from boring to brilliant

On Monday night I attended the second 'soccer Monday' at the Goethe-Institut Toronto and saw Football as Never Before, or Fussball Wie Noch Nie, by Hellmuth Costard.

This was a very strange film. Costard, an experimental German filmmaker in the 70's followed footballer George Best in a league match between Manchester United and Coventry. Literally, he followed George Best and no-one else during the whole match, shooting the film in real time.

As a result you see George Best standing, you see George Best pacing, you see close-ups of Best's backside and of his knees and of his socks. You see his number 11 and the back of his head, his pitch-black hair contrasting vividly with the bright red of his jersey. And during the first half of the game, this is all you see. If there is a football in play, you hear the crowd, but you don't see the play, because George is nowhere near the action. It's like going to a game and standing outside at the concession stand, knowing something is going on somewhere but not seeing it. Or, like being an infatuated schoolgirl who never sees the game because her eyes are only following her favourite player.

And sometimes, after too many shots of Best's shorts, this film feels a little uncomfortable, like gay porn. Then, when you think it can't get stranger, at the quartermark of the period, the filmmaker replaces the crowd sounds with funky, bad 70's music to open back into the crowd sounds again after a few bewildering minutes.

You notice that Best shows no emotion on his face, no reaction to anything going on in the game. There is no field banter, by anyone it seems. He follows the ball and walks around a lot.

The half-time break is bizarre. You have to keep reminding yourself that this is the 70's. The filmmaker follows Best out of the manager's office into a back room. It obviously is not even the same day as Best is supporting a full black beard, and not just his awesomely dark sideburns. He stands, facing the camera, which doesn't move for many minutes, just still on Best's face, as he glares and smolders into the camera. He stares and occasionally licks his lips, and he stares some more, looks down once in awhile, looks back into the camera and stares some more and licks his lips again. Then it's time for the second half.

Shortly after the start of the rest of the game, a couple of people decided they'd seen it all and left the theatre. You really couldn't blame them. I knew nothing of George Best except that he was supposed to be a football great and had recently died after a lifetime of fighting the demon of drink. I could see where the darkness in his character could come into play, but I wasn't seeing any football.

And then it began happening. There had been no score in the first half. Best was walking around again, with more shots of him walking, and then, like a black panther springing from nowhere, he was faster than anyone. With a killer's precision he was in and out on one of the most spectacular goals I have ever seen. And it continued this way. He let himself smile once in awhile, he was getting winded, would walk to ease up, and would attack again. He assisted on Manchester's second goal, which true to the filmmaker's vision, we didn't see -- but we saw Best's assist.

There is probably lots of film coverage of Best out there that a person could watch and see his brilliance instantly. This film is not great filmmaking, but it is cult filmmaking and a kind of performance art. The unexpected brilliance after the querying boredom is unforgettable.

st. jamestown

I live in the St. Jamestown area of Toronto. It is an old part of the city and parts of it have definitely seen better days.

The St. Jamestown complex just north of Wellesley E. and Sherbourne is home to many immigrant families living in highrises looming like forbidding towers in the sky. Violence threatens lives there and here and everywhere in Toronto these days. But for the most part, what I feel and see when I walk by and through this area are families. Not destitute families -- just families, making their way in a new world.

I think they are brave. I know how difficult it has been for me sometimes, and I am Canadian-born, and only a four hours' drive from my hometown. I think they are very brave.

On Tuesday, the day of my deceased mother's birthday, I felt a strong need to go to church. I was raised Catholic and lived Catholic, rather devoutly, until my late 20's. So, I am what may be called a 'lapsed Catholic'.

Though today my faith is undefined -- not non-existent -- just undefined, the rituals of Catholicism that I grew up with are a part of my past and self I cannot deny. I know any Catholic, especially one raised when the Church was still rich with Latin and archaics, knows what I mean. You step back into a church and everything comes back -- the smells, the deep echoes, the aura of quiet expectation, a sense of hope and a sense of refuge.

I wandered over to a church only a block away from where I live. It is a strange old church, looking like a pastiche of a small St. Paul's and an ancient Greek hall. It is easy to pass it by as it recedes from the sidewalk and the dirt of a scrappy Sherbourne Street. There are expensive condominiums being built next to it. Right now it is surrounded by construction and more dirt, but one day in the future it will be dwarfed even further by a soaring tower of glass, metal and stone.

Many churches are dying, but Our Lady of Lourdes on Sherbourne is very healthy indeed. Most churches lock their doors except for services, and many, because of the fear of fire, stopped having real candles years ago. As I open one of the heavy wood doors in the late morning, there is a man inside wiping down the brown tiled floor with a mop and water. Inside the church there are probably more than 10 people meditating and in prayer. Most of the people I see are south and southeast Asian -- the St. Jamestown 'demographic'. They have brought their deep faith with them to Canada and I realize it is the foundation of this community.

This church is alive like no other I have been in since my childhood. There are several altars in different corners and they are surrounded by lit candles. I find a large, new one in a blue stained glass and light it for my mother. Across the room, at another altar, a woman in a sari prostrates herself on the ground as she moves forward in prayer. It is also the Lenten season, the time of the Passion and of the Resurrection and the promise of new life.

I return later in the afternoon for a mass. Our Lady of Lourdes has three masses each day and up to seven on Sundays. Everything about the church and the service touches my soul and my heart in a way I find difficult to express. Several of the people around me are afflicted physically. Old women, probably alone, with walkers and wheelchairs sit near young and middleaged mothers seeking a spiritual strength between their work day and their return home to family. Young men participate, holding on to this lifeline that is keeping them from the street or the bottle. God is alive here.

Because spring is arriving and the weather welcoming, the streets are full of people moving about with pleasure and purpose. In the school fields of Jarvis Collegiate a pick-up cricket game is being played. It is played every day now since the weather has turned nice.

I don't understand cricket, nor why boys or anyone find it fun. It seems an interminable amount of standing around. In my hometown of Windsor, if you went to a specific park you could sometimes see the Caribbean teams in their dress-whites playing the game. Even more confusing is this habit of dressing all in white, which seems against all definitions of 'play' and 'fun'. The boys here are not dressed in white, and they are having fun playing cricket.

Confusion and mysteries (even small mysteries like cricket) are what life, and spring, are founded on. Thank the essence that is god.

'good news'

Well, I received a phone call from Harlequin yesterday around 4 p.m. and the human resources coordinator said it was 'good news, we've decided to go ahead.' They just needed an e-mail from me to give their outside company permission to check my references.

I've been celebrating and very, very happy to think I have the job!

But, she didn't actually say that, nor give me a starting date. She asked me if I was still interested -- "Yes!"; she told me more wonderful things about working at Harlequin (they have 'summer hours' starting at the end of May, wherein you work a little extra each day and get to leave at noon on Fridays), but she didn't actually say I was hired.

I am 99.9 per cent sure I am. I'm hoping that .1 per cent doesn't come back to bite me. I'm not an axe murderer nor did I make up phony references, so I'm thinking that part should be fine.

Anyway, I am celebrating. It feels good. I knew I had reached the point, after two months of job-searching, where the fun and exciting part of it was draining away. The thought of being useful and part of something bigger, of having a regular schedule and getting on with other parts of my life, is soothing and relaxing.

And, yesterday when she called, was my late mother's birthday. It's only the second birthday of hers for which she is no longer here. So, it was especially gratifying that it wasn't 'bad news'.

the interviewing process

I went for an interview this morning at Harlequin Enterprises Limited. It is for a proofreading position that sounded interesting and could possibly be a stepping stone for future possibilities. After my morning visit, I've learned it is even more interesting and full of possibility than I originally thought.

And I'm wandering around wondering if I blew the interview. I'll know, one way or the other, possibly by the end of next week. They are still interviewing two to three others, and then they will check references. This is such a long process. The job was originally posted February 27. I'm learning this is not unusual in the big world of publishing and the media.

Anyone involved in this aspect of job searching realizes that an interview in of itself is a rare bird. I was ecstatic to have it, and it went very well with the proofreading supervisor. And, green as I am, I thought I had the job when she brought me up to Human Resources. Fool me -- the very professional (and nice) human resources coordinator began to ask me questions which I soon realized were still part of the interview process.

I was okay until we got on the topic of old bosses. This is such a sore point with me -- still, after many years. I've had some very bad, sexist, bullying bosses in the past. I've had a few good ones, and believe me, I appreciate them. So, the topic unnerves me in ways that probably are not the best for an interview. And she directly asked me about 'good' and 'bad' bosses.

All I can say is I hope the fact that I've had them (bad bosses), and dealt with the situations the best I knew how, does not reflect badly on me. It can so easily smack of sour grapes or whining.

I'm hoping for the best. The job seems pretty idyllic: a six-month contract that can then be extended by three months -- after which time a full-time offer may be made -- in a company that appears to be pleasantly and intelligently managed and is actually prospering, a 40-hour week with flexible start and finish times, an in-house gym, and a supervisor who beams with positive energy.

Stay tuned . . .

monday night 'fussball'

If you love soccer and are eagerly awaiting the World Cup this June, to take place in Germany, you can placate those fussball yearnings right here in Toronto.

Every Monday night, right up to the start of the World Cup, at the sparkling, glass-lined Goethe-Institut on King West you can sit in their intimate theatre and watch soccer films. Hey, wear your colours and bring your flags!

Last week there were only four of us in the theatre, not counting a piano player and the projectionist and his girlfriend. The piano player was there to play for the 1927 German silent film The Eleven Devils (a story about how women can just mess up a guy's game). The film this upcoming Monday is a 1970 two-hour documentary silent film featuring George Best.

This is just fun!

mud puppy

Photo by: Euronion

mud, mud, mud, mud, mud . . .

I'm not really a sky person. I grew up with the freedom of open fields and woods, in a time when neighbourhood yards were unfenced and children and adults knew fears resided elsewhere.

In the spring, the empty field a block away (really a large, unused industrial lot with a single, grand chestnut tree at its centre) would flood in inches of water. The water seemed to stay a long time. My brothers and I would go to the field with our glass containers and water buckets and catch tadpoles, bring them home and watch them grow legs. I don't remember if any of them lived long enough to become toads -- but there were plenty of toads.

On Sunday I wandered north through the lovely, sedate mansions of Rosedale seeking the Brickworks in the Don Valley. I finally found access to the valley, but none of the way was paved. With the spring thaw and recent rains, the grass squished. The dirt roads and paths took one's utmost concentration in the pursuit of dry, forward progress.

Mud on children in galoshes, mud on tepid daytrippers, mud splashed up on the backs of kicking runners, mud on prepared birdwatchers, mud on filmmakers guised as camouflaged snipers, mud being deliciously cleaned away by large dogs wading in waist-high muddy water.

mud, mud, mud, mud, mud . . .

on this lovely springlike day

just thinking of some of my favourite beginnings and endings:

the opening paragraph to Richard Llewellyn's How Green was my Valley --

"I am going to pack my two shirts with my other socks and my best suit in the little blue cloth my mother used to tie around her hair when she did the house, and I am going from the Valley."

and the closing to Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird --

"He turned out the light and went into Jem's room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning."

good fit

I've been to the meeting for Sprockets volunteers, and did my first short volunteer shift for the Toronto International Film Festival Group (hereafter known as TIFFG). I'm going to like this. I do like it. Every week I can volunteer for something different. New people, new activities, all concerned or interested in something that has always fascinated me: film.

I love being part of a group, getting lost in the crowd. There is a freedom in it, when the responsibilities don't fall on your own individual shoulders. It's fun.

lung cancer claims dana reeve

This is just sad. Cruel turn after cruel turn. I cannot fathom how their 13-year-old son goes on. Thank God for extended family.

foray into film

Today is the day of the 78th Annual Academy Awards presentation. The Oscars! in all their hyped, magnificent, overwrought glory.

Over a week ago, I made my own little trip into the aura of the cinematic by volunteering at the Canadian Film Centre's annual fundraising gala. All I had to do was show up wearing basic black and comfortable shoes, and sell raffle tickets for a couple of hours to the powerbrokers and their affiliates, as they sat in their $400 seats dining on fine food prepared by master Cuban chefs.

There was even a red carpet -- and a photographer. The tables, lit by candles hanging from centrepiece palms, dazzled. The men, in their dress tuxedos, were urbane. There did not seem to be as many women as men, and they did not shine as much as their male counterparts, sure with their Cuban cigars and credit cards at the ready.

Hundreds of items at the silent auction, with bids ranging from the low hundreds to the thousands and thousands of dollars. At the live auction, bids of $10,500 for a shopping spree at Holt Renfrew, $18,000 for a trip for two to Paris, $250 for a magnum of champagne. The raffle tickets were a good deal at $40 a piece or three for $100, on three chances for custom-made jewellery.

The end result of cinema I understand; the finances behind it, making it possible are more difficult to comprehend. Not only the finances behind cinema, but the finances that make our society and economy prosper, are a foreign world to me. Seeing such apparent financial freedom is a culture shock, yet surely it is how the world turns.

This week I signed on to volunteer with the Toronto International Film Festival Group. I've never attended any of the TIFF festivities in the past as I've been busy with school. Now, I can get involved with them from the inside.

First on the agenda, the children's film festival in April, called Sprockets. Tonight, sitting down to watch the Hollywood glamour of the marketing of the stories told in celluloid.

And, my predominant impression of the gala? Unfortunately, that of swollen, sore feet from not taking the 'comfortable shoes' memo to heart.

sky person

One of my sisters-in-law calls me a 'sky person' because I live high up in the sky. My apartment on the 15th floor of a downtown highrise faces south to the sun and Lake Ontario. From my desk I can see the dark blueness of the lake rule a straight, infinite horizon against the paler blueness of the air.

The sun shines and reflects hard off shoreline ice as the Toronto Islands lie still, the trees in winter brown. To my right is a spectacular view of the Toronto skyline, more spectacular at night when it glistens and glows. To my centre and left, I am higher than the other buildings, and everything leads to the water.

When I moved here from Windsor to attend Ryerson, I had two days to find a place within walking distance to school. When I found this place, I knew I had a balcony, but was not even aware of which direction I faced. I was happy it was clean, and no more expensive than residence, and that the building appeared secure. The view was an unexpected gift.

Today I awoke to the sound of children laughing. An empty hole south of my building has become an elementary school, after two years of dusty, cacophonous construction. The harsh, endless sirens of downtown life are muted and lost, and the laughter carries up and across, softening the cold, winter edges and urging spring.

Being a sky person is akin to sitting in a favourite tree while young, being rooted to the earth but so close to flight.