This space is for film and concert reviews, and just about anything that fits into the arts category. If you've seen an art opening recently that you enjoyed--or hated--or if you want to publicize your band's CD release party --or you want to tell the story of how you once saw k.d. lang down at Olsen's Farm (yes, she used to play there), I invite you to submit it here.

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Celebration of Community at the Thatch

Last Saturday, June 11, was a day to remember. The day began at noon with an opening ceremony by Buddhist monks, with an informal blessing by a pod of orcas who happened to be passing by. The sun came out then, for the first and only time that day. The music was relegated to the indoors due to rain, but that was not a problem, as it turned out.

I can’t be objective, of course, since I participated in three of the bands performing that day. But who needs objectivity? I’ll tell it as I experienced it. The first band of the day was the jazz trio (consisting, of course, of four members), but I didn’t arrive until near the end of their set, so can’t comment. I’m sure it was exemplary jazz, since Dana Inglis, Darryl Bohn and Nick McGowan were involved! I didn’t recognize the guitar player, but what I heard sounded great to me.

Then it was our turn— Peter and I. I was very nervous, since it was our first time performing in quite a while—since last fall, if you don’t count the one open mike we played a few tunes at in late winter. When we walked in the door carrying guitar and drum, we were met by a table of people who seemed glad to see us. “There you are!” one enthused. “We’ve been waiting for you guys!” Naturally, being a modest sort, I assumed they were just being friendly. But after our set, I found out that indeed, they had heard us play before and were fans. Imagine!

So that was a heartwarming beginning to our set, which pretty much rocked, at least from my point of view (did I mention I couldn't be objective?). We received gratifyingly enthusiastic applause and plenty of appreciative commentary afterward—and two different tables of folks saying they want our CD. So that was all good, subjectively and emotionally speaking.

We were followed by a pair of young men from off-island who played an awesome set of bluegrass-influenced rocking mostly original tunes. There was a dinner break, then Melisa DeVost came on and belted out her usual solid set, with some new material and some old. I especially liked “Luxury”, a newish song I’ve heard once or twice, but all of her stuff is wonderful.

Then the second band I’m in, Mo’Fire, played. And that was a true community experience, because it seems like half the community is in the band! There were fifteen members on the floor, more people than were dancing. We had two saxophones, a couple of guitars, several singers and percussionists, and of course bass and drums. Very very fun, and it went over very well. Much much glowing feedback. I got some photos of that set (which will be posted here as soon as I can get rid of the glowing red eyes), but unfortunately, Emma Joy (who took the shots--and many thanks for that) had to leave before the next set, when Kantata (my other other band) played. So no Kantata pics!

Paul Adam and Ken Clark sat in for four of Kantata's songs, which added a whole new dimension to the drums and pumped it up considerably, if the number of people up dancing was any indicator! Thanks, Paul and Ken--let's do more of that. Kantata's drumming was tight and solid, but singing was not our strong point that night... Too bad, because the songs are really beautiful when sung correctly! Due to an unfortunate communication mixup, Peter Cloud Panjoyah was not able to play with us. Our newest member plays tenor marimba with Kantata, and you’ll all get to hear him with us soon, I hope.

And then Prink Insurgency, the punk tsunami, took over and rocked the house. The energy of this young band is incredibly infectious--like the flu, only way more fun! I was feeling wrung-out after playing three sets and working all morning, but as soon as they started playing, my body danced me right into the thick of things. The moshing was not for the faint of heart; I came out of the experience with only one bruise to show for it, but it was a lovely blossom of bluish purple on my upper arm. Still, it was worth it. They just keep getting better. On them, the red eyes look good…

My favourite moment of the night was when Pat (our host and DJ) announced that Prink would be playing one more song, and added “Come on down to the Thatch and question authority!” (He walked into that one). Louis, their new bass player, said (I'm rendering the accent as best I can), “Speaking of aut’ority, we’ve got two more songs. Mebbe t’ree.” And three it was, ending with their classic “Fuck Bush” (the song with the best solos ever). And Zsofin sat in with them for a song--see, she looks good with red eyes (and purple skin...I couldn't resist).

The night was capped for me by being pulled over by a rather friendly and polite police officer; fortunately I’d finished my two free musician drinks early and had been drinking water for the past few hours. And I’d remembered to put my seat belt on for a change. That was my first time being pulled over by the police since… well, since I nearly got a ticket in Washington State two years ago (a whole nother story)! But it was a very benign experience; thanks, Constable Rob.

This experience was a community event on all sorts of levels. So many wonderful people, so many different kinds of music! Thank you to HICEEC for bringing this about.

This was a warmup for the Cortes Island Arts Festival in July, where Peter and I (as TreeRoots Revolution), Kantata and Mo’Fire will all be playing. It’ll be a Hornby away-from-home experience not to be missed. I’ll take pictures...

by Phoenix Wolf-Ray

Film Review: Rory O'Shea Was Here

I’m writing in a state of emotional shock. A movie will do that to me sometimes. I’m talking about “Rory O’Shea Was Here,” the film Gabriel played tonight.

It proved something I’d long suspected. Most movie critics are stupid and shallow. I mean, they just don’t get it. I read the reviews for this film (after seeing it, or I might have been talked right out of going!). They focused on all the wrong things—surface irrelevancies and for the most part (with exceptions) completely missed the heartbeat, the message. But the ones that were quoted to me by my friend who chose to stay home because of their lukewarm nature, were just inaccurate in the nitpicking extreme.

For instance, one critic pointed out that Rory (the only one, at least at first, who could understand Michael, the guy with cerebral palsy) translated out loud what Michael was saying to him even when they were alone together, and sneered at the obvious staged convenience of that ploy. Well, it didn’t happen; once in a while Rory would repeat back what Michael asked, in a natural way, to let Michael know he heard what he had said (I do that sometimes myself), but mostly he simply responded in such a way that what Michael had said could be deduced by the context.

The movie was wonderful. It was heartbreaking. The acting, in particular, was phenomenal. The character Michael had cerebral palsy, and spoke only in almost utterly unintelligible moans (some things could be pieced together), but communicated volumes with his eyes alone, for his face often twisted and contorted in such a way that his expressions could not be read. And the title character had movement only in the index and middle fingers of one hand; he could not even turn his head, just tilt it a little. Yet the actor’s dynamic intensity and passion, conveyed with face and voice alone, made him a more compelling presence than I have seen in a long time.

I’ve watched a lot of movies. I used to do Verne’s job (setting up and cleaning up for film night) for years before I moved away in 1995; I still work there in the summers. I love the movies. And this was a good one. I don’t think there was a dry face in the hall by the end. Oh, if you care more about such things as camera angles and cinematographic tricks, you might find this film formulaic (one critic described it as looking like a film-school exercise). But that has little to do with content. And even though the story fit a formula—‘two misfits against the world, ending in predictable tragedy’—it was the dialogue and characterization that gave the film its oomph, its heart, its profound impact. For me, that was enough. For you (as for most critics who saw it, with the notable exception of Roger Ebert, who also loved Polar Express, and some others as well), it may not be. Oh, well.

Part of the impact for me, as sometimes is the case, was the soundtrack. Yet, a common criticism in the reviews I read was the ‘schmaltzy, sappy soundtrack’. Excuse me? At a peak moment in the film, “Hurt,” a Johnny Cash cover of a Nine-Inch Nails song, played. That’s one of my all-time personal favourite songs; I know it well. Schmaltzy and sappy it ain’t—raw, powerful, painful, it is. Then, over the credits, they played a great cover (by an artist I didn’t recognize, and I couldn’t find the name in the credits) of U2’s “One”. Schmaltzy? Sappy? Gimme a break.

Listening to the song again after seeing the movie is quite illuminating. Made me cry. And cry. And, okay, I cried some more; just kept playing the song over and over. Good tears. The song isn’t perfectly applicable, of course; it was written from the point of view of a junkie (a reference to ‘the needle’ makes that obvious). But it works.

The point of view in the film was unusual to say the least. How many quadriplegics in films are portrayed as vividly, as full of spit, fire & vinegar, as Rory? None, in my experience (though I haven’t seen *everything,* of course). And of course, there’s more to it than just his paralysis. The ending in this movie was devastating to me, though it could have been predicted (another critical nitpick). Okay, so people with Rory’s disease are known to die young. I didn’t know that, and I didn’t clue in to the title, which pretty much gives it away.

Here’s the story: we’re in a ‘special home for special people,’ where the disabled are cared for and basically kept out of the way. They’re expected to be quiet, obedient and grateful for the care they receive, which is sappy, soporific and stultifying (in one scene, an ‘entertainer’ is singing ‘He’s Got the Whole World In His Hands’ to the dull-eyed, horribly bored residents). Into this dead-end scene explodes Rory O’Shea—with spiked dyed-blond hair, patched & stitched black leather jacket, nose ring, powered wheelchair and attitude.

In his self-introduction to the rest of the group, Rory announces, “I have the use of my right index and middle finger, sufficient for self-propulsion and self-abuse.”

Michael Collins is a young resident with cerebral palsy who has completely enwombed himself in the safe, desultory world of the Home. When he discovers that Rory, alone of all the people in the Home, can understand what he is saying (Rory says, “I spent six years next to a bloke who makes you sound like Lawrence fucking Olivier”), Michael asks in wide-eyed wonder, “Will you tell others what I am saying with your gift?” Rory’s response is disgust. He rolls away, snarling, “Gift! I’ll give you a fuckin’ gift …”

Inevitably, they do become friends.At first, Michael evidences no interest in Rory’s obsession with finding a way to leave the Home. He doesn’t even wonder what’s outside. When Rory, says, “Don’t you ever want to get out of this place?” Michael shrugs, “What’s out there?” to which Rory’s appalled response is, “*Out there* is out there!”

Of course, Rory dies in the end. He has severe muscular dystrophy, which sufferrers seldom live past the age of 21; people who already know that won’t be surprised. But his shortned life span is never mentioned—Rory lives each moment as though he were never going to die. A scene near the end when he rages at Michael, who, heartbroken, is ready to return to the Home, “Don’t you give up! You’ve got the future—that’s a fuckin’ gift!” becomes poignant in retrospect--now that I know.

Rory is desperate to have others believe the lie he himself is too realistic to buy. (A lyric from “Hurt”: “I wear my crown of thorns / Upon my liar’s chair.”) The lie is his denial of his own imminent death.

Not having clued in, I was mystified by an interaction between Rory and his father on Rory’s 21 st birthday. His Da gives Rory a card, to which Rory reacts in anger. “Da, what did I tell you about that?” Da says, “It seems such a short time… I wish I could…” the scene trails off, but the air is thick with painful significance. Call me thick. I’m sure others weren’t fooled.

Rory’s father, although a relatively small part, was vulnerably portrayed by the same actor who played the aging rock veteran in The Commitments. Da is a sad, greasy sort of fellow, who visits Rory to share cans of Guinness, which Rory drinks through a straw. He loves his son, but Rory turns down his offer to come home to live with him even though he hates the Home so much. Rory explains his refusal to Michael, saying, “Look at him, he can’t even look after himself.”

Through Rory’s friendship, Michael discovers the world outside, of parties and bars, excitement, real people. He is challenged to come to life himself, to awaken into awareness that he has a life ahead of him, to engage with that life directly. He has been a passive observer of himself, but by the end, he becomes an actor—a participant.

There are plenty of pivotal moments that I have not divulged, like how Rory and Michael end up with permission to live independently with a caretaker (a beautiful girl they meet in a pub, who becomes the object of Michael’s doomed passion—and Rory’s, though he is more realistic about his chances). It’s a great story, full of poignant surprises and left-angle turns. It’s real; these are real people, so real you can almost smell their sweat.

So, don’t listen to the critics. They pooh-poohed “The Polar Express,” too. Well, lots of them did. Some of them got it right. Maybe some of them got this one right, too. Maybe, like Verne says, you have to get to know your critics—figure out who has a clue, who is shallow and stupid, and who didn’t even bother to see the movie. Or you can just do what I did—go see it just because it’s Irish. It’s the luck of the Irish, you see. They can’t go wrong. I trusted the Irish not to make a bad movie. And they came through, once again.

by Phoenix Wolf-Ray