AL PACINO'S GRIP (OR, THE THINGS THAT YOUNG PEOPLE REMEMBER)

I have history of being condescended to by famous people in public forums. (Is that a word, 'condescended', or is it made-up? Then again, as I read somewhere recently, all words are made, up right? So what the hell.)

Three examples:

1) The Toronto Film Festival, fall, 1996. Kevin Spacey's directorial debut, Albino Alligator, plays to a packed house at the (recently deceased) Uptown Theatre in downtown Toronto. I watch the movie. I don't get the ending; I literally don't understand how what happened happened. One of those The Sting type deals. Everyone else is nodding their head in appreciation while I'm scratching my scalp in confusion. (I had the same sensation when I recently watched Ocean's Twelve. If anyone understands how the whole heist went down in this flick, can you let me know?) Kevin Spacey comes out for the q & a session and I ask him about the ending's, you know, meaning. He points out that he doesn't make simplistic movies for simplistic people -- he prefers pictures that make people think for themselves, rather than having everything spoon-fed to them. The audience erupts in applause. I sink down into my seat as if it were quicksand.

2) The National Arts Centre, Ottawa, 1998. Michael Ondaatje, the Canadian author of The English Patient, co-hosts a lecture-type thingee with Anthony Minghella, the director of its film adaptation (who went on to direct The Talented Mr.Ripley and Cold Mountain.) During the q & a I approach the mike and ask the two of them about the differences between creative writing and screenwriting, about their similarities, about the dangers of studying both at the same time, and how one of my professors warned that this was actually a bad thing. (I was trying to get them to talk about the mysterious, mystical, undefinable nature of fiction versus the more pragmatic, nuts-and-bolts nature of screenwriting -- that kind of thing.) They just kind of look at each other, and shrug, and say something along the lines of "Teachers -- what are ya going to do?" The audience laughs. I return to my seat, cheeks turning red.

3) The Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, 1995. Norman Mailer is presenting a presentation of Picasso's work to coincide with his recent biography of the legendary artist. During the q & a, I ask Mailer if he saw any similarities between Picasso and Lee Harvey Oswald, since he had recently completed biographies of both. The crowd, filled with well-dressed, hoity-toity members of Toronto's artistic elite, laugh that laugh that is impossible to describe, but you sure as hell know it when you hear it -- a patronizing and bemused, chortle. I feel young and stupid.

Ah, but here's the thing. Mailer thinks about my question. He looks for answers; he makes an attempt at introspection. He doesn't blow me or my question off. And later, while I waited in line to get Mailer's signature on a copy of his book, somebody came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said: "I thought your question was the most interesting of the whole bunch."

Looking back, the thing that sticks in my craw wasn't necessarily the fact that famous people kept dissing me. It was the fact that I was snubbed in a public forum where two, three hundred people had a good laugh at my expense.

I remember that laugh.

But I also remember that man who said a few kind words to me. He didn't have to do that. But he saw a nineteen year old who had been embarassed by a bunch of pompous posers who should have known better. And he thought he'd say a few words to make me feel like less of a schmuck.

People remember the good stuff you say and the bad stuff you say (intentional or not, premeditated or not) more than you'd ever imagine.

It all echoes.

So here's the thing:

Young people are sensitive. Young people have weird ideas. You people say stupid things. Young people don't always get everything you tell them. Young people haven't been jaded or exposed to everything in life.

Not to be preachy, but I learned from five years of teaching that, when you look someone in the eye, you don't do it in a patronizing way. They see it, they know it, they feel it.

And they remember it.

Coming from St.Catharines to Toronto ten or so years ago, I wanted to see as many famous people as I could. And you know what? The truly great ones -- guys like Mailer, Oliver Stone, Spike Lee -- are often the most humane. I don't mean they treat you like a friend; I mean they treat you like a human. They answer your questions; they are polite; they give back what you give them.

I saw Al Pacino introduce his film Looking For Richard, and as he exited the stage, heading out the door, I leaned across two people who were sitting at the edge of the aisle and I asked: "Al, can I shake your hand?"

He looked up and without pausing and stretched out his hand and said: "You bet!"

The great ones react.

It may sound silly, or juvenile, and it is, but so are young people, and they remember what you say, or what you do; they remember when they are treated with respect, and dignity, and when they aren't. People in power talking to people beneath them have a weight and a force that reverberates.

Now, I don't look for famous people. (Most of the time, anyways.) But I try (and don't always succeed) to treat everyday young people and all people as if they are the centre of their universes.

And I remember when they treat me as if I'm just a constellation in theirs.

TOYS THAT WILL GUARANTEE A SPIRITUAL SMACKDOWN

Just in case you ever wanted an action figure of Jesus Christ or the Buddha or the Dalai Lama, rest assured, your quest is over:

www.jesuschristsuperstore.net

(It'd be a little weird having Jesus fight the Dalai Lama, though. Something morally wrong with that, I think. Not that I wouldn't give it a go...)

I'M NOT CAMBODIAN

How would I feel if I were a Cambodian who read the latest biography of Pol Pot, in the which the author, a Brit, basically labels the Khmer race as lazy and lackluster workers, in addition to having the unfortunate luck of being stuck in a country that resembles a broken vase, ruled by a murderous thug, its future pale and uncertain?

I probably wouldn't be pleased. I would, most likely, be ticked off.

But I'm not Cambodian. I'm Canadian, which means I bring my own, western perspective to works of history and politics, culture and literature.

It's funny. I liked living in Japan, but I knew that I would never want to be Japanese; I enjoy Cambodia, too, but I can't imagine being a living and breather Khmer person, citizen, dude.

Is it even possible to think of ourselves as a race other than our own? Is it even relevant?

Yea to the first, nay to the second. Books on Japan by non-Japanese will always be from an outside perspective, one that may understand the culture, yes, but won't be of the culture.
This can be an asset; it can allow the author a distanced perspective that provides the possibility for clear-eyed, large-scale thinking, seeing the trends and patterns that natives of the country might miss.

There's a danger, however, in applying attitudes of certainty, no matter how well researched, to entire countries and races. I'm not saying the judgements shouldn't be made. (Maybe a definition of being human could be 'a creature that is able to judge others'.) They have to be viewed, however, with a certain discretion and skepticism.

So, by all means, if you're interested in a fascinating area of recent history that you might not know much about, pick up Pol Pot: History of a Nightmare by Philip Short. It's a very brisk, readable overview of the man and the era. I agree with most of what he says, and how he says it.

But as the author himself pointed out in a recent letter to the Phnom Penh Post, it's up to the Cambodian people themselves to judge his work -- it's their country, after all.

As I said, I agreed with Short's conclusions and general outlook on the country and its future.

But I'm not Cambodian.