RIP Andy Rhodes: actor, musician, writer, madman

Lani just called; our dear friend Andy Rhodes has just died in Vancouver, aged about 74. Andy was one of a kind, a writer and musician with a wild sense of humour and enormous talent; an obstreperous guy, too. Lan and I met him in 1975 when we were touring the Kootenays in B.C. with a Vancouver theatre troupe. Andy, a draft dodger, had built himself a geodesic dome near New Denver and was one of the Valhallelujah Rangers, named after the Valhalla mountain range, who wrote skits and played music; they all came to see our show. This tall lanky lunatic and I had a little affair and he invited me back to New Denver to work with the Rangers, which I did in one of the grand adventures of my life. We were a big group living communally above the Legion in a large open space that had no running water; we bathed in Slocan Lake. We put together a show and toured B.C. prisons and old folks homes in a van that had no second gear. Andy and I played a flute duet as two musicians who hated each other and as they played, kept trying to stab each other with their flutes. 

That was as close to hippiedom as I got. Should point out, in passing, that all these troupes were paid with government LIP and OFY grants. In those days, grasshopper, the government paid young people to make art. Impossible to imagine now. 

Andy moved to Vancouver to become an actor. Lani got us yet another grant, and Andy, Lani, and I, with several others, formed Acme Theatre, which mostly wrote its own shows, except for the infamous El Grande de Coca Cola. Andy had a tempestuous affair with Lan for a time, as he did with most of the actresses in Vancouver, though it wasn't a surprise he ended up alone. He had a number of successful gigs, but things eventually got tough for him; he returned to the Kootenays and his dome for some years, and then back to Vancouver, to PAL. Hard to believe such a high octane man developed dementia, but he did, with several good friends, especially Simon Webb, helping to care for him. 

Thank you for your exuberant talent, Andy, your marvellous humour and musicality and mad, mad ideas. You'll be missed. 

The Hours: Metropolitan Opera in HD, and Lizzo

Quite the week in culture consuming, as a friend pointed out: the ballet, the new Sarah Polley film, and yesterday The Hours, a new opera based on the Michael Cunningham book and subsequent film of the same name, linking Virginia Woolf and her Mrs. Dalloway with one day in the lives of two other women living at different times.

What an impossible thing to make into an opera. And yet it works, as shown in the Met Opera Live in HD production at my local Cineplex. One of the best innovations ever: great theatre and opera in cinemas. Without the excitement of a live show, but a bike ride away with closeups and interviews with the performers and production teams, and much, much cheaper. 

This one stars three of the world's best singers: Renée Fleming, Joyce DiDonato, and Kelli O'Hara, all with superb voices but also excellent acting skills. My criticisms - you knew this was coming, right? - were that it was over-produced, with a vast chorus in the background often flailing about reading books or waving flowers, and more importantly, that the music, especially for the two sopranos (Joyce is a mezzo), sometimes sounded monotonously the same, in the same register. 

But mostly, it was daring and affecting, about the horrors of depression, the struggle to make art, and love of many different kinds. "Here is the world, and you live in it," they sing together at the end, "and you try to be. And you try and you try..."

My friend Curtis thought it was brilliant, a triumph. It succeeded in doing what art is for. Touching our souls and enabling us to feel the bliss of being alive. 

Well put, Curtis. Doesn't get better than that.

I raced home to put the chicken in the oven and mash the potatoes, because two of my oldest friends, Jessica and Suzette, were coming for dinner. We go back fifty-five years. Doesn't get better than that. Incidentally, that's not us, above, that's the sopranos. 

A pretty snowfall today. I shovelled but otherwise stayed in, to devour a fridge full of leftovers. Danced with Nicky, read, worked, wrote to you, and another day vanished.

There's an opera in the too-fast passing of time. Let's sing. 

Speaking of singing, in case you missed it, the spectacular Lizzo did a wonderful thing during the People's Choice Awards, inviting a big group of women activists of all backgrounds and causes onstage with her to be recognized. BRAVA to her and to them all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIq87Q4DL0g

Ben McNally's new store, and a Canadian woman you should know about

Yesterday, rode to Ben McNally's new bookstore. His store on Bay Street was elegant and spacious, but he and his wonderful team have been wandering in the desert since before Covid. Now, finally, he's landed on Queen St. East. It's a rough section of town but a lovely tranquil space, unfinished right now but beautiful, perfectly curated, full of deliciousness. 

I was there to pick up my friend Karin Wells's new book, More Than a Footnote: Canadian women you should know. Karin was a roommate in my first apartment in 1968 and in 1970 became a professional actor at the same time. I bought her book not only because I admire her as a broadcaster and writer, but because she dedicated the book to my daughter Anna, among others. She told me she'd heard a great deal about Anna's activism and generosity and wanted to be sure she was included as one of the young "Canadian women you should know." Proud mama here.

Otherwise, discouraged. I received a contract from a magazine, and have to say, it's an appalling piece of work, asking that I sign away everything except my first-born child. As if it's not hard enough to get writing out into the world, we have to deal with greed and bullying in contracts. So — that venue may be gone.

And I'm dealing with the other, where there are issues of copyright. Sometimes I wonder why I didn't go into something solid, like dentistry.

No I don't. But still. 

Women Talking: a triumph

Yesterday was a very good day that ended with a spectacular treat: a showing of Sarah Polley's film Women Talking at TIFF as a guest of my friend Eleanor, who afterward interviewed Polley and Miriam Toews, the writer of the book. 

The film is a feast, one to see again, a chamber piece set in a hayloft, and it is, yes, women talking — intense, powerful, moving. It's shot in a muted palate, but the performances blaze with truth – phenomenal acting from a fabulous cast, including several stellar Canadian actors among the international superstars. 

It's based on the true story of a Mennonite community in Bolivia where the men drug and rape the women and girls; while the men are briefly away, the women must figure out what to do about their situation. And so they talk. 

So much to love about the film, but I especially appreciated how uncynical and tender is the treatment of the women's faith. They're fervent Christians and often stop to sing hymns together, holding hands. They gather around each other when there's pain or stress. There's a beautiful sequence of boys' faces, the innocent young they hope will not follow the ways of their fathers. The film is stunning. 

Earlier on this terrific day, I had several bits of good news: Toronto Life has accepted an essay to run next spring, and my essay book manuscript may have found a publisher. Substantial rewrites needed for both, particularly the book — how delicious, nothing I love more than editing and rewriting, knowing the words will have a home. It's a rare occurrence. (The key words above are "may have" — nothing definite, nothing signed.)

Midday I was at Carole's class at the Y, where a new exerciser came over to tell me he'd taken my class at Ryerson ten years ago and was thinking of taking it again. And then Sam and Bandit came for a brief visit, so I got to hug my furriest grandson of the floppy ears, who wants to chew everything. He has started his heart medication. 

The negatives — the gridlock, chaos, and congestion of this city downtown, designed to thwart and infuriate its citizens in every conceivable way, just appalling — road work thoughtlessly set up for maximum inconvenience. And then, the victory of Warnock in Georgia was so inconceivably close, when his opponent is barely literate, a profoundly stupid and unethical man, and yet nearly 50% of the voters approved of him. Horrifying.  

But one last treat just before bed - Wordle in two in about a minute. Leapt into a guess of a word using the other vowels with S in the fourth slot, and there it was. Occasionally there are those days when it all works. I relished every moment. 

news re Chris of "Chris Walks," the blog to the left

Some who read my blog also read the blogs to the left, especially those by my dear friend Chris in "Chris Walks." He blogs nearly every day about his astonishing life change from inner-city apartment dweller to lord of half an acre on the Gulf island Gabriola, his beloved pets and garden, his friends, cooking, reading, walks, and new volunteer activities. But he's been silent for days, and we know he has had significant health issues in the past, a cause of great concern.

A few days ago, I wrote to our mutual friend Bruce, who'd also been worried and done some research. There was a power outage on Gabriola a few days ago, and we gather it's still not back on. Internet is out, so no Chris. We assume he'll be back as soon as he can.

A beautiful day yesterday, crisp and bright; Toronto Lynn and I chose a great day to go to Kleinburg for a walk in the woods and then lunch and viewing at the McMichael gallery. A perfect afternoon, in fact: nature, lunch, art, and a little tour through the gift shop.

As lovely in late fall as in summer, no? In its way. We can see the beautiful bones of the deciduous trees. 

In the gallery: an exhibition by Kurelek of Jewish life in Canada - a passover feast in Halifax

A major retrospective of Vancouver's Gathie Falk, associated with ceramic shoes and stacks of lemons, I didn't know she painted - loved this still life bursting with colour

At home, my very own Gathie Falk print, teacups and stars; she donated it as a fundraiser for a Vancouver theatre, my parents bought it, I inherited it. Delicately pretty. 

More sun today. Sam wrote that he just went to pick up his dog's heart medication; on the bottle was printed "Bandit Dobie." The responsibilities of fatherhood. He's learning the hard way.