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CBC
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- CBC
Let's hear it for all the mothers (and aunts!) who raised us — including the ones onscreen
Holding Space is a joint column by Anne T. Donahue and Peter Knegt that "holds space" for something or someone in popular culture. This is its second edition. Peter: Anne, it feels like this might be exactly the right time for us to officially hold space in this column for something I know we've already both been holding space for… our entire lives. I'm speaking, of course, of mothers. Because it's almost Mother's Day! So I was hoping you would be down to celebrate our biological mothers, the mothers we chose and the mothers who chose us, as well as the mothers we love on screen, on stage, in song and on the page. Basically, I want us to have a little Motherfest. Anne: Peter, I'm as obsessed with my mom as I am obsessed with our column (very), so this is the topic I've been waiting for. I live with my mom! I describe her as Sophia to my Dorothy — if Sophia and Dorothy were younger and watched an obscene amount of Food Network. And we've always been close! I cried almost every day in Grade 1 because I missed her and wanted to hang at home (also because my first grade teacher verbally assaulted students on the regular and she scared me). It also meant that I learned to steer clear of any mom-centric pop culture. The Land Before Time? Took a bathroom break when Littlefoot lost his mom so I wouldn't ruin my cousin's sleepover by bawling. Bambi? I've never seen it, and I refuse to. Stepmom? Jesus Christ. Somehow it became one of my favourite movies as a teen, but I chalk 99 per cent of that up to the fact that I wanted to be — and still want to be — Julia Roberts in that role. Peter: First of all, the fact that you and your mom live together is honestly so … aspirational. I have very often dreamt of that eventually happening for me and my own mother, because we should all be so lucky as to be in a Dorothy/Sophia situation. And I know that's not a situation that would work for everyone (including, in many episodes of The Golden Girls, Dorothy and Sophia themselves), but I feel very lucky that I have the kind of relationship with my mother where it would mostly work. And I'm so happy that you and your mom not only have that kind of relationship too, but are also living out its full potential! Some things we also share are an aversion to movies where the mom dies and wanting to be Julia Roberts. And yet, I have never even dared to watch Stepmom, even though it came out when I was 14 years old, a.k.a. the height of my wanting to be Julia (a tendency that remains, it's just a bit more muted). I simply refused because, to me, that is a central plot far more terrifying than any legit horror movie. That said, there is one movie where the mother dies that I have dared to watch repeatedly, because it just so happens to be … the movie my mom was watching when she went into labour with me: Terms of Endearment. Even though the sight of Debra Winger's young son bawling at her deathbed absolutely destroys me every time, I cannot deny myself watching the movie that officially launched my in-person relationship with my mother at least once a year, usually around my birthday. But we have spent far too much time on the topic of mothers dying, and not enough about mothers living. Who are some of your all-time favourite mothers who don't die at the end of the thing? Anne: I've never seen Terms of Endearment! Is this the year I right that wrong? Probably not, because I cried so hard at the end of Dying For Sex that my mom has banned me from watching death-centric content for the time being. (Good call, Dee.) But living, wonderful, excellent mothers — and mother figures! Is it weird that I've always been partial to movies about mother- types instead of mothers themselves? Easily because I was so worried that any/all mom-based stories would end in heartbreak, so I kept emotional distance by gravitating toward movies and TV shows about women who fulfilled a similar-but-different role. Like, I love The Parent Trap (1998), but I found a kindred spirit in Chessy. In A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I aspired to be like Aunt Sissy, who lets Francie really mourn the loss of her dad. Loretta in Drop Dead Gorgeous is everything I aspire to be for my friends' kids! Aunt Meg in Twister! Hilda and Zelda in Sabrina the Teenage Witch! Even in The Sound of Music, Maria steps up for Liesl after she gets caught sneaking out, and I remember thinking, "Oh, I want to be like that!" (Even though I would be a terrible nanny.) I've always known I don't want kids of my own, but even as a kid myself, I also knew I wanted to be somebody who could be a safe space for younger folks in the way these characters were. Or at least a person who would be like, "We all f--k up, and it's fine! Just be yourself, babe! I'm not here to judge! Now let's go to the Gap!" But then again, my Nana,mom and aunt raised me at the mall, so roaming a plaza and talking about feelings is rooted in my DNA. Kind of in the same way watching Stepmom over and over led me to be the only middle-schooler who was extremely into Ed Harris. Peter: I promise you, you were not the only middle-schooler extremely into Ed Harris. (There's an extremely bad joke about teenage me seeing him in The Rock and The Firm that I'm just not going to make.) I also applaud you for even finishing Dying For Sex. I stopped with two episodes left and just decided to pretend that she must get miraculously cured. But I am definitely with you on having a deep affection for mother-types, specifically aunts. I have two actual aunts that I absolutely adore (hi, Audrey and Tina!) and so many spiritual aunts from every corner of pop culture. The two that immediately spring to mind are Auntie Mame, who became my guiding light when I saw Rosalind Russell play her in the 1958 film adaptation of Patrick Dennis's fabulous book Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade, and Aunt Jackie, who Laurie Metcalf played to perfection in over 300 episodes of Roseanne and The Conners. Like my two wonderful biological aunts, both of those fictional women helped raise me! There are also so many non-fictional women in pop culture I must tip my Mother's Day hat to for aiding me in my quest to become a fully realized being. Women like Björk, Whitney Houston, Madonna, Rosie O'Donnell, Betty White, Sandra Bernhard, Linda Ronstadt, Kate Bush, Margaret Cho, Maggie Smith, Joan Didion, Joan Rivers, Joan Cusack and Joan Crawford (Joans really are the best). These are all women I've never even met (except Madonna, once!) and yet these are all women whose imprint on my identity is undeniable. Anne: My Nana rented All About Eve for me one afternoon when I was about 10, which shaped me — or at least set the stage for me saying very dramatic things at inopportune times. Then there's Lucille Ball, Stevie Nicks, Mary Tyler Moore, Valerie Harper, Bea Arthur and Whoopi Goldberg — who I only knew as Guinan from Star Trek because my parents were Trekkies, but whose advice was always so perfect. I watched so many old TV shows because that's what my Nana and my mom and dad watched, so I tried to emulate these larger-than-life people who epitomized independence and wit and always said what they thought. Then I found Phyllis Diller, Elaine Stritch and Carrie Fisher when I was in my 20s, and they further reinforced that my favourite kind of grown-up was "a real broad." Also the Simpsons character who was christened "queen of the harpies" by her husband in couples' counselling. I think even as a child, I was like, "She's got gumption." How did your maternal influences shape your own personality? Do you ever find yourself falling back on the traits you looked up to them for? I find that when I'm nervous or unsure of how to manoeuvre in a social setting, I'll cling to the comedy divas. Whether it's effective is another story, but I'll actively — mentally — channel, say, Bea when I need to step up and play the part of an assertive person. Or I'll channel Rhoda Morgenstern when I'm in a social situation where I don't know many people. Laugh at myself first, etc. But I might also just be coming off extremely unhinged by sharing this, so if I am … well, here we are. Peter: We always hold space for unhinged in this column, though I don't think that's how you're coming across at all. Summoning the great Valerie Harper to alleviate social anxiety reads to me more like brilliance. Either way, I definitely know the feeling. For example, I have channeled each of The Golden Girls on countless occasions, depending on what I'm up against. Do I need to seduce? Brain, call Blanche. Do I need to be crass? Brain, call Sophia. Do I need to serve innocence? Brain, call Rose. Do I need to absolutely destroy a social situation with some wit and sarcasm? Brain, call Dorothy. They'll be there waiting for me forever — a maternal guiding light for every moment.
CBC
02-03-2025
- Entertainment
- CBC
J Stevens is one of the most exciting new voices in Canadian film
Social Sharing Here & Queer is a Canadian Screen Award-winning talk series hosted by Peter Knegt that celebrates and amplifies the work of LGBTQ artists through unfiltered conversations. J Stevens is one of the most exciting new voices in Canadian cinema. In fact, that was just made somewhat official by the Toronto Film Critics Association, who awarded Stevens this year's Jay Scott Prize for an emerging artist in Canada's film industry. (Previous winners have included Matt Johnson, Xavier Dolan, Molly McGlynn and Ashley McKenzie, so Stevens is in some very notable company). The prize came with regard to Stevens' first feature Really Happy Someday, an incredibly moving account of a musical theatre performer (Breton Lalama, who is fantastic in the film, which he co-wrote with Stevens) regaining his voice after his transition. The film premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival last fall, and that's when we got the chance to sit down with Stevens on the set of Here & Queer. Watch the entire interview below: For more information on future screenings of Really Happy Someday, click here.
CBC
28-01-2025
- Politics
- CBC
Where do we look for solace in these dark, anxious times? Sometimes, the answer is at the cinema
Dispatches from Dystopia is a monthly column by Peter Knegt that engages with culture and community even as the world appears to be crumbling around us. This is its first edition. It has never felt like a more imperative time to take extra care of our poor brains. For me, just checking the news can feel like being pelted with grenades of anxiety-inducing information. Whenever I've picked my phone up over the past few weeks, it's felt like I'm handing my neurotransmitters a very legitimate reason to panic, and personally I'm finding it a bit of a challenge to keep myself from spiralling. My mental-health game plan through last year's U.S. election cycle had originally been to moderate my news intake as much as possible. But in the weeks leading up to the election, I became a full-on junkie. I watched The View every day and MSNBC until 2 a.m. every night. I'd devour the seemingly hundreds of hours that Pod Save America released every week. I'd check for new polls every other minute, treating the information like gospel. And for a moment, I even let my coconut-pilled self indulge in a kind of precarious hope that is very dangerous for a nervous boy like me (or for any of us, really): that through "the system" things might just be OK after all. Well, it's now extremely clear that things will not be OK after all, and I know I'm not alone when I say that I have not been taking it well. Being in a state of perpetual existential dread is certainly nothing new for most of us, but these last few months have felt pretty unprecedented. It doesn't just feel like the bad guys are winning; it feels like they've won. And considering everything from their dismantling of LGBTQ rights to their denial of climate change to whatever chaos their mishandlings of international politics and A.I. will bring, it is getting real hard not to succumb to the full-fledged dystopian pessimism of it all. I don't know about you, but this has really forced me to overhaul my strategy for (barely) getting through the day-to-day. I am not a religious man. But in these dark times, it seems I have turned to the closest thing I have to a place of worship: the movie theatre. The night after the election last fall, I decided to resist the urge to down a magnum of wine at home while staying up watching unhinged panels debate how this all happened (and believe me, the urge was there). Instead, I found my way to an advance screening of the film Nickel Boys. Sitting still in the dark with my phone off while engaging with a challenging piece of cinema felt like the opposite of what my impulses desired (sending manic texts of doom while watching Rachel Maddow lose her mind), but I knew it was exactly the nourishment my rattled soul needed. An adaptation of Colson Whitehead's Pulitzer Prize–winning novel, Nickel Boys follows two Black teenagers who are sent to a malevolent reform school in 1960s Florida. Director RaMell Ross has been rightfully lauded for the film's unique use of first-person point of view, which literally puts audiences in the perspective of the protagonist as he suffers through horrifying abuse. As one can imagine, this does not make for easy viewing. But it does embolden the viewer with some pretty profound empathy, particularly as a collective experience with a few hundred other people in a movie theatre. And collective empathy is perhaps the thing this world needs more of above all else. Walking home from Nickel Boys that night, tears still streaming down my face from the film's harrowing final act, I committed myself to taking a path through the chaos ahead that was uncharacteristic of my past behaviour. After the 2016 U.S. election or at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, my tactics could generally be classified as either self-destruction or numbing out (or both at the same time), and I knew my aging brain and body simply weren't up for another round of that. What I needed instead was strength and renewal, and reminders that there still is good in this world. And while I certainly didn't think going to the movies was some overarching solution to all this, I did know it was going to be a part of it. November is a horrible time for almost everything, but it's a great time to go to the movies. It's basically the beginning of a three-month period where 90 per cent of the films actually worth seeing get released, primarily because it's when they can capitalize on awards season. (Nickel Boys, for example, was just very deservedly nominated for an Oscar for best picture … and it's still in some theatres now, so do go see it if you can!) So instead of spending my nights spinning out to the dread of the news, I spent them at the movies — a place where, if you are behaving (which you should be), your phones are tucked away on "do not disturb" mode, unable to do any harm. According to my Letterboxd (the only sane form of social media left!), I saw exactly 50 movies between election night and last week's inauguration, including some exceptional offerings of understanding and perspective: Mike Leigh's Hard Truths, a lacerating portrait of a deeply damaged woman struggling to simply exist; Pedro Almodóvar's The Room Next Door, a beautiful celebration of life despite being a story of a woman facing death; Walter Salles's I'm Still Here, which offers chilling insight into one woman's heroism during the military dictatorship of 1970s Brazil; Mohammad Rasoulof's The Seed of the Sacred Fig, a truly revolutionary rallying cry against the current Iranian regime that literally had to be made in secret. There were also older movies. One of the many wonderful things about movies is that it is essentially impossible to run out of worthwhile viewing options, and one of the few wonderful things about living in the city of Toronto is that it has an incredible repertory cinema scene. I was very grateful to the TIFF Lightbox for closing out the last two months of 2024 with a retrospective of every single Pedro Almodóvar feature, allowing me to be transported to the warmth of a hyper-saturated Spain for several of early winter's darkest nights. And on the particularly grim night that followed the inauguration, I was gifted a reminder that America was, in many ways, as full of despair and hopelessness and horrible men 20 years ago as it is now when I took in the three-hour-plus extended cut of Kenneth Lonergan's staggering Margaret at the Paradise Theatre (be careful trying this at home though, because it truly is as bleak as they say). But the most viscerally human experience I had in any cinema during these past few horrible months was a little unexpected. That's because it came via Flow: a dialogueless film about a cat. A riveting work of animation (which just became the first Latvian film to be nominated for an Academy Award) from director Gints Zilbalodis, Flow follows said cat as it assembles a chosen family of other animals so they can try and survive a giant flood together. And somehow, the wordless journey of these animals feels like it has more to say about what it means to be alive during these catastrophic times than anything I've seen recently starring actual humans. Essentially, Flow is telling us something that I think we all need to make our guiding principle going forward: if we want to make it through all this, we must build community and we must take care of one another. And this is maybe the best thing movies can offer us. At times when things feel impossible, movies don't just comfort us with the reminder that we're not alone, but can reorient us to what really matters, recharge our belief in what's possible, inspire us to persevere. The heartbreak we feel for the world might not quite feel good in a place like this. But a few hours in a movie theatre can send us back out into the world a little less heartbroken and a little more ready to make it a better place.
