Why I Love Canadian Movies: Confessions of a New American Fan
(Spoils you for Whole New Thing and Picture Claire. Spoils you hard for Last Night and Wilby Wonderful. Don't come cryin to me.)
My entrée to Canadian film was decidedly American. Paint sex, specifically. It think that’s American. Battlestar Galactica: Kara Thrace’s subconscious is trying to tell her to open up to her destiny. Her subconscious presents this argument in a dream…in the form of Leoben Conoy (Callum Keith Rennie), the Cylon who has been trying to get her to accept her role in the future of their two races.
Dream Leoben interrupts Dream Kara’s attempts to cover the symbol of her destiny with white paint. He comes up behind her and…well, does some very American things to her paint-streaked body. He takes her. She loves it. As she comes, she sees that he is right. Heh.
(Maybe a little manifest destiny, huh? See? American.)
Leoben had been worming his way into my head for, literally, years. Such is the inexorable seduction of a CKR fan. I’m not sure we burst into it, so much as feel a little unwell and then wake up sweaty one night with a craving for Film Movement DVDs. So I saw the paint sex and my own mandala appeared to me. It had great hair. I said to myself, “I must see everything this man has ever put on film.”
A year later, I am Netflix’s bitch. I’ve seen over 20 CKR movies, 9 TV guest appearances and 2 seasons apiece of Due South and Twitch City, in addition to all of BSG. (The titles are all written on the walls of my kitchen, and I cross them off as I go.) Amazon.ca loves me. And I love them. And I’m not even finished yet.
I have a very busy life and I really don’t have time for this, you know? I’ve never been quite this…focused on an actor before. I guess I thought it wasn’t me. I guess I was wrong. I got over myself and it feels good. My sister, who’s more comfortable in her fangirl shoes, is having a ball with my affliction. *waves* And I’m not really “out” to my friends, unless they’re here on livejournal. I say this not to distance myself from it, only to illustrate the strength of the pull. It’s late-onset CKR. It’s a bad case. And I feel like it’s got legs.
So I’ve watched a lot of DVDs. And the bonus is that along the way I’ve picked up a few new heroes, like Bruce McDonald, Daniel MacIvor, Don McKellar. (I really want to throw in Bruce McCullough and Mark McKinney here, just for the alliterative joy, but I have to admit that they’re not new to me; I loved them years ago in Kids in the Hall.)
Paul Gross. Hugh Dillon. Sandra Oh. Daniel Allodi. Rebecca Jenkins. Maury Chaykin! I have a fresh girl-crush on Molly Parker, with her beautiful, still-waters face. Between my sister’s passion for Deadwood and mine for CKR, I’ve now accidentally seen everything she’s ever done. The way she can convey volumes beneath her character’s surface with just a thought --- a tiny change of expression. Wow.
I find that I’m loving the Canadianness. (Canadianity?) It took me a little while to figure out what the work had in common --- the films are very different on the surface --- but it’s dawning on me. All due apologies to Canadians; I really don't know what I'm talking about here. Mine is a very naive perspective. And, admittedly, I haven’t seen a ton of Canadian films, or even all the most important ones (as far as I know). That’s to come…right now my curriculum is a little…skewed. By lust and adoration. But I’ve still got a few neurons firing in the analytical center of my brain and I consider the films I’ve seen to be outstanding.
So far, here’s where I am. I love Canadian films as much for what they aren’t as what they are. They don’t give me what I expect…the simple reaction, the logical plot point, stuff blowing up, either literally or figuratively. Over and over, I see a character make a real, but more subtle or interesting choice. I see the character turn a way I didn’t see coming, but which makes me nod and smile. Not because it’s happy, necessarily, but because it seems so right.
The other thing they have in common is a certain gentle sensibility. No, that sounds weak, and it’s not that. It’s more like dignity. Self-respect that extends outward. I know, Canadians are supposed to be nice and polite, whatever. What I'm seeing is not as simple as that. What happens in these stories is often not so nice, but there’s a civility --- an underlying construct of expectations and behaviors --- baked into the bad stuff. Even maybe exploited …to serve the bad stuff.
I get this from moments, not themes. The plots are about the end of the world, homophobia, loneliness, murder, punk rock angst, culture clashes, sick sick bastards, diamond heists and suicide. It’s not about what happens, it’s about how it happens. I see it in little moments and big ones.
Whole New Thing. Don Grant is a middle school teacher. He has been very sweetly strong-armed into meeting a new student at his home, which is way off the beaten path. In the middle of winter. To get to the house from his car, Don has to walk a distance in a snowstorm. When the mom opens the door to Don, he is white - frozen, eyebrows crusted with snow. He says, brightly, “Sorry I’m late.” And I think he means it.
I also love this movie for not giving me the ending I expected (feared!). Despite Don’s earnest and honorable attempts to do the right thing, circumstances make him look really bad. But there’s no scandal or tragedy. It’s a more real, more satisfying ending than that. Don’s steadfast kindness was sort of a gamble, and it paid off.
Last Night. The world is going to end at midnight. Sandra wants only to get home to her husband. They will spend this last evening together and then shoot each other in the head as the world ends. But Sandra can’t get to her husband or even call him. She needs a car. She meets Patrick, who agrees to help.
They visit Patrick’s friend, Craig, who has three cars; one of them was Patrick’s before he gave it to Craig. They ask for the car so that Sandra can see her husband for the last time. Craig says, “No.” Hilariously. He says he wants to die, a man with three cars. “It’s part of my…thing.”
I’m an American and I watch mostly American movies, so you know what I’m thinking? She has a gun! In fact, she has two guns! Is there a more desperate situation than this? It’s the end of the world! Patrick might not agree to threaten his friend, but Sandra doesn’t know Craig at all. It would be easy. Craig’s not looking for trouble; he’s wearing sandals.
But Sandra keeps saying things like, “Patrick, let’s go. We can’t force him, ok?” (I’m sorry, what?) “Let’s go….It’s fine.” To Craig: “I’m sorry we had to interrupt your last day.”
But Patrick argues and pleads until Craig gives in. At midnight, Craig dies, a man with two cars.
Picture Claire. I think Laramie is the most delightful killer since Martin Blank. The yummiest misogynist psycho you’d ever want to meet. And part of that is his…way. Look, I don’t like violence. I especially don’t like knowing that a character is going to die. But every time Laramie’s on screen, I’m kinda grinning. It’s not the fear and foreboding center of my mind that’s lighting up. It’s the part for 500-thread-count comforters and a buttery chardonnay.
This is not to say that it’s not an effective performance, it is. This guy is fucked. Up. He hates women. It’s very clear and real and specific, and I love the way it punches through his veneer at odd times, or when he’s just lost his patience. But he’s sort of a…connoisseur of hate and violence.
A lot of the fun is in his unexpected manner. He’s a very quiet, playful and polite killer. Until the rage and violence burst through, he’s all funny turns of phrase, conspiratorial smiles and mild shakes of the head. He’s smooth, he’s silky, he’s analytical. Sometimes bouncy. Mesmerizing and fun. And then he kills ya.
You can’t really get this from the written word, but let’s try. In this scene, Laramie needs information from a shopkeeper about his missing operative, Eddie.
Laramie to a shopkeeper, and very softly indeed: “If you know Eddie, you know that…well, I hope you don’t mind if I speak frankly…Eddie likes to befriend a certain class of girl. The kind who likes to carry a briefcase and change out of her (laughs) fucking tennis shoes when she gets to work.”
Shopkeeper: “…If you’re not buying or selling, you can clear out.”
Laramie: (long pause) “Well that’s a shame.” (to his colleague, Culver) “Wait in the car.”
Culver: “Me?”
Laramie: “I always think it best not to have a witness.”
Culver: “No, I’ll stay.”
Laramie: “As you like.”
Off camera, Laramie kills the shopkeeper.
Later, Laramie is on the wrong end of a gun, held by Lily, who is pretty sure he’s come to kill her. Lily has him cold, at about eight feet. Laramie disarms Lily with a well-practiced speech, designed to make women put guns down. Lily puts the gun down.
Wilby Wonderful. Duck McDonald interrupts Dan Jarvis’ attempt to commit suicide by throwing himself off a bridge. (Dan, not Duck. Off the bridge. Never mind.) Duck knows why --- it’s because Dan’s about to be outed as a gay man who has visited an area of town frequented by gay men looking for anonymous sex. Duck knows this because he’s been there too. Duck watches Dan drive away from the bridge. For the most of the movie, Duck quietly looks for Dan. Duck is right to be worried. Dan is, in fact, trying to kill himself in various ways.
When Duck finds Dan, at a motel, he doesn’t approach until Dan leaves his room. They go back inside. Duck makes it clear to Dan that he’s not alone in his struggle and then, very gently, makes romantic advances. Dan declines. Duck leaves the motel room and watches from his truck. Dan comes out and drives away. Duck watches him go. The young girl who happens to be in Duck’s truck at that point asks him, “Do you wanna go say hi?” Duck says, “No, tried that.”
Why doesn’t Duck confront Dan more directly? He could be, and is, trying to kill himself at every opportunity. Isn’t there some kind of intervention that could happen here? Why does Duck let Dan drive away to (as it turns out) a more successful suicide attempt? Well…that would be rude, I guess. Or Duck intuits that it would scare him off, make things worse. Duck doesn’t do or say anything to Dan that he might find uncomfortable. When he feels that he’s approaching that line, he steps back.
As it turns out, Duck is right. Duck’s meeting with Dan does the trick. Gives him hope. He decides not to hang himself at the very last second, but a broken chair conspires to finish the job. Waking up in the hospital, Dan is relieved to be alive, because of Duck.
I could go on. (And on. I didn’t even get to Falling Angels or Flower & Garnet?) Of course American films have polite, restrained, graceful and surprising moments --- lots of them. But I find the Canadians so compelling somehow. Maybe because they craft such beautiful character pieces that make me care a little more, make me see the characters so clearly that I love them despite their flaws. Or maybe it’s just that all the small, unexpected turns make me lean in a little closer, pay better attention. Maybe there’s just a texture to them that I can’t quite put into words yet.
Anyway, here’s my spin. Real doesn’t have to mean ugly or blunt. Cynicism is so tired, so 20th Century. Canadians are too cool for that. Do yourself a favor and rent something from up north.
Thank you kindly.