Do you remember them?

Jerry Lewis and whatever semblance of celebrity he could cobble together, would entertain the hell out of you for 24 hours straight, and in return you would pledge money to help fight MD.

The shows always took place on Labour Day weekend– when absolutely nothing else happened– and since it was the only thing on TV we watched it like it was a seasonal tradition. Staying up with Jerry was a both a dare and a way to extend the summer. Still, the telethons felt like artifacts from another era, something that was owned by a generation previous to mine.

The Academy Awards have this feel, too, and I watch them mostly for the comforting, predictable sense of nostalgia they always conjure, but I found this year’s edition to be, well, confused. Was it a self-congratulatory ad for a dying industry, or was it stationed at the forefront of a social revolution? Was it about fashion and beauty or was it about it not being about fashion and beauty?

It proved complicated to decipher.

Host Jimmy Kimmel made an opening #MeToo friendly joke about the absurd irony of Mel Gibson starring in a movie called What Women Want.

It was a safe joke, one that picked a target everybody could agree upon, and it got what was almost relieved laughter. It might be hard to imagine now, but Mel Gibson was once a beautiful dream of potential.

Now he is an unredeemable laughing stock.

What was ironic was that in 2000, the year What Women Want came out and made tons of money, Jimmy Kimmel was co-hosting The Man Show. At the time, the slim and woke Oscar host was less slim and less woke, and The Man Show was all about tits. It was about grabbing them by the pussy. It was a white boy frat party.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cl3wioLmNNY

And yet there was Jimmy Kimmel on Oscar night making jokes about Mel Gibson’s pernicious attitude toward woman while a bejeweled and admiring audience laughed their approval before him.

These moments of dissonance happened throughout the broadcast, the most vivid occurring when Wes Studi, a Cherokee actor you probably recognize but could never name, introduced a montage of military movies.

Clearly the depiction of violent masculinity in this particular climate was considered iffy, and as if to soften that potential for controversy and loss of market share, the production team got a member of an under represented community to introduce this unpopular, but tactically necessary segment. It was calculated, and when Studi opened by saying he was a proud veteran of the Vietnam War, the crowd’s confusion at how to respond was palpable. They no longer knew whether Studi stood for something good or bad, they could not interpret the symbol they were being shown. After the montage ended, and Studi uttered a dose of Cherokee– which at the time could have been either a blessing or curse– the audience opted for a shallow, incoherent applause.

You could also see the once unassailable Meryl Streep– who many believe did not do enough to stop Harvey Weinstein—giving way to the meme-friendly Francis McDormand as moral force and American exemplar. When once beloved comic Dave Chappelle came on stage to a spattering of applause, he found that the comedic power he held as an oppressed minority had been overshadowed by his criticism of #MeToo. The omnipresent and eager Ryan Seacrest, who somehow manages to emit a vibe that simultaneously suggests a Bro and a gay man, found himself snubbed on the red carpet by all the stars in response to an accusation of sexual misconduct levied against him. They were only too eager to nourish themselves on his fawning, promotional interviews before, but now?

And when Annabella Sciorra, Ashley Judd and Salma Hayek took the stage, glittering and beautiful and gazed upon from so many different points of view, it was hard to interpret all the mixed messages that were being sent out into the world.

Were these women brave activists or part of an exploitive one percent? Were they complicit in creating unrealistic expectations for women by  opting for cosmetic surgery, or were they victims of an industry that demanded it from them as if it was a tax for being a woman? Could everything be true at once?

The Jerry Lewis Telethon ended just a few years ago. Over the course of it’s lifetime it raised over 2.5 billion for those fighting MD, but it also did so in an often self-serving and patronizing, if not wholly lurid manner.

In the end, were all those telethons a good released into this world or an evil?

It’s impossible to know, I guess, but it strikes me that nobody is all good or all bad. Each one of us is a riot of contradictions, often engaged in actions that elude our articulation or even understanding. Our lives and character are much more circumstantial and precarious than most of us would care to admit, and we would all be well served to save a little empathetic space in our hearts for those we don’t necessarily understand or agree with.

Everything, really, depends on that.

The bland and genial-appearing host of The Today Show was fired by NBC News after they received a detailed complaint about his inappropriate sexual behaviour in the workplace. Perhaps it’s not surprising at all, as women have always known, and men have always presumed, that the entertainment industry is one in which sexually predatory men feed on the ambition of women.

But still, the nearly universal breadth of female experience, as evidenced by the #MeToo movement, and the scope of the charges laid and jobs lost, is staggering. Even though none of us should be surprised by any allegations, or whom they might be directed at, I found myself particularly saddened by the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs:

Doc:

In the home that Snow White shared with six other dwarfs, Doc allegedly summoned her to the bathtub, where he was nude, and pressured her to take off her clothes and, “Help polish the diamond.”

Grumpy:

After making sexual comments over dinner about Snow White, Grumpy allegedly went to her room, pushed her onto the bed and groped her. When she complained to other dwarfs about this, they all said, “Oh, that’s just Gropey!”

Happy:

After Snow White rejected Happy’s sexual advances, he locked the door, exposed himself and began to masturbate into a potted plant while blocking her exit. As he was unlocking the door and leaving, he turned and commented,  “Don’t you just love a happy ending?”

Sleepy:

Sleepy asked Snow White if she would sweep the floors naked and when she refused he then requested that she let him rub himself against her. He then threatened her with violence if she said anything about the encounter to the other dwarfs.

Dopey:

Snow White awoke from a nap to discover Dopey, completely nude, ejaculating on the sleeve of her nightgown. When reached for a comment, Dopey admitted that he had, “engaged in conduct that was inconsistent with his core values.”

Sneezy:

After serving lunch to the Seven Dwarfs, Snow White asked if they needed anything else, to which Sneezy replied, “ A blow-job would be nice.”

Bashful:

Bashful repeatedly came up behind Snow White while she was doing the dishes, pressed himself against her, grabbed her breasts and tried to rip her gown off before she would escape to the basement. Bashful made a statement saying, “I did flirt with her, and I remember trying to help Snow White with the dishes as part of what I thought was a consensual seduction ritual that went on and on for many years,” he said. “I am horrified and bewildered to discover that it wasn’t consensual. I didn’t get it. It makes me reassess every relationship I have ever thought was playful and mutual.”

As many of you know, I’ve been engaged in a running feud with Canadian literary legend Margaret Atwood for quite some time now.

Typically, the landscape for this war has been social media and chance encounters in our shared neighbourhood of Toronto, but about a month or so ago my mother

turned up the weird by writing Atwood a letter of apology on behalf of my family (  http://michaelmurray.ca/my-mothers-letter-to-margaret-atwood ), as I had refused to so so myself. After a few weeks had passed without my mother getting a response, she wrote to Atwood again:

*****************************************

Nov, 9, 2017

Dear Ms. Atwood:

Hi, how are you?

I am fine, but oh, my sinuses were just awful last week! I don’t know what it was, maybe a change in the barometric pressure or the wind, but honest to Betsy, I just wanted to climb under a rock and die! Even chewing gum was excruciating! It’s at such times when you really need a friend– just so you know that people care and that they’re grateful for all the little things you do for them, like sending hand-sanitizer because you don’t want them to pick up a nasty sinus bug like you did. By the way, did you get the hand-sanitizer I sent to you? I hope so, but you never know with the post office!

Have you got all your Christmas shopping done? I don’t even know where to begin, I’m still trying to catch up on all my cards from last year!

Oh, I think I hear Frito meowing!

That can only mean one thing—he wants his dinner, so I better go!

Yours sincerely,

Barb Murray

PS: In case you did’t know, you can now get a flu shot at Shopper’s so you don’t have to go through all the bother of going to a doctor’s office!

Nov, 13, 2017

Dear Ms. Atwood:

I know that you are a very important person and are probably very busy with your various hobbies and commitments, but that’s still no excuse for being rude! I don’t know how you were raised or what sort of morals you Hollywood types have, but where I come from you write a thank-you note if somebody sends you some hand-sanitizer. It’s just common decency.

I hope you remembered to buy a poppy this Remembrance Day. My father fought in WW II.

In the trenches. There was no hand-sanitizer there. Just death and foot disease. But my father endured all that hardship to help make the world safe for people like you, so I hope you always keep in mind the sacrifices he made for you.

I have been thinking a little more about my son’s behaviour toward you. It’s true that Michael has his issues, but I always taught him to be considerate. If you drop him off at a bar,  he will thank you, and if he gets a present, you can be sure he will send a thank-you note to the person who sent him the hand-sanitizer. Sometimes when he’s tired or anxious or hasn’t been attending his low carb support group meetings, he can get very crabby, so it’s crucial for him, and all of us, to maintain our routines (especially regular BM’s!) and get plenty of sleep.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon,

Barb Murray

PS: I have included an article that I clipped from the paper that I thought you might be interested in on Vitamin D. It’s very important that we get enough of it, especially in winter. Osteoporosis is a silent killer. I was a nurse, so I know.

PPS: Did you get many trick-or-treaters for Halloween? We only got two, and they were both teenage girls! And the way they were dressed, my Lord! I thought I should be handing out clothes instead of candy!

PPS: Do you have any children or were you barren?

It sounds official, like it has a bureaucracy and a headquarters with marble pillars. It sounds like it’s been around longer than you have. Still, when you hear it, you have absolutely no idea what it might mean. It has the effect of sounding like something but conveys no meaning.

Their broad-shouldered leader, Ammon Bundy, exuding the calm and steady manner of a high noon cowboy, announced the name on Fox news.

His heavily armed group, who up until that point had been called patriots, terrorists, activists, militia men and Y’all Qaeda, had taken over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge headquarters in Oregon as a blow against government “tyranny” a few days earlier on January 2nd.

Their storming of the federal building, it should be noted, was clean and lightning-quick; as it being January, the charming, cottage-like structure that gave out free maps during tourist season was entirely abandoned.

Nothing much has happened since their occupation began. Bundy’s men, some of whom who are not camera ready,

have been brandishing copies of the Constitution for the cameras and making YouTube videos from their trucks for their now abandoned families.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbGdMKpHDDE

All over Oregon, wives must have been rolling their eyes, just as they did when these same husbands took off for their annual paintball weekend. It all looked very much like a Fantasy Camp for revolutionaries, and it was clear nobody was taking them seriously.

If any group other than white men had done such a thing, well, it’s reasonable to expect a different response. Imagine what would have happened if a bunch of heavily armed campus radicals took over the headquarters, or to inch closer to armageddon, black protestors or some frustrated Muslims? What would happen then?

We have a pretty good idea, I think.

No matter, what seems to be happening now is that a long-simmering and predictable feud over grazing rights has morphed into a movie-of-the-week. The white guys want the government to hand over land it owns so that they—The People—may use it as they see fit, using it for grazing, mining, logging or opening up paintball camps. As far as I know, the First Nations of America have yet to be consulted.

The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom are not impoverished. They’re not persecuted, marginalized or threatened in any sort of coherent way. Frustrated by their perception of diminishing entitlements, they want to fight back against the forces that impede their ascent, even if they have no idea who or what those forces might be.

They’re easy enough to make fun, these men. Asunder in a rapidly changing and globalized environment, they try to live as heroes in a mythic past, a place where their big sky ambitions could blossom unfettered by government, minorities or environmental regulations. 

It’s sunset in the only America these men have ever wanted to live, and so they tilt toward windmills, deserving of our pity as much as our scorn.

As fate would have it, actress Chloe Sevigny was sitting at the table directly beside us.

Subtly, like a panther at night, I went back to the patio, had a look around, came back to the bar, stretched a few times, and then discreetly took a photograph of Sevigny as she ate lunch.

This is what happened after I returned to my seat and sat down:

Chloe Sevigny: I know what you did.

Me: Sorry?

Chloe Sevigny: I know what you did.

Me: Last summer?

Chloe Sevigny: (Dripping with sarcasm) Oh, you’re so clever! You should write for Hollywood! Look, I know that you just took a picture of me without permission. I saw you, asshole.

Me: Lady, I don’t even have a clue who you are.

Chloe Sevigny: Don’t give me that bullshit, you know damn well who I am!

Me: Are you a homely 16 year-old boy dressed up like he’s in some metal hair band for Halloween?

Rachelle: (Urgent whispering) Pickle, just apologize and the shut-up so we can move on, okay?

Me: (To Rachelle) I didn’t do anything wrong! I just went to the patio to see if they had better looking servers out there! I’m not apologizing for that!

Chloe Sevigny: (To Rachelle) I feel sorry for you. Your life must be a real challenge.

Rachelle: Oh, I know, it is, it is. He did the same thing when we saw some actress from Law & Order at the airport. He said he was taking photographs of the luggage for a gallery show, but of course…

Me: It wasn’t some actress, damn it, it was Angie Harmon!

Rachelle: And then her football player husband came over and asked what was going on, and my husband’s nose began to bleed!

Chloe Sevigny: (As if this was the most hilarious thing she has ever heard in her life, Sevingy does a spit-take the way you would expect from a bad, over-rated actress.)

Me: It was the dry air from the plane trip.

Rachelle: We were getting on a flight, not off.

Me: No we weren’t.

Chloe Sevigny: (To her friend) I think it’s time for us to leave.

Me: You know what? A real fashion icon would want her photo taken, she’s be flattered, and you know what else? Hilary Swank carried you in Boys Don’t Cry, she carried you! Your careers have really gone in different directions since then, haven’t they?

01 Jan 1999 — FILM ‘BOYS DON’T CRY’ DIRECTED BY KIMBERLY PEIRCE — Image by © CORBIS SYGMA

Chloe Sevingy: (Gives me the finger, drops a bunch of cash on the table and leaves without finishing her meal)

( I have saved Chloe Sevigny’s unfinished burger and am in the process of selling a photograph of it to the fetish site, Unfinished Celebrity Burgers. However, I will be putting the real leftover, which is in a ziplock bag in my fridge, on Ebay, but am happy to take offers from anybody reading now. )

Me: Thanks so much for sitting down with me.

Jane: It’s my pleasure, jobs, justice and particularly climate change are the defining issues of our times, and with what little time I have left, I want to do all I can to bring attention to them.

Me: Of course, of course. Nice hat, by the way—I think it says, “Let’s Change The World Now!” At any rate, you said, “with what little time I have left,” how old are you?

Jane: I am 77 years-old, and fortunately I’m in good health and have lots of energy, so I’m very hopeful that I can keep using my celebrity to bring attention to these causes before it’s too late.

Me: My mother is 77 years-old and she doesn’t look anything like you. Practically a different species.

Jane: I’m sure your mother is a very, very lovely woman, although looking at you I’d think she was much older than 77. But anyway, I’m from Hollywood and I’ve had so much work done I’m practically a cyborg.

Me: Ha!! A sex-cyborg! That’s funny! I’d love to see a Jane Fonda sex-cyborg. I hope the Japanese invent one after you’re dead. But back to the interview. You can imagine how confusing it was for me growing up to have you on one hand, a hot star I wanted to have sex with, and my mother on the other hand– and both being the same age! Very mixed-up– still am, I guess!!

Jane: Well, I hope you got some help for that. That’s one of the good things about Canada, it has universal health care so that people with mental illnesses such as yourself, can be treated.

Me: I loved you in Barbarella. When you made that film, did you have any idea how many strip clubs in North America were going to name themselves Barbarella’s? There must be hundreds, probably thousands.

Jane: The sex industry is a very complicated one, but what is clear is that women should have the right to do what they want with their bodies, be it free choice, stripping or prostitution. We need to enact laws to protect and empower women so that they’re in control of their bodies and lives, treated fairly and in a safe environment.

Me: Okay, good point. This one is a three-parter: Is acting a form of prostitution? Does Hollywood treat women fairly? Do you have sex with all of your leading men, or women, such as the case may be?

Jane: Yes, I think that acting is a form of prostitution, and…

Me: I have never in all of my years been to a prostitute. Never had to pay for it.

Jane: As I was saying, Hollywood has a long, long way to go before men and women are treated equally, particularly older women. Once you hit a certain age, the roles just vanish and you become invisible!

Me: Which is why you’re at a rally in Canada instead of, saying, selling aerobics videos

or starring as a lawyer or sexy, mean matriarch in some movie. I get it. They say that women in Hollywood have a best before date, a point where they become unfuckable. Do you think you became unfuckable, and if so, at what point in your career? Maybe Stanley and Iris or Monster-in-Law?

Jane: (Gets up and leaves)

Dear Iceland:

You know who I am.

I am Leonardo DiCaprio.

My resume speaks for itself. I am arguably the greatest actor of my generation (sorry Christian Bale), wealthier and more powerful than many small nations and have a Klout score of 88.2. I can make it rain.

You should know that I am a HUGE fan of your work as a weird island nation and am really impressed with your buzz. You’re punching above your weight, little guy, and you’ve got some great PR people in your corner!

I think that the two of us could do some great work together and with that in mind I’d like to attend the Iceland Writer’s Retreat this year in order to research a role for a film I hope to shoot in Iceland in 2016.

What is Leo DiCaprio’s project you ask?

It is to be the blockbuster of 2017. It’s to be called Written in the Ice, and I will star as an ex-CIA operative who has made a break from the dark world of Black-Ops he mastered in his past. Having been given a new identity, Leonhard Jónsson, now a fisherman and aspiring writer, is living a humble village life in Iceland.

He is crazy talented and charismatic, but he’s suffering a form of PTSD and has writer’s block. However, this lifts when he attends the Iceland Writer’s Conference and meets a quirky, hipster Icelandic woman (hotter and younger than Bjork, but suggesting Bjork) who believes she communicates with elves. They have sex.

Through one of her nocturnal communications with the elves, (she falls into an automatic writing trance but must be naked for it to work) she is given a secret for renewable energy that will save the world from global warming, but before Leonhard and her can get the secret out and save the world, evil government forces and big oil seek to kill them and destroy the information.

It will be the best movie ever, sweep all the awards and be a “Titanic” success for the Iceland tourism, but for me to properly play all the dimensions of Leonhard Jónsson, I will have to attend the Iceland Writer’s Conference, free of all expenses for myself and my staff of 28.

A few other requests:

For the process to properly work, I need to be in the presence of lots of beauty. Please ensure that the class is populated with beautiful women. I cannot stress the importance of this enough.

I will require a beach, and if it is off-season, then I will require that it is artificially heated so it simulates the tropics.

I will need a helicopter and a yacht.

I will only attend 45 minutes of the conference each day and will not be required to “turn in” any work for grading.

Legal immunity from the laws that govern Iceland will also be required.

Nobody is permitted to look directly at my man bun.

Looking forward to working with you, and my lawyers will be in touch shortly!

Regards,

Leo

The suit that Rob Ford wore was heartbreaking. All black but for a lurid, cartoon red tie and hanky, it was the sort of thing that a 16 year-old boy– a not very popular or savvy 16 year-old boy– might wear when he wanted to make a splash at an event in which he was over-invested and nervous. The suit did not evoke thoughts of the sophisticated big city that the mayor was purportedly promoting, but instead suggested an owner/greeter at an affordable, franchised steak house somewhere in between other places.

It’s actually hard to imagine what was going through Rob Ford’s mind when he chose that suit. Did he think it embodied west coast cool, was perhaps iconoclastic, or did he just really, you know, think it was happening?

Regardless, what was written in the shiny need of that suit and the doomed narcissism that propelled him onto the show, was just how much Ford wants to be accepted. He’s dying to be liked by Kimmel and be a part of that elite, celebrity crew, to finally be a cool kid.  Ford wants to have a bold personality and to lead a big, American life free from compromise or mediation, but he doesn’t have the tools to achieve this dream of myth. On the show, this big try-out for the team, Ford was rejected and mocked. Kimmel, the school alpha, ran easy circles around him as if teasing the slow boy– who would always be wearing the wrong clothes– at recess.

In the rigid late-night format where irony trumps earnestness, it was easy to take Ford apart. Removed from the political arena, where nobody knows what the hell to do with him, and putting Ford under the burning lights of show biz, stripped him of whatever institutional defenses he might have. It was fascinating to watch Ford immobilized beside a video monitor as a host of embarrassing and surreal clips of him played as if from the Ghost-of-Christmas future. After each segment Kimmel would make a witty observation or ask a simple, yet penetrating question, and it was clear just how insufficient, ridiculous and craven each one of Ford’s stammering responses were. Right there, in vivid contrast, there was what we were seeing and what we were hearing, and it simply could not have been clearer that the emperor had no clothes.

Ford didn’t come across as fun, unpredictable or larger than life, just dim, even small, like the guy trying unsuccessfully to join a conversation at the bar. Ford needs attention and desperately wants the seal of American celebrity, to step out of parochial Toronto and live amongst giants, but his aspiration is damned. He’s the kid who will never be accepted, and that hunger of his will always circle back to anger and self-annihilation. The man, dense and frustrated, is a charisma free zone, and there’s no better place than Hollywood to make something like that abundantly and mercilessly clear.

We sat in the third row of this IMAX 3D spectacle, and I have to say it was the most concussive, punishing movie experience I have ever had.  We were so close to the screen that we couldn’t actually see the screen, and appreciating the movie was more of a physical challenge than an aesthetic one. Strictly confined within the conventions of the genre, Pacific Rim was a living, evolving piece of abstract expressionism that came screaming out at us like some terrible flying monkey.  We could only see gestures within the film– sound, colour and velocity—all swirling and spitting before us, but never did we have a clear, overview of things as they unfolded.

Of course, this didn’t really matter, because we knew exactly what was taking place. Pacific Rim is an action flick, a B movie writ monstrously large, and it followed the formula these movies always follow. This genre is now so much a part of me that I feel like it’s coded into my DNA, my understanding instinctive and unmediated rather than the product of conscious, cognitive functions, if that makes any sense.

Nonetheless, it was still a very disorienting experience ( I wanted nothing more than to inhabit a Brian Eno composition while there), and not simply because of the shock and awe campaign detonating around  us. Pacific Rim (note the name) was a movie designed for a global audience rather than a North American one. The film was so flat and one-dimensional that it was little more than a series of symbols and cues. There was no nuance or complexity, and this was intentional, because it’s built to travel, to be easily transferrable to other languages and cultures. The primary human characters in it are a diverse array of ethnicities, and the world represented a global, cultural mash-up. You simply don’t have to speak the language in which the movie is made to understand exactly what’s going on, in fact, you might even be better served if you didn’t.

For a movie that was all about fighting, there was no real violence in it, and it was more like a gigantic puppet show than a graphic representation of what a robot three times the size of a skyscraper fighting a massive alien might be like. It was a kid’s movie, meant to move merchandize and launch a franchise that will have global appeal. Last year, I think the top 10 top grossing films in North America were all sequels or prequels. Losing market share to piracy and revitalized cable television, original one-off movies that aspire to art are not where the bottom line lives, and the Hollywood arrow no longer flies no toward the heart of North America, but is now launched like a volley out toward the rest of the world, where all the money and people actually live.

Well, it turned out to be one of those movies in which you are quickly conscious of the fact that it’s long, by which I mean you’re swiftly bored. It was impossible to penetrate through the surface of the images splashing in front of us, and instead of being immersed in the complexities of a grand narrative, we felt kind of like we were flipping through the pages of a pretty magazine while waiting for something better or more important to take place.

This might have been intentional, as it’s a relatively accurate thematic representation of the core of the source material, but it made for a pretty lousy movie. I mean, if we’d been handed a catalogue and told to go sit in the dark with earphones on– where passages of the novel were read to us–we probably would have had a deeper, more connective and personal experience.

There are a number of reasons for this failure, I think, one being that is was shot in 3D, and I’m not a big fan of this developing novelty. To me it’s a special effect that’s at it’s most useful when animating the unreal or exaggerating cataclysmic disasters.  Instead of rendering actors more real and life-like,  it reduces and flattens them into one dimension, draining all life and subtext from them.  They’re about as emotionally penetrable as robots or mannequins, and as they stand in front of you there’s absolutely nothing compelling in them.

I had no interest or attraction to anybody in the movie. Hell, I didn’t even want to go to any of the lavish parties that were being thrown. Everything was just a summoned mirage to me, perhaps like the one that drove Gatsby toward his green light, and maybe that’s the difference between experiencing a work of art as a boy, and then returning to it later, in middle age,  discovering that the fields you played in as a child were not tall stretches of eternity, but just small, scrubby accidents of geography.