When You're This High, How Low Can TV Go?

I'VE COME UP with a whole new way to judge television shows.

Watch them at 40 000 feet, on a 3 inch screen.

I'm serious.

Flying back from Vancouver last night on Westjet 626, I did my level best to tune out the three crying babies by availing myself of the seatback TV.

Much as I found earlier this year, when I briefly spent some time in the 1970's, Canadian TV viewing, off air, really sucks. The promos -- even for the flashy U.S. series, aren't the hot promos you see cut by FOX or NBC or ABC -- they're more likely to be generic, cookie-cutter cut, cut, cut, slapped up with whatever horrible v/o guy CTV or Global uses. Then there are the ads...less advertisers, so you see the same seven commercials over, and over, and over. The news promo for the election coverage is the exact same promo every time. No variation. No differentiation. It doesn't put you in the best mood to watch the show.

And what of the shows themselves? Well, man, you really do judge those act outs differently when you actually are going to have to wait two and a half minutes to see them again.

One of the things I've noticed lately is how unpopular the "return to the exact same moment" act outs have become. You try to pitch that and lots of times, the network doesn't want it, or the showrunner doesn't like it, or the director balks or somebody somewhere says, "don't break it there, that's cheesy -- finish the scene and break somewhere else."

And you know what? It IS cheesy when you see it on a DVD or an instant later, on a PVR/Tivo with no time having passed. It calls attention to the artifice of the act out. But when you have to sit through three minutes of Brand Power, the new Nissan Rogue, It's Patrick and he's talking about Life Insurance, and Celebratrix which cures sleeplessness but may cause anal warts, pleurisy, gout, loose stools, carbunkles, Toby Keith fandom, and spontaneous wasting syndrome -- you don't mind coming back to the same moment one little bit. In fact, it's kind of preferable. Your mind doesn't have to do the little mental calculation of "who is this and what story are we in right now?"

The last step of audio production used to always be not how does it sound on perfect studio monitors, but how does it sound on a crappy car stereo? I sometimes think that we're doing reviewers, producers, networks and everybody else a disservice by not remembering that when you're writing for commercial TV there will be commercials there -- and despite how many people zip past, many, many more will watch them. Or at least part of them. You don't get the uninterrupted experience.

So...how did the shows rate at 40 000 feet?

First, I gave Chuck a second chance -- something I might not have done at home. It grew on me. I liked the tango bits, and I liked especially the interplay between Zach Levi and Thomas Jane, who for his unsung utility excellence is my nominee for the Terry O'Quinn pre-LOST will-this-actor-ever-get-any respeck award. I still find that the sister an unnecessary character, and the annoying friend has none of the warmth you need from the annoying friend. But Chuck's nerd posse has promise. And the girl is adorable and asskicky. I might have to recalibrate the Dad-O-Meter on this one.

Similarly, Journeyman held up again for me. I like the symmetry of the wife finding out about Lydia and Lydia finding out about the wife. I like the heart. McKidd continues to give a solid performance. It was a very diverting hour.

Which leaves the meat in the middle.

When Hiro was ready to leave the 16th century, I practically hurrah-ed in my seat, only to be disappointed when he backed off. I don't like/understand/care about Maya and her brother, wasn't pleased to see Nikki again, and was bored by the Peter thing. For this we saved the cheerleader?

I think that Variety's Season Pass blog sums up the Heroes malaise pretty well. I think I remember reading somewhere that all the Heroes stories are written separately and chunked together. Without any kind of guiding theme, you live and die on how interesting your serial storytelling is. And sad to say, this year, Heroes isn't. Where's the big twist endings? The villains? The dread, the joy, the fun, the escapism? Stephen Tobolowsky, you are no Lindeman, never mind HRG. But then again, with HRG seconded to Kinkos, even HRG isn't HRG anymore.

When you can't entertain someone who has nowhere else to go because he's belted into a seat surrounded by screaming babies -- you have slipped, mister.

When I got home, I watched Ep 2 of Intelligence again. Taut, exciting, tense fun. Great work from Matt Frewer, Klea Scott, Ian Tracey, and John Cassini. I can't believe more people aren't watching this show. Go ahead, watch David Caruso do the sunglass thing for the 1398th time, you fucking sheep.

Blame it on the turkey.

Jet Plane a go- go

NOW THAT I've ill-advisedly handed the keys to Matt Neffer, Boy Spotwelder, our Comedy Don Quixote, I'm out of here for the weekend.

Canadians, Happy Thanksgiving. Americans...um...Columbus Day sales! Go and stimulate your moribund economy, please.

Vancouver, I'll see you tonight.

Alright, Alright. I Take It Back...

SWEET JEBUS, this is a different city when the sun is out. Even the drivers seem less crazy.

I managed on this trip to avoid most of the places I haunted when I lived here in the winter, and visit some of the places I'd stayed away from. So no Commercial Drive, but a whole lot of Yaletown. I also learned for certain that GM Place and BC Place are not the same thing (really, you could have made that clearer,) had a nice lunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe (Hippies Please Use Side Door,) bought a couple CD's at Zulu, naffed some truly excellent oysters, paid three bucks for a tiny minibar can of Pringles, learned to hate the Canada Line construction, discovered a new favorite girl drink; talked shop and traded stories at the Fringe Cafe, and even got told a pretty good industry joke:

Q: What's the difference between a working Canadian screenwriter and a pizza?
A: A pizza can feed a family of four.

Heh heh. Oh, and then to top it all off, an all-too-brief drink with some of the fabulous writers from J-Pod. Good times. Good times.

I like Vancouver in the spring. That much is true. But now it's back to Toronto, a waiting set of notes, working through the weekend and batting away the smog with my hands.

Shit. Maybe I should delete the pizza joke. If I leave it here, I can't tell it to people individually. Moral dilemma...blog or life?

Now there's a question to contemplate on the plane.

So long Van. I'll give Toronto your usual regards.

(I'm not gonna hock the loogie, tho.)

The Police, Or Busting the Surprise With That Pesky 'Ol Series of Tubes

PRACTICE MAKES perfect. We've all heard that since we were in short pants. But recently, this wonderful series of tubes has been getting me twitterpated.

What if all the info floating around out there just makes things worse?

I muse on this (I can't help it, staying in a hotel makes me all muse-y) largely because of the events of the last few days. It's got a screenwriting application -- but it'll take a few 'graphs to get there, m'kay?

So, Sunday night I went to see the fan club show for THE POLICE at GM Place in Vancouver. It's billed as the first time the band has played together for 25 years, even though that's stretching the truth a bit. Somewhere on a dusty VHS tape I still have a recording of the set they did at the Amnesty International show back in 1986. But that's probably too Poindexter-y a point to make.

Moving on...

GM place was fun and kind of eerie looking. They had only sold some of the floor and some of the stands -- 4000 total, so the entire show was dwarfed by a maw of empty seats staring down at you.

It started low key, with the three band members coming out and saying 'hi' and 'thanks for coming to our final dress rehearsal.'

They explained that there probably would be mistakes, and that they might even have to stop and start a bit as the night wore on. Then they went backstage, and a few minutes later the lights went down and they ripped into "Message in a Bottle."

It was great to see them. I had an ear-to-ear grin on my face most of the show. I had great seats, dead center floors, about fifteen rows back.

The set is stripped down, minimal...most of the effects are limited to lighting and live projection above -- one screen for each member.

They walked through the set and there were glitches, but none that could make them stop. Stewart Copleand in particular showed a rangy, puckish energy that really make you believe that he's been dying to be able to play these songs again, this way, for a very long time. He bounced around from giant gong to percussion (put to its best use on "Wrapped Around Your Finger" and "King of Pain,") and hit the drums hard. That's the thing the fifteen year old me always loved about Copeland..he beat the shit out of those drums. When that hormonal anger crested, somehow watching him do that helped.

Andy Summers scowled his way through the whole performance. He kept bringing the guitar tech on -- he obviously wasn't happy with the way the guitar sounded. And to be fair, it was pretty low in the mix. You also read a lot into these situations, and part of me thought, "wow, Summers really has the hardest job here..." remembering all those solos and whatnot.

Which is entirely separate from my realization that drummers are to rock and roll what writers are to film and tv. Sure we don't get respect, but take us away, buddy. See how you fuckin do then.

Sting, for his part, seemed loose through the first part of the set. He wasn't pushing his voice, so a lot of the old Police material that was sung in that high falsetto -- well, for the 2007 version you would just have to get used to the 56 year old, down octave version. But he also experimented with singing ahead of the beat, and giving the songs a more jazz-inflected feel.

A few of the songs seemed to be played a bit slower than you wanted. Especially "Truth Hits Everybody", which I remember flailing around to in my basement bedroom more times than I care to recount, back in the day. Yes, his guns were buff. But this is not a band of 25 year olds anymore. Copeland's youthful face, set against his completely gray hair (good for him for keeping it) was an often potent reminder of just how much time has passed. As was the projected images of Iraqi devestation combined with imagery of playing children during "Invisible Sun." I had to reach back to remember that this song was originally written about Northern Ireland. Now Eire is at peace, mostly. And the song takes on new meaning. Plus ca change...

Anyway, by the second half of the concert, things had kicked into a different gear. Copeland's energy became infectious. Summers cracked something that could forensically be described as a smile. By the time they finished up, they seemed satisfied, and relieved, and ready.

Time was that would be it. We would wait and wait for the news reports on the first concert. But that was before the series of tubes, you see. I got on the tubes briefly Sunday night and saw that there was a lot of carping and disappointment. Sting was singing too much like his jazz days, the band was sloppy, etc, etc.

Flash ahead to last night.

The lights went down to the sound of "Get Up, Stand Up," and a few moments later, there they were, kicking into "Message in a Bottle."

Except...

Holy SHIT. The song was faster, the bass more muscular. Stewart still beat those skins like a red headed stepchild, and Andy actually cracked a smile. Maybe because his guitar sounded good.

The set list was exactly the same...but the show was completely different...there was nothing eerie about GM Place now. The din was deafening, the band was louder. And the songs that had seemed slow now found their tempo. Sting lay aside the jazz phrasing and accepted the mantle of rock singer ...maybe the falsetto was gone but that doesn't mean he didn't hit the high notes. The bass chugged along in the mix, and songs like "Don't Stand So Close To Me" reached for what I thought was a nice blend of time gone by..the chorus had notes of the '86 remake, but the verse was pure Zenyatta Mondata.

People ate it up. They tore through everything...the songs that clicked the night before were even better. And even the mistakes were fun. Sting, setting up the call and response for "Walking on the Moon" started in a key so bizarre that the incredulous expression on Copeland's face said it all. But they got past it. They got past it all. This band, who seemed to be forever defined as the band who didn't seem able to get past anything. One after another, like a freight train, they delivered the goods on some of the tightest, smartest, most muscular pop of the 1970's and 80's -- from the era when Pop was smart.

By the way, Sting, I never did thank you for Nabokov, The Sheltering Sky, and Jung.

All in all, the two shows were like night and day. Because, of course, they were night and day. One was a rehearsal. (Yes, they charged for the tickets, but at $50 instead of $250 a pop,

I wonder if in our desire to lift the curtain in entertainment -- not just the gossip sites, but the ET insiders, and the Aint It Cool Previews and reviews of early drafts, and forensic pick-aparts of test screenings and trailers; the endless machinations of trying to divine spoilers for TV shows by their upcoming guest stars and TV loglines -- have we turned into a bunch of people ripping the paper off the presents before Christmas morning?

And what happens to we who actually, you know, need to work some stuff out before we push our little darlings out into the world to be judged? What happens when we don't have the cover to do that anymore?

Can anything live up to scrutiny before it's truly on its feet? Time was, your Chicago or Toronto tryout would proceed in the shadows, giving you the freedom to work things out, to tinker, to make things better. Now, you've got negative reaction the moment you do your very first, pre-pre-preview. And I'm worried that it's not making anything better. I think it may be making people less willing to test. Which would be disastrous, because the last thing we need is more first drafts out there.

Also, the minute we spend more time trying to keep things from getting out, rather than make things good -- something's lost. Take Battlestar Galactica. The way they managed leaks of Starbuck's fate and the shocking reveal in order to protect the true ending of the season - well that was a post internet, 2007 style P.R. masterstroke. But at the end of the day, don't you think that time might have been better spent if Ron Moore and co. could have just taken more time to make the show?

In the end, all the pre-hype over SNAKES ON A PLANE couldn't make it a crossover hit.

I think of the movies I saw when I was first into The Police, like the one I went to see at a sneak preview with my Dad back in 1981. It ran one Saturday night two weeks before it opened, and from the opening frame, this thing, this thing I had never heard a word about -- with a guy with a hat running from arrows and afraid of snakes and fighting guys with a bullwhip...

..I mean, I went insane. I spent two weeks babbling about this show that no one had seen yet, and got to say, "just you wait, just you wait..."

So there, the impulse to be the first to weigh in, it was there, even then. It's just that the lack of info everywhere made it easier for things to be a surprise.

I miss surprises. Don't you? Truth?

After all...Truth Hits Everybody, y'know.

(And there's no names on the photos, but you can see a whole selection of Vancouver Police photos on Flickr .)

That's A Wrap.

11:03 p.m. Last Shot, Episode 1-22 "Deep Dark", Thursday April 5, 2007. Dylan Neal (Mike) and Kyle Schmid (Henry) in the process of discovering something gruesome at a bus station. (Christina Cox watches foreground)


L of Frame: Episode Director James Dunnison watches the last shot with Executive Producer/Creator & Showrunner Peter Mohan. Peter also wrote Episode 22, "Deep Dark."



11:06 p.m. A moment as Christina Cox (Vicki) watches the last take of Season 1.











Post-wrap. Dylan, Christina, and Kyle say 'thanks' to the hardworking crew for a great year.

That's all for me from The Left Coast. See you back in Toronto.

Would You Like That Wrapped, Or Are You Going to Eat It Here?

They're for the crew.

That's the first thing you learn about a wrap party when you're a writer.

All those in-jokes that happened on set, the bonding between endless takes, the day-player who couldn't remember the lines or had weird B.O., the arrangement of words that stopped meaning anything on take four, the cast member who always had the giggles and couldn't ever seem to stop...The day it rained and rained and there was no rain cover and you just had to be outside for the shot - you're never part of that. Most likely you're up in the office surrounded by empty cans of Diet Coke, staring at the bile yellow walls and that picture of David Hasselhoff and Gary Coleman doing the 'thumbs up,' pounding out pages. (Alright, that last part is pretty specifically me, but let's just zoom past that.)

Someone clever who I work with recently opined that writers are kind of like the leper priests of a television production: no one was really sure what we did or how we did it, but we do not walk among you. We perform a vital function, but are very much apart. Very occasionally someone would wander by the room where we were breaking story and say something like, "you guys have a great job" or something like that. But most of the time, it's not like that. It's just a small group, you don't get to join in on the reindeer games, and like the misfits and weirdoes of old, it's left to you to make your own fun. It's hard to explain to anybody how half the useless, filthy crap we talk about -- all the YouTube mashups, hotlinks, downloadable outrages, and images you can't ever unsee (grim operatic abstractions that stupefy everyone) lead to story breakthroughs, but they do.

About a month and a half ago, they installed a nice wardrobe seamstress in a corner desk near the writers room. I can only pray that her sewing machine was very loud.

The other thing that's interesting about writing on a production train is that things ease off for you first. Episode 21 was my script. I kept the prep crew there late one night going from a WHITE draft to a BLUE draft to incorporate changes that grew out of something I had screwed up in the writing. It took longer than I thought to fix it after the cast read through. They never once complained (to me, I mean.)

But then they shot the blue. There were no other major changes. I was mostly...done. The last episode was written by the Showrunner. We all gave our notes, and moved on, and now it's shooting, and...

...we sit and wait for something to go wrong.

And it rarely does. Because once a script goes to production it's just a blueprint like the one-line schedule or the call sheet. I'll always remember the first set I was on when I was handed one of my scripts reduced to the tiny sides they use for reference. To see the script reduced to its tiny little form -- perfect for sitting unread in your back pocket -- well, that was a serious eye-opener. A great little attitude shift. There may be a call to fix a line here or massage something there...but they tend to be easy fixes.

(One example from my Episode 21: a line that referenced the characters as children going to somewhere specific -- it tracked in the script because the character was written as early forties. They cast an actor who was considerably older. It works for the part, but not for the line. I'm sure you can see that any fix for that line is not particularly onerous.)

I always intend to go to set more than I do. When the train's still running, it's cause you just don't have the time...there's another draft, and notes on someone else's draft, and then you have to read a second or third draft...) And once the script train slows down you're up against the very real sense that on a set there's nothing for you to do. You're the only person there not doing a job. And that gets a little weird. At least it does for me. You can of course learn by watching how things are staged, and seeing the director work, and I guess if you had active pretensions toward directing it might be useful...but I'm not sure I've got any of that impulse now. When I think about directing, it's way down the road. I'm learning too much about the thing I'm good at. I feel I'm at a point in my career where I can finally play Smoke on the Water like a pro on the guitar. Why would I now pick up the clarinet?

So the leper priest slinks off to the edges of Molokai, and thinks about the packing he's got to do, and what he's going to ship back first, rather than try and buy another suitcase. I've got a little over a week left in Vancouver, and suddenly there's a bit of sun, and there's other reasons to stay, too. But... my home's back in Toronto, and I know that eventually the odds will be against me and one of you nutbar Vancouver drivers are going to take me out, so... What to do? What to do?

Well, even though there's still four days left to shoot, on account of Easter being next weekend, tonight's the wrap party for Season One of Blood Ties. So, you know, I guess I'll go to that.

There's an element of gearing up for the wrap that's kind of like the leper priests showing up at the potluck. I've been at parties where I barely came up with a couple of concepts and had a wonderful time. And I've been at a wrap where I co-created the series, and felt like I had less connection to it than the stills photographer.

That's just the way it goes. It's nothing personal. And wrap parties do have one amazing thing going for them, if you're a writer: free booze. I know at this point in my life, there is absolutely no reason to still get excited by the prospect of cost-free libation, but I can't help it. Writing is hard. And cocktails are just so yummy.

So tonight, the priests conclave for Sushi at the legendary Vancouver sushi place I haven't been to this trip, and then we head en masse for the party where we'll undoubtedly be greeted like...

...those weird people who nobody really understands what they do.

It's okay. Fans will continue to think that the actors come up with their own best lines, Online trolls will continue to blame anything they don't like on the writers, Day Players will continue to suck up to the stars by talking about how much the stars "fix" the scripts. Everyone will continue to obsessively read the online reaction, blow past all the positive stuff and pick on that one mean, awful, ignorant, bile-ridden turd blossom; followed immediately by swearing off anything on the 'Net for a week. Human nature will out.

There are the other compensations. Sometimes, like now, as they shoot Episode 22, you get to see an actor be really excited by having something new and different to do. Sometimes another actor comes up and shows you just how closely they're reading the script by a telling comment and suggestion that work.

Sometimes maybe it's just seeing the exhausted showrunner grabbing a microsleep in his chair, the pressure easing, knowing the end is near. Or maybe it's the fact that when he's not dozing, he's taken to shouting "Spartans!" every few minutes.

Tonight we drink in hell! Anybody? No. Mm. Okay.

When it works, when you've got a good team, and the egos support and mesh and don't clash, you kind of get to have your own wrap party all the time. And all you have to do for that is face the blank page. Every...single...day.

Okay, maybe it's not a great trade.

But at least the drinks are free.

"Well," he said, Sheepishly...

I haven't even seen the season finale of BSG yet, so I'm sure as heck not blogging. However, in my pique of a few days I made a request, and darnit if all you pot smoking, left coast praising, birkenstock wearing, bad driving, gluten-free, nuclear-free, free love, love the mountains, mountains are pretty, pretty serious about your coffee lower mainlanders didn't come through with the sun. Just in time for my weekend in Victoria.

So...uh...thanks.

You need more ferries, though.

Okay, Enough is Enough

WHEN Vancouverites start telling you that the rain that has not let up for weeks is getting THEM down, and saying stuff like, "by now we should have had a week of solid sunshine," it's hard to keep up one's spirits. Without spirits, I mean.

The thing is, it's almost time for me to go back home. And if the sun doesn't shine soon, and if I can't see those mountains and all that beauty y'all go on about, I'm afraid I'll just have to go back to Toronto and talk about how awful the weather is. You know, we'll all drive our Toronto cars and sit at our Toronto cafes and have our Toronto conversations about Toronto things and we'll chuckle, oh yes, we'll chuckle our Toronto chuckles and feel all...Toronto. And we all know how much you hate that.

Unless you make the sun come out.

(This Picture shows the view from the window of the writer's room in the Blood Ties Production Office in Maple Ridge, B.C. Allegedly there are mountains just over the horizon.) Yeah. Right.

When CN Towers Attack

Baseball-sized chunks of ice falling off the CNTower causing the closure of an entire highway?

Roads closed downtown? Traffic chaos?

Hee hee hee.

The formation of the huge ice sheets on the tower was “a rare occurrence,” says Pressnail, professor of civil engineering at the University of Toronto.

Experts say this is the first time in the CN Tower’s history - construction was completed in 1976 - the structure has seen such an ice buildup. One of the pieces appeared to be roughly 50 metres tall by 6 metres wide.

How did it happen?

The tower is made of a massive amount of concrete - some 40,500 cubic metres of it, enough to build a sidewalk from Toronto to Kingston. Recent freezing temperatures gave the tower walls plenty of time to cool, Pressnail said, noting there is minimal or no heat transfer from inside the building to the walls’ surface.

“This definitely is a rare event - I can’t remember ever hearing of ice falling off the CN Tower,” Pressnail said.

And to think, I thought missing the winter in Toronto wouldn't be a big deal.

Lifetime's Blood Ties Behind the Scenes...

Lifetime has just gone live with a whole mess o' content for Blood Ties. They've done a great job on the website. Lots of nice goodies for fans and the curious alike to stoke their vampire-loving hearts and whet their bloody appetites.

If you live in the United States it looks like later this week you'll be able to download the first hour of the premiere from the Itunes Store -- for free. (They did that for Dresden Files too-- in fact, it's a growing promotional trend that probably deserves a column all its own soon. hmm.)

Right now if you go to Lifetime's site you can get all sorts of exclusive content including cast pictures and info and interesting behind-the-scenes featurettes with the stars of the show.

There's also a new blog, Blood Tales, by Tanya Huff, author of the original Blood Ties books & stories, where she says some very complimentary things about the show.

Here in B.C. We're all looking forward to what I guess is our world premiere here, this Sunday on Lifetime. I get to call my Dad in Florida and tell him that yes, there is a show I worked on on the TeeVee that he can see all the way down there in the Sunshine State.

As much as the site does a great job of stoking the fire for the premiere, as a latecomer to this train, I'm nonetheless impatient for everybody to see what we're doing now. Because I don't think it's revealing too much to say that the episodes we're currently working on (which are actually the end of the first season) are kicking everything into a way-high gear. The performances keep getting better. Our stories are filled with twisty goodness. The Directors are turning in wonderful stuff, and as much as you might like to view pics of Vicki, Mike, and Henry, I can't believe some of the great characters you haven't even met yet, whether it be Coreen or Kate, or Dave, or Dr. Mohadevan (whose name I seem to always spell wrong in my scripts, even though I was taught a perfectly good mnemonic device to remember it...Moe-had-a-van. Then again, today I misspelled Celluci, so I might just be getting punchy.)

And then there's this: today I met Danny Trejo. Well, I didn't meet him. I stood three feet away from him as Angelina the wonderful wardrobe woman showed his costume to showrunner Peter Mohan. But I was there, man. The guy's in Grindhouse. And I was right there. Me and the other Dennis squealed like eight year old girls.

Once he left the room, I mean.

And -- production process permitting, today we even figured out a way to get in a great in-joke that will resonate extra-specially for fans of the books. And it's going in my second Ep, ep 21.

I can't begin to tell you how great everyone is here. Everyone works so hard. This show doesn't have the highest budget in the world...but it has the best crew and creative people I've ever worked with. It's got performers who go the extra mile and writers who really try to get deep down into these stories to make 'em work...and it's got heart. Lots of it.

And teeth. The better to bite you with.

That metaphor? See this is probably why I write teleplays and not prose. Ah well.

As for you long suffering Canadian fans, yes I know it's filmed here. Yes, I know it seems unfair. But at least there's this ray of hope: the content on the website is not geo-locked -- so you can go and view it all you want.

The two-hour Blood Ties premiere plays on Lifetime this coming Sunday at 9pm ET. The show comes to Living in the UK later this summer and CHUM stations across Canada sometime this fall.

You know what?

When it's dark and you're tired and your head is braced against the seat in front of you and you think to yourself, "we must be getting close to the ground now...they made the announcement to turn off headphones ages ago..." and you look up and out the window and there's just a split second before the ground WHAM comes up and the plane lands, and you bounce and skeeter roughly cause it's wet...and the shock and surprise you feel is, if only for a second -- a weird window into imagining that feeling, that dreaded feeling of what it's like to be on a plane at the moment of impact...

...and you thank providence for those moments, because not only do they wake you the eff up, buttercup - they're also exactly the kind of raw thing you're supposed to be filtering onto paper.

Thanks, Westjet.

Reprints are Golden when They Involve Karate and the baby Jesus

So today, I want to call your attention to one of my favorite reprints. I do this for a very specific reason.


When I first came up with my fantasy-series based on the above awesome album cover, it was just a lark.

Never did I guess that about six or so months later, I'd be on the west coast of Canada, working on Blood Ties with a real life Mike Crain.

So far as I know, this Mike Crain has never been a Karatist preacher.

But...

You never know.

(BTW, keep reading through to the comments on the linked post. My response where I explain the terms of my fantasy world to Alex is one of my favorite things I've ever written on this blog, ever.)

Now. Outline delivered. Time to drive out to Maple Ridge. Chop Chop.

Rain, Rain, Move Away

Well well well. Super Bowl Sunday. I can't get used to the fact that there will still be day left once the game ends for me. That's....odd. This Pacific Time is strange.

Anyway, right now I have a motivator. Some work to do before the game.

Yesterday, though, it was a wonderfully rainy, but not too cold Saturday in Vancouver, and I spent a good portion of my day exploring Gastown. It's a wonderful, unique place -- made even more wonderful by the fact of its proximity to Van's sketchiest neighbourhood, the Downtown East Side. That's how the New York in my memory's laid out, too. The closer you get to a cool neighborhood, the more you're taking your life in your hands.

In Toronto, all the real estate's too expensive and the moment a scene starts to heat up, it seems to be Disneyfied almost overnight. (I mean, I have never seen a Starbucks go up so fast as in Parkdale after the Drake.) In Montreal, my favorite neighborhood is more like an old-timey theme park (Vieux Montreal.)

Anyway, amidst my wanderings were ponderings.

I've said before that I write this blog mainly for a procrastination focuser and outlet, and I guess, too, as kind of an ersatz journal of sorts. But you know how it is, along the way you give writing advice too because, well...you're not really qualified to talk about anything else.

Now. One of the things I was pondering was what I should do after this current job ends. Should I go home, travel a bit, maybe explore one of the west coast cities I haven't seen a lot, like Portland or Seattle or even back to San Francisco, which I've only vistited once? Part of me had the quixotic idea of maybe going up and seeing Alaska, before Global Warming turns it into Burbank.

Then, too. There's L.A. Sigh.

At times like this it's just so easy to fall back on my Catholic upbringing.

Bless me father, for I have sinned.
It's been six years since I had a real job.
I work hard, I do pretty well.
But...I'm not sure anymore. I'm just not.

I have thought impurely about a couple of actresses.
I have taken the VP of the CBC's name in vain.
I have coveted my neighbor's house. And his boat. And his car.
I have worshipped false idols.

It's that last one that's really sticking in my craw. I've been trying to booster the industry I know. I've looked around and I've seen the incredible talent that I want to work with, the talent that for whatever reason, has such trouble breaking through, and making anything but a hardscrabble living here. I've tried to reach out, and punch through, and get people to talk about what's wrong.

But then I read things like this by Margaret Atwood, and turn over things like the joke that was the last CTRC hearings -- for which I once held out hope, now, not so much, and the winds blowing on the CTF and I think to myself, "Self...what are you struggling for? This country and their people simply do not care about what you do. Go." (Note: that last link used to link to a Globe Article with about a million ignorant comments from Canadians about Canadian Tv. Now The Globe wants you to pay for it. Don't bother. The comments on the comments in my post kind of tell the tale.)

See, for me it's not a question of, "am I good enough?" I am. It's nice to be self-deprecating and not to be a raging monstrous ego, but I'm now in a place where I'm doing the only thing I've ever really wanted to do, and I know I'm good at it.

I also know that I don't need to worry about selling a house.
I don't need to worry about where my kids will go to school.
I don't have to think about what my spouse would do.
I don't have to worry about getting a green card.

What's kept me in Canada so far are lifestyle issues: a dislike for L.A., a familiarity and comfort in the proximity of friends. The thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something noble in bucking the trend of bugging out and going to worship Mammon; maybe sticking it out and proving that there could be a Canadian industry where quality was valued and celebrated...

...but I'm not sure I believe that's true anymore.

Sadly, I'm not sure I think anyone who could actually change things cares enough to try to change things. Because there aren't votes there. There's no outrage from the people. You can tell Canadians that puts them out of step with the rest of the world, but they still don't care.

If that's the case, isn't it ridiculous and presumtious, as a writer, to say "I'll do it? I'll take on the Sysiphusian task!" Because the mechanism of how TV works in this country still puts you at the bottom of the ladder of influence.

Somebody recently asked me, "what do you really think is going to happen in the industry?" And the framing of that question just kind of knocked the wind out of me. Because instead of being optimistic or saying, "here's what I think will happen..." they were asking me what I really think is going to happen. And if I have to answer that question, my answer's not good. I think the trends of years will probably continue, and in another generation the debates over what is Canadian culture will be irrelevant because we'll have a whole generation that's totally Americanized anyway.

So what do I do with this knowledge?

Well. It strikes me that perhaps, just perhaps, the next thing to marshall my energy toward is moving south. It's not giving up. I'm not the one who did that. I'm just not sure that the equity I have invested in the industry in this country is really worth anything. Maybe it never was. I don't know. Maybe it's just a sense of fatalism in the air. But I'm starting to think, no. No it's not.

I feel I have to tell you this: if you are a new writer in Canada, and you're just starting out, and you've gone to the Film Centre or you've gone to SFU or somewhere; if you're single, and don't have a wife and kids and comittments, If there's nothing holding you here: I simply can't lie to you and say that, yup, you should focus your efforts on trying to make it in Canada. It's just a course of action that doesn't make sense.

What you should be doing, is working, saving your money, doing your research, and figuring out how you can get to Los Angeles. If you're just starting out, you might as well try to start out there. Yes, it's bigger. Yes, there's more competition. But in the long run, even though the U.S. industry has its problems too, it is an industry. It is not permanently dysfunctional. It might have a chance of getting fixed. You should place your bets there.

Now, there's labor nightmares on the horizon down there, too. I wouldn't advise making that move right away. But making that kind of life-change plan should be something that you plan out over a year or more, anyway. What I am saying, though, is that maybe rather than trying to get that idea to CTV or Global or CBC, you should be sharpening your samples and pitching them toward the U.S. market. Then when the labor situation rights itself, make the move. Learn from people who actually teach and try to develop new talent. Work in an industry that rewards you.

Now, Sorry, I can't tell you how to get a greencard. (I don't need one, so I don't know.) But you can research that, too. There are other places you can go to research that. Hit the library. I just feel, in good conscience, I can't keep telling people here to try breaking into the Canadian system, because I don't feel that's the best use of your time.

As for me? Well. That's an open question. Probably something that's going to need some more pondering. More walks in the rain. In a way, now's the perfect time to do this kind of thinking. I'm not depressed. I'm pretty happy, actually. Very satisfied with the work I'm doing, happy to be working with the people I'm working with -- satisfied in just about every important way. But the rain, she does clarify things sometimes. I guess what's washed away is a bit of my fight. Sometimes when you keep your eyes on the prize long enough, the rain kind of clears things and you start to see that the prize isn't anything that special.

I'm pretty sure that at least part of my professional development through 2007 and 2008 will be exploring my options in the United States.

I won't be the first, and judging by the continued indifference and dysfunction that rules the Canadian industry, I'll be far from the last.

Stumbled Upon: My Upcoming Reading

One of the places I wandered into yesterday in Gastown was Biz Books, a nice and cozy little Film/TV/Theatre bookstore. Toronto's version is called Theatrebooks, and it's in the middle of Yorkvile -- a place I try to avoid. Biz Books is a whole lot more comfy.

I think maybe I was softened a bit to buy some industry-like books, cause the night before I'd seen an excellent production of Morris Panych's Vigil at the Vancouver Playhouse. I'd never seen this play, and I thoroughly enjoyed it; even more so knowing it was the playwright's first time playing the role.

I was also weak because, you know, I've got this ongoing yen for playwriting that's kind of like a scab I can never stop picking. Believe me, if I'm down on the Canadian TV industry, then I'd be swinging from the rafters if I ever truly threw myself into theatre and tried to be a full time...shudder...Canadian playwrightC. As I've said to friends many times, "Ah, that sweet, sweet, sweet theatre money."

So I dropped a ton of cash on lots of books. And before you ask, Alex, yes. They had both your books. And they were shelved in some pretty good real estate too -- right at eye level.


Anyway...I started out with a copy of Conor McPherson's Shining City because I saw the play last year on Broadway and loved it.




Peter Farrelly's The Comedy Writer was a trade paperback impulse buy. Novels about the business -- it's like not working, only not so much!






I've been thinking for a while that I need to sharpen my verbal pitching skills. I'm starting to be one of those guys who goes off on tangents when he tells a story, so I figured Michael Hauge's Selling Your Story in 60 Seconds might be useful.








I remember hearing about Writing the TV Drama Series by Pamela Douglas, but I really bought it because it had pull quotes by John Wells, David Milch, and Bochco. And a nifty cover. There you go, bitches. Marketing works.


I know some of the people quoted in Alone in a Room by John Scott Lewinski so I took a flyer on that.



And finally, I bought another copy of Steven Pressfield's ESSENTIAL The War of Art because I left my last copy on the A Train the last time I was in New York.

I also picked up Joseph Campbell's The Hero With a Thousand Faces because (shamefully, I know) I've never read it.

What's sometimes even more interesting in these cases are the ones you don't buy. I recall some people talking about Save The Cat! Anybody read it? Worthwhile?

I also was seriously considering buying a book by some guy with a PhD who ran down psychology for screenwriters...but I was afraid that if I read it it might make me sound less like a writer and more like a network executive or film studies professor.

I'll let you know about these books as I work through them. Now maybe I should find something cheaper to do, like trying to stalk The Police while they're here rehearsing.

Oh, one more thing...when I was complaining about the lack of pubs, some anonymous commenter suggested The Irish Heather. You win. Mmm. Guinness, how I've missed you.



A note to any publisher P.R. people reading this: I do love the people at Biz Books, but yes, I will definitely review books on TV writing if you send me free copies. That's just how daddy rolls.

You Say You Wander Your Own Life...

INSPIRATION comes from funny places. As does context.

I have a friend who gets ideas from opening the dictionary, and pointing to a word at random.

Another, has gone on Ebay and bought old phone books, like, from the forties, for major North American cities. He says the ads help him think.

I've been known to mouse through my copy of the Complete New Yorker to try and get something going. But I've also written before about the inspiration-generating power of music.

A writer friend of mine hits random on his Ipod, and goes with the first song he gets. Something in the lyric, something in the tone just sets him off. I've used his method myself and it rocks.

When it comes to music, there's melody people and there's lyric people. (or at least there used to be; with the latest evolutions of the music biz I'm not so sure now) Lyric people will forever be surprised by that wedding they went to where the couple's song was "Every Breath You Take." Music people just shrug.

I'm guessing you'll agree without too much trouble that most writers probably tend to be lyric people.

So it was that I found myself at Vancouver's Orpheum last night.

The Orpheum is a beautiful Vaudeville-era house, opened originally in 1927. Since 1977, it's been government owned and is the home of the Vancouver Symphony. Not as much history as Massey Hall in Toronto, maybe, but just as much personality. If you've ever been in the Wintergarden Theatre in Toronto, you get an idea of the ornate interior. It's just a beautiful place to see a concert. And the acoustics are amazing.

Last night was the final night of the North American tour for English trio Keane. Keane had a rough year last year. Then, most of their North American tour was canceled so that lead singer Tom Chaplin could get rid of his demons in rehab. I'm sure all the snickering about the band being "for people who thought Coldplay was too hardcore" didn't help.

But Tom Chaplin was in fine voice last night, and the Vancouver crowd was raucous, appreciative and incredibly vocal. (Seriously, I'm used to going to concerts in Toronto, whose crowds are notoriously deadly)

I got into Keane when I was in South Africa in 2004. Cape Town hews way more to the British cultural orbit than the American, so I was hearing Hopes and Fears and its signature tune, "Everybody's Changing," all through the summer of 2004. Then I came home and got to hear it hit radio in Canada six months later. No Matter.

"Everybody's Changing" is a soaring song of despair. It's about dislocation, and longing, and not knowing where you fit, and seeing everyone else around you moving forward while you can't figure out where you are, or where you belong. It's exactly the kind of catchy melody + lyrics that connected with a guy tooling around in the worst car known to man, working crazy hours in a strange city as far from home as he'd ever been. Pile on the fact that the guy was seriously questioning aspects of his relationships and friendships, suffering from a bit of heartbreak and moral tiredness, and you've got a glorious soundtrack of despair. With keyboards!

(Guess I never got over that Howard Jones phase. Not really.)

Keane's Hopes and Fears is so much a part of my South Africa experience, from paying an insane amount of Rand for it at the Waterfront CD Wherehouse, to playing it all through my post-work week driving through Stellenbosch and the Western Cape of Africa, that I can't seem to separate it out from my memory. "This Is The Last Time" calls up memories of winding my way through Camps Bay or trying to dodge the taxis as they barrelled down the road in Seapoint. "Bedshaped" is the song I'd listen to as I watched the Atlantic crash from my window, wondering, "how is it that I came to be here, at this moment, on the Southern Tip of Africa?"

Flash ahead Two and a half years - and I'm in another rented house. This one's even bigger than the flat that I had in South Africa, which was easily twice the size of my condo at home. I'm also alone in another city, working on a totally different show. So...everybody's changing, do I still feel the same?

Well. Yes and no. WC Dixon wrote an affecting piece a while back about the dislocation involved with working in this industry in Canada. I hadn't really thought about it before then, but he's right. I think it's hard for writers working and planted in L.A. to understand just how fluid you have to be if you work in Canada. The vagaries of tax credits and production mean you're always going somewhere. The Corner Gas writers traipse out to Saskatchewan for several months every year. I'm in B.C. Someone else will be off to Winnipeg for something or other.

When I was in South Africa, much as it was an adventure, I found myself wondering if I was putting off life by doing these sorts of things. Then I came back, and did grinding development work for more than a year, where I didn't go anywhere or do much of anything exciting. So you can't win.

But standing in the Orpheum last night, tapping my feet, while the good-looking and waaaaayyy younger than me crowd sang along, I realized that this time, I didn't feel the same dislocation. I've made peace with the bouncing around and the moving, because that's my life. And that's my adventure. So be it.

And then they played "Everybody's Changing" -- 2nd song in.

It was great, but...second song?

Guess I have to work on the timing of my little life moments, is all.

Oh Yeah, Like You'd Be Cooler.

Those of you who've been reading the blog for a while have probably figured out by now that I don't gab on too much about projects that I'm actually working on. I would hope that for most of you, the reasoning behind this would be self evident. I've said before how the room is a place of trust, and when you work on a TV show you want people you work with to feel they can speak freely to you without their words winding up on the internet. This is part of what my father once euphemistically referred to as, "social skills."

I give that preamble because there have been a few people sending me emails asking me to talk more about the show I'm working on, and I wanted to explain a bit why I don't.

That being said, here's one little anecdote I can share.

Yesterday, on set, we had a Jaguar.

No. Not the car.

Never mind why the script calls for it. Once the sun went down the action shifted to the front of our production offices, which double for the entrance to the police station.

From the upstairs kitchen window, the other writers and I watched as the animal trainer ran the cat through his paces. There was a board he had to hit for his mark, then go behind the car and right into the cage. I was impressed by the efficiency with which they do this. There is no malingering. It's boom, mark, trot, cage. I guess the idea is to get the animal to perform the action quickly, and be done with it.

The cat was impressive, shiny, black as night. It was really something to see.

So then about a half hour later I'm going out to my car to go home. Usually I park in a space right outside the office, but since that area was "hot" I had parked way in the back.

So I'm leaving, I go out the side door, and the director says to me, with some concern, "Be careful, Denis...the cat's back there." And I actually said, "Isn't he in a cage?" And looked around twice in fear.

Then, of course, comes the laugh and the smile.

One of my sisters, one of the most endearing thing about her is that she kind of believes you whatever you say. Even if it's outlandish, even if it's obvious that you're putting her on, there's a part of her that wants, that needs the reassurance that, yes, in fact, you're kidding. She's never 100% sure you are, til you say you are.

I think it's endearing, but I never really understood it. When something seems wrong on its face, how can you still have that nagging doubt?

I get it now. I mean, I knew there wasn't a jaguar wandering back behind the trucks without a fucking leash. But I wasn't exactly walking to the Taurus till someone spelled that out.

Maybe it's cause I'm not a cat person.

One of our cast, Kyle, who plays Henry, apparently did a scene where he's right there and the cat's roaring at him and he's roaring at the cat. Apparently it looks amazing.

I wouldn't do that for a million dollars. Actors, man. They're awesome sometimes.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to spend twenty minutes checking my back seat.

EDIT: The episode won't air for months and months, but in a comment below someone posted something that could be construed as being a little spoiler-y (After all, we know how rabid some people get about such things.) So read the comments at your own risk.

People Only Die of Love in The Movies

There are many ways to discover a new city. When you're a not a tourist, of course, the compact is different. No guidebooks or landmarks to hit. No schedule. Instead, there are stolen moments. You discover the mundane first: the grocery store. The coffee shop you like to go to. In Vancouver, that's a bit of an audition process. I have it narrowed down to three on Commercial Drive. (I'm still trying, however, to call it, "The Drive." I fear that will take far longer than learning to call New York just "The City," however.)

Having more or less mastered the drive to the office (if not the insanity of those with whom I must share the road) driving opened up to me a bit this weekend. The weather, lo and behold, consisted of something other than torrential rain or slushy snow, so it was a good weekend to go exploring. Saturday it was a walk through Kits, and a jaunt through English Bay.

Dinner out Saturday night, I managed to see a bit of a neighborhood on Main Street I want to go back and explore. There are no great pubs in this city, I've decided, a matter of some concern to me. I gather the local licensing laws that make Vancouver's restaurant scene so robust are the same ones that foil a nice homey pub from getting up and running. Is there a place where film and TV people hang out, I wonder? And don't tell me the Shark Club. That place is ass.

I had some familiarity with this city before this latest trip, but my map is out of date. It's been five years since I've been here, and the differences are puzzling and surprising. Yaletown, which was just getting started when I was here last, has reached the tipping point of young urban obnoxiousness. There's construction everywhere, trying to anticipate the boom of the 2010 Winter Olympics. Robson Street looks very different to me, and of course, there's the people. At one time I knew probably ten people who lived in Vancouver. But one by one they all drifted on, moved back east, or otherwise pulled up stakes. That leaves me to explore the city more or less alone, which is a great tonic for indulging moodiness and a dreamy, wander-y quality that one never gets at home.

As someone said to me recently, "After all, three months isn't long enough to put down roots, but it's long enough that you have to make a life of it."

One thing that's currently fascinating me is a show that's just opened at the Vancouver Art Gallery. A German immigrant named Fred Herzog took color slide photos of Vancouver through the fifties and sixties, and the city that he captured could not be more different than the place it is today. There's lush neon everywhere in the photos; places like the Downtown East Side that are smashed and worn today show a vibrancy and color of a lost time. The city Herzog captured in the photos seems raw, unformed, a small port city still figuring itself out. I share the photographer's dismay at the loss of the vibrancy and color. That Vancouver looks like an amazing place. All bustling in Kodachrome. Another Le Chateau, and the swapping of the Virgin Megastore for another HMV doesn't seem like an equitable trade.

What's doubly interesting for me is that this exhibition has piqued my interest in the history of this city in a way I've never felt about the city I call home. I came to Toronto with my family nearly 30 years ago now. And I don't really ever recall having a thought about what the city was like pre-CN Tower, for instance. I remember it being rather stiff and British even when we arrived. The best thing that ever happened to Toronto, as any Montrealer will tell you, was the Parti Quebecois. Once the separatists took the reins, the drive down the 401 of all the money and capital infused a color and vibrancy, along with the explosion of immigration, that handed Toronto the crown Montreal once wore so well, as Canada's most populous city.

Still, there's that history. Writers like Mordechai Richler, and the history of the Quiet Revolution, Jean LeSage, and Trudeau (as well as the slightly naughty implication that Montreal was the place New Yorkers went to get into trouble) have brought that city alive for me. New York looms large in the imagination for any lover of great cities -- the eras etched upon the mind like so many Walker Evans photos, all in pristine black and white.

But not Toronto. Poor Toronto. Maybe the Vancouver hate is already seeping into me. A water borne explanation would be miraculous, because lordy, T.O. they do hate you here, beyond all reason and sense.

Even reading the paper out here, you see articles twisted in order to slip in a dig to the city they insist thinks it's "the centre of the universe." I try telling people that all Toronto ever does is envy New York. So far that's not helping. I'll keep working on it.

How strange, then, to find yourself in one of a million coffee shops going through your weekend papers, and lo and behold, there's the Vancouver Sun. Vancouver is one of the cities that people worry about with media concentration. Both papers here are owned by the same company. Compared to Toronto, where there are four separate dailies (which is probably better than most cities in North America) you would think that put Vancouver at a disadvantage. But testify, the Sun kicked the Globe & Mail's ass this weekend in the sheer number of interesting stories on different topics. Sometimes the poor grey Globe just seems like a sad old mare waiting to be shipped off for glue. The Vancouver Sun, at least the edition I read, makes me think that the lurid color of those Herzog photos hasn't entirely disappeared. It's just underground now. Surrounded by cables and apple boxes as another crew tries to shoot for Chicago or L.A. or D.C.

Then, last night, I come home and just as I'm thinking about bed, there on TCM is - Oh God - it's The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.

There's an hour and a half gone. Every time I stumble on this movie, I can never turn it off.

Here is color even brighter than Fred Herzog ever dreamed. And there's Catherine Deneuve, all of nineteen.

Non, je ne pourrai jamais vivre sans toi, Je ne pourrai pas, ne pars pas, j'en mourrai! Un instant sans toi et je n'existe pas, Mais mon amour, ne me quitte pas. Mon amour, je t'attendrai toute ma vie, Reste près de moi, reviens, je t'en supplie! J'ai besoin de toi, je veux vivre pour toi, Oh, mon amour, ne me quitte pas.

Poor Genevieve. And Guy. And love gone wrong. And of course, there are the umbrellas, which have been a little bit on my mind recently out of necessity. And did I mention the young Catherine Deneuve? Seriously, if you're a man and you can't get behind the young Catherine Deneuve, then I don't even want to know you.

I defy anyone to sit through that last meeting at the Esso station, and not have a good, awful, wonderful ache.

Mon amour, je t'attendrai toute ma vie, Reste près de moi, reviens, je t'en supplie! J'ai besoin de toi, je veux vivre pour toi, Oh, mon amour, ne me quitte pas.

Anyway, they're singing that song, and it was all so perfect. I think maybe last night I dreamt in Kodachrome.

All around, a pretty good weekend.

Motivation

I've got about three big scenes and a wash-and-read through the whole script left to do. And here, outside my window in Vancouver, is the motivator for getting it done:

I'm not entirely sure what it is. It almost looks like a giant, flaming ball of incandescent gas. I have dim memories, like from childhood, that seem to suggest that this thing is good and desirable. It's frustrating, though, because those memories seem oh so distant now. I hope the villagers of Vancouver do not fear this thing and attempt to kill it before it eats the sky.

At least before I finish my draft, anyway.