I’ve spent two weeks engulfed in the highly entertaining, occasionally exciting and often frightening political and economic world that is the United States of America. But I feel like I’ve been a bad Canadian, neglecting my home and native land despite a lot of critical issues on the table at Canada’s upcoming election, which is just 15 days away.
But I was lucky enough to spend this past very lazy Sunday catching up on a week or two of The Globe and Mail and came across a crucial and beautifully written commentary by legendary Canadian author Margaret Atwood. The piece takes on the issue of arts funding that may be significantly troubled by the possibility of a majority conservative government. Its adapted from a lecture Atwood will be delivering in Edmonton on October 1, and I suggest anyone - Canadian or not - give it at least a quick read. And if you are Canadian, try and keep Atwood’s words in mind when you vote.
A snippet:
At present, we are a very creative country. For decades, we’ve been punching above our weight on the world stage - in writing, in popular music and in many other fields. Canada was once a cultural void on the world map, now it’s a force. In addition, the arts are a large segment of our economy: The Conference Board estimates Canada’s cultural sector generated $46-billion, or 3.8 per cent of Canada’s GDP, in 2007. And, according to the Canada Council, in 2003-2004, the sector accounted for an “estimated 600,000 jobs (roughly the same as agriculture, forestry, fishing, mining, oil & gas and utilities combined).”
But we’ve just been sent a signal by Prime Minister Stephen Harper that he gives not a toss for these facts. Tuesday, he told us that some group called “ordinary people” didn’t care about something called “the arts.” His idea of “the arts” is a bunch of rich people gathering at galas whining about their grants. Well, I can count the number of moderately rich writers who live in Canada on the fingers of one hand: I’m one of them, and I’m no Warren Buffett. I don’t whine about my grants because I don’t get any grants. I whine about other grants - grants for young people, that may help them to turn into me, and thus pay to the federal and provincial governments the kinds of taxes I pay, and cover off the salaries of such as Mr. Harper. In fact, less than 10 per cent of writers actually make a living by their writing, however modest that living may be. They have other jobs. But people write, and want to write, and pack into creative writing classes, because they love this activity - not because they think they’ll be millionaires.
Today was “Che” day in New York City, as myself and a hundred or so other journalists spent from 10am to 4pm at the gorgeous Zeigfeld Theater (I’d never been). There was a 45 minute lunch, but still.. it was a lot to take in, especially for someone who a) has a short attention span, and b) had to get up at 7am to do an interview on the Upper East Side.
I survived, and was certainly impressed with Steven Soderbergh’s work. It was very well-made, and for someone who knows minimal info about Che, quite informative. As a historical artifact, it was pretty awe-inspiring. And I’ll note that I liked “Part Two” - particularly the last 30 minutes, the best, and that Benicio Del Toro is incredible . But I’ll be entirely honest: I may or may not have almost - I promise almost - fallen asleep on three different occasions. 262 minutes is a long time. And in the end, it felt more like an academic experience than a cinematic one. If that makes sense.
I was awake during the press conference after, though, and here’s five clips of Soderbergh (if you have shitty speakers, use headphones to watch them):
Any guesses on the title? Veep-gina? One friend suggested Giving Head of State or Plowing Palin, another guessed Steam Up My Glasses. I would have suggested Alaskan Anal, but the ad squashed that idea.
I’m the midst of recovering from a very late, excessively drunken celebration of the opening of the New York Film Festival. Among my highlights: Getting engaged to a woman, planning entirely male stripper-oriented joint bachelor/bachelorette party with said woman, slurring a confession to an Entertainment Weekly editor that I’d subscribed to the magazine since I was 5, nonsensically explaining Canadian politics to many an uninterested party guest, riding from Central Park to the West Village in a limo for reasons I’m still not clear on, spilling vodka (and I swear, this was actually before I was remotely drunk) all over a very well groomed stranger and then running away when he looked mad, and vomiting on the street outside “my apartment” at 6 in the morning.
Some pics after the jump… I had expected more since the camera was being tossed around to various people throughout the night, but it was a slim batch.
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