Write If You Get Work

Will this really be my one and only blog entry for the entire month of November? I’m truly sorry about that, but the irony of the very concept of this website has now struck me. It’s here mainly to keep people updated about what I’m working on, yet when I have a project going, I don’t have the time to write and tell everyone all about it.

There’s a big fat deadline looming on the miniseries I’m writing half of, and time is limited. It can be difficult thinking up new and more gruesome ways for the criminal underworld to whack each other so television programming can spiral further down the drain of sex, violence and degradation. I hope, once it’s all in the can and broadcast over the airwaves, that what I’ve spent so much time and effort on will shock and horrify the viewing audience — and maybe corrupt a child or two who stayed up past their bedtime. But who am I kidding? We’re competing with reality TV and pay-per-view porno. Our stab at the form will barely make a ripple compared to the time Dipsy anally raped Tinky-Winky in a very special episode of Teletubbies.

Last weekend, I took exactly fifty-four hours off to run to Toronto for my father-in-law’s birthday bash. I don’t really have a free moment to describe the spectacle of all those ex-hippie baby boomers descending on an unsuspecting deli to eat mounds of greasy meat in an Atkins orgy and then sing flower child anthems from their drug-hazed past while a former Ontario premier (NDP of course) played keyboard. Hopefully enough photographic evidence will surface to prove this even happened. However, I can direct you to this interview with my father-in-law that happened largely because of my website. After surfing to Canuxploitation through one of my blog links, Bob found a couple of errors in their review of My Bloody Valentine, a flick he produced back in the day. A phone interview about his years in the trenches of Canadian cinema resulted. Bob called me a couple of weeks ago to let me know it was up, and then proceeded to tell me all the stories he couldn’t tell the Canuxploitation guy. I guess we’ll just have to wait for the book.

Imitation – The Sincerest Form Of Flattery; Theft – The Greatest Mark Of Legitimacy

I have arrived.

Seeing my work made available to pirates around the world is heartening. The fact that someone took the time and bother to make a video capture of one of my Fries episodes and upload it to a bittorrent site fills me with a sense of accomplishment as great, if not greater, than when I submit my quarterly taxes to reaffirm my status as a contributing, exploited member of society. Out of the fifty-two episodes of Fries With That? currently in the can, only my episode “While Supplies Last” has surfaced on the web. Although I’d like to think this is the result of my writing being so sharp, my nuanced plot being so intriguing, and my keen sense of social satire being so irresistibly witty, it probably has more to do with the actual subject matter of this one particular episode. Being about nerd culture, it appeals to the same nerd culture that fuels the online piracy industry. The psychological aberration that leads an otherwise genetically stable human being into an obsession with fantasy, science fiction and comic books also leads them towards a symbiotic relationship with their home computers. It’s these people who become obsessed with digitizing everything they hold near and dear (like the aforementioned fantasy, science fiction, and comic book products) and making it part of the great hive brain we call the internet.

I fully encourage you to go download it. If enough people swap this file, I’ll have staked out another tiny claim to immortality in cyberspace. Perhaps, in time, it might even overtake the most pervasive thing I’ve ever contributed to the internet (before there was even a web), that bloody Mr. Pink transcript from 1992. This thing has been bouncing around for twelve years now in various incarnations, and has lately picked up some accompanying sound files to backup my findings. One day I’d really like to accomplish something that will serve as a better legacy for my existence on Earth.

Busy? Yeah, I’m busy. I’m now in full-swing draft mode for the new show I’m working on and have to come up with two hours worth of must-see TV over the next month and a bit. People from the Irish end of the project flew into town and forced me to partake of more fine food and expensive wine as we addressed broadcaster concerns about our material so far. It wasn’t all dinners and conference room marathons, though. I also got to spend part of last week hanging out with real-life gangsters in the name of research because the show we’re developing is about the Irish mob. I keep saying we should be developing a show about nymphomaniac strippers so I could research that instead, but so far, no dice. I really don’t understand that because everyone wants to watch more television about nymphomaniac strippers. The concept sells itself. One day those producer people will listen to reason.

The ’04 campaign in the States has entered the stretch, and the political rhetoric has reached a pitch so shrill only dogs can still hear it. As America settles down to decide which war criminal it likes best, there’s an awful lot of contradictory statements and shifting positions to sort through. Despite the sheer volume of bullcrap in this shitstorm, I have to award the hypocrite of the week award to none other than… Saturday Night Live.

Following last week’s very public outing of Ashlee Simpson as a lip-syncher on their own show, the cast of SNL spent a good chunk of this week’s show tearing her a new one over the whole embarrassing incident. Sure, she deserves a good roasting, but it’s not like SNL itself holds the moral high ground in this case. Are they trying to suggest they weren’t complicit in the affair, or that Lorne Michaels somehow didn’t know he was booking an act that had no intention of uttering a word that wasn’t safely pre-recorded? Please. You can bet any sum of money that the guy who pressed the “play” button during Ashlee’s segments was a unionized employee of NBC, and that everyone on the show knew the score, from the pages in the monkey uniforms on down to both token black guys who get no air time. Everyone except Amy Poehler. I have to believe she was out of the loop because I could never believe dear, sweet Amy was part of such a nefarious deception.

I very much doubt this was the first case of lip-synching on the show, but following such an obvious cock-up, perhaps it will be the last. And then maybe, maybe the “live” in Saturday Night Live will apply to the musical portion of the show as well.

Have a happy Hallowe’en folks because in two more days, that’s when things will truly get scary.

They're my ticket for '04

On November 2nd, vote Kerry. His daughters are hotter.

Missing Links And Throwbacks

Whenever possible, I like to slip the latest links of note into my blog in as unobtrusive a way as possible. This means mixing them with links both positive and rewarding, as well as those that are utterly meaningless and silly. Lately, there have been a few that I’ve been really anxious to point you at, but unable to find a reasonable way to work them into the conversation. So let me be purely crass for a moment and tell you, point blank, where to go.

Superhero geeks may know all about the fanboy favourite Batman films out there, namely Batman: Dead End and a mock trailer called World’s Finest. But I’ve been shocked at the general lack of discussion about the Greyson trailer, certainly the best example of this geek subgenre. Another mock trailer for a film that doesn’t and (in many ways, sadly) will never exist, D.C. comics fans should have orgasms over the number of cameo appearances sprinkled throughout. Most others will consider it shamelessly overdone. Nevertheless, there’s more heart and soul in these five minutes of superhero ecstasy than in just about any Hollywood feature counterpart.

I’m sure you’re all aware that BBC radio has reunited the original cast (minus the one dead guy) to do two new seasons of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Due to Douglas Adams also being inconsiderately dead, the new material is derived from the last three books of his Hitchhiker series. As such, they don’t match up with the continuity of the original radio plays, but why split hairs on a project that is, otherwise, so very positive? You can stream the most recent broadcast here, although you’ll probably have to hunt the net if you want to listen to the previous episodes.

While I’m at it, I’ll also direct your mouse pointer at the latest Star-Wars inspired bit of Flash fun. This, like the Star Wars films themselves, has been reduxed to death from the original creation. The only way these guys differ from Lucas is that they’ve managed to improve their work instead of detract from it. It is, of course, a bit hip-hoppy for my tastes, but I feel obliged to link to it since it was submitted to me by my friend Rosalind. I’ve linked to everything else she’s ever emailed me because, unlike the legions of unconscionable spammers out there, she always sends me cool stuff. You may remember this one from a much earlier blog entry. Well, she was the person who found it and correctly identified it as something I would think is neat.

Rosalind, bless her black heart, also sent me this link to The Exorcist — as performed in 30 seconds by bunnies. I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.

Then we have an interview with Fred Dekker. Fred remains one of my favourite genre writer/directors, although he’s been largely marginalized by Hollywood for years. Responsible for classics like Night of the Creeps and The Monster Squad, I continue to pull for him and whatever project he may currently be trying to bring to life. Frankly, before this, I’d never seen a single interview with him, so when I found this one I became all titillated. Okay, it doesn’t take much. But my tits were most definitely lated.

I’m not one for jokes. Really. I don’t like it when someone says, “Hey, did you hear the one about…” or “Knock knock…” or “A priest, a rabbi and a monk walk into a bar…” But I have to ask you, just this once — Did you hear the one about the Newfie who tried to support his drug habit by stealing cheese? NB: Newfie jokes are the Canadian equivalent of Polish jokes and are equally unfunny. There’s no worthwhile punch line here either, so just file this one under, “Huh?”

Feel free to add your own favourite hot links of note to the comments section. And should I ever again fall too far behind in bringing you the latest in web-browsing nonsense, by all means badger me for more.

Sofa Spuds And Couch Potatoes

The idea for Wednesday Movie Night crawled out of the primordial ooze earlier this year when someone stated the obvious.

“Shane has a lot of cool movies we’ve never seen. Or heard of for that matter.”

“Maybe we should get him to bring one over every week,” was the next bright idea forwarded.

So began a series of film screenings at a venue known far and wide as “Eric’s Place.” People gather, food is served, movies are endured.

As I try to broaden the cinematic tastes of people who would prefer to have their experience with film narrowly focused on the occasional Star Wars prequel and whichever Ben Stiller comedy came out this week, I try to make somewhat entertaining choices. Often I cart along a selection of titles I’m in the mood to defend, and then put it to a vote, so that the audience itself bears some of the responsibility when the choice of entertainment edification tanks horribly. This democratic process has been put on hold for the month of October, and already there’s dissent at the polling stations.

The Hallowe’en fest began in earnest this past Wednesday after we got some preliminary short material out of the way. The trailer for Water to Wine was streamed from the net to a confused crowd who only understood why I was showing them this after they took a second look at the opening shot. As I pointed out, in only a few months time we will be celebrating an important anniversary. 2005 will mark twenty years since Harrison Ford made a good movie. Considering the state of his career, I think his appearance in a shitty snowboarding home video is a step in the right direction.

Following up on a bit of unfinished business, we screened what I had originally meant to show as a companion piece to Zatoichi a few weeks back. Episode VII of Samurai Jack had a blind samurai motif to it that I thought would complement the feature nicely. Sadly, I forgot my season one set at home the night Zatoichi unexpectedly won the “let’s watch that” vote, so I was caught with my pants down. Those in the room who were Samurai Jack virgins seemed genuinely impressed with the design of this quintessential episode.

And then there was the feature. After so many weeks of skipping over my horror collection for the sake of the self-professed wimps in the audience, it was time, at last, to take off the gloves. The horror festival of October had been announced well in advance, word of which movie we’d be watching was on the street, and everyone should have been well forewarned. The turnout was encouraging with a record number of attendees, and one who travelled an extra 5000 miles to get there (I’ll pretend it was specifically for movie night). The movie was Haute Tension, winner of this year’s FantAsia top prize for international film, and it wasn’t meant for the faint-of-heart. Since there’s still no Region 1 DVD to be had, this was brought to us through the miracle of internet piracy.

Allow me, for a moment here, to make no apology whatsoever for partaking in this kind of blatant film theft. I would be delighted to buy a legitimate copy of any and all films I want to screen at movie night. Have a look at my collection and you’ll notice it doesn’t take much to get me to plunk down the cash for a disc. But if the slack-jawed yokel distributors can’t get an interesting film into my hands in a reasonable amount of time (as in the same year of release, not three years later like Hero) then I’m going to find another way to get it. And if that means surfing a bittorrent site or greasing the palm of some eBay bootlegger, so be it. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow, but at least I’ll die having seen the movies I wanted to see. And on a side note, I’d like to add that someone better release Cypher in Region 1 soon, or we’ll be watching a rip of that too. I’ll still buy the legit copy when it comes out like a good little movie buff, but I would prefer to show a proper DVD come the inevitable Vincenzo Natali fest. And so, I’m sure, would the folks who own the rights. Rant ends here.

I skipped the usual introduction I give for our feature presentations because I couldn’t talk about Haute Tension without blowing the whole film. Besides, what was I to say?

“Ultimately, this film is an abject failure, but it’s an interesting failure and therefore I think you should see it.”

Not terribly encouraging, particularly to a crowd who has illustrated to me in no uncertain terms that they have zero academic interest in film. Still, I think Haute Tension works wonderfully for a whole hour. Then it starts to fall to pieces, and finally, desperately, makes a wholly unnecessary turn into twist-ending land. Ironic how the surprise twist has become such a cliché in film lately, it’s now utterly predictable. Too bad, because while this horror flick was simply about a girl being terrorized by a relentless serial killer who doesn’t actually know she exists, it’s quite a pleasant variation of the familiar stalking-slasher genre.

Ultimately, however, the fact that the movie doesn’t hold water all the way to the end mattered little to our squeamish crowd. Many of them were driven away from Movie Night en masse following the very first killing. Haute Tension isn’t misnamed. It’s quite a tense film experience, to be sure. But apparently the release of that tension — in the form of decapitation by credenza — proved too much, and the body count in the room decreased faster than the film’s body count could rise.

“See you in November,” was the parting sentiment expressed by many as they reached the door. November, I assured them, would be strictly G-rated.

Pussies.

Up until now, the very moment of this posting, Movie Night was discussed online solely at Eric’s own private domain (a site protected by more security features than most internet banking transactions). I decided to move the discussion here, to my own site, for several reasons.

One: There are other people out there, friends and strangers alike, who might like to read about our ongoing film series (even if they can’t attend) and maybe weigh in with an opinion.

Two: Actual discussion, meaningful or inane, has ground to a halt over at Eric’s forum.

Three: Ditto for my own forum. At least now I’ll have something regular to post on the board to give it purpose and some much-needed traffic.

Go here to read the first post, which will give you a quick checklist of what we’ve sat down for so far. Jump in if you like. You don’t even have to register to post, so you’ll be free to mock us in complete untraceable anonymity. And isn’t that what internet forums are all about?

When I said paint the car, I meant the OUTSIDE.

“No, Shane! Not another horror movie!”

Intolerable Intolerance

Enter just about anything into a search engine and you can come up with porn. It’s happened to all of us, much to our chagrin or delight, depending on our mood or morality of the moment. You might go looking for My Little Pony merchandise and end up with photos of crack whores sucking off a mule. We know that shit’s out there, but it can catch us off guard when it shows up on our screen unexpectedly. Sometimes these surprises can go beyond simple porn.

I’d never been to a white supremacist web site before. But I got directed to one after a perfectly innocent research query in Google produced what I thought sounded like a promising discussion thread. I nearly made it all the way through one post before I said, “Wait a minute… This isn’t your usual garden-variety, knuckle-dragging, internet-forum hate rant.” Most anonymous posters out there these days seem to want anyone who disagrees with them to drop dead. These guys would like to see everyone else dead too. Just to be safe.

I couldn’t resist the urge to read what pearls of wisdom such great intellects had to offer about current events and the state of the world today. But any thoughts I had about checking out a political message board got completely sidetracked when I saw the movie forum. How could I resist? At least it’s a topic I know something about.

Or at least I thought it did. It seems these guys appreciate cinema on a whole new level that never even occurred to me.

I didn’t realize, for instance, that Resident Evil: Apocalypse was a race-issue film, nor that Cameron Diaz can grudgingly be referred to as white, even though she’s not technically a 100% pure member of the Aryan race. Hell, I didn’t even realize that John Wayne was such a riddle wrapped in an enigma for having small feet and a penchant for Asian women. Thanks Hitler-lovin’, gay-bashin’, Bush-votin’, middle-American, white-dude douche-bags! I feel all enlightened now. Praise Jesus!

Wait, wasn’t he a Jew? Then fuck him.

Goosestep on over here if you want to know which movies currently playing are safe to take your precious white babies to.

In other news, Scott Taylor (as mentioned in my last entry) has written an account of his ordeal, confirming my opinion that Iraq is the number one vacation hotspot in the world today. Screw Disneyland. Book your ticket on the next crusade shipping off to this sunny Middle East dream destination. If you want thrills and chills, The Haunted Mansion and Space Mountain have nothing on multiple near-executions as you’re shuttled between enraged groups of martyr-mania insurgents. Make your reservation now and receive a free return airport taxi ride for you or your severed head. Luggage is extra.

This Might Have Been An Obituary

December 1998: I was riding Via Rail’s trans-continental line back home after a month-long trip to B.C. during which I had climbed a mountain, strolled through a rain forest, got engaged, and nearly been devoured by the lowlife scum of Vancouver’s shithole quarter. Typical vacation antics all.

Scott Taylor, alive and well

Holed up alternately in our sleeper car or the observation deck, socializing was imposed on my new fiancée and myself come meal time. With limited seating in the dining car, we found ourselves paired up with other travelers on each occasion we sat down to eat. It was through these place-setting arrangements that I ended up in conversation with Scott Taylor several times throughout the three-day journey.

A military journalist for Esprit de Corps, Scott travels the world covering international conflicts and internal issues usually related to Canada’s own anemic armed forces. I’ve caught his appearances on various news shows on half a dozen occasions since meeting him, and I’ve watched him offer his analysis of Canadian military affairs as the various networks’ semi-official go-to guy whenever the often-ignored subject cracks a headline. He was particularly in evidence around the time of the Somalia torture scandal, back when this sort of thing was a hot topic of discussion in our country, several years before the U.S. military would step up to the plate and show the world how to commit war crimes with real pizzazz. On the air, he’s earnest, even stoic, approaching topics that are serious and often contentious with all due respect. In person he’s a card, a constant joker, a personable life-of-the-party.

I’m sure he has no recollection of me, but I remember him well. And I was reminded of him again only yesterday morning when my clock radio woke me up with news that he had just been released after days of being beaten and tortured in Iraq. It turns out that by the time anyone really knew he was being held by insurgents and being threatened with decapitation come Friday, he’d already managed to convince his captors that he was a Canadian journalist and not an Israeli spy after all. He’s still recovering from his injuries, but is expected home in a matter of days.

Aside from my habit of shameless name-dropping, I can’t think of a reason in the world for me to mention this here, other than to say I’m glad to hear he survived the ordeal, even if I got the news he was alright within two seconds of finding out he’d been in mortal peril in the first place.

You can read what Scott had to say about the Iraqi morass in this interview from last year.

No Speaky The English

Longshot Comics: The Failed Promise of Bradley Gethers has sold out. You can blame a fan in Iqaluit who snatched up the final remaining copies, apparently in a bid to preserve this piece of Canadian culture by burying it in the permafrost up there. Future generations of Arctic explorers may one day unearth my contribution to minimalist comic art and, like the invaluable discovery of a frozen woolly mammoth corpse some decades earlier, eat it to stay alive.

I received confirmation that the Iqaluit package arrived safe and sound, which I was grateful to hear because that’s hardy a given these days when dealing with the bureaucratic oafs at Canada Post.

My displeasure with Canada Post seems to increase by the day. In an age of electronic mail, faxes, and couriers, they seem determined to usher themselves into obsolescence even faster than the market would dictate. Corruption scandals aside, they’ve been redirecting my packages all over the place lately. One big parcel on its way to stock Strange Adventures in Halifax bounced back with a note saying the address doesn’t even exist. Well, actually it does exist if you deliver it to the store as addressed clearly and legibly. It doesn’t exist if you try to deliver it to a completely unrelated library on the other end of town as some lost and confused civil servant attempted. Not only did I lose the postage I spent to send the package, my local mailman charged me an additional twenty bucks for returning it to my doorstep undelivered. Yeah, I didn’t know they could do that either. I briefly — very briefly — considered going another round of delivery interruptus with Canada Post, but decided that I, at least, should put customer service first. So when the package went off again later that day, it went with someone else. It was FedEx got that got that piece of business done in the end.

Oh? You think I should have put up more of a fuss? Fought the man? Demanded a refund and a proper, prompt delivery? Better to bang your head against a brick wall when it comes to those nimrods. Witness my more recent (but not only) fiasco involving a package coming in from Hong Kong. Through the miracle of tracking numbers, I can confirm it entered the Hong Kong postal system last month and arrived in Mississauga, Ontario a few days later. Of course, as soon as Canada Post laid their butter fingers on it, my mail dropped off the radar. Now I have three agencies pointing their fingers at each other, trying to pass the buck. Canada Post says Customs Canada must have it. Customs Canada says they either never got it or long-since released it to Purolator (who are in charge to delivering any packages coming in from Hong Kong). Purolator, for their part, has run two searches for me and says they never received it. Them I believe because they’re the only one of the three whose customer service branch seems interested in serving customers. And they know how a tracking number works. Not so Canada Post (who can’t confirm the package ever left their hands), nor Customs Canada (who don’t bother to swipe any shipping information on all those millions of packages they delay under the wise assumption that each and every one of them is brimming with kiddie porn and must therefore be picked over by bomb-sniffing dogs and trainees in charge of interpreting Canada’s obscenity laws). I continue to point my accusing finger at Canada Post, since all evidence says they were the last ones to touch my property. But their stubborn refusal to offer more help than to redirect my call to agencies that can help me even less urges me to offer my business to more couriers who, while often incompetent in their own right, at least charge so much that holding them accountable for a timely delivery is at least feasible. In the meantime, all I can do is carry a grudge against Canada Post, and think about all the horrible things I’d like to do to them. It’s not healthy, but it’s not legally actionable either, so I indulge myself.

So what’s in this missing package that has me all in a tizzy? More Asian DVDs, as you should well know by now. I could grow very old waiting for all the Japanese, Chinese and Korean films I want to see get a release here, so I have to import these discs and muddle my way through subtitles that are in an English so broken, they’re more like shattered English. Yet as bad and hilarious as some of the subtitles can get, the text on the back of the boxes can be far worse. Read, if you can, this word-for-word, punctuation-for-punctuation transcript of the copy on the back of the film Swallowtail if you don’t believe me. I’m not making this up. I couldn’t if I tried.

Quote:

The beautiful (love letter) go place.Circle that headquarter, that the skill figment that this however and completely changeses style, out with the frenzy a Tokyo outskirts is all, there that day this illegal mmigran resided to come from five lakes are the whole world black to help the member with wander about the, public can in order to cheat the secret magnetic tape of the ATM circuit for the sake of the digital data of an inside but your my. Whole slice form for control for diversification for intentionally then inside, Japanese dialogue leaving, with role body coming bring into reliefing the Japanese slice international intention of alignment, it is a pity thatting on the plot handle excessive concept, rhythm feeling as well lack the ability to do then to having much adopting many. The Hong Kong singer allows the ambition peaceful.

End quote.

I’m sure when you’re browsing the video boxes at Blockbuster, this is the sort of descriptive text that would ensure a rental. Frankly, however, I find it does a better job of pitching the movie than most trailers and ads for Canadian movies. At least this piques my curiosity. The promotional material for Canadian films — when they even get some — fails to do anything of the sort. It was with abject disgust that I noted Vincenzo Natali’s new film, Nothing, opened and closed in Montreal inside of a week. I’d been waiting for this movie to come out for over a year, and had I not been paying strict attention to the Cinema Montreal site, I would have missed out on it like everyone else in town. How hard is it to say somewhere, in big letters, “From the director of Cube“? Sure, they did a worthless job of promoting Cube as well, and the average joe has no clue what that movie is either, but at least it’s built up a cult reputation that warrants a mention despite the best efforts to ban it to complete obscurity.

I’ll stop there with a promise. One of these days I swear I’ll write an entire blog entry that contains no bitching about the state of the Canadian film industry. Or Canadian crown corporations.

Continue reading

Your Tax Dollars At Work

Last week I was in Toronto for a wedding, so I neglected to post a new Movies in Longshot. This week, I’ll make amends by doing the entire James Bond series (or at least certain highlights) in one go.

The wedding party in question featured a gathering of some old-guard Canadian film-industry figures who date back to the glorious tax-break days of the 70’s and early 80’s. This was a period when our government funding came in the form of generous tax breaks for anyone who invested in a Canadian production regardless of the calibre of the project. With no one picking and choosing what was worthy of funding, the result was a unique stretch of time when our country actually produced lots of commercial movies. True, many of them were absolute crap, but at least they were chasing an honest buck, which made for a self-sustaining movie mill. Of course, people inevitably balked at the idea of tax breaks being handed out to slasher flicks and sex comedies, all of which were shot here, but none of which actually took place in Canada or portrayed the great Canadian experience (The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz and Jacob Two-Two Meets the Hooded Fang aside). So the system was changed, leading to the stuffy setup we have now, with most home-grown movies incapable of drawing an audience even at the gunpoint of Canadian content legislation.

To this day, you’ll be hard-pressed to find many people who strongly advocate the old tax-break system, even if it did produce our longest-standing box office smash (Porky’s) and gave rise to the career of David Cronenberg, widely celebrated as our finest director (who back then was directing the killing spree of Marilyn Chambers‘ armpit in Montreal’s Eve porn house). I, however, regard that era fondly. And it was fun to hear the battle-hardened vets reminisce about their glory days shooting great Canadian epics like Pick-up Summer, My Bloody Valentine, The Mystery of the Million Dollar Hockey Puck, Loving and Laughing, and inevitably, Ilsa, Tigress of Siberia (the only film to have successfully killed off everyone’s favourite she-wolf/harem keeper/wicked warden/etc.) The stories tended to revolve around how many mind-altering banned substances were consumed in the name of artistic inspiration, and how many stunt men were nearly killed by these low-rent operations that didn’t have the budget to fake mortal peril and therefore had to go with the real thing.

Look hard enough and you can find many of these films available on DVD or as copyright-violating downloads. Believe it or not, though, there are places to go on the web to download movies in a perfectly law abiding fashion. No kidding. This site offers piles of public domain films from decades past. You can enjoy all sorts of propaganda, exploitation and comedy shorts from ages ago. There are even some cheesy B-films (of the hour-long variety) and a genuine classic or two. If you’re looking for a TeleSynch bootleg of Spider-Man 2, you’re out of luck. But if you’re an indiscriminate film nut like me, it’s a real treasure trove.

Now if only they would post some Canadian content…

Signing On The Dotted Line

I love signing contracts.

Aside from heralding regular employment for the next little while, it’s the closest thing to an instant influx of cash in my line of work. Thanks to the miracle of collective bargaining, whenever I sign a new contract under the terms of the Independent Production Agreement, I’m immediately owed 20% of the script fee. Yup, I just scribble my name a few times in a row and the money comes pouring in. I like how that works.

Then comes the hard part. Writing entire sentences and pages and scripts to fill my contractual obligation. But that first stage — when all I’m writing is my name — I love that part.

So after thousands of miles of travel and months of courtship, I’m finally, officially, on the dole. That mystery project I keep alluding to is well and truly a go, at least as far as the scripting chores are concerned. With my bread buttered through to the end of the year, I can be reasonably confident that my DVD addiction won’t bankrupt me quite yet. That leaves time enough to enroll in some sort of digital versatile disc twelve-step program that could save me from myself. All I have to do now is decide I actually want to be saved from my addiction. That’s the hard part. If DVDs are crack for film buffs, ten dollar DVDs are like wholesale narcotics. If only those bastard studios and bastard distributors had kept their disc prices up in the thirty-dollar range where they used to be, I’d be so much better off. Then I’d only end up buying one film I really want at a time, instead of three lesser films I can’t say “no” to for that price.

I left the production office after a long, hard day of writing my name four times in a row, and made my way to Centre-Ville, hoping to score more ten buck discs from my pushers. I was jonesing. Unfortunately, it’s summertime in Montreal. And that can only mean one thing. To get to my objective, I would have to wade through fifty festivals.

Let me step aside here for a second to address the tourists. Montreal is a wonderful, cosmopolitan city. European in flavour, yet North American at its core. Culturally diverse, yet unique in its distinct personality. There’s no other place quite like it on Earth, and it’s well worth coming to visit to appreciate the sights, the beauty both architectural and natural. And there’s no better time to come than in the summer, when the weather is warm and the festivals are in full blossom. Fireworks competitions, stand-up comics, live music, films from around the world. It’s really quite something. So let me just say this to you:

Stay away.

Seriously. I know it sounds like a grand time for the whole family, but stay the fuck out of my city. There’s too much going on at the same time, and it draws tourists like flies to three-day-old road kill. The streets are packed with you people and I’ve had enough. Don’t come anywhere near us ever again. We appreciate your tourist dollars, they’re a boon to the local economy. But please, don’t come onto the island. Just stuff your tourist dollars into a plain brown paper bag and leave it at the end of one of our conveniently located bridges. We’ll send someone around to pick it up. Then get your ass back in your SUV and drive your screaming family to Disneyland or Lake George or some other tourist destination far away from here.

Probably the worst summer tourist attraction in the city is our increasingly misnamed Jazz Festival, which is more of a general music festival because I’ve never actually heard anything remotely like real jazz being played there. People come from all over and absolutely choke the streets, largely because much of the festival is outdoors and free. Cheap tourists love a vacation they can drive to and then not have to pay to get in. This, the primary offender of the Montreal Festival Fest, is what I had to detour my way around yesterday.

I was shocked when, for once, they were playing something vaguely akin to jazz. Chances are, at any given moment of the Jazz Fest, you’ll hear “world” music. This usually comes in the form of a klezmer arrangement of a Barney song as performed by the Vienna Boy’s Choir on kazoo and didgeridoo. Variations exist, but your chances of hearing something just like that are odds on. Despite the music being on topic for a rare change, I decided to move on before the Swahili chanting drowned out the Kodo drummers who were doing their very best to sound completely unlike Gene Krupa.

The final destination I had in mind was a local movie house that was playing our homegrown documentary masterpiece, The Corporation (which, incidentally, as a left-leaning indictment of our current political landscape, absolutely spanks Fahrenheit 9/11, no disrespect meant to Michael Moore‘s otherwise enjoyable feature editorial). As I’ve established at great, tedious length before, I’m a card-carrying member of the Academy of Canadian Cinema & Television, which means I get to flash my card and see Canadian flicks for free.

Yet again, my card was refused.

“I’m sorry, sir. We can’t accept your card. This isn’t a Canadian film.”

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it fucking is.

Of course the reason they incorrectly assumed that The Corporation was an American film is because it’s lasted in theatres for more than a week, and it’s proved to be a popular movie people actually want to go see. This is unheard of in Canadian cinema — so therefore, Canadian it cannot be.

The last time I had this sort of problem was scoring a ticket for Decoys. That was a shitty movie that closed fast because no one wanted to see it, so you’d think it fit the Canadian profile perfectly. But not so. Decoys was clearly an attempt to make a commercial genre film, so again the assumption was it must be American. As we know, no Canadian film actually tries to make money by being broadly appealing. That would cut it off from its government funding.

I tell you, it’s hard to gather support for Canadian cinema when everyone assumes that our rare commercial offerings must, by their very nature, be from somewhere else. You’d think the theatres would at least have some vague notion of what they were showing. Hell, it only takes one person who works there to have actually seen the goddamn thing to be able to tell immediately, by its content alone — never mind what’s clearly stated on the movie poster — that it’s Canadian in origin. But of course the ushers, managers, and candy counter monkeys are all too busy using their comps to go see White Chicks.

After a long argument, during which no one ever conceded that I was right, I finally had my free ticket to see The Corporation…again. I felt good. I had stood up and won a small victory for Canadian cinema. It was time to reward myself.

And that’s when I walked into the American film I really wanted to see instead.

That’s A Wrap

I’ve been so concerned with finishing off my Irish epic, which turned out to be longer and more tedious than Ulysses, that I missed commenting on some of the hottest issues facing us today.

In late breaking news, Ronald Reagan is still dead. Despite round-the-clock coverage while he lay in state, his state never actually changed. With Ronald safely filed away in the ground, the American news networks have finally, reluctantly, ended their three hundred consecutive hours of tributes during which the whole country joined together as one to pretend that Reagan was a competent president.

In entertainment news, it was revealed that the Olsens were, in fact, conjoined twins after all. Over the course of their profitable years together, Ashley had been absorbing all the nutrients, leaving sister Mary-Kate to wither. The operation to separate them into distinct eating-disorder clinic patients proved successful. Doctors hope to also separate them from their billions of dollars once the invoice is delivered.

But I know the real news you tune in for when you come here is MY news. So to that end…

A couple of weeks ago I went down to the Fries With That? studio for the second-season crew photo. The crew photo always provides a valuable opportunity for the writers to touch base with the people who shoot the show, assuming the writers are actually invited and actually bother to show up. The fraction of a second when we’re all together in front of a high-speed camera shutter is not to be missed. Just don’t blink. My first full-colour photo of this sort, it will join the other crew photos on my office wall so I can remember all the people I don’t know who I never worked with directly.

I'm the white guy

A week later I metroed over to a Mont-Royal Street club for the wrap party. There, I was again reunited with the cast and crew so I could watch, from a safe distance, the ritualistic white-people dance that breaks out at these things somewhere after the third round of drinks. The music, typical of most bars, begins at a perfectly reasonable level that encourages social human discourse. The volume is then raised, in fifteen-minute increments, all the way to eleven, where conversation becomes flatly impossible and only drink and dance remain viable options.

The writers, as writers do, formed a phalanx at one table to assure that no one would intrude on our self-perpetuating feeling of isolation. Occasionally one of us would make a run to the buffet table to hunt and gather valuable nutrients that would sustain us through our next stretch at the keyboard, when we would see neither proper food nor daylight for weeks at a time. Despite our efforts to keep everyone at bay with our transparent attempt at a clique, the actors, gregarious creatures that they are, each stopped by in turn as they made the rounds. As writers, it’s our job to put these poor victimized extroverts under the microscope in an effort to generate material for the show. Even as we exchanged greetings and well-wishes, I clinically took note of who was dirty dancing with who in the name of potential third season pairings.

The only solid factoid to emerge from our brief flirtation with meaningful interaction was that it was Morgan Kelly’s birthday – though it’s anyone’s guess which one. He plays a teenager on television, so that could place him anywhere between the ages of twenty and fifty-eight in real life. Actors get a lot of cosmetic work done, and without a valid birth certificate it can be difficult to guess how many years they have under their tightening skin grafts. The more successful amongst them actually sustain themselves on the spare parts of lesser actors, like some stitchwork Frankenstein monster. Jack Nicholson, for example, is responsible for an entire lost generation of thespians who, their hand forced by a string of failed auditions, sold their internal organs to him just to make rent on their one-room apartments. The subsequent manpower loss to the table-bussing industry is incalculable. Christopher Walken, for another, is well known to subsist on the blood of drama school students. And Shelly Winters is rumoured to have eaten Emmanuel Lewis on a single saltine cracker within six months of Webster going off the air.

The highlight of any wrap party as far as someone like me (who spends most of their time watching people in movies and television as opposed to speaking to them in real life) is the blooper reel. With little ceremony and no announcement, the edited highlights of this season’s goofs, gaffes and fuckups appeared at the head of the dance floor through the miracle of video projection. It’s the same sort of material you might have seen Dick Clark and Ed McMahon broadcast back in the day, only without all those annoying bleeps to make it suitable family entertainment. The fine, sheltered folks down at Standards and Practices would blush to hear some of the naughty words that come out of people during the production of a show that’s supposed to be aimed at our unblemished youth. However, more effort was put into this blooper reel than merely assembling a collection of actors blowing their lines. I particularly enjoyed a juxtaposed clip from one of my Radio Active episodes that predicted, quite accurately it seems, that Giancarlo Caltabiano’s future lay in flipping burgers.

Among the writers-table topics of conversation for the evening was the emergence of the first Fries With That? superfan. I’ve heard of one or two fan sites related to shows I’ve written for in the past, but this is the first one I’ve seen myself. With an almost Trekkie-like fervor, Matt Plante has created a tribute page that quotes my own webpage several times. As a primary source of insider information, how could I not feel flattered? Matt has been in touch with The Vestibules and myself via email, sniffing around for some hot tips. I’ve been resisting the urge to pass on all sorts of tawdry stories about substance abuse and sexual misadventures but, sadly, I’m not privy to anything like that. Working at home, alone in a room, the most exciting gossip I can offer concerns that way-cool box of felt tip pens I bought the other day.

Aside from keeping you abreast of my latest news, I’ve been derelict in some of my other duties as well. Having fallen behind online while I play catch-up in the office, I owe you an extra couple of weeks’ worth of Movies in LongshotThree new ones should keep you entertained for as much a ten or eleven seconds. I also need to give a public acknowledgement to Rich Johnston for mentioning Longshot Comics in his column, Lying in the Gutters. I’ve experienced a modest deluge of orders since then and he has my thanks.

And I wanted to link you to this article, which I think speaks volumes about the Canadian film industry and why hardly anyone bothers to watch our home-grown movies. It’s good that Canadian funding is moving towards backing more commercial projects (as opposed to some of the navel-gazing shit that only a director and his mother could love), but it’s bad that there seems to be little concept of how to develop these commercial projects, or which ones are worthwhile. There have been several fiascos of late, with some very strange choices as to what films deserve wide distribution and massive ad campaigns. While terrific genre fare like Cube and the Ginger Snaps trilogy are banished to rep houses and video shelves with hardly a word, millions are earmarked to push a curling comedy (fun, amusing, yes – but seriously, it’s about curling, and nobody pays to see a curling movie) and yet another heist movie (amusing and fun again, yes – but the ubiquitous trailer couldn’t even pitch the hook that made this one different). Somehow, I don’t think a Chevy Chase yuk-yuk fest about a talking barnyard animal is going to make Porky’s money no matter how much they audience-test it. There’s a mint to be made by our film industry if they can only accept that our unique, government-funded Canadian sensibility can be marketed to a much wider audience than micro demographics like curlers and unemployed Maritime cod fishermen.

If you can’t find any worthwhile Canadian films to rent down at your local mom and pop video store, let me encourage you to sample the offerings from the boutique film industries of other nations that also can’t hope to compete with Hollywood. There’s a myriad of interesting material from around the world to sample. Like…um… German industrial safety films, for instance.