Throwback Thursday, magazine edition 3/18/21

I flew to L.A. in 2001, a few weeks after 9/11, to meet Clive Barker and talk to him about his then-forthcoming sexy, creepy haunted Hollywood novel, Coldheart Canyon, for The Advocate. The airports in Toronto and L.A. were like ghost towns, with everyone vigilant and on their best behaviour. I read the galleys on the plane. The next day was warm and soft, a Southern California fall day like something out of a movie about Southern California in the fall. I met Barker at his house that afternoon, and we spoke for two and a half hours, about books, films, life, and Coldheart Canyon. Throughout, he couldn't have been more generous and forthcoming—a true gentleman, on and off tape, then and now.

Throwback Thursday, magazine edition 3/11/21

 

My 1985 interview with Michael Damian, the Y&R star who had just then released his first album, in Close-Up magazine. This may have been my third, or fourth professional interview ever. Editors Angie Colgoni and Libby Starke of Close-Up did more to kick start my magazine writing career in those days than anyone else, and I'm grateful to this day for the kindness and patience they showed a 23-year old keener with more ambition than restraint.

As for Mr. Damian himself—he was fun and unpretentious, and had the best 1985 hair of anyone I'd ever met.

Goodbye, HuffPo Canada

On Sunday October 11th, 2015, my essay "Giving Thanks For New-Stock Canadians"—a reply to then-Prime Minister Stephen Harper's dogwhistle appeal for unity and primacy among "old-stock" Canadians (read: white; Protestant/Catholic; English/Scottish/Irish), in an attempt to pit them against immigrants, at the ballot box—made the front page of Huffington Post Canada.

It ran on Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, and was an exceptionally proud moment for me as a culture critc. 

Plus, we got Justin Trudeau, who ran on a pro-diversity platform, on top of everything, else as Prime Minister that year, so the whole thing was a win-win.

I was saddened today, though not remotely surprised, to hear that the site was ceasing publication. 

As one of the early writers for the original American Huffington Post, it's been a bit painful to remember those glory days (the one and only time I was ever invited to appear on CNN was because of something I wrote for them) while simultaneously observing how the current climate of online "news" and "culture" has devolved.

We had some good times, HuffPo Canada.  Thanks for the memories.

Safari chairs

"Both boys have safari chairs, presents from Aunt Nuzah and Uncle Fouad Hamzeh. Mike can use his easily, but we still have to help E. get out of his. He climbs up just fine, but goes head-first when climbing down." 

—Mum writing to Great-Aunt Treva Quinn, Beirut, October, 1964

On the final day of Back History Month, 2021

 

The passing of a giant always leaves a shadow on the sun

My parents took me to The Sound of Music in 1966. It was showing at a grand, gilded cinema in Beirut—the kind we used to have, with stills from the film posted throughout the lobby. Although I must have been four at the time, I was spellbound. The scene at the start of the film before the credits, with the alps, meadows, and, finally, Salzburg coming in out of the clouds, still fills me with a nostalgia that borders on vertigo. 

Mum and Dad were at first amused, then baffled, the finally annoyed when I insisted on seeing it a dozen times before it left the theatre. Needless to say there was some delight on my part when, decades later, they read in some respectable magazine or other that an obsession with The Sound of Music in childhood was very common among gay men of a certain age. 

That said, my favourite memory of that first viewing wasn't even the film itself. It was my father taking me across the street to a record shop an purchasing the soundtrack album—maybe my first record shop, and certainly my first soundtrack album. It's difficult to explain in this age of digital streaming and iTunes how magical it might have seemed to a four-year old boy that the transformative experience of watching The Sound of Music could be extended by crossing the street and taking an LP off the rack. 

The film iteration of the von Trapp family became people I felt I knew—the children notwithstanding, as I could never keep them straight, except Liesl—and Plummer's Captain von Trapp almost as much as Julie Andrews' Maria. 

It seemed therefore unremarkable, though truly lovely, when my best friend Ron Oliver came to direct Mr. Plummer in his third film, Liar's Edge, in 1992, more like a family occurrence than excellent casting.

As to his passing today, I've been relieved not to see the usual level of ostentatious boo-hooing on Facebook that so often accompanies the death of a film legend, even one in his 90s. 

Speaking for myself, and, I suspect, a few others, it's likely because Mr. Plummer felt like a beloved member of our families, someone we grew up with, someone we loved, and someone who never failed to delight us, impress us, and inspire us. If he'd really been a member of our family, he might have been the uncle who taught us to tie a bow tie properly. 

And now, at the lofty, leonine age of 91, and in all his power, he finally has left us. Fortunately we can all mean it this time when we utter the platitudinous phrases Thanks for the memories and Rest in peace. This time, we get to be dignified, the way he always was. The passing of a giant always leaves a shadow on the sun, even briefly.

Remembering Olympic gold medallist in the Decathlon and pro-football player Milt Campbell during Black History Month, 2021

This is Mario Geo's 1967 Toronto Star photograph of American Olympic gold medalist and ex-pro football Milt Campbell and his family, residents of Cooksville, Ontario, moving back to New Jersey to join in the Civil Rights movement following the Newark Riots that year. 

Campbell was the first Black decathlete ever to win the gold medal, in the 1956 Olympics in Melbourne, Australia. Campbell played one season of football for the Cleveland Browns before being fired by the team's coach Paul Brown, according to Campbell because of his marriage to a white woman. Determined to continue to play football, Campbell found himself welcomed by Canada and the CFL, playing for the Hamilton Tiger-Cats and Toronto Argonauts until his retirement from football in 1964. Upon his return to the United States, he started a community centre and co-founded the Chad School in Newark, which had a specific focus on Black history and culture.

Campbell was inducted into the United States Olympic Hall of Fame in 1992, and he died in 2012, in Georgia, from complications related to prostate cancer. 

Campbell's life and career were extraordinary, and should, in all fairness, have been the subject of a major biopic by now. Perhaps one of the brilliant young screenwriters and directors making films today—in either of our two countries—will rediscover this story, and start writing. Check out this excellent video here. 

Remembering Canada's Black Loyalists during Black History Month, 2021

A detail from John Singleton Copley's "The Death of Major Pierson, 6 January 1781" (1783) features a Black Loyalist soldier fighting on the British side. During Black History Month in Canada, it's worth remembering that the Black Loyalists—former American slaves who joined the British side in the War of Independence—were among the original non-Native Canadians, and should be counted among Canada's founders and settlers, in spite of the terrible struggles they endured, against everything from the violent weather to various forms of institutionalized racism, in a new country that promised them acceptance and land, and frequently shirked on both counts. Many of the Loyalists eventually left Canada, travelling to Africa and settling in Freetown, in Sierra Leone. Those who remained, and established themselves in Nova Scotia and Upper Canada, contributed to the evolving fabric of the new nation. Until relatively recently, their achievements and histories have been downplayed in favour of Canada's (predominantly white European colonial) history.

The coat of arms of the Black Loyalist Heritage Society of Shelburne, Nova Scotia were granted by the Canadian Heraldic Authority in 2006, and the elements are as follows—

The shield: "Sable between three Loyalist civil coronets a ship’s wheel with four spokes in saltire Argent." The crest: "A demi-lion Or gorged of a Loyalist military coronet and holding between its paws an anchor Sable." The supporters: "Two lions Or each gorged of a Loyalist civil coronet Gules, the leaves Vert, and standing on a rock set with mayflowers proper."

Scent mapping

Does anyone else map out the writing of their books with mnemonic devices? Each of my novels has had an associated fragrance, usually via a scented candle, that acts as a device to immerse me me in my story as soon as the candle is lit. For October, I used a Yankee Candle Company candle in "Spiced Pumpkin," which deftly caught the Halloween season in my mind. For Wild Fell, my friend Elliot gifted me a French candle that called to mind the vast, dim interior of a cathedral during candlelit mass. In the case of Enter, Night I used sealed, unopened 70s-era vintage perfumes that recalled the era, and dabbed them on the lightbulbs in my office, including the obvious teenage fragrances, like Love's Baby Soft and vintage Chantilly by Houbigant (thanks, Ebay) partially when it came to writing the characters of Christina and her daughter, Morgan. The candle for the new novel is Voluspa's "Sake Lemon Flower." I purchased three of them, which will hopefully see me through the entire writing. The novel is set in the early 80s and the present day, so the scent is clean and modern, and sensuous without being overpowering. Next to music (each of the novels have their own writing soundtracks, too) nothing links me more tightly to memory, and narrative, than scent.

David Moss (1924-2021)

Last weekend, we lost David Moss at the age of 96. He was the father of my big sister, Nancy, whom some of you know from my books and essays. I met Dave when I was 11 or 12 in Geneva, where our two families were living. He was an American executive who travelled a great deal, and he was kind to this odd Canadian boy he frequently found in his house, who seemed surgically attached to his eldest daughter. I think I amused him, in the nicest possible sense. He had a patrician Gregory Peck quality, and, together, he and his wife Betsy radiated a particular sort of American glamour that might have been written by John Cheever; like a happier, expat version of the New Canaan, Connecticut families in Ang Lee's film of Rick Moody's The Ice Storm. Decades later in 1992, at Nancy's wedding in New Hampshire (shown here), I was her husband's best man. The father of the bride and I were able to spend some time as two adult men, albeit of different generations, and even in the midst of a hectic wedding weekend we had some good, deep talks. I came away with an adult's sense that he was a very, very good man, the kind worth emulating. The last time I saw Dave was more than a decade later at his home in Manchester-by-the-Sea. I won't even try to guess the date, which seems both like yesterday and a century ago. Among other things, I remember, we had a discussion about the ships that left England for Plymouth Colony in the early 17th century. He was delighted that I knew the Arbella, which sailed into what is now known as Salem Harbour in 1630, was the ship that carried the new colony's precious library. David Moss loved his daughters, he loved his grandchildren, and he probably knew, more often than not, that he was the most dashing man in any given room. He wore it lightly and gracefully and, as I remember, seemed to put that light on others instead of shining it on himself. I'm privileged to have known him through Nancy, and I mourn with her, and with her sisters, as well as with Dave's first wife, Betsy, all of whom I still consider family 47 years after we were all first brought together. Fate can be a capricious, often cruel mistress, but she is occasionally also a bestower of great blessings. Loving these people has been among those bestowed on me. Rest in peace, Dave, and comfort to those who loved you.

[Photo, viewer's L-R: Nancy's late son M. J. whom we lost last year; Dave; Nancy's husband, Jay; me, 1992]

It's funny what you wind up missing during a lockdown

It's funny what you wind up missing during a lockdown. The restaurant at the top of Nordstrom, Bar Verde, has a prime view of the mall—a view that was particularly joy-sparking at Christmas, when the tree was up. Almost from the start, the staff became pals, and the restaurant became a place where I established myself as a regular. The rush of human contact was a particular stimulant after working at home alone all day in a silent house. In the winter of 2018, I re-read Peter Straub's Ghost Story there over a series of snowy evenings. In December of 2019, I did my frantic last-minute revisions on my story for Matt Bechtel's anthology, The Dystopian States of America, there. I've had countless lunches and dinners with much-loved friends and colleagues there. Like the bar in Cheers, it was a place where everyone knew my name, and my preferred table was nicknamed "Michael's booth." With the city shut down completely, especially indoor dining, and social distancing and sheltering in place, "Christmas" has never felt more like a social media construct—so, thank God for social media, even as the snow falls and the neighbourhood lights sparkle. I miss my friends fiercely, and what I wouldn't give to be sitting in Michael's booth with them tonight, dreaming of flying to Palm Springs to be with my California family on the 22nd of December, as I have every year for the past thiry, looking out at the lit Christmas tree in the mall (where I was the Santa Claus in 1985), cherishing the memories, and blessing this season as an embodiment of the people and things I love the most in the world. On the other hand, it's only a year until Christmas 2021.

The children are home for Halloween

Today's post brought the author copies of the new editions of my three novels from my new publisher, Open Road Media. I couldn't be happier. 

Also, I love that the books arrived in time for Halloween. With COVID-19, we're not handing out candy and obviously not seeing friends. It'll be us, the dog (who's ten today, by the way—Happy Birthday, Beckett!—and some well-chosen horror films, and the new editions on the shelf. 

This was Beckett, on his first birthday with us—October 30th, 2012, when he turned two. I still see that "quizzical puppy" expression on his face eight years later. 

Unboxing the paperbacks

The highlight of this past week was undoubtedly getting these copies of Les Ombres de Wild Fell, the French translation of my novel Wild Fell, which arrived from Paris this past Tuesday. 

I've had my books published in hardcover and trade paperback, but I've never had one published in a mass market paperback before. Like a lot of horror writers who grew up in the 70s and 80s, paperback horror novels were a staple—for me, even a gold standard—to which I aspired. All of the horror writer I most admired (including many who later became good friends) had their books published as pocketbooks, either after a decent hardcover run, or in the book's' first and only form. 

Finally, in my 50s, I've achieved it. I may have missed the golden age of the paperback horror original as a writer, but this still feels remarkably satisfying. 

The Film Rights to OCTOBER Are Sold!

Well, it's official. The film rights to my novel October have been sold to L.A.-based indie filmmaker Dominic Haxton, as Publisher's Marketplace Deal Report announced today, in a deal quarterbacked by my agent, Sam Hiyate of The Rights Factory. 

I'm over the moon to finally be able to share it. I was a fan of Mr. Haxton's short films long before he approached me about making a feature film of October. I'd found his powerful short film, Tonight It's Me, about an encounter between a young trans woman, Ash, and a hustler, CJ, beautiful and remarkably moving. 

His queer horror short, Tonight It's You, on the other hand, which again featured the character of CJ, was as dark and chilling as its more optimistic predecessor was tender and revelatory. It's one of my favourite short horror films. 

In the afterword to October I mentioned a young filmmaker in California who had enquired about making a feature film of the novel, and what contemporary updates he might apply. 

That filmmaker—unnamed in the afterword—was the brilliant Mr. Haxton. 

Two years ago, he acquired a shopping deal for October, and earlier this summer, he purchased the film rights themselves, to make October as his first full-length feature. 

I couldn't feel more confident that the book is with the right filmmaker.  If you click this Tonight It's You link, I think you'll understand why. 

I can't wait to see what Mr. Haxton does with the novel when he applies his own elegant, modern horror aesthetic to the story of Mikey and Wroxy, and Adrian, and the haunted town of Auburn. 

We'll keep you posted as the process unfolds and develops. 

But for now, we're going to open some champagne. 

Cover Reveal à la Française

Here's the cover of the forthcoming mass-market edition of Les Ombres de Wild Fell, the French translation of my haunted house novel Wild Fell, which will be published by Editions Bragelonne in Paris, in October, 2020.

In the same way that many authors pine for a hardcover edition of their novel, I've always pined for a mass-market paperback edition of one of mine. I grew up on mass-market horror paperbacks. 

We all read them at school, traded them, collected them, hoarded then, and loved them to shreds. I still have some of my best-beloved ones from the late-70s and 80s. 

The late, legendary Michael McDowell, who wrote some of the best original horror fiction of the era, always said he was proud of being a paperback novelist—a writer whose books were published only in mass-market paperback. 

I always admired him for that, as well as for his tremendous storytelling gifts. 

Bragelonne published a beautiful trade paperback of the novel in 2016, with a glorious translation by Benoît Domis. 

I've never been able to read my work to myself in English without hearing my own voice, and finding things I would have loved to have done differently. It's a weird neurosis, but I own it. What I found, reading the book in French, was that it was like reading a novel by someone other than myself. I enjoyed that sensation. I likewise had a much clearer sense of the book when I didn't attach that authorial self-consciousness to the process.

I hope French readers of the new mass-market paperback edition enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. There's an enormous amount of pleasure in imagining someone picking up the novel at an airport somewhere in the French-speaking world, maybe for a long flight, and imagining them spending those hours in the air, being transported, in their minds,  to Canada, to a remote, windswept island in Georgian Bay, and an old dark house presided over by a very particular, very possessive, quite terrifying châtelaine.

Bonne chance, mes potes.