Card: Communist Party of Canada (2025)

I came home one day last week to find a card on my door, a two-colour card from the Communist Party of Canada. Fine, as Canada was in election mode political parties were promoting themselves and their policies... or lack of same.

This student of history, with a focus on those former "Eastern Bloc" states such as the Soviet Union (USSR) and East Germany, especially East Germany, has something of an opinion here....

"You tell 'em, Simon!"

"Oh, I will. You know me too well."

Communism does not work.

Communism does not work.

Communism does not work.

At all.

I'll just leave it at that.

"Feel better, Si?"

"Do I ever."

Four! Big Big Bad Bad Days for Canada's CPC Party

October 19, 2015 (the dispatched: Stephen Harper)

October 21, 2019 (the dispatched: Andrew Scheer)

October 20, 2021 (the dispatched: Erin O'Toole)

April 28, 2025 (the dispatched: Pierre Poilievre)

The Conservative Party of Canada and its brethren have enjoyed four consecutive losses: losses made more potent when one considers that the Liberal Party of Canada was considered to be vulnerable in the federal elections of 2019 and 2021, and was running far far behind in many polling samples run over the last two years, though that changed soon after Mark Carney was elected last month by his own party to replace Justin Trudeau, who stepped down as Liberal leader in January. Yesterday's election was a grand turnaround, to put it mildly. Conservative Party Leader, and resident bigmouth, Pierre Poilievre plummeted in the polling, and effectively lost at the polls. The final tally wrote a minority, albeit a healthy minority, in all three cases.

What gives? Well, for starters, the CPC giveth away and the LPC taketh away.

Much has been made in some quarters about the fact, and it is an incontrovertible fact, that the Conservatives won more votes in the 2021 election. (The 2025 election's final numbers are not in as of yet.) In regards to the issue of this 'popular vote', which Canada's Parliamentary system of government does not have, I make much of the fact, and it is a dirty little fact, that Pierre Trudeau and the Liberals won many many more votes in total than did Joe Clark and his Progressive Conservatives in the 1979 federal election.

Liberals: 4,595,319

Progressive Conservatives: 4,111,606

Guess who became Prime Minister of Canada....

Certain Notices on My Door: Liberal Party of Canada

My only possible reaction to those notices would be:

Yep.

— Chrystia Freeland is my only choice —

Sunday Fun: U.S. Fantasy TV — Opening Titles

Project: U.F.O.

A "mid-season replacement" series, Project U.F.O. satiated those viewers who were into tales of Earth visitors from outer space. The NBC series premiered in February of 1978 to some fanfare, and I was there. So too were other family members.

Project U.F.O. was a Jack Webb production, and to make sure there was no mistake who was behind this series, the man himself narrated the opening titles with his trademarked voice and authoritative, and dry toast, diction.

A typical episode featured stars William Jordan and Caskey Swaim (or the second season's Edward Winter) investigating a UFO sighting. Over the television hour the U.S. Air Force's intrepid special team would interview each individual, who in turn, would recount their story of the event; in Rashomon-like fashion, but without outright contradiction (they did witness something not of this Earth, after all), we'd see essentially the same sequence but with variations based on that person's particular and unique perspective.

Now that I think about it, the show could be dull at times, even if stories of Unidentified Flying Objects were "in" back then. Keep in mind that Steven Spielberg's overrated feature film Close Encounters of the Third Kind had been released just a few months before our subject series hit the airwaves — the electronic take trying, hoping, to catch the interstellar wave. In October of 1977, the Canadian-produced feature film Starship Invasions had drawn some of us to the ticket wicket. Now that flying saucer action, man, was real. Like, far out!

The final episode of Project U.F.O. landed in July of 1979.

The Flash (1990)

 


In September of 1990, soon after arriving back in Canada after spending a few weeks in England, I heard chatter about a television series that had premiered while I was away: The Flash

Back then it was possible to have a series sneak up on you undetected. Given that I left dramatic television programs in my past, not being up to speed just compounded the surprise for me. (My forward scanner had long needed a replacement vacuum tube; and I had long abandoned reading Starlog Magazine, which was a source of vital information for any geek.)

I took in a few episodes and was impressed with the show's scope and its apparent healthy budget. (The new Flash series looks exactly like what it is: a low budget television series, but with lots of CGI — the CGI package deal so prevalent in television production today.)

The opening titles, complete with Danny Elfman's Batmanish theme music, are pretty propulsive. At the time I felt the "starring" bits were a little goofy. Oh, yes... Amanda Pays. I had almost forgotten about that attraction. She had helped draw me three years earlier to Max Headroom. Good series.

The Flash has its fans, but, unfortunately for fans at the time, the series came and went in a flashcube flash — lasting just 22 episodes. It's a shame, really, as series star John Wesley Shipp was pertectly fine inside and outside his special suit, and Mark Hamill was great as the Trickster, a guest shot in two shots, but memorable ones, and one effectively-evil character future ready.

Having written the above, I remembered that I have the DVD set, The Flash: Complete Series.

Sunday Fun?

Picturing: New Tall Buildings at Yonge & Bloor Toronto

While walking with a friend yesterday who was visiting from out of town, we took in a view, way up.

Toronto's intersection of Yonge and Bloor has changed so much in the last few years. Whether this 'progress' is good or not, there certainly are opportunities for one to kink his or her neck to get that special perspective not so abundant in that area till recently. As I fumbled with my Canon EOS mirrorless, friend Chris held my coffee. I joked with him about the steady stream of passers by — it was noon hour. "These folk see me and are probably thinking I'm visiting the big city for the first time." Being a longtime resident of this great city before moving away a couple of years ago, he laughed at my observation. Though I planted myself here in the 1980s, no doubt the look on my face read as: "Wow. Look at that tall building! I gotta take a snap for the kinfolk back home."

Suck it up, sunshine. They're goin' up everywhere, like mushrooms after a bout of acid rain. There's something about condos I don't like, certainly a surfeit of out-of-control condominium construction.

Nice view, eh?

Postscript: Behind us is the shuttered "Yonge & Bloor" Hudson's Bay store. It closed its doors three years ago. As announced earlier this week, "The Bay", as a whole, is now in liquidation. But those shiny-new condos sure are nice! "Yee-haw!"

Picturing: An Impressive Toronto Hotel Room

A friend was visiting from out of town. This morning I met him at his hotel, the W Toronto, which is on the north side of Bloor Street, just east of Yonge.

He took me up to his suite.

The door opened.

Wow. I was impressed. I'd be happy with a cot in a room ten feet square and a past-its-prime 'tube' television displaying snow.

The hotel staff was well trained, greeting me when I got to the lobby as though I was royalty. I really like this place. I live just two subway stops from the W Toronto, but it may be worth checking in; first I should check to see what the rates are....

Postscript: That Tim Hortons coffee cup on the cabinet is mine. I didn't leave it there.

An Experimental Film Short from The Funnel: Unways

 

In March I wrote a piece on my experiences with Toronto's experimental film collective, "The Funnel" (1977 - 1989). My involvement with the group was from sitting in front of a screen during late 1984 and early 1985. Those twice-weekly screenings were more than worth my time, but for some reason, probably because I was in my first year of film school at that time, I did not become a member or get to know any of the gang.

One such (filmmaker) gang member was Paul McGowan.

While looking up "the funnel toronto" on YouTube a few years ago, I stumbled upon the above short, Unways. Immediately I spent fifteen minutes sitting in front of my monitor screen soaking up the filmmaker's early-1980s Super-8 effort.

It was time well spent, as I became immersed in Mr McGowan's film; losing myself in its hypnotic flashes, its fixed stare looking down the length of a TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) subway train car. In some ways, Unways reminded me of Jonas Mekas' hypnotic 12-minute flickerama, Notes On the Circus (1966).

Paul McGowan enlisted the help of Funnel stalwart John Porter in execution of the time-lapse photographics, and for the fine audio track build, he worked with T. Michael Cluer. 

I wish more Funnel shorts were on YouTube, and, I now regret not having maintained my weekly visits to that special venue. A lot of experimental short films have been lost to the ravages of time.

Athot for the Day: Hot Foods

 Cold pizza is the best thing since sliced bread.

A Monday Morning Smile: the Cat with the Bat

"Your bloody cat brought a bat into the house!"

I was bleary eyed, still plenty tired, but I knew what my mother was trying to tell me through my thankfully closed bedroom door.

My cat had done something bad, so I wasted no time in waking up to face the challenge of extracting a cute little bat. There it lay, dead, a poor unfortunate victim of a wayward pussycat, on the floor outside my bedroom. ("A present? For me?! Thanks so much, Willie.")

Training in expired-bat removal was not something I had taken formally, but I knew that in the back room hung the Runkko "Bat Extractor": Two tennis rackets. (Of course I did not use my own lemon-yellow racket.)

The next day my mother explained to all what she had witnessed: "He would run to the top of the stairs with the bat in his mouth. He would then spit it out and bat it with his paw to the bottom of the stairs. Then he would run to the bottom, grab the bat with his teeth, run to the top of the stairs...."

Willie was a nice and fun cat. Great personality. I miss him... sans bat.

Paramount Pictures' Stage M — Elmer Bernstein

In a piece I wrote last December I mentioned a 'famous' film studio's music recording stage: Paramount Pictures' Stage M.  Many scores were recorded there, including those for: Sunset Boulevard; Psycho; Breakfast at Tiffany's; Out of Africa; The Hunt for Red October; Goodwill Hunting; Road to Perdition; The Bourne Identity; The Island; WALL-E; and many others. Music for Paramount television shows was recorded there, too, including episode background cues for programmes such as Mission: Impossible and Star Trek.

Recordings were not limited to instrumental parts. "White Christmas", "Mona Lisa", "Que Sera, Sera", and "Moon River" are some famous motion picture songs laid down at Stage M, by artists such as Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Doris Day.

That storied recording studio is now gone, having been closed in 2006, but through all the men and women who followed the batons of music men such as Victor Young, Bernard Herrmann, Henry Mancini, John Barry, and Jerry Goldsmith, its acoustical memories live on.

___

The late great film composer Elmer Bernstein recorded his classic score for The Ten Commandments at "M". (He replaced Victor Young when the veteran composer fell ill.) The film itself doesn't deserve, but needs, this brilliant work.

Happy Easter!

Elmer Bernstein conducts a cue for The Ten Commandments (1956).

* Photos reproduced with permission by The Bernstein Family Trust *

That's No Easter Bunny Answering Machine Message!

Many years ago my roommate at the time and I decided to have some fun: we recorded a message for answering machine which could be best described as... "daring".

Dave had a four-track audio recorder; it used cassette tape, the kind of tape used as the 'outgoing' message on my Panasonic answering machine. Inspiration hit the two of us fast and hard. We wrote the script quickly and prepared to record the message. In my music collection I have a CD titled "Hollywood's Greatest Hits Volume Two". On one track Dave and I laid down Elmer Bernstein's theme from the 1956 opus The Ten Commandments, specifically, the pastoral passage right after the bombast proper ― the background music we hear playing under the voice of God.

Next: Dave's recording of the voice of God. His voice was better than my nasally own for this important document. After we had the two tracks down it was a matter of giving the commanding orator some reverb. (A dry voice track would inspire no one, no matter how persuasive the text.)

We were very happy with our effort.

As the British would say, "the show went out".

The reaction was much greater than what we were expecting. Callers who got the outgoing message thought it was very funny, hilarious. What happened was the word quickly got around about our answering machine commandments. People would call just to hear the message, and since Dave and I were busy guys, chances were they would get the machine.

A mutual friend went into hysterics when we gave him a live playback, but after he regained his composure, he told us his concern that some folk might not find our commandments humorous.

After some time Dave and I pulled the work. Unfortunately it's gone; we know not where.

Here's a transcription, but please don't mistake it for scripture:

"Luuuke. I mean... Mosesss. Thou shalt leave a message at the tone. Leave thy name and numberrr...

(at this point Dave's voice speeds into a 'Maxwell Smart')

"... And when I get a chance, I'll call you back!"

Athot for the Day: All Aboard!

Time's greatest curse is its immense locomotive power.

Vid: Four in the Cosmos — 1969 Soviet Short Film

Studying up on the history of the Soviet space program is one of my research pleasures. Sputnik and the Soviet Space Challenge and The Soviet Space Race with Apollo are two massive books — in size and detail — by space historian Asif A. Siddiqi, and act as significant and essential contributors to my knowledge of a technologically and politically complicated space effort. It's quite possible I cannot be satiated on this subject.

("V'Ger needs the information.")

On Saturday I posted a piece on Yuri Gagarin, the first man to experience space flight, and yesterday I wrote about my memories of the near-disastrous Apollo 13 moon mission.

To keep on a astronautics/cosmonautics theme this week, embedded above is Four in the Cosmos, a fine if unrevealing 20-minute motion picture document from 1969 on the Soyuz 4 and Soyuz 5 orbital docking mission from January of that year. Thousands of 16mm copies (and more than a few 35mm 'blow-ups') would have been made of this 'promotional' short, for distribution to schools, libraries, and cinemas, large and small, across the USSR and its satellite states.

Used to good effect is Georgy Sviridov's brilliant orchestral piece, "Time, Forward!", originally composed for a film of the same name just four years earlier but already finding a life outside its original intent. (It rolls with driving steel works machinery rhythms similar in collectivist spirit to those of Alexander Mosolov's 1927 piece, "Iron Foundry".)

My Russian is non-existent, so I asked a Russian friend of mine to translate the screen chatter in basic terms: He said that nothing much is revealed; in particular, the voice-over is a "near-to-empty official story of the flight"; nothing to give anything away.

(Not advertised was Soyuz 5's bumpy return to Earth.)

As short-form filmmaking, Four in the Cosmos is effective and, at times, almost poetic.

Apollo 13 — 55 Years Ago

Iffezheim, West Germany - April 14, 1970

"Simon, wake up... Apollo Thirteen's in trouble; they're coming back."

Quickly I awoke after my dad's prompting and I began to process startling data inputted before my internal processors were at peak efficiency.

Over the course of getting ready for school I learned exactly what was known at that point from listening to the CFB Baden-Soellingen radio news. There had been an explosion on-board the Apollo 13 spacecraft's Service Module nullifying any chance of carrying out the latest mission to land two men on the moon. Now it was a matter of survival as electrical and environmental systems were quickly depleting. The third manned moon landing would have to wait.

When I arrived at the base's elementary school the talk on the playground was, no surprise, about the top news story. We were all space-race/moonshot kids so any developments of importance, especially those regarding the now troubled Apollo 13 mission, were a big deal.

Into Mrs. Quance's classroom: Through some process of elimination I was picked to stand before the class and update eager and smiling kids on the morning's most current affair. For valid reasons, I'm sure, I was considered to be the resident Jules Bergman: The red cue light came on and the floor director gave me the big signal. ("This is fun.")

The following few days were tense. We all 'prayed' for the safe return of American astronauts James Lovell, John "Jack" Swigert, and Fred Haise to the protective wrap of Earth.

In an age when the moniker of "hero" is thrown about constantly and unconsciously, for me real heroes are guys like the above. (Yuri Gagarin and Alan Shepard would be at the top of my space-traveller-as-hero list.)

Success came after much difficult work, which included constant calculations and recalculations, by the brilliant men and women at NASA and beyond, and by the astronauts themselves.

The Apollo 13 Command Module (the capsule) splashed down onto the South Pacific Ocean on April 17th, 1970.

A few years ago I watched a documentary that did a fine job of retelling the tale, and after being refreshed by details and personal reminiscences from those involved with the near-tragic mission, I was moved by archival footage of the space capsule hanging from its cluster of three parachutes. Perhaps part of the effect was from being taken back to an unforgettable moment of my childhood.

James Lovell, Jack Swigert, and Fred Haise

Sunday Fun: Fawlty Towers — Opening Titles

"Basil!"

Whenever I hear Mr Fawlty's name called, propelled, by his trouser-wearing wife, Sybil, I know I've checked into the right hotel.

Like many great concepts, the British television situation comedy Fawlty Towers was inspired by a real-life equivalent. In the early 1970s the Monty Python gang checked in for three weeks at the Gleneagles Hotel, in Torquay, Devon (England), an establishment owned and 'operated' by a Mister Donald Sinclair. What the gang could not help but notice was their host's eccentric and irrational quirks: inhospitable behaviour. His guests, his lifeblood, seemed to annoy him to no end by way of existing in one of his suites and periodically in his dining area — and holding one's knife and fork in the wrong hands, or holding the fork and no knife.

Springboard to a brilliant series. A one of a kind. (I generally despise television sitcoms. But.)

Fawlty was created by former Python, but always funny, John Cleese, and his then wife Connie Booth (who onscreen would play hotel assistant Polly Sherman).

The always dependable hotel staff provided a steady stream of high laughter.

John Cleese played Basil to such perfection that one might think that the actor had a little "Basil" in him. His childish rants and meltdowns were something to behold. Sybil could cut him to pieces, reminding him that he's her husband, not her very young son. "My little nest of vipers" was one of many retorts to his ruling wife; under his breath retorts were about the best he could do.

Manuel, performed to legend by German-born actor Andrew Sachs, was the inn's Spanish waiter. His understanding of the English language was but a step above my understanding of French. One can imagine the potential for errors when diners would place their orders. Basil would sometimes discipline him with a simple cuff to the head. Funny, but not funny, but hilarious.

"He's from Barcelona." Could a television series get away with lines like that today?

Imagine a show today placing an order for an episode like "The Germans". (Nein!) Actually, some furor was generated a few years ago when that classic, and very funny, episode was pulled from the BBC-owned platform UKTV. Imagine. The horror of comedy! The episode was almost immediately returned to the shelf for regular viewing.

(I'm not a big collector of video physical media, but, after such scares, I'm happy I have a certain DVD boxed set protected on my shelf.)

By the way, Fawtly Towers lasted just 12 episodes; not through cancellation by BBC2, but due to Mr Cleese's understanding that there is such a thing as a series overstaying its welcome.

"Go away."

Yuri Gagarin's Special Space Flight 1961

This long time space cadet has not forgotten that today is the 64th anniversary of Soviet Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin's historic space flight. The twenty-seven-year-old's one-orbit mission on Vostok 1 made him a name the world over. The news of a man travelling in space was exciting to this planet's masses, but it left many Americans stunned that such a "backwards" country could achieve such a feat and be the first to do so.

The USSR was not so backwards, after all.

First off, guidance control was so sophisticated that Gagarin's flight was totally automated, from the launch of the R-7 rocket to the cosmonaut's ejection after the capsule re-entered the Earth's atmosphere. The mission was controlled from the ground, with the space pilot having the option of taking over flight systems only if the need arose.

For all its successes, the Vostok 1 flight was not trouble-free. The scariest part for Gagarin was when the retaining straps holding his spherical capsule to the service module did not completely disconnect before the re-entry phase. The whole unwieldy vehicle tumbled wildly. The man on the ride thought the end was near. Luck, destiny, or some other force, eventually took control of the mission: Vostok 1 re-oriented itself into a proper descent attitude after the intense heat of atmospheric re-entry burned off the 'recalcitrant' metal strap.

For purely technical reasons, man and spacecraft did not land together on USSR soil, as a soft landing had not yet been perfected by the Soviet engineers. The only way to ensure complete success, not to mention comfort, was to have the cosmonaut land via parachute away from his capsule. By the way, this aspect of the flight had been kept secret, and for a good reason: Fédération Aéronautique Internationale (FAI) rules dictated that the pilot had to land in his or her vehicle, otherwise it was not a complete flight ― the secret got out when Gherman Titov admitted out loud that he had separated from his rapidly descending Vostok 2 capsule. (If one were to acknowledge and accept the FAI's requirements to the letter, it was actually U.S. astronaut Alan Shepard who accomplished the first manned space flight when he flew in his Mercury capsule just a few weeks after Gagarin's trip.)

The Soviet Union's space-travelling star landed in a farmer's field. Mission accomplished!

Soviet cosmonaut; man of the world.

Yuri Gagarin!

A Matinee Movie: Superargo Versus Diabolicus

This was a beautiful and entertaining movie in my childhood. It played at my local cinema, the now-gone Astral at CFB Borden, a few times, and I caught it on at least two occasions. Somehow we young moviegoers knew it wasn't exactly a Hollywood movie even though it was a CinemaScope and colour picture featuring fast cars, computer consoles, cool fights (the flick opens with Superargo, a guy in red tights, wrestling in a ring with a leopard man), a rocketship, and an emotive villain running his nefarious operation out of a small island.

I later learned that Superargo contro Diabolikus ― brought to America as Superargo Versus Diabolicus ― was an Italian/Spanish co-production from 1966. The only actor I am familiar with is Gérard Tichy; he was in two Samuel Bronston pictures from 1961: El Cid and King of Kings. Tichy plays the villain, Diabolicus, with great delight, as I remember it. He says to Superargo: "With my brains and your strength we can rule the world!" (I would now ask: "What? Is he from a race of Atomic Supermen? Okay, I'm sure the guy can bench-press three hundred pounds, or more, and run at a fair clip, but Superargo would be a key and vital figure in helping a smart guy conquer and rule the world?")

Perhaps it's time I revisit this fine piece of matinee fare and enjoy Superargo's delightful final few minutes all over again, the way I remember them....

(Spoilers; stop here if you plan to catch the flick.)

As a clock does a classic countdown, Diabolicus tries to take off in a rocketship from his island to escape a pursuing Superargo, and a timed detonator (which will blow up the island).

Next, there is a shot, at night time, of what appears to be a pile of mud on a wet garage floor. I think: "Oh, that's the area right under the rocket booster... and the flame is supposed to be the rockets readying to fire."

Shot of Superargo running over to a control panel. He pulls a power cable, or something or other, and sparks fly. Medium close-up of Diabolicus yelling or screaming in his capsule. Back to the wet garage floor as a mass of flame licks and swirls around the pile of mud which throws about little chunks of mud.

I think: "Diabolicus is getting away; the rockets are firing." At that exact same instant, just about everyone in the movie theatre explodes with laughter.

Feeling little, I think: "What are they laugh... ? Ohh, that's supposed to be the island blowing up!"

I'm not always the brightest rocket on the island!

Toronto 1971: Wayne and Shuster Play City Golf

When I was a kid I looked forward to the Wayne and Shuster television specials. Though the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) was the electronic home of Johnny Wayne and Frank Shuster, Canada's greatest comedy duo, they travelled outside our borders. Perhaps the biggest proof of their comedic mobility is the number of times they met with Ed Sullivan stateside on his long-running and highly-rated series, The Ed Sullivan Show (CBS, 1948 - 1971): a total of 67, according to one source.

The above clip, from a Wayne and Shuster special from September 19, 1971, is funny because it's absurd. Playing a game of golf among pedestrian and automobile traffic is not something you would've seen in 1971; try it now and you'll get arrested. By the way: Did Toronto police officers 'dress' like that back then? I like those uniforms.

My guess is I saw the above segment when it first aired. Watching it now, I find I'm playing a game of "Name the Location". Our stellar city has changed so much since then. The CN Tower was on the drawing board. And the mushroom cloud of ugly condo towers was far in the distance.

Tee up!

Postscript: I'm about to head out to do some errands. Where's my 9 iron? Oh... I had forgotten that Toronto Police confiscated it.

What Comes Afterward?

“We (scientists) don’t know what happens after you die.”

Well, something to that effect. The scientific television guest got one thinking.

I will defer to my good friend Günther Spatz. In mild German-accented English he offered his opinion on the subject of “death after dying” as we enjoyed our beers, and moroseness... and Brätwurst:

“As long as it’s da full dead, da real deal, and not some half-assed, phony dead; where I’m forever playing da bongos on a downtown street corner.”

Athot for the Day: Acquired?

F**k I love olives.

Memories: Iffezheim, Baden-Württemberg, Germany

Thunder & Lightning

Perhaps it's due to a more temperate climate that Germany gets bigger storms than we do here in southern Ontario, Canada. Our German landlord, Herr Lorenz, a very pleasant and happy-faced man, more than once had to replace roof tiles on our Iffezheim apartment building. The wind was something. The thunder & lightning was something else. I remember my pals and I being dropped off one day by the school bus right into a lightning storm. For some reason the atmospheric tumultuousness encouraged me to run for it ― friends called from behind. Off I went, my six or seven year old legs a blur, propelling me at warp speed down the sidewalk. Not long after my sudden acceleration everything became a bright white. A super flash. I mean everything in my field of vision; there were no shades of gray. The first thing that crossed my mind: I was missed by that much. Now I've modified it to: I almost got zapped by Big Sparky himself.

(Something about after-school storms.)

Cut to a year or two later.

After a long day at CFB Baden-Soellingen my sister and I departed the school bus at the usual place, right near Iffezheim's Roman Catholic church, St. Birgitta, and we made our uneventful way home. Suddenly the lightning started, quickly followed by the thunder. As we reached our apartment door, CRACK! My normally sedate sister emitted an awful scream. ("It's just thunder!") The scream was probably more a Penny Robinson scream than one as chilling as what I perceived at the time, but the point was made.

We came back to Canada and the thunder & lightning seemed less energetic.

In a way, I missed Germany.

June Bugs

"The skies were black!"

"You're exaggerating."

"Perhaps I am, a little bit. Okay, there were strips of black against blue sky. I've never again seen anything like that in my life."

My strongest such memory is of me sitting in the back parking lot of our Iffezheim apartment building. On a beautiful mid evening the darkening skies were blue, except where there were those "strips of black": mass flights of June bugs. As I sat on a concrete block I looked up at the dramatic aerial display above. Occasionally, the pretty brown little insects would drop about the ground around my outstretched feet. Mid-air collisions, perhaps. The bugs buzzed and rattled as they ended up on their backs, little feet outstretched. Of course, when one is young one looks with boundless fascination at nature; and its occasional random acts about. (As one gets older, one gets grossed-out.)

My return to Canada taught me something about nature: Canada, southern Ontario, at least, lacks June skies of certain bugs.

The skies were black!

Wasps

At the back of the bus I heard a kid start to cry; he was sitting on the very end seat as he reached around to his backside. He had been stung by a wasp. He was seated waiting for the parked bus to finish loading up more schoolmates after a day at CFB Baden-Soellingen Elementary School, and that's what he gets for being a good and well behaved young man. I turned back to face the front and took in the sight of marshalling school kids. Not that I remember what I was thinking at that time but no doubt it was about wasps and how those buggers, even after even a modicum of human diligence and intelligence, would get you in the end... and sometimes in the end.

Wasps would build nests anywhere, it seemed. I seem to remember my German landlord having to constantly (and carefully!) remove nests from around the apartment building exterior during the summers I lived there. If there's a corner, there's room for an outpost or base of operations. I'm sure my then young brain would sometimes ask the big question:

"Is West Germany all about the wasp?"

I never got it in the end. Not in West Germany, and certainly not here:

"Where are the wasps?! I mean, did they stay in West Germany?"

Sunday Fun: a Character Designing a Character

Sketchpad on the lap.

The 'radio' tuned to ZoomerRadio, or BBC Radio2.

Thinking of characters.

Like any big city, Toronto is full of the figurative kind. (Yours truly could be penciled-in, and with little contestment, even from me.)

As for the literal, expressions thereof should come easily.

A few thumbnails sprout from the paper.

Who is this guy? How did his parents name him?

I want to use him for a video project; I know just the right project for such a memorable man. Chances are he'll be a big star.

I can imagine who he might be: He hangs around on a TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) subway station platform — specifically "St. George" Station — but never actually boards a train. He stands there, in some sort of spiritually lost limbo, not sure in what direction to travel, and not sure if he wants to leave, if at all, via the "Bedford" or "St. George" exit.

With further imagination I begin to believe he's a former University of Toronto student; Law was his first course, but switched to Engineering Science ("Eng-Sci") after he figured it might be easier. It wasn't easier. And now he's drawn back to this place. Life takes an unexpected course. Can he go back and try it all over again? (That outfit he wears tells me he was the water boy for the Varsity Blues football team, circa late-eighties.)

I speak with a TTC inspector who stands on the "southbound" platform. It is important for my own sanity that I ask the big question.

"He's here almost every time I'm at this station", I offer.

The inspector answers, without editorial or judgement: "His name is Dennis."

Yes. Dennis.

"He" is now a real person. Dennis!

"Dennis" shall be his name!

The Twilight Zone Mixed Up With The Outer Limits

For some, the issue of which is the better television series is of the utmost importance. I like both equally, and, they are actually two different shows once one gets past the anthology format, which both share equally.

The Twilight Zone (1959 - 1964)
More fantasy than science fiction.

The Outer Limits (1963 - 1965)
More science fiction than fantasy.


I have a first-hand story regarding that great often-fought interdimensional and interstellar battle.

Years ago I was visiting my neighbour. The food and drink came out, but nobody got drunk. The ensuing discussions were of the type expected at a friendly get together.

It happened. Scott, boyfriend of my neighbour, seemed to have a problem with my holding The Outer Limits in the same esteem I did The Twilight Zone. "Oh, come on, man. The Outer Limits was so bad. There was that episode that was so typical. The one with the robot boxer."

A challenge! I was thrown straight into the ring: "That episode was called 'Steel'. It starred Lee Marvin. And it was a Twilight Zone episode."

Passion. The fists flew.

Well, he pointed: "You're wrong." And continuing variations on that theme.

I went back to my apartment, and from my bookcase I pulled The Twilight Zone Companion (Marc Scott Zicree).

Back to the battlefield!

With the book opened at the proper page, the chapter on "Steel", Scott's jaw dropped. In the manner expected of a soul converted by a well-placed "K.O.", he emitted a feeble, but emotive: "This is a conspiracy." (Emphasis his.)

On such matters, don't argue with Uncle Simon.

No. "Uncle Simon" is a Twilight Zone episode.

OMG: CQD; SOS; LOL

The rowboat is leaking. You’re in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. There’s a sandbar up ahead.

Made it!

The ratty old duffle bag holds emergency supplies: the infamous “desert island” physical media.

I discovered what was in my hastily-packed bag.

My discipline held to one of each:

Music: Carmina Burana
Movie: Metropolis


Darn.

I just realized that while I had remembered to pack a disc player, I forgot the a/c (alternating current) plug and adaptor.

I cheated in that I had packed quite a few books: Kafka; Allen; Hesse; Kerouac; “The English Channel” (Calder); “The Pearl” (Steinbeck); “The Mysterious Island” (Verne); “Roy Hinkley’s Guide to Making Coconut-based Electronics”....

Vid: CBC Interview With Sydney Newman at the BBC

 

One special evening in the amazing year 2022 I took a break from my motions of nothingness to take some time to do some exploring on YouTube — a form of nothingness in motion, at times. I thought of Sydney Newman, the father, of a sort, of the long-running BBC science fiction television series Doctor Who. Quickly I found a 43-minute piece of film from 1966. "Doctor Who creator Sydney Newman discusses his career with CBC" is an excellent interview with the man who went on to initiate and guide two stellar British television programmes, Doctor Who and The Avengers. However, there is much more to the story than those two series.

Newman was born and bred here in the great city of Toronto ― great now, and, I'm sure, great in 1917. He followed his dream working as a successful commercial artist, and the money was good, but Newman eventually decided to go into film production. A stint at the NFB (National Film Board) led to him working in television at the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation). After producing several distinguished one-off dramas, including Arthur Hailey's Flight into Danger, a live-to-air presentation from 1956, and one starring James Doohan of later Star Trek fame, Newman was courted and hired by ABC Weekend TV in the U.K. with the brief to do equally outstanding television drama programmes, but for the British public. That he did. The BBC then convinced him to jump ship and the rest is history: Doctor Who.

While Who is discussed in very brief terms, "Doctor Who creator Sydney Newman" more importantly is an instructive insight on the issues of producing television and the dichotomy between serving the public as a public broadcaster with that of the business of drawing sufficient viewers to validate and sustain one's position as a fiduciary of television "arts and entertainment".

Postscript: Upon my second viewing of the video clip, I realized that Newman comes across as being very articulate, certainly for someone of his position. Of course this quality did not escape me the first time around, but it was more obvious during the rewatch. Imagine a person in his position today presenting himself or herself so well, both in diction and knowledge. One might argue that the BBC today would have someone of that caliber. On this side of the pond such positions are seemingly staffed by dopes. I've met a few from this unconscious type; one of whom was a higher-up at Global Television here in Toronto. Scary stuff.

Commonplace Book: Introduction

John Milton kept one, and I keep one. A commonplace book is a great method for taking notes when one comes across an interesting song lyric, a poem, a quote, a conversation overheard, something witnessed, a random idea that hits with little or no provocation or warning.

These bits can be put down in text form, sketches, or both. Whatever works best for the notetaker at that stitch in time. Referring to a commonplace book and its contents weeks, months, or even years after the ink was set on paper, can be inspirational and instructive.

"Oh, that's what spurred me on."

I'm good at making mental notes, but more often than not, if it's "not written down" when the bolt strikes, it eventually, at times too quickly, gets lost with the storm as it moves on.

If one reads a lot, a commonplace book is a good companion; for writers, this book is essential, or at least it should be.

Above is a sample from my commonplace book. As indicated at the top of the page, I sketched this bit on September 19th, 2015 while reading Alfred Price's 1976 book The Bomber in World War II. Rereading the pages now reminds me how air power has its limitations. I'm interested in military history, so the quote is in synch with my interests... which is generally a hallmark of one keeping such a book.

More pages to come....

Commonplace Book: On Bukowski (Page Samples)

John Milton kept one, and I keep one. A commonplace book is a great method for taking notes when one comes across an interesting song lyric, a poem, a quote, a conversation overheard, something witnessed, a random idea that hits with little or no provocation or warning.

These bits can be put down in text form, sketches, or both. Whatever works best for the notetaker at that stitch in time. Referring to a commonplace book and its contents weeks, months, or even years after the ink was set on paper, can be inspirational and instructive. "Oh, that's what spurred me on."

I'm good at making mental notes, but more often than not, if it's "not written down" when the bolt strikes, it eventually, at times too quickly, gets lost with the storm as it moves on.

If you read a lot, a commonplace book is a good companion; for writers, this book is essential, or at least it should be.

In early 2015 I went through yet another 'Bukowski' phase — barely a year after my previous such foray. "The laureate of American lowlife", as Time magazine famously labelled him, Charles Bukowski came from the streets, in a sense. Living for a time off one chocolate bar per day, washed down with whatever alcoholic beverage is at hand, while 'existing' in a run-down flat, inspires the creative brain. (I've never tried that nutritional plan since I very rarely have a taste for chocolate bars, and alcohol-leaden drinks are something I experience when there's someone sitting across from me.) Puttering through life as a "lowlife' definitely garners story material not terribly familiar to those who live off the backs of Bukowski characters. (Years ago a friend visited me in my abode and said: "Simon, I can see you're living the good life . . . but it's not really an artist's place." Nice that he referred to me as an 'artist', though.)

The poet, short story writer, and novelist, ran half a lifetime as an everyman: enlisted in the millions of Americans who just get by, financially — in his case, as a worker for the post office. Eventually, an offer in 1969 from a publisher to write full-time allowed Bukowski to quit his letter-carrier job, and not long after this career change he completed his first novel, "Post Office". (Write about what you know.) This book, I should add, was my real introduction to the scribe... outside of "Charles Bukowski". During my read I got that buzz one enjoys when one tastes something resembling art mixed with the art of living.

In part two's scan, we see that I was on a roll entering truths and wisdoms about artists' creative processes and inspirations: notes from Bukowski, William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Leon Trotsky, and Bukowski biographer Barry Miles. What does influence your sequencing of your keyboard's, or typewriter's, keys? What pushes your pen/pencil-equipped hand as it streams over the paper?... as if scripting around a Ouija board?

The unconscious mind is known to any creative artist. Where does it come from? (Well, this comes from my effort to complete something before my pasta finishes boiling....)

Postscript: I sketched those commonplace book notes in May of 2015 while reading Barry Miles' outstanding biography, "Charles Bukowski".

Athot for the Day: Accepting Reality

There can be no doubt that human-existence is punishment for sin.

Sunday Fun: Live from Toronto - The Starlost, Wojeck

The Starlost




Produced here in Toronto, Canada, but actually an NBC initiative, The Starlost (1973 - 1974) helped fill an epic hole left after Star Trek finished its original run in 1969 (but continuing to burn up the "stripping" markets). From day one the series was to be produced on videotape in order to save money and to allow for extensive, and inexpensive, chroma key work: enhancing sets and backgrounds in addition to the expected "space" element. NBC set up a coproduction deal with Canada's CTV network, allowing for further budget savings. It should be mentioned that Glen-Warren Productions at that time was one of the most sophisticated and well-equipped television facilities in existence; one reason why key parts of Network (1976) were shot there.

Why do I know so much about this series? As part of my ongoing research on Canadian television programs The Starlost was an obvious target. I interviewed many people associated with its production — including writer Harlan Ellison, producer William Davidson, script editor Norman Klenman, designer Jack McAdam, and actors Gay Rowan and John Colicos — and ultimately wrote the insert liner notes for the show's DVD release, which I describe here.

My now academic interest aside: In September of 1973 my space-cadet friend and I sat down in front of the colour console in great anticipation. I stuck with the series but was not disappointed when it failed to be renewed for another season.

One of the most memorable things about the opening titles — in this case from the episode "Mr. Smith of Manchester" — is the catchy theme music.

Wojeck

Canadians, like Brits, like to mock their own television drama programs. "Typical BBC cheapness." How many times have we heard that? Here in Canada, that statement would probably ring out as "everything the CBC makes is crap". Of course those two national networks are not the only makers and providers of television fare in their respective countries, but you get the idea.

Wojeck aired on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's television network between September of 1966 and March of 1968. Season one was produced in black and white; season two, colour.

John Vernon is "Steve Wojeck", a big city coroner who works and cares for the people. With anti-BS fervour he tackles very real issues such as worker safety, health standards, racism, and, radical for television drama at that time, abortion.

Photographed here in Toronto on 16mm film, Wojeck's 'eye' was that of direct cinema documentary. The approach of "realism" enhanced the often excellent scripting, giving the stories some added punch. Had the series been produced on 35mm in the more conventional, and expected, studio style, it probably would not have been as effective.

Wojeck is a great series.

RCAF Brats: Hercules Trips of Note

A "flip" on a Canadian Armed Forces CC-130 Hercules built some of my fondest memories. As a military "dependent", or "brat", one gets occasional lifts on transport aircraft. In my case, a trip to England from West Germany, and back again, involved hopping onto a Herc.

Kids, brat kids, don't care about the luxury of a commercial airliner as much as the raw and open power of four Allison turboprops propelling noisily a military transport aircraft. During takeoff, especially, the racket is invigorating. But, my mother hated it. I can still picture her sitting opposite me. She slumped in her seat, obviously hoping the flight would be brief.

I remember a flight back to West Germany out of Gatwick Airport. The aircraft was packed: service people and their families, and individuals, occupying all available seating ― there is no designated seating on a Herc, by the way; no seat 12A. As a matter of fact, the seats would be better described as "webbing". As I sat against the forward starboard bulkhead, the flight suddenly, and without any warning, became a joy ride. We shot straight up from our seats and seconds later we were dropped with great force back down. Mere inches from my right foot a blur and a great sound: "Clack-cla-ClackClack!" The tethered cargo retaining shackles that were normally affixed to the bulkhead immediately beside me had also risen during the aircraft drop, but instead of falling back into position, they fell to the floor, missing me... barely. I asked my dad years later about that incident. He remembered it, too:

"If those hadda hit you there would've been hell to pay."

"What happened?"

"The loadmaster wasn't doing his job."


My sister served in our Forces for a few years in the 1980's. She was stationed for some time at CFB Cold Lake, Alberta. "Maple Flag", a training exercise, is hosted at the base every summer. A participant in these games is the Hercules. One day a compatriot asked Karen if she wanted to jump on board. She said yes.

During Maple Flag, Hercs will execute a series of evasive maneuvers. This process involves the pilot (a "Herc Driver") putting his or her machine into various attitudes: skids; power back; power full; turns; and so on. The idea is you are being attacked and such changes in the aircraft's flight attitude increases your chances of survival. During the twists and turns, flares are dropped in order to help 'confuse' any intercepting missiles.

It was hot. The Herc flew its special maneuvers over prairie fields. Karen started to feel unwell. It was too much for her system; too much to take. It was bound to happen.

As she held the special receiving bag in front of her mouth, she unloaded. A steady stream of stomach contents. A crewmember rubbed her back.

The aircraft landed back at the base. Karen: "The most humiliating part was I had to carry my bag of vomit off the plane."

I asked her recently who the crewmember was. "It might have been the flight engineer." I doubt it. He would have been in the cockpit, with the pilots. It was probably the loadmaster.

Welcome to England, Mate! Cheers!

My first trip to England as an adult happened in April of 1990. After my Air Canada Boeing 747 landed at Heathrow, and I had been processed at customs, I made the necessary trip down the airport's moving walkway to the exit doors: to be ejected into British society.

My stand on the walkway was the introduction part. A newly arrived Canadian needed a good taste of that 'angry Brit' behaviour — that stereotypical behaviour.

I heard a fast-approaching voice behind me. "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me...." A young woman, with hands up, was pleasantly pushing her way past the standing crowd, obviously in a rush to get somewhere, like the end of the moving walkway. Another voice caught my attention; I looked over to see a scruffy-looking gentleman, a guy who looked like he could have been a grumpy brother of film director Stanley Kubrick.

"Ah, what makes you so privileged?" The happy vaulter answered: "Just making my way through." Like a schoolmaster who had to educate his Canadian students (tourists) he addressed us with a quick scan of his saucer-like eyes: "She must be from Birmingham!"

All I could come up with was: "Welcome to England!" — to myself.

Two Big Toho Studios Monster Fans

The combination of Godzilla and Toho film studios makes for a formidable tag team. The famous Japanese production complex is so synonymous with the rubber-made monster that it's hard to believe that it actually has produced non monster movies.

However, the purpose of this piece is to go for the studio's biggest star: Godzilla.

In September of 1988 I became friends with a chap who had been living in the same building as me. Richard and I hit it off right away once we decided to converse with one another. (We first crossed paths in late 1984 but it was a polite "hello".) He was in the midst of his physics master's degree program at the University of Toronto, and I, a recent film-school graduate, was working very occasionally as a designer on films and television commercials.

How tickled I was when he told me that he was a big fan of the Godzilla pictures. Making monstrous moves was a natural step for us.

A pot of tea, a bowl of unhealthy potato chips, two geeks in front of a VCR-powered television set: Godzilla; Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster; Godzilla vs. Mothra; King Kong vs. Godzilla; Destroy All Monsters; Godzilla, 1985; you get the picture.

Richard earned his PhD in Particle Physics, and is now working in Lost Alamos, New Mexico; and I stomped around in the film and television business here in Toronto.

Postscript: Richard responded to a certain post I had written in May of 2020: Unidentified Aerial Phenomena (UFO Flicks). "You don't want to know what I think of UFOs (Oh yes I do!) . . . Every time science advances, it shows that there is nothing special about humans. We are probably some of the dumbest creatures in the universe!" (No comment.) Soon we'll be doing a little chat, the transcript of which I will post to this website.

Just No Luck on a Toronto Saturday Night

After recounting admissions recently to an old friend of mine regarding my lack of activity in the now-shuttered Brunswick House, I remembered an odd, though hardly unexpected, experience from another local attraction, The Madison Avenue Pub. “The Maddy" is a hot spot for local students — not just those from the University of Toronto — and professors and Annexians alike.

Years ago, when I was a regular occupant of the Maddy, I witnessed a potentially ugly incident. One night as I was leaving the establishment after soaking down with friends of mine, I heard a provocative discussion happening in real — but a bit blurry — time on the stairway leading from near the main entrance up to the second floor:

"Man! Give him his rubbers back!" Again: "Man, give him his rubbers back." And: "Come on, man!"

Remembering that I was carrying several packets of condoms in my left back pocket I made an offer to the swaying young bloke amongst the three who clearly was operating sans "rubbers". My kindly gesture might give the lad a night to remember.

"Hey. These are yours. They should last you the night." While tossing a "Thanks, Man!" he extended his right arm but inexplicably missed my personal space. I helped by intercepting his hand, a dance much in the way a Soyuz-Progress spacecraft might mate with the International Space Station. The cargo had been delivered. "Contact."

My hope was he would not notice the expiry date; that the alcohol had disconnected any primal urge to check the potentially prize-winning numbers on yellowing packaging.

As I took the two steps down to the main floor, I turned and looked up to my grateful pal: "Have fun... but be careful."

I spun a half-turn toward the opened exit door but a sweeping voice chased me:

"What'd'ya mean, 'be careful'?"

I wasn't so inebriated that I could not walk an uncountable pace. That was all I heard. No more "what?". He had probably already forgotten me.

As I walked north on Madison Avenue, a young man — they all seem young after you've punched a third decade in the head — approached with measurable non-precision and puttered a question to my broadside as he wobbled around me.

"Hey, man. Do you got any rubbers?"

"Funny you should ask. Sorry, Sam, I just gave the last of them away. Have a good night."

(I should have gone into business for myself. A tall, skinny, well-dressed, in a Metrosexual way, and sober guy is of the sort that must be equipped with condoms-for-sale. It all makes sense.)

A clarification: The above story is a work of creative fiction based on actual events. Not all details are authentic and certain liberties are taken in order to tell an entertaining story; I hope. ("Reality" drifts to the mundane.)

A Story: Discovering Film & Television Music

When I work on projects at home I will listen to music, or, if my task requires little concentration: discussions, spoken-word or narrated pieces. A few years ago, while looking for stuff to download from the wonderful BBC radio podcast site I noticed that British film reviewer/writer Mark Kermode had recorded a four-part series called "The Soundtrack of My Life".

 
Titled, simply enough, "Soundtrack Albums", the piece involved Kermode's memories of discovering film scores and soundtracks. He recounted how he began his love of film music. After these reminiscences, he went on to interview several filmmakers and composers.

I remember my first soundtrack album. It was from a film I had seen just months before, in 1975, at the Terra Theatre in CFB Borden: Rollerball.

Later, as I perused the LP record bin at Borden's PX (Post Exchange), I happened across the Rollerball soundtrack and learned then that there was a tie-in record. I bought it on the spot. This LP was not an original soundtrack in the traditional sense, but a compilation of music: A mix of Shostakovich, Tchaikovsky, Bach, and two more-contemporary pieces by Andre Previn composed specifically for the film. One of the catches for me was Tomaso Albinoni's "Adagio"; I remembered that it was used quite effectively in the Space: 1999 television series episode "Dragon's Domain", which I had also seen just a few months earlier. Now that I think about it, I played the Rollerball record a lot. It was not my introduction to recorded classical music — my parents had a good selection from that domain — but the choices, no doubt by the film's director, Norman Jewison, seemed to be a perfect blend for this then young listener.

My next album was the music to Space: 1999, which I was a little disappointed in, and a couple of years after that was Battlestar Galactica. (What's with all the sci-fi TV crap? Oh yeah, I was young.) A side note to the latter score: When I listened to it again, many years later, I couldn't help but notice the William Walton influence. This really comes through on one piece in particular.

No, I did not get the soundtrack to Star Wars in 1977. What turned me off of buying it, I think, was was my honest and raw reaction after a friend of mine lent me the two-LP set a few weeks before we saw the movie. (The album was actually available before the movie release itself in some markets.) As I had discovered Miklos Rosza's Ben Hur music the summer before — courtesy of my dad's original 1959 "Stereophonic" pressing of that album — the Star Wars music on its own sounded rather lame. When I returned the album to my friend I mentioned that I found the music to be "watery" and didn't even bother turning the first LP over to play "Side 2". (He too was not impressed. After all, this was the guy who got me into the German band, Kraftwerk.) Of course the music plays wonderfully well with the film and is a classic film score. Film scores, as composer Gerald Fried noted in an interview years ago, generally don't stand on their own as music. This is not a failing, of course, since they are designed, quite designed in fact, to play with picture and other audio elements. Those audio tracks can get quite crowded. Some scores do work on their own; it doesn't mean they are better scores, just that they can be listened to away from the movie. I've since acquired the Star Wars CD and I like the background music much better now as a standalone... the few times I've given it a spin. Oh, I bought the LP version in 1982.

The first 'original music' film score soundtrack LP that I remember getting was for Alien. I was very impressed, even though I had not yet seen the film. Speaking of film composer Jerry Goldsmith, for that's who I was speaking of in that case, later in 1979 he would produce his brilliant music accompaniment for Star Trek - The Motion Picture. (It's the best part of that slightly underrated film, I think. The theme tune, in particular, is one of the greatest of movie anthems.)

What's with all the sci-fi movie scores? Well, for starters, and to correct the whole notion that it's all about the space stuff here, there's the LP to the 1970 biopic, Patton.

I'm a fan of the late composer Jerry Goldsmith. His effect was best summed up recently by producer/writer Seth MacFarlane on a BBC radio show: "(Goldsmith) was an insanely talented guy."

There are others whose work I admire: (the great) Bernard Herrmann, Franz Waxman, Max Steiner, Elmer Bernstein, John Williams, David Shire, John Barry, Ennio Morricone, Ron Goodwin....

(Sorry, Han Zimmer's a B-rate film composer.)

Decades ago I stopped collecting film scores. The odd one would trickle down onto my shelf. I enjoy film scores best when they are with the actual film — with picture. Also, scoring today, 'the state of', is pretty pathetic. I'm speaking more of the Hollywood product. While smaller films are getting some fine work in that area, most "tent pole" pictures are tracked with overwrought orchestral parts of nothing (but noise). They're more rhythm-based. It's been this way for years. It's hardly a requirement that a film theme should consist of a memorable 'song', it really depends on the show, but, as film director Edgar Wright states so eloquently in the Mark Kermode program: "What's the most recent film score that you can really hum?" 

Good luck.

Ahh... ahh... ahh.....

Mr Wright wasn't whistling Dixie!

Okay, I'll cheat and hum the theme tune from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966). That just might be the soundtrack of most of our lives.