Two Word Heap » Weltschmerz

Why the CBC Still Matters | Part One

J Alary — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 15:55:54 +0000

I’ve always been a proponent of the CBC, even back in the days when I was a kid who didn’t have a VCR and audio-taped Wayne and Schuster episodes, listening to their well-worn shtick for endless hours.^[1] That I’ve divulged such an embarrassing piece of my childhood proves how much the CBC has meant to me as I blossomed into adulthood. The CBC has always been an instrument that links a vast nation-state and celebrates and promotes Canadian culture, especially when we’re inundated with American cultural influences. But lately the CBC has had an identity crisis, unsure how to promote its programming to Canadians and suffering major budget cuts imposed by the Conservative government. Some view the CBC has an elitist TV network that uses public monies to cater to a select few, while others see it as a complete waste of time and wish to dismantle it permanently. Oh to be sure, management at the Mother Corp haven’t helped their cause with their opponents, but I feel there are many ways the CBC can bring back its greatness and truly educate, inform and entertain the Canadian nation.

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation first broadcast a television signal in September 1952 and has always tried to provide Canadians, from East to West, South to North, French and English, a voice within the national identity. As a public broadcaster it is a crown corporation, but autonomous from direct government involvement (though many crafty prime ministers have used the well-worn patronage card to appoint politically-friendly people to key management positions). It has continued to be a key player in promoting Canadian culture, ensuring our national distinctiveness from being enveloped by American culture.^[2] The CBC was originally modeled after the UK’s BBC and functions like most public broadcasters found around the world.^[3] According to the Broadcasting Act of 1991, the CBC’s mandate is to provide “prominently and distinctively Canadian [programming]…actively contribute to the flow and exchange of cultural expression…strive to be of equivalent quality in French and English…reflect the multicultural and multiracial nature of Canada.” How can any Canadian argue against such a mandate? Of course the CBC has often fumbled their mandate many times, so we as viewers are left to scratch our heads and flip to the next channel, ignoring our yearnings for national unity through TV.

Many detractors argue that as a publicly-funded broadcaster, the CBC should create and air programs that cater to all Canadians. It’s lovely in concept, but it’s difficult determining what Canadians want out of the CBC. In the past the CBC was heavily criticized for overemphasizing rural and regional programming, like the long-running Beachcombers, arctic melodrama North of 60 or quaint Maritime drama Black Harbour. It was felt that the CBC ignored urban Canadians, despite the fact that most Canadians live in urban centres and not in rural communities. But the Mother Corp did throw a few bones to the public: Degrassi Junior High (and later, Degrassi High) focused on urban Canadian teens and the issues they faced and The Kids in the Hall routinely satirized Canadian urban living. Of course for most of the 80s and 90s these shows were the exception, not the norm, as the CBC, clueless as always, tried to appeal to Canadians with such nonsense as Mom P.I. and Mosquito Lake, shows that were gloriously unhip and painfully low-budget TV productions. Instead of offering viewers challenging scripted shows, the network was churning out aged shows like the aforementioned Beachcombers and Tommy Hunter, programs that appealed only to seniors and alienated everybody else (If you haven’t heard of these programs, count yourself lucky. There’s a reason they’re not syndicated on Canadian specialty channels.). Viewers simply switched to private broadcaster CTV, which provided much American fare for the weary, frustrated Canadian couch potato.

Politically conservative governments have never been fond of the CBC; the idea of a publicly-funded broadcaster goes against their all-things-must-be privately-owned philosophy. The Progressive Conservative government, led by Brian Mulroney, slashed the CBC’s regional budgets in 1990, effectively ending individual CBC affiliates’ abilities to purchase non-primetime programming and produce local programs. Nearly every CBC affiliate in the country produced programs that highlighted regional culture, so it was damning blow to promoting cultural diversity and a part of the CBC’s original mandate. Except for news broadcasts, every locally-produced CBC program was cancelled because of the slashed budget. Even the Liberal Chretien government imposed several budget cuts on the CBC in the late 90s, making it harder for the public broadcaster to appeal to Canadians. With the latest budget cuts in 2009, the CBC has gone from a $1.4 billion budget in the late 90s to just $1 billion today, despite salary increases, inflation and rising production costs. Ad revenue is also down for every media outlet and the CBC is no exception. Faced with relevancy issues, public outrage at its $1 billion budget and dwindling viewership, the CBC needs strong leadership if it’s to survive and continue to service Canadians well into the 21st century. What’s needed is forward-thinking management, something the network currently doesn’t possess, people who can generate new ways to make do with less money, create programming that entices Canadians and win back the trust and respect of a government that clearly loathes it.

Next week: I examine CBC TV shows specifically and assess the dire state of its current programming.

Footnotes

This of course was many years before I caught on to the comic geniuses who created SCTV, The Kids in the Hall and the 70s incarnation of Saturday Night Live—all mostly Canadian. I was also fascinated because the late Johnny Wayne closely resembled Pete Rose, a once-celebrated baseball player/manager I liked who fell from grace because he bet on his own team’s games. I call it the Dino Ciccarelli Factor, a process in which many of my favourite athletes disappointed their fans (and me) by their embarrassing, often lewd, behaviour. The DCF is named after Dino Ciccarelli, my favourite Minnesota North Star hockey player who pleaded guilty to indecent exposure (his babysitter!) and was jailed and fined for nearly taking another player’s head off with a hockey stick during a game. Boy, can I pick ‘em!
Now I’m not here to criticize American culture—far from it—but as much as we like their cultural products, i.e. movies, TV and celebrities, we’re not American and we shouldn’t be overwhelmed by another country’s influences. “Canadians are Americans, except without guns,” Mark McKinney quipped in a Kids in the Hall sketch. Yes, we’re very similar, very friendly towards one another, but the simple fact is we’re not American and we should maintain the cultural products that help define us as Canadians.
I always love it when CBC detractors argue the broadcaster should be privatized because most countries, like the USA, don’t have a public broadcaster. In fact it’s the USA that’s one of the few countries in the world without a public broadcaster (PBS isn’t a public broadcaster).

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

The tragedy of Canada | QDB

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Two Books That Are Better Than The Time Traveler’s Wife

J Alary — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 19:47:38 +0000

I was struggling to come up with something lively for this week’s column, but then the film adaptation of The Time Traveler’s Wife was released, giving me the proper inspiration. I have encountered too many women curious about author Audrey Niffenegger’s time-travel-meets-romance-book-masquerading-as-literary fiction book (I know of only one man who has admitted to reading the book), so I’ve decided to counteract by reviewing a couple of novels by some fantastic, refreshing voices in Canadian literature.^[1] And yes, I’ve tried to read the book, but had to put it down, reaffirming my book snob image. If you love Niffennger’s novel, I can only say that at least her next book, Her Fearful Symmetry, is due this Fall.

The Haunted Hillbilly

Derek McCormack
ECW Press

When I was wee lad in Saskatoon, I spent an inordinate amount of time flipping through tattered House of Mystery comics as I sat in the barbershop waiting for my haircut. There were always back-page stories that featured “amazing and untold tales” of famous historical figures: “What if Abraham Lincoln Had Been a Robot Sent From the 30th Century?” or “Edgar Allen Poe: International Super Spy!” Of course they were outrageous tales, but they were nevertheless entertaining.

Derek McCormack’s Haunted Hillbilly is not unlike those comic-book stories of yore, postulating a hilarious, secret, unbelievable story for country legend Hank Williams. Fans of McCormack’s previous works will be heartened to know that his latest book is quite possibly his best to date, combining his trademark precise prose with a mix of pop-culture references (and playful punning) sure to delight hipsters.

Hank Williams is an up-and-coming country singer when he meets Mr. Nudie, a “carnival courtier” whom he strikes up a rapport and a deal to be his exclusive tailor, much to the dismay of his wife, Audrey. As Hank’s new suits become the talk of the Grand Ole Opry and his popularity soars, so too does Mr. Nudie’s influence. Hank is oblivious to the Faustian arrangement, unaware of the monstrous machinations concocted by Nudie and his creepy collaborator, Dr. Wertham. Nudie is very protective of Hank, particularly his posterior. Did I mention Nudie is also a vampire?

At only 124 pages, McCormack crams a great deal of material into The Haunted Hillbilly, creating a self-described “phantasmagoria” that explains the downfall of a genuine country legend. Deceit, lust, betrayal, jealousy, love and hate are all played out in McCormack’s lively narrative, orchestrated by Nudie, the nefarious nosferatu. The reader feels sympathetic towards poor Hank as his rise to the top effects loneliness and alcoholism, but it’s Nudie who’s the real star of the book. Witnessing his “handiwork” (he also narrates the sordid tale) is a supreme pleasure.

Part of the appeal of reading McCormack’s work is that it’s obvious he has as much fun creating absurd characters and seedy stories as we do reading them. I’ve always admired McCormack’s deft balancing of pop-culture sensibilities and his own inimitable style. Dr. Wertham, Nudie’s morbid medico, is a delicious reference to the real Dr. Wertham, a McCarthy-era shrink convinced that comic books caused violent behavior in children and whose public crusade ended the popular run of many horror comics and placed several superheroes into semi-permanent retirement. Mr. Nudie’s initial, foreboding introduction would not be out of place in a Ray Bradbury or Richard Matheson story, but I doubt either writer would create a gay vampire with a penchant for Hank Williams’ posterior (more of an anal obsession really)—Something Wicked This Way Comes it ain’t.

Derek McCormack’s The Haunted Hillbilly is more than just a story about the fabricated life of a country singer and his domineering, undead tailor. It’s a riotous, exhilarating comic fantasy that’s as much an homage to old horror comics as it is a breath of irreverent fresh air in a nation that takes its fiction very seriously.

Spells

R. M. Vaughn
ECW Press

It can be argued that one of Canada’s strengths as a vast geographical nation is the diverse, rich writing that emanates from every region, from the wilds of the Queen Charlotte Islands to the craggy splendors of Newfoundland. I’m not trying to instill patriotic swoons or play amateur travel agent, but rather acknowledge the recent explosion of emerging writers and their highly-regionalized, but rewarding fictions.

RM Vaughn’s sophomore novel Spells is a work that challenges the urban-centric notion that most contemporary Canadian novels are set exclusively in Toronto, Montreal or Vancouver. While Toronto plays a guest-starring role, it’s rural New Brunswick, specifically the village of Little Lake, that’s the setting for teenage angst, family turmoil, King Tut and a healthy dose of witchcraft.

Set in the late Seventies when North Americans were always in search of UFOs, Sasquatches, haunted mansions and other kooky new-age pursuits, Spells centres around Andy Loch, a twelve-year-old boy with a penchant for eating, reading and praying to Egyptian gods. He’s raised by his father, Al, who may or may not harbour a secret skill in sorcery. Unfortunately for them, the rest of the village is populated by horny teens, nosy seniors and Churchgoing families, so they’re branded Grade “A” weirdos and barely tolerated.

The widening dysfunction between Andy and Al stems from the strange death of Andy’s mother when he was six, so Al attempts to manufacture love by spoiling his son with gifts and plenty of buckets of KFC, keeping him fat and content. When not receiving a beating from the older kids, Andy performs little spells and befriends Stacey, a fellow teen pariah. Meanwhile, a California cult devoted to King Tut has dark plans afoot and Andy looms largely over their machinations.

Some readers may have trouble with Vaughan’s depiction of rural New Brunswickers; these are not the overwrought characters who populate a David Adams Richards novel. While some readers may see the good people of Little Lake as the sum of rural clichés concocted by an urban dweller, Vaughan creates a realistic depiction of rural folk dealing with the impending arrival of the horrors the big city has to offer. The use of the King Tut craze of the Seventies is a brilliant metaphor for the tension between rural and urban—Little Lake can barely tolerate the aberrant behaviour of nearby Saint John mall merchants selling “King Tit” T-shirts.

The novel seethes with tension, not merely concerned with urban invasion, but with the village’s perception that Al and Andy Loch are devil-worshipping warlocks. What is particularly strong is Vaghan’s preference to play with the readers’ expectations: do Andy’s spells really work or are they merely a manifestation of a socially inept teen’s mind? The villagers clearly fear Andy and discourage prolonged exposure to his presence. Suspicious accidents, magical or not, follow Andy and I suspect the villagers, with some prodding, would not be out of place organizing a mob rally to run the Lochs out of town.

The tension between father and son works well as Vaughan portrays a father who doesn’t love his son, but concocts bold lies and manipulation to feel a small sense of purpose. Al’s amoral sensibilities are immediately apparent in a witty, gaudy and terrifying depiction of a family trip to Florida, one of the strongest passages of the book. Magic is suspected in Al’s possession, in the way he patronizes his wife and son at a cheesy dinner theatre and the suspicious nature of his wife’s death during sex in the hotel room. Imagined or not, magic appears to be the only similarity between father and son.

Spells is the kind of novel that plays with genre conventions and regionalism to create a rewarding, provocative reading experience. RM Vaughan should be applauded for imbuing regional sensibilities with the cultural clash of urban eccentricities. Purists may fume, but readers seeking out new and exciting Canadian writers will be duly rewarded by the end of the last page.

Footnotes

both are published by ECW Press, one of my favourite Canadian small presses. McClelland and Stewart and Vintage Canada publish some great Canadian writers, but small publishers like ECW, Arsenal Pulp Press and Anvil Press have been putting out some great Canadian urban fiction for many years, providing a literary alternative to the major publishers.

The Farmer’s Wife | Project Hitchcock

Why the CBC Still Matters | Part One

A Smart Guide to Summer Reading

Captain Saskatchewan to the Rescue!

J Alary — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 16:53:13 +0000

Photo by jvandoor

I was about to kick off a multi-part column on the state of Canadian cinema (a particular passion of mine), when I came across several newspaper articles, TV news segments and one jackass radio DJ denigrating people from the province of Saskatchewan. Now I have a thick skin when it comes to my Saskatchewan roots, ever since my family moved from Saskatoon to Edmonton in the late 80s (I’ve heard every “flat” joke that exists, but if you think you’ve come up with a new one, feel free to post it in the comments section below), so I’m not easily offended by ignorant comments from people west of “nature’s perfect rectangle”.^[1]) I always find it amusing when some Alberta rednecks mock Saskatchewan people as hicks—is there a preferred hierarchy at work?^[2] People want to call me a hick? No problem. A farmer? Fine.^[3] This university-educated hick will smile, maybe even chuckle, all the while reminding himself that it’s just a bit of fun, no need to go apoplectic, but when the Calgary media take potshots at my beloved homeland, the gloves, sadly, must come off.

So what was it that boiled my blood, encouraging me to seek out revenge on a few Alberta citizens? A football game. No, not a high school game or a college game featuring the U of C Dinos (my alma mater),^[4] but a CFL game between the Calgary Stampeders and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. I fully realize that in the realm of professional sports, it’s often very savvy of the media to hype rivalries and stoke the flames of competition, but what I’ve heard lately is ridiculous.

My fury began when it was reported in the Calgary Herald that the Stampeders were boosting security at McMahon Stadium for the Saturday night game between the CFL West Division rivals; the extra security was not needed for Stamps fans, it was reported, but for the boozing, out-of-control Riders fans. The local CTV affiliate’s dinner-hour news program also reported the need for extra security, with the sports reporter making further cracks at Saskatchewan people’s expense. What really sent me over the edge was an obnoxious radio rock-station DJ lambasting Riders fans for their hard-partying ways, predicting mayhem from Rider Nation once the Stampeders inevitably obliterated their opponents on the scoreboard, ending with, “Yeah, Riders fans, I’m talking to you.” So let me see if I get this right: Saskatchewan people, especially Riders fans, are wild, crazed alcohol abusers, prone to cause anarchy if given the chance, like at a football game. I’ve got a very good sense of humour, I appreciate good-natured sports rivalry, but I’m sick of branding Saskatchewan people as hicks or, as former Winnipeg Blue Bombers kicker Troy Westwood once bitterly commented, “banjo-picking inbreds [sic]”.

Many forget that in addition to giving the world Joni Mitchell and Leslie Nielsen, Saskatchewan did give Canada the idea for universal health care. Highly-revered Saskatchewan premier Tommy Douglas saw its success in Europe and petitioned the province to enact its own form of medicare (which was fully enacted by Douglas’ successor Woodrow Lloyd in 1962). By 1966 Lester B. Pearson’s Liberal government created a federal heath care program, adopting Saskatchewan’s plan. Douglas also was the first provincial leader to call for a constitutional bill of rights, something that was laughed at by the rest of the premiers for decades until the early 60s. He had enacted the Saskatchewan Bill of Rights in 1947, the first legislation protecting all citizens from discrimination, a first of its kind in North America and implemented a full year before the United Nations created the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It’s little wonder why Douglas was voted by viewers as the “Greatest Canadian” on the CBC in 2004.

Do Albertans pick on Saskatchewan because they have socialist neighbours to the east? Do they fear those who live among them? It’s estimated that over 250,000 ex-Saskies live in Calgary, one-quarter of its population, supporting the joke that Calgary is the biggest city in Saskatchewan. Whatever the reason, there’s always a sense of community for ex-Saskies whenever they encounter each other, something I’ve never seen exhibited by people from other provinces. “Hey, you’re from Turtleford? Right on! I’m from Kindersley!” Though there’s a friendly rivalry between Saskatoon and Regina, neither city shows the ferocity displayed by their Alberta counterparts, Edmonton and Calgary (there’s no provincial solidarity with those two cities).

Maybe Albertans are envious at our natural genial nature, our ability to laugh at ourselves and our province’s shortcomings (or our ability to drink copious quantities of Pil)^[5] Bob from Medicine Hat looks across the room at Mabel from Cold Lake and wonders why there’s no camaraderie like that found across the eastern border.

There’s the old joke that football is a religion in Saskatchewan and that’s not far from the truth. Though the province produces many hockey players (including the greatest, Gordie Howe),^[6] what brings many together is a mutual love for the Saskatchewan Roughriders. It’s an incredible feat that a province of only a million people can feverishly support a professional football team, but people travel for hours and hundreds of kilometers to catch a game at Taylor Field in Regina. Go to any CFL stadium across the country and you’ll find a highly-visible contingent of Riders fans, prompting the observation that the Riders are Canada’s Team in the CFL. That passion extends to annual meetings with the Stampeders in Calgary every season; Stampeders management knows fully well that they’ll sell out McMahon Stadium, thanks to ex-Saskies. One-third of the fans are Rider Nation, yet they routinely drown out Stamps fans^[7]. There will always be a small collection of drunken, boorish fans, no matter what the team, but the vast majority of CFL fans are civil. Regular security has always been able to deal with those meatheads, so there’s no need to pin problems on one team’s fans. Riders fans help sell out games and many of them are season-ticket holders, relishing the chance to see Canada’s greatest game, Canadian football. So please, Albertans, don’t sully Saskatchewan’s good name—it’s not very Canadian. And as for Saturday’s game, the Riders won with a thrilling last-minute touchdown, 24-23. Somewhere, the prairie gods are smiling.

Photo by Stephen Glauser

Footnotes

A term writers from Corner Gas came up with when then-premier Lorne Calvert made a cameo. For the record, I’m not a fan of Corner Gas—it’s humour is far too gentle for my tastes—but it’s nevertheless a highly respected and acclaimed Canadian TV series and has helped to put a positive spin on Saskatchewan (I hope
Oxford defines a hick as “an unsophisticated country-dweller” as opposed to a redneck, which is “a working-class white person, especially a politically conservative one”. Which one sounds worse?
Saskatoon has over 230,000 people, so I don’t get the agricultural reference.
Does anybody think it strange that though I attended the University of Calgary for many years, have many good things to say about some of their faculties, I never gave a damn about their football team, instead cheering for the University of Saskatchewan Huskies, perennial Vanier Cup losers? Maybe it’s the green uniforms.
Ah yes, Pil, the affectionate nickname for Molson’s Old Style Pilsner, the popular beer of choice in Saskatchewan. I’m a beer snob, but I’d never turn down a supercan of Pil, what I deem to be a “good shitty beer”.
In fact Saskatoon almost bought the St. Louis Blues in the early 80s.
One of the most ridiculous and petty injustices done to the Riders was the banning of their beloved mascot, Gainer the Gopher, by the Stampeders for a playoff game in 2006. Calgary is infamous in the country for having passive sports fans, so it’s obvious why Gainer wasn’t welcome. Despite outcry in the Saskatchewan legislature, the Riders won 31-20.

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

A Smart Guide to Summer Reading

J Alary — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 17:41:01 +0000

Photo by {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/yxejamir/1465293506/}yxejamir{/link}

Recently a blogger from Oregon caused a bit of a stir online when he challenged people all over the world to read the late David Foster Wallace’s novel, Infinite Jest. Engaging people to form a cyber-book club is, if you’ll pardon the expression, a novel idea, but what’s particularly impressive is that Infinite Jest is no quick flip of the pages—it’s over one thousand pages long!^[1] Convincing people to read a tome in the summer is quite the feat and judging from the blogger’s updates, one that is quite successful (if you’re interested, do check out his blog). The Infinite Jest project goes against the idea that summer reading should only consist of light, frothy books and it’s another nail in the coffin for that woeful misconception. Why should summer reading consist of only junk?

I worked in a bookstore for several years while I sweated, plotted and drank my way to an English degree and I saw many reading trends. The biggest, of course, was the inescapable maw of the Oprah Book Club (which, at the time, selected odious ‘literary’ works like The Bridges of Madison County before appeasing critics by latching on—too late—to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude and other noteworthy authorial works). Summertime often had our regular customers purchasing stacks of paperback novels by some of the leading escapist writers (John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Michael Crichton, Danielle Steel, etc.), but many customers would be confused by books they’d read with books they hadn’t read. It wasn’t as if publishers changed the cover art constantly (though it’s a time-honoured practice to revive interest in aged books by occasionally slapping on dazzling new artwork every decade or so), but the plots were so recycled, the characters stock to the nth degree that they couldn’t differentiate books. I’ve always been puzzled by this: could I ever confuse J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye with William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying? Perhaps this is the distinction between escapist fiction, an entertaining but forgettable read, and literary fiction, a kind of narrative that pushes the connection between language and symbols, creating a powerful reading experience.

In a world where a Mormon woman writes a bloodless vampire series for teens and a vapid reality TV star ‘writes’ a teen novel that climbs the L.A. Times bestseller list (proving Woody Allen’s adage about L.A.’s cultural advantage over New York)^[2], it’s getting harder to promote literary fiction to today’s youth. Much of it has to do with humourless, mediocre high school English teachers driving out any interest in the classics, lecturing dryly without an ounce of enthusiasm or passion for what they’re teaching^[3]. I also believe that in this decade, we’ve stopped touting critical thinking as a useful, vital component of our daily lives, so much so, that we as a society prefer to be doped up on shallow, superficial entertainment; we’d rather watch reality TV and gush over celebrities than deal with provocative issues raised in The Satanic Verses. It feels like thinking is frowned upon, so woe is the person who picks up that heady copy of Ulysses!

So why do people fear smart books during the summer? Does everybody who’s not an English major really believe that literary fiction consists of the English upper-class, gathered together in a parlour room, discussing the merits of class warfare? Is it the protracted sentences, complete with a multitude of commas and other punctuations, which scare people off? Is the idea of obsessively hunting down a mysterious albino whale barely able to stifle yawns? I think there’s a misconception of literary fiction and I think there’s no better time to read good fiction than in the summer. Besides, literary fiction doesn’t have to bore the masses, but it can engage their imaginations and stir their emotions. So instead of picking up Confessions of a Shopaholic or The Da Vinci Code, why not check out Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting?

Photo by {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/nakrnsm/3493275365/}accent on eclectic{/link}

Welsh’s writing is often an example I give to people who are uninterested in literary fiction. Welsh’s novels and stories deal primarily with junkies and other reprobates in various Scottish locales (though mostly in Edinburgh, especially the area of Leith) and he creates a fascinating group of characters with all sorts of shady, colourful backgrounds. His characters also speak in a Scottish dialect, one that Welsh spells out phonetically, creating a raw and exciting collection of dialogue exchanges. There are no parlour rooms to be found in Welsh’s books (though you will find many council flats), but he does use language to its fullest to create grimy and often surreal depictions of drug addiction. It’s difficult to brand Welsh’s writing as dull—he certainly provokes readers with vulgar characters and queasy scenarios^[4]

I don’t know if I’d go so far as to suggest Infinite Jest to a friend as a light summertime read, but I would find a stack of exciting, provocative literary fiction to throw at them in the hopes that a single book would strike their fancy. People are busy in summer, going on vacations or staying home and soaking up sun on a nearby patio, but that doesn’t mean they need to dumb down their seasonal reading selections. “Light” doesn’t have to mean trash, so if you’ve got some smart, engaging books to recommend to a friend, don’t hesitate to offer your opinion—you’ll be doing them a favour.

Footnotes

I love David Foster Wallace’s work and was very saddened to learn of his suicide. He was erudite and pop-culture savvy, a man who couldn’t contain his thoughts in mere prose narrative, but went to great lengths to add footnotes and massive parenthetical asides. I’ve read much of his fiction and non-fiction, but I’ve never picked up Infinite Jest, something I intend to do in the near future.
It really irks me that publishers create “teen fiction” as a clever way to entice teens to read books. Why the need for a demographic genre? I remember reading classics and Stephen King when I was teen—there was no need for marketed fiction. The classics are timeless works for people of all ages!
As a future English teacher with a classroom of his own, this is something I’ll fight against. I don’t believe conventional teaching practices, coupled with apathy, will ever inspire young adults to pick up a classic and actually enjoy it. If you’re passionate about the book you’re teaching, chances are some of your students will be receptive to what you’re selling them. Naïve, perhaps, but it’s something I truly believe in.
Like any writer, Welsh sometimes has difficulty reining his need to shock readers—Trainspotting and The Acid House, a collection of stories, are properly shocking, but he goes overboard in Filth, a book starring one of the ugliest, corrupt police officers depicted in fiction. Did I mention there’s also a talking tapeworm?

(500) Days of Summer

Two Books That Are Better Than The Time Traveler’s Wife

Owen Noone And The Marauder

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

J Alary — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 15:32:19 +0000

Photo by midwinterphoto

As I write the latest, and final, instalment in my love letter to Calgary, the nightly Stampede fireworks are going off, encouraging drunken passersby to hoot uncontrollably and drivers to honk with unrestrained glee. No, I’m not using my last chapter to rant about the Calgary Stampede, the annual barnyard bacchanal; the event itself, though steeped in tradition, clearly illustrates that Calgary is not cosmopolitan. As women tart themselves up and men embarrass themselves with their drunken, boorish behaviour, the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth demonstrates that Calgary no longer has a thriving arts and culture scene.

The arts are an important part of our lives, crucial in contributing to our collective intellectual and emotional well-being. People aren’t meant to work long hours at their respective jobs, eat meagre meals and go to bed to repeat the cycle day after day.^[1] Some will turn on their TVs and watch formulaic police procedurals or reality programs as a form of electronic opiate.^[2] One of the advantages of living in an urban centre as opposed to a rural one is the availability of activities that enrich our lives and pull us out of the muck of daily routines. Until the oil boom of the mid-00s, Calgary was a beacon of culture, a hotbed of arts that people actively supported. What changed all of that? In a word: money.

Canadian cities like Vancouver, Montreal and Toronto have thriving arts scenes because city councils understand the importance of culture in their cities; not only are municipal grants given out to various arts organizations, but zoning regulations are created to encourage a balanced approach to real estate development, allowing for a mix of upscale and intermediate-scale venues and shops. Such was the way for Calgary in the 90s, particularly in the beltline, but the oil boom prompted greedy landowners to raise rents in commercial space to ridiculously-high levels, driving out many not-for-profit art galleries, used bookstores and small-venue nightclubs. With the newfound oil wealth, landowners wanted high-end boutiques and restaurants to replace “unsightly” arts venues because they generated more revenue. A Bar Named Sue, a small yet wonderful little bar that showcased live rockabilly/alt country music, closed down when its landlord jacked up the rent. The New Gallery moved from a spacious location on 9th avenue downtown to a tiny locale in Eau Claire Market, ignored by most passersby on their way to the multiplex.

Photo by karenwithak

One of the worst examples of landowner greed was the closure of the McNally Robinson bookstore on Stephen Avenue last year. McNally was a modest bookstore chain in Western Canada and the Calgary store was welcomed by the literary community. McNally hosted many literary events, particularly for filling Station, a long-time Calgary literary magazine, as well as music performances and author signings. Book lovers were outraged when the media reported McNally’s eventual closure. What was more outrageous was when the media revealed that McNally’s owners actually owned the building they inhabited and though the store was successful, they could make over $8 million by selling the building. There was no mysterious landlord to curse, but the very people who were supposedly passionate about the arts selling out to the highest bidder. McNally hasn’t opened another store in Calgary. The new tenant in their old space is Sports Chek and there still isn’t much in the way of firsthand bookstores in the beltline.

Many people criticize Calgary city council for not doing enough to curb all of the high-end retail zoning in the beltline. City council seems content to sit on their hands as developers scoop up land for the latest high-end condo tower, replete with bland pubs with overpriced pints of Guinness for the nouveau riche. 1st Street SW once was a frenetic strip of colourful bars and pubs and the late, lamented Night Gallery Cabaret, a place where many vaunted indie rock bands performed. Now it’s a developing strip of high-end shops for the mostly-vacant condo towers surrounding it.

Despite being the richest city in the country, the city charges astronomical fees for festival zoning permits, threatening longtime community festivals like the Marda Gras festival in Marda Loop. Only because of a strenuous donation drive did Marda Gras organizers save the annual festival from implosion. Mayor Dave “Bronco” Bronconnier is a master manipulator, always deflecting criticism by pointing the finger at the other levels of government. He’s always argued in the media that it’s not city council’s fault for inadequate funding, it’s because the province and the feds haven’t anted up. Municipal arts grants have nearly dried up over the past decade and many arts organizations have had to rely on corporate donations to keep afloat. Much of our city’s theatre—One Yellow Rabbit, Alberta Theatre Projects, Ground Zero—likely wouldn’t exist today without private investment. Calgary city council is not a fan of its homegrown arts scene.

Photo by thorinside

I’ve bitched so much about city zoning and greedy landlords that I’ve nearly forgotten another part of Calgary’s battered arts reputation. Consider the local music scene: a very tight-knit group of musicians forming bands and playing in the small handful of venues remaining in the city. Calgary has always produced great music talent over the past couple of decades (Feist, Tegan and Sara, Chad VanGaalen, Chixdiggit, Hot Little Rocket, The Dudes, Rayovaq, and many many more), but has had few venues to showcase its talent. I don’t put the blame solely on zoning and soaring rents, but on Calgarians themselves. It seems ludicrous that a city of million people can’t support numerous nightclubs to house a plethora of bands. Vancouver has all kinds of long-running clubs, specializing in folk, punk, indie rock, jazz, classical, metal ad infinitum. Calgary has a few venues that seem to decrease the amount of live shows per month at an astonishing rate. Broken City and The Hi-Fi Club were the top two small-venue clubs, but they both seem to cater more to DJs and dance nights than local musicians. The Marquee Room, located within the Uptown Stage and Screen, seems to be the only consistent option for local bands (or touring Canadian bands). One club for one million people is not a very good ratio, even for a small but passionate indie subculture.

I don’t enjoy lambasting Calgary as much as my last few columns would suggest (okay, maybe a little—I am a shit disturber), but it’s been heartbreaking to see a city I’ve spent most of my life in whither and decay over the decade. Oil money has forever altered the city’s makeup, creating a very expensive city to live in with few perks that its citizens can enjoy. Calgary is a proud city and it’s painful to see other Canadian cities evolve and prosper while the self-proclaimed “Cowtown” languishes in an identity crisis. My girlfriend and I dream of a time (hopefully in the not-so-distant future) when we can say good-bye to Calgary for the cosmopolitan confines of Vancouver and move on with our lives. When I think of Calgary and how much it’s changed, I think of a line from Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown, where Samuel Jackson’s character has killed a former jail mate, “What the fuck happened to you, man? Your ass used to be beautiful!”

Footnotes

I’ve worked with far too many people like this over the years—haven’t people read 1984?
Just for the record, I don’t have anything against TV programming—there are some fantastic, innovative shows on cable and on the networks—but I believe reality TV shows (like The Real World or A Shot at Love, two of the worst offenders) expose people to some of the most debased human behaviours found in our society. I find it sad and frustrating that people will demean themselves via the airwaves for a chance of fleeting fame and some cash, but such is the way of humanity, I guess.

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Captain Saskatchewan to the Rescue!

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

J Alary — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 23:00:17 +0000

Photo by {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/ecstaticist/3619129336/}ecstaticist{/link}

Yes, the love affair with Calgary, Alberta continues this week, as I highlight the many cracks found in our fair city’s façade. I didn’t set out to rant about Calgary as the worst place on earth (it’s not, that would be Red Deer), but I’ve seen the city change a lot in the last 16 years and I’m not happy with most of the changes, so I feel I need to do something, even if it’s just printed lip service. And before some rednecks in a pickup truck haul my ass out of the city limits for a good old-fashioned lynching, I’d better get on with the rant.

Calgary has been steadily increasing in population since my family arrived in the early 90s, but the boom of the mid-00s brought thousands of people from all over Canada, looking for a good-paying job. A city that was only 700,000 people in 1994 now has strained to accommodate approximately 1,042,000^[1]. I think it’s fantastic that we have so many people from all over the country; Canada is a very big place and there are many people who haven’t had the time or money to explore it coast to coast, so it’s fun to meet Canadians from all parts of the country, bringing with them delightful idiosyncrasies that only bolster our pledge of pluralism.

But not everybody in Calgary welcomes fellow Canadians with open arms; some blame the new out-of-towners for the skyrocketing cost of living. I’ve encountered a lot open hostility towards these fine folk and have even been harassed because I’m originally from Saskatchewan (despite the fact I’ve lived in Calgary for nearly two decades). Apparently you’re not a Calgarian unless you’re born here^[2].

Sadly, hostility often brings about intolerance in other forms and Calgary has often fought racism labels, despite being the third most diverse city in Canada. As a clueless white liberal male, I don’t experience much in the way of prejudice. A co-worker of mine, who happens to be African Canadian, described Calgary succinctly: living in Vancouver, she felt she was a woman first and a black woman second. In Calgary, she feels like she’s a black woman first and a woman second. At first I was surprised by her comment, but upon further reflection, I think she’s dead on: many sociological studies of traditionally conservative cities indicate high levels of various forms of prejudice, often attributed to fear of the “other”. And the subtle prejudice isn’t just found in working-class communities, but in corporate boardrooms, public schools and even within the Calgary Police Service, already a beleaguered force and source of criticism by other law enforcement agencies within Canada.

Photo by {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/16207075@N00/359805861}bonedad{/link}

One of the buzz words in North America this decade has been “urban sprawl”. We’ve seen just how record-setting oil prices have driven up living costs all over the world, as we are heavily oil-dependent. Most North American cities utilize efficient public transit and urban density to reduce dependency on cars and the need for outlying suburban neighbourhoods, a post-war phenomenon that is proving to be needlessly expensive and a drain on many cities’ resources. But in Calgary, urban sprawl is almost championed as an alternative lifestyle to the hippie-like zoning and planning that goes on in other cities (like Vancouver). Until the recent recession, Calgary home builders and contractors aggressively expanded their operations in every direction of the city. City council was only too happy to further annex land to expand the city limits and create a sprawling metropolis, one that serves double-income families with SUVs. In doing so, Calgary has become one of the biggest spread-out cities in North America, second only to the sprawling smog behemoth that is Los Angeles.

And it’s not just the suburbs that are the problem—take a look even in the beltline communities and you won’t find much efficient urban density at work. 7-11s sit in oversized lots beside equally-zoned lots and so it goes. Whenever I visit Vancouver, I always make mental notes as I observe urban density in action: Vancouver proper, the size of Calgary’s downtown core and beltline communities, is home to over 600,000 people. And they don’t look or act like they’re crowded.

Calgary’s urban sprawl affects Calgary Transit’s efficiency as well. Trying to service a sprawling city has problems, like creating easily-accessible bus and LRT routes in some communities and reducing routes or ignoring other communities altogether. For a city that champions suburbia, few bus routes service the newer, outlying communities. That’s okay for people who drive their SUVs to work, but their children suffer, becoming suburban prisoners with no reprieve unless a kind parent offers to escort them into the city. Do you think a kid in Sundance who wants to go shopping with friends at Chinook Centre or people watch along 17th Avenue SW can do so at their leisure? No, it requires much planning and cajoling, followed by a weary consent by a parent. What’s worse is that these new communities aren’t zoned for parks or playgrounds or civic halls that help promote the very essence of community; they don’t even have sidewalks! Calgary suburban neighbourhoods are soulless gulags for restless teens and ready-made isolation tanks for adults.

Next week: the arts and culture in Calgary in Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown: The Final Chapter!

Footnotes

Calgary 2008 civic census
Isn’t that something Texans say?

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Pick The Perp | Website

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

J Alary — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 20:56:50 +0000

Photo by Endlisnis

My girlfriend and I traveled recently to New York City, absorbing as much culture and ambience as we could for a one-week stay. Needless to say we were thoroughly impressed, but what really struck me was just how polite New Yorkers were, whether it was giving us needed directions to a particular subway station or serving us memorable meals (oh the heaping portions!) with class and courtesy^[1]. As we landed back in Calgary, I was immediately depressed to be back on the Prairies (I always am after a trip), but I associated it with the usual feelings a traveller has after a fantastic vacation. On our way home, we stopped at a Tim Hortons^[2] and were promptly given rude service from a snotty teen drive-thru attendant. And I had an epiphany (one of many): I was back in Calgary.

I can still remember the culture shock of moving from Saskatoon to Alberta way back in the winter of 1986: seven day shopping, multiple local TV stations and two-litre pop bottles (!). Alberta was a foreign land to explore and the excitement of living in a big Canadian city was nearly overwhelming. Of course we had moved to Edmonton, AKA “The City of Champions”^[3], home to the (then) largest mall in the world and Wayne Gretzky. After the tornado, roller coaster collapse and sale of the Great One, we moved to Winnipeg (a story in itself) for a brief stint, and then we landed in Calgary in the 90s, beginning a tumultuous affair with a city that’s been home longer than anywhere else in my life.

Calgary, a city of over one million people, likes to boast that it’s a world-class cosmopolitan city; as an outsider, despite these many years, I find there are cracks in that worldview. Part of the problem is that Calgary, despite its size, has a very provincial attitude. The stereotype of the Alberta Redneck is not new to Canadians, but nowhere is it more prevalent than in Calgary. Calgary celebrates cowboy culture, from advocating reckless public drunkenness during the Calgary Stampede (where everybody, from suit to biker to student, joins, hand in hand, in drunken buffoonery) to doling out cowboy hats to every bemused celebrity who gets off an airplane. Woe is the individual who creates dissent by criticizing such rural culture, immediately branded by some locals as a “goddamn Easterner” (true story).

Calgary’s folksy charm is the result of it being the heartbeat of conservatism in Canada. Calgary is the centre of a conservative vacuum that exists within a liberal social state. Former prime minister Pierre Trudeau is still vilified by a majority of the populace for his unpopular National Energy Program of the early 80s, where the federal government collected tax revenues from oil production, siphoning away much profit from Alberta.

Despite Trudeau’s many accomplishments, Calgarians remain a bitter lot, as evidenced by the constant verbal haranguing I receive whenever I wear my Trudeau T-shirt. “That’s fucking great,” said one perturbed twentysomething Calgarian, “wearing a shirt of the man who destroyed Canada.” Such passionate hatred for one man has made it next to impossible for a federal Liberal candidate to win a seat in Calgary for decades. It has also created a level of distrust between Alberta and Eastern Canada, so much so that Preston Manning formed the ultra-conservative Reform Party in the late 80s to represent the frustrations of conservative Albertans. Calgary has been the home to many conservative political leaders, from Manning to Stockwell Day of the Reform-turned-Canadian Alliance party to Stephen Harper, the current prime minister.

And who can forget Ralph Klein? A former news anchor, Klein was mayor of Calgary for most of the 80s, particularly during the NEP controversy and the 1988 Winter Olympics^[4]. Best known for spending an inordinate amount of time swilling cheap beer with the boys at the infamous Cecil Hotel, Klein (or “Ralph”, as he liked to be called by the electorate) is best known to Canadians as the mayor who replied to Trudeau’s NEP with the elegant riposte, “Let the Eastern bums freeze!”

Ever the diplomat, Ralph eventually got elected Premier of Alberta and continued to drink (now the good stuff!), cripple the health care and education systems and harass homeless people^[5]. But perhaps his greatest legacy is his privatization of liquor stores in 1995, creating flexible hours and competitive prices for Calgarians, statistically the heaviest drinkers per capita in Canada (sorry, St. John’s). Whenever I crack open a supercan of Pil, I always remind myself to thank King Ralph for his contributions to democracy.

Photo by Unity Gain

To be continued…

Footnotes

We will be forever grateful to the amazing server at a Jersey City pub who recommended the Park Slope area in Brooklyn
How I’d missed it in New York—Dunkin’ Donuts doesn’t cut it
Named for the heroics following the 1987 tornado, not the [erroneous] assumption that it boasted of its sports teams’ success
Trivia question: How many Calgarians does it take to screw in a light bulb? Answer: two, one to screw in the light bulb and one to drone on about how wonderful the ’88 Olympics were
Is flung change considered a tax-deductible donation?

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Not-so Cosmopolitan Cowtown

Why the CBC Still Matters | Part One

Totally 80s Movies

J Alary — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 17:18:08 +0000

I’m a film snob. I’m more interested in film as an art form than as mere entertainment and I love the medium almost as much as I love literature, so it pains me to see what the Hollywood studios are doing lately. Sequels, remakes and reboots are en vogue right now and judging by the box office receipts, they’re not going away anytime soon. I’m not against these types of movies they’ve been around for decades but there’s a lack of originality spreading through the film industry, as studios dust off old properties because it’s a safer way to make money than developing a new concept.

Usually when I feel blue about the state of movies, I often retreat to the 1970s, specifically the “New Hollywood” period (between 1967’s Bonnie and Clyde and 1980’s Raging Bull), when filmmakers like Martin Scorsese, Hal Ashby and Brian De Palma (and so many more) were generating genuine excitement with their distinctive cinematic visions. Back then audiences relished gritty, sophisticated fare and many of the popular films from the era are now considered classics. Of course guys like Spielberg and Lucas came along, mesmerizing audiences with their kinetic, visual childhood fantasies and sophistication took a backseat to cheap thrills. The 80s found most of the New Hollywood auteurs struggling to find their way, as big-budget genre and action films dominated the decade.

Despite the lack of artistic filmmaking in the 80s, there are still plenty of films to admire, not for their innovative narratives or startling cinematography, but for their sheer audacity to go to extreme lengths to entertain audiences. Sometimes it’s good to simply enjoy a movie, even a guilty pleasure, and not worry about art. One of my favourite film critics, the late Pauline Kael, once wrote, “Movies are so rarely great art that if we cannot appreciate great trash we have very little reason to be interested in them.” I try to remember that when I get a little too haughty about the goings-on at la cinématheque.

While it’s true that nostalgia colours our views on older films (I’ll always have a soft spot for 1985’s Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins, bless Fred Ward’s crusty heart, despite its flaws), I think what really works with many 80s movies is their earnest attempt to entertain audiences with plenty of chutzpah and imagination. 1984’s Ghostbusters (a film I was never allowed to watch until I finally caught it on DVD a few years ago) is a fairly silly, supernatural comedy with little in the way of plot, yet the comedic actors, led by Bill Murray, and some inspired physical special effects create an enjoyably cartoonish movie. It’s difficult for many people to approach 1987’s RoboCop without snickering at the first sight of Peter Weller in his cyborg armour (not to mention the awkward title itself), but get past the silly trappings and you have a violent, darkly comical take on corporate America one that’s just as relevant today as it was two decades ago.

Sometimes the bubble-gum product Hollywood churned out in the 80s was irredeemable (the entire Police Academy series, the Friday the 13th sequels), but often even the most sugar-laden movies had more heart than what’s being made today. Much of the prepubescent adventure movies of the 80s (The Goonies, Explorers, Gremlins, etc.) are far more entertaining and less patronizing than any Brendan Fraser adventure comedy. The John Hughes’s series of overly sentimental high school movies (Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club) are more authentic and honest than the soulless frills of the High School Musical movies^[1]. Fast Times at Ridgemont High, long considered a teen classic, looks positively quaint compared to the requisite raunch of contemporary teen comedies, yet will likely be remembered for years to come, as the American Pies and Van Wilders fade into obscurity. Hell, even the 80s sex comedies (Hot Dog… The Movie, Hardbodies) have more honesty (and real breasts) than The Girl Next Door or Sex Drive.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring John Carpenter into the equation. He hasn’t made a good movie in decades, but his outlandish genre-bending, low-budget films from the 80s are a testament to what’s wrong with Hollywood today. Carpenter thrived on creating kooky concepts Escape from New York, Big Trouble in Little China, They Live, etc. that worked because they were cheap to make. A low-budget Carpenter film had gore, humour and wit and was afforded the ability to be quirky. Today’s genre movies cost well over $100 million, so studios don’t dare risk jeopardizing box office dollars with personal touches like quirk. Carpenter himself lost his authorial voice in the 90s, once the studios gave him bigger budgets (Escape from L.A. anyone?).

Besides Carpenter, 80s genre films had more imagination and daring than uninspiring schlock like Transformers. Part of the appeal is that most 80s genre films had to create physical effects to win over audiences. FX masters used buckets of karo syrup, vats of KY jelly, and animatronics to scare and thrill audiences with otherworldly creatures. Movies like A Nightmare on Elm Street, Pumpkinhead, From Beyond or The Fly wouldn’t have the same impact with CGI effects. How many Star Wars fans missed Frank Oz’s puppetry when Lucas decided to recreate Yoda with CGI? Physical effects create a realism, ridiculous or not, that can’t be fully captured by computer effects. And there’s nothing Michael Bay can do to convince me that CGI trucks-turned-robots are remotely thrilling to behold on the big screen.

So instead of spending your hard-earned cash on the Transformers sequel, G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra or Night at the Museum 2, why not venture to your nearby video store and indulge in some gloriously giddy 80s fare? The clothes and hairstyles may be dated, but the total entertainment factor will undoubtedly surprise you.

Footnotes

Isn’t it odd to note that teens from the 80s look more like average American teens than the freshly scrubbed, starved, made-over teen actors of today?

The Star Trek Fan

For The Weekend of Stardate 62852.5

Comedy and Sequels Don’t Mix

The Star Trek Fan

J Alary — Thu, 28 May 2009 07:24:32 +0000

When I was in junior high I attended my first school dance. I stood with my small group of friends at one side of the gym, hoping to ask Carolyn Culbert, a girl I fancied, for a dance. While working up the courage, I listened to my various friends as they chatted away excitedly about that night’s new episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. As they discussed the pros and cons of the episode, it became clear to me that they had no intention of asking any girls to dance. I excused myself, found Carolyn and asked her to dance. She agreed and we danced, my dreams fully realized (well, not quite—she refused a second dance). My friends didn’t ask any girls to dance and I realized I needed new friends. Cruel, perhaps, but I was a teen and I wasn’t going to let a group of Trekkies diminish my social status, even if I was a closet Star Trek fan.

I blame both the Trekkies and Trekkers (is there a nerd hierarchy?) for the negative stereotype of the Star Trek fan: the lonely, virginal, socially maladjusted guy who sits in his parents’ basement watching Star Trek V for the umpteenth time (unable to admit to himself that it’s a bad movie). Yes, JJ Abrams’ Star Trek is a bonafide mainstream hit with Joe and Janet Q. Public, but I guarantee most people still think of the stereotype whenever somebody mentions they’re a Star Trek fan (except for the Star Trek V reference – only a fan would get that). I’ve been a closet fan for most of my life, fearing that friends or prospective girlfriends would find out and cast me out of their social circles (not unlike junior high). My heart stopped when my girlfriend, Amanda, discovered my hidden cache of Star Trek DVDs – she’s a hell of a woman for not dumping me right then and there.

I’m not surprised that the new Star Trek movie is a hit with audiences: it offers plenty of action, humour, characterization and manages to instill a humanist, optimistic vision of the future; something rare in over a decade of dour, dystopian sci-fi films. Many of those same elements made the original Star Trek TV series appealing to audiences in the 60s and it’s easy to see how a low-budget space Western spawned a multi-billion-dollar empire known as “The Franchise”. What makes the new Star Trek really exciting is that it’s a reboot, a launch pad for all of the familiar Trek tropes without the forty-year baggage of continuity. Judging from box office receipts and reviews, nearly everybody loves the new Star Trek. Who are the hold-outs? The damn Trekkies.

Some people argue that Star Trek wore out its welcome a few years ago because there was so damn much of it since Star Trek: The Next Generation premiered way back in 1987. Before TNG, fans welcomed a new Star Trek movie every couple of years. By the time Patrick Stewart and crew were booed off the big screen in Star Trek: Nemesis in 2002, there had been over 600 hours of TV trekking (and a then-current prequel series, Star Trek: Enterprise, limping in the ratings). Many critics called it “franchise fatigue”, but I believe the real culprits for Trek’s downward spiral are the hardcore fans. These are the people who nitpick every little detail in an episode or movie (a Trekkie co-worker recently complained that the new movie used the term “Klingon Warbird” when “Klingon Battlecruiser” was the preferred nomenclature), unable to simply enjoy the story. The mid-80s SNL sketch that has William Shatner imploring Star Trek fans to “get a life” still rankles many diehards, unable to appreciate humour (which would explain all the terrible, nerdy ‘humour’ found in the TNG-era movies).

Paramount, the owners of Star Trek, can be partly blamed for catering to the Trekkies, because as much as the fans bitched and moaned about inconsistencies in Federation timelines and Borg technology, they kept tuning in and buying whatever the studio was selling. Star Trek: Voyager, arguably the most vilified Trek series, still managed to last seven years and a healthy syndication and home video afterlife thanks to fans. Studio executives made product for fans, creating a turgid, indecipherable “canon” that no casual viewer could approach without a little trepidation.

So it comes back to the Trekkie stereotype. I realize there are equally annoying genre fans out there (you should work in a bookstore!), but the Trekkies have been around the longest, causing the most damage. That’s why I’m a closet fan, still hesitant to list it as a favourite TV show on my Facebook page. The irony is that I’m not much of a science fiction fan, but Gene Roddenberry’s romantic depiction of space exploration hooked me as a kid. I’ll be forever grateful to William Shatner, the much-maligned thespian who actually does a hell of a job on Star Trek (you try playing a character who has to out think supercomputers and omnipotent beings, fight lizard men, find Spock’s brain and romance half the galaxy) and gets a lifetime pass (even if he directed Star Trek V). Yes, it’s just a TV show, but one that has given me decades of pleasure, even as I got on with my life.

I implore all the Trekkies out there to venture out of their basements and see what they’re missing. Those strange new worlds are things like going to the neighbourhood pub and chatting up a woman, attending an indie-rock show, exploring French New Wave cinema on DVD, going for a bike ride or buying some stylish new clothes at the local H&M (get rid of those ridiculous floppy hats – they’re not cool). Add some joie de vivre to your life and you may very well live long and prosper.

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