War Is Over (?)

I only knew Billy Bishop‘s name -the fact he was a World War One ace flying pilot, the fact was Canadian. I didn’t know anything else. Lessons learned in grade nine history have long since faded and all that’s left are the names, really. If you put a photo of Bishop in front of me, I probably wouldn’t recognize him.

Eric Peterson
and John Gray take this into account. Their 1978 theatrical work, Billy Bishop Goes To War, has something for both the history buffs and the ignoramuses -it’s educational and simultaneously entertaining, engrossing, and deeply moving. Peterson, best-known among a generation of Canadians for his television work (on shows like Street Legal, and more recently, Corner Gas), has always done theatre, as he told me recently. Toronto’s Soulpepper has snagged him, fortunately, to be in a number of their show this season -including a devastating turn as the super-desperate Shelley Levene in Glengarry Glen Ross this past winter, and a befuddled, mourning uncle in Of the Fields Lately. Last year he was the menacing, coolly cruel patriarch in The Company Theatre‘s production of Festen.

So Peterson isn’t just the cutesy-grumpy guy you might know from television -the guy has range. He is also a wonderfully engrossing performer. For the length of Billy Bishop’s running time (over two hours, with one intermission), he, along with just the accompaniment and occasional narration of co-creator John Gray, weaves a compelling, fascinating portrait of a multi-layered man nearly forgotten in the sands of time.

Billy Bishop (for those of you who’ve forgotten your history lesson) was one of the most decorated Canadian soldiers of the First World War. A classic screw-up at home (in school and in life), Bishop was shipped overseas when he was conscripted. He started out in the cavalry, and eventually soared -literally and figuratively -as a member of the Royal Air Force, and is credited with an astounding 72 in-air victories. The piece aptly expresses Bishop’s doubts -in himself, his mission, his superiors -and Peterson is effective in conveying the nervous energy of a man at odds with himself and his times. He also neatly portrays the growing contradictions within Bishop’s personality: the bloodthirsty hero of the sky, versus the awkward, goofy Canuck kid.

My seatmate, who is in the army reserves, was in awe at the combined efforts of Gray and Peterson to weave a compelling, moving story out of such simple elements, as was I; with just a few trunks (marked from the locales the show’s played in), as well as toy planes, an armchair, some old photos, an army uniform and a piano, the pair magically transport the audience to the interior of a man at odds with himself and his place in history. Gray provides some nice low-tech sound effects -heavily breathing into his mic at points, pounding out morose-sounding chords at others -while Peterson demonstrates Bishop’s incredible airborne feats through sheer physicality, standing on the arms of his easy chair, arms aloft. What makes the piece particularly interesting is the fact it skips between time periods, allowing for an elastic understanding of history and our place in it. When the show first starts, Peterson and Gray come out, ostensibly as themselves, taking bows, but with the former dressed in pajamas and slippers, it’s as if Peterson is aware he’s playing Bishop reflecting back on his life -and on a younger self (actor and serviceman) most of us can relate to -medals or not.

Billy Bishop Goes To War
is more than a simple history lesson; it’s a meditation on the nature of conflict, within and without, on the idea of freedom, intimate and epic, on the terrain of country, physical and emotional. Together with director Ted Dykstra, Eric Peterson and John Gray have crafted a moving, memorable piece of theatre that moves far beyond names, and yet, I came away with a whole new appreciation of Billy Bishop, and indeed, of Canadian history. Bravo.

Sex Advice? Ask Grandma

I smiled when I saw this:

The description had worried me somewhat; would it be patronizing? Idiotic? Mean-spirited? Would it make this poor grandmother look ridiculous and outdated in a “pooh pooh, look at my granny” way? Turns out, none of the above is applicable. This is a loving, respectful tribute, and indeed, very playful… dare I say frisky.

I grew up not knowing either set of my grandparents, so I tend to live vicariously through other peoples’ -in person, or, in this case, online. Believe it or not, this would be just the type of thing I’d want to discuss with my baba. Absolutely love it. Well done.

Totally unrelated: I just came home from watching Billy Bishop Goes To War, with Eric Peterson and John Gray. J’adore. More tomorrow. Segue: I’m sure their grandmothers -Bishop’s included -would have more than a few interesting, playful insights to share. Who knows, perhaps they did… really, there must be a play in this somewhere.

Making Time

Work work work work work work work.

That’s all I’ve really been up to the last little while. I’m fortunate that I adore what I do, though I’m still navigating the for-work/just-fun bleed-overs that inevitably occur when one loves the arts, and happens to report and write on them.

This past week, I read, with great interest, the increasing rarity of freelancers taking vacations, which was good timing, considering I’d been thinking the exact same thing for months now. The last time I took a real, honest-to-God, non-working vacation, was 2002. Yikes. While I love stay-cations -and lord knows they’re getting to be the norm now -I am hungering to go away. I love what I do, I love the people I get to interact with, but… I just want to turn off the mind (and the computer) for a while and re-connect with the stuff that inspired me to go into arts reporting in the first place.

Yesterday I rang up a friend. We’d talked about going to the Art Gallery of Ontario’s Surrealism exhibit the last time we’d brunched, which was in… eeek, May.

“We said we should go when it was opening, “she mused, “and now it’s going to be ending!” Yes, ridiculous.

Sp we both agreed to make the time to get together and go art-ying.

Making time -for friends, for art, for life and for one’s self -is so vital these days.
It’s getting harder and harder to do, and yet it as the days and weeks rush by, it becomes more and more important.

I may not be able to up and take off for the month-long break I’m hankering after (but Eastern Europe, I hope to see you in the spring). So, in lieu of that, I’m hoping to make time -for friends, family, art, me -amidst the rush this week. Walking, workouts, lunch, coffee, painting, drawing, and, would you believe, writing -the kind I have been doing now and again, just for me. I want to make time for the things and the people I care about -now, more than ever, crappy summer weather be damned.

For now, back to work.

Oh yeah: featured painting is by favourite artist and mondo-personal inspiration Louis Le Brocquy. I plan on seeing his work in-person someday in the near future, and not merely spread across my laptop’s screen. Yes indeed… I’ll make the time.

He Understood. He Really Did.

This is turning into the summer my youth died.

First, my favourite singer as a child passed away last month, and now comes word my favourite filmmaker as a teen is gone.

John Hughes died today at the far-too-young age of 59. Filmgoers of a certain age and generation will remember him for classics like The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful, Planes, Trains and Automobiles, and Weird Science. he also wrote or co-wrote the hugely successful Home Alone series.

Hughes was the man behind two of my favourite films: Pretty In Pink and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I felt a real kinship with the awkward misfits and gawkish outsiders that populated Hughes’ world. He was a champion of the underdog, but not in a patronizing, grossly over-moralizing way. Some of his characters -and lines -may have veered into cartoon territory at points, but those of us who went off to our local mall cinemas back then didn’t care; Hughes spoke for us through Andie and Ducky, and Ferris and Cameron.

As an entirely-non-confident teen girl, I especially appreciated his casting of Molly Ringwald in so much of his work; while pretty, she wasn’t model-esque and perfect in appearance, and she never came off for a minute as being pretentious. She seemed… awkward and unsure, kind of like me, still feeling her way into her own physicality and personality. Her portrayal -as well as the writing -of Andie in Pretty In Pink was spot-on when it came to exploring the crap of being the lone daughter of a single parent with limited resources. I could relate to Andie’s embarrassment at where she lived, her awkwardness going after the rich boy, her pain in missing an absent parent, and her exhileration in moments where self-expression triumphed. It was simply a wonderful film for me, and a real moment that marked my path through youth-dom.

Then, of course, there was Ferris Bueller. The character -indeed the film -was a radical departure for Hughes’ style, in that it portrayed a popular teen -someone who came from the supposed “right” side of the tracks, who was well-liked, and generally set up to be hugely successful in life -going about his day avoiding the drudgeries of school. It played like a teen fantasy, with an air of high-class awesomeness I still adore: Ferris, Sloan and Cameron take a classic Ferrari to downtown Chicago, where they go to the Art Institute of Chicago (where, among other works, they admire Seurat’s famous painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte in the process), visit the stock exchange, have lunch in a super-posh restaurant and join a street parade. Not too many teens have tastes that sophisticated (I did, natch -which made Ferris that much more awesome to me. I half-expected a scene in which he went to the opera!).

Ferris is wise beyond his years, bored of the high school scene, bored with unchallenging work, and eager to challenge the impotent idiocy he sees surrounding him. Sure, there is a huge streak of nihilism to Ferris… but there’s something incredibly likeable about him too. He’s faithful to his friends. He’s willing to take the fall. He probably did marry Sloan. And he probably sang in many more parades. The sheer joyousness with which Ferris approaches life is awesome. No wonder Cameron says “he can do anything…”. Yeah dude. That’s the point. Now go do it yourself, the movie -indeed, Hughes’ career -urged. Go. You’re you, that’s awesome, go.

There’s something fabulously celebratory about Hughes’ work, a quality I still find captivating, even now, more than twenty years after seeing his work for the first time. His observations, written and directed from a teen point of view, were unique for the moment, and so tied to a specific time and place. But like a lot of good art, they’re also timeless. Like many today, I feel like I’m mourning a friend. And I’m mourning the man who understood what it was like to be a teenager. He really got it. There will never be another John Hughes. Thank you, sir.

I do have a test today. That wasn’t bullshit.
It’s on European socialism.
I mean really, what’s the point?
I’m not European. I don’t plan on being European.
Who gives a crap if they’re socialists?
They could be fascists anarchists.
It wouldn’t change the fact I don’t own a car.
-Ferris Bueller

Isn’t It Ironic… No Really, It Is.

I think even Russell Smith would agree that there was a more than a fair share of irony at work this week in Ottawa. Prime Minister Stephen Harper and his new cabinet posed before a huge work of art, done by one of Canada’s best and most recognized artists, Norval Morrisseau. I don’t doubt the appreciation some Conservatives (or politicians of other parties) might have for the work, but to have Harper sitting in the front row, grinning beside Governor-General Michaelle Jean, was quite funny.

You might recall Harper’s mid-election statement referring to artists and their galas, and equating culture with elitism. Hmm. Well it made for a nice photo anyway. Adding to the irony (or just plain absurdity) is 1/ the fact that Morrisseau was a native artist (and, um, you may recall what happened with the Kelowna accord after Harper and the Conservatives were voted in in 2006); 2/ the title of said painting is called Androgyny (and most people are aware of the Conservatives’ stand on gay marriage, right?). I don’t mean to draw lines where there aren’t any -it simply gives one (or me) food for thought.

I’m happy to see this painting being so prominently displayed for all Canadians to enjoy, and frankly, I’m glad Mme. Jean brought it to the House. I’m even more proud to see the most recently voted-in government standing before it. I hope they turned around afterwards and had a good look. Art isn’t merely decorative. In Norval Morrisseau’s case, it was his life.

Yummy Humpday

No sooner had I posted a blog mentioning the Gladstone Hotel’s Harvest Wednesdays’ Tasting Evenings than I received an invite for one of their HW prix fixe meals. Aww! May the wonders of the web never cease! (Note to publicists who think the web isn’t legit media: think again.)

Set in the hotel’s casually-grandiose left-side bar & dining area, the meal was what I’d consider a culmination of the tasting evening I’d experienced a few weeks back. That is to say that it was full-service, full-size meals, instead of little tidbits on trays, with everything inspired by locally-grown ingredients and seasonal availability. the Gladstone Hotel is actively involved with Chick-a-Biddy Acres, an organization devoted to community-shared agriculture, as well as a number of other local, sustainable, organically-minded businesses.

Now, I’d had a very long day, and had recently come from a tiring dance class. Frankly -and I know this will be shocking for some of you to read -I’d been too busy yesterday (and indeed most of this week) to sit down to a proper, adult meal. For me, that’s tantamount to sacrilege. I love eating, and I love cooking, and I’ve not made time for either much of late. So I was really craving a good, balanced, decent adult meal -the sorts of life-giving qualities only such an experience can provide. Greater than merely satisfying a physical need, but providing nourishment to a spiritual one as well. I’m happy to report that is exactly what Chef Marc Breton and his team gave me. Mmmm.

The meal kicked off with two starts -the first, a yummy vegetarian wrap with tofu, veggies, and mint. Its combination of crunch and soft was sensuously satisfying, and the cider-maple and mustard dip that accompanied it wasn’t too overpowering but provided a sweet zing that complemented the bland smoothness of the tofu (organic and non-GMO, provided by Ying Ying Soy Foods, the menu tells me). It was the lightest, most fresh kind of appetizer, the perfect palette-prep for the heavier qualities of the second appetizer, a delicious zuccini salad. Its gorgeous feathery courgettes -green and yellow -were sliced paper-thin and ribboned like feathery jewels against buttery pieces of Niagara prosciutto (yum) and the lot was lightly dressed with a chive-yogurt concoction that wound its way around the tongue slowly, counterbalancing rich and light simultaneously.

For the main course, there was a choice of Eggplant and Mozzarella Croquettes with new potatoes and ramps, or Arctic Char with potato/chard gallettes. I don’t get enough fish in my diet, so I opted for the latter, but was a bit shocked when it was brought, head and all, to the table. I know, I know, the head attached is a sign of freshness, blahblahblah. But fishhead-whilst-dining-at-the-end-of-a-long-day is where my squeamish girlie-hood becomes obvious. I demurely sliced said head onto a sideplate and turned it round, allowing my dinner companion to be given the char-stare through her own meal. Lucky her.

The fish, sustainably farmed by Jim Giggie in Tottenham, Ontario (again, the menu tells me so), was utterly gorgeous: moist, flaky, succulent and sweet. It sat in a wonderfully unctuous sorrel beurre blanc that proved the perfect swampy pool in which to soak, sop and greedily devour the accompanying crispy galettes. But carby flights of fancy aside, the char was the real star. If I could find fish like this anywhere, at any given time, I might eat more of it. Sides were shared -a heaping plate of lemon-glazed steamed veg, including broccoli, carrots, green beans and baby beets -all luscious in their colourful freshness and delicate shapes (though I confess to wishing for more of the latter). The song I heard upon consuming said piece of Arctic char was my happy, previously-very-hungry tummy singing.

Just when I thought I couldn’t eat another bite, dessert glasses filled with moist Blackforest Trifle were presented, complete with sour cherries on top and luscious layers of real whipped cream. Gorgeous, if very rich, especially after the fish. The prior dishes -two appetizers, plus amuse bouches beforehand -were well-stacked so as to be just satisfying enough for the healthy indulgence of the main course; our appetites sated, serving such a sweet, Fredericks-Of-Hollywood-style piece at the finish seemed a bit askew. But what do I know? I’m not a dessert person. It was a tasty little treat, and went nicely with my pinot gris, part of the flight of wines I ordered to pair with each course. Starting off was a Pellar Estates Rose Private Reserve VQA, then Flatrock Chardonnay (again VQA) to match the fish, and finally the Flat Rock Pinot Noir (VQA) to finish. Each was a really well-chosen match that provided me with another avenue in my ever-growing mental city of foodie-ism, even if I’m not sure it’ll make me a fan of Niagara wines in the longrun.

The Gladstone is holding their yummy Harvest Wednesday prix fixe dinners nearly every Wednesday through to October. They’re $35 -which is super-cheap considering a/ it’s Queen West; b/ it’s all ethical, so you can feel good about yourself for eating it, & c/ you get a whacking heap of beautifully-prepared, lovingly-grown/raised food. Oh, and it’s a really lovely atmosphere too -no loud blaring music or bustling atmosphere, but rather, a calm, soothing room with warm wooden flourishes and flickering tealights. Chef Marc Breton even comes around later to chat. Aww. Talk about the perfect way to end a frenzied hump-day.

Lately… An Interview


Here’s my video interview with playwright David French. It was a real honour to speak with him -I’ve been a fan of his work for literally decades. Enjoy!

Try This (or this)

I’ve been so busy over the past few weeks, I haven’t been updating as much as I’d like. And I can’t blame the weather, because summer seems to have generally missed much of the country. Still, here are a few ideas for things that have been inspiring me lately:

1. Sundays @ the Young -Started by Albert Schultz when he announced his Resident Artists back in December, the series of Sunday shows is a nice, classy mix of urban sounds and crunchy Canadiana.

I attended this past Sunday’s tribute to Gordon Lightfoot, which featured the talents of Patricia O’Callaghan, Gregory Hoskins, Andrew Craig, Miranda Mulholland, Lori Cullen, and others, all under the direction of actor/musician Mike Ross. “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” was a real highlight, with a swampy, Raising Sand-esque vibe, and the sight/sound of the feisty, gorgeous Mulholland belting out “That’s What You Get For Lovin’ Me” was just… excellent (Lightfoot’s work definitely takes on a whole new spirit when his words are sung by women!). Actor Kenneth Welsh, currently acting in Soulpepper’s production of the David French play Of The Fields Lately, joined the musicians, offering his own rousing, passionate interpretations of Gordie’s work.

If this concert is anything to go by, the series -running through to mid-August -should be sizzling. Oh, and one more thing: this is just the kind of proper, adult entertainment I happen to really like for a Sunday afternoon. Good music, beautiful surroundings, and easy access to nice bars. Well done, YC.

2. Harvest Wednesdays at the Gladstone Hotel -I was initially a bit nervous about attending a Tasting Wednesday. Would it be full of hippie farmers wagging fingers at me for eating meat and wearing leather? or populated by urban foodie snobs rolling their eyes over the latest resto reviews? Turns out I was wrong on both accounts.

While the Gladstone’s beautiful second floor did, indeed feature hippie farmers and in-the-know foodies, everyone was super-friendly, informed, and extremely helpful. The crowd was a nice mix of old and young, urban, suburban, and rural -everyone was interested in talking, connecting, and sharing ideas over plate-fulls of fresh veggies and glasses of wine or beer. The vibe was refreshingly relaxed, if also equally curious. There was a live two-man band playing good roots-style music, and there were plenty of smiling faces in every room.

Now, what exactly is Harvest Wednesdays? Well, exactly what it implies. No, they don’t make you go into a yard on Queen West and pick berries or husk corn. Rather, every Wednesday features either a tasting (monthly) or a prix fixe meal (three consecutive weeks), with a spotlight on local growers and seasonal ingredients. On the night I attended, Chef Marc Breton’s menu consisted of lovely little nibblies served by chatty, friendly servers who walked around and offered their edible wares to people who were perusing and interacting with food producers of all stripes spreading across the rooms on the hotel’s second floor space. My favourite tastings: lamb meatballs and sausages, + dessert crepes made with red fife and filled with strawberries and lavender-rhubarb cream. Mmmm.

Tasting Wednesdays are a great way to meet and connect with other casual foodies, as well as with those who grow the food (and sometimes feature their own neat foodie evenings!). Also, to quote a friend I met up with the next day, “it seems like a really nice, fun, adult thing to do during the week.” Yes! And delicious too!

(Photo courtesy of the Gladstone Hotel’s Flickr Photostream)

3. Amadou and MariamThe Magic Couple -I love this album. I wish I’d seen them live when they were here in Toronto. Bah. The Malian pair are currently the opening musical act for a little band called Coldplay. Chris Martin & co. are not the only famous fans they have, though. Keith Richards and Robert Plant are also fans. If you’re into blues sounds -heck, if you just plain love rock and roll – you’ll love Amadou amd Mariam. Their best-of compilation is the perfect introduction to their work. I dare you to listen to “Beki Miri” without dancing.

(Photo courtesy of Wrasse Records)

4. The Beaches Jazz Festival – Now in its 25th year (eeek, I’m getting old), the big outdoor music party officially kicked off this past Friday. I interviewed rapper PHATT Al from the band God Made Me Funky and will be seeing them play live this Thursday along Queen Street East. As with Amadou and Mariam, if you haven’t seen/heard GMMF play -especially live- this is one show to put on your calendar. Their infectious brand of fusion-funk, with traceable influences of Stevie Wonder, Grandmaster Flash, and of course, George Clinton, is ideal music for chasing away the clouds, be they mental or physical.

5. I still haven’t found a book to satisfy. I’m looking for fiction, in the vein of Miriam Toews-meets-Nicole Krauss-esque. Anyone have suggestions?

Literary Ennui

Amidst the busy times of the past few weeks, I find I’ve been craving an old friend: a good book. Not only do I miss the act of reading (it’s the perfect excuse for getting away from the too-addictive computer), I miss the magical, enthralling spell that’s cast by the pull of a wonderful book. In no particular order, I felt this inimitable tug of magic over the following works:

Divisadero, by Michael Ondaatje. I generally love anything Ondaatje -I think of him as a poet who happens to write novels. Every time I see him out publicly at an event or opening, we exchange little smiles. I’m sure he’s used to people (okay, women) swooning over his work. No one tells a story (or indeed, reads their own work) the way he does. Beautiful, magical, breathtaking -just a few words to describe his work, and indeed, the wonderous rapture I was sent into reading Divisadero. I read it in four days.

The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss. I hadn’t realized when I picked this up that Krauss is the spouse of another of my favourite authors, Jonathan Safran Foer (more on him below). This is only her second work, but it packed a huge wallop. I read it when I got back from my last trip to Hungary in 2006; it turned out to be the last time I saw my father. Reading Krauss’ work, about family, community, memory, but most of all, love, was an emotional trip of the highest order, and yet one of the most solemn, quiet experiences too. I remember not wanting to finish it, and purposely limiting how much I would read at once. I cried when I did finally finish it. Magnificent.

Extremely Close And Incredibly Loud, Jonathan Safran Foer. Like Krauss’ book (above), Foer’s work involves the interactions of kids and adults, in sometimes-scary, sometimes-confusing situations. The brilliance of the work, and what really struck me when I read it, was the way Foer used words on the page, and the design of a book itself, to facilitate telling his story. It wasn’t just words; it was images. Typeface was used as narrative at points. And this cleverness was never an end in itself, either -the book has a huge, wonderful beating heart. Again, cried when I finished it. Tried reading his earlier work, Everything Is Illuminated, but just couldn’t get into it. Alas.

The Curious Incident of the Dog In the Night-time, Mark Haddon. Another book involving a curious child. Maybe it’s an unconscious attraction on my part (some kind of scratching at innocence?), but this book, like Foer’s and Krauss’, deeply touched a nerve -or several -in me. The outright vulnerability of its main character, a brilliant, autistic boy, and the way he views the world -including his bickering parents, and a murdered neighbour’s dog -is gorgeous, heartbreaking, and enthralling. I motored through it in a week.

The Flying Troutmans, Miriam Toews. Two kids travel across North America with their loopy aunt to find their father. Sounds a bit like a sitcom, right? Well it’s better than that. Sure, it’s laugh-out-loud hilarious (which I actually did, at points, do) but it’s also utterly heartbreaking at points, unsettling at others, and always shot through with Toews gorgeous blend of wry observation and loving care. To borrow a Blakean phrase, I love the mix of innocence and experience in this work, which I read in about five days. I interviewed Toews for this too, which was a huge treat.

Atonement, Ian McEwan. Okay, maybe there’s a theme here; this one involves children too, specifically the grand lie told by one malicious little girl, who grows to be absolutely tormented by it. No, I didn’t see the movie. Like many people who adore the original book version, I was worried it wouldn’t live up to my imagination (how could it, really? Can any book? Ah, that’s another blog… ). McEwan’s tale of family, memory, responsibility, and again, love, is deeply haunting. I love it when a book stays with me -and Atonement was floating around my consciousness for weeks after I’d finished it. That’s a mark of its greatness.

But, after riffling through my basement, with boxes full of books still unpacked from my time living in Stratford, as well as numerous bookshelves all around the house lined with works, I still haven’t found something to pique my curiosity or passion. And I’m absolutely craving a wonderful, enthralling, delicious read. I’m not a “summer book” kind of girl. Yes, I went through the Sophie Kinsella phase… but that’s over now. And I’m seeking a proper meal of a book. The rediscovery/embrace of my gypsy past has me leaning towards a good fictional tale that incorporates real-life elements of that culture, but I’m open to ideas. Anyone have suggestions? Bueller?

Sound + Vision

I spent a busy day conducting interviews, for both radio and video.

First up, interviews related to upcoming Fringe productions. The sheer range of works on offer this year is incredible -everything from Moliere to improv is on offer, taking in topics as vast as school violence and interpersonal relating.

I also spoke with folks from Driftwood and Clay and Paper Theatre Companies, respectively, about their upcoming works. There’s so much going on in the city this summer, it’s overwhelming. My advice? Go with whatever hits your heart and stirs your curiosity. Just make sure you tune in. ;-}

Radio Interview Schedule:

Between Sea & Sky

–Krista Dalby, Assistant Artistic Director, Clay and Paper Theatre, June 30th

The Sicilian
–Nicolas Billon, adapter + Lee Wilson, director –Fringe Festival, July 1st

Brother, Can You Spare Some Pants?
–The Williamson Playboys (Paul Bates + Doug Morency), performers –Fringe Festival, July 2nd

Lockdown
–Leonie Forbes, performer –Fringe Festival, July 3

Shades in Bloom
–Gemma Wilcox –Fringe Festival, July 6th

King Lear/The Comedy of Errors
–The Bard’s Bus Tour -Jeremy Smith, Artistic Director, Driftwood Theatre Company, July 8th.

All radio interviews are broadcast on CIUT‘s morning show, Take 5, which airs Monday to Friday, 8am to 10amET. As well as arts stuff, the show features really good live music and cool conversations with local newsmakers.

Now, onto the video. There are many more coming up in the next few weeks, but you can find the latest one here.

I really don’t understand why Odets isn’t performed more. When it’s done right (as in this production, by Soulpepper, on now) it’s really, really beautiful, and extraordinarily moving.

Also: William Webster was the greatest King Lear I have ever seen. Ever. He was wonderful in Awake & Sing! too -he really broke my heart in the best way. Oh, & is also a truly lovely person. It was a treat to speak with him and Miles Potter, whose work I have admired for so very, very long. The chance to speak with so many people I admire is sometimes… overwhelming. I mean, today I interviewed David French. Gosh, I love my job.

Enjoy the vid. More to come in the next wee while.

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