« Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain…    --    Please Stand By… »

Bi Coastal Curious

July 20, 2004

It’s been one year less a week since I was last in Toronto. I can’t remember what movie, if any, played on my flight back to Vancouver. Yesterday, however, my otherwise triumphant return to Canada’s epicentre was dealt ominous undertones by the in-flight presentation of The Whole Ten Yards. I haven’t seen the original Whole Nine Yards – I tend to play it safe and avoid the feature-length exploits of sitcom stars (not that I’ve got a problem with sitcoms or their stars, but there are certain undeniable rules of cinematic avoidance: don’t see movies featuring sitcom actors or the recipients of Best Supporting Actress Oscars. Don’t believe me? Mira Sorvino!) – and perhaps much of my confusion as to how a random series of unrelated scenes makes a movie might be resolved by doing so (though I doubt it), but it got me thinking about sequels.

After thinking about sequels for awhile, I decided it wasn’t a very interesting topic. Yes there have been a rash of high-calibre big-budget mainstream sequels that – contrary to how these things are supposed to go – are equal to, if not superior than, the originals (X-2, Spider-Man 2, and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban), but movies are such a frequent front page topic that I’ve decided to go a slightly different route. Though if I ever write a “Movies You Ought to Like, and if You Don’t, You Suck” column, you can be damn sure it’ll be Bride of Chucky, all the way.

I’m in Toronto both to get my hands dirty on two of the remaining three Dead End Days shoots, and lay the groundwork for our sophomore project. Coming from a theatre background, I’m well accustomed to the superstitious aspects of that particular medium. Doubtless many of you are aware that theatre artists must not utter the name Macbeth inside the theatre. (Macbeth was, by all accounts, a respected Scottish king. Eager for leverage to increase her control of Scotland, Elizabeth recruited Shakespeare to write what is essentially a smear campaign to sully the name of the then departed king, and portray Scotland as a den of iniquity badly in need of English intervention. For anyone who has been to Scotland, and knows the popular opinion re: England, you might be inclined to agree that if there were to be a vengeful spirit wreaking havoc in the world, it would be a Scottish king fucked over by the British.) If my experience is any indication, those who are frequently engaged in creative mediums don’t really know how they do what they do, and as with any form of ignorance, we can easily turn to supernatural explanations for the otherwise inexplicable. Be it muse or curse, the spiritual side of the creative arts is very real.

In film, there exists the Sophomore Jinx. That is those artists who establish themselves with a successful first effort are invariably doomed to failure with their second. Upon scrutiny, of course, the theory falls apart. For every Heavens Gate, you have your Pulp Fiction. American Graffiti blew THX 1138 out of the water. And yet the superstition persists.

As has been discussed in earlier production journals, Matt and Shane and Erin and I met in two separate productions of a show called On Deaf Ears, which was a collection of short works that we toured to several Canadian fringe festivals in the summer of 2000. Back at UBC that fall, I set to work on the script for our follow-up fringe tour. Holding firmly to the adage of “write what you know”, I decided to explore the ins and outs of our experiences as a fledgling company about to embark on its sophomore effort. The resultant play, Menace, is about a young screenwriter, Glen Lewis (loosely based of Christopher McQuarrie, of The Usual Suspects fame), whose second film (which he also directed) has just hit theatres. Buoyed by high expectations, increased studio pressure, and the overzealous diligence of his personal assistant Rupert, Glen is crushed as the dismal reviews pour in. With a treatment deadline looming, Glen finds himself struck with a severe case of writers block. Rupert packs Glen off to teach a seminar, and he returns with a script from one of the more eager attendees – Hayden. Much to Glen’s surprise, the script is good. Damn good. Rupert recruits two young recently married hit-people (sound familiar? They are indeed none other than Sam and Bridget) to kill Hayden so that Glen can take credit for the script himself.

Hijinks ensue.

The play is about being young and ambitious, about how much effort and energy goes into the creative process (whether you’re a writer or a killer for hire), how getting that first good gig can seem like the most important thing in the world, and how daunting following up a successful project can seem. It’s also about criticism – what strange bedfellows art and criticism are, and what a bloated sense of importance we artists bestow our critics. The power of opinion.

We immediately started having problems casting the show. (Keep in mind from writing the play, through rewrites rehearsals, our first production and departure was a nine-month process all-told.) I had originally written roles specifically for myself and four other actors, three of whom (including myself) were part of the first tour. Though the two other actors had expressed interest, a three-month tour making just under living wage isn’t the most enticing way to spend one’s summer. We recast three times, waited on one actor for over a month (he eventually declined), and had our lead drop out three weeks before rehearsals began. Matt miraculously cast the part with a friend he knew from Improv competitions – Adrian Prime – and with our full cast in place (myself, Matt, Adrian, Luisa Jojic, and a Vancouver friend – Steve Handelsman as Hayden) we undertook rehearsals.

Though there’s little point rehashing the details here, we had a falling out with our director, and parted ways one week into our three-week rehearsal process. Tobin Mollet, the co-writer and co-director of On Deaf Ears stepped in to helm the second week of rehearsals before leaving for Alaska. For the third week our frazzled cast agreed bring in my friend and MFA directing student from UBC – Stephen Drover (aka Drove). Drove kicked the play into gear and we mounted a five-day run at the (sadly now defunct) Vancouver Little Theatre.

We spent the next five days packing and preparing for our trip and left Vancouver the following Thursday for Montreal, the first stop on our tour. Vancouver’s arts and entertainment weekly – The Georgia Straight – hit stands just as we were leaving the city. Infamous theatre critic Colin Thomas gave the show a great, if not glowing, review.

To set the scene: as for the previous tour, we were driving my grandparents’ 1983 Colony Park station wagon. This is an enormous car with couches for seats, spacious trunk space, and killer faux-wood panelling. Matt was transporting all his worldly possessions back to Calgary (to store at his mom’s house in prep for an upcoming trip to Europe) in a U-Haul rent-a-trailer. All-told, I believe we represented a good thirty feet of vehicular stylin’.

An uneventful three-odd hours go by. A half-hour outside of Kamloops, BC, we hear a loud bang. I pull over, and we discover a tire on the trailer has blown. Matt calls the BCAA, who arrive to replace the tire. After ten or fifteen minutes, we notice our trusty BCAA tire-replacer looks somewhat perplexed. He confides in us that the tire that blew doesn’t seem to be the same size as the other. Regardless, he patches the tire, and we make our merry way into Kamloops to the Kal Tire, where they can replace the tire proper.

As it turns out, it wasn’t so much the tires being different sizes as the wheels. (This is illegal). Not only are the wheels mismatched, but they’re not even trailer wheels. And they’re not even the same kind of not-trailer wheels. One is seemingly off a wheelbarrow. We begin placing calls to the toll free U-Haul customer service phone numbers, of which there are three. Of those three, none seem particularly interested in providing customer service. Eventually an incredible Kal Tire employee convinced the automaton on the other end that we had grounds for a lawsuit. U-Haul reneged, and gave us directions to the local U-Haul dealership. Which was closed. Kindly enough, they’d left another trailer out front.

We loaded all of Matt’s worldly possessions out of the first U-Haul trailer and into the second U-Haul trailer. Though the wheels on this new trailer seemed (to the naked, untrained eye) to match – and, as an added bonus, to be trailer wheels (not wheelbarrow wheels) the brake light wires were not, in a word, working.

Eight hours after arriving in Kamloops, and eleven since leaving Vancouver, we were once again on our way. With no brake lights, but on our way nonetheless.

We drove nine hours through the night, with nothing out of the ordinary save for the strange, sulfury smell the car began to emit. This smell we could not locate, but assumed it wasn’t important because…well…we didn’t have any other choice.

Half an hour outside of Calgary, going a conservative ninety-five kilometres, the rear passenger-side wheel fell off our car.

Well, it didn’t so much fall off as the ball bearing split clean in half, all thirty feet of vehicular stylin’ spun 180 degrees, the trailer containing all Matt’s worldly possessions flipped upside down and the roof tore off like the lid of a tuna can.

Now, facing in the opposite direction, the car in a ditch, we bailed, and fast.

A truck pulled over, and the driver leapt out of the car, fire extinguisher in tow, and proceeded to spray down the rear passenger-side wheel well – sans wheel – which had caught fire. His work done, he leapt back in his truck, and drove away.

The next day (the rest of that day in fact) was something of a blur. I visited the insurance agency in the morning, started contemplating how I might finance purchasing or leasing a car (which, given my credit rating was a patently ridiculous notion). My parents graciously lent us their Pathfinder, but we had to find a trailer to make up from the reduction in space.

Long story short, we drive straight through Alberta, Sakatchewan, Manitoba, and the endless corridor of northern Ontario to Samuel Champlain Provincial Park (just north of Algonquin) to stop for a well=deserved day of rest. We pull into the park at two o’clock am, set up the tent, and everyone except for Adrian trundled off to take a shower. He goes to bed. Bad move.

Luisa and I are making our way back to the campsite in the relative pitch blackness when we hear a car horn honking. “How thoughtless,” we mumble before Adrian’s voice pierces the night: “Help! Help! For the love of God! Help!” (He might not have said “For the love of God!”, but I’m keeping it for dramatic effect.)

With little visibility, and a vague idea of where we’re going, Luisa and I run back at the campsite to find Adrian, tent-pole in hand, fending off six raccoons. The raccoons had infiltrated the tent, scared the living shit out of Adrian, and then proceeded to open my backpack and retrieve my vitamins. Indifferent to Adrian’s pole-swinging, one of the more dexterous raccoons was immersed in an effort to twist the cap off the vitamin container. If the cap hadn’t been childproof, I’d wager he’d have done it.

Long story short, the raccoons proceeded to terrorize our weary band of fringe tourists for the rest of the early morning. They seemed particularly keen on unzipping the door, and climbing on to people. Perhaps they were starved for affection, I’ll never know.

Next day – our “day off” – we decide to go swimming in the lake. A half-hour into our relatively relaxing sojourn, we begin to notice, amongst ourselves, the odd bead of blood appearing at random spots on each others’ exposed skin. Steve’s got one on his forehead, Luisa on her leg, Adrian on his leg and arm, and two on my face. We depart the lake post-haste, and realize that we’re under assault by black flies.

A staple of the Canadian wilderness, these affable little insects literally bite off chunks of your flesh. They’re like mosquitoes, but without the charm. For most, the black fly causes minor irritation and naught else, for others who are allergic – like, apparently, me – these flesh-chunk removals causes the surrounding flesh to swell. After the second night of raccoon terror, I awoke to find a melon-sized welt on my forehead, and my right eye swollen shut. For anyone familiar with the Toxic Avenger, this is pretty much what I looked like. There are pictures somewhere. They are horrifying.

We packed up the truck, and drove the remaining four hours into Montreal. Half-an-hour outside of Montreal, Matt received a call from the Fringe office on his cell phone. Our billeter has backed out. We have no place to stay.

(A billeter is a person who provides accommodation to poor travelling artists free of charge. Of course, like anything in life that’s free, sometimes you get what you pay for. This billeter back-out precipitated an entire summer of accommodation falling-through. Our accommodation did not work out in one single city. Not even Calgary, where both Matt and I are from.)

The next day, en route to tech our show, we got a flat tire. On the plus side, the wheel itself remained in tact.

Now, Fringe Festivals are comprised of anywhere from twelve to one-hundred-and-twenty shows. Montreal, at this point, featured upwards of eighty. Either way, you don’t get much time to tech your show. Three hours is standard. Our tech had been running relatively smoothly – we were behind schedule, but otherwise optimistic – until ten minutes from the end, our venue tech threw up her hands and announced that she couldn’t tech the show. It was just too complicated.

Damn.

To her credit, though I’d written what I’d hoped was not a tech-heavy show, there were a multitude of sound cues that were quite specific. And we’d made the mistake of recording these on a mini-disc, the player for which was small, its buttons smaller and difficult to make out in the pale-blue light of the tech booth, not to mention that, for some reason, there was a delay on the player. Not elements conducive to smooth operating. But given what we’d been through over the past five days, our spirits were not exactly buoyed by this good news.

Good but gruelling events followed. One of the beer-tent volunteers turned out to be a sound designer, and he agreed to run sound on our show. We spent seven hours in the condemned back annex of an abandoned box factory doing sound run after sound run. The show went up, wonkily, and over its six performances coalesced into a reasonably entertaining piece of theatre – so much so that we won the award for best English-language play, and a fall remount at Montreal’s esteemed Centaur Theatre. (This remount was to be overshadowed by the events of September 11th. The Montreal theatre community wasn’t so much in the mood for a black comedy about killers for hire as they were for the despicable but remarkably successful English premiere of Mambo Italliano. The theatre was so not keen to be presenting our “killer comedy” that they refused to allow us to use our poster. I understand that people often confuse tongue-in-cheek homage’s to pulp fiction novel covers with terrorists crashing planes into buildings.)

This isn’t the end of the story, but the remainder is a series of peaks and troughs that plays out over the following three months, and isn’t worth recounting here. I have often wondered if I irresistibly tempted fate by writing a sophomore show about a sophomore jinx. I am not an overly superstitious person, but I will not say Macbeth inside a theatre, I won’t whistle on stage, and I won’t deny that our sophomore effort, at least in this case, was an extraordinary test of endurance. Jinxed? Perhaps. But then, it was no The Whole Ten Yards.

Comments

• Search for: