Oscar Wins 2011

Best Fiddle Dee Dee Moment: to Melissa Leo for dropping her overly rehearsed F-bomb. It was plain to see from the last speech she gave that she spends more time than she ought to writing and memorizing these so-called off-the-cuff bits of gosh oh gee impassioned earnestness. Give me a break. Give her a prize.

Best Comeback: to Sandra Bullock who, having had her heart broken in front of the world in 2010, managed to bring her dignified self onstage in 2011 and, looking older, sadder and wiser, make everyone laugh.

Best Line of the Evening: to Luke Matheny, who won an Oscar for Best Live Action Short for God of Love, for, “Wow, I should’ve gotten a haircut.”

Best Sextegenarian Vocals: to Randy Newman, who proves he still has what it takes to waltz us down memory lane with whispers of Sail Away and Dayton Ohio 1903.

Best Imitation of a Bad Oscar Host: a two-way tie to Anne Hathaway and James Franco, she for going overboard, and he for going under.

Best Son-to-Mother Moment: to Tom Hooper, for describing to the world how his mother Meredith found the script for the film after she was invited to see what was then an unpublished play.

Best Emotive Moment: to David Seidler, 73, writer of The King’s Speech, who overcame a debilitating stutter as a child. “I accept this on behalf of all the stutterers in the world. We have a voice. We have been heard.”

Best Husband on the Red Carpet: to Warren Beatty, for making his wife cry, and for choking up not only himself but every adult viewer who has ever been loved or who loves anyone who has loved them back deeply…if that makes any sense.

Best Handsomest Man: to Mark Ruffalo, who I would have married in a heartbeat if only he had asked. How many fathers do you know who take their kids’ chickens’ eggs to the farmers’ market every Saturday? (And how many men do you know who elicit so many plural possessives?)

Best Dressed Female: to too numerous to mention, but if I were slim and had to choose one for myself, Sandra Bullock’s red gown, please.

Best Dressed Male: to I don’t really care because I was so happy to see Tim Gunn interviewing on the runway, looking dapper as always, and always so polite.

Best Mean-Spirited Award: to those who continue to pick mercilessly on Nicole Kidman and Gwyneth Paltrow, two lovely, reedy women who seem sweet and warm and vulnerable. Oh, what a cynical world…

Best Flowers: to Michelle and Rob, who chose a radiant and textured bouquet of red whose illustriousness reminds us of heart, health and happiness.

Best Church Supper Style Sandwiches: to Mary MacDonald, who knows how to make an egg salad with onion and low-fat mayonnaise just the way I like them…which is to say, eggy and low-fat (relatively speaking) (even though we’re not related) (by blood, I mean)

Best Company: to Michelle, Mary, Susan, Rob, Stephan and Mike, and to Noam and Sarah in absentia, and to my darling girl’s voice uttering for nineteen Oscar evenings, every ten minutes, “How many have I got right now, Mum?”

The Letters

I wonder if
you keep the letters still,
spidery and blotted
now, like old days
just withered away.

I remember sunlight bursts
that inspired
those winged words,
the spirit of spaces
flying paper aeroplanes of love.

I picture us then --
a perfect summer’s night
calligraphy of stars
burning Indian fire

and I wonder if
you keep the letters still.

Eileen Carney Hulme

~ Bi Lines ~

THE HOSPITAL WINDOW

BY JAMES L. DICKEY

I have just come down from my father.

Higher and higher he lies

Above me in a blue light

Shed by a tinted window.

I drop through six white floors

And then step out onto pavement.

Still feeling my father ascend,

I start to cross the firm street,

My shoulder blades shining with all

The glass the huge building can raise.

Now I must turn round and face it,

And know his one pane from the others.

Each window possesses the sun

As though it burned there on a wick.

I wave, like a man catching fire.

All the deep-dyed windowpanes flash,

And, behind them, all the white rooms

They turn to the color of Heaven.

Ceremoniously, gravely, and weakly,

Dozens of pale hands are waving

Back, from inside their flames.

Yet one pure pane among these

Is the bright, erased blankness of nothing.

I know that my father is there,

In the shape of his death still living.

The traffic increases around me

Like a madness called down on my head.

The horns blast at me like shotguns,

And drivers lean out, driven crazy—

But now my propped-up father

Lifts his arm out of stillness at last.

The light from the window strikes me

And I turn as blue as a soul,

As the moment when I was born.

I am not afraid for my father—

Look! He is grinning; he is not

Afraid for my life, either,

As the wild engines stand at my knees

Shredding their gears and roaring,

And I hold each car in its place

For miles, inciting its horn

To blow down the walls of the world

That the dying may float without fear

In the bold blue gaze of my father.

Slowly I move to the sidewalk

With my pin-tingling hand half dead

At the end of my bloodless arm.

I carry it off in amazement,

High, still higher, still waving,

My recognized face fully mortal,

Yet not; not at all, in the pale,

Drained, otherworldly, stricken,

Created hue of stained glass.

I have just come down from my father.

Medical Perspectives

I thought I would be eighty years old (well, to be honest, I have never really once believed that I would/will live to be eighty) before doctors and nurses started looking too young to be out of high school. I thought I would have more perspective on the age quotient/continuum.

I also thought that I would hate it: resent these children a little over half (and who look one-third) my age, poking and prodding, stethoscopes hanging loosely from their pockets, pen lights clipped carelessly to their patients' medical charts.

But there's something reassuring about this group of young people who have dedicated their lives to oncology, radiology, physiotherapy, nutrition, and yes, I'll say it (although much more tentatively -- they are a tribe, after all), social workers.

I like their assurance and humanity, which, in most cases (and because of their youth) have not yet turned them into arrogant, sour specialists who speak in monotone at best, and fear-mongering language at worst.

Often they smile at me, say hello, sometimes ask my opinion. But mostly I admire their compassion and the way they keep their fear for their patients -- for their own young lives -- out of their voices and their eyes.

Too many of the negatives I anticipated in life have come true. Too many things -- people -- I had hoped for have disappeared.

This is, however, one positive that gives me a measure of hope: that the skill and tenacity of these hardworking young adults will help my daughter -- help all young daughters everywhere -- locate their own hope and hang onto perspective.

And the winner is…

I am sitting here with an Oscar voting sheet by my side, feeling helpless. (Me, not the sheet…although I shouldn’t speak for anyone else.)

I am scanning the list to see which movies are familiar, astonished that I seem to know more of the animated films (more being two) than any of the others on the list. (And I say astonished because, before Lainey, animated features were an anathema to me.)

So…let’s see. What do I think about the little I know?

Inception: full of holes – plot and otherwise, although Leonard is ever handsome, even more so as he ages.

The Kids Are All Right: in many ways, a clichéd script that pandered, although I thought Mark Ruffalo was excellent, just as he is in everything.

The Social Network: still haven’t seen it; still makes me anxious every time I see the title. But I know someone is getting screwed, and the sad fact is, we will never know, exactly, who.

The Fighter: even when they’re great, fight films and people getting punched elude me. (And oh, the retinal detachments.) Probably has something to do with my childhood and Dorothy.

127 Hours: are you out of your mind? If a movie about Facebook is too much for me, imagine what watching a man saw off his arm does to a person. Oh my God. Never.

The King’s Speech: saw it, loved it, think it will be, in some (but not all) ways, overlooked.

True Grit: I know I ought to see it, and although I loved oaters when I was a kid, I have more trouble sidling up to a horse now that I am older than a kid.

Alice in Wonderland: thought the cast superb, and find it comical that none of the actors were nominated, especially given the praise lavished on two of the leads for other roles. Johnny Depp broke my heart. (But that’s madness for you, and he does madness so well.)

Black Swan: intend to go tonight, although I wonder if Natalie Portman is going to seem like a parody of herself (as herself in the role, but not as herself, although…if you take my meaning). (“Somebody please – take my meaning!”)

Winter’s Bone: keep meaning to see it, although it’s another one of those (for-me, Cheryl) nail biting themes.

Barney’s Version: appalled that Paul Giamatti was not nominated, even though I have not seen the movie. I am such a fan of so much of his work, and an even bigger fan of Mordecai Richler, who, if I might brag for a little minute, was very fond of me at Humber. (So there, world! Put that in yer pipe and smoke it.) And oh oh oh – was he handsome. BIG sigh.

Country Strong: haven’t seen it, but was disappointed in the only song I have heard from the track. I think Gwyneth Paltrow has a lovely singing voice, but this was not the best choice, perhaps, for her range.

And that’s all I seem to be able to cull from this long list of films and nominees. I really am out of the loop, and don’t much care in those ways.

I also have to confess that, regardless, this list does not inspire to any great heights. Mind you, that never seems to matter much one way or the other. It’s the munchies I’m after. And the wine. And the company. And the gossip. And the laughter. And the chills I get every time I hear…

And the winner is…

Technorati Tags: Movies

A Valentine’s Day Message For Mary

In our North American culture, we throw the word love about with abandon. I love our new home. I love your hair style. I love the cat. I love that new book you gave me. I love our friends. But love is one of those things that, the more it is tested, the more meaning it has.

It’s easier to love and feel loved when life is simpler—when health is good, money okay, job prospects fine, family intact and when the world seems to like you. And while most of us are constantly facing one challenge or another, life becomes much more tangled up when a confluence of events comes crashing in and threatens to destroy our universe.

I am not sure how many people would start off in what feels like a reasonably stable relationship and, within seven years, watch as pitfalls open up into great gaping chasms that seem to intend on taking everyone down, and still be there at the end of it all, strong, hopeful and compassionate.

When I look at the people I know—even the people I love (I confess that I am more partial to optimism on behalf of the people I love)—I doubt that even 3% of them would still be standing, especially those who look at life the way it really is, with blinders off, eyes and heart wide open—no matter what.

In the last seven years, Mary has had to adapt to a family of five...moving to four...moving to three...moving to two...moving back to three...moving through cancer, through in-laws’ (but not Mary's family) Alabama-flavour homophobia, through cancer, through a partner’s job loss (ESL homophobia, where administrators worry about the homophobic cultures they teach—the cultures whose parents pay the Canadian tuition), through friendships that fell by the wayside (homophobia; family phobia; heterophobia), through cancer, through a partner’s grief and anger and outrage and depression and frustration and destabilization and immobilization and loss of income and sadness and preoccupation...and on and on and on until it seems it will never stop, not until the world opens up and swallows all of us, all of this family, whole.

There are no ways to properly enumerate. I’m not sure that even a list will do it, but I am going to try:

• patience
• compassion
• humour
• financial support
• cooking (oh, thank God)
• the cottage
• road trips
• presents and presence and passion for children and grandchildren and children’s partners
• advice
• calmness in the face of disaster
• courage in the face of children who have cut her off completely
• kindness in the face of animosity
• warmth
• music
• movies (is there anything that makes me happier than a film festival?)
• renovations
• friendship
• laughter
• compassion for all creatures, great and small
• invitations offered and accepted
• tenacity
• a front porch, a back yard, a balcony
• drive
• passion
• optimism
• constant support
• working hard to help Lainey (and with great success)
• complete acquiescence of the channel changer
• treats, restaurants, surprises
• a complete absence of any sense of or desire for vengeance, malice, retribution

People can say what they want. They can call us unconventional. They can say we are unattractive. They can use us as an easy excuse to not invite or un-invite. They can ignore our invitations. They can sit in front of us and talk about the other friends they have and all the things they do with them. They can speak in vivid terms about joyous family occasions and exciting travel. They can call us ordinary, boring, mundane. They can call us weird.

But I wonder if anyone reading this entry can say that they know, in all these vicissitudes, what this breadth and depth of feeling really means; how it feels; how rare it is; how much work and diligence it takes, how valuable it is, how tender and how true—this quietly patient, arms wide open, I’ll do anything for you feeling.

While it is also true that I use the word love freely, even carelessly—I love Colin Firth; I love chocolate sorbet; I love playing board games at the cottage—there are no words to fully express what Mary has done, and does, for me. If love were the proper word to use, then surely there must be some degree of it for which we have no name.

Perhaps the name I’ll give it, then, is Mary.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Mary Leslie MacDonald

Three by Dorothy Parker

Bohemia

Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at sex.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!

~

Bric-a-Brac

Little things that no one needs --
Little things to joke about --
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
Little wreaths of gilded grass,
Little brigs of whittled oak
Bottled painfully in glass;
These are made by lonely folk.

Lonely folk have lines of days
Long and faltering and thin;
Therefore -- little wax bouquets,
Prayers cut upon a pin,
Little maps of pinkish lands,
Little charts of curly seas,
Little plats of linen strands,
Little verses, such as these.

~

Temps Perdu

I never may turn the loop of a road
Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load-
My heart, that a second before was flying.

I never behold the quivering rain-
And sweeter the rain than a lover to me-
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
My heart, that was tapping contentedly.

There's never a rose spreads new at my door
Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.

The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day-
What is it, what is it, I almost remember?

Dorothy Parker

Technorati Tags: Writing Works

Heart to Heart

I was never a girl that ordinary/everyday/regular/happy-go-lucky boys/men gravitated to. I did not have people lining up for my phone number or boys panting after me for high school dances. In fact, I didn’t even go to my high school graduation (although I suppose that’s more about not having family than it is about not having boys).

But maybe that’s why Valentine’s Day has always seemed a little bit silly to me…a conventional contrivance to bolster chocolate and flower shop sales (and I say this aware that the tradition has its roots in c. 500 AD).

(I just had an image of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales’ characters stepping down from their mules in order to celebrate the day at a roadside inn. I wonder what they would have ordered? Cinnamon-spiced pork roast and vinegar wine?) (Great. Now I’m hungry.)

Anyway, every year I find myself in a kind of conundrum. What to buy, what to bake, what to wear? Mostly, I think of the day as one for children, so that part’s easy. And Don always (only) wanted a box of Russell Stover chocolates, which he would gobble up in record time, leaving the little brown wrappers scattered throughout the house in a Hansel und Gretel trail. (It was all very sad.)

Frankly, whenever anyone has tried to give me a ‘romantic’ gift I am half-ashamed to say that I have laughed out loud. It just all feels so preposterous to me – and I don’t say that against the giver, Mary, but against this outright display of candy-downs (a term I just made up, but which also doesn’t quite work for candy-hand-me-downs).

I think some of my disdain also has to do with all my years as a waitress/bartender, in which couples would come in and spoon-feed one another from their over-priced set-menu dinner, drink far too much alcohol, and leave the restaurant/bar arguing. And, aside from Mother’s Day and New Year’s Eve patrons, they were the worst tippers.

Anyway, you can tell from this over-wound entry that I haven’t a clue. I could bake a cake in those heart-shaped dishes. I did that last year (or was it the year before?). Apart from all the batter that slipped over the sides of the too-small pans, the cake was reasonably tasty.

Or I could go to Laura Secord and buy some chocolate goodies. (I do have that Groupon coupon…although that might be like The Gift of the Magi in reverse, and there may be a special place in hell for people who do things like this.)

Or…I could do what Lise W. (her name is abbreviated to protect the innocent – and I don’t mean Lise) did the day she went to pick up her husband after his business trip. I could get all dolled up in saran wrap and a trench coat and flash my partner at the airport. Mostly, though, I am sure that would only lead to my arrest. (I wonder what I would be charged with? Transparency?)

Anyway, I suppose I ought not spend my entire day here trying to imagine what I am going to plan or do for St. Valentine’s Day. I only mean to say that had I been an ordinary girl in an ordinary life (and I mean that in a Samuel Goldwyn movie set kind of way), this would all be a lot easier. I would be home decked out in a heart-shaped apron (and nothing else) baking up a storm while simultaneously arranging a chocolate champagne fountain on the dining room table.

Forget love - I'd rather fall in chocolate!  Sandra J. Dykes [great name]

Late Bloomers

I often find myself lamenting my what seems to be procrastination but is really wrestling + savouring = delay, so this morning, for inspiration, I skimmed and scanned the Internet looking for late bloomer accomplishments.

It isn’t that I don’t think of motherhood as a major achievement – just getting through it intact, and figuring out some of my mistakes, seem/s monumental – but there are tactile things I feel I ought to have done by now…such as publish a book. God knows, I’ve written enough chapters.

Anyway, here is a selection, culled from the world-wide web, listing some of the world’s finest contributors along with their later-in-life contributions.

• Peter Mark Roget: The first edition of Roget's Thesaurus was published when Roget was 73, and he oversaw every update until he died at age 90.
• Ray Kroc: At the age of 52 Kroc set out to build the McDonald's brand. Seven years later, he convinced the brothers to sell out their shares, and he became the owner of a franchise that would sell more than a billion hamburgers by 1963.
• Trevor Baylis, the inventor who, later in life, famously invented the wind-up radio and has transformed the fortunes of millions in Africa. A 72-year-old who began as a stuntman and underwater escape artiste, he was inspired to work with disabled people through friends whose injuries had ended their performing careers. His idea for a radio came after he heard a programme about the spread of Aids in Africa and how the disease could be halted by access to education on the radio.
• Helen Bamber, one of the founders of the Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of Torture, was 60 when she became its first director in 1985, a post she held for the next 17 years.
• Sir John Templeton, who died at the age of 95, made a fortune in business and used most of it to endow the Templeton Prize, one of the richest on offer, for progress in religion. At the age of 75 he also set up a foundation to hand out about £35 million a year in grants to study links between science and religion.
• Sir Sigmund Sternberg, the founder of the Three Faiths Forum, who organised the first papal visit to a synagogue in 1986, is still tirelessly promoting dialogue between the three Abrahamic faiths - Islam, Judaism and Christianity. He goes to his office daily and travels to conferences at the age of 87.
• After 1660, with the monarchy restored, Milton's political dreams lay in ruins under the double blow of the collapse of the Puritan Republic and the failure of said republic to uphold freedom while it lasted. Milton retired to private life and returned to his true vocation, the writing of poetry. He had gone blind while serving as secretary to Cromwell, and now sat composing his poems in his head, and dictating each day to his daughters the portion that he had composed. It was in this retirement that he produced his three long poems, Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. He died 8 November 1674.
• Some of Benjamin Franklin's greatest achievements are later in life when he became a premier statesman. He was elected to the Pennsylvania Assembly in 1750 where his principal duties were voyaging to London to represent the colony before the English parliament. But as British laws became more and more restrictive of colony life, Benjamin felt his loyalties to the King of England waning. His increasingly pro-independence stance led him to be elected to the Continental Congress.
• Beverly Sills, opera diva, barely ek[ed] out a living as a singer until she was almost 40, then launched one of the most spectacular and financially successful careers in musical history.
• Julia Child didn't learn to cook until she was in her late thirties, and first appeared on television at age 50.
• César Franck and Leoš Janáček also matured late as composers: 56, for Franck with his first Symphony in D; and, for Janáček, Jenufra (1904) marked his first true breakthrough at age 50.
• Many notable directors started even later: Robert Bresson, Jacques Tati and Takeshi Kitano directed their first features at 42; Maurice Pialat at 43; Michael Haneke at 47; Jim Sheridan at 40 and his peer and fellow collaborator Terry George at 46, and Yevgeni Bauer at 48.
• One of the most shining examples of late bloomers in filmmaking is the Portuguese director Manoel de Oliveira. Born in 1908, he worked sporadically in filmmaking from the 1930s. He completed his first feature film in 1941 called Aniki-Bobo. Due to circumstances beyond his control (difficulty in financing, having to deal with his family's business), he didn't complete his second feature film until 1971 (when he turned 63). Two years later, he completed his third feature film, Benilde or the Virgin Mother (1973). Five years later, he made his breakthrough film (originally commissioned by Portuguese TV) called Doomed Love. After his critically acclaimed film Francisca (1981), he became a full time filmmaker (at the age of 73).
• Many writers have published their first major work late in life. Mary Wesley wrote two children's books in her late fifties, but her writing career did not gain note until her first novel at 70, written after the death of her husband.^[59] Harriet Doerr published her first novel at age 74, and went on to great praise.^[60] A possibly more well known example might be Laura Ingalls Wilder. She became a columnist in her forties, but did not publish her first novel in the Little House series of children's books until her sixties.^[61]
• Memoirist and novelist Flora Thompson was first published in her thirties but is most famous for the semi-autobiographical Lark Rise to Candleford trilogy, the first volume of which was published when she was 63. Children's author Mary Alice Fontenot wrote her first book at 51 and wrote almost thirty additional books, publishing multiple volumes in her eighties and nineties.^[62] Kenneth Grahame was born in 1859, joined the Bank of England in 1879 and rose through the ranks to become its Secretary. Although he had written various short stories while working at the bank, it was only after his retirement in 1908 that he published his masterpiece and final work The Wind in the Willows.^[63]
• The Indian writer and polymath Nirad C. Chaudhuri wrote his autobiography The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian at the age of 54. He wrote a sequel to it Thy Hand, Great Anarch! at the age of 90. He published his next work, Three Horsemen of the New Apocalypse, at the age of 100.

So, while I might feel like Methuselah, there could still be hope for this novel I have been working on sporadically for I don't know how long. Failing that, perhaps it isn't too late to dust off a few other dormant talents -- harmonica-playing, juggling, pie-eating -- and make a name, and therefore a sharing legacy, for myself. We shall see...

Technorati Tags: Personals,Writing Works

Human Rights Watch Film Festival

Human Rights Watch Film Festival
February 22 - March 4, 2011
at TIFF Bell Lightbox
All screenings in Cinema 3 except Opening Night
A Co-Presentation between Human Rights Watch and TIFF

Tuesday, February 22, 8:00PM
TIFF Bell Lightbox, Cinema 1, 350 King Street West
Opening Night:
THE GREEN WAVE
Director: Ali Samadi Ahadi, Germany/Iran, 80m

A documentary-collage illustrating the dramatic events before and after Iran's Green Revolution, the groundswell movement that supported Presidential candidate Mir-Hossein Mousavi, which directly challenged the contested re-election of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad in 2009.

Guest Speakers: Dr. Payam Akhavan, Professor of Int'l Law, McGill University & Co-Founder, Iran Human Rights Documentation Centre

Wednesday, February 23, 8:00PM
WHEN WE LEAVE
Director: Feo Aladag, Turkey/Germany 2010, 119m

Based on the highly publicized honour killing in Berlin, this passionately dramatic feature is the story of Umay, a young Turkish Muslim woman whose desire to have an independent and self-determined life collides with the traditions of her family and community.

Guest Speaker: Shelley Saywell, Gemini and Emmy award-winning Documentary Filmmaker and Writer

Thursday, February 24, 8:00PM
YOU DON'T LIKE THE TRUTH
Directors: Luc Côté and Patricio Henriquez, Canada 2010, 90m

Made exclusively from surveillance tapes and interwoven with interviews with those who know Omar Khadr, this documentary introduces us to the world in which he lives and provides a provocative and troubling document of war and justice post-9/11.

Guest Speakers & Panelists: Directors, Luc Côté and Patricio Henriquez; Michelle Shephard, Toronto Star Journalist; Andrea Prasow, Senior Counsel, Terrorism and Counterterrorism, HRW

Friday, February 25, 8:00PM
ENEMIES OF THE PEOPLE
Directors: Thet Sambath and Rob Lemkin, Cambodia/UK 2010, 94m

Cambodian investigative journalist Thet Sambath embarks on a decade-long journey into his own tragic past and that of his country, as he seeks out and confronts those responsible for his family's death under the Khmer Rouge regime.

Guest Speaker: Kim Echlin, Novelist and Giller Prize nominee for "The Disappeared"

Saturday, February 26, 8:00PM
FAMILIA
Directors: Mikael Wiström and Alberto Herskovits, Peru/Spain 2010, 82m
Co-presented with HOT DOCS

Unable to pay for their eight year-old son's education, Naty, a middle-aged woman living in Peru with her husband, takes a job as a hotel maid in Spain. This moving, dignified, and award-winning documentary exmaines the displacements caused by poverty and the struggles for families to stay together in the face of daunting odds.

Guest Speaker: Director Alberto Herskovits

Sunday, February 27, 8:00PM
THE FIRST GRADER
Director: Justin Chadwick, UK 2010, 98m
Co-presented with the Institute for Contemporary Culture, Royal Ontario Museum

A feature about the unlikely but true story of Kimani N'gan'ga Maruge, an 84-year-old Kenyan and former Mau Mau tribesman who took advantage of his country's new free education program to attend primary school. Runner-up for the Most Popular Film at 2010 TIFF, the film paints a vivid picture of rural and urban Kenya and revisits the turbulent history of that storied country.

Monday, February 28, 8:00PM
12 ANGRY LEBANESE
Director: Zeina Daccache, Lebanon 2009, 85m
Co-presented with The Young Centre for the Performing Arts

Forty-five Lebanese inmates in Roumieh (Lebanon's largest and most notorious high-security prison) participate in a production of Reginald Rose's courtroom drama "12 Angry Men," and use the play as an opportunity to examine their own lives and decisions.

Guest Speaker: Nahlah Ayed, Journalist and CBC's Arab world correspondent (2004-2009)

Wednesday, March 2, 8:00PM
LIFE, ABOVE ALL
Director: Oliver Schmitz, South Africa/Germany 2010, 106m

Based on the novel "Chanda's Secrets" by Toronto author Allan Stratton, this award-winning feature, and South Africa's entry for the 2011 Academy Awards, is the story of Chanda, a 12 year-old girl in a small, AIDS-ravaged South African township struggling to maintain the façade of a normal life amidst utter instability.

Guest Speaker: Alexis MacDonald, Director of External Relations, Stephen Lewis Foundation

Thursday, March 3, 8:00PM
THE OATH
Director: Laura Poitras, US/Yemen 2010, 97m
Co-presented with the Toronto Palestine Film Festival

A complex portrait of the interlinked lives of two men: Salim Hamdan, a former driver for Osama bin Laden, who was captured and detained at Guantanamo Bay; and his brother-in-law Abu Jandal, a former bin Laden bodyguard and Al Qaida recruiter, who was released by the US government after naming names in the wake of the 9/11 attacks.

Guest Speaker: Samer Muscati, Researcher, Middle East & North Africa Division, HRW

Friday, March 4, 8:00PM
Closing Night:
ILLÉGAL
Director: Olivier Masset-Depasse, Belgium/France/Luxemburg 2010, 95m

Living in constant fear as an illegal immigrant in Belgium, thirty-nine year-old Byelorussian mother Tania reaches a crisis when she is caught by local authorities and sent to a detention centre housing illegal immigrants. This award-winning feature puts a human face on the issue of immigrant rights and provides a timely and disturbing portrait of the plight of refugees in the new immigration internment camps springing up all over Europe.

Tickets Available at the Festival Box Office (363 King Street West, at Peter Street). For ticket inquiries, call 416-968-FILM (8433) or toll-free 1-877-968-FILM (8433).

For complete film descriptions and film ratings, visit the official websites: tiff.net/winter

Human Rights Watch is grateful for the generous support of Deluxe Postproduction, Sonia & Arthur Labatt, Atom Egoyan & Arsinée Khanjian, David & Kathryn Cottingham, Gary & Donna Slaight and the William & Nona Heaslip Foundation.

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Justin Bieber

The Emperor's New Clothes

Many years ago, there was an Emperor, who was so excessively fond of new clothes, that he spent all his money in dress. He did not trouble himself in the least about his soldiers; nor did he care to go either to the theatre or the chase, except for the opportunities then afforded him for displaying his new clothes. He had a different suit for each hour of the day; and as of any other king or emperor, one is accustomed to say, "he is sitting in council," it was always said of him, "The Emperor is sitting in his wardrobe."

Time passed merrily in the large town which was his capital; strangers arrived every day at the court.

One day, two rogues, calling themselves weavers, made their appearance. They gave out that they knew how to weave stuffs of the most beautiful colors and elaborate patterns, the clothes manufactured from which should have the wonderful property of remaining invisible to everyone who was unfit for the office he held, or who was extraordinarily simple in character.

"These must, indeed, be splendid clothes!" thought the Emperor. "Had I such a suit, I might at once find out what men in my realms are unfit for their office, and also be able to distinguish the wise from the foolish! This stuff must be woven for me immediately." And he caused large sums of money to be given to both the weavers in order that they might begin their work directly.

So the two pretended weavers set up two looms, and affected to work very busily, though in reality they did nothing at all. They asked for the most delicate silk and the purest gold thread; put both into their own knapsacks; and then continued their pretended work at the empty looms until late at night.

"I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my cloth," said the Emperor to himself, after some little time had elapsed; he was, however, rather embarrassed, when he remembered that a simpleton, or one unfit for his office, would be unable to see the manufacture. To be sure, he thought he had nothing to risk in his own person; but yet, he would prefer sending somebody else, to bring him intelligence about the weavers, and their work, before he troubled himself in the affair.

All the people throughout the city had heard of the wonderful property the cloth was to possess; and all were anxious to learn how wise, or how ignorant, their neighbors might prove to be.

"I will send my faithful old minister to the weavers," said the Emperor at last, after some deliberation, "he will be best able to see how the cloth looks; for he is a man of sense, and no one can be more suitable for his office than be is."

So the faithful old minister went into the hall, where the knaves were working with all their might, at their empty looms. "What can be the meaning of this?" thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide. "I cannot discover the least bit of thread on the looms." However, he did not express his thoughts aloud.

The impostors requested him very courteously to be so good as to come nearer their looms; and then asked him whether the design pleased him, and whether the colors were not very beautiful; at the same time pointing to the empty frames.

The poor old minister looked and looked, he could not discover anything on the looms, for a very good reason, viz: there was nothing there. "What!" thought he again. "Is it possible that I am a simpleton? I have never thought so myself; and no one must know it now if I am so. Can it be, that I am unfit for my office? No, that must not be said either. I will never confess that I could not see the stuff."

"Well, Sir Minister!" said one of the knaves, still pretending to work. "You do not say whether the stuff pleases you."

"Oh, it is excellent!" replied the old minister, looking at the loom through his spectacles. "This pattern, and the colors, yes, I will tell the Emperor without delay, how very beautiful I think them."

"We shall be much obliged to you," said the impostors, and then they named the different colors and described the pattern of the pretended stuff.

The old minister listened attentively to their words, in order that he might repeat them to the Emperor; and then the knaves asked for more silk and gold, saying that it was necessary to complete what they had begun. However, they put all that was given them into their knapsacks; and continued to work with as much apparent diligence as before at their empty looms.

The Emperor now sent another officer of his court to see how the men were getting on, and to ascertain whether the cloth would soon be ready. It was just the same with this gentleman as with the minister; he surveyed the looms on all sides, but could see nothing at all but the empty frames.

"Does not the stuff appear as beautiful to you, as it did to my lord the minister?" asked the impostors of the Emperor's second ambassador; at the same time making the same gestures as before, and talking of the design and colors which were not there.

"I certainly am not stupid!" thought the messenger. "It must be, that I am not fit for my good, profitable office! That is very odd; however, no one shall know anything about it." And accordingly he praised the stuff he could not see, and declared that he was delighted with both colors and patterns. "Indeed, please your Imperial Majesty," said he to his sovereign when he returned, "the cloth which the weavers are preparing is extraordinarily magnificent."

The whole city was talking of the splendid cloth which the Emperor had ordered to be woven at his own expense.

And now the Emperor himself wished to see the costly manufacture, while it was still in the loom. Accompanied by a select number of officers of the court, among whom were the two honest men who had already admired the cloth, he went to the crafty impostors, who, as soon as they were aware of the Emperor's approach, went on working more diligently than ever; although they still did not pass a single thread through the looms.

"Is not the work absolutely magnificent?" said the two officers of the crown, already mentioned. "If your Majesty will only be pleased to look at it! What a splendid design! What glorious colors!" and at the same time they pointed to the empty frames; for they imagined that everyone else could see this exquisite piece of workmanship.

"How is this?" said the Emperor to himself. "I can see nothing! This is indeed a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an Emperor? That would be the worst thing that could happen--Oh! the cloth is charming," said he, aloud. "It has my complete approbation." And he smiled most graciously, and looked closely at the empty looms; for on no account would he say that he could not see what two of the officers of his court had praised so much.

All his retinue now strained their eyes, hoping to discover something on the looms, but they could see no more than the others; nevertheless, they all exclaimed, "Oh, how beautiful!" and advised his majesty to have some new clothes made from this splendid material, for the approaching procession. "Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!" resounded on all sides; and everyone was uncommonly gay.

The Emperor shared in the general satisfaction; and presented the impostors with the riband of an order of knighthood, to be worn in their button-holes, and the title of "Gentlemen Weavers."

The rogues sat up the whole of the night before the day on which the procession was to take place, and had sixteen lights burning, so that everyone might see how anxious they were to finish the Emperor's new suit. They pretended to roll the cloth off the looms; cut the air with their scissors; and sewed with needles without any thread in them. "See!" cried they, at last. "The Emperor's new clothes are ready!"

And now the Emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the weavers; and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up, saying, "Here are your Majesty's trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one might fancy one has nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that, however, is the great virtue of this delicate cloth."

"Yes indeed!" said all the courtiers, although not one of them could see anything of this exquisite manufacture.

"If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes, we will fit on the new suit, in front of the looking glass."

The Emperor was accordingly undressed, and the rogues pretended to array him in his new suit; the Emperor turning round, from side to side, before the looking glass.

"How splendid his Majesty looks in his new clothes, and how well they fit!" everyone cried out. "What a design! What colors! These are indeed royal robes!"

"The canopy which is to be borne over your Majesty, in the procession, is waiting," announced the chief master of the ceremonies.

"I am quite ready," answered the Emperor. "Do my new clothes fit well?" asked he, turning himself round again before the looking glass, in order that he might appear to be examining his handsome suit.

The lords of the bedchamber, who were to carry his Majesty's train felt about on the ground, as if they were lifting up the ends of the mantle; and pretended to be carrying something; for they would by no means betray anything like simplicity, or unfitness for their office.

So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, "Oh! How beautiful are our Emperor's new clothes! What a magnificent train there is to the mantle; and how gracefully the scarf hangs!" in short, no one would allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit for his office. Certainly, none of the Emperor's various suits, had ever made so great an impression, as these invisible ones.

"But the Emperor has nothing at all on!" said a little child.

"Listen to the voice of innocence!" exclaimed his father; and what the child had said was whispered from one to another.

"But he has nothing at all on!" at last cried out all the people.

The Emperor was vexed, for he knew that the people were right; but he thought the procession must go on now! And the lords of the bedchamber took greater pains than ever, to appear holding up a train, although, in reality, there was no train to hold.

Hans Christian Andersen

http://www.online-literature.com/hans_christian_andersen/967/

Back Then

I looked into his eyes – eyes that had become hardened to any memory of a past – and between the space of two blinks, I saw the man revert to boy.

Nothing lasts. Or at least that didn’t.

But if a person has lived long enough, and is not hardened, she cannot forget that look or what it means…or what it meant…to the tragic little lisper who wanted to believe in his world, but just (who knows why? A trick of genetics and the wrong kind of nurture?) couldn’t.

This is what I mean by claustrophobia. It locks the door behind you and leaves you there helpless, alone with your thoughts. Thank God I can’t get to a wine store (which, I suppose, were I less romantic, I would call a liquor store). (Mind you, the pun cannot be abandoned.)

The worst part of living in Toronto during a snowstorm is the rigorous activity that promises to rid us of all the excess before sundown. I don’t know. Maybe I should have stayed on the east coast, languishing in heaps and mounds (right on up and past the stop signs, I tells ya), and calling up Arts’ Taxi for a bootlegged bottle of wine. (Aged on the truck.)

Then again, I’m not sure how long a person wants to look into those eyes and catch a glimpse of that little boy who caught clouds in a bucket and talked of beautifully thituated houtheth. There’s only so much a person can take, with or without wine, snowbound or not.

Come to think of it, maybe it’s a good thing after all that nothing lasts. And maybe it’s an even better thing that the wine’s too far away.

Weather Report

Here it comes, ladies and gentlemen. Slowly at first…soft, almost imperceptible. Hardly expected in these sub-zero temperatures. But looking out my window, I see them. Tiny flakes wafting in from above. Right now, they don’t look like much more than paper confetti.

By tomorrow, if we are to believe the weather reports, we won’t be able to see through our front windows. We’ll have to make snow tunnels to reach our cars, which won’t be driveable through the dense mass of cool whiteness (always a little claustrophobic-inducing, at least in my world).

http://www.theweathernetwork.com/news/storm_watch_stories3&stormfile=severe_storm_headed_for_sout_310111&eccode=WWCAON0014&warningdisplay=ec&warningtype=sw?ref=stormwatch_city

And what does this mean for Groundhog Day? How can he see his shadow if he can’t make it out of his hole in the ground? And why would he want to come out of his hole in 15 cm of snow? I know I wouldn’t. In fact, I might not even get dressed until it’s time to crawl across the street for some wine.

Oh. Did I say wine? Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.

I’ll tell you what else. I’d take 15 cm – even 35 – over that swirling snow I saw the other day brushing its way across the lonely tarmac. Always reminds me of visiting my mum in that hospital. Barren and bleak. (Mark it with a B.)

So here’s to snow and lots of it, and here’s to the winter wonderland we all love to read and write about. Bring it on and on…down and downy white, a blessing over all the weary world.

The only other sound’s the sweep/Of easy wind and downy flake…

Robert Frost