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, again, the big draw for me, and many others, no doubt, was getting to witness 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....
