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?

BBC does a 'Mea Culpa'

Lee hipped me to this speech by the BBC's Director General on the future of the UK Public Broadcaster. (Guardian Unlimited, reg is prolly required.) Funny how Broadcast Executives, when they give speeches like this, all seem to say roughly the same things.

So what should we do?

· in drama, we need to build fewer titles with longer runs, more impact, more emotion - and make more brave calls like Bleak House and Dr Who;
· we need to think of mobile and other ways of using new media from the very start of the creative process - like the Dr Who Tardisodes;
· we must cherish and where necessary invest in the titles that bind us emotionally to the broadest audiences - EastEnders, Casualty, Holby · we need more drama landmarks and signature pieces on Radio 4;
· across TV and radio, the nurturing and support of outstanding writers is a key to success;
· we need to strengthen the creative pipeline for comedy across TV and radio, nurturing future BBC1 hits on 2 and taking radio hits like Dead Ringers and Little Britain and building them across platforms;
· we'll invest more consistently in comedy drama;
· and we'll relaunch the BBC comedy website;
· in entertainment too, we'll use 360 degree commissioning, interactivity, user-generated content to reengage audiences in primetime TV entertainment;
· we'll take more creative risks to build on recent BBC1 successes like Strictly Come Dancing - and we'll forge closer links with other genres like factual and leisure to deliver more hybrid hits like The Apprentice;
· above all, we need to be more courageous and confident with our entertainment. And we need to recognise the critical role of talent - on and off air - in distinguishing our content and really reacting to our audiences.

Amidst all the "respect the talent" stuff -- it will be interesting to see if the UK moves away from the Six Pack -- considering that seems to be the new rage among Canadian broadcasters. Golly, what does it all mean?

Canadian Screenwriting Awards

Astute readers will have noticed my silence the last few days and perhaps might have connected it back to the WGC's annual Screenwriting Soiree on Monday night at Brant House in Toronto.

I have it on good authority that when we made it back to the Wheatsheaf Tavern, a mere stone's throw from the party venue and my home -- I began speaking fully fluent Hungarian.

I doubt the veracity of this. I will not deny, however, that I think my agent might have paid the bill. I love my agent. Not in that way. But Still.

Sadly, even if you are in Canada, you probably didn't hear too much about the Canadian Screenwriting Awards. They don't get a lot of press. They probably don't even get anywhere near the press, per capita, as the WGA awards get south of the border.

What's good about the Canadian Screenwriting Awards is they hearken back to the early days of the Oscars. The host (former Kid in the Hall Scott Thompson) gets up, does his thing, they hand out the trophies, speeches are short, and the whole thing's over in an hour -- so as not to cut into the really important business of drinking and schmoozing.

Anyway, from the Canadian Press article, here's the important stuff about, you know, who won:

Brent Butt, the star of the hit sitcom Corner Gas, joined Paul Mather to win the comedy and variety writing award for the episode entitled Dog River Vice. Susan Coyne, Bob Martin and Mark McKinney shared the drama series (one hour) prize for the Steeped in Blood episode of the Shakespeare troupe parody Slings & Arrows.

And in the half-hour drama category, it was Susin Nielsen for her Dancing the Horizontal Mambo instalment of Robson Arms.

On the big screen, Wil Zmak won for his screenplay for The Dark Hours, a horror film about a psychiatrist confronted by a violent sex offender she once treated.

Best miniseries or movie-of-the-week screenplay went to Suzette Couture for The Man Who Lost Himself, the movie about former football star Terry Evanshen's struggle to regain his memory after a near-fatal car crash.

Comic Scott Thompson was again pegged to host the 10th annual awards event. The awards, presented by the Writers Guild of Canada, are judged solely on the merits of the script, not the final product.

The guild also honoured Alberta writer and teacher Josh Miller with the Alex Barris Mentorship Award for his efforts to launch the careers of many young screenwriters. The guild is the national association representing more than 1,800 screenwriters who work in English-language film, television, radio and new media.

Of the winning entries, I haven't seen Dark Hours, but I've just added it to my ZipList like a good Canadian. I also didn't see Suzette Couture's The Man Who Lost Himself -- it's one of those feely CTV Tv-movies I just don't like. However, I do think that maybe they should just create "The Suzette Couture Award" and give it to Suzette Couture every year. Let's just cut out the middleman. In Canadian writing circles, she's the Anti-Susan Lucci. I kid. Hell of a talent. Hell of a talent. I hear she's in pre-production on something she scribbled on a napkin. There I go, again with the kidding.

I was far more sanguine about having all the comedy writing noms go to Corner Gas episodes than I was seeing all five comedy writing noms go to Made In Canada at the Geminis a few years back...and the ep that won was funny, though I'm sad that my friend Kevin White didn't win for one of HIS Corner Gas's.

I've written about how much I loved Slings & Arrows before, so I was glad to see it pick up some bling.

But the awards themselves really were prelude to the dustup. As a friend of mine who works for one of those Canadian entertainment shows that have sprung up like kudzu said, "You can tell the writers from the actors, because when the lights go on and the camera pans the crowd people try to hide and scurry and don't immediately adjust their wine glass whilst trying to favor their good side in the shot."

That's us. A room full of people with no good sides.

I'm cruel. And self-loathing. The truth is, of course, that writer eye-candy is the best eye-candy: because you can be reasonably sure that they can also string a sentence together. Mmm. Literacy, Thinking, and Conversational skills. That's hot.

I saw former students of mine, all shiny and mobbed up with their important industry jobs; there were people I've worked with and always intend to see more of but never do -- and writers who write for the stage who I secretly have big time talent-crushes on; there were the top-tier mafia types who I always imagine just walking into the meeting, slapping down their scripts and saying, "there. shoot that." But most of all there were just a bunch of gently lacerating, hyper-articulate, offbeat and fun and wonderful people just trying to break each other up.

Oh, and development executives who like cocktails. A lot. I think if you're going to be a development executive in Canada, you really should come out and declare your love of cocktails. It makes for a much more convivial party. My esteem for some of our fine executives jumped Monday night. Jumped. I am not being sarcastic.

For the truth is, we all are toiling in the trenches of entertainment here. I don't want to have any more conversations with anyone who thinks they're doing something important when they write TV. I want to entertain people -- and in a room full of like-minded artists, it's almost inevitable that they entertain you, too.

I don't know what more the WGC can do to raise the profile of the Canadian Screenwriting Awards. But I'm fairly sure they can't throw a better party.

Old People Know Java Voodoo

I ran out of Starbucks coffee this morning.
It's a bit of a tragedy.
I got addicted to grinding the Starbucks beans myself and making great drip coffee about a year and a half ago. That's when I knew two people who worked at Starbucks. They'd slip me a pound of beans every couple of weeks and all was copasetic.

Course, once they moved on, I was screwed -- destined to have to spend fourteen bucks a week just to have the wherewithal to make it through the average morning.

So this morning, when I found there wasn't enough Starbucks beans to grind for a pot, and I had to switch to the substandard Dr. McGuffin's Whatever The Fuck This Is supposed "upscale" beans from my grocery store downstairs -- I knew there was going to be trouble.

And there is. I'm on my second cup of coffee now, and it tastes a bit like feet.

At times like this, I'm reminded of my father. He may have toiled in he trenches of sugar water bottling management for a good portion of his life, but he is a stone cold ninja with a percolator.

That's right, bitches. A percolator.

An old-style, low-tech, drip drip ceramic monstrosity that is not sexy in the slightest. It does not foam, whip, or gently heat the milk. It glugs, and boils, and must be turned from boiling to perking to heating in a precise minute arrangement that my father has burned into his sense memory.

And the net result is my father can buy 1.99 a pound, Chock Full O'Shit coffee -- the kind that comes pre-mixed with cigarette butts already in the tin-- the kind of coffee that Juan Valdez's syphillitic burro would turn up his nose at -- and scoop it into his little metal perk basket, and put it on the stove, and voila! Ten minutes later: a symphony of coffee flavor.

And I have to go out and spend fourteen fucking dollars.

I Swear To God, I Don't Have Time For This.

There I am, minding my own business, trying to work. And all that's going to hell because I am deeply, deeply, inexorably, dangerously and incontroveribly under the sway of Olaf.

Olaf makes me feel inadequate. I Am Idiot Screenwriter Also -- but nowhere does my ambition or talent rival that of Olaf, or touch the naked drama of his saga with Trixie.

Go. Go you lucky people. Feast on Olaf.