Sweet, Sweet Bullion

I had no idea what I was going to write about today. I didn't have any burning subjects to cover. I could tell you about my sad, dead Powerbook. But I shouldn't expect you to care.

No, the reality is that I'm desperately doing my taxes, churning through a next draft and drinking coffee.

Then I opened the paper and read Russell Smith.

For those of you not lucky enough to be Canadian, and care about such things, Russell Smith is a Canadian writer. He's one of those pesky types who can tell you about the controversy surrounding The Giller Prize, or who's likely to be shortlisted for the Governor General's Awards this year.

Canada (and by Canada, like all Torontonians, I mean Toronto) is sweetly provincial enough that there's a whole bunch of people who chatter about things like literary awards. They see each other at CBC Radio soirees, and furrow their highbrows and if they want to be puckish, every once in a while they throw in a line or two about Don Cherry, and the hockey. For the people, you know.

There's a whole, larger group of media hound types out here that look on this benighted and blinkered group with no end of amusement. It's not that we don't read some of those books, or even listen to CBC Radio sometimes. We just know not to fall into the trap of thinking that we represent Canada, or that our taste is influential beyond the kind of people snaffing canapes at all the book launches we go to. We know that more people thumb through the stereo ads in the Toronto Sun every day than ever read The Globe & Mail. And we know that, though the Globe & Mail bills itself as "Canada's National Newspaper," outside of Toronto they derisively call it "Toronto's National Newspaper," and anyway, all the best articles are the ones they cadge from the Guardian and the New York Times.

There is one thing the Mop & Pail does really well, though: they know how to pick their really annoying columnists. And none more so than Russell Smith.

Smith, as I said before, is a writer. He wrote one novel a few years ago that wasn't awful. Lately, I gather, his sales have gotten a bit more dire. Chiefly he's known for writing his column in the Globe. Russell Smith is the kind of guy who knows exactly what kind of tie you should be wearing this week. He can wax rhapsodic on the subject of a good shave, or the value of cufflinks, or how the lychee martini is starting to wear out its welcome.

In other words, he's kind of a fop. Wait. No. Maybe he's a dandy. Damnit. I get those two things confused.

The other thing that Smith is unfailingly, is cranky. He's a real sourboots. And he doesn't mind who he offends, unless, you know, it's one of those people whose ass he has to kiss at the next book launch.

The nice thing about being a fop with a 'tude is that a few times a year, Smith just goes off and writes a column that's an utter, unmitigated hissy fit. Last year, famously, he wrote a wonderfully misanthropic bit about the horror of modern moviegoing that was breathtaking for both its utter pretentiousness and an almost radioactive level of narcissism.

Well, this morning, Russell took on Canadian TV. That's right, kids. He waded into the Sticks.

The screed is hilarious and awful, especially the way it spins out near the end -- and it oozes (incredibly, unbelievably) misplaced jealously from every comma. It, stupidly, like most Globe columnist content is behind a pay-firewall -- but you can sometimes get around that by searching through Google. This, by far, is my favorite quote:

When did I start expecting TV to be good? I suppose it was after the rise of the risqué or specialty cable channels, and shows with swearing in them. It started for me, probably, with The Larry Sanders Show, the first TV comedy I saw that had any kind of edge.

And then I came to Toronto, where everybody is involved with the making of television or movies. I noticed that TV people write a half-hour of television in two weeks and then get paid by fleets of dump trucks carrying gold bullion.

Gold Bullion. Seriously. I thought I was going to wet my pants.

Smith cruises onward, coming to his main point (I think) that the writing in Canadian shows is pretty good, but the acting is bad. (Sometimes he's right about this, but let's face it, most things that turn out crap are usually a combo of the holy trinity: writing's off, acting's off, directing's off.)

He gets splenetic about actors and their shorcomings, with enough paragraphs so that I had time in the reading to go into a sort of fugue state where I tried to imagine the real root of his dyspepsia. I think it's probably that there are a lot of actors at those parties he goes to, and they keep people from noticing writers like Russell, who are far more deserving of praise and canapes and klieg lights than the 2nd chick lead from Billable Hours.

After spinning his gears with his Strasberg-destroying theory of acting, he comes to a frothy end:

You have two actors, you sedate them heavily, you shoot a two-shot of them saying their lines, you leave it alone. Deadpan is always funnier than clownish, because it seems more real. This is why I like Ken Finkleman so much. But we can't have Finkleman directing every Canadian TV show. I wouldn't mind, actually, but the fans of Corner Gas would. See, this is why I would never make it in TV. Everything I can't stand is hugely popular.

Actually, that's not always true. The execrable, typical, Canadian TV drama Godiva's was mercifully given the chop this year. I am relieved. If viewers had liked this heavy-handed, intensely "Acted" nonsense, I would have gone to live in a cave.

Maybe it's time for me to stop caring about television drama again. Maybe it is all a waste of time for grownups.

There is always much moaning in the Canadian media when bad melodramas are cancelled. It is said that we need bad Canadian television because we must "tell our own stories." But the shows that TV critics seem to want produced are simply copies of American models. They are moral tales involving pretty people in fantasy cities or fairy-tale rural environments. Those aren't "our stories": They are craven attempts to rival American entertainment in economic terms. Until we start making dramas that actually resemble real life here, I don't think we need Canadian TV much at all.

That's right, guys. Buy more books. Start caring about the Giller Awards.

For heaven's sake, can we make a new rule, that in 2006, deriding the entire medium of TV is just...what? I mean, to me, it's like the guy in 1976 insisting that fountain pens were still the only way to go. It's not even chic retro, like how David Mamet still writes on a typewriter.

In 2006, someone who preaches the creed of "TV Turnoff Week" or expresses surprise that anything on TV can be good...aren't they just, you know, a jackass? A total fist magnet? Is it me?

Anyway, it's always nice to see Canadian resentment just bubble and squeak its way to the top. I explained to a friend from San Francisco once, who thought everybody in Toronto was "tense," that I kind of liked to think of Canada as a nation of disgruntled postal workers. They're polite most of the time because that's their job, but you never know when they're going to go off. Put em into a hockey fight or Vimy Ridge, and whoa, Nellie, you got heap trouble.

By the way, Smith was also nominally writing about Billable Hours. I caught the 2nd episode last night and it was better than the first -- but I'm not sure it's good enough to sustain interest. Not a lot of laughs, and a problem with character likability -- especially Filippo's. Once again, Actors who write often fail to serve their best interests -- they think they can convey likability with their performance -- because who doesn't like me, really?

Showcase also smartly paired BH with an import from FX: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I thought it was solid, funny, if unremarkable. Better than BH, but not as weird or genre busting as, say, Stella. I know this show's aired more eps in the U.S. Any reactions?