It was easy enough to satirize his rages and caricature his crusades. But it was the stride and stance of the man—his sheer guts—the brew of his laughter and the dint of his compassion, those were the qualities that made John Diefenbaker a politician apart.
Aislin’s art is not renowned for its delicacy: Princess Anne’s wedding. A horse stands between the royal couple. All three are smiling toothily, displaying enough ivory to furnish a piano with a complete set of keys. And it is the horse that says, “I do!”
When he was a little boy Francis Coppola must have thought he saw glimpses of mountains that nobody else could see. He made movies with titles such as The Rich Millionaire and charged admission to them. Stricken with polio and confined to bed for a year, he played around with puppets and puppet theatre.
He had no choice at the time, but that seems to have faded into the mists of memory. Instead, Paul Gindoff, an outgoing Toronto pet-food salesman with a $14,000 income, a penchant for $250 suits and a habit of treating his friends to food and drink, prefers to see it as a kind of conversion.
Watching Apocalypse Now is like having a series of doors opened for you, each revealing the phosphorescent imagery of hell. You walk out of it shaken up, all powers of judgment jettisoned. Because it is visually, sonically and emotionally unlike any other movie, it radically changes the perceptions and responses you bring to movies.
Affable David Steinberg played himself recently during the lensing of Nothing Personal in Toronto. The script called for Donald Sutherland’s crusading character to appear on The Tonight Show and expose a multinational scandal involving nuclear missiles, seal pups and native land claims.
The executive office, sought as the reward for long and able service in business and government, carries a well-publicized price tag—along with the success comes stress. When the cost becomes too onerous, certain questions begin to clamor for answers in the minds of the well-paid victims: am I losing touch with the simple pleasures of life and my family?
In its prime in the 1840s, it was blackly described by writer R.M. Ballantyne as “a monstrous blot on a swampy spot with a partial view of the frozen sea.” Today, in its brief summery garb, only the relentless swarms of mosquitoes are monstrous and York Factory, founded in 1682 at the mouth of Manitoba’s Hayes River, commands a partial view of a cold but unfrozen Hudson Bay.
It’s nearing 4 a.m.—peak hour at Flamingo, one of New York’s most popular gay discos. The room is steaming hot and glowing; a sort of homosexual Walpurgisnacht is under way. There are 1,500 men on the dance floor, hundreds stripped to the waist wearing stovepipe jeans and boots—clones abounding.
People in the dairy cattle industry must be scratching their heads this month and wondering where in tarnation he finds the time. Surely Stephen Roman has enough on his hands, what with the big cattle sale next week at Romandale Farms, just north of Toronto, without running off to Denver, Colorado, to look at oil wells.
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