Happy Mother's Day!

This is something the tot and I made for Mother's Day. I will hang it on the wall, despite the fact that it nearly drives me into sugar shock with its sweetness.

And if you do not think it is darling, I pity you your cold and withered heart. Or, you know, you and I have differing opinions on what constitutes darling, to put it in less dramatic terms.

(Day off from Defence Stuff today!)

A Jew's Journey into Ohio

Often, when I tell people I have connections to Ohio, even that I am merely planning to visit there, people look at me funny. When I even hint at the idea of actually moving there to live, people laugh. Why would a Jew ever move to Ohio of all places? If you threw a dart at anywhere in the continental US, you couldn't possibly hit a more white bread Mainstream-American place, right? Jews belong in NYC... possibly Long Island, or Miami or LA. Not in Ohio.

Folks are almost relieved when they hear my husband lives there, as if they are more secure having an "understandable" reason for my attachment to such a place.

Now, it is true that Ohio is Pure America. Walking around some of the smaller towns, I saw America unfold at a slow and deliberate pace. VFW halls and many churches. Old men in suspenders and tractor company hats. Kids on bikes making paper deliveries on sun-dappled afternoons. Middle-aged ladies in flowered, cotton dresses chatting under shop awnings spotted with hanging baskets of geraniums. Pickup trucks overflowing with red-faced young men with odd, hog-like expressions. American flags everywhere.

You see, I even got to see it in its full Home Front glory - MIA memorials and "Support Your Troops" banners. Bunting, even. Red, white and blue bunting. I didn't know they still made that stuff. I thought that went out with Taft's campaign.

However, it is a mistake to think of Ohio as ignorant, backwards or even non-Jewish. Though one might not suspect it, Ohio has a long and interesting Jewish history.

The settlement of Jews in America came in layers. Earlier Jewish settlers of colonial times had already established themselves in the major trading colonies of Virginia and Maryland and the Carolinas, as well as colonial New England centers like Albany, Concord and New Rochelle, and moved into the less likely areas of Kentucky and Mississippi. Certainly, in the long history of Jews in America, it is true that New York is a major cultural landmark, along with Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Chicago. In the major waves of Jewish immigration at the turn of the last century, these are the places to which most Jews flocked, only turning to suburbia and the sunbelt in the post-war expansion of the 1950s.

However, Ohio, especially Cincinnati, did have a huge, and often forgotten, role in the development of American Judaism and Jewish culture.

Ohio's Jewish history started in 1817, when the British Orthodox-Jewish pioneer Joseph Jonas settled in Cincinnati. Once a peddler in Philadelphia, Jonas was impressed by what he saw as enormous opportunity in Ohio, and he began a letter writing campaign to convince Jews from England to come join him, starting with his two brothers. Jonas became a successful watchmaker, and managed to establish a thriving Jewish community in downtown Cincinnati, where they started holding regular Jewish services in 1819. Soon, he and the community purchased land for what is now known as The Old Jewish Cometary for $75. In 1824, when the required ten Jewish males could be replied upon, the original Cincinnati Jewish community started the first Jewish congregation beyond the Allegheny Mountains, named the Rockdale Temple (1824 - 1969) of K.K. Bene Israel, which was mostly comprised of British Orthodox Jews.

The second wave of Jewish immigration to Ohio came from Germany, a natural extension to Ohio's already considerable Christian German population. Mostly of the new Reform tradition, these German-speaking Jews settled in both Cincinnati and Cleveland, the latter becoming Ohio's second Jewish congregation, the Israelitish Society, in 1839, under the leadership of Bavarian Jew Simson Thorman and the Jews he managed to lure to Ohio through his own letter writing campaign back home. By 1841, another German Jewish congregation was established, this one in Cincinnati, the Bene Yeshurun congregation. By 1850, Ohio had six Jewish congregations, four in Cincinnati, and two in Cleveland, and these two cities became hubs of Jewish life for the area.

By 1880, Ohio had over 6,500 Jews, and by 1904 there were nearly 50,000, making Ohio one of the largest centers for Jewish life in the United States, after New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Massachusetts.

In the late 1800s, Jews formed over 1% of the total population of Ohio. 1,004 Jews from Ohio fought in the American Civil War (1861 - 1865), the largest Jewish Civil War enrollment after New York state, including one Colonial, who had, at the time of his death, been recommended for the rank of Brigadier-General. Nearly 20 of Ohio's Jews have served in the state legislature, and at least two held high office in the federal government.

By 1902, most of Ohio's major towns and cities had Jewish communities, including 12 in Cincinnati and 14 in Cleveland. In addition, there were by that time several congregations in the cities Dayton, Columbus, Akron and Toledo (site of one of the largest Jewish populations in the state), as well as thriving Jewish societies in smaller settlements such as Hamilton (Congregation B'nai Israel, est. 1866), Piqua (Anshe Emeth, est. 1858), and Youngstown (which had two congregations, as well as a Lady's Aid Society). Also, by the 1902 Jewish census, nine Zionist societies had been established in Ohio, and there were in existence at least 52 Jewish brotherhood lodges in the state.

Throughout the early history of Jewish life in Ohio, however, Cincinnati and Cleveland remained the major centers of culture, education, social safety networks and religion, as they remained the home of over two-thirds of Ohio's Jewish population.

In 1850, the Bohemia-born Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, now often considered a founder of American Judaism, got into a fistfight with the president of his congregation in Albany, NY. Rabbi Wise had been guilty of (or credited with, depending on your perspective) massive and swift reform of Jewish practice, including the introduction of mixed choirs into Jewish services, as well as family pews and the then-outrageous practice of counting women in the traditionally male-only Minyan. He and his supporters founded a rival synagogue in Albany, and in 1854, he was offered leadership of Bene Yeshurun congregation at the Lodge Street Temple in Cincinnati, where he established what could be considered one of the first major modern American Reform Temples in the US.

Wise served in Cincinnati for 46 years, and became a leading figure in Jewish religious and public life, representing Jews to main stream society, including in meetings with President Lincoln surrounding the infamous General Order no. 11 expulsion of Jews from Tennessee, Mississippi and Kentucky in 1862.

In 1866, Wise founded one of the grandest temples in America, the Plum Street Temple (later re-named the Isaac M. Wise Temple) at 8th and Plum, which is often cited for its architecture. The Temple (above) stands as a sort of time-capsule of German Jewish building design, made significant by the widespread destruction of most similar synagogues in Europe during World War II.

Wise would go on to establish one of the other major landmarks in Jewish American life, the oldest Jewish seminary in North America, Cincinnati's Reform-affiliated Hebrew Union College, in 1875. Before this time, congregations relied upon European-trained cantors, rabbis and teachers. The establishment of a legitimate seminary in America was one of the major benchmarks in the Jewish rootedness in the United States, and the college still trains rabbis, as well as maintains a graduate school in Jewish Studies and other disciplines, and has connections to three spin-off campuses, one in New York (1950), LA (1954) and even Jerusalem (1963).

The further establishment of such organizations as an early association for Hebrew primary education, as well as the major Reform social action league, the National Jewish Charities, solidified the importance of Cincinnati for American Jewish life. Cincinnati thus became the de facto home of Reform Judaism in America, also seeing the creation, again under Wise, of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations in 1873 (later becoming the still-important Union for Reform Judaism, now based out of New York), which acted as an association of liberal congregations in the United States and later spreading across North America. Cincinnati also became home to the Central Conference of American Rabbis in 1889, which was a professional association for ordained Reform rabbis who established informal policy on matters of religion and practice for North American Jews, as well as several European seminaries, establishing a world-wide reputation for Cincinnati's vibrant Jewish community.

Today, Cincinnati has a sizable Jewish population, which continues to change and expand as its organizations still lure Jews in to its society. Although largely considered a WASP land, Ohio has both influenced, and been influenced by, the Jews in its history. As to why people remain largely unaware of Ohio's Jewish history, I cannot say for sure. It is likely another off-shoot of the generalized "New York" assumption, a burden carried by all Jews in North America, especially those of us born in such an unlikely place as Canada.

As for me, something draws me to the place, far and beyond the need to visit there to see my husband. I chuckle at the thought, but could there possibly be a new wave of Jewish settlement in Ohio about to occur, as a Canadian Jew establishes a life and starts her own letter writing campaign to lure new Jewish life to the place?

In any case, even if I never live there in any permanent sense, I am proud to call Ohio my second home, and will continue to patiently explain to people what it is that could make a Jew feel at ease in a land such as this.

Ohio is Pure America, and some of the best America to be found. Ohio is also a part of the Jewish heritage in the New World. I don't know why the two should be mutually exclusive - is it so un-American to be Jewish? One could argue that the continued survival of an immigrant minority community is exactly what America is supposed to be about, right?

And I would be proud to be a part of that. Even if only by spreading the word about such an interesting and neglected history.

Hard Times in Russia

Today, though I hate to commemorate such a thing here, is Adolf Hitler's birthday. Once a major festival for the Nazis, the Fuehrerstag was basically Good Friday, Easter, Christmas and Fourth of July all wrapped up into one. A day (a week, really) to worship the leader and re-dedicate themselves to the National Socialist madness. Volksdeutsch came from all over the Reich to Berlin to celebrate the birth of their savior.

Thankfully, those days are gone, and Berlin no longer is streamed with the red and black of the hacked and butchered cross of the Nazis. Yet, even decades after the fall of the Party and Hitler's ultimate betrayal of his people, his birthday is rising again -- this time in a disillusioned and impoverished Russia.

Russia, once a powerful force in stopping Hitler, has now fallen into the clutches of a surge in neo-fascist violence. Apparently forgetting what their nation suffered at the hands of the Nazis, young Russians have been flocking to National Socialism, and this week is now marked by hate crimes and vandalism, almost as a matter of course, as gangs of so-called "hooligans" take their anger to the streets, seemingly without official limitations.

And what have Russian authorities done to keep citizens safe during this week of angst? They have officially requested that all foreigners and minorities (including Russia's beleaguered and dwindling Jewish population, as well as exchange students and Russian-born Roma) just stay indoors for the weekend. Just stock-pile groceries, don't leave your homes, and wait it out. Some campuses have even gone so far as to lock students in their rooms to prevent them from being harmed should they dare leave the safety of their designated doors and windows.

What the hell is wrong with that picture?

So, go out today. All of us who are lucky enough not to be in Russia, go outside. Glory in being whatever and whoever you are, and get some air. But do think about those poor souls who won't be so lucky for the next few days.

And know that such a thing ultimately imprisons us all.

The First Year

Taking a noodle break and cruising the net before getting back to work, I hit upon some random "healthy marriage" self-help spots. Now, most of the stuff I found was pretty self-explanatory, such as "Don't show contempt for you mate." (I could add to that, "Don't FEEL contempt for your mate, since you married the guy," but I'm just going to hope they meant that folded in with the performance aspects.) But I figured it wouldn't hurt to get a bit of "expert" advice, or at least to see somethings we all know set down in writing, as reminders.

There was a lot of advice for those of us in "The First Year," (example) which, according to the experts, is supposed to be the most hellish, as it is a period of adjustment. Personally, I wonder if that first year of retirement might not be worse, since it will involve looking at your changed partner in a brand new way, all day, while dealing with your own changing self-image. But that we shall see.

I don't talk a lot about my marriage on this blog in any direct or theoretical way. I suppose this is partly because Murph and I express our marriage's state of the union to each other enough that I don't really feel the need to talk about it here, which I think is a good thing. However, sometimes it is wise to contemplate the theory of marriage. (And I really hope he doesn't mind me talking about it here...)

Murph and I have, I believe, the makings of a truly classic marriage. If I didn't believe this, I likely would not have married him. There are many elements to our union that really strike me as "signs," though I hesitate to use that language. We were attracted to each right from the first, and knew we were ear-marked for each other really early on in our friendship. I feel positive and optimistic about our life together.

That having been said, however, we do have some pretty titanic fights. Well, not fights so much as dramatic disagreements. We always seem to end up pushing the same buttons on each other in the same way. I suppose we will continue doing that until either the buttons get desensitized or we actually learn to avoid them. This makes sense to me, though, because, even though we are as joined at the hip as we are at the heart, we are also very unique individuals with our own very distinct minds on things. We are also both fiercely stubborn people, with our own intellects and modes of expression. However, sometimes I think our main problems come as much from being too alike in essentials as they do from being too different in content, if that makes sense.

In any case, these self-help things are rather off for us, as our first year is a pretty abnormal one, since we don't have the chance to live in the same place. Of course people get into fights over chat and phone! It is easy to fight when you can't see the other person's eyes or body posture, just as it is hard to end a fight without just being able to offer a hug. When Murph and I are together, fights are easy to deal with - touching goes a long way to foster forgiveness.

As it is, though, in this time of distance, I have one major technique for dealing with my marriage woes. When we are fighting, I remove my wedding ring. Now, this might sound pretty horrendous, but hear me out.

Some say that the primary affirmation for Muslims, the Shahadah ("There is no G-d but Allah, and Mohammad is His Prophet") has a higher purpose than just saying the words. What it does is, before you embrace Allah, you have to first contemplate, even for a second, "There is no G-d." This is supposed to foster a sense of relief and joy when you get to follow through with "... but Allah." I get this, though clearly I don't get the same sense from that line as do Muslims. But the practice makes sense to me. This is the principle I work by.

So, when things are rough between Murph and I, I remove my wedding ring and look at my hand without it. It always looks so sad and forlorn, that I have to put it back on. This always brings a feeling of relief and joy. It is a reminder: No matter how uncomfortable, annoying or crummy this fight may be, think of life without this marriage... without even these fights. That usually gives me all the strength I need to carry on.

These self-help sites... I guess they are ok, especially if one just uses them for casual browsing and reminders, and doesn't take them too seriously. Often, they are better as "What we are doing right" pats on the back then for "How to fix what is wrong" prescriptions.

I guess the main thing I need to remember and concentrate on is, "Murph is my husband; I am his wife. I love him, and I am grateful for our marriage. No matter what the circumstances of the day are, I am lucky to have what I have, because I could be without him entirely."

That can be my daily affirmation.

Stern Proctor Rides Again

Today, Friday the 13th, bright and EARLY, the students of the class I TA for write their final exam, and I, as the assistant, get to step in and invigilate.

I hate invigilating in some ways. Aside from the standard moments of hassle and annoyance ("I forgot a pen! OMG!"), half of it is as boring as heck (broken by odd urges to just start shouting or laughing because the tension and the silence starts to get to you), and the other half is rather shaming in an odd way. There is something in the eyes of students as they look at you, their tormentor.

I always feel like I am the guy stuck guarding suspects in a Gestapo HQ waiting room. It's not my fault they are there, but it sure seems like I am to blame.

So it shall be a bleak morning in some ways, but it will be capped by that glorious "School's Out For Summer!" feel just at the very end, when they dash out of the exam room, already forgetting they ever saw me. Yes, resentment and hatred, like fame, is fleeting.

(Oh, and I always found Stern Proctor, affectionately known as "Hansy," to be a very useful card. For a 1/2 with a special talent, he is very cheap to cast at two islands. A good bargain.)

(And if you understood that last bit, you have no right to call me a nerd - EVER!)

Memory Lane

Recently, I have been leafing through the archives of my life and marriage. Old photos, old blog posts, old emails, old files... painful pleasure, so acute I don't know which one wins out.

Tonight I turned around to ask Murph if he was ready to head to bed. But Murph is in Ohio. For that split second, I was so sure it was November again, and we were safe and happy in our own home. When I looked back and realized I was alone, reality caved in on me.

Right now, I would give anything to make that moment's error reality - to be able to look over my shoulder right now, take his hand, say "Time to turn in, love," and wrap myself in that bliss I miss so much. So many times we did this in November. Did we ever take it for granted? If so, I can promise I will never take it for granted again, once he is home.

Did you ever want to crawl into a memory and stay there forever?

No Eye for Hair

A particular friend-of-a-friend has been so uncool as to join facebook but not post a photo of his face! I have never met this friend-of-a-friend, but I hear about him so much that I find myself trying to construct his appearance through snippets of information. I can do ok, I think, in a generic, police-sketch, could-be-anybody-sorta kind of way.

But I find now, likely due to the fact that men are almost constantly in hats (ball caps are awful, men, please stop) or hoodies these days, I can't for the life of me picture realistic male haircuts in my mind. This is not a serious problem, usually, except for the fact that I have this poor, generic picture of this friend, either bald (which would relieve a lot of my problem if it were accurate - maybe I should encourage him to shave?) or with completely fake looking hair.

I have even pin-pointed the general trends, plotting where film and TV have supplied data not offered by my eyes, based on other descriptors I have been given about the guy. Some examples:

1. "Blond" - He has the Luke Skywalker in my head.


2. "Dark haired" - He is suddenly sporting the Erik Estrada.


3. "Republican" - Nothing short of the Johnny Unitas will do.


4. "Democrat" - He gets his hair done at the same place as George Harrison.


5. "Trendy boy" - He is inevitably some variation on Meg Ryan.


6. "Square" - He is Stephen Harper.



This is not right. Will I have to go to cosmetology school just to solve this issue, or shall I just grow accustomed to, and accept, these Starsky and Hutch wigs of my imagination born from the crassest of profiling?

Or maybe I just need more sleep...

I'm Grinding Not Smiling

Woke up later than I wanted, so immediately I was a bit panicky about my exam work, but I was still feeling ok and a bit "up and at em." I stumbled into the bathroom, to discover a pile of cat vomit on the rug. Ok, I sighed. Well, that happens, right? Went out to make coffee, and spilled steaming hot water on my hand. Wow, that hurt. Went in to start work, and the internet wasn't functioning, so I went through the "turn it off and restart in 3 minutes" waltz that lasted a frustrating half hour. Oh well, modern technology - what are you gonna do? So I finally got down to work, eating nasty convenience noodles out of a cup, just to save time, but the cat decided that the noodles would look better spilled on my papers. Calm blue ocean... That's ok. He didn't do it on purpose. La di da. So I made nice with the cat to make up for all the infernal names I had called him. Of course, being mildly allergic to cats at times, my nose started to tickle, and it hasn't stopped since. Very annoying, that. I was quickly finishing the last of my noodles before he could press his luck completely and go for a replay, but, naturally, I sneezed, sending noodle flecks over my desk, key board, and, most delightfully, coffee.

*Deep breath.*

La di da, la di da.
*

That's It - Back to the Abacus!

I may as well remove this comp, and chuck it into the deepest pit of the farthest reaches of the planet, and place the empty boxes it came in on my desk, and I would have greater satisfaction. At least boxes can be counted on to be what they are: boxes. They would box to their utmost design capabilities. They would be as boxie as I wanted them to be. Their boxiosity would be to their full extent, and their boxing speeds would be exactly as they were meant to be.

As it is, this hunk of steaming annoyance does nothing but make me want to stick a ciggarette in every single hole in my head and smoke until the frustrations go away and stop wanting me to use my left boot to forcibly violate every port and passage on the hedgehog-biting-SOB that passes itself off as a comp.

Labour saving device, my arse!

Whatever you believe purgatory to be, I am in it, and this comp is with me... So, whatever I have done wrong, I am working it off, I assure you.

Rat bastard comp. Burn and rot. May you never reach the Acer land of the honorable dead, and may your motherboard fall out with a thousand syphilitic lesions and ten thousand violent convulsions of electronic pain, you worthless (yet oddly expensive) pain in the sinus.

Oh, and one more thing: 1010101110101010100101110100011010101 - I hope that means something awful to you about your mother, you piece of plastic monstrosity.

I'm not too bitter, am I?
*

Dark Magic

Tonight, I went to see The Illusionist (2006). I had to get out of the apartment, and some friends were kind enough to take me for an airing.

I can’t really describe my personal feelings at seeing this movie, but I am sure you all have had the experience of seeing a film, at a certain point in your life, and having the sudden impression that it was made for you to see just then. This film was that for me – if you have seen it, you may be puzzled over the How and Why of that.

Only a few of you – perhaps only one of you, actually – can really understand that, I think. Just trust me when I say that, right now, it is indescribable for me.

So after being dropped back at the apartment, I decided to take a walk and enjoy the light rain – maybe the last warm rain of the season – and headed towards the reservoir. Dealing with current stress, and processing my life thus far, had left me feeling lonely and sad, and a bit angry in a non-specific sort of way.

However, the film left me feeling powerful and exhilarated despite all that.

I walked, watching my shadow on the slick pavement leading towards the nature trail. I do that when I am feeling low, you see – a childlike flight of whimsy, as I enjoy watching the shadow of my long trench coat turn me from vulnerable student to evil master in the vein of Darth Vader.

(I am certain you all do such strange things in secret, only I am in the mood tonight to actually confess my silly crutch.)

Suddenly, when I had reached the mouth of the trail, very near to where I had found my American two dollar bill a week ago, I heard the sound, coming from behind me, of a car gunning its engines, despite the slick pavement and the hairy sharp curve where the Boulevard veers off to the right from the reservoir area. I watched it pass me, too quickly, and I thought only one word: “Crash.”

Was this a destructive wish, a command, or just a certainty? What ever it was, the car spun, squealed, and did, indeed, crash. Luckily, everyone got out ok, but I was shaken. In truth, I still am shaken.

Was it just the movie that gave me the odd feeling that I somehow caused that car to crash? Or maybe I just knew it would happen, giving the illusion of causation. Was it a guess, a premonition, or just the simple logic of “speed + conditions + geography = accident” that made it so I didn’t even flinch when the car left the road? Why had I been so sure it would happen? Had I already seen it, or did I make it happen in the first place?

Or am I just losing my mind?

Well… no, I think not.

Somewhere, tonight, an answer teases me…

I knew the major principle of life years ago: He who has a Why to live can live with any How.

A person with a developed and recognized Logos can live through anything.

But, tonight, still shaken and still mulling over the meaning of everything of the past few months and years, I have another principle that flirts with me in the mist.

She who has a Reason to Live, has an equal Will to Live; She who has both a Why and a Will to Live, has all the Power in the Universe.

So tell me: Can Logos bend time, space, matter, and energy to the Will? Can all things be submitted to the Will of one who has dared to focus his or her Being on a goal?

Can one even change the weather, and then go so far as to rule over Fate itself?

Perhaps.

But, then, now I really have gone into the realm that only one person out there can understand fully… but one is enough for me right now.

The moral of this tale: Go see The Illusionist, because it is so good it screws with your sense of reality. And do slow down on sharp turns in the rain.

A PSA from a Grumpy Democrat

In the last three days, I have been annoyed three times by the sheer rudeness and disrespect some people manage to display. Three things that really jabbed my cuticles, in as many days… And the three people who really, truly, need quick, immediate and unexpected corrective smacks up side the head are:

1) The GRT bus driver now known as “Surly.”

This charming fellow is not only sour looking, but a complete jackass. While making the trek out to the dreaded mall to do my civic duty by spending money I don’t really have, I witnessed Surly not only savage a poor girl to her face, verbally, but needlessly continue to bad mouth her for two more blocks after she had gotten off. Here in KW, they have those buses where you have to press your hand against the back door to get it to open. There is a sign, but it has been faded, tagged and scrubbed into near uselessness. The young woman simply couldn’t figure out how to open the door. Surly blew, telling her that “she should read a few signs now and then – maybe she’d learn somethin’!” Basically, Surly called her an idiot and then proceeded to make her walk all the way back to the back of the bus to go through the humiliation of reading the sign and exiting, while the rest of us sat in silence, wishing ourselves a million miles away.

Okay, Mr. Petty King, I shouldn’t even have to tell you why you are an ass, but it seems you need it. Do you even know what it feels like to be ridiculed in public by a person in some sort of private-sector-position-of-authority? And, you know, I don’t care if you have had to answer that same question a hundred times that week. I happen to know that you guys have one hell of a Union and some damn good benefits, so perhaps you should just take the annoyances with the good, eh?

Being an ass never helped. So smarten up.


2) The HARDCORE! little streak of misery outside the Dollarstore.

While leaving the Dollarstore with a few select items, namely name tags for Amanda’s mega-stupendous-party-of-the-century-blast, I happened upon a charming little scene that chilled me to the bone. A girl of about 16 or 17, well past the age where these things even approach acceptable, if such an age exists, was waiting for her friend to get off the payphone. Blandly, she said, “I wanna break this door,” and started to kick and jab the call-box Plexiglas door. She was not angry, she did not look high… she didn’t even look excited. She just decided to randomly destroy something, for absolutely no reason, whatsoever.

See, you little curse on the face of our species, if you had shown even a drop of any emotion at all, I wouldn’t have been so disturbed… The fact that you would coldly and illogically seek to destroy something that meant nothing to you sickens me. There is a word… maybe you would have heard of it, if you ever made it to class… it is “Sociopath.” Perhaps you can go be a love and look that up, eh? And, no, I refuse to hyper-link it for you. I hope you can still google, even through your righteous fog of affected disaffectedness.

Now, at 28, far be it from me to piss and moan about “this generation” versus “my generation” (frankly, my generation was a legion of putzes, too, so I won’t even go into that), but kids today do scare me a little… It won’t be the meek that inherit the earth, but, rather, a fleet of Mike Teevees. What’s our chances of surviving that, huh?


3) The Ontario Soccer Mom with Automatic Cell-Phone Kung Fu Grip.

While waiting in line to buy my discount Canadian flags and travel-sized packets of antacid, I had the (non) pleasure of witnessing one of Ontario’s society pillars, complete with cherry red SUV parked outside, gabbing on her cell phone about some pediatrician visit with some unknown victim/co-culprit. She was bragging about how her little Madison is peeing at a sixth-grade level, or some other sick preoccupation that a micro-managing house parent might give a rat’s ass about.

Two points made this creature worthy of the final slot in this rant…

First, she never ONCE spoke to, or even looked at, the woman working at the cash register. Not a “thanks”, not a “hello”, not a single “bye.” Not even a smile. Nothing. What is it about people like this that make them so friggin’ sure that cashiers are merely human by law, not by any standards of humanity?

It never once occurred to you that, to be civil, you had a duty to at least look at her once? Did it ever cross your mind that she might at least like to hear a simple, “thanks”? I realize she didn’t hand-craft your middle-aged-plaster-like-concealor and sun-visor-decorator-Kleenexs, but she is, after all, human, even if you don’t agree.

And, fine, even if your humanity cannot be touched on a general, abstract level, how about in the case of the poor little waste-in-the-making by the name of Madison, at whom you glanced a total of ONCE during the entire trip to the Shopper’s?

This kid, with whom you are so (theoretically) engrossed that you can spend the entire time yakking about a doctor’s opinions of her skin tone and potty habits… this child who didn’t ask to be born, but who you brought into this world… to her, you had nothing at all to say?

Poor Madison. So starved for attention, even from a stranger (since none could be found from her breeder) she stared directly at my face for a full minute until I finally broke down and communicated with a smile and a little “hi!” Did you notice that she then spent another minute jabbering at me about something on the impulse rack like she was rushing through her last words before the gallows? Have you ever thought she might actually enjoy the chance to tell something, anything, to you?

Lord. The child seemed to be about four, and she was already reaching out to random strangers, because you were there and not there all at once! Imagine her future… I hope you feel every last pin and needle of the pain that awaits you as that child marches straight out your door and never returns.

I hope your cell phone can comfort you then, lady… But I doubt it will ever bring your grandchildren around, either.

So, yes… Sometimes, it is difficult to maintain my faith in our collective worth as a species. However, there are other people I could list who make me smile to think of them. It is too bad that the rotten apples get all of the attention, but these are the people we need to target for our dislike and censure. These same people would likely defend unto death the supremacy of humans over non-human animals, yet one wonders if they ever in their lives contemplated actually acting like real humans.

Well, they had better reconsider a few things. Someday, me or someone like me, will finally say “enough” and deliver that much-needed cuff to the head that they so desperately ask for. Why must it go so far? Maybe people just don’t know how far a little kindness and respect and self-control can go. Maybe they never learned how to live in polite society. Maybe they have forgotten. Maybe they, too, have been beaten down by scenes of too many people who don’t give two flying figs.

Whatever the reason, the buck must stop here folks.

Just be nice, dammit.

Is that so hard?
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Take Off, You Hoser

Up late, getting a little work done, and watching Strange Brew (1983) by way of research for my departure for the Great State of Ohio on Wednesday. I figure, if they expect me to act like Bob and Doug McKenzie, I should take the trouble to re-watch the thing, eh?

So, this got me thinking about slang and other cool idiosyncrasies of the Great White North. I started to think of things I may want to weed out of my speech for the next week or so, just to be polite and accessible (or to over-crank just to annoy, as the case demands).

Aside from the over-use of the Canuck “u” in spelling, I know we must have slang of our own. TV pipes American trash into our brains from birth here, but we must have some things left that are distinctly our own, so help me out and drop a list of your favourite Canadian phrases, slang and terms.

A few of my favs:

• “To put the boots to you/it/him/‘er” – To express a healthy anger in a physical manner; to compete or drive with passion; to put one’s strength into something.
• “Beauty!” – OK, so this isn’t strictly Canuck, as I know it is also used a lot in Australia, but, oh my, the sound of that one, satisfied word expressed in a nice Canadian accent. Meaning: “Very good indeed – this pleases me!”
• “Maritimes” – I was surprised to realize that not everyone in the world knows this beloved term, or the adjective “Maritimer.” The Maritimes of Canada are the Atlantic provinces minus Newfoundland (for some reason) – Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and New Brunswick. In general, the term “Maritimer” technically means “someone from the Maritimes,” but also works out to mean “someone who is charming, witty, and loveable in almost every way, especially due to their adorable little accents.” Honest.
• “Back East” – UP HOME! (Alternatively, DOWN HOME!)
• “Bluenoser” – Folks from UP HOME. (Equiv. “Nova Scotioner.”)
• “Upper Canada” – Folks not from UP HOME (i.e. Ontaronians, who like to call themselves Ontarians, but who are they kidding?)
• “Out West” – That place over t'other side of Ontario.
• “Dipper” – A card carrying member of the NDP. (Whoot!)
• “loonie” – A dah-ller, eh?
• “double-double” – This one is a cheat, maybe, because it really is corporate-speak. This is a coffee from Tim’s with two cream and two sugars. However, once I started using this term at Star Bucks, I think it crossed the line into Canuck-lore-land.
• “serviette” – A paper napkin. General rule of thumb: Anything related to things mums may care about usually stem from really antiquated and chintzy British slang. This is a good example.
• “crack” – Technically Irish in origin, it can also be heard round down home. Not smoked from a pipe (necessarily), this is any type of fun.
• “toque” – I know that even Yanks use this term now, but I still claim it as ours. I had a beauty of a toque when I was a kid: red, white and blue stripped, with matching pom-pom, with “IRVING” knitted into the side all around it… yeah. That was left on the school bus pretty damned quick.
• “toque head” – The hair resulting from wearing previous item.
• “pogey” – Unemployment insurance, i.e. “Your brother-in-law’s beer allowance.”
• “poutine” – Canada’s answer to the Heart Smart menu: potato deep-fried in fat, covered with a layer of curded fat, and then topped off with a layer of liquid fat. Yum.
• “2-4” – a box of 24 beer… which is probably enough to kill five grown American men, after a lifetime wasted on the dishwater you all drink down there.
• “Making puppies” – A more polite euphemism for another, nastier term (ask me in private) for “doing nothing.”
• “G’Way!” or “G’Wan!” – A charming little Celtic remnant from UP HOME, meaning, “You know, I don’t fully believe that thing that you just said.”
• “Screech” – Severe and toxic drink; the last thing you will ever taste in this life, if you aren’t sufficiently braced for impact.
• “Whadda’yat?” – Translated: “Hello, fine fellow, well met! Pray tell, how you fair this fine morning?”
• “Mulroney” – A horrible, huge-chinned monster who scares small children and cuts funding with a huge, razor-covered mit. A cautionary tale of what could happen to anyone who gets into bed with Ronald Regan.

So, yeah, I know some of these expressions are pretty self-explanatory and may be all over, but, to me, they say Canada… Ah, Canucks. Bless our little white tube socks, eh?
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Making a Monkey Out of Benchley

“I can't bring myself to say, 'Well, I guess I'll be toddling along.' It isn't that I can't toddle. It's just that I can't guess I'll toddle.”

Today marks the 117th anniversary of the birth of great American wit, writer and satiric filmmaker, Robert Benchley, founding member of the Algonquin Round Table of the 1920s, and close friend of Harpo Marx, Charlie Chaplin, George Kaufman, and a million other heroes of mine. Oh, and Benchley himself also happens to be something of an icon to me. And I am not the only one. You only have to look at Benchley’s distinctive “so painful it is funny” mock-nervous speaking style to know that, had there not been Benchley, there would not have been Woody Allen or Bob Newhart.

Born in Worchester, Mass, on September 15, 1889, Benchley was the only child born on that day in his home city… this started a trend of being an individual, as well as making unique appearances. Benchley’s works includes hundreds of printed stories, essays, collected works, quips and bon mots. He was also behind around 46 of the funniest short films ever made, including the Oscar-winning How to Sleep (1935).

A product of solid middle-class roots, Benchley still had the insecurity and tragedy that is required of all American humorists: When his beloved older brother Edmund died in the Spanish-American War, his mother’s first reaction was: “Oh, why couldn’t it have been Robert?!?” Although she regretted saying it almost immediately, the comment became legend in the family, and one can easily see how Robert became a famous wit; it was either that or start hollowing out bullets and find a bell tower.

Famous for his New Yorker, Harvard Lampoon, Hollywood and publishing successes, Benchley always considered himself a lazy man, and not even a very good writer (his response: “But by the time I found out I couldn’t write, I was too famous at it to stop.”) However, today, aside from starting something of a writing dynasty including son Nat (The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming, 1966) and grandson Peter (Jaws, 1975), Robert Benchley also remains one of the foundational founding fathers of modern comedy and humour writing.

So, he is greatly missed since his death in 1945, but not forgotten. Don’t mourn. Instead, “get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.”

(Who else could have made such a line? The bastard… he does make one jealous.)
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Soft Tissue Damage & Midlife Crisis

It has happened, finally. The golden gates of middle age have started to crack open.

Was feeling pressured and wired tonight with pent up something-or-other, and I decided to grasp at a little of my youthful angst. Put in some Marilyn Manson, which used to always cheer me up. I cranked it. My ear drums were surely bleeding, but the music felt good. So, as my younger self was wont to do, I started to do a little headbanging.

I was enjoying myself, bopping and smashing around like little 18-year-old Holly might have done, and then tragedy struck.

I have hurt my neck, headbanging.

(How do you know if you have whip lash, by the way?)

So I sat there, thinking of my ache and what a swift apple I surely am, when it dawned on me. There I was, well into my late-20s spread, wearing a brown cardigan, massaging my neck, and realizing I am now too old to headbang.

And it occurred to me: In about 21 months, I will be 30 years old.

30 years old.

Think of that.

Roll that number on your tongue. Feel the burn of it. Taste its bitter horror.

On May 17, 2008, I will be 30 years old.

I am too old to headbang.

Too old.

In a brown cardigan.

Man, when did it all become too late?

When did I become so damned old?

Certainly, when I wasn’t looking, that is for sure.

Tomorrow, I start shopping for canes along with my neck brace.

Dammit.
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24 Hours with Bill

My Blogathon 2006 theme was a tribute to the legendary William Holden, as a way to raise money for The Mount Kenya Wildlife Conservancy, and I made it, raising over $100 US, and earning the distinction of “Hot Blog” on the Blogathon surfer frame. The blog posts included reviews of Holden’s films, snippets of his bio, and information on how animals in Kenya are being saved and protected by the conservancy.

Just so they do not go to waste, here are links to all 51 posts created for Blogathon 2006, and a link to this post will go onto the sidebar.

Some of them have been edited a bit since they were first posted, but all of them were written fresh for the event during my 24 hour trial. I had a great time, and I hope I can participate next year (though I have no idea what my theme could be… Another 24 Hours With Bill Holden…?)

William Holden Blogathon 2006 Post Index:

1. Kick Off
2. Mount Kenya Intro
3. Donation PSA
4. Holden: The Early Years
5. Holden Filmography
6. Review: Sunset Boulevard (1950)
7. Announcements
8. Trivia Challenge 1
9. Review: Stalag 17 (1953)
10. Poll: Best Holden Flick
11. People Working for Kenya
12. Review: Sabrina (1954)
13. Holden: More Than a Face
14. Trivia Challenge 2
15. Review: The Bridges of Toko-Ri (1955)
16. Poll: Holden Co-Stars
17. Review: The World of Suzie Wong (1960)
18. Review: Love is a Many-Splendored Thing (1955)
19. The Mount Kenya Mission
20. Review: Network (1976)
21. Holden: WWII Years
22. Review: The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
23. Holden: On Acting
24. Trivia Challenge 3
25. Sponsorship Plea
26. Review: Golden Boy (1939)
27. Mount Kenya Needs Donations!
28. Review: Paris – When it Sizzles (1963)
29. William Holden Commemorative Stamp Campaign
30. Blogathon 2006 Update
31. Review: The Devil’s Brigade (1968)
32. Review: Born Yesterday (1950)
33. Poll: Favourite Holden Character
34. Trivia Challenge 4
35. Review: Satan Never Sleeps (1962)
36. WHWF Fund Raising
37. Review: Breezy (1973)
38. How to Learn More About William Holden
39. Review: Picnic (1955)
40. The Wild Bunch Screening
41. Trivia Challenge 5
42. Holden: Star Power
43. Wild Bunch Screening Pt 1
44. Wild Bunch Screening Pt 2
45. Wild Bunch Screening Pt 3
46. Wild Bunch Screening Pt 4
47. Wild Bunch Screening Pt 5
48. Review: The Wild Bunch (1969)
49. Holden: A Eulogy
50. Trivia Answers
51. A Thank You to Our Sponsors

Mostly these are here as a time capsule, but some of them are pretty good, espeically the reviews. Enjoy!
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The Birth of an Immortal

July 4th marks the anniversary of the arrival of Neil Simon, American playwright, screenwriter, and all-around wit, on this day back in 1927. Part of the amazing legacy of Sid Caesar’s “Your Show of Shows” (1950-54), which included Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner and Woody Allen, Simon is an important member of what is likely the greatest generation of film writers.

One of the rare instances of a non-director to whom one is almost tempted to apply the term “auteur,” Simon’s plays have launched some of the greatest comedy films ever made, including The Odd Couple (1968), The Sunshine Boys (1975), Lost in Yonkers (1993), Come Blow Your Horn (1963), Biloxi Blues (1988), and The Goodbye Girl (1977)… And, as with anyone, some true stinkers, as well, such as the unfortunate The Odd Couple II (1998).

Ranking amongst the most admired, successful and influential writers of all time, Simon also remains one of the most beloved observers of the post-war Jewish community, as well as the variety and depth of modern male experiences. His stories are filled with charm and nostalgia, but also an impressive range of comedic styles and devices, but also deep pathos and sensitivity. Underlying most of his works there is a dark layer of humanity which makes the comedy all the more enjoyable. In The Odd Couple, there is suicide and divorce; The Sunshine Boys, bitterness and mortality; and in his own autobiographical “Eugene Trilogy,” there is everything from economic hardship to war to prostitution to racism.

Whether it is romance, slapstick, autobiography, friendship, or two old vaudevillians at each other’s throats, there are few better times to be had than a good selection of Neil Simon creations.

Happy Birthday.

Wow. This is Really, Really Silly.

Am part of the way into my first viewing of the new Pride and Prejudice (2005), and I have to stop and register my sorrow, or surely my head will explode.

So many annoying things, all in one small frame.

Everyone in here seems like they haven’t acted since tenth grade drama class (even, at times, my beloved Donald Sutherland!), and all the hairdos seems to have been excess wigs bought from the touring company of Canada: A Peoples’ History.

Lizzy, who talks like she is continually sucking on a lozenge, is somewhere between Belle from Beauty and the Beast and a truck stop waitress.

Although she is… tolerable, I suppose.

(At least she is younger than Jennifer Ehle, so that is some plus.)

And Kitty, who is usually the better of the two slut-sisters, seems to have been drugged, and her lines appear to consist of nothing more than peels of unreasonable laughter and hysterical gasps.

My teeth are set on edge, as every sentence is read as fast air leaving a whoopee cushion, making me check the speed on the DVD player four times already. Come on, guys, I know it is a long book, but speed of speech may not be the best solution!

The costumes all seem from every which way (and, yes, many seem to have hitch-hiked in from France), and the house full of chattering girls seems to have mistaken Jane Austen for Louisa May Alcott. And I am completely baffled by Mr. and Mrs. Bennett lip-smooching in the living room, as if they were baby boomers preparing to take the kiddies off to soccer practice. This is hardly what I expected from them… Actually, when I first read the book as a child, they seemed so distant I wondered if they were even related at all - I wondered why their nanny was called "Mrs. Bennett".

Aside from the attractive agricultural scenes, the camera work is obtrusive and over-blown (as in, what was with that slow close-in on an unimportant glass of cider for no less than 10 seconds?), and the unbearably-simple-minded Bingley (who is seriously an idiot) appears to have puffed up his bright red pompadour with a bicycle pump (gaze at the horror that is the Red Pompadour, above). WTF?

Don’t get me wrong – Bingley has never been the brightest bulb in the pack, but I have never, ever pictured him as bad as he is portrayed here, by some guy who looks all the world like he could be Paul Bettany’s mentally challenged younger cousin.

Oh, and Judi Dench as Lady Catherine de Bourg? What incredibly innovative casting! (Since sarcasm doesn’t come through blog posts, I will highlight it there.) Not only is this a lame and predictable move, but it is also not at all correct. Judi Dench has a lovely hint of true sparkle and humour under any severity she possesses, so she is the last person I would have cast for this malevolent creature.

Now, Brenda Blethyn! There is a wonderful choice for Mrs. Bennett. (No sarcasm.) Pity they couldn’t give her anything worthy of her.

Right now, I can’t even really get into Darcy (the meat-head upstage left, reading his lines at the speed of an auctioneer), because my gorge would fly open with such a violence as to shatter my computer monitor.

But, incidentally, is it only me who finds it terribly, terribly wrong for him to have a bust of himself in his own gallery at his age?? As if all the nude Greek men decorating his bachelor pad weren’t bad enough, it seems he is also horribly vain and pathetically silly. Lovely.

Arrggh! Only half way through, and I am already inclined to throw this piece of tripe out a window. This is the only second I have spent being glad this thing is shorter than the book deserves – four more hours, and I would go out the window with it.

This is interminable. Fighting… to… not… open… solitaire… program. Must pay… attention! (I’ve already paused once to scan for viruses, thinking something this bad must be contagious.)

Sad, sad day. I didn’t expect to love it, but I didn’t expect complete hatred. I had expected something around the level of Emma (1998) – lightweight, abbreviated, pleasant, pop… but not a travesty of taste and style.

At best, I am hoping this end up as not a totally regrettable experience.

This is really too bad. I had assumed that an adequate version of P&P would be better than no P&P at all, but now I am uncertain.

Then again, “adequate” may be complimenting this version too much.

Can I Be Al Brooks When I Grow Up?

Pretty please? I’ll do my homework and eat all my vegetables. Honest.

I am so ashamed to say this, but Sunday I watched Broadcast News (1987) for the first time ever. (A stunned hush falls over the world.) I know, this seems inconceivable. Albert Brooks fanatic? Check. 80s movie buff. Check. Patron of fine comedy and social commentary? Check.

So what the hell happened?

The short answer to this is that I was 9 when this movie was released, so I will plead that defense. Actually, I did watch part of this once, but I was torn away from it, and never got back to it. Then last summer I bought a used copy of it on VHS for 99 cents, but when I tried to watch the thing there was no sound and no picture. That’s not true. I thought I made out Brooks’ Jew-fro in one second before it cut out again.

(Oh well, you get what you pay for, and since I bought it in Hamilton I think of it as charity, for surely 99 cents represents a day’s wages for a family of five in that rat nest.)

On Sunday, I was finally united with the picture I was born to love. And did I love it? As much as one could predict. Clearly, after I see it again, there may have to be a shake up in “Holly’s Top 100 Films of All-Time.”

At one point, I got so wrapped up in it, and so horrified that someone might actually chose William Hurt of all people, the Alpine WASP giant of arrogance, over my Albert Brooks, that I was tempted to charge onto the internet for instant spoilers.

One thing was for certain, if Al ended up losing a battle that he was clearly meant to win, I wanted no part in the rest of the film.

However, I resisted all urges, and was kept gripped throughout.

But, for those of you who haven’t seen this James Brooks masterpiece, there is far more here than a romantic triangle. Satire on the news industry is first and foremost, as the struggle between real news and infotainment rages. Unfortunately, this remains even more true today than when the picture was made, except for the fact that there may not be a struggle anymore. Journalistic ethics, credibility, TV tricks, it’s all in there, and it is a joy.

The movie goes further than that, however, into the world of people who are so emotionally and socially screwed up that they can afford (read: need) to place themselves under enormous daily strain and aggravation at work, simply because it keeps them from thinking about all that they don’t have. And some elements of these obsessive-compulsive overachievers and their quirks and hang-ups did hit too close to the bone. It took me a little while to get over the discomforting self-examination and enjoy myself. (I am just glad I watched it alone.)

I know that Albert Brooks has his critics, and perhaps he is a specialized taste, but I rarely get so much pleasure out of any performance as I do out of his, and every one of his movies has given me a special little thrill at some point. In Broadcast News, he absolutely shined. He was as funny and as touching as I have ever seen him, and I have never been so enamoured with him as I am right now.

Favourite line? “Tom, as nice as he is… is the devil!” Ha ha… I laugh and laugh. But, like all things Al Brooks, you have to hear it from him to get the full effect.

So, if you haven’t seen this, go now! Don’t let my shame be yours!

Catch-WLU

I bought a DVD copy of Catch-22 (1970) last March or so… maybe longer ago… but had not watched it until late Monday night (when does it become early Tuesday morning?). I read the book in high school, but I had never seen the picture, but I thought I might enjoy it, and it was incredibly cheap in a groaning bargain bin full of old 70s movies (meanwhile, American Pie 2 sells by the boatloads, but I digress).

However, after buying it, I read some pretty awful and scathing reviews, so I put off watching it for a while, lest my wallet-wound be too fresh when I watched it and hated it.

But Monday night, full of self-doubt and existential angst (such as only a well-fed North American can), I decided to let it have it. And, I must say that, despite all those lousy reviews I read, I absolutely lurved it. I mean, anything involving Jack Gilford and, especially, Alan Arkin has a head start on my appreciation, but I was absolutely surprised by how much I enjoyed it.

(As a side note, am I nuts for finding Alan Arkin so damned appealing? Is that a strange fetish? Bah! I do not fear your pity or your contempt!)

The point of all this is: Have you ever watched a movie and have an absolute clarity of vision in terms of which characters in the film match the people you know in life?

That is what I had about Catch-22.

The fellow grad students I have known over time can only line up with pilots and bombardiers (faced with war in the European theatre) through the use of a great amount of imagination, but I can see parallels that excite and amuse. The stress, the doubt, the paranoia, the goals that always seem to get further and further away, and greater and greater in number… And the subtle forms of mental illness that develop over time under constant pressure.

And I say this with all due respect and love to those of you who may be reading this, and I certainly do not exclude myself from this.

I will not name names, but I can see many of you so clearly when I watch this picture. (And if you have seen this picture, you know why I am reluctant to make so many enemies all in one post.) Nately, the young and sensitive anxiety-case; Aardvark, the hyper-normal one who scares everyone with his seeming-sanity; Dobbs, the hard one who breaks into revolution; Danby, the good-humoured jerk; Major, the absolutely insane junior leader; Dreedle, the hideous general… All these I know, right down to the loveable, confused cleric, Chaplain Tappman (guess who that one is?).

(Oh, I wish-oh-wish I lived in a bubble and did not depend on the good will of others for survival (and could depend on all of your senses of humour) so I could go into details, for it makes me laugh and laugh when I think about it. So, should any of you wish to belly up to the self-knowledge-bar and take a guess, do let me know.)

Naturally, Yossarian I reserve for myself. We all, always, do that with the main character. (Especially the Everyman sort such as this.) However, even objectively, I find some pretty uncomfortable character parallels to even his less admirable qualities… The cowardice, the paranoid ramblings, the irritating personality, the "rants so much he appears insane but is the only sane one" position in society… It all comes a little too close for comfort.

The nebbish with the heart of coal. That is me to a tee.

Yes, I enjoyed this movie much, much, much. If you work in an ensemble group, from a grad student cohort to a telemarketers’ cubicle farm, you may enjoy this film, too.

But, if I were you, I’d keep the associations to yourself.

The Limelight Department

Today in 1891, The Limelight Department, which may have been the very first film studio in the world, opened in Melbourne, Australia, under the auspices of the Salvation Army.

Unofficially dated to the year before, when Adjutant Joseph Perry started a photography studio as a sideline and then later used these photos in a lantern show for the Army, it was officially established in 1891, when Commandant Herbert Booth, recognizing the possibilities of the new cinematic medium as a tool for the organization, funded Perry for his first films. These early works included a series of shorts depicting the life of Jesus, as well as Soldiers of the Cross (1899), which many say may have been the first feature-length film ever made, and related some very gruesome and detailed images of the early Christian martyrs.

Soldiers of the Cross, which reportedly caused fainting fits in the audience, established Perry’s department as a significant player in the early film industry. In 1901, the Limelight Department was commissioned to record the Federation of Australia, using an innovative five-camera set up. This began a precedent for the Department, which continued to expand, to take more non-religious commissions (including footage of the withdrawal of British troops from South Africa after the Boer War), along side of its evangelical projects.

In 1910, however, the Department came under the control of the conservative Commander James Hay who felt that film, with its entertainment element, was not in keeping with the aims of the Salvation Army, and disbanded the company.

It is questionable as to whether Soldiers, or its follow-up film Heroes of the Cross (1909), was the first feature length film, as existing footage places it well-under the required 60 minute mark, and it is likely that the honour of first goes to the UK/Australian production of The Story of the Kelly Gang (1906).

However, through the Department’s use of cameras, and in its recognition of the ideological value of the cinema, it remains a landmark in the history of international filmmaking, as well as a crucial link between the development of the photography industry and the cinema.