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[identity profile] neu111.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] the_ckr_files






SHIFT Magazine, September 1997 issue- The brat pack, by Cynthia Amsden

Only excerpts are available, there’s not much about Callum in it and sadly nothing about Tracy. But with all the buzz going about Trigger, it seemed like a good time to resuscitate this 1997 article about the brat pack (Twitch City time stamp).



Cover: the brat pack - With the subversive show Twitch City, will the renegades of indie film take over TV?



p. 30-31: the brat pack

Photographs by Tom Feiler – the pack: from left: Callum Keith Rennie, Molly Parker, Daniel MacIvor and Don McKellar.

Don McKellar got an offer he couldn’t refuse. Now he’s put together the hottest talent in the country for his new TV series, Twitch City. Is this finally the beginning of a new entertainment establishment? Cynthia Amsden finds out.

It’s 1994 and Don McKellar is in party mode, doing the mingle and schmooze with the old guard at the CBC. Then head of English TV and Corp golden boy Ivan Fecan sidles up to him with the famous why-don’t you-write-something-for-us line. McKellar responds with equal charm and snark, his trademark tone. “Sure, Ivan. How about a new King of Kingston”? He is of course referring to the venerable old sitcom starring Canada’s Know Best, Al Waxman, which ran on the network in the ‘70’s. After all, McKellar is a real scion of the Kensington. He lives there, buys his ritual morning pastries there, he even plucked his pet cat off the Kensington streets. “We’ll take it”, replies Fecan, and the two go back to the big schmooze, feeling a sense of accomplishment.../...



p. 32: L.A. is this mecca where actors have to make a pilgrimage, but I want to make it from here - Molly Parker



p. xx: I have this shame about aspiring to celebrity. Perhaps I’d like to end up there accidentally – Don McKellar.



p. xx: … Of course, in the Sinatra tradition of feigned indifference, everyone involved in Twitch denies being part of a celebrity clique. ... Rennie takes out his ubiquitous cigarette and does a spit-laugh. (He prefers to think of himself and Hard Core Logo's Hugh Dillon as a wolf pack of two.)


This issue of Shift magazine was one of the ‘1997 National Magazine Award Winners’: Honourable Mention for Art Direction for a Single Article (Carmen Dunjko) and Silver Award for Portrait Photography (Tom Feiler)

Originally from www.shift.com/. Source for scans lost. Mentioned in several old sites.

Date: 2010-10-03 07:41 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] china-shop.livejournal.com
Ohhh, the legendary "wolf pack of two" article! Thanks for this. ♥

Date: 2010-10-03 08:05 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] surya74.livejournal.com
Wow, this is the most comprehensive version of the article I've seen so far. Thank you! <3 And Callum, where is your hand in the second pic! XD

Date: 2010-10-03 08:36 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] buzzylittleb.livejournal.com
Oooh -- "wolf pack of two" is presciently accurate (except I am not sure about the how - the words just turn up in my head) and has anyone considered what a two member wolf-pack could get up to? I read too many "paranormal romance" books (more accurately, blurbs of "paranormal romance" books as I slowly die inside faced with the same plot over and over and over until I want to stake them and make the books die slowly AND - point b - an actual lack of engagement with the potential of vampires and wolves and sparkly half-faerie princesses.. not the last one, obviously and - say - real plot, pls?) And now I want to cry.

And I didn't even get the thought started with what if Callum and Hugh lived in occult thriller land and now I'm up to my ass in shiny girls of inexplicably complicated extraction who worry about their hair...
From: [identity profile] buzzylittleb.livejournal.com
Wolf Pack of Two

The only pack Callum had thought of doing was slow death wrapped in celophane, which is the standard response
to the Canadian television actor demographic. Just look at Paul, perfect lips wrapped around a cancer stick
as he explained the finer fucking points of being loved by every grandmother between here and Sasketchwan and
how he could give up any time he liked it... it was just the Red/Green guys reminded him of the time when he'd
blown up a shed on his parents' horse ranch in Alberta, where he...

And Callum had thought that the windswept street corner of clean-air excile would attract a better class of people
than the fawning press vultures and intellectual pundits talking about last year's Stratford, which would have
been... Paul. Wondering what to do by now and how soon could he make his gettaway or whether he should take his
chances and hide behind the potted palm. He'd always been kind of skinny even when the money was American and
only a brief sujourn to the links got rid of any unwanted moral fibre. Like he had much already. He. Was. A...

"Canadian Actor" Callum looked around to see Hugh leaning up against the wall and the brick snatched at every
fibre of Hugh's tailored pure-wool suit in an almost-fashionable style. In the amber-lit darkness of downtown
Vancouver on a Wednesday night, Callum's half-wrecked eyes couldn't make it out but was pretty sure the cufflinks
were FUCK and YOU. An outside chance on LOVE and HAT - Hugh's dyslexia caused some very strange incidents when it
came to rock'n'roll riders, the obscene and the obscure. Never let him near a typewriter unless you feel pretty
sure that he wouldn't get high sniffing the white-out. That was one thing Callum loved about Hugh,
the man of a thousand vices. Never quite the same, even if he had retired the old faithfuls - hopefully, homicide
and suicide and heroin shooting - he always had something new and it was always cool, gnomesane?

Hugh's skeet shooting tendencies were a nightmare for the firearms wrangler.






The less said about the
hill-billy anarchist sawn off the better -- it needed fixing






There was strange - off - about his eyes and it couldn't be liner and mascara. Hugh might telegraph the great
subversive and sing about necropilia, addiction and insanity, but he was always PRESENTABLE whenever the press came
home to roost. He had to know Hugh was a shoo-in for the Gun Show - Hugh's skeet shooting tendencies were
a nightmare for the firearms wrangler - and it was just a matter of which colour is the parachute.

People back off when Hugh does INTENSE too loudly. This isn't much-vaunted INTENSITY.
From: [identity profile] buzzylittleb.livejournal.com
Written in notepad to get away from the spelling, mass editing tendencies and "just get it out!" [/cliched buzzspeak] and resolving into a hind-sight mess which doesn't quite work write right, hhhmmm *thinky*
Edited Date: 2010-10-06 09:12 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] buzzylittleb.livejournal.com
Cellophane crackled in his pocket as he pulled out the only pack he planned to see. He had to get out of that room - the awards show - and escape all those suffocating people. And he came here following the exiled tribe of smokers. Fortunately, the schmoozing was still in full-swing before the indeterminable sit-down dinner and the lights dimming for that indeterminable inquisition where a single bolt of light transfixed the martyr on the podium. This was Callum's chance and his date - a massage therapist from California - was powdering her nose.
He forced down a queasy wave of guilt - they were on Dan's table and there were all the people Callum couldn't be. Writing people, acting people, anecdotal people.

The wind caught at the sleeve of Callum's sport jacket as he stepped into downtown Toronto on a Wednesday night. Paul had been at the stage door and nodded, understanding Callum's need to get away and find his own peace in loneliness. Callum had been kidding himself about giving up and he lit up his little piece of darkness and dragged the first hit in slowly. Awards evenings, press junkets, second-rate Oscars with third-rate dinners and fourth-rate alcohol he couldn't let himself drink because he knew it would be too good. An evening of hell, such was the lot of the...

"Canadian Actor" said Hugh as he materialised - like a manic Cheshire cat - besides Callum. Callum knew not to wonder how Hugh did it, not least because Callum was the only person to know. For sure. The pure wool suit barely masking an attitude of civilised fuckery - the socks would be orange, the belt will be punk and the tie was effortlessly cool. Hugh leaned over to snatch a cigarette only to pull his hand back, like he'd put it on a hotplate. Hugh was singing again. The cufflinks spelled out FUCK and YOU. That or LOVE and HAT - Hugh had an entirely incomprehensible rotation system and it was a full moon - like a dyslexic tattooist.

Callum liked Hugh, the man of a thousand vices, never the same and never repeated, he was an endless source of fascination and chaos. The old faithfuls had gone - homicide, suicide and shooting up - and had been replaced with skeet-shooting and eight-track. Ice cream and friendship bracelets. Ham and pineapple. Hill Billy apocalypse and crime memoirs. Fucking and walking down the hall.

Infinity and darkness.

That was Hugh. His eyes never grew black with boredom. Another beast entirely. Callum snorted and shook his head as the smallest wolf-pack in the world looked across the road

Date: 2010-10-04 07:04 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] shelley6441.livejournal.com

(He prefers to think of himself and Hard Core Logo's Hugh Dillon as a wolf pack of two.)

Well, you know that wolves mate for life. I loves it!

*pets Callum & scratches Hugh's ears*

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