For the past four years, I’ve had the amazing opportunity to teach a horror film class at Concordia University. Aside from being a geek dream come true, it has allowed me to introduce inquiring minds to a range of brilliant scary movies. I have always punctuated the class with Alien (1979). It amazes me how that film has aged so beautifully. The effects (pre-CGI, it must be noted) remain entirely effective, and its commentary about the fusion of corporate and military interests has become horrifically prophetic. It’s a joy to watch it on the big screen, an opportunity the course provides.
The Arsenal Complex on Canning Street in Griffintown, just around the corner on Notre Dame Street West, is a beautiful repurposing of a former industrial building into a venue for galleries and events. The main floor has cavernous spaces for big shows (empty bottles of expensive beer left on tables attest to earlier festivities), while an ascending stairway takes you to the Division Gallery. The corridors and rooms, carefully finished, make for a pleasurable way to discover art. Past bits and pieces of the Collection Majuda (a private collection), this month you can wend your way to three rooms of recent work by Wanda Koop.
In the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, Verdun was covered with farms. In fact, it owes its status as a municipality to a group of English and French-speaking gentleman farmers in 1874 who wanted to avoid a perceived tax grab by the City of Montreal. Plus ça change…
On September 11, 2013, The End of Pinky, an NFB short by Claire Blanchet, based on the original short story by award-winning author Heather O’Neill, will have its world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival. The stereoscopic 3D- animated film is narrated by O’Neill herself and internationally renowned Quebec actor Marc-André Grondin. Last week, I had the chance to speak with Heather O’Neill about her story, the making of Pinky and her future projects.
In issue 84 of Canadian Notes and Queries, Patricia Robinson addresses the literary trend of domestic realism in Canada. According to Robinson, our country suffers from a literary landscape that is overpopulated with stories (both short and long) of a certain readily recognizable type. They are stories that “have no resonance beyond the personal lives of their characters,” about people who “ruminate rather than act,” and focus largely on their sex lives, social missteps and sibling rivalries. Stories by Alice Munro and Norman Levine may immediately come to mind.
Travelling Light is a collection of short stories by Peter Behrens, the winner of the 2006 Governor General’s Award for fiction. Arranged more geographically than chronologically, his collection contains some of Behrens’ earliest pieces as well as some more recent stories.
NEIGHBOURHOOD. When we walk along the street it is impossible to know who is Catholic, who practices yoga regularly, who speaks Spanish, who listens to heavy metal, or who’s thinking about becoming vegetarian.
So I’ve been trying to get into shape since 1993 and it’s not working. Do you know that they fry chocolate bars now? As if the chocolate bar needed alterations to its already irresistible package. I’m never going to be skinny.
Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington was one of the greatest Jazz royals. Emerging amidst a bevy of honorifically titled musicians such as “Count” Basie, “Earl” Hines, “Baron” Mingus and of course Nat “King” Cole, his swing big band dominated the field for 50 years before his death in 1974.
Kushner paints a vivid panorama that stretches from an alcohol-soaked, promiscuous mid-70s New York, where the art world rubs more than elbows with an underworld of violent revolutionaries, to the salt flats of Nevada where the fastest land vehicles in history skate across the thin white crust as ambulances wait on the sidelines, to the emotionally abusive tension of an Italian villa, where bad wine is drunk even as thousands riot in the streets of Milan.
How many of us in Quebec are still eating from our gardens in the month of December? Global warming aside, I would hazard very few. One such fortunate man is Bertrand Montpetit, a market gardener for over thirty years, organic for the last four.
The Soulpepper theatre production of the Pulitzer prize winning play Angels in America has won superlative plaudits from all the leading Toronto critics. Richard Ouzounian (Toronto Star), Richard Cashman (National Post), Jon Kaplan (NOW magazine) and Martin Morrow (Globe &Mail) all vied with each other to proclaim it the best Toronto production ever. To the voices of those four critics I must now add that of your visiting Rover Arts guy.
I found myself reviewing a lot of musicals this past year but felt like an imposter. I’m sorta tone deaf — chords, keys, sharps and flats lost to me. Yet Beethoven went deaf and produced great music. So why not B. Toben churning great reviews?
I’m sure you’ve noticed that the Middle East has been imploding (and exploding) for a few years now. One day it’s Arab Spring and we’re all yay! But the next day it’s all civil war and coups and the high price of hummus.
To convey dire stories without a touch of gloom is a gift. For George Saunders in Tenth of December, his first book in six years, this particular gift comes wrapped in an economy of language tied up with a ribbon of dark humour.