The Dope on D.O.A.P.

In a new film from UK-based Borough Productions, the President of the United States is gunned down in cold blood. Kennedy? Nope. McKinley? Of course not. Lincoln? Try George W. Bush.

It is always dangerous to rate things before you’ve seen them, lest you fall into the Mark Twain trap: “A classic is a book which everyone praises but nobody reads.” In this case, the film D.O.A.P. is a movie which I haven’t seen but that I know will be transparent political garbage. If you are told that there is urine in your cornflakes, you don’t need a spoonful to tell you what it will taste like.

According to the production company, the docudrama’s thinly veiled title stands for Death of a President. The year is 2007, and a sniper kills the Commander in Chief after he gives a speech at the Sheraton Hotel in Chicago. The Evening Standard says the film “looks at the effect the assassination of Bush has on America in light of its ‘War on Terror.’” Note the quotation marks that are being used more and more as the war on terror goes on.

At the top of the movie’s description on the Toronto Film Festival’s website (where else would this film premiere?), you will find that the film has two languages. English and Arabic. It is 93 minutes long. It is filmed in HD video. It’s written by Gabriel Range, a British guy.

I read that description briefly, then went down the page to find what I was looking for. It didn’t take me long. Knowing a film of this nature would be utterly predictable, I found the words xenophobia and civil liberties. In the Standard's rundown I found the words Syrian-born and wrongly.

‘Nuff said. Let me sum up the film for you and take bets on whether or not I am wrong:

Mostly hand held. Some black and white. President Bush rolls up to the hotel. There’s protesters lining the streets. An old speech is used. A digital magic moment follows, where he gets his head blown off. The cops and Secret Service look for the killer, grab an innocent man of Arabic ancestry, and rake him over the coals. The public goes bananas, accosting Muslims in the street. Various inserts of bogus news programs are used, showing how much we in the West will jump to conclusions and commit a pogrom against innocent people because of their race. War is declared on Pick-an-Axis-of-Evil-Country. But ta-da! In the end, it was a white guy with a right-wing political agenda that pulled the trigger. Whoops, the murder of the President had nothing to do with the “War on Terror” after all. The Syrian guy is off the hook. The United States looks bad, again. Slowly pull back from a shocked and embarrassed nation as the credits roll.

Writing on the TFF website, Noah Cowan makes a couple of statements that clearly define the naïve and self-destructive nature of filmmakers today. He begins with a laugh: “The film is never a personal attack on the President.”

Oh?

Let’s ask Theo Van Gogh whether or not assassination is a personal attack. You might not know him because his demise didn’t get the angry protest treatment. He was the Dutch filmmaker who was slaughtered in the street by an Islamic fascist for making a 10-minute movie criticizing Islam's mistreatment of Muslim women. His killer shot him eight times, slit his throat, and left two knives buried in his chest, one to pin down a five-page note of propoganda, the other just for kicks. Pretty personal stuff. Yet according to imams everywhere, a cartoon drawing is more offensive than a bullet. What’s worse, the vast majority of today’s media agree with them, refusing to show the cartoons in their pages. These will be the same publications that will run serious reviews of a phony documentary that details the murder of a sitting President.

Cowan goes on to say that the film merely wants to explore the consequences of Bush’s policies and actions. The consequences being the President getting shot, and white America acting like racist buffoons. It is highly doubtful that the other consequences will be mentioned: girls going to school in Iraq, women not having their fingernails pulled out in Afghanistan, children not being orphaned because they’re Kurdish, Libya saying to hell with WMD, so forth.

When are filmmakers going to get around to making a movie about the good guys (that’s us, by the way) that will say something good about them?

Even United 93 couldn’t bring itself to show the terrorists as murderous thugs. Sure, they shouted and raved for a couple of minutes of screentime, but if you watch the movie closely, the plane is the villain and the terrorists and passengers are more or less along for the ride. There is no moral judgment made in the film. Both sides are nervous about crashing, the difference being the terrorists are nervous about crashing on target. As Roger Ebert put it in one of his less-than-stellar moments: "The film doesn't depict the terrorists as villains. It has no need to. Like everyone else in the movie they are people of ordinary appearance, going about their business. United 93 is incomparably more powerful because it depicts all of its characters as people trapped in an inexorable progress toward tragedy." Er, no, Roger. I suppose one trapped group of people aboard that plane was 'progressing' towards tragedy. The other group was freely choosing to commit one of the biggest mass murders in history.

Stone’s World Trade Center is as warmhearted as it can get, but again, the terrorists are an afterthought. Once the buildings come down, there isn’t much more to say about them. Cut out the first fifteen minutes and the movie might as well have been called Earthquake 2. It is interesting to note that Stone's film was considered uncontrovertial because it didn't take a swipe at the US government. The thought that he would take a swipe at the terrorists was never predicted because it never entered anyone's head that he would do so. In the end, he did neither, and was praised for the middle of the road approach.

The outrage over D.O.A.P. will be minimal, hiding behind the free speech clause that went on vacation for the Mohammed cartoons. Someday, maybe, a brave filmmaker will make an Iwo Jima type film about this period in world history. When that happens, that soon to be forgotten filmmaker had better watch out.

Just ask Theo Van Gogh.

England Redux

There must have been some kind of 9/11 effect since the last time I was in England. That was back in 2001, before the airplanes got hijacked and before the English acted like the most welcoming people on the face of the planet.

Anecdote from a few years ago:

I was in a bar with a singer/dancer girlfriend, who was performing in a show in High Wycombe. I was trying to get into the English mood by drinking dark beer and she was putting away the gin and tonics as she always did: with a laugh and a smile. Pretty soon our glasses were at rock bottom, so I wandered over to the bar to freshen them up. (As is the English custom, table service in a bar is no-go; you've got to walk up and order the drinks yourself).

On the way back from the bar, I noticed two older couples playing a game of Cribbage. Excellent. Here I was, first time in England, and I actually got to watch the very English game of Cribbage being played by a couple of genuine Brits.

The Cribbage board was different than the ones used in Canada or the States. There, they look like a race track. This one looked like a plain circle. So I watched for a few moments, then asked how the the scoring was done.

One of the Englishmen looked up and, upon hearing my accent, said, "Pretty tough for you to count, Yank." Just like that. One of the wives smiled, the other snickered, and the other man didn't say a word, just concentrated on his lousy hand of sixes and twos.

I said, "Excuse me?"

He replied, "I don't think you can count that high, Yank."

There was no banter here, no jest, no coy sense of humor. He meant what he was saying and he wanted me to know that he meant it.

I walked away from their table, choking back the urge to be an Ugly American and throw their Frisbee of a Cribbage board across the bar. I can be pretty aggressive and "American" when faced with a slight, but I was new to the country and besides, a man in his twenties has virtually no excuse when a cop asks him why he bounced a beer glass over an old man's head. So I did the manly thing and ran away to tell Sara that English people are big meanies to tourists.

I heard Sara's in a show in Portugal these days, but she should have quit singing and become a boxer. She turned in her seat and informed the Englishman that I was, in fact, a Canadian and not a "Yank."

The Englishman said, "Same thing," or "Close enough," or something like that, to which sweet Sara with the long legs and the polite English accent replied, "Then I guess that makes you a damned Scotsman."

I could have kissed her for that, and probably did, but the point is that strangers with American accents weren't greeted with a lot of respect before 9/11. Another time on that same trip I tried ordering a beer at the bar and the man behind the counter said, "We don't have any light beers." I hadn't ordered a light beer, didn't even want one, but he heard the accent and thought he would be funny. So I told him no, I'd like a Guinness, and he poured it with a shit eating grin on his face.

Fast forward five years. The polls say everyone here hates George W. The polls say that Afghanistan and Iraq are the blunders of a century and that Tony Blair should be tossed out on his ass. The newspapers and TV shows make fun of the President of the United States on an embarrassingly regular basis. And yet the people I meet treat me like gold, even before I get to tell them that I was born in Toronto.

Oh, don't get all misty eyed if you're reading this in Ohio. The English still say Americans are war mongering jerks, and they still say silly things like, "I could never live in America," as if they would know what living in America is like without having visited the place. But their treatment of people with American accents is vastly different than it was before. In fact, I feel more comfortable here than I have in any country on the planet since 9/11 went down.

To wit: the friend I'm visiting doesn't have a spare bedroom. I've been here 12 days, and I have only had to crash on his couch once. There are people lining up to spare you a couple of hots and a cot. They leave their keys in your hand and tell you to please lock up before taking off. They're going out of town? No problem. Lock the door, then drop the keys through the old fashioned mail slot. Glass half full? Not around here, where it's always half empty, so let me buy you another beer, buddy. Need a ride to the train station? I'm not heading that way, but Bob is, so don't sweat it.

In fact, they are so kind to you here that it is unnerving. The last time I was here, there was a definite tension in the air whenever I opened my mouth. I remember once that I complained about how expensive the bill was at a TGIFridays. I mean, two hundred dollars for a few burgers and beers and a bottle of wine? Get real. Then, I was directly accused of being a cheapskate. Now, everyone agrees with me that the prices are outrageous after taking dollar conversion into account.

Where did all the animosity go? Where are all the arrogant bozos? Not too far away: the occasional guy at the end of the bar who comments too loudly that I'm a 'colonial' is evidence that they're still around. But they've been pushed to a corner, or banished by their own kind in favor of happier talk around the pints of bitters and glasses of gin.

Why is that? I have my theories, but of course they would be denied in a heartbeat. My theories are thus:

The tube bombings really got to them here. They don't talk about it, never mention it over supper, but it is there if you ask about it. And they aren't happy.

Walk the streets and you will hear a myriad of accents from Eastern Europe and the Middle East, more so than ever. Ask an English person about this, and they will say that England is taking on more than it can handle. You would think they mean welfare stuff, or health care costs, and all the rest, but it is deeper than that. Without meaning to, they are talking about English culture, and whether or not it will survive the new era of terrorism, and borderless EU policies. They are upset at the cultural suicide that is taking place inside their own country.

A hundred years ago, they ruled the waves and the world. A hundred years later, they have taken the English flag out of prisons lest it insult a non-Christian inmate. The English flag is, of course, the cross of St. George, flown during the Crusades and a symbol of might and prosperity for centuries. Now they have talked themselves into believing that it is a symbol of shame. When you hide the state's symbol so that it does not insult people that have committed crimes against the state, what are you saying if not, "I surrender."

All of which leads back to me, the 'American' who has been met with nothing but generosity and goodwill. Even the bouncers at the nightclubs treat me with something bordering on respect, which as any nightclub fan will tell you is nothing short of astonishing.

It seems we may have had the capacity to dislike each other, we cousins of English ilk. But with more bombs going off, and more hardship ahead, perhaps we huddle a little closer to things that sound like us, things that we understand. Yes, they can make fun of the beer we North Americans drink, and sure they can bitch that we drive on the wrong side of the road. And yes, I can wonder for the hundredth time about the separate hot and cold taps in the bathroom which play hell for shaving, and of course I can gripe about the washing machines that take three hours to clean your clothes. But there is something that feels like home when you can meet people from across the ocean and know that deep in the bones there is some common feeling of belonging together.

Too much? Maybe. I can wax sentimental with the best of them when the mood strikes. And of course right now I have that fear of being called a bigot again, because the above paragraphs can be taken completely out of context: Sean likes white English speaking people. To which I can simply say, sure I do. I also like black French speaking people, and Hispanic Thai speaking people.

I like anybody that gives me a fair shake. But there is nothing wrong with feeling welcomed, and the welcoming feeling I have here is not so much that I am home, but that I am being greeted in a way that says, "Welcome back. Those petty arguments we had before don't mean a damn thing compared to what we're going through now. I still hate your beer. So have some of mine, won't you?"

You With The Lip Gloss -- Freeze!

There is something vaguely ridiculous about flying these days, watching as we throw away more freedoms in the interest of 'safety.'

I went through Pearson in Toronto and caught the redeye to Heathrow. On the whole, the security people have their act together: for the first time in forever, every single security checkpoint was fully staffed, ensuring a quick trip through the gates. They made sure I hadn't used my carry-on to transport hair gel, shampoo, shaving cream, or cologne. I dutifully let them search the bag inside and out for a bottle of water. I appeased them by putting my jacket in the tray, sliding it through the X-ray, and watching their satisfied nods when they didn't find a tube of toothpaste.

Then I went to the men's room and lit a cigarette with one of the two lighters hidden in my computer bag. But whatever, I was satisfied that I wouldn't be hair gelled to death on the next flight.

After a quick smoke in the john (smokers just go to the handicapped bathroom and lock the door; it is the new private smoking lounge, because they've closed the real ones) I went to my gate and walked through the duty free. Well, I walked by the duty free, because there's no point in walking through it anymore. The duty free at the airport is now a chocolate store and that's it. Yellow caution tape cuts you off from the perfume, the make-up (a terrorist might hide as a cross dresser, I suppose) the booze, and the sodas.

I had a quick chat with the lady behind the counter. She said business was lousy. She said she was losing a ton of money. She said she was going to quit and do something else.

In the interest of 'safety' we have destroyed this woman's ability to make a decent living. The freedom to carry liquid on a plane has been taken from us, along with this woman's job. Why? Because we don't want to face up to a critical reality: Muslims are doing this to us. Radical Islamists. People of Middle Eastern and Pakistani descent. People of a certain description are trying to carry things on an airplane to blow us up. But in the interest of being completely PC (and completely idiotic) we treat everyone the same and screw the lady that runs the duty free. Saying and doing otherwise is unthinkable, such is the fear of being labelled a bigot or a racist.

Grandma wants to buy a fifth of gin before heading home? Forget it. Buddy wants to buy his girlfriend a nice bottle of her favorite perfume? Not a chance. Honey Bunch wants to purchase some lip gloss? No way.

Lip gloss, you ask? That's right: in case you didn't know, lip gloss now counts as a 'gel.' Anything that can even remotely come close to being considered a liquid now goes in the trash. I was astonished to see that the chocolate covered cherries with brandy filling are still for sale, but give them time, they'll ban them soon.

When my plane landed in Heathrow, an announcement came on the speakers. We were told that while we'd been in the air, a new rule had been handed down, a new freedom stripped away. We were now allowed one piece of carry-on luggage. The ladies were informed that a purse counted as a piece of carry on. All well and good. But wait, let's say you're just stopping in Heathrow to make a connection. Now you've got yourself a decision halfway through the trip: the purse, or the laptop. Which one do you check in at the next gate?

Begging the question, why should you have to make that decision in the first place? It seems we are all terrorists now. No one is going to stand up for anymore of our rights in West. The blue haired grandma, the five year old in diapers, the chic business chick from Paris, the lady running the duty free, the Pakistani man with no baggage, shaved arms and chest, and a bottle of Gatorade. They're all equal? Since when?

Since when was 'ethnic profiling' a bad thing? When the cops ask you what the guy looked like who stole your car, I can guarantee you're not going to say, "I can't tell you because the gentleman might be offended." And when the cops go looking for the 'black man' or the 'white man' or the 'Persian man' and find him and your car, you're not going to give a damn how offended the criminal is. Such physical descriptions of people used to be called 'leads.' Now they're regarded as hate speech.

So the liquids are off the plane. We're safe again. Until the next time the terrorists and the people supposedly trying to catch them decide which freedom to strip next. I know: watches. Timepieces. Don't think so? It's easy. Let's say the authorities bust some terrorists who had a master plan to wipe out a bunch of airplanes, but they had to use synchronized watches to do it. When the news breaks, your watch will be ordered into your checked luggage so fast it'll make you dizzy. You may laugh and think I'm crazy, but 10 days ago you would have thought I was nuts to suggest that your girlfriend couldn't apply lip gloss on an airplane anymore, either.

Our rights are fading fast, just as fast as a guy can take your nail clippers and, as happens, throw them in the garbage without even apologizing to the man at the counter. The terrorists have won round four (or is it five? Or eight? Or ten?) If you don't believe it, just ask the lady at the duty free while she looks for a new job.

Derek Jeter - MVP?

MVP talk is the in air, and as always it’s the hitting stats that get the first look. So let’s imagine that fielding, pitching, and SportsCentre have absolutely nothing to do with a player’s chances of winning the prize and focus only on lumber.

Mike Wilner, host of Jays Talk on Fan 590 put his hand in the other night by declaring that Derek Jeter is the most overrated player in the AL MVP debate. He followed this statement by saying, “With David Ortiz in the conversation?”

True. Looking at the highlight reel each evening, one would assume that David Ortiz is the man every team would want in the batter’s box at the exclusion of everyone else. He would be your Most Valuable Player, that master of the walk off. But look inside the numbers for your MVP selection, and so far the answer comes up the same every time: Derek Jeter. Hands down, with or without a glove.

The explosive stats lean Ortiz’s way. 41 home runs, 110 RBIs, 86 runs scored. Great hitting numbers, and Jeter can’t touch two of them with 10 homers, 70 RBIs, and 78 runs. But when are these hits coming, and how often? And if Ortiz is the hitter of choice, how does he stack up against other sluggers?

Take Travis Hafner, DH of the lowly Indians. One glance at his stats and Ortiz looks about average. Hafner has 35 homers, comparable to Ortiz’s power. He has 104 RBIs, just under Ortiz’s mark. He has 86 runs, spot on the money with Big Papi. With Hafner hitting .303 to Big Papi’s .287, trouble’s brewing.

Now look at the situational stats and watch Hafner knock Ortiz out of the park. Five stats to look at are hitting with bases empty, runners on, runners in scoring position (RISP), RISP with 2 outs, and finally, bases loaded. Important stuff when your MVP comes to the plate.

Hafner’s average in all five of these situations beats Ortiz. Think Ortiz is money with the bases loaded? Think again, as Hafner almost doubles Ortiz in that regard, hitting a whopping .615 with the bags full, including 6 home runs to Ortiz’s 2.

How about taking a slugger that plays for the home team. Troy Glaus of the Jays has a .264 average, not much below Ortiz at .287. Glaus leads the Jays with 31 homers, 86 RBIs, and 83 runs. A good year so far. But he comes in well under .300 in all five of the above categories, making him at best a so-so prospect when he arrives at the plate and you need him to deliver.

Now for Derek Jeter, an everyday short stop who looks like he would blow away in a stiff breeze. Average fireworks numbers compared to the big boys, even though he’s above the league average in homers, RBIs, and runs scored, not to mention hitting a stellar .341. Look inside our five situational categories and see how he rates:

He is hitting above .330 in each one of them. Jeter’s command of the strike zone is very good, coming to the plate as often as Ortiz but striking out 23 times less. With two outs and runners in scoring position, Jeter is hitting .395, and will get on base over half the time (.527). Ortiz hits .283 in the same situation.

When the chips are down with men on and two out, Jeter hits .385, well above both Hafner and Ortiz. Ortiz gets walked a lot? Maybe, but if Ortiz or Jeter lead off an inning, the smart money is on Jeter getting aboard with a higher batting average and a higher on-base percentage in that situation.

Jeter obliterates Ortiz by hitting .500 with the bases loaded. If the bags are full, there is a 72% chance that he will get on base somehow, most likely resulting in a run. And if he does get on base, he has a good chance of sweating the pitcher, with 26 stolen bases so far this season. Ortiz has stolen one base in as many tries, virtually eliminating him as a threat.

Big Papi gives you a great highlight reel. He packs a lot of fear and ton of awe. But for an American League MVP this season, look to Derek Jeter for the whole package. He brings a glove, a threat to steal, and a dependable, dangerous bat.