The new “Just write” feature is particularly inspired. Basically it strips the backend of any nonsense, and allows you to focus completely on your composition without any distraction. No tools, no sidebar, no nothing.

Moving your cursor to the top of your screen reveals the formatting bar. Genius.

Withnail: Monty used to act.
Monty: I’d hardly say that. It’s true I crept the boards in my youth, but I never had it in my blood, and that’s what so essential isn’t it? The theatrical zeal in the veins. Alas, I have little more that vintage wine and memories.

Somewhere in the ephemera of my collected life are boxes and envelopes containing the remnants of my public turn as an actor. I generally don’t think about them much, but occasions such as the 40th Anniversary of the St. Lawrence Centre inspire one to dig out the boxes. I happened to find a couple of nuggets in a file folder here at the office.

My first show at the Centre was in 1984: Privates on Parade. The following year I did Cecil Philip Taylor’s And A Nightingale Sang, but these shots are from the last show I did at the Centre in 1986, Talley & Son (A Tale Told) with Donald Davis. It was a thrill to work with such an experienced actor and an incredible cast.

But even better, it was the show that Carol McCartney came to see me in, and soon after we went on our first date … we’ve been together ever since.

That’s the value of these things, I guess. They put our lives into an historical context that—hopefully—makes us smile. This one sure does…

The original Playbill for the show.

The Cast – l to r: Jesse Collins, Ken James, Charmion King, Marcia Tratt, Donald Davis, David Ferry, Deborah Kipp, Cynthia Belleveau

Photo Credit Robert C. Ragsdale, f.r.p.s.

Jesse Collins as Timmy Talley

Photo Credit Robert C. Ragsdale, f.r.p.s.

Finn's First New Year

We’ve just had a great visit to the North country, where the snow is hanging off the eaves like icing on a gingerbread house. It couldn’t be more gorgeous, although I’ve shoveled about two tons of snow.

And I’m off now to finish the job!

He’s an Irish Wheaten Terrier bred by Wayne & Susan Kemp of Marayne Wheatens in Drumbo. Their dogs are gorgeous and their approach to rearing and raising them is exactly in step with ours. Just a few weeks old, he’s still feisty and full of beans. Like his namesake, he has a ton of character.

Jack MacGowran

Ignatius Feeney is the character that Jack MacGowran plays in John Ford’s The Quiet Man, Squire Danahar’s right-hand man.
The name is an homage to the concept of the faithful companion—which we have no doubt that this Feeney will become for our family. (Let’s forget for the moment that he bets against his master at the end of the film; that’s another story…)

So now we wait with anticipation until he’s old enough to make the journey to our house, and leave his mom Remy—an absolutely amazing example of a terrier. I could’ve taken Remy home, she was so welcoming and affectionate. It’s going to be nice to have a sidekick again.

Even those among my friends that know that I began my career as a performer don’t necessarily know that I started as a singer. I had a some success in theatre circles in Toronto and some regional theatres, performing in musicals and industrial shows. The corporate shows took me all over the world through those early years, and introduced me to my incredible missus—but that truly is another story.

This one revolves around the Canadian-prototype of the National Idol syndrome: few know that the Americans stole the idea from us. It was called DuMaurier Search for Stars (the cigarette sponsorship provides some carbon-dating on the episode) and I was a semi-finalist in 1982, I think it was. And now is as good a time as any to take you down Memory Lane. Don’t miss the terrific Marty Robbins and Touch of Scent ads at the beginning. They really give it context.

DuMaurier Search for Stars 1982 from Jesse C. on Vimeo.

And now the Rest of the Story:

The video above depicts the first time I ever sang in front of an full orchestra. We shot it at the old CBC Studios on Mutual Street, where I would spend the next few years working on radio drama and comedy. But that day in the early eighties is remembered by players in town for much more than my cheesy performance. Here’s why.

I was singing two songs that day, and after rehearsing them both with the band, the sax player Bernie Pilch announced that he wasn’t feeling up to snuff and would sit out the first tune. While we recorded that fist song—another standard, As Time Goes By—he had a massive heart attack in the hallway at the CBC. He was taken away by ambulance but it was clear that they had not been able to revive him.

It was obvious to me that he had been a dear friend of all the players collected there that day; they had been playing live big band gigs at the CBC and elsewhere for many years. But the times were changing; this was the last days of big orchestras, the studios would soon be torn down and television would devolve from variety shows to reality shows, never to recover. In hindsight, Bernie Pilch’s passing that morning represented the beginning of the end.

I was a kid, and pretty nervous about the gig that day. I didn’t know what would happen next as people milled about the hallway, looking at their shoes, solemn and quiet. Finally, the pianist Garry Gross spoke up. He thought Bernie would want us to do the next tune, he said, and that was what we did. The ‘next tune’ was the version of I’ll Be Seeing You that is reproduced above. I usually smiled more when I sang it—but not that day. We did it one take, and I’ll never forget it.

The first musical instrument I ever learned to play was the banjo-uke. My Dad’s a cabinet-maker, and one of his early projects was to make a couple of the miniature banjos for my Uncle Bert, who was an avid George Formby fan and damn good banjo player. Growing up hearing him play impressed upon me that it’s pretty tough to remain in a bad mood when you’re playing a banjo. I got my first one when I was twelve.

A banjo-uke is the near-cousin of the ukelele, which has been enjoying something of a renaissance on the internet of late. One of the weirdest, warmest and wackiest homages to the uke—as well as to music, to politics and to humour—is neatly wrapped in a “Benefit Concert for Warren Buffett”: two guys play every song in the Beatles library (164 songs, for the record—pun intended). Full details are available at this Ukulelia blog post but the best part is the dénouement. Our boys deliver a brown paper bag with bills and coins representing “hundreds of dollars” to Mr. Buffet, himself. The video of that exchange is a treat, and is reproduced below.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Bert.

Don was the consummate DOP. He lived and breathed the film set, and although he was no spring chicken, his enthusiasm for film-making imbued a vigour in him that was contagious. He started every day in Port Credit by brewing the strongest coffee I’d ever tasted and chomping at the bit to get to set. He’d race to the massive Caddy that he had driven out from Vancouver, and then—big band music blaring—drive it at a snail’s pace into the city. It’s not that he wasn’t in a hurry, he just didn’t drive fast. It was as if he was savouring the anticipation of shooting. And maybe even timing his arrival so that he was metering first light, setting up his shots with the sun.

He was quirky and talented and brash; he was funny and fun, and not afraid of a fight. He would let you know what he thought, good or bad. And he was supremely talented. He had a long lineage in documentary and drama—he had shot everywhere and in all conditions and loved to share it. I could fill a book with stories he regaled us with and add a few more from our experiences together on set, but this post is about his past—and how I came to know it better.

I was reminded today of one of Don’s tales, one that he would mete out in pieces now and then when something on our set reminded him.
It had to do with a wild shoot that he had been on in the Yukon territories, working on a National Film Board documentary. I couldn’t remember the name, but he would often talk about how they had done fly-overs deep into the bush, dropping food caches and 12V batteries to run the cameras. He had all kinds of stories about how tough the shoot was, how beautiful the country was and how interesting the subject.

So when I learned that the NFB was releasing its docs to the web, I visited the site and did a search on Don’s name. I was rewarded with the beautiful film Nahanni. He shot it on 35mm, in an area of the Yukon that few ever see. His doc probably part of the inspiration for Pierre Elliot Trudeau to visit and subsequently protect the Nahanni river by declaring it a national park. It is a fitting legacy of rugged beauty, not unlike Don himself.

Have a Happy and a Merry, everyone.

Jess

Collins Christmas Card 2008

Like watching Toronto beat the Islanders from George Gross’s fabulous greens. Right on the rail—with narry a soul in front of you and a perfect perspective on the whole ice surface—these might be the best seats in the house. And they’re greens. There’s a lesson there somewhere.

We got it all last night: a win, some great scoring chances and goals, some wild hip-checks (courtesy of Ryan Hollweg), and a fight (courtesy of Ryan Hollweg). Let’s face it. His win percentage might be low, but Hollweg always shows up. There’s a lesson there somewhere, too.

Life’s pictures on Google. Wow.

Posted by email from moxy’s posterous