward Kennedy is here, as is Jane Goodall, Nelson Mandela (natch), and Billy Connolly. I will confess that there are many I don’t know, which taught me my first lesson: that I am ignorant of many of these great thinkers and doers.

Each large portrait was shot against a featureless white background, which Zuckerman says “democratizes the environment,” and therefore, his subjects. The faces are full of crags, droops, and character, of course. Andrew Wyeth looks like someone left him sitting out on a too-hot day. Kissinger’s eyes are so hooded he seems to be struggling to stay awake. But there are some notable exceptions. They may have wrinkles and white hair, and again, this may say more about my recent shift in, ahem, priorities, than about senior hunks, but a fair number of these guys have still got it goin’ on, as the kids say—at least in my eyes.

There’s Redford, of course. (Sigh. It’s always been you, Bob, since I was 14.) But man, check out the shots of Clint Eastwood, or Kristofferson, or wow, Graham Nash! Am I crazy, or are these guys hot? I think it’s their intensity. And obvious intelligence. And possibly, good hair. It seems the artists of various stripes fare the best as they navigate the “third act,” as Sir Michael Parkinson calls it. (He’s one I had to look up. He’s a British journalist and broadcaster, played himself interviewing Bill Nighy’s character in Love, Actually, which I own, and is apparently not too enamored of the current state of British TV, saying: “In my television paradise there would be no more property programmes, no more police-chasing-yobbos-in-cars programmes and, most of all and please God, no more so-called documentary shows with titles like My 20-Ton Tumour, My Big Fat Head, Wolf Girl, Embarrassing Illnesses, and The Fastest Man on No Legs.” I’d say amen to that, but then what would I watch?)

Each of these artists, musicians, and leaders of men in the exhibit is accompanied by a quote, a transcribed sound bite from the interviews Zuckerman conducted as part of the sessions. He asked everyone questions that touched on the same set of themes: love, work, the environment, conflict resolution, and of course, wisdom. I’m with Dame Judi Dench, who noted that she has “gotten sillier” as she’s aged, and therefore hasn’t the foggiest when it comes to sharing any pearls of wisdom.

The young security guard probably won’t pay much attention to the sage words of these cultural icons. The young always know better. But maybe a few of his elders’ whispered ruminations will sneak past those ear buds, such as, “Take risks,” “You can’t get to wonderful without passing through all right,” “Inspiration is for amateurs,” and “Your best work is your expression of yourself...when you do it, you’re the only expert in it.”

So I don’t know about the security guard, or the tourists streaming through the space-formerly-known-as BCE Place, or even you, but these are things I need to hear right now, the advice I need to take. Thank you Andrew Zuckerman, and thank you, elders.

Riding the Peak

Photo: Jon Rieley-Goddard

Those of you who know me, or who share my Outer-Hebridean genes, will know that summer is not even my third-favourite season. In fact, with the exception of certain magical, balmy evenings, usually spent on a twinkly bistro terrace, I pretty much hide under a cool rock till September.

But this year—and maybe it’s just my own advancing years—I’m feeling the need to stop and appreciate summer. Now. Right now.

Because right now is that moment that comes each year, when it’s been hot enough for long enough that it starts to feel dangerous. When our guilt for cranking up the a/c rises along with the temperature. Summer is peaking.

It feels as though we’ve all been captured by one of those theme-park cameras at the apex of the ‘coaster’s highest drop, lifted out of our seats for a breathless instant, poised between “getting here” and “it’s over.” Everything is still. The world stops. However exhilarating the climb and breathtaking the view, it’s a short ride, and it's all downhill from here.

And it really is. Although the true mid-point of the year was a month ago, nobody really paid attention. We weren’t far enough into the summer then; there hadn’t been enough long, hot days to register that the shorter, darker ones were already beginning.

But now that’s about to change. Toronto marks the passage of summer through its festivals, which jam every weekend. The blow-out formerly known as Caribana is next up, and we all know what’s right after that—The Ex.

I haven’t heard any commercials for the CNE yet, and I’m glad. The opening day of the CNE tolls the death-knell for every Toronto summer. On that day, we catch our first glimpse of what’s lurking ahead in the shadows just beyond closing day, what is now inevitable: the aptly named Labour Day, a.k.a., the death of hope, late-evening sunsets, beachwear, and white shoes and belts. When we will all have to exhale, leave our summer bubbles, and get back to the grind. Dark days await us. We’ll need to focus on bringing in the harvest, laying in provisions, checking the weatherstripping for gaps.

But not quite yet. Not today. Today we’re setting records. Today we’re still poised at the peak of the year, at the top of the first drop of this season’s Flyer, and I’m all too aware of the trough just ahead. So I’m taking a breath, feeling the film of moisture on my skin, listening to the buzz-saw cicadas, watching the cats stay very, very still.

I hate summer. But not this year.

The Big Leagues!

David McNew/Getty Images

Check out my article in today's National Post about the upcoming Toronto Humane Society AGM. ("National Post Staff"!!!)

(It's also on the Posted Toronto page, with a different header and the above cute-dog photo.)

AND Megan O'Toole reported on tomorrow's meeting in the same paper. It's enough to make even a hockey-hater use a term like "hat-trick."

I feel so....legit!!

Hot Docs Thoughts

There are at least four of drafts of posts like this one waiting in the wings, in various stages of gestation, tongue-tied, impatiently waiting to see the light. It’s a problem.

But I just got back from my fourth documentary of this year’s Hot Docs festival, and I am finally moved to get this stalled labour restarted, to bear down and push something out. Yesterday I was speaking with my dear, neglected friend Susan, and whining as usual about my struggle to follow through with my writing projects. I then mentioned I had a full dance card of delightful Hot Docs screenings again this year, and she said that was great, but that it’s also an effective distraction from the writing I should really be doing. I admitted she was right, then added jokingly, “Unless I write about it!”

Well, joke’s on me, ‘cause here we are.

For me, Hot Docs is less a film festival than a religious one. It’s in my home town, thank god, so it doesn’t require an actual pilgrimage, but I certainly attend as a pilgrim. I sometimes see the films with friends, but I’m very happy to go alone; in fact, I really prefer it. I find that I am overly influenced by my friends’ reactions, wanting them to like and dislike the same moments, the same subjects, checking that they’re laughing or crying along with me.

Apparently I am not alone in finding these eleven days each spring to be a spiritual experience; in contrast to the audiences at most theatrical events these days, my fellow pilgrims and I generally behave as devout churchgoers: there’s little talking, loud candy-unwrapping, kicking, fidgeting, or social-media-ing. There are few children. There is respect for the films and filmmakers. A Hot Docs audience is probably the best audience in town.

I rush home from almost every “service” inspired and awash in the Great Doc Spirit, eager to perform additional devotions (web site follow-up, wiki-research, listening in to e-debates), desperate to download the latest news on each incredible story. Was he/she ever found? Did he/she live? Was he/she really guilty? Was it saved or torn down? What does he/she do now, after what happened? Are they still fighting the good fight or did they move on?

And though they generally lack CGI, car chases, or explosions, I find the films utterly fascinating and compelling. I’m hooked not just because, as they say, you can’t write this stuff, but because their stories are ongoing. I can’t wait for the post-screening Q & A’s to learn all the latest, often from the subjects themselves. What a privilege to encounter some of these fascinating characters! It’s probably the best part of the whole thing. (It can occasionally also be the most embarrassing part. I keenly remember laughing heartily at some of the born-again nonsense spouted by the protagonists of The Cross and Bones, only to find once the lights had come up that they were seated just a few rows behind me.)

I believe most of us approach art forms, especially stories, seeking ourselves, hoping to understand and to relate to the people on the page or screen. We’re looking for answers to basic questions: Who am I? What is my community? Who are “my people” and what do we believe? How would I respond to this situation? What would I fight for? What would I sacrifice? I want to understand these things, and many more.

Here’s what I’ve learned from the Hot Docs of the last several years:

• Never write someone off (such as the subject of Stroke, or the base jumper who had that horrific accident).

• Crazy can’t always be fixed, but in coping with it, you’re rarely alone (My Mother’s Garden, Cat Ladies).

• Amazing, compelling stories are everywhere (Into Eternity, Marwencol, Thunder Soul).

• Over the long term, it’s very difficult to suppress who you really are (just ask Anne Perry [“secrets are corrosive”], or the two stars of Regretters). Doc subjects have often created elaborate fictions, but their true natures are ultimately revealed, either through the sheer persistence and/or luck of the filmmakers, or the sheer force of their authentic selves.

• People’s stories can help you heal, and learn compassion and tolerance (Song Sung Blue, My Mother’s Garden, 65 Red Roses, Becoming Chaz).

For example, Sunday’s film, Battle For Brooklyn, offered a David v. Goliath how-to. A little guy took on a giant developer when he learned they planned to raze his entire Brooklyn ‘hood to put up a massive development anchored by a stadium for the woeful New Jersey Nets. It’s an amazing, important film, but as usual, what I took away from it was the personally resonant, big-picture stuff.

Afterwards, someone asked the subject of the film, Daniel Goldstein, how he had managed to hang in for the seven or so years it took to resolve all the civil and legal battles, and whether this meant he was a “masochist.” This got a laugh, but he pointed out that in fact, he enjoyed the process of forming and leading a community group, and felt closer to his neighbours and his neighbourhood as a result. That night I found the following response, I think from Daniel’s dad, among the post-premiere comments on the film:

What I learned from my son Daniel is about leadership and having the courage of your conviction, persistence, dedication, fairness, standing up against all odds no matter what, when you are doing what is right and just and reasonable, and having the willingness to take personal risks for the common good.

And that’s what I took home that day, and what compelled me to finally write about Hot Docs. It struck me that Daniel’s experience, like that of many of the people in the documentaries and in my own life, demonstrates how hard it is to care about something. That something might be an issue, or a neighbourhood, or a heritage building, or a living being, animal or otherwise (don’t get me started on trees).

Which brings me to the trouble with caring. But that’s a topic for another day.

Alien Ab-suck-tion — by Aaron

Exactly three months ago today I saw a movie and made a promise. The movie was Skyline. The promise was to write a review. Being a man of my word, albeit one who fulfills promises at a glacial pace, I hereby present my thoughts on what is possibly the shittiest, most overtly referential sci-fi movie in the last 10 years, maybe more – my memory is both poor and short.

Of course, a good reviewer shouldn't ruin the movie for those who haven't seen it by detailing the plot, but in this case there's no way around it. Or more accurately, it's impossible to describe this abomination without referencing the multiple sources from which it has been awkwardly cobbled together. Plus, with a movie this bad, the only redeeming factor is the meagre joy one can glean from trashing it after the fact. Ergo, trash I shall.

[Beware! Spoilers follow!]
The story begins with a party in an upscale condo attended by rich, good-looking twenty-somethings (like in Cloverfield) who soon discover there are spaceships outside which turn you into a zombie if you stare at their lights, making gross veins pop out all over your body and your eyes go white (like Frodo when he gets stabbed by the Witch King in Fellowship of the Ring). After blowing up a bunch of shit, the aliens finally reveal their ships hovering over a burnt-out L.A. (like in District 9) and release giant monsters to wreak havoc (like in Godzilla or pretty much 95% of sci-fi movies ever made), while a band of our partygoers struggle to outwit the behemoths and survive (like in Jurassic Park).

Of course, a couple of them get spectacularly smushed or eaten (and the characters are so annoying you're actually glad it happens), at which point the remnants are then pursued through their building by baddies (like in Signs) and then out onto the rooftop (like every crappy superhero flick you've ever seen). All the while, of course, the U.S. Army is battling the aliens (like in Independence Day) while it starts to look more and more like the City of Angels might end up as a skid mark on California's undies (like in 2012).

At this point, my memory gets a bit foggy, but I think the lead actor fights one of the aliens with a big gun (like in Starship Troopers). Alas, this is of no avail, and he and the heroine get sucked up into the mothership, the inside of which is gooey with eggs and larvae (like in Alien. Or was that Aliens?). The aliens are feeding on human energy (like in The Matrix) and end up putting the guy's brain into one of their monsters, but he overpowers it and ends up being an alien with a human mind (like in Avatar). And thus it ends: he's now an alien, she's still a human, both in a spaceship headed for god knows where. Oh, and I think the chick ends up pregnant, although that might have been something I read on the bathroom wall when I left to take a whiz halfway through.

So that's the skinny on this rancid, Frankenstein's monster of a movie. You're welcome for saving you a precious 1.5 hours of your life, plus the eye-strain and price of admission [Edit: Or maybe only the rental fee, by now]. The next sci-fi blockbuster I plan to see? Battle: Los Angeles. The premise? The U.S army takes on alien intruders attacking Los Angeles.

Who's with me??

Guilty Secrets From a Nickelback Fan

Greetings! If hope is still springing for any of you, leading you to check in here occasionally...

Well, first, god bless you. And second, here is your reward: a new guest post for the Guilty Pleasures column. Many thanks to my anonymous contributor, who in my opinion is needlessly guilty about this one. So let's prove him/her wrong, people! Where are the rest of you Nickelheads out there, or Wooden Nickels, or whatever the heck it says on your bumper stickers? Or perhaps it's the Petshop Boys who haunt your dreams?

Friends who have made the mistake of accepting a ride from me during the Boom 97.3 Friday and Saturday disco show know my aural preferences all too well, but I fly my Funkytown flag high and proud. So who's with me? Got a Guilty Musical Pleasure to share?

While I await the flood of your responses, please enjoy this offering from "X":
My name is X, and Nickelback is my secret guilty pleasure. Yes, I know there are radio stations out there that pride themselves on being "Nickelback-free." Some even use it as a marketing device! But I love the bad boys of Hanna, Alberta. I'm well beyond jailbait age, so I'm probably not their target market. But their songs just make me want to dance on the bar, line up those shots of tequila and dive on in! And I'm not the only one. Remember all those Japanese girls singing along at the Vancouver Olympics closing ceremonies? Am I right? They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Case in point: Theory of a Deadman's "Bad Girlfriend." Sure sounds like Chad... If there's a Wii Rock Band version of "Burn It to the Ground," I think I need it. Where was I when the call went out for lip-synchers on the "Rockstar" video? Sure, they got Wayne Gretzky, but does he really mean it? O.K., so if it's me up dancing on the bar it probably should have guard-rails… and I should wear a mask… These five words in my head scream "Are we havin' fun yet?"

Church-Lady Lunches and PoHo Houses

My friend and I travelled to lovely little Port Hope this weekend for their annual house tour. We managed to hit several stunning properties, from sleekly modern to charmingly restored, though we didn't make it to the three out-of-town options. As often happens, my favourites weren't the ones I expected at all. In my opinion, Best of Show was 184 Walton, the restoration of a Victorian townhouse on the main drag. It wasn't just the bay and transom windows and lovingly refinished plank floors, it was the eye-popping tangerine, flame orange, and soft lime paint colours. And the amazing origami chandelier in the dining room that papered the walls with patterned shadows.

A close second was the gorgeous 20 King St., with a kitchen to impress even a culinary philistine like myself (love the punchy, graphic wall of antique clothes-iron footplates!); a walk-in closet lined with meticulously cut-out images of women's shoes; and the cutest and the most British garden shed (below) I've ever seen—and that's saying a lot in a veddy British town.

Thanks to Peter for this photo!

The house below, also on King St. was beautifully restored and renovated, and had a cool office-slash-lounge added in the attic, but the decor was pretty over-the-top frilly and not to our taste. The garden, however, was another story. It was huge, went on forever, and featured a pool area, manicured hedges, and GIANT cedar trees (there's one visible to the right in the following picture; we were all mystified at how they managed to keep them trimmed). And the yard had one more thing at the very back, tucked inside the weathered eight-foot back fence: a dilapidated old barn with an alarming sine-wave roofline but noble character.


Worth a mention, too, was the new property at 103 Augusta, remarkable not only for its four levels of floor-to-ceiling windows stacked on the lip of a ravine, but also for the galleryful of gorgeous art created by the homeowner.

But as it turned out, it wasn't the architecture OR the decor that was the highlight of my day, it was the lunch served at the P.H. United Church. I could not have asked for a more quintessentially small-town Ontario setting, cast of characters, or cuisine.

In the house tour program, the lunch was listed as follows: "Homemade Meat Pies, Coleslaw, Rolls, Dessert, Tea/Coffee." But it was so much more. The program included no mention of the tea-rose tablecloths, the church-basement chairs, the hotel plate silverware, the mix and match tea cups, fresh bouquets in vases, or cheerful church-lady servers. Nowhere did it hint that we would witness those servers dumping the dregs of their coffee and tea pots back into the commercial percolators stationed in the classic, fluorescent-lit church hall. I was in cliché heaven.




And "dessert" doesn't begin to describe the oh-so-WASP experience of the creamy vanilla pudding studded with juicy, canned crushed pineapple and topped with the extra-fancy embellishment of a canned tangerine segment or halved maraschino cherry. WITH an oatmeal cookie! Shades of wedding showers past!



We were delighted with our "refreshments," but will always wonder about the church-lady paths not taken. For example, also available were repasts offered without irony by the Catholics ("Italian Meatball Sandwich, Caesar Salad" [!]), the Presbyterians ("Chicken Pot Pie, Salad"), and perhaps most tellingly, the Anglicans ("Quiche, Salad"). Those crafty Anglicans, however, did go the extra mile by providing the only all-day refreshment station for weary tourists, at which were served "Muffins, Scones and Sweets." After all, it's a hilly town, and on top of that, those houses have a lot of stairs.

So thanks to PoHo for a lovely day: the rain held off, the meat pies were delicious, and, to accompany our end-of-day coffees, our beloved Zest restaurant served us fresh ginger cookies. Even a church lady couldn't have asked for more.