Easy to Like by Edward Riche Page A

with
‘Shakespeare’?”
    Elliot looked again. “Gunnar Olafsson?”
    â€œYeah, Wes, right? Wes Johnston?” He
pulled out a chair and sat.
    â€œWell . . . as you
can see . . . I’m going by my middle name now.”
    They had been in film school together,
in Montreal, back in the late ’70s. They hadn’t been in the same class or shared
the same interests, Gunnar being a dedicated proto-experimentalist, making, if
Elliot remembered correctly, long (“duration as an aesthetic”) films with a
delirium tremens camera. He did recall, clearly, that the films, which meant
absolutely nothing to Elliot, were highly lauded by the faculty. Gunnar won a
student prize. Elliot passed his courses and was little noticed.
    â€œRight. And what’s with ‘Jonson’? Like
Ben Jonson, yeah?”
    â€œLot of Johnstons around. It was a
business decision, to distinguish myself from everyone else. So you landed in
Toronto after film school?”
    â€œI was back in Winnipeg for a while, at
the Film Co-op. I ended up taking a job with the CBC to make enough money to
continue making my own films and then one thing led to another, I moved up in
the organization, ended up coming here.”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œWell . . . no. I
mean, obviously.” Gunnar gestured to the room.
    â€œHave a glass of wine?” asked
Elliot.
    â€œMy shift is done in fifteen
minutes.”
    Now, as in university days,
the Icelander became easily drunk. His head became too heavy for his neck.
Elliot could remember seeing the same movement, the same swinging of the noggin,
in the Greek dive Aidoneus, on Park Avenue. Gunnar could be nasty at school,
never hesitating to make a crack about his peers’ early and naive efforts in the
cinema, but in the bar afterward, after a couple of gros
Molson and a few spliffs, he became the sentimental fool.
    Gunnar sat at Elliot’s table with his
supper, a carelessly scorched T-bone and a pint of beer. Halfway through the
tile of beef (and his third lager), Gunnar abandoned trying to saw off another
double mouthful and pushed the plate away. Betraying his roots, he took rye
whisky for dessert. Gunnar wanted to talk about the good old days.
    â€œAnd remember Bernadette, what a
babe . . . Oh man, I actually went up to the Laurentians
with her one time . . . Her parents had a
place . . .”
    â€œSo you were in management at CBC?”
    â€œAt CBC . . . Oh
yeah, I was a Creative Head.”
    This could mean many things.
    â€œWhich
is . . . that you . . .?”
    â€œMovies and Miniseries,” answered
Gunnar.
    â€œIn charge of production?”
    â€œYeah but . . . not
really ‘Production’ production. Commissioning them, or taking an investment
position. I’m proooud —” He burped. “Proud of the films that we helped make
happen.”
    â€œLike?”
    â€œWell . . . there
was Down a Mine , and the Olive Diefenbaker biopic,
which I think surprised a lot of people, and Silly
Goose , that bird movie, and . . . anyway, a lot
of . . . oh yeah, and, of course, Cabane à Sucre .”
    â€œWow, that’s impressive,” said Elliot,
despite never having heard of any of these films.
    â€œAnd Louise, remember her, she was in
animation? She broke my heart. Fucking hot. You know what she used to do?”
    â€œWith a track record like that — what
happened?” Elliot asked, as if he’d not heard Gunnar’s digression. Gunnar was
probably soused enough to wonder whether he’d said the thing about Louise or
only thought it.
    â€œOkay,
okay . . . audiences were in decline, but you’ve got to
remember that, given the
demo . . . demo . . . demographics, we
were going to lose a significant number