The
big story today, from a Canadian point of view, is that the so-called Paradise
Papers, the latest issue of information about off-store tax havens emanating
from a company in Bermuda, appears to
deeply implicate, to quote The Guardian,
“the chief fundraiser and
senior adviser to the Canadian prime minister, Justin Trudeau, (a man called
Stephen Bronfman, heir to the Seagram fortune,) who played a critical role in
the rise to power of the charismatic politician, (and who) was involved in the
movement of millions of dollars to offshore havens.”
Also interesting is that although the online Guardian had many details about these transactions, the morning
issue of the Globe and Mail,
reporting the news about the Paradise Papers only in a single-column story on
page six, failed even to mention the involvement of our Prime Minister’s bosom
chum.
The story says two wealthy families were involved, and both appear to be
Liberal Party insiders. The second family was that of Leo Kolbar, who was made
a Senator by Justin Trudeau’s father in the last days of his years in office.
The closeness of Trudeau to these two families is revealed in the
following para in The Guardian
article: “The tight triangle
between Kolber, Bronfman and Trudeau was on display
last December when a
Liberal party fundraiser, at $1,500 a ticket, was held at Kolber’s Montreal
home with Bronfman as co-host and Trudeau as its prize draw.”
Ironically enough, on an earlier page in the same issue of the Globe and Mail, a commentator on the
trouble the federal Liberals seem to be having with ethical questions recalled
these $1,500-a-ticket fundraisers, which the Liberals have previously skated
over as perfectly within the rules covering unethical behaviour.
I suppose none of this directly implicates Justin Trudeau in illegal or
unethical deals, but it certainly does implicate Liberal party insiders, and
people who can be described as his close friends.
I am quite grateful that I found this newsworthy story today, because I
was about to resume my blog after a fairly long interregnum of seven weeks,
even though I had no particular issue to write about. I cannot remember why I have been so long
away, except that, as I have grown older, my contributions on the state of the
world have begun to seem to me more and more irrelevant, especially since in
these last months, following the incomprehensible election of Donald Trump,
world events appear to have been spiralling more or less out of control, with
every day the constant threat of a major disaster being unleashed on us all.
When I started this blog in 1996 it was simply as a sounding- off board
for me. I began thinking I could sound off almost every day, but a wise person
suggested maybe I should aim at once a week.
In recent years even that has seemed beyond my grasp (or my energies,
perhaps I should say). But this week a friend of mine told me he has a friend
who checks on my blog regularly, and whenever I have been silent, appears
asking if my friend could inquire as to my health. Also, my friend said, his mother (who is an
old friend of mine) regularly reads me, and wants to know if I am okay when I
seem to have fallen silent.
This has totally surprised me. I always operate on the assumption that I
have about three readers, and these two reports suggest that I might have as
many as six people who expect me to utter from time to time. I have elevated the number to six because
recently I heard from an old friend in Vancouver whom I have not seen or heard
from in 40 years, and she told me she enjoys my ramblings whenever they occur.
Well, I always say --- quoting, I think it was Simone de Beauvoir ---
that a writer needs only an audience of one, and I certainly agree with that.
So, if I can leave Justin Trudeau and his rich friends aside for the moment,
perhaps I can report on a really memorable film I saw this week, starring the
superb old actor, Harry Dean Stanton. The film is called Lucky, and it is about a 90-year-old guy living out his life in a
small town somewhere in the south-western United States. I am almost of that
age, so it is not surprising that there was much in the picture of his life
that I found familiar. Especially familiar was his habit of doing the same
thing every morning (A few years ago I realized with a shock that I had become a
creature of habit, and that I quite enjoyed the feel of that, picking up the
same cup and plate every morning, boiling the same tea, eating the same dish of
granola, covered with fruit and irrigated by ten-per-cent cream.) So it was with
Lucky. He would wash and shave himself,
dress in usually the same rough old clothes, go off to walk the same route to
the same local diner, where he was a regular, and where he would have the same
thing for breakfast among people who knew and understood him. (This last thing
I do not have the luxury of: I live in a huge city, where, unlike Lucky, I am
unknown and unrecognized.)
Lucky was a grumpy old sod, with little to say for himself. And when he
did get into discussions he had a tendency to become rather obstreperous, on
one occasion challenging one of his friends to come on outside so they could
settle the disagreement with fisticuffs.
Of course, anyone could have knocked him over with a feather, so no one
ever accepted this ridiculous challenge.
One morning he collapsed to the floor, which caused him to go to his
doctor, who examined him thoroughly, then said, there seemed to be nothing
wrong with him. In fact, for a man who had always been a heavy smoker, he was
in ridiculously good health for his age, which didn’t satisfy Lucky, because,
he said, he had fainted, so there must be something wrong with him.
The remarkable thing about this film is that almost nothing happens of
any dramatic significance. He was outside
of his place one morning, in his
underwear, and his hat, when a black woman who had been in the habit of serving
him in the diner arrived, just to check that he was all right. He was rather reluctant
to admit to her presence, but he went inside to put on some clothes, and when
he looked up, she was standing there watching him. “How did you get in?” he
asked querulously, and she said, “the door was open.” She asked if he ever smoked grass, and then
they sat for a time on his sofa smoking away, Lucky eventually offering the unsolicited
information that “I can hardly get it up any more,” before his visitor left him. On another occasion, one of the
diner regulars complained that President Roosevelt had run away. This happened to be his pet tortoise, the only
member of his family left to him, and his disappearance occasioned quite a
bit of dialogue with Lucky who eventually brought the fellow around to accepting
the disappearance of his only friend.
Another day, a man came into the diner to order a takeaway, and Lucky,
spotting him for a veteran, broke the habit of solitude so far as to ask the
guy if he would mind if Lucky joined him at his table. They then discovered
they had both served on the same island in the Pacific, and Lucky revealed that
he had himself been a cook, which was
where he got his name Lucky.
The beauty of the film came from the extreme sensitivity with which the
meaning of the film was changed from just a portrait of an old geezer, into a
sort of staccato philosophical consideration of the great questions about life
and death and the meaning of being alive,
without these questions ever being directly addressed.
The film ends with Lucky walking into the countryside, where he stands
before a tall cactus, looking up at it, contemplating it, finally allowing
himself a suggestion of a smile, and then turning on his heel to walk back into
town, the last shot catching his tiny figure alone in this vast, empty
landscape.
Harry Dean Stanton, who was the lead actor in Wim Wenders’s memorable
film Paris, Texas, made 30 years ago,
died soon after making Lucky. He was 91, and this last film is a wonderful
testament to a remarkable actor.
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