Late yesterday I learned that The Colbert Report will finish its run next May.
I've never seen the program — I've never been into watching 'late-night' shows — but I now know the story here, and it's pretty obvious that CBS's decision to cease production of a show that is #1 in its (very competitive) time slot is a political one.
Apparently, Stephen Colbert said the wrong thing a few nights ago.
When checking email, like a lot of folk I get email bullets from various streaming services, the big one being (Amazon) Prime Video. I'm at the point now where I ignore this email content. There is no need for me to waste time watching some off-the-shelf series.
No thank you.
Lately I've been receiving promo emails from Tubi, a most excellent streaming service, with its variety of programing, including 'old' television series. (Of course, Prime too has lots of old TV.)
Still, I don't fancy sitting in front of the tube watching hours of video.
The latest Tubi mailing came in about an hour ago. No thank....
I just got back home from a quick 'swim'... running errands through boiling-hot humidity. Man, it's another scorcher here in Toronto. I'm afraid to check the temperature (and Humidex).
Okay, I just did: 31 Celsius (88 Fahrenheit), feels like 39 (102).
"I order you to stop!"
Oh, Environment Canada is calling for 24 (75) on Friday.
Good, I'll put myself into cryogenic suspension till then....
This morning I saw an 'on this date' post noting it was fifty years ago today that a certain event took place: a forward-thinking upward motion of cold war détente. Too many years ago I was there in front of the Zenith colour television tube as the anticipation was building, and had been building for some time, for a special orbital rendezvous: the "Apollo-Soyuz Test Project" would fire into being with two rocket launches, one of each from the USA and the USSR.
Perhaps the single most exciting "blast off" for me on July 15, 1975, was that of Soyuz 19, the Soviet side of the project. The Soyuz launch vehicle and spacecraft were somewhat mysterious entities to those of us in the west — civilians in the west. Photographs had been released by the Soviets, some officially and others unofficially, so we knew what the machine looked like at launch — it looked super cool, that's what it looked — but there were no motion picture images and nothing substantial in the way of data and specifications.
(Like the Vostok and Voskhod rockets the Soyuz was an outgrowth of the brilliant R-7A Semyorka, itself an upgrade of the earlier R-7 Semyorka.)
This then space cadet looked forward to seeing the Saturn 1B rocket lift the Apollo space vehicle, but the big draw for me, and many others, no doubt, was witnessing the launch of the Soviet machine. As I sat all giddy, the Zenith danced its chromatic scales. There was an anticipatory tension, an almost drum roll, as we waited for the scheduled launch time. When the final countdown rolled, we scrutinized every piece of visual data — there was no audio of the launch. That great Soyuz Roar would not be heard by me for many more years.
The rocket lifted; it was beautiful.
The video clip above is very 'archival'. No doubt it's been dubbed-down a few times over the years. The original 2-inch 'Quad' tape it is not. That flicker/roll you see at the shot-cuts looks to be a 'time base correction' issue: it may be due to uncorrected duplication, one lacking a TBC (Time Base Corrector), or it may have been in the original live transmission, which is my guess as I've seen other sources displaying the same malady — it was a satellite feed, to boot.
Postscript: the mission's astronauts were Thomas P. Stafford, Vance D. Brand, and Deke Slayton; the cosmonauts, Alexei Leonov and Valery Kubasov.
This morning, while reading up on Russian composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, one of my all-time favourite composers, period, I learned of "The Five" — or "The Mighty Bunch", the literal translation of "Могучая кучка", the original Russian. This fan of a certain school ("Simon and his big Russian music") was more than familiar with four of the five: Modest Mussorgsky, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, Alexander Borodin, and César Cui.
There was a fifth, a composer I was not familiar with, even by name, and he was the leader of this gifted group: Mily Balakirev
There before me, in a nice pretty little row on the long work table, sat thirty to forty 1-inch videotapes, resting, waiting for this video tech to run them. My boss briefed me: a gentleman was requesting we compile music videos for a 'music video jukebox'. Fine, even if my professional brain knew that I might not be able to do the entire set on my shift; after all, there were other 'jobs' on the board. And music videos, one on each 1-inch master tape, hardly a pop-and-play format, would require constant attention due to the average running-time of 3 to 4 minutes each.
"Labour intensive", as we say.
Mike, the gentleman client, came by briefly to introduce himself. Nice guy, and very knowledgeable about videotape formats. We talked about the beauty of 2-inch "Quad", and, of course, 1-inch... our tape format for the night.
I warmed up the Ampex VTR and started the job of compiling exciting music videos. The process was straightforward, just requiring those waveform and audio-channel adjustments at the beginning of each tape run, as per the normal procedure, and the manual starting and stopping of the destination Betacam SP recorder.
A few songs in, as I slouched at my desk, with my back to the machine-rack monitors, a tune caught my ear. I reacted the way any fan of Tchaikovsky's music would:
"That's 'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy'!"
I spun in my chair to take note of what video it was that pulled me away from filling out my latest entry in the 'run sheet'.
A week or two later I bought the album Prozzäk:Saturday People, expressly for that song that made me sit up: "It's Not Me It's You!"
Trivia: If I still had the "Sam's" sales receipt, it would be dated September 10, 2001.
RCAF Station Baden-Soellingen / CFB Baden-Soellingen, in then West Germany, had two cute little churches parked side by side near the end of a street: houses of two denominations, Catholic and Protestant; directly opposite was the base's hospital; and at the end of the street, watching, stood the fire hall with its fire engines and crash-tenders.
When I was five and six years old my dad would take me to the RC place on Sunday mornings. I remember sitting enraptured by the sermons, specifically by their extraordinary length, especially to this then child, and by what I perceived to be utter emptiness. (It's possible I knew that some things in those sermons made little sense but had yet to hurl the word "emptiness" to describe them.)
One day, a moment I remember well, I said to my dad something in such a way as to avoid any potential misinterpretation:
"Dad, I don't wanna go to church anymore."
His immediate reaction: Laughter. The kind aimed towards the heavens when one realizes that his six-year-old is figuring things out fast. And setting firm his own well-considered belief system.
I pray to no one.
Postscript: That former base is now an airport, Baden-Airpark.
For me, February 25th, 1989, involved having a pretty wonderful time at Roy Thomson Hall here in Toronto. With friends I went to see conductor Andrew Davis' return to the Toronto Symphony Orchestra for a special concert. A fine double feature:
Gustav Holst's "The Planets"
Raymond Luedeke's "Tales of the Netsilik — for orchestra and narrator"
I had heard "The Planets" many times before this night, but hearing it performed live made me appreciate the stellar work even more — the choral section was absolutely heavenly! (Even considering the then crappy acoustics at RTH.)
Canadian Broadcaster Peter Gzowski told tales as narrator: his familiar voice, at least to CBC Radio listeners, complemented the material, his relaxed style most fitting.
As we rose from our seats at the end of the evening's performances, Rob, one of my two concert-mates, offered something I found interesting: "I liked the second one more."
Tales of Television Centre, a BBC Four documentary from 2012, gets one nostalgic for a place of work even if one did not work there. The sprawling complex wasn't merely a place of work, just as importantly, as pointed out by several interview subjects, it was a place of immense creativity.
BBC Television Centre — located in White City, West London — was a hotbed of television production for over half a century (1960 to 2013), and its ultimate reconfiguration remains a touchy subject for many Brits. "Why?"
With the help of British television entertainment luminaries such as David Frost, Brian Blessed, David Attenborough, Peter Davison, and Terry Wogan, the how, where, and why are covered briskly but with some necessary detail. And with a lot of smiles.
The Centre was a culture all its own. Magic was in and on the air.
I wish I had worked there. (Here in Toronto we have the CBC's boring Canadian Broadcasting Centre. Only in Canada, eh? Pity.) Many presenters (hosts), actors, comics, technicians, designers, writers, and producers are thankful they did. There's that wistful nostalgia one expects to wrap up a ninety-minute telly documentary titled Tales of Television Centre.
On a humorous final note, I must mention that one thing I found obvious in the building's architectural style was the overall "Soviet" vibe. This uncanny overtone is brought up by a few interviewees. The similarities are striking. (Does it mean anything?)
——
After closing in March of 2013, the complex was refurbished, opening anew in 2017 with residential apartments ("flats"), and retail and office space. However, BBC Studioworks maintains three studios, allowing the "Beeb" to live on in parts with a continuing electronic stake in the property.
Any rider of the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) should be allowed to travel and chill in peace. This part-time "street photographer" is very discrete when taking photographs of strangers. The issue of discretion is made easier if a lone subway train rider is in daytime sleep mode.
The lady knew when she had arrived at her stop. "Next stop...."
The epic short documentary was more a tone poem than a conventional doc. Images and music to tell a story: taking the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) subway train to school and about the city.
Slightly earlier that film-school year (1984/85) my fellow crew and I made a Super-8 epic titled The Chase which involved some shooting on the transit system. "Yorkdale" station was featured prominently at the film's beginning; intrigue on the platform was the setup to the story. This experience convinced me that the subway would make an interesting subject for the required first-year "personal documentary". I had no desire to do a dry treatment. My interest in transportation would ensure that the mechanics of moving people about in a city would star front and centre. Also, the subway was convenient since I took it everyday to school. Pearson Airport would be a more problematic shoot. (I love the mechanics of moving people places on aircraft.)
As per the course requirements I had to pitch my film idea to my instructor, Pat. He gave the project the thumbs up after I presented the script, and several storyboard frames illustrating key moments.
I had picked the title Mind the Gap very quickly. The sign "Mind the Gap" was on every subway platform alerting and reminding riders there was a small gap between a parked train and the platform. For my uses it more meant: please be patient, another train will be along shortly.
My first order of business was to obtain a permit to shoot video or film on the TTC — consumer video/film was not really a thing, but anyone who appeared to be recording something more than their Uncle Johnny boarding a train during his visit to Toronto might very well be questioned with a terse: "Do you have a permit?" (Now, of course, there is no other option. One must show a permission slip.) Off I went to the Commission's headquarters to obtain a pass. The public relations officer was a pleasant chap. He asked me what date I wanted it to expire. I said, "April eleventh". He questioned me with, "Are you sure?" Yep. As it turned out....
The shoot was fun. Jonathan, a buddy of mine since high school, agreed to act in Gap: the narrative thread involved a rider rushing to catch his train on time. This we shot at Eglington West station. The light was best there for this sort of thing. The film stock I decided to use for the entire shoot was Kodachrome 40, a relatively 'slow' emulsion rated at 40 ASA.
For the audio mix I visited one of my old high school teachers, Ben, an amateur filmmaker, but one who had a fairly sophisticated Super-8 post production setup at home. First, however, I had the lab put magnetic stripes down the edited film so I could record synchronized-to-picture the music I always had in mind: a cue from the 1979 film, The Great Train Robbery. Jerry Goldsmith's wonderful and propulsive steam locomotive theme was a perfect fit for a electrified subway train. I had somehow known from the get go that this clash-up would work.
(A more complete "Making of" I'll save for another time. I'm enjoying this too much too soon.)
The screening: The instructor was surprised by the end result. Pat said he was expecting something a little different. He appeared to be mildly disappointed. I took this to be a good thing.
After a repeat screening a few days later, Pat said: "I liked it better this time . . . It's a tone poem."
Exactly. It's the better way.
In 2019 I made noises about restoring Mind the Gap. Get it on track, man!
So! It looks like a once-great democratic nation is morphing into a fascist state before our very eyes: "die Sturmabteilung der Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika" is in action....
"Unidentified Aerial Phenomena." Perfect. UAP sounds an awful lot like an old film production and distribution company, but maybe that's the joke. Five years ago the U.S. Department of Defense released video footage captured by U.S. Navy fighter jets which seemed to bear out the notion that these objects are something right out of a 1950s UFO flick.
The DoD feels the clips do not reveal anything that might compromise national and planet security. I'm guessing the chiefs and staff couldn't detect any ray-gun turrets protruding from the speeding objects, or anything that might compromise the integrity of the human race.
Do I believe that aliens from another world are visiting us?
Not really.
Not at all.
A friend told me he thinks we're alone in the universe, and he was quite passionate about it.
My reaction was typical. "In this entire universe, we're the only advanced beings?" Knowing that he is a fan of space-themed television shows, I thought I would add a brain buster:
"And there aren't humanoids out there that speak a passable English?"
He smiled at that one. Then he shook his head gently from side to side to reaffirm his earlier point.
I'm of the mindset that possibility breeds probability. We just don't know about one another. These otherworldly intelligent beings are restricted by the same physics that govern us humans.
We will never meet.
A romance will never happen.
We're doomed to a solitary existence.
There will be no "phasers on stun".
We'll have to depend on stellar flicks like (the underwhelming) Close Encounters of the Third Kind and (the brilliant) Starship Invasions to keep us believing....
A talented and hard-working friend falls into the pit of self-doubt. He worked for years in film and television, and after getting turfed from the business he so loved, it came time to try his hand at self-employment. The road may not feel so inviting, but it is inviting.
The hardest-working man I know.
A multi-talented friend: short films in a top film festival; a feature-length film as producer and shooter; a writer; a designer and artist. He's not of the "I work in the film and television business" kind — there are certainly enough of those superstars — but he's a guy who intimidates some, certainly the "I work in the film and television business" superstar kind.
A bump in the road, there will be many, but he will push forth.
They put you down because you can do more than one thing, and well.
Real talent can be scary to those who just get by.
I designed this piece of wardrobe for my (unfinished) 35mm short film Hyper-Reality. Two cosmonaut costumes were built, fitted specially for the actors to play them. The above picture was taken in the film studio, here in Toronto, where we were to shoot a few weeks later.
Those readers who are familiar with the 1960 East German/Polish feature film Der Schweigende Stern — "The Silent Star", released as First Spaceship on Venus on this side of the pond — will recognize my flight-suit designs. I based them heavily on that flick's cosmonaut suits. The First Spaceship version I saw on the big screen in Germany when I was a kid: its visualizations and stylings projected at CFB Baden-Soellingen's Astra Theatre had a pretty profound affect on me, certainly when I later designed a film that was not far removed from its aesthetic inspiration.
Designing wardrobe is a lot of fun for me: from my initial noodles, to more detailed drawings, to hiring seamstresses to realize them, it's one of my favourite parts of film design. (For the flick in question, my partner, Tim, and I rummaged around all the wonderful shops in Toronto's Kensington Market. We found some terrific outfits in Value Village, too.)
I've long said that "film is architecture". If a script calls for original design work, it's something I attack with great enthusiasm. Considering that it's an independent short film, "Hyper-Reality: The Unfinished Motion Picture" is loaded with design work. A few years ago I joked with my brother: "If I can't design something and send it to the mill to be built, what's the point of making a film?"
It's time to get back to the drawing tablet.
Postscript: When I was in my late teens I asked my mother if she could teach me on how to use her Singer sewing machine. The funny thing is she didn't seem to be too taken aback with my request and wasted no time in proceeding to train me on the essential operations in a clear and easy to understand manner. However, while I can be pretty handy with a sewing machine and fabric shears— especially so given the fact that I'm a straight guy — I leave the actual building to seamstresses.
Like many self-proclaimed artists, I can, with varying degrees of success, draw what Archie Bunker might call "normal tings": Humans, buildings, oxen pulling plows, and a house cat playing with a ball of yarn. However, I remind myself that I am not afraid to conjure up strange things.
Fastened above is a pencil sketch that I commissioned myself to render in December of 1984. It is titled, simply enough, "Sea Thing (on the beach)". The original is approximately 8" by 8".
Looking at the drawing now, the workmanship doesn't look to be of anything special, even by my own questionable standards, but it is an example of what I can pull out of my hat... well, the subject matter, not the actual subject. Cripes, if I were to pull that out of my hat....
My excuse is that I spent a few of my formative years living in (West) Germany. As anyone would tell you who was in that lovely country back in those days — 1960s/1970s — there was a lot of kids, around my own age, who were physically deformed, some horribly. All thanks to a little drug used to treat "morning sickness", called Thalidomide. Pretty upsetting stuff.
It was very common to see children with flippers for arms, or malformed legs.
I remember driving with my family across the German countryside and my mother blurting out with some emotion, "Oh, look at that little boy, he's horribly deformed". Due to the speed that my dad was driving, I was not able to see anything — probably a good thing. The description my mother gave me was more interesting than anything else. Kids are inquisitive.
And some of them go on to draw and paint. I've drawn more-offbeat things than our featured imaginary denizen of the great big sea....
The name "SkyDome" was not my first choice. A contest had been held in 1987, while the structure was under construction, to come up with an appropriate moniker for this new and impressive soon-to-be stadium; the first one with a "fully retractable roof".
Although I never submitted anything, I came up with my own pick very quickly once I heard about the contest: "Trillium." It just happens to be the official provincial flower of Ontario. (Attention, some American readers: Toronto is in the province of Ontario.) In addition, "Trillium" sounds "big" — it does to me, at least.
Once the name for Toronto's new stadium was chosen and announced, I was underwhelmed. "SkyDome? That's totally uninspired." (Totally.)
Now I like that name. It's certainly better than "Rogers Centre". To be honest, most Torontonians don't say "Rogers Centre", and rarely do I hear the stadium referred to by that name unless I'm listening to a Sports news reader on the radio. "Live, down at the Rogers Centre....".
No, "Sky Dome".
Post Notes: I survived the SkyDome opening ceremonies back on June 3rd, 1989. There was a contest at work and I won two tickets, so in turn I took my old school mate Jorge to the promised grand event. It turned out to be an all too tacky affair. More than once during the song-and-dance stuff Jorge and I cracked up laughing. He quizzed earnestly to my left ear, "What's with all the Broadway numbers?"
To impress, the dome was then opened. The sky had opened.
In the spring of 1977 — June to be exact — I visited Toronto with friend Chris. Our mission, which we did accept, was to tour OECA (Ontario Educational Communications Authority; now TVOntario). Courtesy of Travelways bus line, and a two five-dollar return tickets, we made our way to the big smoke.
My friend and I took a break from our tour and visited a shop nearby which happened to have a magazine rack loaded with a good spread of material. One particular magazine caught my eye as on the front was a full-sized photo from Star Wars, a movie that I had just heard of a few weeks before. With the help of some unseen force, I bought it.
On the bus ride home I scanned this geek-sweet new magazine; specifically, issue 7 of Starlog. In addition to a rundown on Star Wars were bits and bites on various other science fiction and fantasy movies, one of which was an interesting-sounding film, shot here in Canada, by the name of "Alien Encounter". I can still picture the picture affixed to the blurb: Tiiu Leek and Christopher Lee. "Christopher Lee?" The text said something about "Encounter" being a throwback to 50s sci-fi flicks, but with the advantage of colour photography.
A few months later, Starship Invasions, its new name, was released to a theatre near you. Considering that Star Wars hit the screens a few months earlier and had set the bar for what is expected from "space movies", Starship was fun, with some impressive visual effects. I really dug the effect of a flying saucer crashing at high speed into the First Canadian Place tower (now BMO).
A few weeks after this, friend Chris threw down a copy of Cinema Canada Magazine onto the high school library table where I was seated, specifically opened at the page where Starship Invasions had been reviewed. I reviewed the article and thought it was an honest summation.
Well, dear readers, for those of you who care, for your reading enjoyment above is a picture of a photocopy I made years ago of the story in question. (I found the review while doing research at the magnificent Toronto Reference Library, the Toronto Public Library system's big house on Yonge Street just north of Bloor Street.)
Postscript: the budget figure of one million dollars as itemized in the review is incorrect. (In addition, Douglas Trumbull supervised the visual effects for Close Encounters of the Third Kind, not Star Wars. The reviewer meant John Dykstra.) Someone who worked as a higher-up on Starship Invasions told me that it cost just under two million to produce. Someone else told me that one pet name used by the crew during production was "Alien Turkey".
I had not realized till minutes ago that here in Canada it's "Armed Forces Day". This was an embarrassing and unconscionable oversight by this proud "Brat".
Once a brat, always a military brat. My father was career RCAF/CAF. My appreciation of our men and women who serve, and who have served, this great country knows no bounds.
The RCAF roundel above is a shoulder patch from my RCAF 100th Anniversary Hoodie, which, incidentally, I wore this morning during my Sunday Tim Hortons coffee pickup. Perhaps I'm not as unconscious as previously thought. Even I can be full of surprises sometimes.
Not long ago I saw a few pictures that someone had posted online of the old and short-lived science fiction television series Logan's Run (1977 - 1978), a quick-to-television spinoff of the feature film from the year before. For some reason I almost never watched it; but when I did, it was in a casual way, unfocused and in little bits scanned from my bedroom's television set tuned to local station CKVR. I ignored Logan's run simply because I was growing out of watching television as appointment television.
When does one slow down on watching television? I'm speaking of American prime time dramatic programs — or sitcoms, which I almost never watched. Even with the litany of kids' things many of us in that time of our lives still managed to clock a lot of TV. But the ritual stops as we discover other things on our road to maturation. Or whatever. Some people just enjoy watching their favourite shows. It makes them happy, often after a long day.
I started to drift away in my mid to late teens. For example, this once regular viewer of The Six Million Dollar Man didn't watch the show's fifth and final season (1977 - 1978). I remember popping down and into the rec room one evening to grab a book from the bookcase and caught my siblings watching the follow-up episode to "Death Probe": "Return of the Death Probe." I turned to them and said: "You're still watching this?" Their even more youthful faces than my own beamed enjoyment. There on the television rolled what appeared to be an armoured go-kart, somewhat like the first model, but even more equipped.
(Both "Death Probe" and "Return of Death Probe" were two-parters.)
An admission: I enjoyed "Death Probe" when it first aired, even if it did feature a cruder version of machine compared to the sequel vehicle of destruction. This then youth knew the whole concept was rubbish, but, as was the case with more than a few Six Million episodes, there was an entertaining comic book fun vibe to "Death Probe".
But, my times were changing.
One day in 1995 I got a nasty wake-up call. A few of my coworkers emoted shocks and 'tears' as they recounted the latest episodes of Chicago Hope and ER. I stood in awe and bemusement as my mug of coffee got cold.
"Death Probe", first or second story, started to sound appealing.
Last year, courtesy of The Six Million Dollar Man Complete Series DVD set, I rewatched "Death Probe", the first installment in the robotic line. It was entertaining, in a 'back to my youth' sort of way. Being a two-part episode it did feel at times to drag a little, running at about the maximum speed of the probe prop — not very fast. Part Two's climactic, and major, set piece, an extended sequence featuring Steve Austin's attempt to stop the runaway rolling robot dead in its tracks, is not without interest or tension, but it would have benefitted from a little trimming. (Keep in mind that a completed episode needed to consist of about 4,500 35mm feet to fill a one-hour television timeslot back then.) The positive aspects, of which there are a few, are topped off by its drawing power for a young person: in January of 1977 I was on the probe's radar set.
Now that I have the complete-series set, and "Death Probe" charged me enough to give it a passing grade, I can consider scanning "Return of Death Probe". First, however, I'll watch a documentary on the Soviet "Lunokhod" lunar rovers. Now that I think about it, the Six Million Dollar Man writers should have written an episode, a two-parter, of course, where Steve is sent back to the moon to stop a rampaging Lunokhod 3 rover. (Oscar Goldman: "Pal, it's heading for the OSI's secret lunar remote intelligence-gathering station, and it must be stopped.")
While doing some work here at home, I realized something very important... something that ethologists may want to consider as being important to their research. (No doubt they know.)
The difference between dogs and cats:
With a dog, his or her personality is dictated by the breed.
With a cat, his or her personality is dictated by the cat.
So explained Dr Morton Shulman to his crowd of guests as he rocked back and forth in his comfy office chair. In that week's case his invited targets were into fetishes. One mustached guy in particular wore a half-face masquerade mask and would express himself by answering the show host's questions with a simple question: "In what context?"
"Morty" was not afraid to stick it to his special guests, be they politicians, labour union leaders, or an assortment of the offbeat.
The embedded video clip above is from a show titled: "UFO's and Psychics. Fact or Fraud?" (1983)
The Shulman File premiered in 1977, and from that point onward I watched on a regular basis. It did not matter to me what any given week's theme was. After all, there was that great theme tune to get one in the mood for some television fireworks.
Toronto television station CITY-TV was great at one time. In its mix of creative programming sat a controversial presenter. Morton Shulman, politician, physician and coroner, stirred things up, but did so from an intellectual platform ― not sensationalism for the sake of sensationalism, and ratings (as in Bill O'Reilly).
It would be nice to see complete episodes; there are bits and pieces to enjoy on YouTube.
We need a show like The Shulman File today to grill our surfeit of "weirdos".
The Interns
It's a curse. I must be called "The Chop Guy". It seems that whenever I took — yes, the past tense — to a television series, word would get around that it was not long for this world. My television viewing past is littered with what I thought were quality programs, but ones that didn't last past one year, barely touch two, or didn't even manage to get that 'mid-season pickup', if it did managed to reach 13 episodes at all. Hour-long dramatic series such as: Planet of the Apes (1974 - 1974), Lucas Tanner (1974-1975), The Gemini Man (1976 - 1976) and The Fantastic Journey (1977 - 1977) would fall into that box; as would....
How I discovered The Interns I do not remember, but I do remember making sure I caught the CBS medical show every week on the Sony black-and-white portable upstairs. To this then young one the subject matter was adult at times — there was an intense episode which featured a prison — but for some strange reason I could handle the material, even if I did not always understand it.
Seeing the show intro on YouTube a few years ago brought back the memories. While watching it I realized that I had remembered so much of its imagery and narrative, especially the climactic bit where the intrepid young medics run into an unimpressed Broderick Crawford.
A few years ago I watched a complete episode on YouTube: The Interns was a product of its era, which is not necessarily a problem, with the titular characters too-heavily involved in one another's stories; whereas in the real medical and doctoring world, each would have his or her own patient — their own "case". In the show I watched, the entire intern cast visited a location to check for some evidence. This is hardly the reality of that field. However, it is "television"... which is why I'm hardly around to curse any programs these days. (I should note that I once worked as a hospital photographer, including in "Emerg" for some of that time.)
The cast: Crawford, "Mr Highway Patrol" himself, of course; Christopher Stone; Stephen Brooks; Hal Frederick; Sandy Smith; Mike Farrell; and Skip Homeier. (Even then I was familiar with some of these actors as I had seen them in other television series.)
I am not a nutritionist. But I am aware of my own gastronomic and gastric requirements. Vegan dishes are regarded by some as lacking in essential ingredients: meat. A few years ago I met a young vegan lady through a mutual friend. Little did I know when I was introduced to Caroline that she would almost change my dinner plate.
It was bound to happen. After she slipped me some publications on the wonderful world of veganism I decided to give the culinary component a shot ― with her guidance, of course.
Caroline cooked up a storm, and during the event, she gave me notes on what it was she was doing with what food items and ingredients, and what each and every one contributed to the nutritional indexes.
What a fabulous meal, that was; quite possibly the greatest I've ever experienced. This was the best part: When I awoke the next morning I was not compelled to run for an emergency food source. My metabolism is such that even if I chow down on something based around meat the night before, by the next morning I am more than a little peckish. Caroline's vegan plate somehow convinced my brain that I was not starving, even hours later.
After I recounted the story to another vegan friend he told me why I had felt so satiated: "She probably packed it with nutrients."
For some reason I've not been able to go off meat completely, even if it continues to be a small portion of my dinner plate. The issue of animal abuse is something that bothers me. What will it take to convince me to go over? No doubt I'm not alone in facing that dilemma.
As it's Victoria Day here in Canada, and another lovely day — if a bit on the cool side for this time of year — here in the great city of Toronto, I thought it might make some sense for me to post something with the name "Victoria". A few years ago I read a fine book titled Castles of Steel - Britain, Germany, and the Winning of the Great War at Sea.
Written by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert K. Massie, the amount of detail brought to life by a wonderful sense of story-telling is most impressive.
John Rushworth Jellicoe (1859 – 1935) was Admiral of the Fleet in Britain's Royal Navy during "The Great War" (better known today as World War I); Massie spends some time giving background to "Jack": Guys like Jellicoe did, and still do, their time on a series of warships before reaching the top office. One vessel on which he served in the late 1800s was HMS Victoria; and he almost drowned after the ship was accidentally punctured by another. When the 'bang' happened Jellicoe was in bed with a dysentery-induced 103 degree (Fahrenheit) fever. He ran up to the deck to see what had happened. Not long after he began to help fellow sailors abandon the sinking Victoria, the once-mighty battleship started to capsize. In the name of "every man for himself" the executive officer fell off the side and into the sea. As Jellicoe noted in a letter he wrote to his mother after the close-call: "The curious thing is that my temperature today is normal, so the ducking did me good."
This hull-head was not familiar enough with that Royal Navy vessel, so, naturally, I consulted Wikipedia:
On it I saw a photograph that I had initially believed to be a contemporary painting. The image has a painterly quality, making my error understandable. It is a lovely, multi-textured photograph ― taken in 1888....
Game 7 between the Florida Panthers and the Toronto Maple Leafs finished minutes ago. News from the Leafs' home base of Scotiabank Arena is not good news to hometown fans:
Panthers 6—Leafs 1
Post-season analysis, a tradition with pundits and Leafs-fans alike:
"The Leafs have some issues to address before they can promote themselves as serious Stanley Cup contenders"... "It was a fine regular season run but it goes to show you the playoffs are a much tougher league"... "All those young Leafs players have to be convinced it's important to carry their play from the regular season into the playoffs"... "It's been said the playoffs separate the men from the boys; an aphorism which required but a few games to entomb a certain club in ice"... "The facts are incontrovertible: the Toronto Maple Leafs' icebound scramblings were not good enough."
***
Time for a (flash) poem I wrote in 2022, one 'dedicated' to that special team, and, apparently, and unfortunately for Leafs fans, one lushly evergreen....
While I was visiting Toronto with a high school buddy in the summer of 1978 a decision had to be made: the right one could bring cinematic pleasure (not that kind of movie!), the wrong one could make us reel. We were teenagers, sponges, but James and I did want to do the right thing that beautifully warm and sunny day.
Outside the Imperial Six theatre — remember that? those? — on Yonge Street we stood, monitoring the colour television monitors which unreeled clips from the movies on offer.
Should we make a bee-line for producer Irwin Allen's new epic, The Swarm, or take a promised ride with some novice's Corvette Summer?
This could take some time, and it did, believe me. Deciding some years later what VHS tape should be rented from the local video store had nothing on trying to pick between two new hot summer films — ones aimed perfectly at teenagers.
Corvette Summer, starring that Mark Hamill guy from the summer before, was a pleasant surprise. It was entertaining and had some good characterizations: an order of abundant fun in a darkened movie theatre on a summer's day.
As for The Swarm? Word got around quickly regarding the cinestatic disaster from the "Master of Disaster". James and I must have known. The Towering Inferno from four years earlier was a towering achievement for Mr Allen, but his bee-movie turned on him and kicked his ass.
"... and James and Simon avoided getting stung at the ticket wicket."
Looking for canned peas. But somehow I end up in the wrong aisle: the breakfast cereal section. Look at all the multi-coloured boxes! Which reminds me of a story of when a friend of mine came into town to visit TIFF (the Toronto International Film Festival).
As per just about any month or year, in September of 2006 my cupboards lacked any boxes of cold breakfast cereal. Not even one to impress, or feed, visitors.
My friend and I would have to eat in the morning. His visiting me was cause for celebration: going out to eat. "There's a really good diner just around the corner." For the duration of this special occasion my buddy and I whirled a variation on this brekkie thing.
Later on I heard something that broke my breaky heart: "Going without cereal for so many days was tough on me."
"You should have said something! I would've picked up a couple boxes of Froot Loops."
The 1970 - 1971 television season was exciting for this then child: Gerry and Silvia Anderson's first live-action series, UFO,was the flagship.
The CTV (Canadian Television) network ran the series here in Canada, and the network's flagship station, CFTO, in Toronto, was where the dial turned to on our Zenith colour television set. My parents watched, too. It was what we would now refer to as "appointment television".
UFO was what now would be considered to be very adult material for that time. For some reason the Brits were ahead of us in some departments on this side of the pond. They would not be afraid to address matters such as a death in the family, or family dysfunction (like a marriage falling apart). Wait a minute... it's called "UFO". There was the space stuff, of course, and the show's premise of a hostile alien force attacking us could be exciting, but the best episodes were not space-based — believe it or not. "Sub-Smash", "A Question of Priorities", and "Confetti Check A-O.K." are standouts. A few years ago I watched those three episodes, along with a few others, for the first time in decades, and was convinced.
Unfortunately for the fans, UFO lasted just one season; totaling 26 stories.
Things went downhill after that for the Andersons as a husband and wife production team. Their later interstellar effort, Space: 1999 (1975 - 1977), was a big step down — mainly in the characterization, acting, and scripting departments — from what they had achieved with UFO. (With Space, somehow, any sense of fun had been left outside the airlock.)
The good news is the couple survived as separate producing entities: Gerry, after the 'stigma' of Space: 1999 and a few years of barely getting by financially — over the years he had pumped much British pound sterling into the family home but the real estate market crashed in England and he owed a lot of money in alimony — he eventually teamed up with German producer Christopher Burr, thereby relaunching a television production career; Sylvia enjoyed a long career, three decades worth, as a London-based talent scout for HBO.
Doctor Who(Jon Pertwee's first opening title version, 1970-73)
OECA (Ontario Educational Communications Authority), now referred to as TV Ontario, ran adverts in the summer of 1976 announcing their Fall scheduling of a British programme from my childhood, Doctor Who — which at that point had not yet stopped production, eventually wrapping in 1989; a twenty-six year BBC production run.
As a very young child living at RCAF Station Greenwood, Nova Scotia, I saw the first "Dalek" story; its affect on me was profound enough that I never forgot kneeling in front of the Admiral monochrome television set and being: scared!... by the BBC via the CBC. (Those panning eyestalk cameras lining the Dalek city's hallways gave me the creeps.)
Back to OECA.
Starting that September I was there in front of the tube every Saturday evening. That was my introduction to the third doctor, Jon Pertwee, and because of the network's two-year Who run featuring the time and space "dandy", he was, and remains, my favourite of all the actors to play and interpret "the Doctor". (In September of 1978, OECA switched to the Tom Baker DoctorWho stories, which had begun running four years earlier on the show's home network.)
Of special note is the classic theme tune composed by Ron Grainer; what must be noted is Dalia Derbyshire's "arrangement", an electronic transcription, really, from the composer's score paper. This theme burns into one's electronics.
While the original Doctor Who's production crews lacked today's wonderful technologies, they somehow managed to tell some terrifically entertaining stories. (So you know, dear reader, you are not imagining my cynicism.)
Every Saturday at 6pm, this then young geek, sat in front of the living room's 10-inch B&W Sony, glowing along in phase with the set's cathode ray tube. During the following week's run of high school I lost the glow but regained it again on the following Saturday. A friend told me a few years ago that he too felt somewhat despondent as a given week's Doctor Who episode's title cards came to a close. "I had to wait a whole week for the next one."
You really had to be there and then to understand.
