The spelling was slightly off, but Zulu chief Gatsha Buthelezi didn’t have to turn to a dictionary to get the message, nor to a doctor to tell him his blood pressure was rising. “Stay, Makulu,” begged the elderly black man, depicted in the advertisement spread across the South African edition of Reader’s Digest.
Outside the Holiday Inn on a typically muggy Winnipeg afternoon, three limousines, shiny, black and empty, snake up the drive and come to a halt, their doors springing open. Out of the hotel come three members of Supertramp, at this moment, one of the world’s hottest rock bands.
It started in the pit of his stomach. He would be thinking about the race, one second methodically plotting his strategy and the next fighting an empty, gnawing feeling. The more he thought about the emptiness, the more he would try to refocus on the race.
Deep, 460 feet deep, beneath the alien taiga, two jet-powered hours north of Montreal, a legion of helmeted Quebeckers manhandles, bolts and welds into being the continent’s mightiest, cleanest, safest and cheapest energy machine. Above this man-hewn cavern, the cold flow of La Grande Riviere is blocked, held to ransom by a colossal trap of dams and dikes that force its waters to dilate across the low, scarred land.
About 150 of the more active, vocal and respected citizens of Point St. Charles had just seen a preview of The Point, a National Film Board documentary-profile of their home turf—an insular, close-knit and cockily English-speaking working-class district in the underbelly of Montreal.
In the aftermath of his self-inflicted crisis, there were strong indications that President Jimmy Carter began to lose his grip on the White House last week. At a time when the nation perceived Carter as bumbling and vulnerable, two powerful senators came out in support of Senator Edward Kennedy for president in 1980.
As Robert Stewart and Judith Jordan went about their separate lives late last Nov. 27, the only thing they had in common was the struggle to get home during a premature winter storm of snow and freezing rain. Last week, the grisly chain of events that has linked them forever was revealed in a Toronto court when the 30-year-old salesman stood trial for the hit-and-run death of the attractive young woman.
The unconventional career of Canadian glamor goddess Dayle Haddon is taking another strange twist. After a giddily straight role in a kiddie matinee movie called The World's Greatest Athlete and a slightly searing role as Keir Dullea’s playmate in Paperback Hero, the Montreal-born beauty moved to Paris where she filmed soft-core fantasies such as Madame Claude and Spermula.
The producers mistakenly thought Toronto’s Beverley Street would be perfect. It had a back alley wide enough for a lumbering garbage truck, houses cramped, yet large enough to accommodate cast, crew and lights, and just the right degree of dilapidation to suggest a modern-day Philadelphia slum, the setting of the $2-million American feature film Happy Birthday, Gemini.
"Everything is possible,” vowed Jankel Kuperblum 35 years ago when, as a 13-year-old Polish Jew, he had just beaten the odds and survived the Nazi invasion of his homeland. It was this faith in the possible that drove him over the subsequent decades—while building a successful career in Toronto, as a film-maker and author—to track down his father, hidden behind curtains of Soviet red tape.
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