Year End List: Fuel for Inspiration

2005 was a transitional year for me. I spent a good part of 2004 living in a foreign country and working on a weekly show there. Then, when I returned, I had the singular experience of taking a show that I'd written to New York City.

After those highs, it's probably a good thing that 2005 was a bit quieter. I spent most of the year tending to projects that were in various stages of development. I made new professional acquaintances, transited old working relationships to a different level, pitched (and sold) a few ideas, dipped my ridiculously big toe into animation, story edited projects by several other writers, and started this blog.

But amidst all that in the year, there's fuel. Fuel exists all around us; it's writing that makes you learn and writing that makes you want to write. For me, I recognize and love writing regardless of media -- it inspires me in the same way, it makes me want to work in the same way. So if I'm going to to a year-end list, by its very definition it needs to be cross-disciplinary. So then, in no particular order, here are ten written works that inspired or fueled me this year.

1) Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman
I saw The Pillowman back in May on a trip to New York. Best ninety dollars I've ever spent, and maybe one of only two things on this list that actually vies to be first.

Because The Pillowman isn't just a horror-filled tale well told, it's a play about writing. About the personality of the writer, and how often our obsessive nature can seem crazy; can even cross over into crazy. It's also about the power of writing to reach out and touch others, in the most unlikely and unexpected of ways.

Billy Crudup's writer, Katurian, is pulled into an interrogation room for a series of grisly murders. The setting is a totalitarian state. The Writer is more or less condemned by his macabre works, which seem the result of a mind that could contemplate horrible things, and therefore must be guilty. His interrogators are the quietly menacing Tupolski (Jeff Goldblum) and the more upfront bruiser Ariel (Zelkjko Ivanek.) Through the course of the action, we meet Katurian's slow brother ( a riveting Michael Stuhlbarg,) as well as hear the horrible, blood-soaked tales that form Katurian's storytelling canon. Someone has to pay for the crimes, and though the truth eventually will out, at the core of this play is an astonishing deal and a bloody-minded choice: a choice that every writer would have to make for themselves. I know what choice I'd make. If you're going to be in New York anytime soon, I would heartily recommend this show. John Crowley's direction is some of the most exciting I've seen in the theater in years. I went back to my hotel after seeing this and wrote for five hours without moving from my chair.

2) Until I Find You by John Irving
John Irving's been more or less my favorite writer since I first tore through Garp and Hotel New Hampshire as a teenager. I've liked some of his books more than others. This book had a tough slough in the reviews, at least here in North America. Like many of his recent books, it's partially set in Toronto. Like none of the others I can recall, it's also set within the movie business, and its main character is an actor. Until I Find You is a profoundly sad book, with some disquieting passages that come out of Irving's own experience of being sexualized at a too-early age. But to surrender yourself to an Irving world is to immerse yourself in it completely, so much so that the loss that permeates the book is reflected in you as you lay it down for the last time. I have a bit of a "fiction problem." I get into a book, I'm pretty much going to neglect whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing til I'm finished. I lost a week to this book. (It's over 700 pages.) For a book with an undertone of such sadness, the ending is strangely affirming and uplifting. Thank God. Irving lost me with his last book. I'm back in the fold now. Probably for good.

3)House "Three Stories"

The penultimate episode of House's first season was a real corker. A perfect example of how to pull everything out of character. David Shore deservedly won the Emmy for this, and deservedly so. Stressed from the appearance of his ex-girlfriend Stacy, and forced to lecture to medical students, House weaves a story of three patients who present with a similar symptom. To say more would be to reveal all, but let's just say that this was a rich tapestry that proves that American network TV can assume intelligence on the part of its viewership and not have their asses handed to them. This episode was also the hearty middle-finger to House-haters who said the show only had one storytelling template. A rich signpost to why, and forgive me for this, House has legs.

4) Wedding Crashers and The 40-Year-Old Virgin

Because they were dirty. And funny. And not a sequel. And not based on a videogame. And had jokes high and low, farcical and clever. Because there was a sweetness to Steve Carell that came through amidst all the raunch. Because they cast Amy, the woman that the friend can't get over, as an average-looking South Asian woman. Because Christopher Walken just has to stand there and he's funny. Because Isla Fisher deserves to be known here as more than Ali G's fiancee. Because Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn are Hope and Crosby, or at least Frank and Dino. Because Judd Apatow finally, finally, finally gets to have more than the astonished, geeky appreciation of writers everywhere. Ditto Seth Rogan. Because in enumerating all the reasons why this exuberant pair of funny, true, heartfelt comedies were the only times I walked into a movie theatre this summer and wasn't disappointed...(okay, maybe Batman Begins, too,) I got this far into the list without mentioning Rachel McAdams. Damnit. Oh well. There.

5) John Patrick Shanley's Doubt Here's how good a play Doubt is. I saw it at a matinee on the same trip where I saw The Pillowman. When you go to the theater in New York for a matinee, you just have to suck it up and realize that you are going to be absolutely surrounded by old dears. Lots, and lots, and lots of old dears. I think there are more old people in your average theater matinee than there are in all of Southern California. Then again, in SoCal, your old people don't look old, they just look kind of ... stretched. Seriously, it's nice to go to New York and see old people in all their glory rather than the macabre vision of leathery tanned 70 year olds trying to look 50 not realizing that they look more like my wallet than the 18 year old popstars they're trying to emulate. Brrr.


Anyway, when I saw Doubt, the prizes had already started to roll in. Doubt is an old-fashioned, unvarnished, rollicking play kind of play. Very theatrical, simple story, killer performances. I got to see the incomparable Cherry Jones attack her role with gusto and total committment -- even though the old dear one row down from me in the balcony had a hearing aid that kept whistling through the whole show. Loudly. The usher kept whispering to people to turn down their hearing aids, then after a few minutes, she couldn't hear and she turned it up again. This went on for seventy minutes.

To be able to surrender to the powerful heft of Shanley's words and the top-notch cast's performance under those circumstances...well, I'll take that over listening to some kid talk on his cell phone in the middle of the matinee of The Ringer anyday.

6) The West Wing

Because they managed to get their mojo back. And that aint an easy task for a show at the end of its shelf life. Frasier did it too, and just as improbably. This is the reason why, against all odds and evidence to the contrary, I will not yet write off The Simpsons.

7) Stars

"When there's nothing left to burn...you have to set yourself on fire."

This chilling refrain is what opens the latest record by Stars. Technically this maybe shouldn't be part of a 2005 list, since the record came out last year. But I think I can get away with it since Set Yourself on Fire was only released in the United States this year.

My love of Stars is complete and transcendant. They recently did a stand of club shows here in Toronto and I desperately tried to get tickets, and failed spectacularly. Stars is the counterpoint between the male and female voices. It's stories of longing and loss that just seem to drill down into my marrow. None more so than the stately opening track, "Your Ex Lover is Dead."

God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across Pont Champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...

There's a bloody novel in those words -- which builds in its slow, sleepy way to the devestating coda, "I'm not sorry I met you, I'm not sorry it's over, I'm not sorry that there's nothing to say."

Haunting. And the video inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which is here, only deepens the spell. Buy this damn CD right now.

8) The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffennegger

I never like books like this. In the last year, I've really become a little put off by Sci-fi fans. A genre that should be about expanding possibilities, ideas, and using allegory to examine our present is ruled by a fanbase that seems to becoming more close-minded, conservative, and puerile by the day. It's with a bit of trepidation that I notice that shows like the new Battlestar Galactica are embraced more by drama fans, than by Sci-fi fans. That can't be good for the genre, for a whole bunch of reasons. Then comes this lovely little book.

From the back cover: "When Henry meets Clare, he is twenty-eight and she is twenty. He is a hip librarian; she is a beautiful art student. Henry has never met Clare before; Clare has known Henry since she was six..."

How can you not want to read that? This book stayed in my head for weeks.

9) Intelligence by Haddock Entertainment

This is a TV movie that aired on CBC a few weeks ago. It's a backdoor pilot for a new series written by Chris Haddock (DaVinci's Inquest & DaVinci's City Hall)

The picture at left shows stars Klea Scott and an almost unrecognizable Matt Frewer. (Max Headroom) Both are scary good in their roles.

Intelligence is a story set very much in the post 9-11 world. And here's the interesting thing: Unlike Jack Bauer's shenanigans on 24, or even Alias, (where I notice Jack Bristow joined the "torturer's club" a few weeks back...I mean, is the White House now funnelling soft-money to TV producers to make the whole "torture is cool" meme stick?) Intelligence doesn't deal in the world of superheroes, black hats and white hats, or, "if you're not with me, you're with the terrorists." In the Vancouver painted by Haddock, the various police jurisdictions: CSIS (The Canadian Security and Intelligence Service,) The Vancouver Police, the Major Crime Unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and even the US DEA jockey and manuever for the best "human intelligence." Klea Scott's director is hated by her underlings, who seem helpful on the surface, but who quietly try to undermine her at every step. Ian Tracey plays a truly sympathetic gangster named Jimmy Reardon, in a nuanced, studied, and riveting performance. The guy is just one of the best actors Canadian Television has ever seen. The first hour of Intelligence weaves an interesting tapestry where everyone is witholding something, and jockeying for position. Then comes the cracking plot twist: a briefcase containing informant files is stolen in a smash and grab. (An incident based on a real-life theft that happened years ago in Toronto.)

The lengths people will go to get it back, and how this random event affects alliances old and new makes for great, compelling, and adult television. CBC would be absolutely insane not to pick this up as a full series. It has the complexity of The Sopranos, or the best of British crime series. For once, the superlatives and praise ladled out rather sluttily for homegrown product in this country is earned, in spades.

The layered, nuanced, subtle touches that permeate every scene make for an absolutely first rate show. If CBC is going to fix its torturous problem of trying to appeal to audiences, or at least do good work, I have a bold solution: clear the decks. Make Chris Haddock the commissioning editor for two years. Give him room to develop a slate. He probably won't want to do it. Cajole him. This is a guy who knows how to make intelligent, absorbing television that's better than anything else on your slate -- most of which are overcooked, overwrought, shrill, or unabsorbing dramas. You need this guy desperately.

10) The Last Five Minutes of the finale of Six Feet Under.

Because ... I mean ... Jesus, what an ending.


Well, that's it. There are other daily inspirations that I'm thankful for. I've drawn succor and support and insight from the scribosphere this last year. I continue to enjoy the very witty John Doyle, whose TV columns in the Globe & Mail are always a first read of the day...I'm inspired and very pleased by Penguin's new "Pocket Penguin" series of books where you can buy a cheap, slim volume, and dip into J.K. Galbraith's The Economics of Innocent Fraud, Nick Hornby's Otherwise Pandemonium, Roald Dahl's A Taste for the Unexpected, or even Thomas Paine's Common Sense.

There's a lot to look forward to in 2006 -- new episodes of 24, The Sopranos, the new Superman movie, and so much else. Maybe even something by me. We'll see.

I wish you all continued inspiration and fuel for a mighty New Year.

Peace.

DMc

There's No Place Like Home For the Holidays...

...especially when all you want is for it to rub the lotion on its skin.

Last night, someone found my blog.
They were searching on Yahoo for...wait for it...

"dead body parts clip art"

Bouncing Baby Jebus, WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?

Hmm. Funny. I Can't Seem to Feel My Left Arm...

From Andrew Nicholls' Valuable Lessons (which I've almost finished. Script's on page 17, thanks for asking.)

The life cycle of a Hollywood comedy writer is: Freelancer, Staffer, Showrunner, Creative Consultant, Animation, Pre-School Animation, Death.

Of course, in Canada, there's a whole lot of Animation. Tons of it. (And not that much live action.) I've only done a bit, but I'm probably going to wind up doing more in 2006. And a lot of writer friends younger than me are making a go of it in animation.

So what I'm wondering is -- should my next paycheck go straight toward buying the in-home defribulator?

Diversity, Shmeversity

It's pretty much like clockwork. You can always tell how the day's going by the number of blog posts I get up to. I have diligently sat here since 9:01 a.m. struggling to get into this half hour pilot I'm trying to write. Eight hours with breaks and I have about nine or ten of the hardest-fought pages ever. Painful. But I am not moving til 6:30. If my usual holds, I'll get another five pages written between 5:30 and 6:30 pm when I knock off, begging the question, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

Alex over at Complications Ensue made a post about doing a "diversity pass" and got taken out to the woodshed by some of his commenters. You can check out the whole ugly contretemps here.

I have some sympathy for Alex's dilemna. One of my favorite things about Grey's Anatomy is the fact that the Black leads and the Asian leads are people, and not plugged-in for racially tinged stories, except when it confounds your pointy-head PC expectations, like when Sandra Oh's Christina Yang revealed to her beau, Dr. Burke, that she was Jewish. I clapped my hands like a seven-year-old girl trying to keep Tinkerbell from dying. (little Durang reference for you theater-philes out there.) To my recollection, Grey's has yet to do a racially-based story. And Hallelujah for that. Gee, wonder if that has to do with the fact that the creator is a black woman? Maybe if we get some more diversity in the boardrooms of the networks buying these shows, and in the creator and showrunner's offices, and the problem will solve itself.

But I doubt it.

We'll still have to suffer through the Female Black Judge and the Magic Black Person (which, granted, is more prevalent in the Film division, but still...) There's also the One Black Friend of all the White People, and the Single Asian Cheerleader, and the Good Looking Blond Mugger, (which I think someone over on Complications Ensue mentioned.)

For my part, I've struggled mightily in one of my pilots to have a dumb female Asian character (who was Jewish and Texan, to boot) and the network reaction was basically...well...let's be diplomatic and say, "questioning."

The thing is, as retarded as it sounds, (And yes, I said "retarded." I'm reclaiming the word,) there are only so many combinations available to you. I wanted the dumb Asian female character partly to show our hyphenated society, and partly because, damnit, I have met a lot of dumb Asian women in my time. And why not confound expectations?)

I wanted her to have big ol' Texas hair and a southern drawl because, damnit, that would just be funny. And I've met Asian girls with southern accents. And it's dead sexy, hoss.

But at the same time, how do you go to the network with another black criminal? If you have a black character who's dumb, what does that do to your show? What's the reaction going to be? And do you want that reaction to overshadow the material? Maybe people aren't comfortable talking about it, but these things are at issue. To say that they're not is hopelessly naive.

There is a female Canadian journalist who was one of Canada's most respected newswomen. She's interviewed Prime Ministers and Presidents and Nobel Prize winners. She co-anchored the National Newscast on the CBC for a time. She's now the Canadian Consul General in New York. But the thing that I've never been able to forget is how a top Canadian network exec told me that the only thing this woman did in her journalism career that got a consistent, passionate response from viewers was change her hair.

Seriously. Every haircut, hundreds of calls.

Do you think writers go through these hoops because we're the crazy ones? Sometimes. But that doesn't make the issue any less worthy of consideration.

Invent the colorblind, totally racial-consideration free society, and most writers I know will be right there with you. But until then, just because race isn't something that we ever talk about doesn't mean that we don't have to talk about it.

And for the record, my favorite Diversity Pass EVER was a Canadian show made by the same company that does DeGrassi. It aired about ten years ago.

The character was....drumroll, please....

a gay
native
bicycle courier

I think he had a learning disability, too.

Awesome.

Say it with me: FANNY.

I got a funny email from a UK reader not so long ago where he was ragging on the U.S. for changing the name of the show "Spooks" to "MI-5" on these shores.

I think trying to explain these things is usually futile, so I didn't answer him. But I just got a similar email, so this is the best I can do:

The British title, on this side of the pond, connotes a certain pejorative insensitivity that might be more of a problem here than there.

I'm guessing that a gentle romantic American comedy sitcom called "My Sweet Fanny," would probably present an interesting promotional challenge in the UK.

At least, judging from the looks one of my colleagues got in South Africa, when they referred to their little hip-bag by the name we call them here in North America:

the Fannypack.

UPDATE: ok, so I saw that in the original post I mis-hyphenated MI-5 as MI:5. Mea Culpa. Also, I went to a comedy show tonight at the Rivoli where a comic named Mike Wilmott, Canadian who now lives in the UK, did a long bit on the British definition of the word "fanny." Serendipity. It's a bitch.

Doctor Who at the Holidays (or...Hug Me Now, Rick, Hug Me as if it Was the Last Time...)

Well, I was all set and ready to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special last night on CBC, but I forgot. And, uh, I don't really care enough to go do something illegal.

On the bright side, I did get to see a Hockey Game at the Air Canada Centre from swank box seats and it was an awesome game with a fight and everything. (Leafs crush Devils 2-1; Eddie Belfour earns his paycheck; Denis sips Heineken and eats chicken wings.)

Matt Watts has a sort-o-review of Doctor Who on his blog. Apparently David Tennant takes over the role just fine. And that Billie Piper popsy is strangely alluring. Maybe I need to get out more.

Last year, I managed to catch about half the new episodes with Chris Eccleston. I think hiring Russel T. Davies (creator of the original British Queer as Folk) was inspired. The show crackled and walked a fun line of entertainment that could please adults with high camp, and still pull in the kids. Eccleston took a lot of heat when he left the role, despite my strong suspicion that he only ever agreed to take on one season to get the franchise re-started. (A suspicion more or less confirmed when BBC leaked the fact that he was ankling and the actor's camp got all snippy.)

If you make a deal with an actor, you have to honor it. Just because they're insane doesn't mean they don't have rights -- or feelings. Oh, they have feelings. Feelings for days.

More than his review of Who, though (say that aloud three times fast) what interested me most about Matt's review was how the show made him feel:

At times like this, when I’m sitting alone, trying to figure out where to go with my life, I realize that all I really want to do, is to write on a show that is fun. I want to work on a show where people save the world and hug.

Canada needs shows like that, don’t you think? I’m sick of all the depressing angsty bleak shit. Give me people saving the world and hugging.

Amen, brother. I've got a few save and huggers up my sleeve. I wonder if 2006 will bring any of 'em to Canadian airwaves?

Fresh Coat o' Paint

Take a look around, kick the tires, shoot the virtual tv set, Elvis-style and let me know what y'all think.

That's right. I said y'all.

Cause I lived in the South. Now I'm going to the Leafs game.

Embrasser les differences grandes.

Score!

Now this is what I call a Christmas Gift.

Beautiful color reproduction. Crisp printing.

And it weighs roughly the same as a very heavy bag of golf clubs.

Now if I could just find the time to read it. After all, as Calvin teaches us: "There's never enough time to do all the nothing you want."


Thanks, Trish.