Athot for the Day: Robotics

Recent advancements in technology have produced many wonderful toys, the most practical of which, at least for many in this increasingly disconnected world, might be the "Electric Monk Mk II": It does their thinking for them, so they don't have to.

Soviet Film Director Sergei Eisenstein

Sergei Eisenstein lived from 1898 to 1948 but in his relatively-short career built a significant body of work, including the feature-length films: Strike (1925); Battleship Potemkin (1925); October (1928); Alexander Nevsky (1938); and Ivan the Terrible (1944).

I've seen all of the above except for Strike. Eisenstein's pictures were wide-screen though they weren't wide-screen, epic in scope, passionate, and always about people. Emotion was always present, whether the themes were about fighting for individuals' rights or battling in defence of the beautiful motherland.

Back in 1988 or 1989 I attended a screening of Battleship Potemkin at the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) here in Toronto. I had seen the film before, but like many a great film, it revealed something new. The famous "Odessa Steps" sequence, famous for its staging and editing, and emotive power, hit me with great force. The picture was moving. I realized I was watery-eyed. Violence shown as being exactly what it is. Senseless.

Although a 'silent' film, of course there was a music score. It was not the original Edmund Meisel score (quite probably the version with a compilation of Dmitri Shostakovich material) but the sequence's power was heightened nonetheless.

Which reminds me.

In November of 1989 the Toronto Symphony Orchestra played a couple of special performances: As Alexander Nevsky rolled in Roy Thomson Hall its score was played live-to-picture. A 'sound' film, Nevsky had been designed by Eisenstein in a such way as to avoid having music tracks playing under dialogue, which meant that in this live concert hall presentation the orchestra could light up between dialogue sequences. Director Eisenstein worked with composer Sergei Prokofiev to make cinematic magic — the melding of music and image, each serving the other. This score is, in my opinion, the greatest of all film scores. The absolute peak.

The presentation that day was magnificent. A showcase of how image and music fused as one becomes another art.

I should sit down and watch Strike.

Sunday Fun: In This Time of 'Donald Trump'

A few years ago, when I was a technical director at a film festival here in Toronto, I befriended a filmmaker from Manhattan. He, a rather pleasant chap, invited me out for a beer at a local pub — the now gone, but one and only, Betty's.

A discussion about films and festivals was to be expected. One thing brought up by the native New Yorker was the difference between Torontonians and his city-mates:

"You're nicer."

My response was along the lines of: "Really?"

"Yeah, you're... softer."

Later, I  told a few of my buddies what I had heard, and they too were a little surprised:

"No."

"Yes." A visitor to this great city made an observation. That's all.

I'm not a native Torontonian — my father was in the Canadian military (the RCAF part) for decades, which, in my case, meant I moved three times before I hit my teens — but I've lived here for many years and I've noticed that even Torontonians are, most of the time, Canadians.

Re: The Budget Will Balance Itself, Mark Carney, Cons

With Justin Trudeau stepping down in January as leader of the Liberal Party of Canada, and with that party picking a new leader, and therefore a new prime minister, I thought it was time to give a particular piece of mine from 2019 a final post.

Before I do that, however, I must note that Conservatives here are now freaking out over Prime Minister Mark Carney. It's rather surprising given the fact that the former Governor to both the Bank of Canada and the Bank of England made it known, before he was even voted-in as new LPC leader, that he was going to eliminate or dial back the infamous Carbon Tax. Conservatives are still upset, which is odd given the fact that Mr Carney officially put the special and "dividing" tax officially on hold yesterday. The leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, Pierre Poilievre, rattled and steamed incessantly with his mindless cackles of "Axe the Tax". He has now been effectively neutralized by Mark Carney's initiative. Nevertheless, Cons like to freak out — it gives them something to do, I suppose. (They think that Mark Carney was "installed". How silly and sloppy of me for forgetting that... "fact".) How do they even get through the day? Oh well, perhaps it's a vital and much-needed discussion for another day.

Here's the vital and evergreen piece in question that I posted on October 6, 2019....

... The Budget Will Balance Itself - The Partial Quote

Canadian prime minister Justin Trudeau gets some people going. A frequent attack on the PM is the very selective extraction of a certain quote by him; a line from a greater idea. This method is commonly referred to as "quote mining". (Out of context.)

In fact, Mr Trudeau was speaking about the Stephen Harper government's inability to present a strategy to stimulate economic growth. Economists disagree with one another to various degrees on how much such growth leads down the line to less government expenditures. The theory is that increased government revenues through taxation rolls ultimately to a decreased demand for outlays to departments such as employment insurance and welfare. Part of the PM's platform was to support infrastructure building, which hopefully would get the ball rolling and help lead to the above.

The original quote:

"The commitment needs to be a commitment to grow the economy and the budget will balance itself."

In its proper context the idea doesn't sound so harebrained.

An Admission 55 Years Later — Football or Fußball?

Something has been bugging me lately: a 'something' that revisits me every few years. And it's back and badder than ever. Lately I've been prone to tossing and turning at two or three o'clock in the morning, unable to sleep, because I did a certain "bad" almost fifty-five years ago.

In June of 1970 my family and I were visiting relatives in Bristol, UK; that month the 1970 FIFA World Cup was being held in Mexico. On the 14th of June, England matched with West Germany as part of the quarter-finals round and I watched this contest on television, live and in colour, with my British cousins. (This was just the year after the Beeb switched to colour broadcasting).

All is fine in my admissions thus far.

The problems start now: I was rooting for West Germany. Needless to say, appreciating the Brits' pride for their national football team, I kept my cheers a private matter. Even at such a young age I was hyper-aware that in the interest of self preservation it would be prudent of me to keep any elation to myself: I was contained in a room with British supporters; off-side behaviour of any colour could be bloody dangerous!

West Germany went on to win the match by a score of 3-2 and I was a happy young man.

Shortly after returning to West Germany, a German might have asked me: "Schadenfreude?"

"Me? No. For a reason of which I am not aware, known only to the recesses of my still-developing brain, I chose to support the Germans."

"Du bist ein guter Deutscher."

Perhaps.

Knowing the English football fans' predilection for being unwilling or unable to let certain histories "go", and having more than a few British relatives of my own, I decided to withhold this sensitive bit from my past. Only now am I able to come to terms with my Yellow Card.

I doubt they'll ever stumble upon this posting....

Notes from a Brat: The Military Base Boot

An important element of growing up a military brat is getting to understand a sense of community. Though I lived in a German town, two actually, for a few years, my other 'postings' had me a denizen of Canadian military bases: RCAF Station St. Hubert; CFB Greenwood; CFB Borden. With my family I lived in PMQs (Private Married Quarters). My school chums and friends and I were all "dependents" (offspring of fathers and/or mothers in the armed services). In a sense, we were of similar blood, and disciplined behaviour was expected of the offspring — one would think.

We lived in a protected community, of sorts. Admittance to the base was for authorized personnel only. An exception to this was for "Armed Forces Day", where the general public was allowed to visit the airfield to take in displays of various military flying machines and support equipment; certainly for Greenwood, as it was an air force base.

We "protected" kids lived a pretty charmed existence; lots of athletic fields and tennis courts; cheap movie theatres; ice rinks; swimming pools (don't mention "The Bardia"!); and, certainly in the case of Borden, wonderful woods, and an awesome "dune" sea (I wonder if that water can I buried is still there).

So, why would fellow brats jeopardize this standing by causing more trouble than what is usually expected, and tolerated, from young people? These kids would always get into trouble, and would be known to the base's MPs (Military Police), not to mention the population as a whole. Set one fire too many, smash too many windows, or mimic your favourite film or television JD, and your family's right to live on the base might be reviewed and re-evaluated.

It happened. And we were not surprised.

"The _____s got kicked off the base!"

We kids and teens would look down on this family. To us it was the ultimate brat humiliation as the news was big news in the community. Of course, what getting ejected from PMQs really meant was that it was the parents who paid the price. Off-base housing was more expensive, and involved a potentially long commute to work. For young Jim or Jane, it meant having to possibly make a lot of new friends in the dreaded and looked down upon civilian world. (The humiliation!)

When I lived in the German towns I made a point to behave myself. I'm guessing my father issued me at that time, no doubt while laughing, some sage advice: "Whatever you do, don't get into trouble with the Polizei."

This then denizen of Der Schwarzwald was a 'good' kid.

Humour: The Creative Writing Class

When I was going to high school, many and still-classified years ago, there was a push afoot to open up the curriculum and introduce programs not just "three Rs". One I took was Mr. Kelly's terrific "Creative Writing" class. It was a challenging but comfortable affair which nurtured the writing soul in me, and the souls of my fellow future Flauberts. ("Floberts? Doesn't he play for the Leafs? If he does he can't be very good.")

At the end of the year Mr. Kelly organized an "Academy Awards" for best writing in various categories. Over the course of a week or so we were to go through our classmates' writing files, which were open for all to see and review, and then make nomination lists. Mr. Kelly showed us an example of the trophy itself, a modified liqueur bottle. ("I want that bottle.")

One day I could hear a group of huddled students laughing and whispering. "This is so funny! He's hilarious!" Once I overheard this I sniffed with a terse "He can't be that funny!", and went back to my own writing, looking for just the right word.

Days later was Awards Day.

The air was tense with multiple categories.

"The Award for Best Male Humourist goes to... Simon!"

"Who, me?!" (Of course.)

I walked rather self-unconsciously to the front of the class to accept the award. I had been building, cultivating, a reputation for being 'out there', so I thought that since my fellow award winners thus far were self-consciously accepting their well-deserved trophies but not saying anything outside and above of "thanks", I should put my own spin on the festivities:

Once the prize was securely in my hands, I said, half-seriously, but with the utmost in modesty: "I have no one to thank. It was just me."

The class laughed, so too did Mr. Kelly, and immediately I thought, with newfound confidence, "Gee, I guess I'm not just funny looking".

It was a good class; a good bunch; good times.

Postscript: "As a comic, in all seriousness", as Bobby Bittman was prone to say: Brian Kelly was one of the outstanding teachers in my years of schooling.

CD: Lost in Space — Volume One (Williams)

Lost in Space

- Original Television Soundtrack -

Volume One

Music by

John Williams

GNP/Crescendo

1996

***

In early 1996, GNP/Crescendo Records released a six-CD set of music from producer Irwin Allen's 1960s telefantasy shows. Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (1964 - 1968, ABC); Lost in Space (1965 - 1968, CBS); The Time Tunnel (1966 - 1967, ABC); Land of the Giants (1968 - 1970, ABC). In the set were two discs for Space.

At any rate, with the exception of some Voyage, the Irwin Allen shows were pretty terrible: fine, even great, when we were children, but at best we look now at them with a mix of nostalgia and "when I was a kid I thought this show was great".

Lost in Space — Volume One features the work of the one and only, John Williams.

Not long after the already-experienced dramatic television composer had been freed from his contract with Revue Studios, producer Irwin Allen signed him to score Lost in Space.

Williams is represented on this disc by his scores for the episodes "The Reluctant Stowaway" (the series premiere), "Island in the Sky", and "The Hungry Sea". All three are of similar sparkling and brooding colours, with a number of key themes: a musical platform for the Space Family Robinson and their interstellar adventures to come. (I dig those repeating three notes. Classic!)

End titles: John Williams' first LIS theme is surely one of the most unique television series theme tunes of all time and space.

Postscript: Back in the day, the composer went by the name of "Johnny" Williams, which is how his name appeared in Space's credits. However, for the release of this CD, "John" was it for reasons not lost on the reader.

CD: Lost in Space — Volume Two (Courage, Mullendore, Williams)

Lost in Space

- Original Television Soundtrack -

Volume Two

Music by

Alexander Courage, Joseph Mullendore, John Williams

GNP/Crescendo Records

1996

***

In early 1996 GNP/Crescendo Records released a six-CD set of music from producer Irwin Allen's 1960s telefantasy shows. Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (1964 - 1968, ABC); Lost in Space (1965 - 1968, CBS); The Time Tunnel (1966 - 1967, ABC); Land of the Giants (1968 - 1970, ABC). In the set were two discs for Space.

At any rate, with the exception of some Voyage, the Irwin Allen shows were pretty terrible: fine, even great, when we were children, but at best we look now at them with a mix of nostalgia and "when I was a kid I thought this show was great".

Lost in Space — Disc Two features the work of Alexander Courage, Joseph Mullendore, and, of course, John Williams.

Courage is represented by two scores, for the episodes "Wild Adventure" and "The Great Vegetable Rebellion". The composer shows his range: from a floating waltz in a wild adventure with a green woman, to playful whimsy in fields of Debussian green. (I love that harpsichord.)

Mullendore's fitting and charming musical accompaniment for "The Haunted Lighthouse" features a memorable theme projected and developed from a piccolo to a tuba, with lush strings in between.

Two of these episodes ("The Haunted Lighthouse" and "The Great Vegetable Rebellion") are framed by a new Williams Lost in Space theme tune, one that hoped to frame tales of exciting adventures in the show's third and final season. (The Jupiter 2 spaceship was no longer committed to sit on just one planet for an entire season — banished by a low budget.) Unfortunately, Williams' new stab at a signature tune resulted in a piece that was undoubtedly driven high, but lacked the special uniqueness of his original theme ― a theme that did become removed from the campy, and ridiculous, television program that Lost in Space eventually became.

Postscript: Back in the day, the composer went by the name of "Johnny" Williams, which is how his name appeared in Space's credits. However, for the release of this CD, "John" was it for reasons not lost on the reader.

CD: Lost in Space — Volume Three (Salter, Stein, LaSalle, Williams)

Lost in Space

- Original Television Soundtrack -

Volume Three

Music by

Hans J. Salter, Herman Stein, Richard LaSalle, John Williams

GNP/Crescendo Records

2000

***

I'd forgotten I had this CD, probably because I grabbed it when the disc was released in 2000, then filed it away, somehow burying it in the process. Four years earlier, record company GNP/Crescendo released a 6-CD set titled "The Worlds of Irwin Allen", a fine sampling of scores from Allen's 1960s SF-fantasy television programs: Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (1964 - 1968, ABC); Lost in Space (1965 - 1968, CBS); The Time Tunnel (1966 - 1967, ABC); Land of the Giants (1968 - 1970, ABC). In the set were two discs for Space. The featured CD here was a follow-up volume, due, apparently, to the fact that the boxed set sold above expectations.

At any rate, with the exception of some Voyage, the Irwin Allen shows were pretty terrible: fine, even great, when we were children, but at best we look now at them with a mix of nostalgia and "when I was a kid I thought this show was great".

Lost in Space — Volume Three features the work of Hans J. Salter, Herman Stein, and Richard LaSalle, all of whom shared scoring responsibilities on the episode, "The Derelict". The special team wrote music to enhance the episode's strange and eerie alien environment. Special mention must be made of Stein's affecting "Family" theme.

Maestro Williams' score for "My Friend, Mr. Nobody" is a beauty, perfectly complementing the sweet story of Penny Robinson and her special friend.

Postscript: Back in the day, the composer went by the name of "Johnny" Williams, which is how his name appeared in Space's credits. However, for the release of this CD, "John" was it for reasons not lost on the reader.

A Story: The Dyte Hall Gang Strikes Out!

It's easier to come clean when fifty years have passed:

Dyte Hall was our local hockey rink when my family lived at CFB Borden. Along with Andy Anderson Arena, the Hall, a large brown-brick-faced structure, one which may or may not have been a purpose-built building, was the place where my ice hockey career began and ended. It was there where I scored my few goals and let in more than a few goals (my team was a bad one). On weekends I would often saunter over and catch whatever ice hockey action was on tap; at times my favourite sport was not on the schedule ("Broomball? No!").

One of my strongest memories of the hall, besides Nancy Getty blowing a puck by me as we attempted to thwart a girls' team, is of schoolmate Mike Walker skating across the ice between the face off circles in front of my goal and delivering one of his wicked slap shots: I caught the puck in the fore of my right arm, right at the joint, effectively doing my job; unfortunately, the disc of smokin' vulcanized rubber struck the seam in my protective equipment, rendering my catcher's mitt useless as it dangled beneath my now powerless arm. ("Systems Failure!") However, by shifting my hips I could get some life out of the glove. Thankfully the power loss lasted just a few seconds. A most memorable Sunday afternoon.

The most powerful memory for me of Dyte Hall did not happen on the ice:

The Base Borden Minor Hockey Association held a fundraiser one lovely weekend; one could buy a series pass in order to take in all the games, or single tickets. Since one of my friends had a pass, I decided there was an effective way to maximize its potential. My friends and I gathered in front of Dyte Hall and I, on the spot, hatched a plan:

"Okay, guys, this is what we'll do.... (inaudible)."

Fade to black.

As 'author' I initiated the devious cycle. With pass in hand I somewhat apprehensively and self consciously approached the ticket table. There was no problem in executing my plan; the pleasant ladies smiled and said "thank you". Once safely through the checkpoint I made for the mens' room and passed the pass through the opened window to one of my waiting buddies outside.

Repeat once, then:

Norman was next in line; as per the by now perfected routine he entered the special transfer room and proceeded to hand off the pass. Guess who decided to relieve himself at that moment....you guessed it: Norm's dad! A man born and bred in England could only say one thing after quickly figuring out what sneaky and reprehensible act played out before him:

(Something like) "You little bastard."

Needless to say I "heard" about it all afterwards, and Norm, being the son of a Brit in the Canadian Armed Forces, no doubt "got it" afterwards.

You must not forget, dear reader, that although the punchline did not involve me directly, I was the little fellow who drew up the heinous plan. To borrow a term from Leave it to Beaver's Wally Cleaver, I was the "little creep".

Liberal Party of Canada Leader, and PM, Mark Carney!

Yes!

Sunday Fun: A Letter To Toronto Sun on Sun News

From: July 17, 2010

Subject: A letter I wrote to the editor of Toronto's exemplary newspaper, the Toronto Sun. It was in regards to the highly anticipated arrival of the Sun News Network, and in response to an editorial from the day before. My letter was not alone as there were four others. Enjoy.

PLEASE, NO "ANGER" TV

Re "Sun TV News makes airwaves" (Editorial, June 16): Here comes the beating of drums -- the sound of "Anger Television." While I welcome any difference of opinion and additions to the airwaves, my feeling is Sun TV News will be a name-calling, shout-down channel. When you don't want to hear or accept anything which veers from the right-wing line, what options do you have? Certainly not "debate." Obviously, Quebecor Media CEO Pierre Karl Peladeau has not seen the CBC's At Issue panel at play: Perhaps someone should tell Andrew Coyne that he is not right wing. I am very patriotic, but I don't need a bunch of drum-beating "journalists" telling me incessantly that Canada is great. I want to watch real news, not a bunch of angry white men trying to articulate.

SIMON ST. LAURENT
TORONTO

(Why not wait and see what it's all about before deciding whether you like it?)

***

Me: Oh, I sure will!

I Ask: How did I know?


Sun News Network
April 18, 2011 - February 13, 2015

Good riddance!

DVD Liner Notes: The Starlost (VCI Entertainment)

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into outer space, here comes the 1973-74 Canadian-produced science fiction television series, The Starlost.

To be honest, the tales of the Earthship Ark (in DVD form) hit video stores in November of 2008. A friend contacted me one day to ask if The Starlost is one of those television shows I know way too much about. Yes, I do. Once we got that out of the way, and agreed on basic terms, he told me that a company was scheduled to release the much-maligned show to DVD and suggested I contact them to offer any help. He knew I would be interested.

Through a little research I discovered that the company in question was VCI Entertainment, a U.S.-based (Tulsa, Oklahoma) home video distributor of cult films and television. (I use the term loosely as some may argue that many VCI titles would not fit comfortably into that category. But as I've been known to say at times, "you know what I mean".)

As I'm not one to be left out of the picture I contacted the distributor via their main email address and left a short bio on me and a note about my continuing efforts to research Canadian television programs. The Starlost is but one that has fallen into the folder. (My journalistic endeavours had me interview several people who were involved with this show: Writer Harlan Ellison, actors John Colicos and Gay Rowan, producer William Davidson, story editor Norman Klenman, designer Jack McAdam, writers Martin Lager and Doug Hall, and a few other Starlost production personnel.)

I offered VCI my services as Resident Geek. That line must have been the clincher: Minutes later someone responded and asked me if I would like to write something up for the DVD boxed set's insert booklet; the "liner notes". The only catch was they had to be finished and ready for production by Friday at the latest.

(Oh... did I not say I sent the first-contact email on Tuesday?)

There was another restriction: Keep my essay to within 1,300 words. Anyone who knows me can tell you that 10,000 would be a more realistic limit for a 'chatty' guy like me. (Anything less would force me to act like some kind of professional.)

After soaking in the invitation I telephoned VCI and spoke with a very pleasant chap. I had not misread the parameters for the liner notes. Like a regular Jim Phelps, I accepted the assignment.

Somehow I came through, even with the rigors of my day job involved, and the deadline was met. My contact at VCI was very happy, which made the whole race worthwhile: "This is wonderful !!"

A few years later I read my piece for the first time since the set had been delivered to me in November of 2008. I didn't wince too often, but like any self-proclaimed writer I would love to rewrite. I won't blame the three days; I'd even take three more.

As I state in the liner notes, The Starlost is not that bad, at least it's not to me. But it's definitely not great and could have been much better.

However, there is one big thing my studious "television production" research has taught me: It's really hard, really blinking hard, to make any television series, period, never mind one that works splendidly as a dramatic presentation and manages to win a substantial enough audience to keep it on the air and make it eligible for renewal.

Any attempt to make a show where most pieces of the puzzle come together in a harmonious way is an act best left, perhaps, to the gods. Few mortals posses such gifts. If more could find the magic potion, then we wouldn't have so many crappy (and overrated) drama shows on the airwaves at any one time. Very often, the best drama is what went on behind the scenes.

On those terms, The Starlost is just another television product.

A Story: The Misguided Moviegoer

The Astral Theatre in CFB Borden, Ontario, was a veritable movie funhouse of eclectic and varied flicks, old and new. In essence it was a rep cinema. Most new and big releases, and anything of prestige, were on the other side of the base at the mighty Terra Theatre.

One of many films I saw in or about my thirteen year had a very special trailer. A preview which ended up haunting me: Triple Avalanche of Terror

The hook was a certain sustained shot that was more important to me, ultimately, than the variety of quickly cut clips that followed. This affecting scene―shot in a mental institution, apparently―was the real keeper. While substantial image grain danced before our eyes, an ominous voice-over explained that 'this man watched Triple Avalanche of Terror and went insane'. (Really? Seriously.)

A straight-jacketed wretch squirmed as two attendants hovered over, comforting him as he did the bit of business taught in acting school when one wants to evoke "crazy". "No!... No!!...."

As advertised, in order to watch the film one had to accept an insurance policy before entering the theatre. Cool. It's not something I'd want to have to cash in, but cool.

I bought it, the preview, that is, so much so that I knew I had to see the film, even though it was to be a midnight presentation. Oh, no.

As we left the theatre after watching the now forgotten feature presentation, my friends and I discussed the trailer, that spooky trailer. One friend, Glen Scott, seemed to know that we'd been had:

"It's a publicity stunt!

"It's a publicity stunt!", he reiterated as the rest of us, in his eyes, were overly concerned that we too would go insane.

But, we all agreed: Must see movie.

This is where trouble followed.

The next day I raved enthusiastically to my mother about the nerve-splitting trailer I had seen, and in the process I let it out that the anticipated movie itself was to be shown as a late-late show. She wasted no time in saying "no". When the day got closer, I asked again:

MUM
No.

ME
Mum, I wanna see Triple Avalanche of Terror!

MUM
I told you, you're not seeing it.

ME
Why not?!

MUM
Because...I don't want you prancing about at all hours of the night.
Now that's final.

("I guess I'm not going to be seeing Triple Avalanche of Terror.")

I wish I had possessed the verbal wit of Family Guy's "Stewie": "How dare you deprive me of some devilishly gruesome entertainment. I shall be forever stunted by your absolute malicious disregard for my personal development!"

I didn't get my mother's reasoning. Geographically speaking, the Astral was not far from Elm Street, our street. The route consisted of a quick walk to School Street, then along Maple Drive; up a little further was the palace of dreams.

How was the Terrible Avalanche, you ask? The next day I asked Glen what he thought. After all, he and the gang were allowed to walk about at all hours of the previous night.

"It wasn't very good."

Of course, to a pre-teen, that was code for: "It was awesome!" Either that, or I was becoming concerned for Glen's sanity.

"Carry On Camping is on this Saturday?" I was allowed to see that one, however. Not a lot makes sense when you're a kid. (Those of you who have seen that British comedy classic, or just about any Carry On movie, for that matter, will know what I'm getting at.) Now I know why Camping was acceptable fare: It was shown during regular business hours, which now reaffirms my mother's concern at the time. The prevailing issue wasn't so much one of content. Actually, she never objected to the films' theme.

The Astral, along with all the PMQs (houses) on Elm, School, Hemlock, and Maple Drive, is now gone as that part of CFB Borden was razed a few years ago, but my memories of that special dream-maker always remain strong ― even if a certain title is missing.

Poor Stephen Harper is Evergreen - From April 2016:

It happened in one night, through a simple vote tally sum six months ago: On October 19th we Canadians held our most recent federal election, and Canada, as a whole, lost its innocence. Millions of its citizens would henceforth have to live with less.

Game day saw Liberal Party of Canada leader Justin Trudeau and his team beat out sitting bull Prime Minister Stephen J. Harper by a substantial margin, forming a majority government in the feat; and putting Harper and his boys out to pasture, if you'll pardon the expression.

What happened to the Conservative Party of Canada's gastric campaign, anyway? It sure looked to me like someone let the air out of the bag.

The 22nd Prime Minister of Canada was aloof and arrogant, and his obsession with control would have booked Henry II into the nearest retirement home. Harper's demise was written, but his own narcissism would not have permitted him even a morsel of reality.

(The Conservatives still managed to win 99 seats out of 338, but my answer to that is they would have won a lot less had the election not happened so "early". That party was sliding down a seaweed-greasy boat launch slipway the week running up to election day.)

The day after the Canadian citizenry "mistakenly" voted for the wrong Party of Canada, I searched online for a video clip of Harper's concession speech. His manner struck me as being less gracious than what is usually expected of a politician who has been fragmented, but the biggest bit I drew from the shattered man was how bitter he looked. My scanners detected a dash of anger. It must not be forgotten that Harper hates "Justin".

There stood an unfortunate soul: a ministerial sad sack in an ill-fitting coat; Scurf of the Conservative Party of Canada.

It spoke:

To kick off his monotone of defeat, Harper manufactured a mechanical wave for his party's crushed supporters, but through quivering lips he managed moans of voluminous profundity. "And friends, in a dangerous world, we have stood consistently for freedom, democracy and justice. This is the Canada we Conservatives have been building since the time of Sir John A. Macdonald, and this is the Canada to which, for the countless generations to come, we will be dedicated."

It sounds to me like the Conservatives hold the trademark on tenets.

Most profound: "But know this for certain: when the next time comes, this party will offer Canadians a strong and clear alternative based on our Conservative values."

"Conservative values"? (Those again.)

Hey, they ain't mine, pally. Besides, I don't go for spreadin' less margarine on my toast.

___

The above piece first appeared as "The Deconstruction of the Harper Rights" on April 3, 2016.

Article: Chuck the Security Guard (The All-Night Show)

There are markers in our lives that we remember more often than not with fondness. Memories of the entertainment world make for some strong pull-backs later in life. Popular music, films, and, especially, television programs are pencilled into a mnemonic diary, allowing us to get all warm and fuzzy years or decades later when someone at a dinner party states with gleeful nostalgia: "I never missed The Six Million Dollar Man. Eight O'clock on Sunday nights was my special time."

Television programs we watch in our youth and childhood are with us forever, whether we like it or not. ("Gilligan's Island? Never heard of it. I don't know what you're talking about.") However, what often happens is that when we later dip our toes into those same waters, we find the sensation less pleasing or satisfying than what our memories of the experience suggested. Times change and time moves, all but destroying sentimentality in their paths.

Some programs are exempted, of course. For me, one of these survivors is a short-lived live-to-air production by the name of The All-Night Show, which ran from September of 1980 to August of 1981 on originating station CFMT (“MTV”, or "Multilingual Television"), UHF channel 47. Having sampled some bits recently―bits are all that survive―I was more than surprised at how reputable my memories of the show were.

Chuck the Security Guard was the host of TANS. The premise was that the station's dependable night-shift security staff of one had the run of the station in the wee hours, the all hours, of the night. The guard with video-switching abilities would run episodes of old television series' like The Outer Limits and The Twilight Zone (they were just 15 years old then), industrial films from some years past, Betty Boop cartoons, old movie trailers, and independent shorts. Having time to kill between the programmed materials, Chuck joked around with the off-screen, never to be seen, Ryerson the Cameraman, and with him staged gags or bits that U.S. late night host David Letterman would popularize coast-to-coast in the following years. There was one bit I remember where the guys trekked from the studio proper to the building's roof. From there they aimed the television camera at a phone booth that was on the opposite side of the street below. Guess what they did....

In reality, Chuck was played by Toronto-based actor, writer, and comedian Chas Lawther. Although reserved in real life (in the interviews I've seen him in), Lawther was having the time of his life while in front of the TANS camera. In his sporty but standard duty uniform and white sneakers, Chuck now bears some resemblance to Pee-Wee Herman. No doubt his slightly lanky build furnishes some of the visual similarities, but, unlike Pee-Wee, Chuck is an adult while still exhibiting some child-like mannerisms and enthusiasms. Watching TANS today convinces me that this way of playing the character was the right one. After all, don't we like it when someone looks as though they are enjoying themselves? The byproduct is we, the viewers, enjoy ourselves.

Occasionally he would be asked, usually through a letter he read on camera, to say hi to someone such as a faithful viewer. To oblige he would stand, take on a professional security guard pose, point, and yell “Hey, you!”. Chuck's always welcomed call of "Hey, you!" quickly became the signature piece, for both the character and the show.

Speaking of characters, the guest stars of Paul Del Stud and Fran the Nurse were always a special treat. You never knew when one of them was going to show up to visit with friend Chuck. Fran seemed to be forever knitting and Paul was perpetually shooting off his mouth about 'this is how it is'. Great stuff for a teenage viewer.

This was the tone of a typical evening with the dynamic security guard and his all night show. Unfortunately, it all came to a crashing halt after one season. The show we slowly but surely discovered and grew quickly to love deeply was canned by the suits at "Chuck's" station, CFMT-MTV. I remember an interview with one of the head honchos soon after he cut the strings. He spoke words of finality I shall never forget: "This station has to start thinking about making money." From a financial standpoint the decision made some sense, perhaps. The fact is that even though we saw only Chuck, and heard only Ryerson, there was a crew in the control room and studio.

I do understand these words, the order in which they are assembled, and what they mean―they are straight to the point, without subtext, and are non elusive or evasive―but I also understand that when you have a 'hit' like TANS, it can end up paying dividends to the producing company. In fact, media ratings systems at the time pointed out that Chuck was bringing 'em in. The problem for CFMT was that franchise companies, like Pizza Pizza, weren't sure they wanted to buy late-late night advertising slots. For the duration of the show's existence there were lots of commercials for small businesses, which are great and valued customers but they don't pay the big dollars. The All-Night Show needed a little more time to build a strong advertising base, stocked with at least one big customer. “Chuck's” solid viewership numbers certainly would have allowed the station's sales department to charge commensurate ad rates, but it was not to be.

CFMT continued to promote the show after the cuts, but without Chuck at the switcher it was not the same. It could not be saved with a line of 'Hey, don't fret, you can still watch your favourite oldies on CFMT's The All-Night Show!'. Like many Chuck fans, I tuned into the new version and saw the opening title card; an old series or short came on; I pressed the 'off' button.

Static.

Fizzle.

We dedicated viewers loved the show's original format. It was a major part of its appeal. It was live!

And it still lives.

Screening: The Funnel at TIFF Theatre 4

In January of 2017 I attended a screening dedicated to Toronto's The Funnel Experimental Film Theatre. Held in TIFF Theatre 4 and hosted by Mike Hoolboom and Chris Kennedy, "Underground: The Funnel Experimental Film Co-op 1977-1988" was a trip back for this former Funnel patron. My visits fell into the 1984/85 season. As expected my schooling began to take over and, I hate to admit, that was it for my twice-weekly streetcar rides to 507 King Street East.

The film lineup in Theatre 4: 

Ville-quelle ville?  (Midi Onodera / 1984 / 4 mins / Super 8 on digital)
DP2  (Peter Dudar / 2014 / 16 mins / digital)

The Iconography of Venus  (Annette Mangaard / 1987 / 5 mins / 16mm)
Eye of the Mask  [excerpt] (Judith Doyle / 1985 / 27 mins / 16mm)
Canada Mini-Notes  (Jim Anderson / 1974 / 15 mins / 16mm)

Ville-quelle ville? and The Iconography of Venus, especially, sent me back to 1984/85. For one thing, there is something about the Kodachrome "look". Its rich colour palette and the translucency of a 'reversal' stock are perfect mates to an experimental filmmaker. I'm not suggesting that its favouring by experimentalists somehow implies that Kodachrome was born of imperfect imaging technologies ― far from it. I've shot lots of that emulsion myself: Exposed properly, it could produce an image of veritable gorgeousness. (Reversal looked best when exposed about 1/3 of a stop 'under'.)

In essential terms Midi Onodera's Ville-quelle ville? is about "memory", and because it was made over thirty years ago, it too is memory; perhaps more accurately, "memories". This very well could be why this film was my single favourite of the evening.

Yes, it's all about memories. Indeed.

We, my schoolmates and I who attended Funnel screenings, were the cool guys hanging out with the cool crowd ― so we may have thought at the time. How did we hear about The Funnel? I don't remember specifically, but as I told Mike Hoolboom after he asked me this very question during a brief chat, it was probably a case of someone at the school (Humber College) telling us about an experimental film theatre downtown. Hearing this bit of fine intelligence no doubt would have been all we needed. When you're that age (young!) you are a sponge; ready to soak it all up. "Keep it coming!" is the mentality. It seems few subjects are of no use to the up-and-coming artist.

All good and experimental things must come to an end: The Funnel ran into financial difficulties and closed its doors in 1988.

After the pictures finished rolling at "Underground" a few of the filmmakers took to the stage to speak about their experiences at the co-op, in addition to making their films.

A bonus was the free copy of Mike Hoolboom's latest book, "Underground - the Untold Story of the Funnel Film Collective".

Spec Article: Cutting the Myth from Star Wars

The following article I wrote as a spec piece, which came to be after Star Wars creator George Lucas made it known that he had no intention of releasing the original Star Wars film, Star Wars, on home video: DVD or Blu-ray. (He eventually capitulated and authorized its release as a low-grade bonus disc, bundled with the new version of Star Wars - A New Hope. The 1997 re-release model.)

In 2010 I submitted my piece to a few publications, including the Los Angeles Times, but they all rejected it. This is why we writers have a so-called "day job".

Here is my story:

George Lucas will not be releasing the original, original Star Wars ― the old and undesirable version, not the 1997 “Special Edition” ― to Blu-ray. He claims, the immense costs involved would make doing so, prohibitive.

While Mr. Lucas is known for his sleight-of-hand cinematic tricks, I must give the man credit for his persuasive sleight-of-mouth. Unfortunately, the media repeats the Space Lord’s decrees with nary a micron of questioning.

Someone, if not a passive press, owes the fans an explanation ― at least one devoid of George Lucas’ mythologizing. He should keep some myths up on the screen.

Mr. Lucas seems bent on burying the movie so deep that even his own intrepid archeologist Indiana Jones creation could not find it.

In the time of Star Wars' original production, this is how movies were assembled: The film that physically ran through the camera, once exposed, is taken to a lab to be processed. Prints are then immediately struck so the picture editor may start to assemble a show. The picture image on this particular print is a positive one. That is it looks normal. It is not a negative image.

The company responsible for producing visual effects (Industrial Light & Magic, in the case of the original Star Wars), generates original footage (like TIE-fighters doing their tricks) and any "overlays" (such as blaster and light-saber beams), and is given the necessary section of film where the effect is to be popped-in.

Then, the optical house produces a final negative roll of the effect. This short piece of film ― there will be many more ― is called an “optical negative”. As this bit of film was re-photographed, it appears on the big screen to have more contrast and grain when compared to the general live-action footage.

Once the editor and producers and director decide that enough is enough, “this is our movie”, the cutting copy, or workprint, is presented as the final cut ― the picture is what is termed “locked”. On this workprint are markings made with grease pencil indicating to the optical house where fades and dissolves, and in Star Wars’ case, a lot of wipes are to be created.

Again, the necessary sections of negative (which ran through the camera) are sent to the optical house who re-photographs these film elements and sections. The completed optical negative segments now containing the fades, wipes, and dissolves, are delivered, as are the camera negative rolls and visual effects rolls, to the negative cutter, who assembles ― very carefully! ― the final movie, one shot after another while using the workprint as his or her guide.

These assembled reels comprise the finished movie.

When the negative of Star Wars was pulled out of circulation in 1995 in order to initiate work on the Special Edition it was discovered that the space classic was in bad shape. In the case of Star Wars, and a lot of movies made back in the same era, there is another nagging problem: In the many years since the actual film stock was manufactured, exposed, and processed, the colour layers have faded to varying degrees.

The restoration of Star Wars is beyond the scope of this article so we will just say that through some meticulous work, the final negative was reconstructed and refurbished where necessary. In effect, a new negative was built so work on the Special Edition could be started in earnest. In order to replace the old visual effects shots with the new ones, they were removed from the restored print and filed away in a climate-controlled vault.

What can be done to allow for a new film-to-tape transfer of the original version would be to pull out the discarded sections from storage, and then transfer those bits and pieces to HD. Next it would be a matter of transferring the rest of the film.

There is some work involved in this reassembly, but it is nothing compared to what was required on Vertigo (1958) ― a major reconstruction and archival effort and one which certainly did not have the financial payoffs that Star Wars would bring.

This new ‘file’ can now be run through from first frame to last in order to dust-bust, or whatever else needs to be executed as part of a final polish. Star Wars can now be released on Blu-ray to a video store near you.

If the above is not accurate, George Lucas can offer his personal “Technicolor” print. The word is it's in fabulous condition, with intact colours, plus it was struck from the original version. While a “release” or “projection” print is optimized for a film projector's Xenon lamp, a Technicolor one would still make a lovely transfer.

At this point, with all the built-in controversies attached, I think most Star Wars fans, and people like me, would be very happy with a solid, if not picture perfect, rendition on Blu-ray.

It must be said ― and I’ve really got to get this point off my chest ― that the modern myth that is Star Wars was created from prints which ran through film projectors back in 1977, not 1997! (Or later.) The creator himself ― the Lucas Unit ― has forgotten this little piece of interstellar trivia.

Of course, my opinion on the restoration of the real Star Wars means nothing if George Lucas did something as devious as leaving the movie's original negative rolls lying un-spooled in the California sunshine. For heaven's sake, let's not give the man any ideas.

Postscript: Before I submitted my spec piece I made sure to have it peer-reviewed. While I did work in 'opticals' and film & video post production, and therefore was able to generate the piece off the cuff, technical accuracy is important in such matters... hence my passing along my article to two experienced former coworkers of mine, one of whom worked in 'visual effects' on one of the Star Trek movies (and more). Final note: I greatly admire George Lucas. Any ribbing is done in fun... even if it would be nice to see a high-quality copy of Star Wars.

Sunday Fun: There's Carnivorous Seaweed?!

Floating through Wikipedia, as I'm prone to do once I'm on a rolling wave, I went from "shipping" to "Bermuda Triangle" to "Sargasso Sea" and ended up on "The Lost Continent (1968 film)". That entertaining motion picture, produced by Hammer Films — wonderful Hammer Films — and Seven Arts Productions, captured me when I first saw it in my early teens.

I read its Wiki entry....

Basic plot details took me back to fantastic imagery: wrecked ships (it is the Sargasso Sea, after all); conquistadors; people sporting "buoyancy balloons" (fantastic!); pirates; priests; and Spanish ladies (marketing, my boys!).

I decided right there that I had to see this film again.

Then I read further:

"... adrift in a morass of large sentient carnivorous seaweed...."

Carnivorous seaweed?!

(Sentient carnivorous seaweed?!!)

(Large sentient carnivorous seaweed?!!!)

What the?....

Should I even click on that?

With my cursor, and some trepidation, I touched the link.

Oh, it's two separate words, links: "carnivorous"; "seaweed".

That makes more sense... and makes me feel a lot better about swimming in the ocean. (Regular seaweed doesn't bother me. Key word: "bother.")

I'll probably avoid the Sargasso Sea. But I won't avoid The Lost Continent.