In her politically audacious My October, Claire Holden Rothman crawls under rugs most of us in this province have left untouched, and the dust she stirs up is impressive.
Mathieu Murphy-Perron is a Montreal playwright, writer, photographer and activist. He also has a day job. Wait – nix that. He had a day job. He is now an unemployed playwright, writer, photographer and activist.
Morocco was home to as many as half a million Jews by the 1940s. Today, only a few thousand remain, but it wasn’t the villagers who chased them out.
Apples and pumpkins were plentiful, everything bursting ripe as Kathleen Winter read us the story of Kerry’s burgeoning sexuality.
Madeleine Thien met Elise and me in a Mile End alley. There always seemed to be barking in the distance. Fitting for the author of Dogs at the Perimeter.
So I have this Muslim friend, and he’s rich like most Muslims are and, like all rich Muslims in Montreal, he’s a student at McGill. He hates swimming, never goes near a pool if he can help it. “It’s the Catholics,” he says, “they let their children pee in the pool!”
Some actors carry an entire movie on their shoulders. Irrfan Khan carries The Lunchbox on his face. His beautiful, supple, gentle, forlorn, intelligent, bereft face.
The PQ, like exhausted dancers at the end of a marathon, are ramping up the music and throwing in their final moves. The latest cha cha cha is Diane de Courcy’s promise to erase any and all sense of bilingualism in the province.
It was opening night of Robert Lepage’s Pique and streams of us were walking towards the place as if to Mordor. Lepage, the dark master of Quebec theatre, couldn’t have asked for a better entrance.
It was a cold November day when Elise Moser and I met Deanna Smith in the park off St Laurent in Little Italy, around the corner from her place. But we froze our little mitts off so went to Marché Milano and pretended to buy pasta for an hour. Actually, we didn’t have to pretend.
The Point is a neighbourhood of contrasts and history, where street names sound like they belong in Liverpool and kids run around speaking a French that wouldn’t be out of place in Les Plouffe circa 1953.
The sun sliced low above the street, on over to the brick wall of his building. David Homel read us a passage from Midway. A dog barked and everyone else had somewhere to go.
This poem, “Pairs,” is based on the following letter-pairs: bp, dt, fv, gk, sz. Each pair is composed of consonants whose sound is produced using the same vocal mechanism.
It was a wet and soggy October day when Elise Moser and I passed through street number 13 1/2 to find P.J. Bracegirdle’s hidden apartment. We were surrounded by a constant din of construction noise – every single neighbour was digging their secret dungeon.