Victoria Film Fiasco

Of the hundreds of lines I penned about the Film Fest, The Martlet published eight of them, and only in an online exclusive at http://www.martlet.ca/sections/culture/ for Thursday February 24, 2011. I have taken the liberty of publishing the rest below.

VICTORIA FILM FIASCO
The Victoria Film Festival. Opening night. A Friday night. Palpable excitement in the air. Kind of. After the day’s fiasco in which The Martlet press package had not arrived I was guided to an a.w.o.l. e-mail that explained why. Offered platitudes like, “My hands are tied,” I was informed that the box office would not be able to process my request until Monday – to check what was not already sold out – a coded message that everything was likely to be. Ultimately, I had to pay well over $100 out of pocket to acquire tickets for the night’s show, and to ensure I would have tickets to the others I hope to review. I was already barred from attending the long-since sold out Opening Night Gala and concomitant feature. I was fortunate to get tickets to the night’s obvious second feature. It represents the highest achievement of the indie, amateur documentary genre – the smartest kid on the short bus.
But this fiasco would not dampen my spirits. I ventured forth with high hopes; I didn’t come home cheering, but I did come home satisfied. Great Film Festival fare! The title of the indie-documentary No Fun City is somewhat misleading. The film likens the entire “no fun” problem in Vancouver to the ailing underground punk-rock industry. The film was one of the three prominently displayed on the front page of the Victoria Film Festival’s website.
The opening verbal prologue in the theatre rendered the directors Melissa James and Kate Kroll conspicuously absent. When called for an introduction, no-one stood to take credit. The audience tittered with bemusement. The film began with an ambiguously tasteless and somewhat ironic introduction: an advertisement of sorts lamenting the homeless plight in Victoria, followed by a strange image, apparently identifying the preceding as a ‘pain/pleasure paradox’ – presumably the pain of the message with the pleasure of its film media presentation. The answer to that particular riddle was never made clear.
The opening-night second-feature audience was unruly to no end. The inexplicably low volume was eventually turned up to drown them out following choruses of “Turn it up!” chirped variously from the audience. Having missed what may have been pivotal opening scenes from the noise and low volume, I settled in to be convinced, educated, informed, and titillated.
The film was well constructed. The videography, continuity, and editing were of an impressive professional level for an indie venture. As a film work of art, it was complete. The indie style and intentionally amateur-styled filmography matched seamlessly with the film’s content. Staying true to its theme of rejecting authority, there is no conventional narrative voice-over. Instead the continuity is driven by the voices of those on the screen and the occasional written interjection. Considering the pastiche of footage and the lack of narrator the film’s trajectory is surprisingly cohesive.
But for all its technical strengths, its message was unclear, and that failing overshadowed all of its less visible successes. The film outlines a problem but fails to offer even the suggestion of any recourse to stratagem. It appears to celebrate its own message of hopelessness. One punk-rock alumnus identifies the punk aesthetic as “no hope except what we’re about to do.” Tracking the entrepreneurial ventures of four major players, Malice, Wendy 13, Justin, and David, the film plays out more like a punk-rock tragedy than a documentary. All are trying to scratch out a living in the underground punk-rock culture of Vancouver – and failing. Eventually Malice takes on a disillusioned and defeated tone, reporting that he was “working with the city to make [his newest venture] work right” after the serious failing of his latest venture. Wendy is evicted from her home at The Cobalt. Justin is headed for L.A. Malice faces an insurmountable lawsuit, and the possibility of deportation. At the end of the film, David is the last man standing having found limited success in a watered-down version of the punk rock scene in a converted movie theatre, with all necessary licenses and permits in place, except a permanent liquor license. Overall, it was a gritty, ground-level expose of Vancouver’s underground punk-rock scene. As far as documentaries go, there was nothing exceptional here, nor unexpected. Even so, the movie did a very good job of depicting the endless psychobabble of “all this bureaucracy.”
The partisanship of the filmmakers was evident early in the proceedings, making champions of the under-dog punk-rock entrepreneurs. Their unfortunate heroes were punk-patrons who offered such compelling tidbits of wisdom as, “It’s always gonna have to happen until something changes.” Justin and his partner provided some witty dialogue on the ‘no-fun’ issue, suggesting that city by-laws have made underground punk about as fun as drinking in a mall, which they humorously expand to, “It actually takes the fun out of drinking in a mall.” The other side of the issue was given almost no voice at all. Villainizing the silent and ambiguous establishment, its only representatives were an extraordinarily dorky condo tenant, complete with evil euro-foreign accent, and an even dorkier low-level city employee.
The film was aimed at a fairly narrow and specific demographic. At one point the punk-rock music industry is referred to as a “melting pot” of Vancouver music. The statement is ironically juxtaposed against the almost exclusively white male demographic represented in the movie. The less complicit audience members showed mild amusement when the band “Alcoholic White Trash” was featured towards the end of the film. That ironic message was painfully clear, although not necessarily intended by the directors, unless they were brilliantly covert in some pro-establishment message. I don’t think that was their intention.
Ultimately, I was unsure what the point was. Reject authority? Work with authority? Punk rockers rule? The establishment sucks? And justice for all? Only once was a message clearly articulated: get out there and support underground punk venues if you want them to survive. Admittedly, this message was a little lost on me, but to its specific target audience, it must have been very appealing. Indeed, they made their approbation known.
The crowd was a motley mixture with an interesting balance of proud punk-rockers and more austere film aficionados. The rowdy interjections of the latter group had the effect of a claque, clearly indicating the cause’s champions as they appeared on-screen. One might almost suspect their presence was a quite intentional part of the whole presentation. The film’s effect on the mixed audience was fascinating. The mood of the room was as much Rocky Horror Picture Show as it was film festival documentary. At the end, the universal smattering of applause declared the film definitively ‘good.’ But the crowd was clearly not ready to give up its thunderous applause on this particular film.
Overall, it was worth the watch. Its documentary style was excellent: a fast-paced pastiche of interview and expose. It was interesting and entertaining, punctuated with moments of candid humour. But it didn’t set the bar particularly high. Its minor efforts to be emotionally hard-hitting were conservative and diluted with an ambiguous cause. Certainly I am better educated on Vancouver punk-rock culture, both from what was on the screen and the audience in the theatre, but I don’t feel particularly enlightened, nor motivated to join the cause, but some might be. The entire experience was surely a bit of a fiasco – a fun start for the Film Festival, and I came home just about satisfied. I give it 2-1/2 stars out of 5.

David Christopher
Culture Correspondent
The Martlet


VFF: Tragedy, Horror, and Funding Cuts
The last two evenings have been well spent in the depths of Film Festival tragedy and horror. On Saturday, the festival screened two powerful offerings concurrently: As If I Am Not There and Biutiful. The former is a powerful realist drama depicting the plight of a young school-teacher within the upheavals of militant Sarajevo. The latter is a Spanish naturalist piece set in Barcelona and starring Javier Bardem. The former was one of the three critical picks featured on the Victoria Film Festival main page. The latter starred Javier Bardem. I should have reviewed the former. I snuck into the latter. Come on! Javier Bardem! While I am remiss to have missed the former, I was delighted with the latter. Well, perhaps delighted isn’t the best word. The film follows the last months of cancer victim Uxbal’s life. His existence is saturated with tragic reality: guilt and fatherhood, responsibility and humanitarianism, and there’s even a subtle and tasteful supernatural interjection.
All superficial beauty has been erased from this world. The mise-en-scene is brilliantly stark and unapologetically real. Bardem as the tragic father is simply perfect. His liaisons include illegal immigrant street hawks, Chinese slave entrepreneurs, corrupt contractors, and a bi-polar ex-wife who is prostituting to his brother. The horrors of slavery and the regular imagery of cash money were repetitive themes. The relentless squalor and constant economic pressure is the bleak backdrop against which the very few Biutiful moments are rendered more poignant. All of them were emotional moments regarding children, confession, and reconciliation. Ultimately it is a movie that pits family against brutal reality. Eventually reality wins, but not before Uxbal experiences a compelling range of human emotions. In terms of modern social criticism, this film is as important as Schindler’s List and should be seen by everyone. The film is replete with real tension and emotional crescendos. Bardem hits all of them with subtle virtuosity. It’s Biutiful.
My next evening of film-going, Sunday, was less emotionally taxing, but more thrilling. Canadian-made horror feature The Shrine attracted a much smaller crowd than I would have thought. After the opening horror, the plot begins with a conventional shower scene, but quickly moves in a less conventional direction, still anti-feminist. The transgression of the young, beautiful, female protagonist is not a stereotypically sexual one, but rather a transgression against male authority. She defies the dictates of her male newspaper employer and her boyfriend. Nevertheless, the pair of young female protagonists still manage to get stripped naked midway through the movie. One of them is tied up and tortured.
For all its cliche it is remarkably well done and without recourse to torture pornography, although its euro-setting is reminiscent of the movie Hostel. One character even mentions that there are “no hostels” at their forbidden destination. The main drive of the narrative is constructed around a standard travel-horror format. The horror conventions in this film are many: eerie foreboding fog; deep, dark forest; spooky isolated euro-village complete with creepy little girl in an ankle-length smock and her butcher knife father; demonic Christian mythology; villainous priests; and euro-slavanian hillbilly henchmen. There are so many conventions, in fact, one would hardly think they could occupy the same space. But they all comfortably intersect in an intelligent narrative. That’s one of the things that makes this film great. It’s not trying to be the newest extreme in shocking torture pornography. This film is just trying to be a good film and unabashedly uses convention. Within that framework, Freudian oedipal eye-castration, and the psychology of masked torture is all very compelling and disturbing.
In the audience of the only Canadian screening of The Shrine this year was Executive Producer Trevor Matthews, who also co-wrote the film and starred as one of the apparent villains. I was fortuitous enough to catch up with him after the show. Matthews began a traditional university education at Carleton University in Ottawa before he skipped out to attend The New York Film Academy. Since then he has created start-up production company Brookstreet Pictures. The Shrine is the company’s second feature length production. For a budget of what Matthews informed me was under $1.5 million, the cinematographic quality and special effects were excellent. When another interviewer asked him about the decision not to use sub-titles for the large amount of Polish dialogue in the film, he responded that he wanted the audience to experience the characters’ tension in the fear that arises from being in an environment where you don’t understand your antagonists. It was very effective. When Matthews in turn interviewed my teenage son for his opinion, he responded with a candid, “Cool effects. It was scary.” It is genuinely scary, but not over the top, and highly entertaining. These are amongst the many likeable things about this film. Oh, and it’s Canadian! Bonus!
As a footnote to Friday’s fiasco, I went to Film Festival Box Office headquarters on Saturday afternoon. When I entered the office, the effects of financial cuts to the Arts were evident. There was an environment of disarray, confusion, mess, and few people seemed to know who anyone else was. It looked like an accountant’s office had exploded. One of the festival volunteers, who generously gave up her ticket of Biutiful as an act of goodwill, and who asked to remain anonymous for some reason, informed me that financial cuts had hit hard, and that the 2011 Festival had barely been able to survive. While internally it was clearly problematic, externally you’d never know it. They’ve done great work with few resources. Their volunteers have been courteous and professional. The films have been great!

David Christopher
Culture Correspondent
The Martlet


And another Victoria Film Festival winds to a close.
In their seventeenth year they offered some fantastic fare. No Fun City was an interesting watch. Biutiful was beautiful. The Shrine was horrifically stunning. The People vs. George Lucas was delightfully tongue-in-cheek, and it was a surprisingly relevant piece of film history criticism. Two Indians Talking addressed the questions of indigenous land rights and cultural oppression in an interrogative way that invited all members of the audience to participate in the machinations behind two very personalized and ingenuous first nations men grappling with the reality of their social positions and their revolutionary decisions.
Certainly one of the most interesting evenings was entitled Dinner and More than a Movie. The program included a variety of short sexualized films and was hosted at The Superior in the James Bay commercial sector. The atmosphere of the restaurant represents a sort of avant-garde 'Beetlejuice' of the North. Nevertheless, its modernist décor is not overwhelming, although somewhat risible in its blatant effort. It is comfortable with excellent service staff and fantastic food. I went back two days later for more of their fare. The films represented a range of sexual themes from the comic to the repressed and grotesque. All of them were fascinating, well made, and highly entertaining. One about teenage oral sexuality was unobtrusively didactic. The second last film which integrated torture, murder, and sex was uncomfortably compelling. All of them summarized in the Events listing for the evening’s program on the Victoria Film Festival 2011 website.
My only regret is that I hadn’t time to see more of the Festival offerings. The Box Office line-up looked spectacular and I doubt any of the films were not worth their admission. I should very much like to have seen the Family Fracases showcase but time constraints and the cost had become prohibitive. Alas, one cannot see every film they wish to in a week and half.
Festival categories and winners were announced during Sunday night’s closing ‘gala’ at Spinnaker’s Brew Pub:
Best Student Film: Heal by Mian Adnan Ahmad
Best Animation: Trembling Veil of Bones by Matthew Talbot-Kelly
Best Short Film: Apostles by Jeff Chan
Best Documentary: No Fun City by Melissa James and Kate Kroll
Best Canadian Feature: Trigger by Bruce McDonald (written by Daniel MacIvor)
Best Feature: When We Leave by Feo Aladag
Audience Favourite: Incendies by Denis Villeneuve

David Christopher
Culture Correspondent
The Martlet

See you in hell,
Shakes.

The Decline of Western Civilization

Alex sent me the following link on facebook: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/misspelling. It provides a tongue-in-cheek look at the most common linguistic offenses, some of which are becoming epidemic with the rise of text and instant messaging. Facebook doesn't help much either. I like it. ALL of those listed are pet peeves of mine. Of course, I mark upwards of five hundred 2nd year exams and papers a year, so I am justifiably irritated. Here are a couple to add: Canadians who pronounce nuclear 'nucular' should immediately be deported to the U.S. 'Disorientated' should be removed from the dictionary. The correct word is disoriented. Disorientated technically means that you have failed in your Cub-Scout exercise using a compass. And you're probably lost in a forest. 'Disorientated' belongs in the same category as the word 'represent' when the word 'resent' is intended. 'Supposably' is not, and has never been a word. 'To' is a preposition - only - that's it, that's all. It NEVER means also. That requires another 'o' - one, measly, single, little 'o'. The clause following a semi-colon (;) MUST be an independent clause. By writing 'imma' for 'I'm a,' you haven't reduced the amount of typing you do by anything but a single space - and that's only if you consider the apostrophe a character.

Sea u on hel;
Sheaks.

Milo's Bouncy Story

Recently, Milo's school forwarded to me a link offering a parent and child team the opportunity to enter in a story writing contest chaired by Robert Munsch. The grand prize was a home visit by Munsch himself, a creepy idea if ever there was one if you ask me, but there were other prizes. Milo goes to a school in which he participates in a behavioural program. That is to say he is designated as behaviourally challenged. While his IQ is off the charts (literally - he didn't inherit that from either of his parents!), he apparently suffers from the following: "He experiences his emotions more powerfully than most and has trouble managing social situations when the experience overwhelms him." At least I know he comes by that honestly. For the most part he is simply delightful, but when one of his episodes manifests, it can be quite explosive. I was delighted to focus his attention on this creative family activity for a short while. He dictated his ideas to me and I wrote them as he stated them (for the most part) with only minor changes and edits. When we went to the website contest submission page we discovered that we had missed the submission deadline by two days. Milo was a little heart-broken so I wrote a letter to the website contact email pleading our case for a late submission. Of course, we received no response. Fortunately, as often as he can become emotional, Milo also has the ability to let minor disappointments roll off his back. The following is Milo's story.

My name is Milo. I am 8-years-old. I have six brothers and sisters: Rory, Megan, Blair, Camille, Aiden, and Lilian. Sometimes it’s hard for my Dad and Step-Mom to play with me because there are so many children to take care of. Lucky for me, we have a trampoline! All my brothers and sisters like to play on it. We play a bouncy version of Blind Man’s Bluff. One person is ‘it’ and must close their eyes. The ‘it’ person stands safely in the middle. The rest of us bounce around and try to avoid being touched. Bounce! Boing! Bounce! Bump! Tag! “You’re it!” If someone gets touched, it is their turn to close their eyes and be ‘it’. My oldest brother makes sure we are all safe and don’t get hurt. Bounce! Boing! Bounce! Bump! Thump! Tag! “You’re it, now!” My oldest sister makes us all laugh and giggle. Bounce! Boing! Bounce! Bump! Thump! Giggle! Tag! “You’re it this time!” My Dad says, “It sure is funny to see all you kids bouncing together.” It’s SO funny that sometimes he stops cooking, or cleaning, or working and comes out to bounce too. BOUNCE! BOING! BOUNCE! BUMP! THUMP! GIGGLE! GUFFAW! TAG! “YOU’RE IT, DAD!” I love the trampoline.

CHALK!

I write and I write and I write. I tap out another thesis and I acquire another grade. Alas, all too often I forget why I started doing this in the first place. But every once in a while I get an opportunity to attend some actual theatre. Ahhhh, the theatre . . . (deep breath) . . . in all its glory. And all too often I’m disappointed. But not this time. SNAFU Dance Company and William Head on Stage have produced a piece for the ages: Chalk! I’m no humanitarian, I have no taste for the avante-garde, and I’m the first to cry ‘Euro-trash!’ when I see it. But not this time. Blurring the lines between childhood folly and adult transgression, Chalk! affords the inmate performers at William Head the opportunity to live out beautiful and terrifying moments of childhood that they never had, or never escaped. I normally raise an eyebrow at how valuable applied theatre can be, but this one may have me convinced. Emotional crescendos of jubilance and pathos pepper the drawn out moments of slow and contemplative physical representation. Particularly talented was the inmate who played ‘Tuk-Took’ (who, as an actor, is required to remain anonymous for legal reasons). He hit a variety of delicate emotions with substantial virtuosity. For a piece that is ostensibly all white, the performance was saturated with colourful emotion. As a fellow grad student, Anne Cirillo is someone I usually see as merely the person with whom I share funding, but her performance was emotionally powerful from beginning to end. The piece gives fresh life to old questions without pretension; it answers none of them. Overall, it was a touch too long. It was clumsy in places, and awkward in others, but delightful through and through. Most of the audience was riveted. The rest were fidgety. Fortunately, I fell into the former category. For a piece entirely void of dialogue, I am an audience member who would normally be proned to fall asleep. But not this time. As a movement performance, I assure you, it was wholly moving.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Seek the Source

In all lives there must fall some rain, and in every collection of stories there must be some that are inappropriate, and some that are just downright childish. If you are one of those people that is so puritanically crippled that a good fart story is offensive to you, then please stop reading now. In fact, stop reading altogether and never log on again. But I digress.

Marianne never ceases to amaze me but sometimes her Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (which is admittedly only mild most of the time) manifests itself in the most ridiculous ways. After having spent the last three years in Marianne's close company, and with a family in tow, a certain inexplicable habit of hers has revealed itself in a pattern of behaviour. The other day, Blair was having one of his flatulent days at the same time that Camille and Aiden were. Everyone has days like that but Blair's tend to be particularly assaulting to the olfactory senses. Marianne once called him 'Blart'. In an open yard, the offensive aroma can be escaped but in the close confines of our family van, even opening all of the windows offers only scant relief. Earlier in the day, at the dinner table, their tummy rumblings had already become obvious, much to the destruction of everyone's appetite. Later, when we were driving along towards some family objective, the van became absolutely untenable. We rolled down the windows and gasped for fresh air. Marianne, however, began contemplating. "*sniff*sniff* You know, we had hot dogs two nights ago. *sniff*sniff* But they all have a faster metabolism than that. *sniff*sniff* Maybe it was the combination of chocolate . . . *sniff* . . . and I think, . . . *sniff* oranges, that they had yesterday." And this is not the first time she has done this. While most people smell a fart and either try to escape its foul stench, or laugh at it, Marianne seems hell-bent on discovering the source - that elusive but specific combination of foods that someone must have ingested that might have resulted in just that particular stench. When she does it, it adds a certain extra level of discomfort to the odour as one imagines the entire digestive process, simultaneously funnier and more disgusting. I don't think she does it to torture us further, but she certainly revels in her detective-like deductions. She is like the Sherlock Holmes of fart sources. 'When you eliminate the impossible foods, whatever you is left, no matter how unlikely, must be the foods that caused that fart.'

See you in hell,
Shakes.

The Truth Is Out

Marianne is an intoxicating mix of psychosis and sensuality. I was doomed from the start to fall madly in love with her. Never in my life had I been so ruthlessly and efficiently hunted by a woman who knew what she wanted. Even when she was pushing me away, retrospect causes me to be suspicious that it was all part of some master plan, meticulously devised to achieve her desired ends, and all completely unbeknownst to me. Her wildcat certainly trumped my wolf and I am humbled. And it is not just in romantic endeavours that she is a force to be reckoned with. Recently a dear friend, while surrounding a campfire with a group that stayed with us following the wedding, coined the term "Attilla the Mom" at her expense - both funny and entirely accurate. Her role in our family is indispensable and her ability to master the house only recently grounded itself in an explanation.

The kids had gotten in the habit of 'pantsing' each other. Yes, it is as it appears. It is a colloquialism in which the noun 'pants' is turned into a verb. The action entails coming up behind someone, quickly grabbing their pants at both sides and instantly tugging them down while yelling "Pantsed!" While there are occasions that it might be inappropriate, I have to admit, there have been as many occasions when I couldn't help but laugh. Especially funny is when one of the boys, often in loose-fitting pajama pants, is bouncing up and down in front of some video game, completely distracted, and facing squarely towards the television. One of the other kids gives them a dose of pantsing and usually everyone laughs, including the victim.

Eventually, however, Marianne had had enough. Nevertheless, Marianne recognizes good hilarity as much as the next person, and it was all she could do to contain her own laughter when she laid down a rule that even she knew would be impracticable to enforce. "That's it! The next person who pantses someone will have to spend the entire next day naked, even if we go out shopping or you have to go to school!" She didn't realize until later how little the threat was to someone like Milo or Aiden who would just as happily forego the encumbrance of clothing in any situation. In fact, I don't think I would care much either, and the challenge was just too much to resist.

Later that day, Marianne was in the kitchen with myself and a few of the kids. She climbed up on to a blue stool that we keep handy in the kitchen to reach the higher shelves (since all of us are quite short, except for Rory of late). At the same moment I was leaning down to load some dishes into the dishwasher. When I lifted my head I found myself at eye level with her crotch. Never one to miss a golden opportunity, I grabbed her pajama pants and gave with a yank. What I found myself staring at only inches from my face was startling. Much to everyone's surprise, Marianne was wearing some kind of thong underwear with bright blue stripes, and the red Superwoman logo front and centre. The cut of the undies made them look like a cross between a Wonder Woman outfit and a Superman costume. I did a double-take and so did the kids. "What the . . .?"

Marianne, also never one to miss a golden opportunity, must have seen our expressions of dumbfounded surprise and, standing just above us aloft her stool mount, turned towards her audience, placed her feet at shoulder width, planted her fisted hands on her hips, and austerely stated, "So, . . . now you know." We all burst into uproarious laughter, and Marianne's reputation as Superwoman in our household was cemented. You are Superwoman, baby.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Alex Obi Wan Kenobi Coll = the BEST man!

So Alex, in his hyper-organized computer-systems egocentric mind, has graciously seen fit to send me the entire edited text of his Best Man's speech. For the record, Alex, Tatooine is NOT pronounced "Tatoony", but good try. Almost every other sentiment in this speech has me teary-eyed. Enjoy.


Vader, Vader, Vader, buddy ol’ pal. I’m glad you could invite me here today on your special day, and that we can still be friends and put this whole intergalactic war thing behind us. And I think I speak for everyone when I say that I’m happy to see you back with Amidala, you should have known that the whole thing with Emperor Palpatine just wasn’t going to work out. In the end he just didn’t respect you, not to mention the whole age difference.

Ok I’m done with the Star Wars jokes. Unlike Uncle Palpie I could never really get into role playing...

For those from the bridal party who might just be meeting Dave, let me give you some background.

Of the many things Dave has been called over the years, I’m pretty sure that a cool cat is counted among them. But if I was going to choose his most feline characteristic, it would probably be the many lives he has been granted to throw away. The first of those nine cards was played on July 15, 1970, when a compassionate woman and strict catholic dogma did him a favour, a debt which he has since repaid four times over.

I am not a religious man, but I do believe in guardian angels. While I can’t picture a system where everyone has one, Dave on the other hand has a whole team, and I’m sure the loved ones summoned upstairs to plead on his behalf are looking down on us tonight. You see, when he was only 15 Dave was tragically struck by a car in a hit and run late at night. He was rushed to the hospital, where to every one's joy and surprise he came to. The doctor sat down to tell the adolescent David some news. The good news was that none of the inflicted bone fractures was too serious and they should all heal cleanly. The bad news, was that given tell tale signs from
the x-ray, as far as growing taller was concerned, he was finished.

I can only imagine how this knowledge would impact a typically self-obsessed 15-year-old. But as a testament to the pointlessness of modern genetic screening, learning his fate did little to prevent a burgeoning napoleon complex. For the non-history buffs, Napoleon was born in Corsica, which is an island in the St Lawrence.

Of course, Dave was gifted with plenty of ways to compensate for being vertically challenged. He still had his good looks that were so popular with the ladies, and even the silky smooth voice to match. Unfortunately that voice was connected to a mouth which was not altogether unaccustomed to having a foot wedged firmly in. Strangely, this is one of the qualities we love most about Dave. In a world dominated by a saccharine, paranoid, politically correct media, David is not shy about speaking his mind. Not that he’s rude, or going to judge you for your opinion, but he ain’t apologizing for his. BS has its purposes but conversation ain’t one of them. This is an attitude which I like very much.

But where were we? Like any alpha male who also knows a good party when he sees one Dave was drawn to the decks, and started a career Dj’ing in the pubs and clubs of Ottawa-Hull that even landed him a spot on the radio. But he did not limit himself solely to the role of an entertainer. Being a renaissance man, minus the sporting bit, he simultaneously pursued the finer arts, becoming versed in the likes of Descartes and Shakespeare, eventually earning a degree in Economics from Carleton University. As if that wasn’t enough, and for God knows why, he added another degree in English to his accolades.

So, a successful radio career, a new family, and two degrees. Where do you go from there? Time to buy a house, settle down and trip the light fantastic? Not if you’re David Christopher. Hell no! It’s time to get that family down to the hot sands of Daytona beach and check out the party!

In Daytona it took Dave no time flat to establish himself on the scene and party in the booth with the likes of Snoop Dogg and the Chili Peppers. Even an NBA star came to the booth one night to make a request. Making conversation he asked “Hey, what’s a fella gotta do to get some action in this place?”
“You’re Shaquille O’neal, right?” replied Dave.
“That’s right”, says Shaq. To which Dave came back with, “Yeah, you’re not gettin’ laid tonight.” Tell it like it is pal!

Dave arrived ahead of the kids to prepare the cottage in Daytona. He was impressed with the comfy little bungalow, and like any good Canadian he was immediately drawn to the fireplace. This being the middle of summer, there was only one logical thing to do: fire that puppy up!

A nice toasty going, Dave stepped out to survey the view from the garden. The neighbour was out that day, watering his lawn.
“Howdy there!” the neighbour exclaimed, “where y’all from?”
“Canada actually!” Dave replied. “We’re from Ottawa. The rest of the fam is coming down next week!”
“Well, that’s a relief” says the neighbour.
“Why?” asked Dave, puzzled.
“'Cause your house is on fire!”

A glance confirmed that indeed the roof, the roof, the roof was on fire. But he didn’t need no water. He let that muther burn! Because the landlord claimed responsibility for not cleaning the flu, and set him up with a condo on the beach! In all the species in your mutt heritage, I’d have to say the luck of the Irish shone through on that occasion.

All good things come to an end, and Dave decided to come home. Of course, no one in their right mind would go back to Ottawa voluntarily, so Dave and company returned to settle in our little island hamlet. And hamlet, as in the play by Shakespeare, is exactly where I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. The casting was perhaps the only thing done right in this production, with a brooding 25-year-old Alex Coll in the eponymous role, and the over-the-hill DJ David Christopher as Hamlet’s traitorous ami Rosencrantz. I can still recall the first reading, where introductions were made. I took a look at Dave, with his pencil thin chinstrap and frosted tips, and could at once smell something rotten in the state of Denmark. For his part, Dave looked back at an angry, stand-offish ego-case, and he didn’t like me one bit. But it didn’t take long for him to see through the act, and approach me after rehearsal. “These drama geeks may be intimidated by you”, he said, “but not me buddy. You’re not the first punk I’ve chewed through in my time and you ain’t gonna be the last.” I could tell then this was going to be someone I wouldn’t soon forget. As two heart-broken, wise-cracking sods we were bound to become friends eventually. But in the end it was not our mutual appreciation of the Bard which brought us together. No, it was of course a heinous act of juvenile shenanigans.

I had invited Dave and some of the cast over to my flat for a few drinks. The apartment was just another one of those 70’s jobs on Bay St, but it had an interesting feature. The entrance way camera was hooked up to CCTV, which you could view on a special channel on the TV. The channel’s audio was connected to the intercom, and a couple smart-asses from next door were on it, making wise-cracks at everyone coming in and out of the building. Well, I decided that if they were going to be smart, I might as well give them something to talk about. So donning a pillowcase to protect my anonymity, I made my way down to the entrance and treated the building to a show of my bare white ass. However, what I had failed to consider is that someone, such as a little old lady, may have wanted to actually use said entrance. Try to imagine someone trying to simultaneously pull up their pants and yank a pillowcase off of their head, and you could appreciate the comedy of the situation.

I returned to the apartment to find my friends rolling on the floor in tears. Dave put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and told me “Alex Coll, you are the man”. And that was to be the true beginning of a torrid bromance.

The production went off without a hitch. However, it is a standing tradition among actors to play some kind of prank on the closing night. There is a scene in Hamlet where he shows an impudent Rosencrantz the back of his hand. That night I decided to put my back into it, however when it came down to it I realized that I had never actually slapped someone in earnest, and became terribly self-conscious in the act. From my proximity I could see Dave break character for a second and give me a sly grin, as if to say “you little b, is that really the best you can do?” Well Dave, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve given MJ my full permission to demonstrate the proper technique after the reception tonight!

I have come dressed tonight in the most appropriate costume for a best man, Obi Wan, Anakin’s failed mentor. The truth is of course that it is actually Dave who has served as my mentor, and in that capacity he has proved anything but a failure. Nor am I the only one, as an instructor the man was a legend at Pan Pacific College International, and his disciples, spread as they are around the world, from Japan to Korea, to Mexico, would I’m sure very much like to be here today to share this proud moment. And of course no speech on David’s accomplishments would be complete without mention of his role as a dedicated father. In an age when yuppies everywhere
are raising their only child as an exercise in project management, Dave knows that you won’t find the secret of good parenting in a psychology textbook. No Montessori in the world will replace old-fashioned love and attention. Kids love Dave because he’s just a big version of them, in years if not in stature. But all that is not to call him a soft touch. Far from it, Dave has done his best to keep his children away from the dark side of the force, and give them the same chance his adoptive parents gave him. To teach them that all-important lesson: if you can’t always do the right thing, just try and keep your nose out of the wrong one!

Post Hamlet I had the opportunity to get to know Dave and spend some time with him and Rory, Blair and Milo. But as fate would have it I was called to leave Victoria to find my fortune abroad in Europe. I did not pay home a visit until 2007, when I met up with Dave only to discover that he had fallen for a charming woman, one Marianne Johnston. We spent the evening raising our brand of hell on the town, par normale. At the end of the night we relaxed in Dave’s living room, until he lay snoozing in her arms as she spoke to me in whispered tones. That he had fallen for a pretty girl was no surprise. That she could keep up with him, moreso. That she had outlasted him was perhaps unheard of. To top it off I could tell she was no fan of BS herself. She had earned my respect, and then some.

Dave isn’t always the easiest person to live with, a secret about as well hidden as the plans to the Death Star. Any woman that was going to put up with him would have to have thick skin and a firm hand. So, it was yet to been seen if it would last. A lengthy period ensued before I had the chance to return again in 2009 but when I did, it was to find that not only had Marianne lasted, they had a home together. It appeared that David’s incurable optimism was finally proffering returns. It was at this point that I had the pleasure to make acquaintance with Marianne’s lovely children Aiden, Camille, and Megan. You can imagine my terror when upon entering the door David shouted “Ok, who wants uncle Alex to read a story?!” I was at once engulfed in what can only be described as a kidalanche.

Like any true genius, Dave has had his doubters. These are the ones who have said “Dave, a great mind sure, but he’s a loose cannon!”. It is true that his explosive energy has a habit of getting carried away, and he has not always had his toes planted down on terra firma. In Marianne he has found someone who can not only take the thorns with the roses, but who has the courage and strength of character to get his attention and make him listen. Marianne, you are a rock, an anchor in the storm. And since you have come into his life we have seen nothing but positive things.

Needless to say none of the doubters are in attendance today. But I almost wish they were, so they could see what Dave can accomplish with a woman like Marianne at his side. How about an A+ grade point average in a master’s level theatre history program? How about being told by an accomplished professor that he should publish his thesis as a full length book? How about things in the works to get his blog on family life published as a novel? And the scary thing is, you two are just getting started!

So with the addition of wee Lilian the family is complete (knock knock). I have never seen such enjoyable mayhem as 654 Ralph St, a.k.a. Grand Central Station, and we are all blessed to know it is assured to continue long into the future. To finish, I’d like to say two things. Firstly, Dave, the gestation of a pig is 112 to 114 days, if you ask me one more time I’ll slap you for real, and I’ve been practicing! Second, I’d like to say that despite the occasional transgression, you are a gentleman, you will soon be a scholar by even the classic definition, and David Christopher, you are the man.

Thank you.



... and see you in hell,
Shakes.