Free Speech and Film: Setting The Table

This may take a bit longer than usual, and hence the two part approach, but a lot has happened since I last wrote. It all began with the arrival in Toronto of my youngest daughter, Victoria, the history major who supplements her income by portraying dead bodies for TV shows. Apparently she had written a paper stemming from her studies on the Thirty Years War. The paper stressed that scientific advance surged during that period, and this fact did a great deal to undercut the religious basis of that little dust up. (This theme was partly explored in Brecht's Mother Courage, but I digress.) In any event, Victoria had been invited to serve on a panel at the University of Toronto exploring the issue.

This suited Victoria, for she had also been approached to appear briefly in a Canadian TV show entitled Flashpoint, and thereby could fly from Los Angeles on the sponsoring network's dime. This made sense. Universities, I have found, are very free with invitations to give papers and presentations, but much much less free with providing expenses to make that happen. (Unless the speaker is Bill Clinton, but that's another matter entirely.)

Learning of her imminent arrival, I watched an episode of the show, and came away impressed. The theme focusses on the work of a police tactical squad, and, amazingly, sticks to its knitting; that is, no long sidebars into personal relationships, thereby avoiding the crippling slide into soap opera that so often afflicts many other TV offerings.

She stayed at the Manor, of course, and there I learned how the two things had come about. The history thing was fairly straightforward. Her paper had been accepted in an academic journal whose title escapes me, and had come to the attention of the professor at the University who was organizing the panel discussion. At the same time Victoria had received an invitation to act as a stunt person in a rather delicate segment of the show. Further questioning on such an unlikely request coming out of the blue unearthed the information that my son Sebastian had been involved, he of the New York dress shop.

"You see," said Victoria, "after that crazy arrest on the hemp charge, his business went through the roof. A whole slew of actors and producers, or at least their wives or partners, flocked to the shop, and, well, way led on to way. as someone once put it."

"Robert Frost."

"Yeah, that's the sort of thing you would know."

"More than just know, Vicky. Your grandfather, the third Lord Strunsky, got drunk with Frost in Oxford one night, but that's neither here nor there. Now what's the connection between Sebastian's dresses and your appearing in a Canadian TV show?"

Long story short, Victoria explained that Sebastian had mentioned to one of the wives, whose husband produced a variety of action TV shows, that his sister was becoming quite adept at playing victims. Sebastian was proud of her, had saved some clips, and after some complicated back and fill, the request was made. She then went on to hint that she had extended her repertoire somewhat.

"What do you mean, 'extended your repertoire somewhat'?"

"Well, I'm quite good at writhing and screaming. It's sort of fun, really, but sometimes the ropes can be a bit painful. Which is why a number of professional actresses ask for a stand-in."

"Good God, just what are you being asked to do?"

"I've seen the script. I'm bound and gagged, and suspended by the ankles for about a half-hour. Then I'm rescued by the tactical squad. Bit of a change, really. Normally I'm not rescued at all."

"It's a Canadian show -- we're kinder up here. But a half-hour is about twenty minutes too long. Your circulation would go haywire, and you would lose consciousness. And maybe not get it back." I knew this because I had been in a similar position when I was younger and not really adept in The Trade. Fortunately, it being a joint operation with Mossad, Irving, Uzi blazing, had shot himself into the Syrian warehouse where I was being held and got to me just as I was blacking out. Then Irving became my butler, but that's a story for another day.

I regarded my daughter. "Vicky, this is dangerous stuff. How to breathe is critical."

"Oh, Mum, it will be a snap."

I was baffled, and wondered why three of my children were drawn to danger. Mark, the skier, Isolde, who is sniffing around The Trade, and now this. Thank God for Sebastian, who is quite content with A-lines, and whose greatest worry was the next showing of Dolce and Gabbana. Well, needs must, and I rang for Irving, explained the situation, and, after some protestation, Victoria agreed to head for the gym and some training exercises that would serve her well.

Before they left, I said I hoped that the TV suits were paying her well.

Oh, yes," she said. "I'm getting $10,000 dollars. I'm covering expenses for the University thingy, and then donating the rest to charity."

"What charity?"

"Victoria replied, "The Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain. You would approve."

"And why would that be?"

"They are atheistic nuns, who run a woman's shelter. The Matron, Sister Cecilia, explained that while all the nuns well knew organized religion was hogwash, it did give great comfort to many of the women they cared for. That, Sister Cecilia said, was what was important. Her thinking also influenced my Thirty Years War paper, so you see, this trip sort of ties itself together."

Then Victoria trotted off with Irving, and I was left to ponder. I will, however, report as soon as time permits on what happened, or, in one instance, what didn't. One thing for sure, though. I must meet this Sister Cecilia. Sounds like my kind of woman.