Rod McQueen's Blog, page 34

Citizen Kaine

I like Tim Kaine, Hilary Clinton’s pick for vice-president. I like him so much that I prefer him for president. He’s vibrant, vital, and has a great narrative. There are only 20 Americans who have ever done what he’s done: been a mayor, a governor and a senator.

As a Harvard law student, he didn’t work summers at some white-shoe law firm, he volunteered with Jesuit missionaries in Honduras. While he was teaching carpentry to teenagers in that country, they taught him Spanish. Odd, wasn’t it, that when he addressed the crowd in Florida on Saturday, that CNN – who must have known he’d speak some Spanish – had no translation capacity. Unlike most Anglo-Canadian politicians who say a few sentences in French and then utter the same words in English, Kaine did not translate his own material so most of us were left guessing what he might have said.

To be sure, Kaine has some baggage. As a traditional Catholic, he’s against abortion, although he has walked a fine political line, not interfering with a woman’s right to choose. He’s also against capital punishment, but as governor of Virginia sent 11 convicted criminals to their deaths, arguing that he was simply following the law as it was written.

As Kaine spoke, I was intrigued by Hilary’s response as she sat on a stool behind him. When he wasn’t talking about himself, he was talking about her. And every time he did, she sat up a little straighter and her smile broadened as she preened over his blandishments. You’d think after all these years in public life that such accolades wouldn’t matter to her, but obviously they do. It was almost as if she’s running for the praise she receives, not the policy she espouses.

Scars and gripes

Now that the regular baseball season has begun again, let’s go back to Tuesday’s All-Star Game when Remigio Pereira, one of The Tenors singing Oh Canada, altered two lines. Everybody from Don Cherry on up denounced his lack of pride, passion and patriotism. Pereira’s fellow tenors said he was a “lone wolf” and promptly dumped him from the group.

I say, hold on here. Exactly what’s the matter with his substitute wording, “We’re all brothers and sisters, all lives matter to the great.” Nobody can argue with that. Was it the wrong venue? In fact, no American viewer of the pre-game show even saw or heard him. The U.S. network cut to a commercial rather than broadcast some foreign anthem.

How many Canadians who pretend to be aghast actually know the words to our anthem? The only public place I get to sing Oh Canada is at Blue Jays games. And when I do, I’m the only person singing for rows around. In the late innings, when they play B.J. Thomas’s Hooked on a Feeling, everybody sings. So fans are able to warble, but only when they want.

Of all the things that happened this week, Pereira shouldn’t even register on the Richter scale of worry. Yet there he was yesterday on his Facebook page apologizing once again. I say let’s embrace the Boston-born Pereira. Canadians are forever saying “sorry” even when it’s not their fault. He’s certainly said “sorry” often enough to be granted the Order of Canada.

 

Big country, small dreams

Jason Kenney, who was the frontrunner for leader of the Conservative Party, has decided he’ll seek the leadership of the Progressive Conservative Party of Alberta instead. Meaning that he believes Justin Trudeau will be a two-term prime minister. Kenney did not want to languish as leader of the opposition for eight years.

One of the might-runs is Brad Wall, premier of Saskatchewan. But premiers don’t do well when they become federal leaders. Of the twenty-two men and one woman who have been PMs, only two had previously been premiers. Both were from Nova Scotia in the nineteenth century: Sir John Thompson and Sir Charles Tupper. Other premiers in the twentieth century have led federal parties, but never the country: Tommy Douglas, John Bracken, George Drew, Robert Stanfield and Bob Rae.

I’ve always been curious why premiers come up short. In the U.S., fully one-third of all presidents were previously governors, the equivalent of premiers. In recent years that includes Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush. There have also been half a dozen generals who became president, but that’s explicable. The U.S. has a bigger military plus a civil war from which to generate leaders.

Perhaps Canadians assume that someone who’s run a province doesn’t have a vision of the country as a whole place. Perhaps it’s because most provinces have small populations so there’s no real base upon which to build. Or maybe its the lack of bilingual leaders outside Quebec. Most premiers are not fluent in both official languages. I’d be happy to hear other explanations for the decades-long dearth of premiers with national ambitions. Can no one dream big?

 

Summer’s ease

Engaged at the Shaw Festival is the perfect light and frothy play. The farcical comedy was written by W. F. Gilbert, one half of Gilbert and Sullivan, the team who wrote operettas such as H.M.S. Pinafore and The Mikado. I grew up listening to my parents play G&S, on what was then called a hi-fi, but this was my first experience with the Gilbert play that premiered in 1877.

The plot, if you can call it that, is launched when Belvawney (played by Jeff Meadows) proposes to Belinda Treherne (Nicole Underhay). They may or may not be married because at the time they were at a cottage in Gretna right on the border of England and Scotland. If they were standing in the latter country, they are married. Belvawney goes on to propose to another woman and is preparing to marry a third before Act One is done. It’s all rather like one of those French farces featuring many doors that people enter and exit except in this case the doors are marriages. All in the pursuit of money, particularly someone else’s.

The cast is strong, the text is filled with humorous repartee, and the costuming magnificent. One monologue alone, flawlessly delivered by Miss Treherne, is worth the price of admission. Here it is;

“I am rent with conflicting doubts! Perhaps he was already married; in that case, I am a bigamist. Maybe he is dead; in that case, I am a widow. Maybe he is alive; in that case I am a wife. What am I? Am I single? Am I married? Am I a widow? Can I marry? Have I married? May I marry? Who am I? Where am I? What am I? What is my name? What is my condition in life? If I am married, to whom am I married? If I am a widow, how came I to be a widow, and whose widow came I to be? Why am I his widow? What did he die of? Did he leave me anything? If anything, how much, and is it saddled with conditions? Can I marry again without forfeiting it? Have I a mother-in-law? Have I a family of stepchildren, and if so, how many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions? These are questions that rack me night and day, and until they are settled, peace and I are not on terms!”

Shaw can be preachy, Chekov too bleak, even Shakespearean plays can be uneven. What we need is more Victorian nonsense.

Sound the retreat

No one knows what will happen as a result of Brexit, least of all me. But because I’ve lived in England and travelled extensively in the former United Kingdom, I do know why Britons voted to leave. Just as an individual’s strength can also be that person’s weakness, so too with island residents. As Britain proved during the Second World War, they can be resilient and resolute. But they can also be revisionist historians and fail to remember that others came to their help.

Worst at this failure of memory are the educated twits today who should know better but are disdainful of Canada, passing us off as one of the Dominions, a former colony, with no real status. In so doing they forget that Canada declared war in 1939 against Germany independently of Britain, had two infantry divisions stationed in England by 1940 and trained thousands of Commonwealth pilots. The 1st Canadian Paratroop Battalion was among the first Allied troops to land in France just after midnight on D-Day, June 6, 1944. After the war was over, we welcomed 48,000 war brides and 22,000 dependents, most of whom were from Britain. There are now one million descendants in Canada from those unions.

As for Britain’s membership in the European Union, other nations always saw them as mere guests, not full-blown members. Britain has always been a ship anchored off shore rather than a part of Europe. They are, after all, an island society, by nature wary of foreigners. When my late wife and I went to live in England we felt like we were going home; both our fathers had been born there. No such luck. Friendships were impossible to forge with the natives. The best friends we made were a Greek couple who’d been driven out of Egypt in 1956.

Look what the Brits did to Winston Churchill after the war; they turned against very the man who’d saved them. They are so stuck on themselves they can’t see the purpose, the humanity or the rightness of accepting “the other.” I love the history, the scenery, the language, and the traditions of the English. As for the people, go ahead, retreat back onto your little island if you like. You’re not much good beyond the warbling white cliffs of Dover, anyway.

 

The play’s the thing

My daughter Alison celebrates Father’s Day by taking me to Stratford for lunch and a play. This year it was Breath of Kings: Rebellion, a melding of Richard II and Henry IV Part 1.

Such Shakespearean combinations are new to me but worked particularly well in this case because Richard II is a play rarely presented. And because it leads inexorably to the dethroning of the old and the uplifting of the new, the edited pair fit together well. Just as I’d never seen a play of this genre, nor had I previously been to the Tom Patterson Theatre, the perfect venue for such an intimate performance. We were right in the action.

The main actors were excellent: Tom Rooney as Richard, Graham Abbey as Henry IV, and, in particular, Geraint Win Davies as Falstaff. After that, the capabilities of the cast fell away, including Prince Hal, Araya Mengesha, who knew his lines, and had the moves, but insufficient presence for the role. Some of the lesser parts, for which I assume there was much competition, were performed at the Little Theatre level.

Ah, but the battle scenes were choreographed well and the braggart Falstaff was played with gusto. Overall, the presentation was so clear that you never got lost in lines as can sometimes happen. My only other complaint is that some favourite speeches get left out, namely “I saw young Harry with his beaver on/His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed.”

Another favourite speech that was included took on fresh relevance in the run-up to the Brexit vote, “This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle … against the envy of lesser lands, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”

 

Cast of thousands

I hate to draw attention to this one particular institution, but a full-page ad in my morning paper from the faculty of business at Athabasca University announced the graduates from its MBA program. There were 172 of them!

A string of universities, some of them better known, have recently run similar ads. The Financial Post published an article saying 4,000 international students come to Canada annually to do graduate work in business management and administration at Canadian universities. Not all are taking MBAs, but whatever the proportion is, when you add Canadian MBA grads, the annual total must be in the thousands.

Time was when an MBA was a real cachet. Harvard Business School was the best and attracted Canadians such as Bill Wilder, Purdy Crawford and Robin Korthals who went on to be top-ranked executives. The business school at the University of Western Ontario followed the Harvard case study method and established itself for years as the best in Canada.

Today there are a score of schools in Canada and multiple ways to get an MBA including the executive MBA where you work at the same time and attend videoconference classes on weekends. As for full-time students what used to take two years has been crammed into one. Online degrees are possible at the aforementioned Athabasca.

I can’t believe the quality is equal everywhere nor that anything like a majority of all MBA grads in Canada will find jobs in their chosen fields. At the Ivey Business School, tuition is $84,000. MBAs have just become a way for universities to generate income. Learning and finding a proper place in society are no longer the goals. Shame on those educators who have forgotten their true purpose.

 

A missed opportunity

The Parliamentary Press Gallery is celebrating its 150th anniversary with a book entitled Sharp Wits & Busy Pens. Not the best title one might imagine, but it’s not the best book, either. It’s a collection of essays by current and former gallery members as well as words from a few politicians all accompanied by photos, historical and otherwise.

Topics include the fire of 1916, the war years, treatment of women and Jews, the power of the press and the advent of social media along with a series of brief oral histories. Some interesting facts are unearthed but I was disappointed there was so little about the characters who worked in the “hot room” in Centre Block. As a press secretary in the 1970s, I dealt with the gallery on a daily basis and found them to be a study in humanity at its best and worst.

On the copyright page there’s the usual note about errors and omissions. Except it’s spelled emissions. I’d like to report a few emissions: there’s not enough about drinking, swearing or pranks. Where’s a guy like Bob Abra of Radio-Canada International? How he found the exit let alone his bed after his nightly stand at the Press Club bar remains a mystery. Or the time Larry Zolf held a book launch in the gallery lounge. When Pierre Trudeau walked in, Zolf looked at the prime minister and said, “Who the fuck are you?” Or when Peter Meerburg and Ian Hunter streaked the reception at the annual Gallery dinner. Twice.

My late father used to describe McDonald’s by saying, “It’s good food for what it is.” This is a good book for what it is.

 

 

 

When elephants die

The news that yesterday was Canada AM’s final day came as a shock. Then, my next thought was: When was the last time I actually watched the morning show? I couldn’t remember. It was reminiscent of the announcement in 2012 that Newsweek would stop publishing its print edition. Again, on reflection, I realized I hadn’t read it in years. There was a day when both Time and Newsweek were must-reads.

According to Globe writer Simon Houpt, the average Canada AM audience had fallen to 300,000 with only about one-quarter in the 25-54 age group most desired by advertisers. So three-quarters of the audience was 55 and up. Don’t they buy cars, golf equipment, go on vacations and need financial advice? Apparently not.

As an author, Canada AM was the prime part of any promotional campaign. If your publicist could book you on Canada AM, you knew your national tour and your book were both going to be a success. When one of my best-selling books, The Eatons: The Rise and Fall of Canada’s Royal Family, came out in 1998 followed by the updated trade paper version in 1999, I was on the show six times over those two years as the department store business went blooey. Canada AM said then that six appearances for one book was a record for any author.

In every case, the show’s limo picked me up at my home for the long haul to the studio at 401 and McCowan Road. After makeup and a four-minute interview, the limo took you wherever you wanted to go. It was the big time and I enjoyed it. There’s nothing left now but nostalgia.

The future may (or may not) have arrived

The year’s not yet over but I believe the 2016 award can be given for The Most Pretentious Seven-Paragraph Story in any newspaper. It appeared here in my morning paper. I’m providing translations for those who can’t read pretentious.

Paragraph one sets the tone. “The Globe and Mail has forged a deal that will make it the largest North American news organization to adopt the Washington Post’s custom-built publishing platform.” (Translation: We gave up trying to figure this out and bought something off the shelf. It’s American; it must be good.)

Called Arc, “the suite of publishing and storytelling tools [were] crafted in-house by the Post over a three-year period.” (Translation: There’s more than one element and if development had gone on any longer, it would have either been obsolete or we’d have to say it had been curated, not crafted.)

In operation, it’s “aiming to be a more nimble platform for online storytelling.” (Translation: We’re not sure it’s really going to work.) “Its modules span a broad digital arsenal … [with] full integration rolling out over the next two years.” (Translation: Whatever it is, readers won’t actually see any change for some time.)

“The use of data analytics married to journalistic gut will allow us to put the audience first, and to provide a rare clarity of priority to the newsroom.” (Translation: Until now we’ve had trouble figuring out what stories to run.) “[Arc] presents an opportunity to change the way we work as a media company, and as a business.” (Translation: We need help; we hope this is our saviour.)