You're Not Dead Until You're Forgotten: A Memoir 9780773596085

Table of contents :
Cover
YOU’RE NOT DEAD UNTIL YOU’RE FORGOTTEN
Title
Copyright
Dedication
CONTENTS
Introduction
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Epilogue
Testimonials from Dunning’s Colleagues
André Link
David Cronenberg
Don Carmody
Ivan Reitman
Christian Larouche
Mike Paseornek
Jeff Sackman
Margot Wright
Last Words
Acknowledgments
Filmography
Index

Citation preview

YO U’R E N OT D EAD U NTI L YO U’R E FO R G OTTE N

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten JOHN DUNNING A Memoir with B I LL B R O W N STE I N

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Ithaca

© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2014 isbn 978-0-7735-4402-4 (cloth) isbn 978-0-7735-9608-5 (epdf) isbn 978-0-7735-9609-2 (epub) Legal deposit third quarter 2014 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Dunning, John, 1927–2011, author You’re not dead until you’re forgotten : a memoir / John Dunning ; with Bill Brownstein. Includes index. Issued in print and electronic formats. isbn 978-0-7735-4402-4 (bound).–isbn 978-0-7735-9608-5 (epdf).– isbn 978-0-7735-9609-2 (epub) 1. Dunning, John, 1927–2011. 2. Motion picture producers and directors – Canada – Biography. 3. Screenwriters – Canada – Biography. 4. Cinépix inc. I. Brownstein, Bill, author II. Title. pn1998.3.d865a3 2014

791.4302’32092

c2014-901302-7 c2014-901303-5

This book was designed and typeset by studio oneonone in Sabon 10.3/14

In memory of John Dunning … who will never be forgotten.

C O NTE NTS Introduction by Bill Brownstein

ix

One

3

Two

16

Three

35

Four

49

Five

70

Six

80

Seven

98

Eight

113

Nine

126

Ten

140

Eleven

149

Epilogue by Bill Brownstein

158

Testimonials from Dunning’s Colleagues André Link

163

David Cronenberg

171

Don Carmody

178

Ivan Reitman

184

Christian Larouche

188

Mike Paseornek

192

Jeff Sackman

198

Margot Wright

203

Last Words

206

Acknowledgments

211

Filmography

213

Index

221

I NTR O D U CTI O N Bill Brownstein

He helped propel then-unknown Canadian filmmakers like David Cronenberg, Ivan Reitman, Francis Mankiewicz, and Don Carmody to stardom. And the career of Bill Murray soared after the wacky comic was featured in his production of Meatballs, one of the most profitable Canadian movies ever released. Yet Verdun native John Dunning, while unarguably one of this country’s most successful film pioneers, was a reluctant player who always shied away from the limelight. Some people yearn for the glamour of showbiz. Not Dunning. He was born into it and initially wanted nothing at all to do with it. His dad, Mickey, began in the early 1900s by touring Quebec screening newsreel footage from the trunk of his car. He later owned and operated a string of Montreal movie theatres, where John spent most of his waking hours – but not by choice. When he was thirteen, John was running the candy counter at the family-owned Century Theatre in Ville Émard. A few years later, following the death of his father, John was managing the theatre. Not so coincidentally, he developed ulcers and panic attacks at the same time, likely precipitated by the fact that unruly and soused patrons would tear the place apart on weekends. But as Dunning – a self-proclaimed “sociophobe” – would later reflect, his fate was sealed. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape the business. He loved film; it was the people associated with it who often proved problematic.

x

One person, however, made all the difference. Dunning hooked up with André Link in 1962 to form Cinepix. They produced their first film, Valérie, for eighty thousand dollars; it held the Quebec box office record in Canada until 1995. (To Dunning, the movie was especially significant because it was named for his daughter Valerie, who died in 1986, at the age of twenty-two, in a car accident.) Dunning and Link – whether producing, distributing, or writing scripts – would soon become the most prominent Canadian movie moguls most had never heard of. And that suited the tandem just fine. Their distribution arm was responsible for bringing Canadian cinephiles such delights as The Piano, Strictly Ballroom, Like Water for Chocolate, and The Crying Game, among hundreds more. Donning their producer caps, these same men, who had been involved with the highly cultivated and poignant Princes in Exile, went in another direction, making low-budget, mainstream movies that ranged from the Snake Eater and Meatballs series to the whip-toting Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS. They were later labeled the Roger Cormans of Canada, in reference to the noted American B-movie master. In the same way that Corman nurtured talent, Dunning and Link were responsible for giving the likes of Cronenberg, Reitman, Mankiewicz, and Carmody their starts at Cinepix. But the statistic that Dunning and Link were proudest of was that ninety-percent-plus figure of movies made in Quebec. “The system does not pay you for artistic success,” Dunning relayed in an interview. “We’re limited to making low-budget movies that entertain, find audiences and recover their costs. Unfortunately, we’ve never had the budgets to do the high-quality art films. I wish we were 6,000 miles away from the US like the Australians are. Then this business would be healthier.” During their run together, Dunning (who focused more on writing) and Link (whose forte was distribution) produced fifty-nine feature films. They were honoured at the 1993 Genie Awards for their outstanding contributions to the business of filmmaking in Canada. In 2007 they were inducted into the Canadian Film and Television Hall

Bill Brownstein

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of Fame, and they received Lifetime Achievement Awards at the 2011 Fantasia Film Festival. But most intriguingly, the Toronto Film Critics Association (tfca) named Dunning the recipient of its 2011 Clyde Gilmour award – an honour tinged with all manner of irony for its recipient. “I think one would be hard pressed to find a glowing review from Clyde Gilmour for any of Cinepix’s productions,” cracked Dunning, a few months before his passing at the age of eighty-four, in reference to the Toronto critic and author after whom the award is named. “But I think Clyde and I would agree that our films proved that Canadian films could gain international acceptance and recognition.” Though his health was fast deteriorating at the time, Dunning was both stunned by and appreciative of the praise he was receiving from critics and cronies alike when the award was first announced. “John Dunning is a major unsung hero of Canadian cinema,” pronounced tfca president Brian Johnson, the Maclean’s film critic. “Through the filmmakers he nurtured over the years, he’s left an indelible signature. This is a recognition that is already long overdue.” “John Dunning is the unacknowledged godfather of an entire generation of Canadian filmmakers,” offered David Cronenberg, whose early films Shivers and Rabid were produced by Cinepix. “I still consider him my movie mentor, and Cinepix my film school. It’s thrilling and cathartic for me to see this wonderfully wry, gentle and supportive man finally get the public celebration he deserves.” “I would say that John was not only a great mentor to me, but also my ‘real’ film school,” stated Don Carmody, whose producer credits include everything from Cinepix’s Meatballs to the acclaimed, searing Québécois drama Polytechnique to the Oscar-winning musical Chicago. “He had incredible patience with us young film makers and treated us with respect beyond our abilities and made us understand the world of commercial film making.” Until his death, Dunning remained engaged creatively. He kept a series of inspirational quotations on a blackboard in his office to keep inspiring and motivating him. Among other projects, he was putting

Introduction

xii

the final touches to a horror film written by Lorenzo Orzari. George Mihalka, orchestrator of the original cult classic My Bloody Valentine for Cinepix, was in discussions to direct. “He was so very passionate and successful in a career he never chose but grew to love,” said his son Greg, an ex-Telefilm Canada staffer. “While incapacitated in his final year of life, he somehow found the energy to write another screenplay. His signature was giving aspiring young filmmakers and crew a chance to work and gain experience in the film industry.”

Bill Brownstein

YO U’R E N OT D EAD U NTI L YO U’R E FO R G OTTE N Nigerian proverb

Courage means accepting our fundamental solitude and stirring oneself to action in spite of the certainty of death. French journalist Jean-Louis Servan-Schreiber

The year is 1927. The German economy collapses. Philo T. Farnsworth demonstrates the first all-electronic television. Charles Lindbergh makes the first nonstop solo transatlantic flight. And Al Jolson dazzles audiences with his nightclub act in The Jazz Singer, the first featurelength talkie, in which he crooned the classic “Mammy.” I wasn’t singing “Mammy,” but I was hollering for my mommy shortly after being born in Verdun, a suburb of Montreal, on April 27. Legally, however, my birth barely registered a whimper. There was no record of my birth that day, since in his haste, the doctor who delivered me forgot to register me. There was no trace of me at the hospital or city hall. I wasn’t even baptized. So much for auspicious beginnings. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that it occurred to me that I didn’t officially exist. I had to sign up for the National Registration during the Second World War, but was told that I needed a birth certificate. I went home and asked my mother for my birth certificate. She looked at me like I was nuts. “What birth certificate?” she asked. This wasn’t good. How was I to amount to anything if I didn’t officially exist? So, it was decided that I get baptized at sixteen at the Church of the Redeemer in Ville Émard, a Montreal suburb. And while we were at it, we decided to get my sister, who was eighteen at the time, baptized too, because there was no record of her birth either. Her records were destroyed in a fire at the hospital where she was born.

4

Not that I wasn’t already plagued with self-doubt, but the minister presiding over my baptism asked me if I wanted to reconsider the names John Parnell because “now is the time if you want to change it, if you want to be called something else.” But my tough-as-nails, nononsense paternal grandmother, who was also my godmother, informed the minister in no uncertain words that my name was to be John Parnell Dunning, and that was that. And, for better or worse, that is the way it has been. It is probably a coincidence that as I gurgled my first sounds, Al Jolson was bringing sound to moviegoers with the first talkie. I’d like to say that this impacted my career path. But, truth is, I was born into the movie business, in a manner of speaking. My father was managing the Park Theatre, a magnificently ornate movie palace in Verdun. It showed all the big films from Hollywood and England. My father’s name was Samuel John, but everyone called him Mickey. I’m not sure how they ended up with Mickey. Some suspected it had something to do with the tough-guy expression, “taking the mickey out of you.” But there was also a Mickey Maguire in the early comic strips. He always wore a bowler hat and was a really tough little bugger. They said my father was branded with his nickname because of his temper and rough manner. Mickey got bitten by the movie bug when visiting New York City around the turn of the last century. He was cruising along Broadway one day and spotted these Nickelodeon Theatres. He started talking to one of the owners and eventually offered to buy a half interest in the fellow’s theatre for three thousand dollars. So he wired his parents in Montreal, explained the proposition to them, and asked them to lend him the money. He told them it was the next big thing; that they would all get rich. They wired him back money – but only to come home. They weren’t interested in showbiz. But my father was nothing if not determined. Back in Montreal in 1906, he bought the Quebec exhibition rights to the San Francisco Earthquake newsreel. He travelled around the province, set up a tent

John Dunning

5

at every stop, charged admission and screened the movie. That was the beginning. He soon decided that the way to go was to be the proprietor of his own theatre. So in 1915 he built the Park Theatre for about forty thousand dollars. He formed a company, The Standard Amusement Co., and sold shares at ten dollars each. His parents kept a controlling interest, and he paid a ten per cent dividend to shareholders up until the early 1950s, when TV really decimated the neighborhood theatre business. And so Mickey Dunning became one of the original motion-picture pioneers. Except for a short period during the flu epidemic of 1919, the theatre stayed open more than forty years. He wasn’t exactly raking it in during those early years. When the Park opened, ticket prices were five cents. In 1917, price of admission was raised to ten cents, while special shows might cost fifteen cents a ticket. Theatres, with the exception of the major downtown theatres on St Catherine Street, always featured a double bill along with a cartoon, usually a two-reeler comedy or travelogue. They even had singa-longs in those days where members of the audience sang along with the organ and followed the bouncing ball on the lyrics that were projected on the screen. Theatres ran non-stop from noon to eleven p.m. Patrons could enter at any time – even in the middle of a feature. They would stay until they had seen the complete program. The funny thing was that, at the time, many movie theatres were owned by Greeks, who were mainly interested in movie theatres as a way to get audiences to go after the show to the restaurants they owned. But my father introduced a different wrinkle. He had a candy concession inside his theatre. His audiences didn’t have to leave the theatre to eat. Again, Mickey Dunning was something of a visionary. Food concessions at theatres didn’t really come into vogue until after the Second World War. Only then, people realized that the concession business was probably more lucrative than the actual movie business. My father

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

6

figured this out back in 1913, although for whatever reason he never got into soft drinks until the 1940s. •••• But it was always a battle. Around the time when I was born, he was fighting to get product. Famous Players, controlling the major theatre chains in the province, wanted a share of his profits for their, let us call it, “goodwill.” Their attitude was: give us a percentage and we won’t build a theatre in your town and take your product away from you. My father had initially gone along with that deal, but then he broke it in the 1930s. It was the Depression. He didn’t want to keep paying them when he was having enough difficulties attracting audiences. So, when he opened the 5th Avenue theatre in 1936, one of the chains promptly built a theatre in Verdun to compete against his. That theatre was called the Savoy. The distributors stopped selling films to my father, because the Famous subsidiary was buying films for its eighteen- to twenty-strong theatre chain, thus squeezing my father’s two theatres for product in the hopes he would sell out to them. The distributors weren’t going to sabotage an eighteen- to twenty-theatre deal just to supply my father’s theatres, movie pioneer or not. So my father went to court and petitioned against this restriction of trade. But he couldn’t get anywhere with the action, because he had to prove that the public was suffering. And because the admission prices were about the same, no one was suffering – except him. Fortunately, during his battle with Famous Players, my father was able to get some product to keep his theatre going. And that came about largely due to his association with Hollywood mogul Louis B. Mayer. When my father had been living with his parents on Roslyn Avenue in the tony suburb of Westmount in Montreal, their neighbours were the Shearers. They had a daughter, Norma, who went to Hollywood John Dunning

7

in the 1920s and became one of the original screen sirens. My father met Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer mogul Louis B. Mayer through Norma Shearer. Mayer was originally from New Brunswick and in the scrap metal business and he had to make it against great odds. So a bond was formed, either through the Canadian connection or Norma Shearer’s influence. Though guys like Mayer had a reputation for being ruthless, he stood by my father and never sold his mgm movies to anyone else. The mgm connection not only became my dad’s legacy but also supported his theatre through the years. My father wouldn’t let go of his dreams. In 1922 he built a third theatre, the Century, in Ville Émard. But nothing ever came easy for him. As fate would have it, there was a bylaw that one couldn’t build a theatre within one hundred and fifty feet of a church. My father was in the clear. His theatre was about two hundred feet away. But the church was adamant that something as hedonistic as a movie theatre not be anywhere nearby. So the church bought a property adjacent to it and turned it into a vestry, which then put my father’s theatre within the one hundred and fifty-foot area. My father was thus forced to change the entrance to the theatre, putting it on a side street and away from the church. The theatre never really recovered from this change, as it required people to go down an alley to get in. Yet my dad was a man who never backed down and who thrived on a challenge, whether it came from Hollywood or the Vatican. It was always a problem for my father to put people in the theatre, because audiences had to take such a circuitous route to get in, but the theatre managed to persevere into the ’50s. Small wonder, then, that my infancy was spent in a high chair watching the screen along with my sister while my father managed and my mother sold tickets. I didn’t even remember the movies I was seeing until later, when at four I saw Frankenstein and Dracula – both of which scared the hell out of me and gave me nightmares. Among the other historical footnotes in 1927, my birth year, one of Montreal’s great tragedies took place, the Laurier Theatre fire, which resulted in the deaths of scores of children. But so many more You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

8

lives could have been saved. My father always told me the doors to the lobby from the balcony of the Laurier Theatre opened in instead of out. When the fire started and the kids all started streaming down the stairs, the staff couldn’t get the doors open. As the kids were piling up at the doors, pushing instead of pulling, the ushers had to take the doors off altogether, but by the time they did that, many kids had died, mostly by suffocation. As a result, no one under the age of sixteen could be admitted into movie theatres in the province. My father never cottoned to the idea that children should not be admitted to theatres. It was a provincial bylaw, enforced by provincial police. But he was “contributing” to the war-chests of the local aldermen and mayor, and the city wouldn’t bother him when he let kids in, leaving the enforcement to the province. In fact, he became famous across Montreal for letting kids under sixteen into his theatres. Occasionally, the provincial police would come down and make a case, but he’d fight it in court. It was also hard to deny that he was extremely security-conscious. His theatres had always had many exits, with doors opening out. (Following the fire, it became the law that all exit doors at theatres had to open out.) And wouldn’t you know it? The church got into the business of showing movies on Saturday mornings. They packed church basements with kids, and even charged admission – but unlike the theatre owners they didn’t have to pay taxes, nor were they supervised for safety. So I spent my formative years in defiance of the law. My father would tell me that no matter what happened just to keep telling the police that I was sixteen if they dragged me out. So I was all of eleven and telling some mystified cop over and over again that I was sixteen. The cop would just laugh. Verdun was a happening place in the ’30s. On the shores of the St Lawrence River, it was then one of the most popular residential districts on the island of Montreal, no doubt due to the fact that housing prices were relatively modest. But there was also a sense of community

John Dunning

Players in the Sleeping Beauty skit of Mrs Jackson’s kindergarten and primary school evening program at the First Presbyterian Church in Verdun, Quebec on 14 June, 1933. From left, John’s life-long friend, Bobbie Harwood as Prince Charming, John’s sister Dorothy as The Queen, John as The King, and RubyJean Harper as Sleeping Beauty.

pride and spirit. It was called the Brooklyn of Montreal. Residents didn’t feel the need to head off to downtown Montreal for a good time. They had all the amenities there. Well, except for alcohol. Verdun was dry back then. But they had the movies, of course. And carnivals would roll into the community and set up on empty lots, including one on the corner of our street. Verdun was vibrant. Apart from running his theatres, my father was also very sportsminded. In the ’20s, he sponsored a lacrosse team – which was one of the most popular sports of the period – and Verdun Park was playing in the Quebec Lacrosse league. In the ’30s, his focus changed toward soccer and he even managed to bring the prestigious Dominion Soccer

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Championship to Verdun in ’34. And against all odds, the Verdun team went all the way to the finals that year in Edmonton. Talk about your Rocky-like scenarios! The teams were always called Verdun Park to publicize the theatres. My father was no fool when it came to the intricacies of marketing. We were relatively privileged at home. My sister and I attended Mrs Jackson’s private school a few streets away from us. My sister was six when she started and, even though I was only four, I screamed and begged to go to school, too. So I was actually doing my Grade 1 at the age of four. We were taught drama and elocution at the school. We would mount shows and present them in church auditoriums around the area. Eventually, Mrs Jackson moved away and we were sent to a public school, Woodland. Although I was ready to go to Grade 6, they felt I was too young at the time and put me back into the fifth grade. Still, it was kind of a fantasy life I led. My friends and I would hide out in the balcony of the movie theatre, armed with candies, cupcakes and chocolate milk, supplied by my friends’ fathers, respectively the candy-store owner, the bakery deliveryman, and the milkman. And together we would catch all the movie classics. At the same time, though, it was hard being my father’s kid. Everybody thought we were wealthy. But the money was being siphoned off by my dad’s sports pursuits. Ah. We were comfortable. We certainly never starved. Still, that didn’t stop some from jumping to conclusions. My father even received a note in a milk bottle that said if he didn’t leave one hundred dollars in a certain location, I would be kidnapped. This was the ’30s, a few years after the Lindbergh baby kidnapping, and my father was naturally quite alarmed. He called the cops to investigate. And for about a week, my sister and I would walk to school with a police escort. They never found the culprit. I don’t know if it was because of the Lindbergh kidnapping or some other event from the movies but I had a recurring nightmare throughout my childhood. I would dream that I was trapped in our basement facing a cement wall and couldn’t get out. But I have to credit the John Dunning

11

movies for helping to rid me of this nightmare. I had seen this gangster film where a psychologist, held hostage in his home by a gang, suggested to the leader, also plagued by a recurring nightmare, that his describing it would make it disappear. I followed the same tack. I talked my nightmare out to my mother and sister one morning at the breakfast table and it never recurred. A couple of years later, when I was nine, my movie savvy came to the forefront again. A motorcycle cop picked me and a friend up, suspecting that we were responsible for some minor vandalism near our home. We were innocent, but down at the station the cops were in no hurry to release us. I was certain that my parents were panicking because we had disappeared. Then I remembered from the movies that even bad guys were allowed a phone call. I marched over to the desk sergeant and demanded my phone call. He just laughed and shook his head. I never got my phone call, but finally they drove us home. By now my parents were frantic – they didn’t know we were safe at the cop shop. A crowd had gathered in front of our house and no sooner

Young John wonders what he did wrong while his cranky old man, Samuel, scowls disapprovingly on the front stoop of their Desmarchais Avenue duplex in Verdun, Quebec.

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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did I get out of the police car than my dad punched me really hard and knocked me out. I guess he was feeling really anxious and that was the way he dealt with it. Either that or he really thought that I was guilty. Eventually they discovered the real culprit. Next day Grandma Dunning marched in high dudgeon into the police chief’s office, sat down and said she wasn’t leaving until the report regarding the incident was destroyed, which it was. Yet while my dad appeared surly on the surface, he also had lots of heart. During both the First and Second World Wars, he let servicemen in uniforms into his theatres for free. The city didn’t cut him a break. So, he would end up kicking in the amusement tax personally for each serviceman who entered – and they came by the score. I knew of no other theatre in the country which had a similar policy. Because of its product squeeze from the Savoy opposition, supplying product for his two theatres in Verdun was difficult. So he resorted to just one feature and added a vaudeville show at the 5th Avenue, which had a beautiful stage. My sister and I started rehearsing a song – “A-Tisket, A-Tasket” – that we wanted to perform at his theatre during this vaudeville phase. But ultimately, my father wouldn’t let us go on; no way. However, I did land another job at the theatre, working with Texas Tommy. On Saturdays, I was given a shovel and stood backstage. Texas Tommy had a partner, you see. He was a horse. And when Texas Tommy’s horse let one go, my job was to scoop it up. Fortunately, the horse could control himself to the point that he would only poop offstage. He was a real pro. •••• Still, I had never really fantasized at that point about a career in the movie business. At first, I wanted to be a soldier, because all we’d see was war, either in real life or on the screen. Then I decided I wanted to be doctor, even though I didn’t have the right prerequisites to get

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into pre-med at McGill. My desire to go into medicine was the result of taking in all those Dr Kildare movies. Or maybe I saw the way the stress of the movie business was just destroying my dad. It sapped his strength and health. He was forever frustrated and was more and more given to bouts of anger, which triggered dangerous asthma attacks. There wasn’t much glamour in the exhibition field. He always seemed to be on the run, barely having the time to come up for air. My father, who hadn’t been very robust all his life, was finally done in by a bout of pneumonia and died in December, 1944. I was seventeen and, to this day, I feel that I never really got to know him. I would have liked to, but those were the days when men kept their emotions inside. He was so hard to get close to. He was a Victorian and gave me a few beatings to relieve his frustrated anger at the pressures he faced and was unable to overcome. He was also very secretive. Dad, though, was always scheming and dreaming. When he was younger, he had developed an ink and sold the patent to Waterman, the fountain-pen company. But nothing ever came of it. Then, toward the end of his life, I remember he told me that he saw the future, and it was full of barbecued chickens. And this was when there were just one or two barbecue restaurants in town. He figured a chicken farm was the way to go. After I screwed up at McGill University, he wanted to send me off to Cornell to get an agronomy degree and raise chickens. It was my French-Canadian mother, a sweet lady fifteen years younger than him, who kept us all together. My mother was a great lady. She had been educated in a Catholic convent and brought with her the nuns’ stern religious teachings. Though she resented her convent treatment and was never a real practising Catholic, she used her teachings about sin and God’s punishment on my sister and me at an early age. We had to be good and obedient so as not to incur God’s wrath. Needless to say, it scared the hell out of me. Like my father, I had a rebellious spirit. But I was also the classic nerd as a kid. I was very skinny, and prone to all kinds of sicknesses. I had an operation to

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remove my tonsils and adenoids when I was four, which somehow resulted in one of my eyes crossing. I had to wear special corrective glasses. Then I got an ear infection. These were the days before antibiotics, so the abscess ran for a year. It was extremely painful. I would holler so much that I had to be put on morphine. Here I was all of ten years old and I got addicted to the stuff! I had to go cold turkey to shake it off. It kept me down for a long time. And with my crossedeye problem, kids would taunt me and call me “cockeyed.” I’d often get chased home by some bullies. Oh yeah, it was a real fun period. With all my illnesses and my physical appearance, I worried why God was punishing me – I didn’t think I could be any “gooder” than I was. So with my father’s strict punishments added to this, I was certainly doomed to Hell for eternity. My only chance was to hope that I could get into Purgatory; then at least I’d have a chance for Heaven. It was only later on that I was able to come to terms with this. •••• Life didn’t quite turn out like the “Andy Hardy” series with Mickey Rooney as the happy teenager, his father as the kindly judge, plus a supportive wife and spinster aunt who always wisely counseled him when Dad wasn’t around. I’d look at this idyllic series where everything looked so darned swell and then wonder how different real life was for me as a teenager, suffering the mental, and occasional physical, abuse of some of my peers. The nickname they gave me was “Muscles,” because of my unimposing physical stature. This soon was shortened to “Muc,” pronounced “Muck” – like dirt: a real ego-booster. Nor did it pay to be too smart in class during those years. If you were, the other guys would start using you as a punching bag. So I had to hold back in order not to come first in class. Eventually, in Grade 9, that didn’t work. Even without trying, I came first in the class. Then I had to endure my arms being pounded frequently by some of my dumber classmates. Sometimes my arms were so numb that I couldn’t

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hold a pen. But I never gave them the satisfaction of crying like some of the other kids did. At one point, I was made a monitor at school, recording the names of students who came in late. This really endeared me to the tougher kids who were notorious for coming in late. One kid took it upon himself to chase me home every day. He never caught me, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I had a BB gun at home. One day, I brought it with me to school and hid it under some stairs. As usual, I had to run for my life when school ended that afternoon, but I did manage to pick up the BB gun in my haste, turn and then point it at my aggressor. I told him if he didn’t stop chasing me that I would shoot him in the eye. It worked. He never chased me again. But I don’t know what I would have done if he had come at me. The gun was never loaded. So much for the swell “Andy Hardy” life.

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

Adjusting to a sick society does not make one well. French psychologist Paul Diel

My real education came neither from school nor the streets. It was from inside the movie theatre. More specifically, it came from the other side of the candy concession. When I was thirteen, I ran the candy stand on Sundays at the Century Theatre. My grandparents had taken over running the theatre. It seemed odd. Here was this cultivated couple, living in posh Westmount, working at a Ville Émard movie theatre. Although they were in their late seventies at the time, they worked the place tirelessly. It was their baby. My grandmother, Leah Hurrion Dunning, ran the cash – when it suited her. And my grandfather, also John Parnell, or J.P. to those in the know, served as manager. His idea of a good time, though, was shuffling up and down the aisles with his flashlight, ushering customers to their seat. They had quirks. My grandmother had this habit of taking over the cash at the darndest times. She would just walk into the box office and tell the cashier to take a hike. Then she would skim enough money from ticket sales to cover her food costs. And as soon as she had gathered enough, she would leave. And nobody would stand in her way. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall standing on her toes, and couldn’t have weighed much more than ninety pounds. But man, could she intimidate people, even those twice or three times her size.

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Nobody messed with this lady. And they did what she told them to do. There was a donation box at the Century Theatre cash for the Queen Elizabeth War Fund. This was Ville Émard, and let’s just say that a box decorated with a picture of the Queen for a fund going toward the English war-effort could easily have gone over like a lead balloon. But count on my grandmother, while making change for the movie, to hold the coins over the box. She would simply inform the people they were making a donation whether they wanted to or not. Then she would drop the change in. She had helped to fill so many donation boxes that she received a special commendation from the Queen for being one of the biggest subscribers to the fund in Canada, and none of it was hers. So here was this lady who would skim ticket sales for her shopping money being recognized for her volunteer war efforts. I don’t know if my father ever had a clue what she was doing at the cash. But he, too, would have backed down. Besides, she was very supportive and caring of him, because of his asthma and related illnesses. He had never been a well man after contacting typhoid fever in his youth. As for my grandfather, J.P., I think he valued his life too much to stand in her way either. In fact, if J.P. was ever in trouble with customers while ushering or managing, it would be my tiny, little grandma who came to the rescue. I saw her do this on several occasions. She would grab an unruly guy by his ear, yank him out of his seat, march him up the aisle, and escort him out of the theatre. And the guy would invariably look so sheepish and embarrassed that this little old lady was doing this to him. Appearances could be deceiving. This little old lady was the family matriarch. She took a lot of the heat off my father regarding the financing of his theatre projects. She ran the family. No, she dominated the family until she died at the age of ninety-one. When I got my licence at sixteen, I used to drive for them with their company car. They had their own chauffeur, but on his days off I would drive my grandfather to and from work in Ville Émard. One day, I went You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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to pick J.P. up at his Roslyn Avenue home to do some banking. I got out of the car. He came down and got in. And as I’m going around to the driver’s side, his weight jumps the car over the curb and it starts rolling backwards down Roslyn, which happens to be one of the steepest hills in the city. So I’m running like hell, trying to chase the car down and my grandfather is sitting there not exactly certain what’s happening. Finally, I make a lunge for the car door, get it open, throw myself on the floor and put my hand on the brake to stop the car. No sooner do I look up than I see my grandmother has witnessed the whole thing. I was terrified. And I was certain they’d never let me drive again. But they did and I’ll never forget that incident. And compounding that stress was the anxiety involved in switching our main film feature with another theatre. This happened when the distributor did not have enough prints to supply all the theatres that were to play it on the same date. This was another ploy they used to deny us our play-date. It was necessary that the Park play at the same time as other theatres in Montreal to keep its first-run policy. So my father and then I had to instigate and be responsible for “the switch.” The schedules would be worked out with the other theatre. And as each theatre wanted to show the main feature last, there could only be about twenty to thirty minutes leeway in the schedule. That meant that the feature, which usually consisted of four to five twenty-minute reels, had to be moved one or two reels at a time to the other theatre all day by a driver with a car. Any traffic or weather problems that could slow the driver down could result in the theatre having a white screen while they were waiting for the rest of the film. It could be hairraising for the driver. I did this many times after I got my driver’s licence. Talk about the suspenseful ticking clock! Usually I would get drafted on the holidays when drivers were hard to find. You were given the schedule and off you’d go, praying for good weather. Traffic wasn’t so bad in those days but you had to deal with streetcars and crossings at train tracks. Trains could be deadly, and if it was a freight train you’d have to find an alternative route. The Lachine Canal was another hazard – a boat going through with the bridge closed could kill John Dunning

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you. My stomach always sank when I was told I was on a switch. I never missed an on-time delivery but some were awful close. •••• I had stopped working the candy bar at the Century when I was fourteen. It was something of a money issue. I was making the princely sum of twenty-five cents an afternoon. And I desperately wanted to buy this ccm bike, a real black beauty. It cost ninety-nine dollars, and by my calculations, I figured I would only be able to buy it in about ten years working at the Century. But my father offered me a job at his 5th Avenue Theatre in Verdun. I would work Saturday mornings for five dollars. Plus summers. So there I was, just a kid of fourteen, performing such administrative functions as writing cheques for film rentals, preparing advertising, and typing box-office reports. I missed a lot of social interaction being busy with the job. I was still in high school and trying to make my mark there. There was a gang called “The Big Four,” the elite clique in school: Fred Williams, Vic Allen, Bill Weintraub, and Grant Taylor. And it was every student’s goal to be part of the gang. I too aspired to get into the group and figured out how. I mean, I was practical enough to realize I wouldn’t make it on my own merits. I wasn’t a glamorous fellow. I wasn’t a gifted athlete. Frankly, I was the ultimate nerd. So I took another approach. Fred had a 1936 Ford with a rumble seat. And I provided him with some gas money. I also was able to provide free admission to my family’s theatres. That helped. Of course, being the fifth guy in meant that I also had the honor of riding in the rumble seat. Bill and I eventually shared a car, for which we had each paid fiftyfive dollars. It was a 1932 brown Chrysler. We called it the Dasher. And it was a wreck. Most of the time we had to push it. Finally we scrapped it. After my father had been pestered for a long time he relented, and one day surprised me with a red 1934 Dodge. That meant our gang, You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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which was growing, had two cars. And it also meant we could do constructive things to pass the time. Like playing “chicken.” We were a reckless bunch of guys. We played “bumper tag.” At high speeds, we’d try and hit the bumper of the car ahead. Once touched, the car would drop back to try to tag the other one. In the winter we would try to see how many spins we could make on the icy roads by wrenching the steering wheel and jamming on the brakes. Yet we weren’t really wild guys. It was more a matter of living on the edge during the war years. It was a strange period. Many of the guys I knew felt that they were going to get killed in battle anyway. We saw so many friends who had been a few years older than us in school lose their lives overseas. Guys like football heroes Forrie Donaldson and Curly Hill. On the street where I lived, at least four guys died in the war. Other guys were being called up for service. It was like being on the cusp. We didn’t know how long the war was going to last. But we did get reports from the front, and not just from anyone. We got them straight from George F. Beurling. You might remember him better as Buzz Beurling, the Canadian war ace. He won a pile of medals for his work in shooting down thirty-one German and Italian planes, twentyseven of them over Malta in 1942. Buzz Beurling was without question the greatest Canadian air ace of his time, all the more so since he was only twenty-one when he did his most daring work. Buzz Beurling was also a genuine Verdun-boy war hero. And he came back home briefly in 1943 on a war bond tour. He visited our high school, where I along with several of my friends took photos of him. Mine were judged to be the most commercial, and I sold them for fifty cents a shot. And another thing, Buzz had started dating my sister. He would come over to our place and regale us with stories. We’d hang out in the finished basement. I remember one night he was there just staring at the panelled wall thirty feet away. He said he spotted a fly on the wall. The rest of us had to get five feet away from the wall before we noticed it. I guess that explains his prowess during the war. He had the most amazing John Dunning

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eyesight. He had these pale blue, piercing eyes like a hawk. He could spot enemy planes before they spotted him. But he was also such a restless guy. He could never sit still. Nights after everyone went to bed, he’d drive off to Ottawa and back at high speed, just to keep himself occupied. We all wanted to be like Buzz Beurling. Alas, we couldn’t get to serve in the war. However, I did get to serve when I joined the Air Cadets at our high school. My father took it upon himself to help the squadron by using his theatres to raise funds to buy band instruments. We now had a band, and I was sporting sergeant’s stripes as a result. In retrospect, I should have turned them down. I didn’t earn them, although at the time I have to say I was thrilled. It didn’t take long for punishment to take place: I was made the supply sergeant responsible for taking care of the uniforms and equipment. That not only took a lot of time, but it was also boring as hell. Considering all the stunts we pulled, even without going to war, it’s amazing any of us made it out alive. But most of the group ended up with successful careers. Bill Weintraub became a celebrated filmmaker and author, who wrote City Unique: Montreal Days and Nights in the 1940s and ’50s, which documented life in the Sin City that was Montreal back then. Fred Williams became the president of an insurance company. Grant Taylor became a school principal, and we lost track of Vic Allen, who moved away. For a while, it didn’t look like I was going anywhere. My attendance at McGill was a disaster. I had looked forward to college with such anticipation, having seen Andy Hardy’s life at college. But I was totally unprepared at sixteen for what befell me. I really didn’t know what courses I should take or even what degree I should aspire to. I was a science student in high school, but I couldn’t see a career in science for myself. So I decided, largely on the basis of the Dr Kildare TV series, to go into pre-med. The first thing I found out was that I needed either Latin or Greek to qualify, plus several other courses I had never taken. I signed up for the courses. Then they told me I would also have to maintain the science courses for which I was registered You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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until I was accepted in pre-med. This meant a double load. I was overwhelmed, rushing from course to course, putting in long hours of lectures. The freedom of college in relation to the structured classes of high school disoriented me. The crowning blow came when I was blackballed by the fraternity that was rushing me. All my other schoolmates had been accepted by their fraternities. I had looked forward to being in one because it would have made a close-knit environment for me to function in. I was crushed. I walked up to the stadium and sat there for a long time as my anticipation of a happy college existence self-destructed. As a consequence, I suffered a depression and left college. It was decided that I would wait at least a year to try again. But this plan changed with my father’s premature death. Fortunately, I had my film-fantasy world to retreat to for needed release from these pressures. I didn’t have real girlfriends at the time. Nope. But I had all the real beauties I wanted – on screen. I started with Shirley Temple and quickly graduated to Jean Harlow – I seemed to have an affinity for blondes at the time but Hedy Lamarr changed all that. During this period, I was under a doctor’s care. He proposed that I take a series of adrenal cortex injections. He figured that the stress had weakened my adrenal glands. At that time, adrenal cortex came from a cow’s adrenal glands. The procedure was new and experimental. Whatever the consequences, though, it seemed to work. I gained weight, added muscle, and developed physically, but the scars of my college experience always stayed with me. I still dreamed, though, of enlisting for war. The problem, as always, was that I didn’t weigh enough and that my eye was crossed. So I decided to get my eyes straightened out when I was seventeen. Not only might it help to join the army, it wouldn’t hurt to get girls, either. And the beer, along with lifting sixty-pound cases of chocolate bars and forty-pound film cans, helped me get my weight up from one hundred and seventeen to one hundred and fifty-eight pounds in no time. I was then ready for anything. John Dunning

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John reads pulp fiction while his movie starlet girlfriends look on from his bedroom wall.

When I decided to have an operation to fix my vision for the service, I went to the Royal Victoria Hospital. In those days they worked on both eyes at once and you were blindfolded for a couple of days. While I was in this condition, I was fed by a nurse’s aide. We began talking. She seemed nice. She was about the same age as I was, so I asked her for her phone number. I was then discharged and later called her for a date. I had left McGill by then, but some of my friends were having a fraternity party to which I was invited. She agreed to go to the party. We went, but I had no great desire to see her again. Later my cousin who went to Loyola told me a tale of this girl at his college who had foisted her mother’s maid’s daughter on this blind guy she had fed in the hospital. It was a real joke. I was upset and I never told my cousin I was that guy. Talk about cruel. I was so up about my first date with straight eyes. What would Andy Hardy have done? You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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My father died suddenly in December of 1944. My mother woke me up one night and said she thought something was wrong with my father. I went down to look at him. He was in bed and his eyes were kind of half-opened. From my experiences with Dr Kildare at the movies, though, I got a mirror and put it under his mouth. When I could see no breath and could feel no pulse, I had to break it to my mother that he was dead. The doctor came over to confirm my diagnosis and sign the death certificate – pneumonia. His weakened lungs couldn’t take it. It was such a shock. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I was seventeen and had left McGill with plans of either going to Cornell or joining up for military service, even though the war was winding down by then. So my grandmother, as always, took control of the situation. She told us she would handle everything, and that’s the way it was going to be. She pretty much ordered my mother to manage the 5th Avenue Theatre. As for me, I was off to the Century Theatre again. But this time I was to be the manager. Not that life was stable by any stretch. Around that time, I met an older Polish girl, the daughter of a neighbour. She had been sympathetic when my father died. We became friends and we dated a couple of times. She invited me to a Polish wedding, in which she was a bridesmaid. We had a good time together at the reception. Then I drove her home. When I parked in front of her house, we were having a goodnight smooch when a cab drove up and stopped in front of us. I saw this paratrooper get out of the cab and come over to my side. I thought he wanted directions, so I turned down the window. He grabbed me and tried to pull me out through the window, saying he was going to kill me. Fortunately, I had some tire tools up behind me in back of the seat, so I took a tire iron and beat him off. She jumped out of the car and tried to reason with him. It turned out he was a Polish paratrooper. He had jumped at Arnhen and had been shipped to Montreal, with psychiatric problems and a chest full of medals, and hospitalized. When he said he’d kill me, I believed him. It seemed he hadn’t been invited to the wedding because John Dunning

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of his condition. He would calm down for a spell, and every time I felt it was time to leave, he’d jump on the running board of the car and attack me again. This went on for what seemed like hours. Finally it looked like I could go peacefully. So I started the car and drove off. But at that point, he jumped on the running board and again began assaulting me. From then on it became hazy. The car raced up the street, jumped the curb and took off the wooden balcony of a house. He got thrown off and hit a lamp post, while I sailed through the roof of the convertible and landed on the lawn of the house. When I came to, there were police cars and ambulances. I remember being taken into a house where I kept passing out. I remember the lady of the house saying: “Don’t let him bleed on the carpet.” When I next came to, I was in the Verdun hospital. I looked down and saw a cop seated at the foot of my bed. I asked him why he was there and he informed me that the soldier was being given the last rites and that if he died I was in deep trouble. When I finally came to in the morning, the police questioned me. I told them my story, which had been corroborated by the girl. So I was in the clear. The paratrooper didn’t die. He was sent to the Montreal Neurological Hospital, and from there I don’t know what happened to him. I was sent home after a few days to recuperate. I had suffered a concussion that was giving me severe headaches. The insurance covered everything and restored my car, but not my peace of mind. I was upset for months. I was afraid of retaliation by his army buddies, who I assumed were the ones making threatening phone calls to me. For years after, I always sat in bars or restaurants with my back against the wall facing the entrance. There was also some fall-out that compromised my social life. A story circulated that I had been taking advantage of this girl and the brave paratrooper was trying to protect her. The resulting accident was an attempt on my part to kill him. Parents were not ready to let their daughters go out with such a notorious person, which made it difficult to get a date in Verdun. And shortly after the accident the Polish family sold their home and moved away, and I never saw her again. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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Small wonder after that experience and two years on the job at the Century I ended up with a duodenal ulcer. And I was all of nineteen at the time. They said I was suffering from what today would be called post-traumatic stress syndrome. I was dealing with panic attacks on the job. The day would barely start and there would always be some sort of fire to put out, some kind of emergency to deal with, or someone who wanted to injure me – simply because I was the manager. My philosophy about movies was simple: keep the people entertained with exciting stuff and it would keep them from ripping up the seats. I’m sure this philosophy must have influenced me later when I began to produce movies. But I still had to learn the business. My grandmother told me that I was the only surviving male in the family capable of filling my father’s shoes and that I had a duty to provide for my mother and sister as well as for her and my grandfather. A tremendous load to put on a teenager. Then she told me I would be working from nine until noon at the Park Theatre office to learn the business. And at noon, I would then open the Century for the day and stay there until closing every evening around eleven p.m. There would be no more weekends off for me. Oh, but the good news was that I would get Wednesday nights off. •••• It was like the Wild West at the Century. The only reason my grandmother wasn’t killed there is because she was a little old lady. And they just took pity on my grandfather, whose advanced age protected him. So here is this teenager trying to keep the peace in the place. It was pure hell, and I was fair game. There were two steel companies in the area, Dosco and Stelco, and there was a tavern kitty-corner to the theatre, much closer to the church than the theatre. Mix up these elements and you’ve got yourself one boiling cauldron to deal with. I used to absolutely dread every time the bookings came in. If we had a Norma Shearer or Lana Turner social drama or romance, I knew we were in store for big trouble. To show their appreciation for these John Dunning

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wrenching women’s films, the customers, many under the influence of drink, would simply cut the seats, then pull out the stuffing and litter the place to show that they were pissed off. They wanted action. They wanted violence on screen. They wanted Bogart, Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, and Westerns. How I’d breathe a sigh of relief when we’d book even something like the Bowery Boys. I knew that would mean that our seats could at least make it through another night intact. Tough as it was, I was alone after nine at night, when my usher and doorman would leave. I had to stay until eleven and fulfill my tour of duty. I’d have to check the men’s room downstairs to see if there were any stragglers. Then I had to check the booth upstairs to make sure the operator hadn’t fallen asleep. And then I had to lock all the doors, except for the front one, and sit at the doorman’s chair to make sure no one would sneak in. There was never a dull moment. One night, a guy comes up from the bathroom downstairs on his way back to his seat and just hawks a huge gob onto the carpet at the back of the theatre. I was incensed. So I grabbed the guy and tossed him out of the theatre. He was an older teenage punk – not unlike me, actually. Ten minutes later, I’m sitting alone at the doorman’s station. And the guy’s come back, with five friends. He’s armed with an ice pick in his hand. He’s livid, waving the ice pick about and yelling that he’s going to kill me. He comes up the stairs of the theatre and I grab the chair I’m sitting in to block the entrance. I feel like Horatio at the bridge. I push the chair at them every time they try to get in. Meanwhile, customers are coming out of the theatre and filing out this entrance. I’m begging them to call the cops, but they seem indifferent. They just walk off. It wasn’t their fight. Now my arms are getting really tired with this stand-off. I’m certain I’ll be overpowered any second. And then I’ll be dead. But out of the distance, I hear the most joyous sound, the sound of a police siren. I’m saying to myself: “Thank God! Someone called the cops.” The siren was coming closer and closer. So the guy with the ice pick and his gang just took off. I immediately locked the front door and waited You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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for the police to show. But they never did. The car must have been on another call, but it saved my ass. There was always something. Another day, I was driving from Verdun to open the Century, when all of a sudden a guy is thrown out of the moving car in front of mine. I jam on the brakes in the nick of time. Then I get out of the car. The guy is bleeding profusely. I tell him I’m going to take him straight to the hospital. But he has another idea. He wants me to drive him to a nearby tavern. So he staggers into my car, and I drop him off at the tavern. I parked my car in front of the theatre and went in to work. Later two cops come in the theatre and tell me to come with them. Someone reported that the front of my car was covered in blood and they figured I ran someone over, so I’m facing a hit and run charge. I tell them my story and they look really skeptical. Finally, I plead with them to go to the tavern to check my story out. They took me with them and luckily the patrons at the tavern supported my story. This was getting to be hard on the nerves. I just turned eighteen. I didn’t have an imposing physical presence to scare people off. So I had to threaten them verbally and hope like hell they didn’t come after me and kill me. I didn’t have to go to war to suffer combat stress. I was living in a war zone already. Even doing the rounds of the men’s room at the theatre could be an experience. One night, while checking it out, I see a pair of feet sticking out of one of the toilets. But only the soles of the feet. So I look in the partially open stall-door and see a guy with his head really deep in the toilet bowl. I see that his face is submerged in the water. I immediately grab him by the hair and yank his head out. His face is turning blue. It’s obvious that he’s plastered. But he’s still alive, though barely conscious. Then I open his mouth and slip my finger down his gullet in case he’s swallowed his tongue – just the way they do in the movies. I dig a huge plug of vomit out of his mouth, and he stops choking. The guy starts coughing, pulls himself off the ground, gets up, walks out and returns to the movie. Never says a word, either. No

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thank-yous or anything. He could have drowned in that bloody bowl if I hadn’t been doing my rounds. I probably saved his life. And he just goes back to the theatre to see the end of the movie. Tough enough to keep the peace at the Century during the week, but I was also running shows for the teenagers on Saturdays at the 5th Avenue in Verdun. We would bring in amateur bands in conjunction with a local radio station, and it could get really raucous at times. One morning, the band is on stage and I’m standing at the back of the auditorium. I hear this thumping sound coming from the men’s room. I know there’s no construction or repair work going on. So I head over to check it out. When I get inside the washroom, I spot Jumbo Brown, a big, husky teenager and something of a local legend as a tough guy in Verdun. He’s holding this guy a few feet off the ground and repeatedly thumping his head against the wall. The guy being thumped is completely dazed. So I approach Jumbo: “What are you doing, Jumbo?” He just looks at me blankly and continues the thumping. I can’t physically stop him. He could pick me up and break me into tiny little pieces. As a last resort, I tell Jumbo that I’ll call the cops if he doesn’t stop and say he’ll probably go to jail for assault. Jumbo finally gets the message and lets the guy go. The guy just sort of slips down the wall and falls into a heap. Then he gets up in a flash and runs out of the theatre. And then I had an inspiration. “Jumbo,” I say. “You’re just the kind of guy I’m looking for. I’m going to pay you. Every Saturday morning, you can come in for free and watch the show. Plus, you can go to the movies any time you want. But, in return, you have to keep order in the place.” Jumbo just mutters: “Okay, I’ll do that.” And from that day on, he became my one-man in-house security force. •••• Despite it all, I really did build a strong love for the movies. It was just the public that I hated to deal with. Okay, most were decent, wellbehaved people. They just came to watch and be entertained. But there You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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was always a small element that spoiled it for everyone. They were the troublemakers and I had the fun task of trying to deal with them. Tougher still, because they were often drunk. Or, in the middle of the show one of the exit doors would burst open suddenly as one guy who paid opened it, and a gang would rush into the theatre and disperse. Then I had to ferret them out and toss them, never knowing if a physical confrontation would take place. Today, about the only thing that theatre managers and ushers have to worry about are people talking or cell-phones going off. I wish that had been the extent of our problems back then. I mean, I would get calls on my off nights: “John, you’d better get over here right away. They just knocked out your usher!” So, I’d hop into my car and head over to the theatre. The poor guy was dazed and I’d send him home. I guess it could have been worse. At our rival theatre, the Perron Hall in Ville Émard, the assistant manager got tossed over the balcony by some rowdies. He ended up in hospital. Thank God we didn’t have a balcony. But then again, we had an usher who simply got chucked through the glass part of one of our front doors. And then there were the milder, everyday occurrences. Like finding the projectionist drunk and passed out in his booth, the movie screen blank, and the crowd going crazy. I walked into the theatre one night and I hear the audience clapping rhythmically but impatiently. Then I notice the white screen. So off I ran up to the operator’s booth. It’s full of film. The reel has flown off the projector and two thousand feet of film had unwound all over the place. The operator is sitting in a drunken stupor. So I’m collecting the unwound film – we call it spaghetti – putting it on the rewind reel and try to untangle it all, without tearing it, by hand. •••• Stress has always played an important part in my life. Not ever having had a role model to advise me in real life, I never knew what was expected of me. My father was unreachable in providing any support or John Dunning

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advice. I was like Jack Lennon as Ensign Pulver in Mister Roberts when he was able to stay out of sight of the Captain (Jimmy Cagney) for two years while on the same ship. So my role models came from the movies I saw. As a kid, it was the “Our Gang” Comedies; in my early teens, Andy Hardy; and later, Lew Ayres in the Dr Kildare series. Finally there were my Western heroes. The good guys like Buck Jones and Charles Starrett wore white hats, while the bad guys wore black hats. I never learned there were also shades of grey. You were either good or bad. There’s medical acceptance that we are all imbued with the fight or flee syndrome. Your body puts out the fight-or-flight body chemistry depending on the threat you face. My problem came with wearing the white hat. There was never the possibility of fleeing, because the white hat guys never fled – they always fought. This rigid attitude was to prove costly throughout my life as it forced my body to repress anger at a time when it wasn’t wise to fight, but much smarter to flee. Later I read about Dr Hans Selye’s theories on stress, which became a source of comfort to me. Selye, a doctor at l’Université de Montréal, believed that there was good stress and bad stress. Simply stated, good stress built up when you were truly doing something you liked. Bad stress came when you were doing something you didn’t like. He believed that only bad stress was harmful to you. You could fall prey to any number of auto-immune or other medical conditions. I was lucky I was able to find the good stress in the film business for which I had a passionate interest. It sustained me through a lot of difficult times and balanced the bad stress that we all encounter in life. Still, when I was twenty, I couldn’t take it any longer. After suffering the ulcer, I told my grandmother that she really needed a manager. I could oversee the administration. The theatre was playing havoc with my life. While all my friends were having normal lives, I was finishing work at about midnight. Then I got into the habit of going uptown for drinks and hanging out with both cops and night people in the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t get home until four in the morning, usually stopping for something to eat at Barabe’s on Roper Street in the You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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Point. They had the best grease in town. I’d be back at work by nine, then I’d open the theatre at noon. It was just killing me. But it wasn’t just the crowds or the hours. I was also having runins with the authorities. Over seats, of all things. The seats at the Century hadn’t been changed since the place opened in the early ’20s. So here we are in 1947. We had been repairing them at a rate of fifteen a week. I finally prevailed upon my grandmother to re-fit the seats in the whole theatre. We installed loveseats on every other row to stagger the sight lines. Customers were happy with the arrangement. Then, out of the blue, I get a call from future Montreal Mayor Jean Drapeau, who was in the early stages of his political career with the Montreal Morality Squad. He said, “You’ve got loveseats with no arms in the dark. That’s dangerous. If my mother ever went to sit there, she could be molested. You have to take those seats out!” I told Drapeau that buses have seats with no arms on them and there’s no problem. Hell, the Forum had seats with no arms, too. Why would his mother want to sit in our loveseats anyway – they were for couples. He wasn’t moved by my argument. He simply said they were immoral and they had to go. Then he hung up on me. Next thing I know inspectors are descending on the theatre in droves. A health inspector charges me for having gum stuck under the seats. There were seven hundred and eighty seats and about half had gum stuck to them. A fire inspector charges me with having a small hole somewhere and orders it repaired. Fire extinguishers that had just been charged had to be re-charged. Then Pax Plante, the tough-as-nails crime-buster of the Montreal police force, calls to add weight to Drapeau’s request. He issues a veiled threat that scares me. So I call the company that re-fitted the theatre seats and tell the boss that I’m up to my neck in hassles with the authorities. I say I have to change the seats or I’m cooked. He tells me he can’t pull them out. He also informs me he just did a similar re-fitting at a theatre in Trois-Rivières, the hometown of Quebec Premier Maurice Duplessis. And Duplessis, also a legendary moralist, never objected. I relayed this piece of information to Drapeau and John Dunning

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added if he was so fervent about the removal, let the city pay for it. Suddenly, they stopped hassling the theatre. That nightmare was over, but the Century certainly had become the cleanest and best-kept theatre in the city. Next, it had occurred to me that there was a large percentage of Italians living in the area around the Century. So I figured it would make sense if I could get my hands on some Italian-language movies and show them Friday nights – always a slow night for the theatre. I made a deal with a distributor in Toronto to book some Italian films then placed ads in the local Italian newspaper. And it was a hit. The first Friday night show drew about three hundred people. By the third week, the place was filled with close to five hundred customers. I was pretty pleased with myself. It was a resounding success. But a nightmare was looming. While the film was playing that third Friday night, in walk these two big Italian guys, sporting slicked back hair and even slicker suits. They come over to me and softly mutter, “I a-hear you’re a-showing Italian pitchers.” Yes, I cheerfully respond, figuring they’d be happy I’m serving their community. I tell them that my customers really seem to appreciate these films. “That’s a-very nice,” they reply. “But our a-boss, Madame X, she’s not a-very happy about this.” Turns out that Madame X is the sister of a major Montreal crime boss. She is also the owner of a theatre in the north end of Montreal that shows Italian films. She seems to like the notion of exclusivity in the city. “She would a-like you stopping showing Italian pitchers here.” I respond that her theatre is far away up north and that I pose no threat, since my customers would never go up to that part of the city. “Mista Dunning,” they say. “You play Italian pitchers anymore, we comma here witta baseball a-bat and we break your knees – you don’t a-walk so good anymore.” They just nod at me friendly like and walk out. Talk about life imitating the art of the movies! So, faced with the choice of being handicapped for the rest of my life or foregoing a little extra money by getting out of the business of showing Italian films on Friday nights, I think I made the sensible decision in canning my Italian film night. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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That’s why I wanted to get out of the exhibition end of the business altogether. It’s just the bottom of the chain. The buck stops there. And sometimes the baseball bat, too.

John Dunning

Y.C.D.B.S.O.Y.A. You Can’t Do Business Sitting On Your Ass! Anonymous

My father’s death, working at the Century, the added pressures on me from my grandmother – it all added up to one stressful life. I had hit rock bottom emotionally. This was long before I entered therapy and I felt I had no support to get me through these hard emotional times. Religion did not seem the answer from my previous experiences with it. It was then I started reading the Greek and Roman philosophers. It was a revelation to me. It was there I discovered suicide. To the Greeks and Romans, it was an honourable act. Then it came to me. If I didn’t like the heat in the kitchen, I could opt out. If I couldn’t take it anymore, I would be an honourable Greek or Roman. The act was not that of a coward – it also could be considered brave, depending on the conditions. I felt a tremendous release. I was in control of my life. It could be my decision alone as to what I would do with it. So every night through those rough days, I would ask myself: Is it that bad that I wanted to cop out? And it never got that bad. But the feeling that I could do it if I wanted to gave me much-needed peace and it also strengthened my determination to go on. The war ended. After two years of managing the theatre in Ville Émard, I was pretty much a basket case and needed some R&R before getting on with the rest of my life. So, for lack of any other exotic idea or great wealth, I took a one month hiatus and spent my days sprawled

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out on a pier in Pointe Claire catching some rays and re-assessing my existence. Alas, my grandparents had already figured it out for me. It was decided that I would now lead a relatively normal existence. I would work a nine- to-five job at our head office in the 5th Avenue Theatre in Verdun and perform mostly administrative functions aiding Len Jones, who had been my father’s assistant. This was a far cry from my previous life as manager when I was up until all hours, hanging out with cops and hookers at blind pigs around town. But no sooner did I start work than I got a phone call that there had been a burglary at the Park. I headed over and met the cops investigating. I told them our insurance would cover the losses. They said there was a problem. There had been no sign of forced entry, the burglar had hidden in the theatre at closing time – then had left through one of the exit doors. So no insurance claim would be forthcoming. But the head cop must have sensed that I was stressed. So in a grand gesture, he went outside into the alley and used the butt end of his revolver to smash a window. With the broken glass now inside the theatre, he said, I now had proof of forced entry. I wasn’t a full-fledged theatre exhibitor – but I attended what was one of my first Pioneer banquets. I was yet to be a Pioneer but all exhibitors were welcomed. This one was held at the Esquire Showbar on Stanley Street downtown. I’d had a few beers and when I left before picking up my car, I needed to go badly, so I ducked down a lane and was relieving myself when a police car came up. A cop got out of the car and told me to stop. As I was in full flow it was hard to stop. He grabbed me. I shrugged him off and he slipped on some ice, then fell on his butt. That did it. The other cop jumped out of the car and the two of them worked me over. The next thing I knew I was in front of the desk at Station 10 facing a sergeant. He told me to get down on my knees. I told him I was not religious. Wrong answer. The next thing I received was a blow on my back from a nightstick and I did end up on my knees. I was then ceremoniously dragged away and put in what they called “the hole.” John Dunning

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This was not a cell – it was down in the basement. They threw me in. It was totally dark. You couldn’t see a thing. I felt along a wall and finally sat down on a dirt floor. While I was waiting in this pitch darkness, I felt something crawling on my lap. I brushed it away and heard it squeak. It was one big, fat rat. Then I sat in horror as I could hear their noises, but couldn’t see where they were. Eventually an iron door opened and the cops told me to go home and appear in court at ten a.m. that morning. The charge was to be indecent exposure in a public place. Yeah, at two in the morning in an empty lane. I went home with a banged-up face with the idea to change clothes in order to go back to court. I went to the bathroom and was frightened to see I was passing blood. The blow to my back had injured my kidneys. I called a Verdun cop I knew and gave him the lowdown. He told me not to worry, to go to the hospital, that he would go up to Station 10 and check things out. He called me later and when he told the cops there that I was in the hospital, beat up and passing blood, they told him they had no record of my ever having been there. So there were no charges. I was sent home and told to rest for a few days, and from then on I used indoor facilities. But on to some real crime. Theft had been a fact of life in the theatre business. In the ’30s at the Park, candy was always disappearing. The most inventive culprit was a guy who actually lived in the theatre for two weeks. He’d cut himself a little space between the ground floor and the balcony. He had many of the amenities of home, too. We found a bed and candles. And he subsisted entirely on candy bars and water. He’d come out and watch the shows all day, then when the theatre closed, he would help himself to the candy stand and turn in for the night in his space. We finally caught him by leaving someone in the theatre overnight. Another time the police got a tip that a notorious bank robber was holed up at the 5th Avenue. I had to empty the theatre and give passes to the remaining customers. Fortunately it was near the end of the last show. They wanted to know where he could possibly be hiding. I sugYou’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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gested that perhaps he made his way through the maze of ducts in the ventilation system. They were large enough to walk through if one crouched. Great, they said, get in first and show us the way. So there I was leading the cops through the ducts in the dark with a flashlight. It was scary. If I did happen upon him, I was first in line and they didn’t know if he was armed or not. Fortunately, there was no bank robber to be found inside the system and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. •••• Amazingly, I somehow found the time to have a personal life. In 1957, I married Jean Myzner, a lovely Verdun girl I had been dating for eight years. Having been reluctant to take on more responsibility with all the events that were taking place in my life, my fear was that I would lose her if I didn’t make a commitment. My fear was also how I could manage to support a family when I was having a hell of a time just trying to keep my head above water. Love won out. We married and moved into an upper duplex in LaSalle at eighty-five dollars a month. When we married, she was making more than I was working as a secretary at Monsanto. Making matters more delicate was that the limited income available to me also had to go to support my mother and sister. More amazingly, though, Jean and I stayed together. I’m grateful for the unwavering support she gave me without complaint for the many long years of sixty- and seventy- hour weeks in which I was working to create some sort of security blanket for ourselves. She even had to settle for a quickie honeymoon weekend in Lake Placid, because I had to return to battle, trying to save some of my father’s legacy – which was fast disappearing. One of the most upsetting moments in my life came when my grandparents passed away within sixteen months of each other. They were both in their nineties in the early 1950s. In those days, the inheritance tax was horrendous. My grandfather had left his estate to my

John Dunning

Jean Myzner and John dressed appropriately for one of the frequent costume parties John hosted in his basement on Churchill Avenue in Verdun, Quebec.

grandmother, and when she passed away we were almost ruined, as it forced a double payment to the government within that short period. For whatever reason, my grandfather had put in his will that Famous Players had offered him seven-hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the theatres back in 1937. Although the offer was refused, he still had that amount in his will. So that when he died, the astute

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government tax department, because of that amount, was of the opinion that we owed them hundreds of thousands to cover the inheritance tax it felt it was due. Sixteen months later, they wanted it again when my grandmother passed away. I tried with the help of a lawyer to explain that neighborhood theatres were on the verge of ruin with the advent of television, that we were in dire straits. But the government wasn’t biting. We had to fight to try to bring the assessment down. In the end, it took all the outside assets held by my grandparents to cover the inheritance taxes and to keep control of the theatres. I had no choice. The theatres were all we had, and I had to support my mother, sister, my wife, and myself. Tough enough with just TV making inroads but Verdun was one of the first places in the province to have access to cable TV. Much of Verdun was built with six flats on a frontage of twenty-five feet. The cable company simply laid the cable over the roofs of the top flats and, voila: six customers. For that privilege, if the owner of the flats lived down below, he got cable free. As a result, people were picking up the coveted three American TV channels, making matters even worse for theatres in the community. The first year of cable in Verdun, our theatre attendance dropped thirty per cent, and every year after it dropped some more. I knew we were in for some trying times. Before my grandparents passed away, I had heard that a golf course in neighboring LaSalle was being sold. Despite the fact that it had a lot of land, they were only looking for thirty-five to forty thousand dollars for the golf course. I told my grandparents it was a steal and that we should buy it. Everyone was saying that the land could be really valuable because of the post-war building boom. But they balked. They said we were in the movie-theatre business, not real estate. Sure enough, a Verdun family in the dry goods business bought the golf course and later made millions in selling it off. So we were denied what could have been security against the tough times coming. But I guess movies were meant to be my destiny. I later heard of another opportunity to buy into the local cable TV company. The owner needed cash. But again, my grandparents wanted John Dunning

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no part of it. And I can only guess what the future value might have been had we gone into that deal. I was obsessed with trying to obtain security for the family so I could concentrate on my own future. The more sophisticated television and cable TV were getting, the more we were tanking. I feared this was the end of the line for neighborhood theatres. I was at the end of my rope. Then it hit me. If I can’t beat ’em, then I’d have to join ’em. •••• So I decided to close the Park, our first theatre built back in 1913. It had been suffering the most. My plan was to turn it into a TV studio, which I would rent. I adapted the theatre, stripped out the balcony and put in a flat concrete floor on the ground floor. Downstairs I set up a soundproof recording studio. I made a deal with a rental equipment company to put in state-of-the-art lighting. And I started to advertise for tenants and got a few nibbles. Then I landed a big one: Niagara Films, one of the major producers of French-language TV programming for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (cbc), signed a long-term deal. It was headed by Fernand Seguin, a noted biochemist and one of the early producers of TV shows in Quebec. I was intrigued by it all. But, first, I had to get the monkey off my back. I was drinking more than I should to ease the stress and anxiety. However, one event shocked me into a lifestyle change. I had made plans to pick up a friend of mine in St Sauveur in the Laurentians, then to party with him before heading back home. I had initially planned to take my convertible, but opted instead for the company car to save the gas expense. We had been drinking and carousing. On the drive back to Montreal, I was zipping along at about eighty miles an hour when I spotted a huge pig sitting transfixed by the headlights right in the middle of the road. I veered over on to the shoulder of the road to avoid hitting You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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it – otherwise we were cooked. But the car slipped off the shoulder and rolled over about four or five times. The car finally ended up on its side. Neither I nor my buddy was hurt – the padded roof of the heavy Chrysler saved us. But we were really shaken up. Somehow I got the car back home. Then it occurred to me that if had taken the convertible that night, we would have both been killed when the car rolled. There were no seatbelts in those days. I figured fate must have intervened again. It obviously wasn’t my time to go. But I also knew that I needed to get my head straight, that I needed to get help. This would require therapy. Fortunately, my sister had been going out with a psychotherapist who had become my friend, Dr Paul Lefebvre. I asked him if he could recommend a shrink to help me. So he hooked me up with a Dr François Cloutier, who coincidentally happened to have a twenty-two per cent interest in Niagara Films. He was partly my tenant and now he was my shrink. As incestuous as this situation appeared to be, it got even more so. Somehow it came about that he was prepared to sell me his twentytwo per cent stake in Niagara. I sold a property in Verdun, that had been left to me by my father, to cover the twenty-two thousand dollars for his share of the business. In retrospect, though, I don’t know if that purchase was helpful to my rehabilitation. Was he selling to help me out? Or, was he selling because he just wanted to bail out of the business, because he knew something about Seguin’s mental history? Niagara Films was a big player. It was producing everything from historical dramas to educational shows, and even the French equivalent of Candid Camera. It was also doing plenty of commercial work. So, I bought my shrink’s twenty-two per cent in my tenant, and I was about to get another eye-opening education. His stability notwithstanding, Seguin was a brilliant guy. He was also the leading private TV producer around in the late ’50s. Having twenty-two per cent of the company gave me the privilege of seeing how everything worked in production. The market was flourishing at the time. So much so that it got to the point where Niagara Films was inundated with work and needed John Dunning

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more space. It occurred to me that the 5th Avenue theatre would make an ideal studio as well. It was large inside and had an ample parking lot. It was a much better fit than the Park and it just so happened that fate again intervened to allow for the theatre’s metamorphosis. During that period, Columbia Pictures, one of our main suppliers, tried to pull a real sweet number on us. They said that our rival theatre, the Savoy, would get first-run rights for their product in Montreal, while the 5th Avenue would have first-run rights for Verdun. But that deal made no sense whatsoever. What Columbia was really telling me was that I was going to be having second-run product. Things were tough enough already in the theatre business, without repeating a film that had already played in Verdun. I told the Columbia manager that if they went ahead and gave the Savoy first-run I would close the 5th Avenue. I also said that this move would hurt them even more than me. It would cut their film-rental to pieces, because there would be no opposition, United Amusement could pay whatever they wanted. Then I saw in the paper that a Columbia film was playing at the Savoy. So I just up and closed the 5th. Shortly thereafter, the manager called and said: “John, I thought you were just kidding.” I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn’t bluffing. He asked if we could work something out, but it was too late. I had turned the corner. And so our two Verdun theatres were now studios. I invested about fifty thousand dollars through a mortgage to add an office complex to the 5th Avenue, in addition to cover the costs for transforming it into a studio. I kept my office there and was able to get Niagara Films to sign a five-year lease. Problem was that the Park still was now pretty much empty. I’d toyed with the possibility of turning the ground floor into a bowling alley and leaving the studio on top. But while I was negotiating with Brunswick, the company signed a deal with a nearby plumbing supplier to turn his space into a bowling alley. With that option out, I had an idea to turn my space into a billiard parlor. Brunswick was keen on the idea and figured I could have fourYou’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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teen tables. Now all I had to do was plead before the city fathers to allow me a permit for a pool hall. It wasn’t easy. No matter how clean an operation I said I was going to have, the city wasn’t keen on the concept, because of the negative image of pool halls. Nor did it help that I was becoming increasingly sociophobic and found it difficult to get up in public to plead my case. Fortunately, with an impassioned plea to the city council and help from Brunswick, I got the permit, and turned the place into a classy pool hall. I also put in a soft ice-cream store. And I was able to earn enough weekly revenue to cover my taxes, pay off Brunswick, and allow me to turn my attention to my involvement in Niagara Films. Seguin had noted my interest and asked me if I would like to join the producing ranks. Why not? So I became a “producteur délégué” on a series of historical films. My role was to keep an eye out on the production, to watch the budget, to check the hours, to make sure the lunch breaks were respected, and keep the management advised of any on-set problems. The director on the films I was overseeing was Guy Hoffman. We were using the acting services of the Théâtre du Nouveau Monde, of which he was a leading member. He was also temperamental as hell. He would throw these huge fits on set, and no one ever knew if he was serious or just putting us on. Regardless, the experience proved to be an education and helped prepare me for my future as a producer. Yet, while I was seeing all aspects of film-making, what fascinated me most was the editing part. You cut this footage together and somehow you’re able to emerge with a movie. Not to take away from the other integral aspects, but it’s through editing that you have the final control of your film. Seguin also had another company called Amerivision. He would buy film rights from France, usually for around three thousand to four thousand dollars each, and then they would re-sell them to the cbc, usually for between six thousand and seven thousand dollars each,, depending on the quality of the film. It was a profitable little operation, and for a brief period, it also proved to be the lifeblood of the cbc. John Dunning

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The cbc employees went out on strike during the early ’60s. René Lévesque, who would one day become premier of Quebec, was leading the strikers on the picket lines. And by night, with the help of a helicopter, we were dropping French films off on the roof of the cbc building. My job was to see that the films were mounted and ready for transmission by the cbc. Running the movies would keep the cbc going with the hope of eventually breaking the strike. And when the strike was finally over, Amerivision had many films on hand that were not needed. Back at the studio, I moved off the historical film series with Hoffman to begin supervising a documentary with a director from France. The focus was to be the Université de Montréal and its students. And with my horrible high-school French, I soon became known as the “maudit anglais” on the set. What proved to be most memorable about the experience, though, was that it brought me into contact with Denis Héroux, who served as our student liaison. Denis, with whom I would later work, helped to smooth out ripples in the production with the university, and there were plenty. Not the least of which was the fact that our director really wanted to get into the university’s anatomy lab to shoot the cadavers for the documentary. The administrators balked but finally a compromise was reached. They would allow us to use a dissected foot from a corpse for a sequence. Our timing wasn’t great, however. We had just finished lunch and we were heading down the corridor to the anatomy lab. The director wanted to shoot the entrance. The smell was simply horrific. We started losing people. Crew members were turning green and feeling ill. And by the time we were ready to shoot the entrance, there were only four of us left standing. Still, life seemed to be finally unfolding with few hitches. I became a signatory at the bank for the company. I was signing cheques. I was an officer of the company and, okay, maybe a half-assed producer. Again, I should have realized not to count my chickens too soon. Seguin started to show signs of irrational behaviour – the stress of the continual production deadlines seemed to be too much for him. It soon You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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came to a head. One day, he took off with a newly-arrived company receptionist, an attractive blonde, and simply vanished. Next thing we knew he had resurfaced in a luxurious suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in downtown Montreal. Seguin, who was married and had a beautiful home outside the city, was shacked up with the receptionist. He was going through a rapidly escalating paranoid phase. Apparently, he feared that he was about to be assassinated by some hit-men from Tangiers. He had hired a burly bodyguard/chauffeur to protect him and travelled about in a rented limo. In the interim, I was going ballistic; so was our controller, Pierre Lamy. We had all these productions going, and Seguin was key to them, plus he was also the chief signing officer. We didn’t know what to do, so we prevailed upon his wife to have him committed to a hospital before he could do any more damage to himself or the company. The night before he was to be committed, Seguin phoned to tell me that I was fired. I told him he couldn’t fire me because I wasn’t on his payroll, and I also happened to be a part owner of the company. It was nuts and about to become even more so. He got committed to an institution but was out in forty-eight hours on a habeas corpus. He then announced that he was going to liquidate the company as a sort of revenge for our actions against him. This triggered massive hysteria. The bank was terrified, because we were in debt to them to the tune of two hundred thousand dollars. We were terrified, because we had about seven hundred thousand dollars in contracts to fulfill and the company was profitable. And the cbc was terrified, because all it had were a bunch of half-finished series. We simply had to keep the company going and prevent Seguin from liquidating, or else we’d all be up the creek. The bank, the cbc, and the minority partners would all get stiffed. So we arranged a meeting with all the parties. It was decided that if Seguin opted to dissolve the company, which he could through a shareholders’ meeting, since he was actually the majority shareholder, I would head down to the studio before the liquidators arrived to shut down and padlock the place. Then

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I would see that all the negatives from the finished and half-finished cbc productions would be shipped out the back, where a cbc truck would be stationed to retrieve them. Seguin showed up to the meeting with the blonde receptionist, whom he had made vice-president of the company. They were both really out of it, on some kind of drug. No one knew what to make of the situation. The man was an icon in the business here. Meanwhile, the receptionist passed out right on the floor, and no one was paying any heed to her while begging Seguin to reconsider closing the company. It was a nightmare. People were stepping over her to reach the lawyer’s table for documents. If this were a film, people would have thought it too unrealistic to fathom – a fantasy. Seguin wasn’t about to budge. He said, “I’m liquidating the company. That’s it.” While he was in the process of doing that, I barreled out the door, got into my car and raced over to the studio before the liquidators got there. Following our plan, I saw that the negatives were delivered to the cbc truck. Just in the nick of time, too. The liquidators arrived and locked up the building. No matter that I had twenty-two per cent of the company, Seguin had controlling interest, with his sixty-five per cent, and could do what he pleased. I was in debt to the bank, and it would take me years to pay it off. But I conceived a plan. The subsidiary company, Amerivision, had some French films in its inventory which had potential for theatrical release before the cbc played them. So I approached the liquidators and told them I could help pay off some of the bills if they would allow me to distribute the films that were in that company. They went along with the plan. So, with Wilfrid Dodd, the other minority shareholder, we formed a company to do the sub-distribution. And so it was that Cinepix came to life in 1962. My life would once again enter another new, though never dull, phase. ••••

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Again, those who labour under the illusion that showbiz is a romantic industry should have walked a few miles in my shoes. The exhibition side of motion pictures brought me mostly grief. And now the distribution aspect was equally disenchanting. Hollywood movies dubbed into French dominated the market in Quebec, while films from France had limited exposure. Small wonder I didn’t end up in the bowling business. But I guess I have to credit my therapy for keeping me in line. I had developed sociophobia, which I had been battling since I was sixteen. It began when I was in a play at the Verdun Y. I had been slated to play the part of a coroner in a stage production that was to run two nights to sold-out crowds of more than three hundred people. First night, I walked up on stage, ready to do my part, and I simply froze. I couldn’t remember a single line. The prompter started mouthing my lines to me from backstage. The audience began laughing as they could hear her too. I fumbled my way through the part and approached the director after the play. I told him I just couldn’t come back the following night. I was petrified. He said I had to. He didn’t have a replacement for me. So, he asked if I could arrive a half-hour early the next night, because he had a plan. Following a sleepless night, I followed his instructions. His plan? He handed me a mickey of cheap rye and told me to take a few slugs. I was half-smashed, but I was at least able to get out on stage and do my part that night. But I was never able to play in front of a huge crowd again. Put a TV camera in front of me, and I’ll freeze, if it’s live. Put me in front of a large audience and I’ll panic. The best I can do is deal with meetings with small groups of people. The movie business is tough enough. Having a handicap like sociophobia doesn’t make it easier, but the therapy, mercifully, does.

John Dunning

Emotional reactions against pornography tell more about the complainant’s own sexual inhibitions than about pornography. Artist E.M. Christensen

In the interim, though, I had to figure out how to survive. So I approached George Destounis, a class act who was the head of the United Theatres chain. I was able to convince him of the merits of using original French product instead of just playing Hollywood dubs. So he gave me the opportunity to showcase the Amerivision films at a few east-end theatres as well as the Laval, which he co-owned. It started off well. I had some great French titles starring such noted French actors as Jean-Paul Belmondo and Charles Aznavour. The public really cottoned to these films. But the problem was that I was fast running out of product. Worse, I had no money to buy more. So I convened a meeting with other French TV film-buyers in the city and got them to agree to form a consortium with me. I convinced them that I could get revenue for their French films at the theatres before they sold them off to TV. During this period, I put together a package of the best European films from the consortium and staged an “avant-premiere” at a couple of United Amusement theatres. It was reasonably successful and confirmed there was a market for French films, but we just never had enough product to meet the demand necessary for Cinepix to become profitable.

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Distribution was a new game for me. I quickly realized that the only way to succeed was to spread out in the province to maximize revenue coming from the publicity of the Montreal releases. I also realized I needed someone who knew the distribution ropes throughout the province. As fate would have it, I then came into contact with André Link, who had worked for a TV/film company which had gone under. We had a meeting and we hit it off immediately. Without him, it would have been, to say the least, a total disaster. André brought to Cinepix the strengths that were badly needed. He brought business acumen along with his savvy in film distribution and an intuitive sense of what would make a film click with the public. We complemented each other remarkably. We were immediately on the same wavelength regarding the choice of films to distribute and to exploit. André came here from Hungary via France where he had been studying law. He immigrated to Canada and worked as a salesman for a film distribution company in Montreal. He had travelled all over Quebec and knew all the theatre-owners. A Jewish survivor of the Holocaust during the Second World War, he brought with him a burning desire to succeed and to make a life for himself as well as to shed his own personal demons from his horrific experiences in Hungary. We hit it off from the get-go. It was as if two pieces of a puzzle had been suddenly snapped together. A strong bond was forged sharing those difficult financial times together. Over the ensuing years, it was as if we became brothers. I finally had a business relationship based on mutual trust and friendship that I could count on. He could cover for me if I faltered and I could do likewise for him. It contributed to great peace of mind knowing that I had such a formidable back-up and that this could lead to our taking greater risks. How André put up with sharing my sandwich lunches, foregoing his taste for epicurean European food, I’ll never know, but I am grateful for his sacrifice. André was always the first to visualize the big picture: our own productions, the coming of video, pay-TV, all of it. I was more cautious, drawn into it more slowly, but once involved, I gave my efforts John Dunning

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The new Cinepix partners, André Link and John Dunning kick back at André’s cottage after learning of Valerie’s box-office gross in its first weekend of release.

whole-heartedly to making it successful. It reached the point where I would refer to “we” instead of the usual “I,” because André was involved in every decision. It was always a collective effort, and it’s difficult to say who thought or did what from then on, except that we took part in it equally. André actually offered me an interesting proposition when we first met. He explained that his financial settlement from his previous company would pay him for the next year. He suggested that I not pay him anything for that period. It was a moot point anyway, since he could see that I had no money to pay him with at the time. But he proposed that if we made inroads and were successful together over the next year, I’d give him a piece of the business. It was a deal. So we set up operations in the 5th Avenue, now a studio, which was protected from the bankruptcy. It was the middle of the winter. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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Not only could I not afford to pay André, I couldn’t afford to heat the studio, either. He moved into the ladies’ lounge area, fronting the ladies’ washroom, with a small electric heater. I had my office in the men’s lounge with another small electric heater. And we had a secretary, who had her desk, a few phone lines and, of course, an electric heater in the hallway between us. And so we spent the winter. André and I would sit down and ask what more we could add to the mix to give us a better shot to become profitable. We knew we couldn’t compete for prime US films. Horror was a possibility – since we knew the Italians who were making some of the best in that field – along with historical action flicks. And then, of course, there were erotic films, available from France. England and Germany had some, too, but often there were no French versions. The next problem would be dealing with the censor board in Quebec. •••• Those were different times. I knew an operator who moonlighted by screening films for the censor board in the late ’50s. The board was made up of priests, political appointees, and other prominent figures. My operator asked if I would like to sit in the booth with him and catch a screening of a French film they were about to pass judgment on. He snuck me into the booth. It was wild. The film had some female nudity along with some passionate love scenes. But then the strangest thing happened. I was having trouble seeing the actual film. The light from the screen was bouncing off the glistening, bald heads of some of these men into my eyes. They were really getting off on the imagery. Yet these were the same guys who were cutting movies to shreds and denying the public of seeing the work in its entirety. It clicked in my head at that point that I would always fight censorship as long as it was left to these people to forbid me to see what they had seen and had been sweating over. With the Liberals coming to power in Quebec in the ’60s, however, the situation was about to change. As the governing conservative John Dunning

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Union National party left, the censorship board was dissolved. In its place was created a more tolerant Bureau de surveillance du cinema, headed by André Guérin. Even though we were opposing him as we attempted to push the envelope, we also respected him a great deal. He had a vision, and he was also a fair man and a gentleman. Our first triumph with the board came with the release of Lana, Queen of the Amazons. It was a German film. The director assembled a cast of beautiful, blue-eyed Nordic women and painted them as brown savages. They ran bare-breasted throughout the film. We knew if we got it past the board, we’d have a hit on our hands. It was a battle, since Guérin felt it was a sham that these were white women parading as natives. Still, we presented a strong case, and Guérin must have felt he had to start somewhere in order to open things up. So he passed the film and it ran three weeks. It was something of a breakthrough. We always felt that Guérin was using us as guinea pigs to push through more and more risqué material. At that time we were the only ones battling the system and were at the forefront of this progressive movement. But the reality is that all we wanted to do was to show on Quebec screens what audiences in other countries were watching with impunity. It’s not as if we were getting away with porno. At this point, we were happy to show semi-nudity and semi-erotic love-making between married and unmarried couples, as well as dealing with such taboo subjects as divorce. It was still the Victorian Age in Quebec, and yet the year was 1964. Films had been so slashed by censors that they didn’t even make any sense. It reached the point that I became totally intolerant of anyone trying to restrict what I wanted to say or show on screen. André felt the same way, having come from a far more openminded European culture. In his way, Guérin agreed, but he felt there were limits, so he kept us in check. We had to take it one step at a time. Yet, in spite of being able to get more risqué types of films through the system, the task at hand for André and me was to feed a nearly insatiable distribution machine. There was demand, so we needed You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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supply. We had the Italian horror and action fare, the hard-edged German police dramas, and French and English sexy farces and drama. It reached the point where we would have to go abroad to find and buy more new material. We went off to Europe to meet distributors and put packages together. It was somewhat schizoid in those days. On the one hand, we had high-class European films coming in from the consortium but we also had the lower-end exploitative films. We needed French versions of these films to play in Quebec. So we would make deals with distributors; we would pay the cost of dubbing the film in French, and in return, we would get Quebec rights and they would have the French soundtracks for other French territories in the world. It was win-win. But the key thing for us was to have an exploitative angle we could use in newspaper advertising to hype the film, along with retitling it with something more provocative. Some of our titles, like L’Amour qui tue, Le diable dans la chair, and Cinq filles en furie, filled the bill. The restrictiveness of Guérin prompted us to move, briefly, into live theatre, where he and his board would have no control over us. We decided to bring Le Grand Guignol – a famous, live horror-theatre revue from Paris – to Montreal. I got in touch with director Guy Hoffman from Théâtre du Nouveau Monde, with whom I had worked in Niagara. He agreed to direct and use actors from Nouveau Monde. It would be a two-act play. The first would be based on an original Le Grand Guignol piece, and the second would be something we put together here, dealing with local customs and provocatively titled La Violeuse – the sort of racy title we couldn’t get away with in film. The press played it up and we pumped plenty of advertising into its opening. On the day of the opening, we were stunned to learn that a woman was sitting in a chair outside the box office, waiting for the wicket to open a few hours later. By nine that morning, there was a line around the block of the Orpheum. It was already a hit, and it hadn’t even opened. Bear in mind that the play had some horrific scenes of decapitation and torture, all done in front of a live audience. Of course, we used the great gimmickry of the original Guignol to create those effects. To John Dunning

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achieve this mood, we brought over Charles Nonan from the Guignol to oversee and direct these elements. One of them was a burning-feet sequence, for which we had a stove on stage that had an opening on one end, out of the view of the audience. The victim’s feet were pushed into what appeared to be a flaming stove. His feet would then enter large rubber boots that were coated with black grease. When he withdrew his feet with added smoke, they looked charred. And wouldn’t you know, on opening night, Charles shoved his head through the stove opening to check out the preparations, not knowing the curtain was up. Unfortunately, everyone in the audience spotted him and started laughing hysterically. It was a disaster. Still, we did an unbelievable forty-thousand-dollar business the first week and twenty-three thousand dollars the second, before pulling the plug on the show. It was one of the biggest hits Théâtre du Nouveau Monde ever had. And Charles was philosophical about his opening-night gaffe. I still remember his words of wisdom uttered during our post-opening party: “Monsieur Dunning. Monsieur Link. La vie est une tarte de merde. Il faut manger une petite tranche chaque jour.” The critics really blasted the show. But the real thrill for us was being allowed to stage something and advertise it without worrying about censors. •••• The fact that we had to resort to such intensive hype wasn’t a true reflection of our personalities. We adapted to the conditions that existed at the time. It was out of necessity, pure and simple. We were in such a highly competitive, highly structured field. The big companies controlled the theatres, the studios, and the films. We were trying to make it as a small independent, and we were hanging on by the skin of our teeth. Sensationalism could work for us, largely because no one else was working it here. It was an open playing field. Sure, critics could say we were kowtowing to the lowest common denominator of audience taste. But we were intent on succeeding. We had this passion to survive and You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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build something, naive though we may have been. When you have the devil chasing you by the tail, you have to stay one step ahead regardless of what actions you have to take. And I had the bank chasing me. They were threatening to foreclose on the 5th Avenue Theatre. For good reason. There were few revenues coming through and mortgage payments were due. I kept hedging and borrowing money to try to stay afloat. The bank finally notified me that it was going to foreclose on the theatre in fifteen days. We had managed to make it through the winter and move our offices out of the men’s and ladies’ washrooms into a space upstairs. But it looked as though we were done in the spring. Then, almost miraculously, word filtered down that the cbc was looking for some studio space. cbc executives saw the 5th Avenue and loved it. They signed a five-year lease as well as providing us an upstairs office rent-free. With the lease, I was then able to sell the 5th Avenue to a Greek investment company. I paid off the bank and with what was left, I paid off the debts. My shareholders, including my mother, who still had a big interest in the place, received the rest. •••• As my life became a little more under control, Jean and I had been trying to start a family – but with little success. As time began to pass, we decided to go the adoption route. Our first addition was a fine little boy, who arrived when he was only a few days old. He was welcomed into the family by a coterie of grandmothers and aunts, appreciative of the fact that there were precious few males in our brood. One of our biggest problems was deciding on a name for the little tyke. Every name that was brought up would elicit some negative reminder of a person or movie actor that either Jean or I would veto. We went through the roster of actors’ names, and when we got to Gregory Peck, whom we both admired, we found there was no one with that name with whom we connected any bad vibes.

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So he became Gregory John Dunning. Our little girl entered our family eighteen months later, and the same naming problem surfaced. One of my favourite actresses was Valerie Hobson from England, whom I had always considered a class act. After vetoing all the other suggestions and determining there were no other Valeries we could think of to sink the name, we christened her Valerie Jean Dunning. That completed our family and gave me an added incentive to provide a secure life for them. As it turned out, Valerie later brought it to my attention that her initials without the J was V.D. – so we likely could have done better in the choice. •••• Meanwhile, back on the work front, I dodged the bullet again. I made it through my winter of discontent and I was in reasonably good shape. The Park theatre was doing all right as a billiards hall, ice-cream parlour, and occasional film studio. I had rented out the Century to another theatre-owner. And now I could totally concentrate on Cinepix, focusing on acquiring titles and building the company. But nothing was ever cut and dried. I headed off on a buying tour throughout Europe and had more obstacles to overcome. For starters, the Europeans loved long, lingering business lunches. I hated them. Not just because of my Western sensibilities, but also because I had a nervous stomach that seized up when I talked business while eating. I just wanted to do a deal as quickly as possible, have a drink, and then split. My other problem was paroxysmal tachycardia. I feared that either during the long plane trip over or while in Europe I would have an attack, and no one would know how to deal with it. I was twelve when I suffered my first attack. During such an incident, my pulse rate would shoot up to about one hundred and sixty. There was really no cure. I’d just have to wait until it stopped and my heart rate returned to normal. It would scare the hell out of me, because I never knew when

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or if it would stop. Fortunately it always did, but it would leave me exhausted and dehydrated, feeling as if I had just run a marathon. These attacks were infrequent, but not knowing when I might suffer one influenced my lifestyle. It wasn’t until the mid-’50s that a doctor diagnosed my condition as Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome (wpw). It was a congenital condition caused by having two sinus nodes instead of one on the heart. The sinus node controlled the heartbeat. If the electrical system of the heart short-circuited you got two beats instead of one, hence the tachycardia. And wouldn’t you know that stress could be a contributing factor? Drugs were tried to control it, but none were really successful until new methods were developed in the ’80s. Naturally, I was reluctant to travel. Six hours on a plane with tachycardia was a scary prospect. But, fortunately, after doing a few solo trips, André took over. His European background better suited him for these trips and the confidence we had in each other’s film choices posed no problems. But one of my last trips did produce tremendous dividends. Like so many other North American distributors, I, too, was seeking a meeting with French producer Robert Dorfman, whose latest film, La Grande Vadrouille, had been a huge hit in France. I was somehow able to land an appointment with him on a Sunday morning at his Paris apartment. It was a real long shot for me. But he arrived at the door in his dressing gown. A small, gentle man, he listened as I made my pitch. Then he did the most amazing thing. He informed me that I had the rights for the film for Quebec and that he didn’t want any money up front, just a straight distribution deal. I almost fainted. He just trusted me. Either that or he was worried I was going to faint. What was incredible is that he had all these Americans who had wanted the rights for North America, including Quebec. But he withheld Quebec for us. It turned out to be a huge hit in Quebec and we sent him along a lot of money. He then gave us rights for his other films, which really helped to solidify our position back home. Understand that this is such

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a cutthroat business. Almost everyone in it would take you for all they could. But Dorfman was one of the few great souls in it. We developed a great relationship. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for him. •••• But we were far from being able to acquire pictures like Papillon, let alone distribute them. We had our little niche of promotional fare. Movies like the hit, Birth of a Baby, an actual documentary about a baby being born that we dubbed and presented at drive-ins around the province. It was hard not to allow such material to be shown, because it was considered educational – and so it proved to be to a lot of Quebecers who had been kept in the dark over this most natural of acts. We discovered that Tod Browning’s classic 1932 film Freaks, about the private lives of circus freaks – or human oddities – was in the public domain. Problem was finding a print. It turned out that the Museum of Modern Art in New York had a pristine print of the film. We made an arrangement with the museum that they would allow us to do a French dub of their copy for Quebec in exchange for royalties. The censor board approved it for showing. Then we had this brainwave about getting actual circus oddities to come to Montreal and put on a stage show to help sell the film. We found out that many were spending their winter rest-period in Sarasota, Florida, and were delighted at the prospect of coming to Montreal to perform. A bunch came: a midget, Fat Mary (who tipped the scales at six hundred pounds), Sealo the Flipper-Man, the Two-Faced Man, the Alligator Lady, and others. We also enlisted the services of Giovanni Juliani, a barker who worked the carnival circuit in Quebec. Giovanni had the balls of a brass monkey. Nothing fazed him, and to hear him do his spiel was a revelation. Then we had another brainwave, to create and to print a program featuring “freaks” and human oddities whose photos we obtained

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from a questionable publishing house in South Carolina. We had five thousand programs printed. And, sure enough, on opening night, the place was packed and we sold the entire load of programs. In the end, we had reprints made and we sold about forty-thousand programs, and the show lasted three weeks. The crowds lapped it all up and so did the performers, who went up and down the aisles mingling with the audience. Everyone loved it, except a critic at La Presse. The newspaper ran a story denouncing the show as exploitative and shocking, suggesting that these human oddities should not be on display. Well, the performers got wind of this story and were incensed. Giovanni marched them down to La Presse and demanded to see the publisher. Another representative from the paper came out, and the performers were able to prevail upon him that they had a right to make an honest living as performers and that they resented the prospect of being hidden away. La Presse ran a retraction, explaining that these people did have a right to perform and earn a living. They were vindicated, and also provided me a valuable lesson, as you couldn’t have found a finer bunch of people to work with. They were kind and gentle, imbued with a spirit that overcame their deformities. After the run, they all went back to Florida with the exception of Fat Mary, who went to New Brunswick to visit her lesbian lover in jail. •••• Meanwhile, André had become a partner with me and Wilfrid Dodd. And it didn’t take long for the move to pay off. He proved his worth quickly. Eventually, we bought Wilfrid out and were fifty/fifty partners. Our status now had been elevated from one of squalor to mere struggle. We were on the verge of becoming successful. So much so that United Theatres set up their own distribution company to compete with us. United was giving us some advances, but was really subsidizing its new company, Atlas. Still, the business is more than just money for acquisitions. You have to have the nose for product that will move.

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Atlas went middle of the road, which was like the kiss of death. You have to go the sensationalist or the high-end route (or a combination thereof) to make it. But since it was owned by a public company, Atlas had to be more conservative in its acquisitions. What was overlooked at the time was the power of TV to promote films in Quebec. Our experience with France Films was a case in point. They had the St Denis theatre and controlled a TV station. We had a small children’s animated film called The Rose of Baghdad in a French version. We made a deal with them to play it on Saturday morning at the St Denis and then we cut a trailer, which they agreed to play on their TV station. I received a call on the Saturday morning that it opened. The police had blocked off St Denis Street at the theatre because the crowds in front of the door were overflowing into the street. The theatre sold out all its performances, and we ran for several more Saturday mornings. We felt an enormous envy for the power France Film had with their TV affiliation. We also felt that we could have hit the jackpot, too, if we had regular access to that media with their reduced rates. The revolution in Montreal movie theatres came when European French-language films began competing with the Hollywood dubs. That took place in the mid-’60s. We were instrumental in getting United Theatres to transform the Princess Theatre into the Parisien as a showcase for our first-class French imports. Wanting to give the Parisien an authentic Paris look, but short on funds, we conscripted François de Lucy, my old art director from Niagara Films, to dress it up. François was a wonderful guy and a consummate artist. We designed a Paris street at the back of the theatre with back-lit storefronts. Then we sold the storefronts to French importers and restaurateurs. This allowed us to dress up the rest of the theatre. It was an immediate success. United Theatres administered it, while we had a secured outlet for our product. This revolution was also taking place with our exploitative product. The Laval became the Midi-Minuit, the Strand became the Pigalle,

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and the Bonaventure later became the Vendôme. These were all theatres that were in trouble because they had fallen behind the times in policy and upkeep. Eventually, with the more liberal censorship of adult fare, the Crystal Palace on St Laurent Blvd became the Eve, and the Français on Ste Catherine became the Eros. Imitation is the surest sign of success, and borderline theatres elsewhere started being transformed into clones of what we had created. The competition became intense. It was a veritable free-for-all. The end result was that Guérin at the Bureau de survéillance had to pass a law that all newspaper advertising and posters had to be approved by them before they would release the film. Plus you just couldn’t put any promotional titles on the film as we had been doing in the past – it had to relate to the theme of the film. This led to many highly humorous discussions with Guérin regarding titles. How thematic could you be with a film, for example, that dealt with a talking vagina? Meanwhile, we were constantly building up a library of films. The value of these films could only be estimated by the length of time we held the rights for their exhibition. We secured theatrical and, often, TV rights. The actual films themselves were only worth their replacement value, which was really only a few hundred dollars. Bankers to whom we went for loans could not accept the intangible aspect of film rights. They could be negotiable and sold if our contract stipulated it, but they were only interested in practical inventory that could be stored and sold like shoes or any manufactured product. They gave us a very hard time, and for years we were stuck with granting personal guarantees in which we put our own assets on the line – at great risk. •••• Of course, talent could be as trying as the bank. Jacques Tati, the noted French humorist, had completed his most recent film, Traffic, and we had obtained the distribution rights for Quebec. So we decided to bring him over and make the release an event by showing it to the cabinet and members of the National Assembly in Quebec City in a North John Dunning

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American premiere. (And just guess who the minister of culture for Quebec was: none other than my former shrink, François Cloutier. I hadn’t spoken to him since the Niagara fiasco and didn’t intend to bring it up there, as I was never sure what his motives were in selling me his interest in Niagara.) For the premiere, we rented a railway car and filled it with press so they could interview Tati on the trip, see the film, go to a reception at the Château Frontenac, and then take the train back home. We provided a liberal bar service for the trip and got everyone into the spirit of the event. Except me. I had a drink in my hand and watched it slip from side to side, back and forth with the train. I then realized my stomach was churning in the same directions. André looked at me and said he’d never seen anything like it. I looked like a green man from Mars. I spent the whole trip standing at the open back exit of the train. The train stopped at Sillery where I jumped off and took a taxi to the theatre to meet everyone. But our troubles were only beginning. Tati was a very temperamental sob with a grand air of superiority. I wondered what had prompted him to come to what he considered an unsophisticated and uncultured colony. He threw a fit because he felt the projection wasn’t good enough and this prompted him to try to cancel the screening. Then he refused to present the film to the audience. He was screaming, so I got him to come to a room in the lobby. I was fed up and ill from the trip. I told him we were going to show the film and if he didn’t want to present it, I would have the police keep him under their control until after the performance. Then he could do as he liked. This seemed to calm him down, and he did go on to present the film while enjoying all the accolades he received from the guests at the reception. As for me, I just couldn’t face the prospect of a train trip back. So I took a taxi to the airport and grabbed a flight to Montreal. Since then I’ve had a problem with trains – save for the stable European ones. We were always looking for ways to publicize our films that would overcome the restrictions imposed on us by the Bureau. One of the You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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methods we developed was hiring students to board the subways at rush hour. They were to work in two-man or -woman teams and walk through the crowded cars, touting the film we wanted publicized in each car. They would talk loudly about its content, about how daring it was, how explicit it was, or, if it was a thriller, how scary it was. But not having any way to judge the success of this operation, much less even knowing if the students were really carrying through with it, we abandoned it. Yet, for all we know, it may have even worked. Quebec was actually leading the way in freeing films from restrictive censorship. The rest of the provinces were lagging far behind. Each province had its own censor board. The toughest were those in the Prairie provinces, followed by the Maritimes, with the exception of New Brunswick. Ontario was difficult, while British Columbia was more liberal. So it was at this time that we conceived the idea of spreading the Eve adult cinema concept across Canada. There were many old theatres which had fallen prey to the onslaught of television. So we figured if we could buy, lease, or franchise a theatre in each major centre across Canada, we could increase the revenue on our films as well as get a piece of the take from the theatres. Also, taking on all the censor boards with their various degrees of intolerance and puritanical regulations was a challenge that was hard for us to resist. If we could get our product past an official provincial board, it would make a good case against the city’s morality-squad fervour to seize it. It would pit the provincial government which operated the board against their own attorney generals. Fortunately, we had a great lawyer in Don Seal, a gentleman with the same moral principles we held. That is, the freedom to let people choose what they wanted to see without some authoritarian group deciding what was best for them. Don, despite all the legal battles that ensued throughout the various provinces over censorship and morality, never lost a case. He must be credited for his contribution in bringing the fresh air of freedom of choice to an industry that had been locked for years into restricting our desired entertainment choices.

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We eventually established Eve cinemas in Vancouver, Winnipeg, Toronto, Hamilton, and Halifax as well as Midi-Minuits in Quebec at Quebec City, Three Rivers, and Sherbrooke. It entailed setting up an editing department to deal with all the different snips and cuts that were necessary to meet each province’s criteria. Many of the successful film editors that later became noted for their craft in mainstream filmmaking came out of what we called “the kitchen.” It sure was tough working with all this erotic imagery, but they all seemed up for the task. The arrival of video killed off these theatres. They were closed or eventually sold off. But they had served a purpose by bringing an acceptable community standard to the Canadian public, even as they were protected by law from extreme pornography. •••• Needless to say, our business still had its difficulties. On the other hand, we were now in a position to hire staff. We had a booker, a graphic artist, and a salesman. We also had a philosophy of sorts. Stay away from anything kinky; it turns off mainstream audiences. Heterosexual sex sells, but the weird stuff, like incest or S&M, stiffs. Our lesson was learned when we released a film under the French title L’amour maternelle anormal. We thought: Wow! A film with a taboo subject like incest that had never been dealt with before on the Quebec screen. We gave it a big publicity splash, and it tanked. Another lesson learned. But there’s always room for the bizarre. Remember the monokini, a cousin of the bikini? Renowned Austrian designer Rudi Gernreich conceived this one-piece topless suit in 1964. These were fast-changing times in the late ’60s, and most thought a bare-breasted swimsuit would really fly. We called the manufacturers of the monokini in New York and asked if they would ship us some suits for a fashion show of sorts in Montreal. We figured we could get by the censors by presenting a live show in advance of one of our films. We conscripted a cbc

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André and Trudi Link.

announcer to serve as emcee and to tell some jokes. Then we added a slide show with pictures of the suits. The censor board had no authority over slides. This looked like a can’t-miss. Even when one of the local models didn’t show, we rebounded by getting André’s then-girlfriend, soonto-be-wife Trudi to fill in. The show must go on. It was a hit and ran over a week. These were the sort of events we had to create in order to keep moving ahead. But what really rankled us was that, if we were allowed to put on this sort of live show, why couldn’t we do the same on screen? It seemed so hypocritical. Hell, we were only talking about bare breasts here. This was at a time when strip clubs were coming into vogue, when the free-love mindset of the hippies was to burn bras and show off bodies with pride. It made no sense. Nor did the movie world always make much sense. Shortly after the monokini adventure, I was off on a buying trip in France to check John Dunning

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out the films of a hotshot French director called Claude Lelouch. They screened three of his old films for me, but, frankly, they left me cold. I called André in Montreal to tell him this guy Lelouch was crazy, that his films have no plots at all. I also told André I didn’t think the guy would ever make it, so there was no point in us buying the fourth film Lelouch was making – all the more so since they wanted us to buy this movie without seeing it first. So I passed and out pops Lelouch’s A Man and a Woman, a beautiful love story which went on to become one of the biggest French film hits of all time. So it goes in this business. André and I gambled all the time. It was like a roll of the dice if the film would make it or break us. Yet while we missed out on A Man and a Woman, we took our chances with another film a French producer wanted us to buy blind for a big chunk of change. This time we lucked out. When we saw it after the purchase, André and I both went “Wow.” The film was the stunning Belle du Jour with the equally stunning Catherine Deneuve. And it became one of our biggest successes at the box office. We had an agreement about choosing films. Whenever one of us felt very passionate about a film, the other would go along. If we made a mistake, so be it. We would sweat bullets over buying movies we couldn’t see at first. But we had a mutual trust in our selections, which was largely responsible for our success in the years to come. We also had another agreement that we would always be honest with producers and be right on the mark with royalties we owed them. It was a point of honour for us, and one which also paid dividends down the road. •••• There was never a dull moment in distribution. One day I got a phone call from my old high-school buddy Bill Weintraub, who was then working at the National Film Board of Canada. He encouraged me to distribute this Italian film called The Third Day of Peace, a true story You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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about a prisoner-of-war camp in Europe that was run by a Canadian battalion. It was directed by Giuliano Montaldo, who had made the controversial film Sacco and Vanzetti. The Canadian commander of this camp had allowed the inmates, German SS troops, to discipline their own. And when the Germans wanted to execute three deserters in their ranks, the commander not only gave them permission but agreed to let the Canadian soldiers turn over their rifles to a German firing squad. The Canadian troops marched out to the German firing squad, handed their loaded rifles over to them. They shot the deserters and then handed back the rifles to the Canadians who marched away. Well, it turns out that one of these deserters was Jewish. None of them were SS. They had been drafted into service and didn’t want to fight. There was a huge uproar in Europe about the Canadians allowing this to happen, all the more so since the war was over. Few in Canada, however, were aware and Weintraub felt the public should be informed. So we got hold of the film and arranged to show it in Ottawa. But nothing prepared us for the controversy that followed. Canadian military personnel weren’t amused. Apparently, an army general had marched down and torn a poster off at the theatre. Our advertising campaign was based on the tag-line: “Did Canada commit a war crime?” Many felt it had. The Famous Players theatre chain yanked it immediately from the screen. The pressure was enormous. We were being threatened and Weintraub was, too. We were in the process of bringing over the mother of the executed Jewish soldier to do interviews, but we had to cancel. Strange business. We try to be socially relevant and we catch flak. But a monokini show? No problemo! •••• And same, too, for a low-budget film called Deep Throat. Starring Linda Lovelace, it had become the highest grossing porn film in the US and one of the most controversial films of its time. We wondered John Dunning

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if we could get the rights for Quebec. Even if we had to cut it to shreds, the notoriety and publicity surrounding the film would ensure a good gross. So we set about to try to find the producer. Once we located the distribution company in New York, we called to inquire about a deal for Quebec rights. An appointment was set up and I flew down to meet a fellow called Joseph Peraino. After landing in New York, I set out for this address on Eighth Ave. It was in a dilapidated high-rise in a sleazy part of town. His office was on the top floor and you had to hop a freight elevator to get there. I was already having trepidation when I got to the floor. There was a heavyset man at the door who asked me what I wanted. I told him about my appointment with Mr Peraino. He disappeared, then reappeared to usher me in. I walked through the door which led into a wide office. Sitting on a sofa were two large men in suits and at the end of the room, behind a large desk, was Mr Peraino. The whole scene looked like it was lifted straight from a gangster flick. I was then face to face with Joe “The Whale” Peraino. The Peraino family was part of the Colombo crime family. They had bankrolled the film for all of twenty-two thousand dollars. I couldn’t believe what I had got myself into this time. I approached Joe and just like in the movies, I wasn’t invited to sit down. Joe weighed somewhere between three hundred and fifty and four hundred pounds. He had the requisite huge diamond ring on his pinkie and a cigar in his mouth. He spoke with a Brooklynese gravelly voice. I was sweating. I don’t remember the conversation. All I wanted to do was get out of there, but I did manage to make a deal. I recall as I was leaving he blurted: “Give me an honest count!” As if I was going to try to cheat this guy. Some time later, I learned that Joe the Whale was the target of a mob hit in Brooklyn, related to a family feud over profits on Deep Throat. He was shot nine times but his sheer bulk stopped the bullets, and he survived. Needless to say, even with the necessary cuts, Deep Throat was a great success for us. And Joe the Whale got every cent that was due to him – maybe even a few cents more.

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

The essence of film is showing people what they want to see. Director Akira Kurosawa

As the ’60s wound down and old taboos around the world were breaking down, André and I, too, were evaluating our place in the overall scheme of things. Well, at the movies, anyway. We were sitting around, wondering how we could get our company to evolve. We had been buying hard-edged sex films from Germany for the last few years. Films featuring drugs and pimps on the edge. We were doing decently with these movies, but it dawned on us that no one ever seemed to make a nice film about a hooker. A woman who enjoys what she does, who is sensitive about helping her clients. A woman proud about her profession, in a romance movie that would end happily. What then transpired was that Denis Héroux, who had been a student rep on that documentary I was doing at Niagara Films, dropped by our office in 1968 and expressed interest in directing a film for us. Denis had directed a few films before. He had a reputation as a serious filmmaker. He was looking to do a film that would appeal to the public at large and not just to the cinephiles. André and I told him about our idea for the film about the prostitute, which we wanted to make lowbudget and in black-and-white, as we could not yet afford to do a film in color. Denis jumped at the opportunity. He came aboard and confirmed our theory that the times were really a-changing in this once strictly Catholic province.

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We then approached Yves Thériault, a noted Quebec author, to help us formalize a script. (Yves was later given permission to write a book based on the script, which was subsequently published by Les Editions de l’Homme.) We managed to develop an intriguing story line about a French-Canadian girl who ran away from a convent in the country, went into Montreal and became a go-go dancer. She then became immersed in the call-girl trade. It was a simple script and didn’t deal with the hard-edged aspects of the business like drugs and pimps. Our next mission was finding the lead. Even though social values were changing, there were only a few actresses who were prepared to do the nudity required. Several showed up with apprehension, but Denis, with his charm, was able to put them at ease. Oddly, the one actress we felt would never get the part was the one who did. Danielle Ouimet didn’t impress us for the role when she first showed up. But when we saw her test, we were totally blown away. She had the photogenic magic we were looking for. The camera has an amazing way of transforming people. Denis was a natural as a director. And our cameraman René Verzier, whom I had also worked with at Niagara Films, was not only an adept cinematographer but also unflappable under fire. Denis’ other gift was his engaging manner. He had this uncanny ability to shmooze his way in obtaining everything he wanted. He even managed to prevail upon an order of nuns at a convent to let us shoot there. But I can guarantee you they weren’t prepared for the scene when a motorcyclist came bursting through the door of the convent and roared down the hall to pick up Danielle, who jumped on the back of the bike and took off through the convent’s pristine corridors. The nuns were mortified. Denis also got permission to shoot from some of the fanciest spots in Montreal, like the restaurant and hotel at Ruby Foo’s. Although we took the nom de plume producer’s name of Julien Parnell – which happened to be our middle names – in an effort to avoid any notoriety, it didn’t take long for everyone in the industry to learn who the real producers were. Another member from our old Niagara team, Jean Lafleur, came aboard as editor and we cut the film together. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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One of the things André and I decided back then was never to give final cut away to a director. We didn’t want our vision of the film to be confused with that of the director. Besides, directors hate losing scenes they have had to bust their asses to make. Also, their cuts tend to be too long. Our next dilemma was finding a title. We needed something a little soft and appealing. We figured a single name would do and after tossing around a bunch of possibilities, we agreed upon Valérie – the name of my daughter. We knew that we could exploit the tabloids. They would eat it up. Our problem was how to get publicity in the more sophisticated media. With that soft-spoken, laid-back manner, Denis was ideal to promote the approach we planned. Denis would expound upon the philosophy that Valérie was actually a metaphor for Quebec, a province that had prostituted all its resources for the benefit of Canada. Clearly, this was not the underlying theme to the film, but it proved to be a dynamite ploy with the more serious media. It also seemed to work. We generated unbelievable publicity everywhere. Quebec media is so avid about homegrown culture. So much time and space is given to Quebec stars in the media. The public learns everything about their love lives and eating habits. Valérie fit right in. The media went gaga over the fact that Denis was unveiling a Quebecer as the lead in an erotic film set here. He was hailed as the iconoclast of Quebec cinema. When the film opened at the Parisien Cinema, the lineup went all around the block. I called André, who was in Cannes at the time to let him know, but he just couldn’t believe the public had so taken to it. It didn’t matter that the reviews were mixed, with some critics calling us skin-flickers. Essentially, the public saw a sweet, soft-core film about a hooker with a heart of gold, who married a painter and raised his child. For a first production venture, it went beyond our wildest dreams. Valérie was a groundbreaking effort, the first Quebec film with nudity. It was also a huge financial success. The film cost eighty thousand dollars to make and it eventually earned close to $1.6 million in 1968 John Dunning

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dollars. For two years it held the record as the top-grossing Canadian film of all time. It was also a bonus for the Quebec theatre-owners, who took a great share of that gross and who were awakened to the future profitability of playing local productions. The marketplace was now open for Quebec films. •••• Although there was considerable backlash from the church, which largely condemned the film, Valérie was perceived as something of a trailblazer in Quebec cinema. And the irony was that an anglophone, an allophone, and a francophone had collaborated to make this landmark movie which was credited with kick-starting the Quebec cinema industry. For our part, we really thought that we hit upon the Holy Grail, that we finally found the solution to all our problems. Had we taken the money, quit the business, and invested the profits elsewhere, we would have been living like kings later. Instead, we rolled the money back into the business and went on to make another movie. L’initiation was produced on a much bigger budget – for us, anyway. We did it for two hundred thousand dollars and we shot it in colour. Not only that, but we were more creative in our casting and featured several stars. Danielle Ouimet had a role, but the lead went to Chantal Renaud, a hot pop-singer from Quebec. She was cast as a young woman who falls in love with an older and married novelist from France, played by noted French actor Jacques Riberolles. Chantal’s character gives up her virginity to this fellow, who, feeling guiltridden, finally goes back to France and his wife, leaving the young Quebecer heartbroken but wiser. But the real kicker was that, off-screen, Riberolles, who was married, was romancing Renaud. And her boyfriend became so despondent when she dumped him for Riberolles that he camped outside her hotel room and threatened to commit suicide. It created a huge scandal and some thought it was a publicity stunt that we had planned. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

Sauna scene from L’initiation: Nadine (Danielle Ouimet) seated, arms folded; Victoire (Chantal Renaud) face down; Judith (Louise Turcot) lying on back with towel; Christine (Celine Lomez) leaning back and relaxing with eyes closed.

The bottom line was that the press jumped all over the story, which didn’t hurt L’initiation at the box office. It opened on a cold winter day, and yet, once again, the line-ups went around the block. In fact, we felt so bad for those waiting that we served them coffee in line. The film went on to gross a little more than one and a half million dollars. As for Renaud, she moved off to France to operate a restaurant with her suitor. But she later returned and is now the wife of former Quebec premier Bernard Landry, who, in his youth, might have been among the many to marvel at Renaud’s steamy love scenes. And like Valérie, L’initiation was also a ground-breaker of sorts. It featured the four women principals semi-nude in a sauna – a scene that later popped up in Denys Arcand’s award-winning The Decline of the American Empire. L’initiation justified our philosophy, which was to hit the market with product that no one else was making. But competition was stiffening. More producers were jumping on the bandwagon. Even though L’initiation was soft-core, the newly formed Canadian Film Development Corporation – the precursor to Telefilm Canada, under Michael Spencer’s direction – not only believed in us, but also John Dunning

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put money in the film. The cfdc was set up by the federal government to help support a Canadian film industry by investing in productions. At the beginning, there were no real guidelines. But Spencer was the ideal man for the job. He realized that there had to be a balance between artistically cultural films and commercially exploitative ones that could return revenue to support the fund. He was aware of the Canadian public’s desire for entertainment and that the low-budget American fare had flourished at Canadian theatres with good box-office grosses. By allowing producers such as us the opportunity to make movies of our choice, we felt we could attract that same audience. His fairness in balancing these two diverse sectors was a test that he met nobly. Alas, it didn’t last long – the criticism he had to endure from both the press and the government finally killed the commercial side of production that was returning revenue to the cfdc. Still, the industry has to be grateful to Spencer. Without his support for Shivers, there might never have been a David Cronenberg, or without his support for Foxy Lady, no Ivan Reitman. Our biggest dilemma was how to follow up on the success of Valérie and L’initiation. Where were we to go? Valérie focused on the life of a prostitute, while L’initiation dealt with a young woman losing her virginity. But I think we made a major tactical error by going after the church in our next film, L’amour humain, about a priest who couldn’t get his sexual urges under control. Denis directed again, and we cast Jacques Riberolles as the priest while Louise Marleau was to play the nun. The plot centres on the priest hooking up with the nun. They fall in love, renounce their vows, leave their orders and get married. But they are also so consumed by guilt over their actions that only later are they able to consummate their marriage. By current standards, where some priests have been so compromised by their sexual actions, this was pretty mild stuff. Still, we caught plenty of flak once again. We should have seen it coming, too, since we didn’t follow our own advice which was to avoid, in addition to kinky and other forbidden sex, going after religion. I guess, You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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though, we just couldn’t resist taking a crack at the powers that kept Quebec down with its moral condemnation of earthly pleasures. We learned our lesson the hard way. The film tanked at the box office. Religion became another no-no on our list. •••• Cinepix was making a name for itself in the eyes of Quebec moviegoers. We also attracted the attention of Gérald Tassé, a respected writer with much intellectual influence in Quebec’s high-end literary world. So with what sort of scenario does this intellectual approach us? An idea for a film that would introduce full frontal nudity to the moviegoing public. Reality never ceases to amaze me. Tassé’s film was called Pile ou face, and it hinged on a group of three couples spending a holiday in the Laurentians, where they would interact socially with each other – mainly in the nude. We warned him that there was no way the bureau would ever stand for this. But he insisted that the nudity would not be part of any sexual actions, that the characters would be simply naked while using dialogue to move the story along. This posed an appealing challenge to us. So we agreed to go along. Gérald was a very persuasive man and his wife, Nathalie Naubert, was also an actress of some repute. Plus, he promised he would deliver a stellar cast made up of friends, who were all prominent actors. The director would be Roger Fournier, a well-known, respected TV director. And so we began, even though we had no way of knowing if we would be throwing our money away on a film that would never be approved. Production started with most of the shooting taking place at a chalet in the Laurentians on a quiet lake. Apart from that, the film finished without any real incident. We then presented it to the classification bureau. Guérin was faced with a major dilemma. He couldn’t refuse it on the grounds of indecency, since the romance scenes were mild. If he refused it on simple nudity, he would be moving back from his enlightened position on movies.

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So, he passed it and raised the bar up another notch. The film opened in Quebec to a wave of publicity, which we were now accustomed to generating. This time, though, an incensed priest in Quebec City swore out a citizen’s complaint of obscenity against the film and also against another one, Après Ski. Our film was seized and we went to trial before a judge. Our lawyer, Don Seal, had a difficult task, but we had not counted on the sheer brilliance of Gérald, who insisted on presenting his defence of the film. His articulate speech delivered in his courtly manner completely won over the judge, so the film was acquitted. Meanwhile, Après Ski was found guilty and fined. Still, our film was never the blockbuster we thought it would be. It was originally budgeted at three hundred thousand dollars and went to four hundred thousand when the dust settled. But we did prove one thing: full nudity was not pornographic if it wasn’t used in a salacious manner. Yet the full frontal nudity was a problem for foreign sales, so we suffered a setback there as well in the US and the rest of Canada. •••• Our balance sheet looked so attractive that Wilfrid Dodd got back in touch. He was friends with Claude Giroux, who had made a fortune in Quebec with Gold Star stamps and who was involved with Allied Artists in New York. It seemed Giroux had an interest in acquiring us. This would then give us an entry into the US as well as secure us a favoured position in the global marketplace. Allied Artists had a scheme by which they would raise millions in a company called Graphic Leisure, which would actually be made up of three different business entities. One would be a company doing graphics. Another would create mobile homes. And yet another would make movies. Since we had little experience in the mobile-home market, Cinepix was to provide the movies. We flew down to New York City for the negotiations, and we decided

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to really celebrate the night before. André and I went to a Greek restaurant, where we ate and drank too much and broke glasses and danced, before returning to our rooms at about three in the morning. The next day, during the negotiations, Don Seal was getting down to the fine points of the deal. But we were still so numb from our revelry of the evening before that we just didn’t react. We were like frozen zombies. Oddly, they mistook our hangovers for indifference and kept upping the ante. So Don got us a better deal, and we learned yet another invaluable lesson about show biz: a poker face helps no matter how you get it. But it didn’t take too long for us to have misgivings about getting involved with Allied Artists. For starters, we would get these calls for us to attend airport meetings in New York City on weekends. I simply refused. I was already putting in sixty- and seventy-hour weeks, but weekends I always reserved for my family. It was a deal-breaker as far as I was concerned. The denouement to our involvement with Allied Artists came shortly after when they tried to take us public. Problem was, no legit underwriter would touch us. Nothing was moving on this front until they told us they finally found the guy who was going to do it and raise money. They said we’d really like him. When we met him, he was wearing a white polyester suit. He had greasy black slicked-back hair and long sideburns. He was giving us this whole big spiel about what he was going to do for us. André and I looked at each other and shook our heads. This was the guy who was going to bring us public! When he left, we realized that we were through with these people. We wanted out. And we wanted to buy ourselves back from them or else it would be disastrous. We really had our doubts they were ever going to give us money for production anyway. Every time we broached the subject of production they would give us the runaround. Their plan was to use the money raised for their own productions. So we cut a deal with Allied Artists and managed to buy ourselves back. And we learned yet another lesson: people who promise you the

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sun and the moon generally have their own selfish interests at heart and don’t intend to live up to any promise they make you. •••• We started producing our own projects again. Arthur Veronka, who had been the art director for The Mountain Play House, approached us along with John Sone, a Toronto director who had been doing commercials, to do an erotic film that would crack the English market. It was called Love in a 4 Letter World, and was essentially soft-core with some artistic pretensions. But the big problem turned out to be generating hype as we had been able to do with our French films. There was just no English tabloid press in Toronto the way there was on the French side. The English media was cold and inaccessible. The frustration was that English films sold better in foreign territories, but couldn’t crack the local market. When we generated publicity on the French side in Montreal, it flowed throughout the province because the market was smaller and contained. Even if you tried the same thing in Toronto, the English market from BC to Newfoundland was just so vast that you had no assurance you were building any publicity which would reach everywhere. Each area had to be approached separately and at considerable expense, which we couldn’t afford to do. But, if nothing else, we were getting a crash course on how to survive in showbiz. So, we embarked on a bizarre plan to publicize the film in Toronto. With the help of a Toronto PR person, we launched a hot pants party on the world’s largest water-bed, and invited a slew of Toronto personalities to attend following the premiere. We also featured André Lawrence, our lead, as “the second sexiest Canadian.” The first? Pierre Elliot Trudeau. The launch generated a lot of press, but, sadly, only in Toronto. The film, budgeted at two hundred thousand dollars, opened to decent grosses, eventually earning six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but wasn’t a real success by our standards.

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

People love making movies because it is an activity that suspends all thoughts of death! Screenwriter Freddie Raphael

In the early ’70s, competition was fast and furious on both the local production and distribution scenes. Among those vying for a piece of the pie was Pierre David, the most interesting and worthy of all our antagonists. He headed up Mutual Films and came on like gangbusters. He also hired away some of our staff in the process. David was a dynamo, operating on a metabolism that was always in overdrive. His rapid speech and animated physical gestures proved that his mind was working under high pressure. You could almost see sparks of energy flying off him. He was relentlessly ambitious and wanted to make his mark on the production and distribution scene. We ended up co-producing a film with his company: La pomme, la queue et les pépins. This was a cooperative effort using a combo of personnel from both companies, to be led by the production team of Claude Fournier and his wife, Marie-Josée Raymond. Claude was a creative director, writer, and an excellent cameraman. Marie-Josée was his smart and diligent producer. They’d produced and directed the erotic hit film Deux femmes en or, which rivaled our success with Valérie at the box-office. They made an impressive team. La pomme, la queue et les pépins focused on a fellow with erectile problems and the various women who would try to help him overcome his difficulty. It featured Donald Lautrec, a noted Quebec singer and entertainer,

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John takes a break from work in his 8275 Mayrand Street office, wearing his ever-present ascot, in 1974.

who had a large following. He was also the same gent who had been Chantal Renaud’s despondent boyfriend. Production went smoothly, but when it came time for distribution, we had a bit of a dilemma, since both our companies were involved in that aspect of the business. André and I had a meeting with David and his people to try to come to an arrangement over distribution. But after an hour, it was clear that we weren’t getting anywhere. And I was getting fed up. I wanted a quick end to this problem. Why not flip a coin You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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as a means to decide who would distribute? I was, after all, carrying my lucky silver dollar with me and felt I couldn’t lose. There was an absolutely deathly silence when I suggested the coin flip. André looked like he went into shock. But I had this Western-like illusion where I was wearing the white hat and David the black one, and we were facing off in some dusty Western town to settle matters with a gunfight. Naturally, David, when challenged, couldn’t back down. My heart was pounding. My adrenaline was pumping. It was one of those monumental moments in life you never forget. It was a thrill to call David, but had I lost, I don’t know if André would have ever spoken to me again. He had already walked out of the room. I flipped the coin up. David called. He lost. And we ended up with the distribution. This also allowed us to take about twenty per cent more revenues than him as a result of the distribution. There was always this fun kind of competition between David and us. It started out innocently enough where we would take out quarter-page ads in La Presse for our films. Then David would up the ante and take out half-page ads. We would next come back with full-page ads, and he would later match us. Eventually, it got to the point where we were taking out two-page ads for a film, which was unheard of in those days. But it was also getting ridiculous, not to mention expensive. It reminded me of the scene in Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator, where the two characters, Chaplin as Hitler and Jack Oakie as Mussolini, keep raising their chairs to top each other, higher and higher, until they reach the ceiling. Well, we had just about reached the ceiling ourselves and decided to call a truce. We agreed that sanity would prevail again. There was just too much going on to get bogged down in this sort of battle. We were expanding and had just opened an office in Toronto, which was being run by veteran film-distributor Orville Fruitman. We were trying to focus on the future. As for La pomme, la queue et les pépins, it was a moderate success lost in a sea of other sex comedies on the market. John Dunning

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But the experience didn’t keep us from wanting to experiment more in the field. We had an idea to do a film in English about hippies in this Age of Aquarius, largely because no one else had done one. So, we approached Arthur Veronka and John Sone, with whom we were still in touch. We had this idea for a scenario about a straight guy who ends up in a hippie commune, while a hippie ends up living with a strait-laced New England family. We conceived a script for the film, Loving and Laughing, with writer Martin Bronstein, a comedy writer and one of the founders of the Royal Canadian Air Farce. Then we conscripted André Lawrence, that second-sexiest Canadian, to play the lead hippie. We added a number of nubile girls and virile boys. It was the largest cast we had ever assembled. We did some location shooting in St Albans, Vermont, and managed to get the cooperation of the mayor and the townsfolk, who turned out in great numbers for a crowd scene. One scene we were doing there involved the US Military Police arresting our hippie who they suspected of being a draft dodger. Well, it turned out that an enraged Vietnam vet, watching the action on the side, called the fbi to report that we were making an anti-US film. Everything went haywire. Our assistant director ended up getting jailed. And the next thing we heard was that the fbi wanted to seize the film we had shot and to check it out for its subversive content. Back in Montreal, I got a phone call informing me that the film cans were stashed under a bed in a motel room in St Albans. I was also told to get my ass down there, pick up the film and sneak it back over the border before it was confiscated. So I rushed down and got to the motel to grab the film. I stuck the cans under my seat and proceeded to make my way back over the border to Montreal, but all the way I was on the verge of hyperventilating. I figured if I got caught, it was game, set, and match. Only later, though, did I learn that the fbi wasn’t interested in the film at all. They just wanted to know where we got hold of the military jeep we were using in the scene. It was government property and it is a federal crime to sell military vehicles without the proper authorizaYou’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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tion. We had obtained it from a car dealer in Plattsburgh. That might have been the end of our problems with the fbi – but perhaps not those of the car dealer. In our efforts to stand out, we were always trying to cast personalities with media appeal outside the acting profession in order to increase the publicity value of the film. The opportunity came about in Loving and Laughing when we noticed that Derek Sanderson, a maverick star for the Boston Bruins, was a holdout in his contract negotiations. Bob Wolf, his lawyer and agent, was contacted to inquire if Derek would play a cameo role in the film. This would help Bob in his negotiations if it looked like Derek was going to pursue a film career, instead of hockey. Derek, with his trademark mustache, long hair, and mod attire, was a real swinger. He took time off from the Boston training camp, came up for a couple of days and did a two-minute role with Celine Lomez. The publicity generated was spectacular for all parties. But this was far from the end of the publicity for Loving and Laughing. On the French side, when we were launching, we decided to fly a couple on a helicopter at night to the top of Percé Rock in the Gaspé. The French title of the film was Y’a plus de trou à Percé (There’s No More Hole at Percé), and the hook was that no one had ever climbed to the top of this famous cliff. We were claiming that this couple was the first to accomplish the feat. And not only that, but we had them pitch a tent on top, wander around naked, and give the impression they were making love. Naturally, the media got hold of this and went nuts that a couple had climbed Percé for the first time. Meanwhile, the rcmp wanted to arrest them, because this was a national monument and they were cavorting around on top with no clothing. But La Presse smelled a rat. They blew the story, suggesting it was nothing more than one of Cinepix’s publicity stunts. Our next priority, though, was to get the couple off the rock before they got arrested. We did, and the Mounties never did find their man and woman and press charges. On the other hand, we all ran the risk of getting busted by the cops during production. For one scene, we bused a group of hippies out to John Dunning

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the West Island. But it turned out that someone had distributed drugs and half the kids who arrived were stoned. One even had to go to the hospital. The police got wind of this and heard rumours of drug use. I then got a call, saying the police were on their way to the set to investigate. Fortunately, I got to the set first. I found three or four of these kids who were really out of it. We didn’t know what to do, so we covered them up with a tarp. Meanwhile, the crew built a campfire for the other kids who were straight. We had them cook hot dogs over the fire and listen attentively to a guitarist. When the cops did come, they must have been impressed by the civility of it all. It was such a sweet scene. Yet we were terrified that the stoned kids under the tarp would suddenly wake up and start screaming and that we’d wind up in a jail cell with the production shut down. Mercifully, that didn’t happen and the film went on to do very nicely. Even the reviews were solid. Variety called it a sex romp with “French Canadian joie de vivre and youthful buoyancy.” They said it had a lot of box-office potential and they were right. It was also one of my favourite films. It had such a pleasant vibe – to borrow an expression of the times. •••• On the distribution front, we had been doing well with an Italian film about the occult featuring a possessed woman who gets exorcised. This was before The Exorcist was made in Hollywood. So we started thinking that for our next production, we should also focus on the demonic possession theme. It just could be our ticket, we figured. Around the same time, we had been introduced to an up-andcoming director from the National Film Board. Jean Beaudin was a real Young Turk, an angry and spirited fellow with lots of passion. We were looking for just that kind of intensity to handle such a risky project. I remember walking down the nfb corridor with Jean and he was casually kicking holes in the plaster baseboards while we walked. It scared me a little, but we still wanted to work with him. Besides, he You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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was completely fascinated by the diabolical cult idea. So, we put a script together, cast Louise Marleau once again, and we started shooting. Except that Jean was still tinkering with the script while shooting. That was highly unusual for us. We always had a set script before shooting. It could have been an omen of things to come. The film, Le diable est parmi nous, was one of the most difficult films in which we had ever gotten involved. Jean was shooting it in a style we were unfamiliar with. The weirdest part of shooting came during a Black Mass scene at a studio in the city. The line producer called me in a panic to say things were really getting out of hand on the set. People were using drugs. They were wandering around with lit black candles and wearing black hoods. Everyone seemed spooked. To calm everyone, we had hired a White Witch to cleanse the set, which had been dressed with a sacrificial altar placed on a devil’s pentagram. It was scary. Some thought it was another set up to use as one of our wacky publicity stunts for its future release. We then commenced shooting the Black Mass ritual. And some of the people were still in a state. One actor got so freaked out that he ran off the set. He was stark naked under a black robe. Yet he never came back for his clothes or, later, for his paycheque. He simply disappeared. When shooting finally wrapped, it proved to be too avant-garde for the audience for which it was destined. Jean was upset with us for trying to cut it in a linear fashion. But the oddest footnote of all was that the White Witch, having returned home in the Laurentians, lost her son in a car accident shortly thereafter. Some people associated his death with the film that seemed cursed. Before the film’s launch, we showed it to Gratien Gélinas, the new head of the cfdc. He was incensed and said we’d never get a cent from them for this one. So we had to assume the whole cost of the picture ourselves – and it was our biggest budget film to date, coming in at four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Sure enough, it took a hos-

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ing at the gate. It seemed we never learned our lesson with religion. And yet Jean became one of Quebec’s prominent film- directors with many award-winning films to his credit. Another lesson learned in low-budget film production is that the script has to be, excuse the expression, the bible. We have to approve it. Then it has to be shot, as is, with no deviation unless we agree. And, oh yes, stay away from directors who write their own scripts, because you are only inheriting double trouble. Cronenberg was an exception who could work with a limited budget on his own material, but he is very rare among this species. But wouldn’t you know that along comes The Exorcist three years later and makes a mint. We should have made our film more commercial. Instead, we lost everything we had put into the production. It set us back financially and took us a while to recover. We next decided that we should try to go a little more mainstream. And we figured a young filmmaker by the name of Larry Kent could help in this mission, although he was not your typical mainstreamer. Larry was truly one of the unsung contributors on the Canadian film scene. He was fiery and intense, putting down government institutions like the National Film Board. But he had such a passion for film. He lived for film, and I developed a real soft spot for him. We began an association. His independence and disregard for the establishment never manifested themselves in the films we did together. He was creatively competent on the set and, as importantly, a team player. In our field of low-budget productions, we didn’t need a temperamental director to waste time or money. Our first collaboration was Keep It in the Family, a romp in which a couple of amorous teenagers try to get revenge on each other through their parents. The girl attempts to seduce the boy’s father, and the boy goes after the girl’s mother. It was basically a comedy and was intended to be a crossover film. It would appeal to both adults and teenagers, and assure us a mainstream theatrical release. No censor problems and easy foreign sales. On paper it seemed perfect. But the problem we

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eventually discovered was that this type of film, unlike our horror or erotic productions, runs on star power, and John Gavin, the American star we landed, wasn’t enough of a star. Gavin, who later became the US Ambassador to Mexico, had a decent enough name in the business, but he wasn’t exactly on the same level as Robert Redford or Paul Newman. He did, however, have a king-sized Hollywood star attitude to rival any in the business. Gavin was my first experience with a Hollywood prima donna, and the lesson learned was never lost. Among his other qualities, Gavin was extremely self-conscious, particularly about his hair. He always wanted to put a hairpiece in his hair, to give the impression that it was really thick. But we were having problems with the shooting schedule on the film. For one thing, our financing took a while to materialize and with the passing of summer, the days were getting shorter. We needed to speed up the process for fear of losing the sunlight. In one day scene, Gavin was supposed to play tennis, but he insisted on having the hairpiece put in his hair, which would take an hour to do. I walked into his dressing room and explained the urgency of the situation, that we were fast losing sun. I also told him we’d be shooting only wide shots, so that no one could really focus on his hair anyway. I urged him to get out on the set. He looked at me and said: “Okay, but I’d really like my hairpiece.” He reluctantly went to the tennis court. He was an excellent tennis-player, but during this scene all he would do was lob balls all over the place like an amateur. Cut after cut, Larry was going nuts and I was fuming. Gavin then approached me: “You know, John, not having the hairpiece has put me off my game.” Shrugging, I told Larry to release him, so he could have his bloody hairpiece. Sure enough, he played like a pro following his return. I felt like pulling my own hair out. Like Gavin’s career in showbusiness, Keep It in the Family never really panned out. It was a sweet film, but it just didn’t go anywhere. Yet it did teach us another important lesson: a star could make or break a movie, as well as the producers. John Dunning

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Looking to get some publicity for Keep It in the Family, we noticed that Xaviera Hollander’s book, The Happy Hooker, had been taken off the shelves in Toronto after being branded obscene by the police. So we cooked up a scheme with Brian Melzack of Classic Books in Montreal to bring Xaviera in for the premiere, while he would also land her for a book signing at his store, since it wasn’t being banned in Montreal. She arrived and we held a press conference at Ruby Foo’s in her bedroom, where she was naked under the sheets. She shifted around a lot, showing some revealing parts of her anatomy. Naturally, all the hype generated helped launch the film. Even Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau got into the act by pronouncing that René Lévesque dumping Quebec separatism in favour of mild socialism would be like the Happy Hooker giving up her literary ambitions to become a Girl Guide leader. We also discussed making a movie based on her book, but it never materialized. Eventually, though, we did play a movie that was made, The Life and Times of Xaviera Hollander, at our Vendôme Cinema. •••• Meanwhile, Cinepix had become a mecca for young filmmakers, who would approach us with their projects. One of these new-breed directors was Ivan Reitman. He was a student at McMaster University in Hamilton, and had just been busted on an obscenity charge for his film, The Columbus of Sex. Based on an erotic novel that was in the public domain, it had a brilliant premise. The images were not that erotic. It was the dialogue that was prurient and explicit. It was that unusual take that appealed to us and showed us that Ivan was on the same wavelength as we were. Frankly, even back then you could tell that Ivan was destined for the success he later achieved in films like National Lampoon’s Animal House and the Ghostbusters franchise. Ivan was the only person I ever knew who combined both creative and business talent under one roof. Needless to say, that kind of combo makes for one formidable force. It was exceptional. On the one You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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hand, he had a shrewd deal-making capacity and on the other, he had the imaginative gift to understand what makes a good movie, especially in comedy. Sounds simple, perhaps, but it’s extremely rare to run into a character like Ivan in this business. Ivan came to us seeking a US distribution deal for The Columbus of Sex. Frankly, the film never should have been busted, but it says more about the then-puritanical powers of the Ontario law-enforcers than it does about the film’s alleged pornographic nature. We put him in touch with Jack Harris, many of whose erotic films we had distributed in Canada. This marked the beginning of a loose association with Ivan that would last for years. Ivan also approached us to get involved with him in the comedy, Foxy Lady. We were able to obtain cfdc financing for it, enabling Ivan both to produce and direct it. Unfortunately, it met the same fate as Keep It in the Family: no star power. Ivan later made Cannibal Girls with far better results. By now we had established a relationship where we shared in each other’s productions. But one thing I learned about Ivan was never to give him bad news or problems before lunch. The hungrier he got, the more antsy he became. Yet Ivan was extremely loyal to his friends. Outside Hollywood, near Carmel, he still hangs out and collaborates with his old friends from the ’70s: Danny Goldberg and Joe Medjuck, along with his first LA lawyer Tom Pollock, the former head of Universal, leading the good life, directing and producing. Back in this country during the early ’70s, we decided to knock around with something a little less contentious, a documentary about country singer Stompin’ Tom Connors. But the real prize for us here wasn’t the film. It was the director, John Saxton, a University of Toronto English professor who dabbled as a documentary filmmaker on the side. We shot the Stompin’ Tom film in one night with three cameras for about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars – and managed to recoup. But the real residual would turn out to be Saxton. ••••

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First a little background: we had some distribution success with a sex and violence film called Love Camp Seven, a US production about a girl infiltrating a Nazi concentration camp during the Second World War. We had obtained the French version from a distributor in France. While André was on a buying trip in Europe, he was approached by a distributor and asked why we didn’t try to produce a film like Love Camp Seven ourselves. Movies dealing with the myths of the Nazis always seemed to have appeal at the box office. Furthermore, it was suggested to André that financing would be available for such an endeavour. He was given a book Les médicins maudits that could serve as research for the film. It was about some crude medical experiments undertaken by the Nazis during the war. That offered a starting point. But then during a brainstorming session it dawned on us that perhaps the world was ready for a female villain. This really intrigued us since we couldn’t recall an original female villain on screen. The closest women came to being villains seemed always to be related to male villains like Bride of Frankenstein or Daughter of Dracula. Never the real nasties or Nazis. This is where John Saxton came back in our lives. When we had been doing the Stompin’ Tom movie, he expressed an interest in writing some scripts for us. And we had a good feeling about him. He had this English public school demeanour, but with a twist. He had this mischievous quality and an exceptionally vivid imagination. It wouldn’t have been much of a stretch to believe that John, in order to overcome the repression of a strict public school education, would veer off into imaginative, bizarre sex fantasies. No surprise then, that when approached with the concept of a Nazi villainess, John jumped on the idea. He loved it, and Ilsa was born. Specifically, Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS, written under his pseudonym, Jonah Royston. The story was based on the theory that women could take pain and punishment better than men, because they were better equipped as a result of the birthing ordeal. But John brought it to another level. He gave Ilsa this kinky notion that the SS wasn’t accepting women because they were chauvinists. She, in turn, wanted to impress You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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upon the Nazis that, since women could better bear up to pressure than men, they should play an important role as spies in the SS. It was Ilsa’s contention that women would never reveal the greatest secrets under torture. Okay, Ilsa wasn’t exactly the first woman’s libber, but she was a pioneer of sorts. Anyway, John emerged with this absolutely wild scenario. We didn’t take it seriously to start. (We had one rule, though, that there was to be no mention or showing of Jews as concentration camp inmates – there were to be no stars of David on any of the prisoners. The Nazis used different colored triangles to denote various prisoners: red for communists, black for criminals, etc.) We had originally contemplated shooting Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS in Greece, largely because they had lots of Nazi uniforms and equipment available. But our fellow distributor who was working on the location for us chickened out. He felt that the Greek junta in power might take exception to the filming and he would wind up in jail or worse. Then we tinkered with the idea of shooting in Yugoslavia. But while in Los Angeles, I got wind of the fact that the Hogan’s Heroes set was still intact, although it was slated to be torn down. So we approached the studio and asked if we could shoot Ilsa there for two weeks. We told them that we would then destroy the set for them after shooting. The studio went along with the idea. We next brought in Dave Friedman, an industry veteran in lowbudget exploitation filmmaking, as a co-producer. And our task was now finding the right Ilsa. It didn’t take long. While casting one day, in struts this statuesque blonde in a Nazi outfit. She had the boots, blouse, and cap and was carrying a menacing-looking riding crop. Next thing she did was climb on top of the table, her breasts barely contained in her blouse, and utter intimidating dialogue with a heavy German accent. And our Ilsa was born. Her name was Dyanne Thorne, a Las Vegas showgirl who actually had a serious acting background. Raised in New Zealand, she claimed that she had studied with Lee Strasberg and Stella Adler and had done some burlesque, as well as Broadway and big-screen roles. John Dunning

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We shot the film with some terrific production talent, who worked under pseudonyms. Director Don Edmonds, and our art director, Jack De Govia, went on to do major Hollywood productions. We cut the film back in Montreal. Then we did the distribution. And to our surprise, Ilsa went through the roof. It played on New York’s 42nd Street for months. We sold the rights in Europe, where it played more than a year in Brussels alone. That was probably due to the fact that Germans were crossing over the Belgian border in droves because it had been banned in Germany due to the Nazi references. Although the film was sold to a distributor in the United Kingdom, he couldn’t pass it by the censors. The distributor suggested that perhaps, if we called the censor, we could prevail upon him and he might reconsider. So I phoned him and explained how the film vilified the Nazis and that surely England, which had initially stood alone against

Ilsa (Dyanne Thorne) examines and questions female inmate Anna (Joy Van Zee), while Ingrid (Sandy Richmond) looks on approvingly, in Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS.

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the Germans during the Second World War, would want to see the excesses and crimes they had committed. The fellow was a Lord Somebody or other, who was head of the censorship committee. His reply to me was: “Mr Dunning, we don’t hate the Germans that much, old boy!” And that was the end of that. England still remains one of the few countries that never accepted Ilsa. Eventually, though, there was a backlash in the US. In Rhode Island, particularly, there was strong Jewish resentment to the film. People were breaking windows at the theatres where Ilsa was playing, so the owners pulled it. Same thing happened in Chicago. Hoping to stem this tide, we sent a copy of the film to Rabbi Meir Kahane in Brooklyn – who went on to head the Jewish Defense League before being assassinated years later – asking if Ilsa was anti-Semitic. He sent us back this quote: “Ilsa is not anti-Semitic – it’s anti-humanitarian!” Meanwhile, Vincent Canby, the film critic for the New York Times, trumpeted: “This is the worst soft-core sex-and-violence film of the decade – and the funniest.” Mostly, though, the success of Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS enabled us to continue the series. We decided on a sequel, in keeping with the worldwide oil embargo. It was Ilsa: Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks. We got John Saxton to bring out his trusty and wacky pen again. And we were ready for business; all the more so since we owned this one totally. The budget was about two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, up from the two hundred thousand dollars of the first. And we shot it again in LA with most of the same production crew who had done the first. Buoyed by the success of the film, we decided to attack Stalin next. The third in the series was Ilsa: The Tigress of Siberia. This one also had a local angle and was to be shot here. In the film, Ilsa flees Siberia upon the death of Stalin to set up a house of pleasure in Montreal. As fate would have it, an assistant hockey coach whom she had tortured years earlier shows up in Montreal with the Russian national hockey team. Ilsa wants another crack at the guy she was unable to crack. She wants to prove that she could torture and break him. John Dunning

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Sure enough, Ilsa: The Tigress of Siberia was also a hit, particularly with the Russian national hockey team. They were flying in from New York to play in the Canada Cup series when a Canadian attaché gave them the Gazette theatre page and asked them what film they would like to see. The Tigress was playing at the Imperial and, wouldn’t you know, it was their unanimous selection. We were called to arrange a special showing for them, which we did. But we were also asked to keep the lid on any publicity about the event. It was hard for us, but we accepted – in the national interest. I don’t know what effect Ilsa had on their winning or losing. We had another success. And so we gave the permission to a fellow Swiss producer, who had been so impressed with the series, to make a fourth film that we would call Ilsa: The Wicked Warden and for which we would have the American rights. (It would be called Wanda: The Wicked Warden in the rest of the world.) So we shipped Dyanne, costumes and some script ideas off to Switzerland for this installment. Meanwhile, though producers rarely get much attention, we were now getting noticed on the home front as the Roger Cormans of Canada. High praise, indeed, as Roger was one of the richest men in Hollywood. That part had not rubbed off on us – only the low-budget exploitation film part. Yet Ilsa made us more infamous than anything else. We always felt Ilsa was just plain campy. We never thought anyone else would take it seriously. But they did. The police chief in Ottawa, for example, vowed that Ilsa would never play there. Even though it was passed by the Ontario censor board, he threatened to send theatre-owners who showed it to jail. So we decided to play it in nearby Hull instead. Basically, all we wanted to do was to legitimize Ilsa as the world’s first female villain. We had no pretensions. We simply wanted to do stuff that no one else was doing. I have a saying that still sits behind my desk: “Hollywood doesn’t want to make any movie that hasn’t been made before.” Well, we were trying to buck that frame of mind. We were also keen on moving ahead. We planned and then announced that the next in the series was to target Idi Amin in Ilsa: She Devil of You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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the Mau-Mau. But we put that aside for an even more inspired idea. We had come up with another crazy brainwave. Martial-arts legend Bruce Lee had just died. The Bermuda Triangle was in the news. So, we evolved this campy caper: Bruce Lee Meets Ilsa in the Devil’s Triangle. Of course, it was only the ghost of Bruce Lee, but still. The plot to this caper had Ilsa working underwater, capturing men in the sea and then turning them into fish-men with a set of gills. These fish-men were forced to work in a crystal mine underwater. Crystal, it seems, was the reason all these people were disappearing in the Devil’s Triangle. But the showdown would come when Bruce Lee sailed in on a ghost ship, got to the bottom of the mystery of the fish-men and the crystal, and finally defeated Ilsa in a monumental battle. Deranged as all this might sound, these ideas came out of script meetings with John, André, and me. The story was even triggered by actual news. During this period, there had been reports that US Navy planes had gone missing in the Bermuda Triangle. And now we know why. Ilsa was the culprit! This wild concept even got us a feature in The Washington Post by their film critic Kenneth Turan, headlined with the caption: “Exploitation Films: Hyperbole Gone Wild.” He also wrote, and bear in mind this was the ’70s, that “exploitation films are in reality the hearty backbone of moviedom.” So there! As fun-filled and as lucrative as this Ilsa saga was, there was a down side. For starters, the budgets were getting more and more out of hand. Plus, we never seemed to be getting the money we were actually making from the series. The outside distributors attracted to this type of product, were, to say the least, questionable and never did provide us with accurate accounting figures. André happened to be in Japan during a buying trip and decided to visit our Japanese distributor to get the lowdown on revenues. The Ilsa films had been doing quite well in Japan, yet we weren’t seeing much money. So André innocently asked the distributor what was happening. Then André was led into a room the size of a baseball stadium. There were scores of people banging away on abacuses. The distributor then told André: “Your money is somewhere in there.” John Dunning

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André just shook his head and realized we were never going to see much out of this. So we decided to scrap plans to make the She Devil of the Mau-Mau or Bruce Lee Meets Ilsa at the Devil’s Triangle, and concentrate on trying to crack the world of regular cinema and make normal movies. Okay, make that semi-normal. Still, Ilsa had such an enduring effect. It’s rare to run into anyone who grew up during this period who has never seen an Ilsa movie. We managed to create a villain who spawned an entire cult. Hell, they even held an Ilsa festival in New Jersey. People flocked to the festival, talking the Ilsa talk and walking the Ilsa walk. It was unbelievable. They all knew the dialogue to the movies and would shout it out during the screenings. They even managed to lure Dyanne there. Dyanne, now retired from the movies, is associated with a religious group and has her own chapel in Las Vegas. With her husband playing the organ, she has been happily marrying couples over the years. In her wildest dreams, Dyanne, who is absolutely charming and down to earth, never figured she’d be a cult hero. Meanwhile, John Saxton was diagnosed with liver cancer not too long later at an unfairly early age. He went about putting his estate in order, letting us know where and to whom to send his royalties. Then he committed suicide. He said that he couldn’t bear to put his family through the stress of a long, lingering, and painful illness while they watched him die. A brave or a cowardly act? Who is to say and who is to judge? To this day, the Ilsa series is selling well on the dvd and videocassette fronts. The films are certainly throwing off money to someone – but definitely not to us. On the other hand, Ilsa is responsible to a large degree for giving us a reputation as producers of low-budget action movies that make money – though not always for us.

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Sex is indeed imbued with the death instinct. Michel Foucault

So André and I decided we still had to try to go mainstream. Once again, we thought opportunity knocked after we had met some former Canadian Army officers who had fought in the infamous Dieppe raid in France during the Second World War. They were anxious to bring their story to the screen, so they had optioned the book The Shame and the Glory, which dealt with the raid. Then they hired some English screenwriters to put together a script based on the book. They spent thousands of dollars on this script and began to feel they were getting the runaround. It was a never-ending adventure. They wanted an outside opinion from someone in the business, so they contacted us. After looking at what had been written, we advised them to stop paying the writers and to deal with what they had. But before our company would go further, we also wanted to test the waters and determine if we could secure a co-production deal with the countries involved at Dieppe, because it looked like it was going to be a very expensive film. We did some legwork and quickly ascertained that the English were ready to climb on board and to invest and co-produce. The Germans were also willing, because Dieppe was a battle they won and they were anxious to get involved in a project that reflected positively on their experiences during that stage of the war.

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Then we got to France. We explained that we wanted to shoot on the coast, as near as possible to Dieppe. But we soon got word from the French that not only would they not co-produce, they would never, ever allow Germans to do a war film, or perhaps any film at all, on French soil. Unfortunately, the project then became just too big and unmanageable for us, so it foundered. I suggested they cut down the scope of the film by creating a new script that would deal with a few of the Canadian soldiers’ personal experiences during the raid, to put it on a personal level which would limit the action to what they had experienced and seen. This would cut down the budget enormously and still disclose the faulty planning of this heroic effort. But by now they’d had enough and were ready to write off their loss. Undaunted in our efforts to go mainstream, we had another idea. We figured that if we could engineer a best-selling book, we would then have the screen rights to the project and we could possibly cash in big time. So André and I kicked around the idea of creating a book called The Widow, a fictionalized saga suggestive of the Kennedys. In our version, the US president fell and went into a coma. This then necessitated the vice-president to take over. The president’s funeral would be faked and his wife, as a consequence, would become a widow. We added another juicy element. Prior to this president getting elected, his African-American PR man blackmailed the soon to-be first lady. He seduced her and then got her pregnant. She subsequently had a miscarriage, which resulted in a secret burial of the black baby. Her pregnancy had been attributed to the late president. Upping the ante again, we also had her become the mistress of a Greek shipping magnate. Eventually, the president does die and she marries the tycoon. But things get murky when the son of the Greek tycoon has an affair with her. However, rather than challenge or embarrass his father, the son, through guilt and his love for her, simply commits suicide by flying his plane into a mountain. Or did the father sabotage his plane? It could have ended either way. Key events such as the miscarriage and the death of the son in a plane were real, but our interpretation was pure hokum. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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We really figured we had the makings of a hit book here. So we put together a list of five potential authors and soon made a deal with a writer in Boston. He wrote the book all right, but it bore no resemblance to the one we wanted to have written, so we would not consent to its publication. No matter, we turned our ideas into an outline for a screenplay. Problem was, though, that no one wanted to touch the material. They thought it was too audacious, too inflammatory. And, so, The Widow, too, foundered. In principle, it was such a terrific idea. Write a bestseller. Generate a bunch of hype. And the financing would all fall into place. Oh, well. •••• As fate would have it, another ambitious young filmmaker turned up at our door around this time. David Cronenberg had earned a reputation as something of an experimental director with his sci-fi offering, Crimes of the Future. He approached us with a new intriguing idea for a horror film, where all the horror would be internal rather than external. Once again we were looking at a concept which to our recollection had not been done before. Most internal horror films had dealt with physical transformations, like The Wolf Man, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, et al. The excitement and challenge to break new ground captivated us. The film, when scripted, was called The Parasite Murders, later to be known as Shivers. Its genesis was the ordeal that David’s father went through battling cancer, and this was David’s way of dealing with it. But he twisted it plenty. Set in a Montreal high-rise apartment, the film deals with a deadly parasite that is transmitted sexually from one victim to another by kissing. The bugs inside manipulate and make the people crazy, leading them into a sexual frenzy, allowing the creatures to infect others as they multiplied, creating a plague. All this preceded the aids epidemic. It was all rather graphic and grotesque and preceded a similar scenario in the Aliens series by a few years. Our beasts exploded out of the stomachs of people well before John Dunning

Sound supervisor Danny Goldberg keeps an eye on David Cronenberg directing his first feature, The Parasite Murders, in 1974.

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theirs ever did. In fact, an article written many years later acknowledged that the creative team behind the Aliens series were aware of, and were influenced by, Shivers. We were all excited. Ivan Reitman came on as the producer. But before we agreed to let David direct, we gave him a camera to get an indication how he would go about shooting this film. We were a little concerned that in his film Crimes of the Future he appeared more preoccupied with angles and architecture – which he had been studying at college – than with actors. The test confirmed that and caused us some worry. The script was finished by David, and he was adamant that he direct it. André and I were unaware at the time that Ivan was looking for another director while visiting LA. The project was so attractive that we prevailed on Ivan to put aside his apprehension about David and let him do it. It was a wise decision. With Ivan there to keep him on track, David quickly absorbed the techniques of filmmaking on a major scale (albeit our low-budget major scale). He was low key and unflappable on set. He knew what he wanted as he followed his vision of the film, while his soft-spoken approach endeared him to the actors. In all the time I worked with David, I never saw him lose his cool. How he remained calm through all the crises that beset a director on a shoot is a tribute to his passion for filmmaking, and one that certainly furthered his career as one of Canada’s most renowned directors. The film was not without its problems, but to us it was well worth it. And as was our custom, we decided to do a major launch. But this one blew up in the face of the cfdc. Parliament even got involved, after the film touched off a controversy when, in the September 1975 issue of Saturday Night, Marshall Delaney – aka Robert Fulford – had castigated the cfdc for investing in The Parasite Murders as follows. “If using public money to produce films like The Parasite Murders is the only way that English Canada can have a film industry, then perhaps English Canada should not have a film industry.” But we weren’t going to take that lying down. We responded by sending out a pamphlet to every member of Parliament. Our point was John Dunning

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Screenwriter/director David Cronenberg, producer/music supervisor Ivan Reitman, co-producer/production manager Don Carmody, and continuity Diane Boucher all make sure this scene in Shivers turns out right.

that there was a place for horror in Canadian filmmaking. This film had been accepted at such prestigious film festivals as Edinburgh. It had won awards and acclaim, nailing down two prizes at the famous Sitges Horror Festival. Better still, it was selling around the world. And, yet, here we were being shut out on our own turf with a very successful film. This blackballing by the cfdc as a partner was to last a very long time for our commercial filmmaking. The Canadian culturists had won. David, not at all put off by developments, was eager to proceed with us on another high-concept horror film, Rabid, which he began to write. While Rabid was gestating, we returned to a Quebec film production, Tout feu, tout femme, as part of our ongoing quest for a You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

John, David Cronenberg, and Rit Wallis on the set of Rabid on Prince Arthur Street in Montreal in 1974.

breakout film. A harmless comedy designed to promote Quebec film production, it captured the imagination of the cfdc as well as United Amusement, both of which invested in the project. Gilles Richer served as director, screenwriter, and even music composer. Talk about your talented one-man bands. Although this combination ran against our philosophy of putting all our eggs in one basket, the bulk of the financing was in place, thanks to Pierre Lamy, the executive producer. Our role was solely to produce it. So what the hell! It featured an all-star Quebec cast and focused on firemen and their comedic misadventures. We just crossed our fingers when a hook and ladder truck tore around the streets of Montreal driven by the intrepid Fournier stuntmen. Miraculously, I believe we only had one accident to report John Dunning

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to our insurance company. Ultimately, the film was a nice piece of fluff, but its success was limited. But our next plan was to make a family film, aimed at kids. And it seemed safe as far as finding financing. Oddly enough, we had done just about everything else in the business but make a family film. So, when Peter Swartek and Jean Lafleur approached us with The Mystery of the Million Dollar Hockey Puck, we bit. It just seemed like a refreshing change of pace at the time. The story line seemed inspired as well, if not a little out there. This was a tale about some guys smuggling diamonds over the Canadian/US border in hockey pucks. A couple of kids get involved in the mystery, and so, too, do members of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team. We figured the film would be a big success, due to the presence of the hockey players. We received permission to shoot at the Forum and we were allowed to film with the Canadiens during one of their practices. Some of the major stars were upset that they could be seen in the film. They were making big money in endorsements. We were making a blanket charitable donation for their participation. When we were shooting, the team used their practice jerseys with no numbers. The stars, when they skated near the camera, would turn their heads away to avoid recognition. But the journeymen players didn’t care. These were first-class guys. Later these guys in regulation jerseys played a scene with no problem. Another element included scenes shot at the Quebec City winter carnival which added a rich, colorful dimension to the film. The film had a decent run. Unfortunately, hockey in those days wasn’t as universal as it is today so we were unable to get much for the film, but as a family film it sold internationally. And from a benign kid-flick we went to the other end of the spectrum for our next production. Ivan, now working out of Toronto, had come up with a unique story called Death Weekend, about a woman who turns the tables on four brutal sociopaths who terrorize her and her dentist boyfriend at their country place, holding them hostage while killing her boyfriend. Almost all the movies in this genre had been portraying women as frightened victims, but in this one the You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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woman fights back after they attempt to rape and kill her. But she outsmarts the guys and kills them one after the other in unusual ways. Ever persistent, Ivan was able to conscript Americans Brenda Vaccaro and Don Stroud in the leads, as well as some solid Canadian actors. He was also able to prevail upon the respected Bill Fruet to direct and write. Fruet had enjoyed considerable success and acclaim for penning such Canadian classics as Goin’ Down the Road and Wedding in White. We brought the film in for five hundred and fifty thousand dollars – our biggest budget to date – but it had a terrific run around the world. Back to Rabid. David added an interesting wrinkle, based on something else he was developing called Mosquito. As was his wont, he

Marilyn Chambers performs in her first non-adult film role as Rose in Rabid.

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came up with another original concept. A woman (played by porn star Marilyn Chambers) is forced to live on the blood of others – like an insect. In his spin, this woman has a serious accident and is reconstructed by a plastic surgeon. But to survive, she develops a craving for blood. To that end, the surgeon gives her a stinger, under her arm, through which she can satisfy her need for blood. The stinger when constructed resembles a penis, which enhances the effect. Regrettably, the people she stings all become rabid from some mutant virus that she carries – and hence the title. David really learned his lessons well from his previous film, Shivers, and this one went off with few hitches. Amazing, too, considering the scope of the film and that we were working with a lot of special effects. The film was budgeted at six hundred thousand dollars – a step up from our last – but we were fortunate to get advance sales from around the world, based on David’s record with his last effort, to help the financing. We might have even broken new ground in that this could have been the first film in which Santa Claus was iced. He was shot in a mall. But, hey, we had no choice. Santa was infected and crazy. Rabid marked our last collaboration with David. He had developed quite a reputation as an independent-minded filmmaker who marched to the beat of his own drum. People began to take notice. Although we had been working on developing another film together, about a mad gynecologist, which could have been the forerunner for his Dead Ringers with Jeremy Irons, David had been enticed by Pierre David to go to Toronto to make Scanners. We couldn’t hold him. We were, as usual, financially extended. The time frame necessary to turn a film around and collect the funds necessary to proceed to another film took about eighteen months. This means that you have eight to ten months from the start of the film to delivery, added to the other eighteen months. Bottom line: it takes over two years to recover the outlay. And that is if it sells well. If it doesn’t, well you have a nice write-off for the amount you didn’t recoup. There were no hard feelings whatever, between us and David. You have to take opportunity when it comes your way. David was one of You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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the good guys and, frankly, it’s with a certain amount of pride that I know we helped to kick-start his career. Many years later for my rogues’ gallery, David sent me a photo of himself. Underneath there was this inscription: “The only producer who really understood me.” I took that as quite the compliment. I always was attracted to the mavericks in this business, people who had unusual concepts and who sought to break new ground. I figured I had seen, at that point in my life, nearly twenty thousand films. When something appealed to me, either on screen or in the script stage, it was likely because I hadn’t seen it before. And if I hadn’t seen it before, then, in my mind, there was at least a chance that it could break out. •••• André felt the same way, unlike Hollywood who seemed to subscribe to the opposite rule. I was attracted to projects that had some sort of sexual undercurrent. I read somewhere that a person’s first need is water, as a means of satisfying thirst. But sex comes in a clear second, ahead of even food. It’s one of mankind’s most basic instincts, and people never tire of it on screen, under whatever emotional context. With David gone, we opted to do a French co-production called Blackout, which was inspired by the actual blackout that had taken place in New York City. But we also decided to apply the lesson we had learned from mainstream moviemaking, which was to get name stars for the film to help sell it. In our case, this meant getting name stars to work in cameo roles for a few days and get maximum exposure from them at a lower cost than if we had featured them. Our principal actors, on the other hand, would be relatively low-cost and relatively unknown. The story was simple enough. Four killers on their way to an institution for the criminally insane escape when their van rolls over during the blackout. They drift into a darkened, rich area of New York City and take over an apartment building, holding the tenants hostage while going on a killing spree. Eddy Matalon was the French director with Nicole Boisvert acting as co-producer and we John Dunning

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managed to land such celebrated aging stars as Ray Milland, June Allyson, and Jean-Pierre Aumont for the “cameo” parts. They played the terrorized tenants. Meanwhile, we got Jim Mitchum and Robert Carradine, the sons of Hollywood Brahmins, to play the leads. Shooting took place in a high-rise apartment building in Montreal. About the biggest problem we had was Ray Milland. He was drinking at that time. And he would stash it all over the set. Actually, the biggest problem was for the cameraman. When Milland started the day his eyes were clear, but later in the day, due to his steady consumption, his eyes would become bright red – which made things difficult, because we never shoot a film in sequence. His problem, however, forced us to shoot that way. This slowed down the production, so we had to have a guy on set run around trying to unearth Milland’s bottle stash and slow him down. Ironically, this almost mirrored the experience of Milland on-screen in The Lost Weekend from 1945, for which he had won the Oscar. Odd, how life can imitate art. Still, Milland, along with Allyson and Aumont, turned in strong performances. They hadn’t been getting much work so they were grateful to get back into acting. They were real troopers. I’ve always had the utmost respect for dedicated actors like them. It’s just their agents and managers who left me cold. We upped the ante again on the budget. This time it was eight hundred thousand and we still managed to clear a profit from our share of the co-production. •••• Then came Meatballs, and our lives took yet another turn. Our buddy Ivan Reitman had been in Los Angeles producing a Saturday Night Live stage revue that had been touring the continent. The TV show’s stars, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, and Gilda Radner, were all featured in this as well. The show even came to Montreal and played at Place des Arts. I’d been working with Larry Kent on developing a summer-camp film – largely because we couldn’t find another movie ever made in the You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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genre. In this treatment, a young girl from across the tracks is charitably accepted at a rich girls’ camp. She doesn’t fit in, but after saving another girl from drowning during a raging storm she becomes a heroine. Ivan happened to call us at the time and asked what we were up to. When I told him about our summer-camp project, he shot back: “You’re totally wrong on this one. Dump that story and let me send you an outline for a summer camp movie that can work.” Knowing Ivan, we told Larry that we wouldn’t be going forward on our story. And, sure enough, Ivan whacked out an idea for the camp film shortly thereafter. It was a comedy about some underdog camp competing in a sports contest with a rich kids’ camp, featuring young teenage counselors and their raging hormones. The bonus was that, given his association with Bill Murray, Ivan was able to entice him as the lead. Shooting took place in Northern Ontario, and everything fell into place. The rushes looked good. And, best of all, Ivan was able to negotiate a dynamite distribution deal with Paramount. This was the other side of Ivan, excelling as much in deal-making as creatively. Of course, it wasn’t easy. After the film was completed, he sent it down with Danny Goldberg for Barry Diller, head honcho at Paramount, to screen. Diller told Danny to leave the film there, that he would screen it later. When Danny reported back to Ivan, he was told to pack up the film and bring it back immediately. Diller, when advised of this, then decided to screen it right away, and made a deal on the spot. It takes nerves of steel to make a call like that, and Ivan is one of the few guys in the business who could pull it off. Still, it all paid off in the end. Though the film was budgeted at $1.6 million – far and away our most expensive production to date – its box office grosses were somewhere north of forty million dollars. Not bad for a Canadian film. In fact, Meatballs set the record for the biggest-grossing Canadian movie ever made, and held it for three years. Paramount might have made the most money on the deal but our investors were all reimbursed. And the film really helped launch Ivan’s successful diJohn Dunning

Tripper (Bill Murray) gets instructions from director Ivan Reitman on the set of Meatballs at Camp White Pine in Haliburton, Ontario, during the summer of 1978.

rectorial career in Hollywood. Some of its success rubbed off on André and me as well, although we were still in the cold climes of Canada facing the difficulties of financing productions. Meanwhile, production wasn’t our sole focus at this time. We had a distribution network across Canada which was operating at full steam while we continued our business of releasing French films in Quebec. The key theatres which we had acquired or those which we had exclusive rights to supply had to be maintained. We built a large staff to accomplish this. André’s administrative duties were overwhelming. And he scored a coup by selling our films to mainstream TV, because they needed Canadian content and our films met that requirement. Given the sensitivity of some of our product, these films You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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were not ready for primetime mainstream TV. They would have to wait for the advent of cable and pay TV, when André scored again. While André was kept busy on that front, I was consumed by the promotion and advertising for all these divisions. We had an art department which employed four to five graphic artists, as well as PR people, editors for TV spots, and writers for radio and publicity releases. We were busy. Plus, we were also supervising a distribution venture in the US for our productions, Cinepix usa. About the only thing we didn’t do much in those days was sleep.

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The trick of dread movies is to take ordinary events and invest them with the unbeatable combination of must-see and can’t-bear-to-look. Film critic Richard Corliss

In the mid-1970s, the federal government announced that investment in Canadian films would provide investors with a major tax credit, a shelter. This was both boon and bane. It was a boon for producers whose passion for filmmaking had withstood financial hardship and risk of a personal nature to finance their films. And a bane to the same people, who had to endure whoever this tax advantage attracted to the industry. We called it the invasion of the carpetbaggers. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry saw the dollars that they could make by exploiting this advantage. Producers popped up everywhere from all walks of society. Suddenly it wasn’t the film that was important, it was the deal: how much could be taken out in expenses and exorbitant producer fees. Many of these films never attracted anything but a small release to satisfy the deal’s requirements. Some never even saw the light of day. This lasted for a few years until the government saw the futility and the abuse of the system, and shut it down. The good, unfortunately, suffered with the bad. We were all tarred with the same brush. In our case, we dealt in tax shelters, but never compromised our philosophy of choosing films based on the potential return of the film more than the deal. We believed that putting the money up there on the screen in production value was more important than looting the production for fees and expenses. In most cases, our

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allowances for fees went into the production to cover budget overruns. We gambled that we’d make more on a successful film than we could pulling excessive production fees for our services. Essentially, we got involved with tax shelters because we were always in a cash crunch, and we had been locked out from funding by the Canadian Film Development Corporation. Tax shelters would allow us to raise money for a production. We had a specialist, Larry Nessis, (actually a rabbi!) who had approached us based on our reputation and offered to raise funds. Larry was a man of his word, a gentleman. When he said he’d deliver, he delivered. But our attitude hadn’t changed. Our fees remained what they always were. And our philosophy never wavered either. Our goal was always to make a film that had an opportunity to break out. In fact, we really thought we would break out with one of the earliest tax-shelter films we did. This was a film that would focus on life in Quebec, but have global appeal. We really thought we could break it locally, as well as crack the US and international marketplaces. It was originally called Yesterday, but later changed to This Time Forever (and in French, Gabrielle). It was the story of a French-Canadian girl (Claire Pimpare) who falls in love with an American boy (Vince Van Patten) playing hockey in Montreal for the McGill University team during the Vietnam War. The boy fails out of McGill and, as a consequence, becomes eligible for the US military draft. He’s in a real quandary. Should he become a draft-dodger and stay in Montreal with the girl he loves? Or should he answer the call of duty? His grandfather (Eddy Albert), an old war vet, comes up to counsel him and convinces him to do the honourable thing for his country. His mom (Cloris Leachman) is beside herself. In the end, he joins the Marines. But he plans to come back to Canada to marry his girl before shipping out for duty. Unfortunately, the Tet Offensive is launched, and he has to head to Vietnam immediately and never gets to marry her. She’s broken-hearted. But he becomes a hero in Vietnam by saving the life of a fellow soldier. In the melee, however, his legs get blown John Dunning

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off. He asks a friend to write her and tell her that he died. He doesn’t want to come back to her as a cripple. But, of course, she never told him that she was pregnant. When the baby is born, she takes it down to the US to visit her supposedly-dead lover’s mother and grandfather. They tell her he’s still alive. She heads off to the Veterans Hospital where he is recuperating, and they reconcile. Quite the little drama. We had all the elements going here: Quebec separatism, the draft, the Vietnam War, hockey, and an old-fashioned love story. We called upon that old workhorse Larry Kent to direct the film, which was budgeted at a massive amount for us: two million dollars. And it remains one of my favourite films. But the strangest thing of all is that we received numerous requests for the sheet music to the featured tune in the soundtrack, also called “This Time Forever.” Couples wanted it for their weddings. On the set, Eddy and Cloris weren’t necessarily difficult, but they did fight for their presence in the film. One day, I got a call from Larry telling me to rush down to the set. Claire is crying on a chesterfield. Eddy and Cloris are in a dander. And I’ve got a temperature of about one hundred and two degrees. I race over to the set. Eddy’s upset that there’s too much Claire and not enough of him in this scene. Cloris feels the same way. So I sit on the floor with them and re-write the scene. I write a few more lines for Eddy and a few more for Cloris. The trick was to separate the two of them and then do the divide and conquer approach. It worked. Everyone seemed happier. While reviews were generally good, the film did well here in French but not so well in English, here or elsewhere. Except for Japan, that is. Turns out women decide what film a couple will go see in Japan. And they go crazy for a good love story. As a result, This Time Forever ran for months in Tokyo and was one of the biggest-ever grossers there – not that we saw much of the money. As for the US, we developed the strategy of holding a special screening for the studio buyers in LA. Through the connections of our rabbi, You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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Nessis, we also scraped up five busloads of high school and college students to come as well. So far, so good. Then the film starts, and it’s not running right – it’s out of sync. I’m in a rage. So I go charging up to the projection booth and ask the operator what the hell he’s doing. He tells me the film wasn’t marked properly. I was ready to kill him. That was totally bogus. We had the film properly set up. But this is an old union operator, and he couldn’t care less. But push the guy too hard, and he walks. Meanwhile, the crowd is getting restless. And André is so beside himself that he starts walking around outside the theatre. After we did get the film going, the consensus from the kids was that they loved it. As for the studio buyers, all they wanted to know was why the girl had an accent. “Because she’s French,” I would tell them. “But can you dub her with an English actress?” they asked. “Why would we do that?” I shot back. They should be used to accents in the US too. Regardless, I could never get a US distribution deal for the film as a result. The best we could do was a sub-distribution deal through another company. But it didn’t help. Still, if nothing else, this was a tax-shelter film in which everything was on screen. So once again, we retreated to the drawing board and re-applied our thinking caps. For our next project, we took inspiration from the fact that Marilyn Chambers had been conscripted for Rabid and it had been successful. That got us thinking that, if we were able to land another porn star, it would give us a boost for a mainstream movie as well. Enter Hot Dog Cops, a story about some wacky morality cops and their misadventures with the law, budgeted at $1.2 million. We’re certain this one spawned the successful Police Academy series. Our mistake, though, was that, unlike the creators of Police Academy, we didn’t go for a young cast, we went with older actors. And we also went with porno star Harry Reems, who turned out to be a decent actor and a fine guy. We cast him as Captain Clean, the head of the morality squad. We figured that had a nice touch of irony. Also fea-

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tured were the biggest names on the local French scene here: Jean Lapointe, Daniel Pilon, and Paul Berval. And returning to the fold were director Claude Fournier and his wife, Marie-Josée Raymond. The ingredients seemed okay. The idea was good. But the film just lacked the necessary spark and didn’t go anywhere. Unfortunately, it took Police Academy to make us realize where we went wrong. So, chalk up another one to experience. •••• The one area, however, where we did feel we had experience was in the horror genre. So, we decided a return to our roots could give us a boost. We had two films planned: Happy Birthday to Me and My Bloody Valentine. There was a method to our titling madness. We were looking for holidays or special days to use in the titles. Unfortunately, most of the good ones had already been used up: Friday the 13th, Halloween, and a dozen variations on Christmas. But everyone had birthdays, and no one had really exploited that on screen. Happy Birthday to Me is the tender – and, at a budget of $3.2 million, expensive – tale of a young girl who has her brain reconstructed after surgery. She goes after the classmates whom she feels hastened her mother’s death years before. She also has a grudge against those who didn’t come to her birthday party, and starts knocking them off. Melissa Sue Anderson, of Little House on the Prairie fame, starred as the psycho kid, while veteran actor Glenn Ford played her doctor. The director was the legendary British filmmaker J. Lee Thompson, who had done the classic Guns of Navarone. You’d figure with all his credentials, J. Lee might be difficult. Well, you’d figure wrong. My experience with him was among the most pleasant of any I’ve had with any director. He was a first-class director and editor, and a gentleman. I remember telling him when shooting started that I had a habit of writing notes about pick-up shots that might be necessary in the editing. He had no problem with that. Sure enough, after shooting wrapped, I

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had made only one suggestion for a pick-up shot – which he did. On almost every other production, there would be many more than that. While J. Lee was a piece of cake, though, the same could not be said for Glenn Ford. He wasn’t as much difficult as he was ornery. He had just gotten married to a younger woman and he was rather sensitive about it. One day during filming, I got a frantic call from J. Lee. He said he couldn’t get Glenn out of the limo to start shooting in downtown Montreal. He asked me to rush down to intervene. So I headed over and got into the limo with Glenn and his wife. I asked him what the problem was. He said that when his wife was about to get out of the limo earlier, some guy sitting on his balcony across the street started to whistle at her. Glenn then insisted he wouldn’t get out of the car until we got rid of that son-of-a-bitch. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to tell him it was harmless and it would be hard to throw someone off their own balcony. But he wouldn’t budge. So, I asked the cop who was controlling traffic on the set for us if he could go over and do something. He hopped on his motorcycle and approached the whistler. They had an animated conversation and the whistler quickly took off inside his place. When the cop came back, I asked him how he handled the situation. Simple, he said. “I told the guy that if he didn’t leave the balcony that I’d fucking shoot him!” Well, that worked for Glenn on this occasion. But that wasn’t the end of our fun with him. A few days later, I get another frantic call from the set. Glenn has locked himself in his trailer. He’d also just punched out the second assistant director, who now wanted to call the cops and press charges. So I ran and trudged through a field of mud to get to the set. I was soaking wet, with mud caked up to my knees. I tried to communicate with Glenn, but he was locked in. So I asked the second assistant director what had happened. He told me he had called for a meal break in the middle of Glenn’s scene, because he didn’t want to go into a meal penalty. I told him that was a real bonehead thing to do, not to mention insensitive. I told him he probably deserved the punch.

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The second AD was a good guy and said he wouldn’t call the cops. Meanwhile, I relayed the information to Glenn, who said he would only get out of his trailer if the second AD apologized to him. He did, and the shoot went on again. There was never a dull moment. Small wonder my nerves were always shot. One of our scenes, to be filmed at McGill University, was five and a half pages long. It was a complicated shot with lots of conversations taking place while couples were dancing. We had to be out of McGill by five p.m. that day, no ifs, ands, or buts. It was now four fifteen and J. Lee had yet to shoot a foot of film. I was freaking. He had spent the day rehearsing. When I got there with forty-five minutes to spare, J. Lee was as calm as can be. No problem, he said, “I’ll do it all in one shot and be out of here in time.” Sure enough, he did it. He needed only five or six takes. My respect for this man was now boundless. I wished, though, that everyone on the film were like him. The film needed a special rain machine, and we brought up an expert from New York, a real old-line union guy. He came up with his wife and I knew I was in trouble when I was on the elevator with him and he asked where his wife could find some fine jewelry. That was a hint. I was also having troubles with him over him cashing his cheques. One evening, I wanted to take my wife and daughter and show them the street we were using for the film. Sure enough, as we were traipsing down the street, the special-effects guy turned the rain machine on us. We had to run for our lives. The guy did it deliberately. It was payback. On the plus side, though, Hollywood was bracing for a strike and was completely paranoid about running out of product. So a Hollywood bigwig flies up to Montreal, checks out our dailies, and almost immediately makes a deal to buy the film’s rights for $3.5 million US. Once we were on a roll, we figured we’d set out again in the holiday/horror vein. Fortunately, Valentine’s Day was still open. Of course, so was Easter. But given our troubles with religious authorities in the

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past, we weren’t even going to contemplate having demented bunnies running around. We gave Easter a pass. And so it was on to My Bloody Valentine. George Mihalka came on board as director. He had a passion for movies, was extremely competent, and had earned his stripes. We became long-time friends, because, as the old adage goes: when you suffer together, it bonds you. And we had our fair share of suffering to endure in My Bloody Valentine.

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The plan was to set the film in – and near – mine shafts in the fictional town of Valentine Bluffs. Naturally, we didn’t have the money to build our own mine sets. So we set out to find existing mines that weren’t being used. Fortunately, the Nova Scotia provincial government was looking to get involved in film and prevailed upon Sydney Mines in Cape Breton to let us shoot in a few mines they weren’t using. Unfortunately, because of the threat of my tachycardia, and the fact that there wasn’t a major hospital within hours of the set where I could have my condition treated, I couldn’t go down for shooting. I tried to run the operation from our offices in Montreal. As soon as we arrived for shooting, Sydney Mines was already anxious for us to leave. They had been fielding so many complaints about the production. We were using lights down the mineshaft where there could be dangerous methane gas, and they were terrified that we were going to trigger major explosions. They hadn’t realized the nature of the filmmaking beast. There was also a problem in set design. We wanted to dress down the shiny aluminum look of the mine buildings. We wanted a gloomier, grungier look, in keeping with the horror motif. So our neophyte art director dresses down the buildings – with oil paint. It won’t come off. She was supposed to use water paint, which would have washed off easily and returned the shiny aluminum look to the mine. Now we had to repaint them all. Meanwhile, to get out as fast as possible, we were working golden, golden time. Nobody had slept for twenty-four hours. We were paying our people triple time and a half – which can quickly eat up a budget of $1.8 million.

Opposite The Miner/Harry Warden (Peter Cowper) removes Axel’s father’s heart in a flashback considered too gory for audiences by Paramount brass and ultimately cut from the final version of My Bloody Valentine.

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And this time counted the hour-long journey in and then out of the shafts in these rickety mine-cars. Many of the scenes were in the mineshafts, and they were some five thousand feet under the ocean. Needless to say, some of the crew and actors were scared shitless doing this travel. But George was a real trooper and kept a lid on proceedings. The story was simple enough. Twenty years previously, there had been a mine explosion in Valentine Bluffs. But it happened to be on the same day as the Valentine’s Day dance. Miners were trapped, but nobody knew because everyone was at the dance. Finally, they were able to dig a survivor out. It turned out that the only reason he had survived was because he had eaten the remains of some deceased miners. Needless to say, the experience left him insane. Fast forward twenty years. Some townsfolk decide it’s time to stop mourning and hold the Valentine’s Day dance again. Others don’t think this is such a brilliant idea. Like the sheriff, for example. Someone sends him a human heart and he gets cold feet. The dance is cancelled. But this doesn’t go down well with the kids. They decide to hold their own party in a mine. And they start getting killed in horrific ways. No sooner did we finish shooting the film, than some Paramount execs came up to check it out. They were impressed by the gore. They also had Friday the 13th, and they were looking for another film that would generate an equally impressive charge at the box office. They wanted to enter into a distribution deal with us immediately. Our only problem was that Paramount needed a rating from Jack Valenti of the Motion Picture Association of America for the theatrical release. To get an mpaa rating necessitated us excising about eight minutes of the movie’s best gore. We came through, but we weren’t happy with the cut or the distribution deal. It was one of the worst we’d ever made. Although the film grossed more than sixteen million, we hardly saw any of it. Those famous studio overheads took care of that.

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Hollywood also had a big impact on our next film. We’d been working on a treatment called Road Gangs, set among truckers in a lawless, Wild West-like present. Convoys of trucks would band together, and would move through the country saving towns that were under siege by various outlaw bands. We sent word to Ivan Reitman about this project. He was now tight with Columbia Pictures. After going through the treatment, he told us our premise was close – but not close enough. He felt this should be a sci-fi flick set on another planet. A good-guy vigilante touches down there and seeks to save women being held captive by some lunatic mutant. And, oh yeah, the film was no longer Road Gangs, but Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone. And just like that, a project can change. Ivan agreed to be executive producer. André and I were the producers along with Don Carmody, and the director was newcomer Jean Lafleur, our old editor. The cast was impressive, led by Peter Strauss, Molly Ringwald, Ernie Hudson, and Andrea Marcovicci. And then word comes down from Columbia that they want us to make the film in 3D! Why? Because Jaws 3 was coming out in 3D, and they wanted to have something too. This was completely insane. We had gone so far already. Still, they insisted. We finally tracked down some 3D cameras from the nfb. Adding to our woes, the film was being shot in the Mojave Desert, and only three days into the film, Jean was already far behind. The scope was too big for him, and his approach wasn’t working. It became obvious that we would have to part company with him. Unfortunately, the meetings with him were taking place in the desert and I couldn’t attend for the same medical reason. I was just too far away from a hospital in case my heart started acting up again. This was really starting to depress me. I felt like some kind of coward. But the fear of having your heart speed up to one hundred and seventy beats a minute and not knowing if it could be slowed down, so far away from any help, was just too anxiety-provoking. To reach the location

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in the desert, you had to fly into a major center then take a private plane for an hour and a half flight, and then take a car ride through the desert for miles. So André agreed to fly off for the meetings. And we managed to find veteran Hollywood director, Lamont Johnson, to complete the film, but to make certain there were no traces of Jean’s work left from the shoot, he had all the vehicles repainted a different colour. Then the fun really started. After filming was complete in the desert, we moved out to Vancouver – where I was able to visit. Don and I took some dailies from the shoot to LA to show the Columbia brass at the only theatre that was still equipped to show 3D. When they saw the material, which was very good, they wanted to know where all the 3D effects were. Where was the stuff flying out of the screen at the audience? We said this was no Bwana Devil. The script which they had approved did not have any of that. Not good enough, they wanted some put in. Don went back to run their request by Lamont Johnson. He immediately said it would be over his dead body. We were between a rock and a hard place. Poor Don Carmody. At the end of the shooting, after Lamont had left the set, Don would keep the crew. Then they would shoot inserts of props that were being used in the film flying out at the screen, to be cut in later. It was an absolute nightmare. The budget was out of control. We had started at six million, then moved to eight million. But when the order came to shoot in 3-D, the budget was open-ended; it finally came to twelve million dollars. They were throwing money away like water. It was almost obscene. It was also, far and away, the most expensive project we had undertaken. To the surprise of few, however, the film, even with its flying spears and stones, didn’t make much of an impact at the box office. 3D killed it. It had a much better history in foreign territories with TV and video. And we continued to learn all about the ups and downs of the movie business. •••• John Dunning

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My fearful inability to go into the desert, far away from a major hospital, caused me much anguish. I felt that I had let the team down, and that my white hat had turned a dark shade of grey. Then I was watching the local news one night and saw that a certain Dr Rosengarten had returned to Canada from studying tachycardia in France. His research indicated that there was a possibility of stopping these attacks through the use of a pacemaker. I contacted him and asked him to consider my case of wpw. He told me that it was still experimental, but if I wanted to volunteer, he could put me in the program, as I was an ideal candidate for the trials. I jumped at the opportunity and signed on. After several exhausting angiograms which required hospital stays, I had the pacemaker implanted. Adjusting to it was scary, as it could also induce tachycardia as well as stop it! So it required precise finetuning. But I felt the risks were worth taking if I could be free of the fear of long airplane flights and the dread of not being near a major hospital. I would be able to go anywhere. And the white hat returned. The experiment was successful. Any tachycardia would receive a jolt of electricity that would stop the attack. To me, this was a miracle. No more long stays in emergency rooms getting pumped on drugs. But it was not without its problems. Sometimes the pacemaker would start firing jolts for no reason. This became rather frightening, as it meant going back to Rosengarten and having it adjusted. The automatic sensing system was turned off, and I was given a magnet to apply to the pacemaker to make it work. This meant I was in control of my condition, but it did leave me attached to that magnet that I carried everywhere. Still, better an obsessive, neurotic attachment to a magnet than living with my previous mental state. Needless to say, I had more than one magnet. It was quite something, going through security at the airport with all this equipment. I would trigger a major symphony of bells and whistles. But I was back in business.

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At the studios, you’re dealing with people who don’t want to make any movie that they haven’t already seen before. Filmmaker Reginald Hudlin

With a pacemaker operation behind me, and, hopefully, my tachycardia, too, I was ready to return to the trenches. Don Carmody approached us in 1983 about his desire to direct. He figured he was ready to make the jump from producer to director. And we also figured he deserved a chance because of his long-term association with us. He had a script called The Surrogate, about a sex surrogate who takes over a couple’s life and dominates them. It was a thriller, and the intrigue centered on whether the woman was merely terrorizing the couple or really trying to cure them. We landed Québécoise actress Carole Laure, who was at the peak of her popularity then, to play the surrogate, and Shannon Tweed, the Playboy centrefold, to play the wife. Shooting took place in an apartment on Nun’s Island, and everything was going along swimmingly – until one miserable winter night. I was eating dinner at a steakhouse at the other end of the city when I got a frantic phone call from the set. They had been shooting a scene with this bull mastiff dog. Suddenly, the dog had turned and attacked our leading man. I flew out of the restaurant and drove down to the set. Freezing rain had hit the city a few days earlier and it was like a skating rink. When I got out of my car to go up to the apartment, the winds were so ferocious that they were blowing me along the ice. When I was finally

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able to make it up to the apartment, I was wheezing and hyperventilating. I didn’t know what was happening. I feared the worst – another attack of tachycardia. Meanwhile, Don was suffering from a panic attack. There was absolute chaos on the set. They were trying to treat the leading man’s hand and calm down the dog. The leading man was threatening to sue us all. The dog handler was mystified. And Don and I were both gasping for breath. It was a nightmare. They finally got both Don and me into a car and brought us to the emergency ward at the Montreal General Hospital. What a scene! Don and I were lying side by side in the hallway on gurneys, trying to catch our breath and slow down our racing hearts. I was trying to get hold of my cardio doctor, while they were pumping him up with valium. My doctor showed up, examined me and then deduced there was nothing wrong with my heart. I was given medication to calm me down. And at four in the morning, they released us – to return to the madness of the set. Shooting was completed on this million-dollar production. The film fared decently on the local and global marketplace. And we even settled with the leading man bitten by the dog. But Don, after making his directing debut, decided there was just too much stress and strain. His directing days were over. He wanted to return to producing. In retrospect, it was a wise move. He did, after all, win a best-picture Oscar producing Chicago. People had always asked why I never wanted to direct. They felt I had the necessary qualifications. I could break down a script and deal with the actors. But I would tell them that it was the day-to-day pressure of directing that I didn’t think I could handle. I would always be terrified that I would get hit by an attack of tachycardia while on the shoot and bring the entire production down to a screeching halt. And then the budget would be blown. I owed my partners and financial backers some security, after all. But, frankly, directing can be a horrendous way to live. There are two months of intense pre-production, which I could have handled. You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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But once shooting starts, it’s relentless. Particularly when you’re working on an eighteen-day, low-budget shoot as we often did. We’re talking twenty-hour days. I would have been terrified that I wouldn’t be able to measure up. Sure, I had always envied the autocratic power of a director on set, but not enough to risk letting the entire team down through some weakness of mine. Making a movie is like going to war. You prepare for the coming fight, the pre-production, and the battle. Then the shoot, then you clean up the battlefield with post-production. You have your goal to achieve. The production heads are your lieutenants, each with his own troop. The crew are your soldiers. The generals are the financiers and executive producers. The colonel is the producer. The major in charge of the battle is the director. The war is a consuming struggle about money, time, actors, weather, and accidents. The above only holds true for low-budget films. In a major big-budget film, the director is god. And half of the battle is trying to anticipate what audiences will want a year from now. It’s a cycle. One day, adult dramas are all the rage. The next day, it’s teen films. The studios see that a teen film goes through the roof, so they immediately saturate the market with teen films which split the grosses and kill the cycle. The same holds true for an adult drama. It goes through the roof because there are very few while we’re in the teen cycle. Then they all switch to adult dramas and the cycle is killed again. While this is a generalization, it also holds true for action and horror films. So if you can come into the marketplace with a film that is opposite to the current cycle then you might have a good chance of making out well. André and I figured there was a teen-film period coming, so we decided to put together Meatballs III. (After doing Meatballs, we sold the title rights to Meatballs II to a Boston production company, but the film turned out to be a disaster.) ••••

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Patrick Dempsey in his first feature, Meatballs III, plays an older Rudy, a character we were first introduced to in Meatballs.

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André and I also figured we needed an angle for Meatballs III. This was a story about a teenager who gets a job at a marina, run by the nasty Mean Gene and his River Rats. We had a concept that Mean Gene and his River Rats would ride around on motorcycles that could run over water. After working with our special effects team, we came up with a hybrid that would do just that, putting motorcycle frames on small boats to achieve this result. We were fortunate to get up-and-comer Patrick Dempsey to play the lead role of Rudy. (Dempsey, of course, went on to become the dreamy Dr Shepherd in Grey’s Anatomy.) We also landed Sally Kellerman to play an angel, whose chief role was to try to help the teenager get lucky in the boudoir. Don Carmody came back to help us produce this comedy. And off we went to the straight-laced Montreal suburb of Hudson to build a marina and shoot this $4.2 million movie. We even got some good publicity when Terry Fox did his cancer-benefit run through Hudson and the crew was on hand making contributions to the cause. This helped, because some of the Hudsonites were not exactly allies. That might have been due to the fact that when shooting wrapped every Friday night, there was usually a beer bash on the set. Most of the problems came from locals we had hired to assist the production. It soon got to the point where the Hudsonites were anxious to get rid of us. One woman, who lived next to the set, was so hostile that she would crank up her lawnmower every time we were set to start shooting. It cost us about seven hundred and fifty dollars in bribes and down time to deal with her. When shooting was almost finished, we received word from the government agency in charge of waterways that we would have to tear down the marina set shortly, as winter was approaching. Then André, Don, and I figured, why not knock out another film and burn down the set for the finale? So we got together and bashed out a script in three days. It was called Junior, about a psycho teen who terrorizes two women, former prisoners, trying to get their lives back on track by operating a marina. Junior would stalk the ladies with his chainsaw. Jim Hanley, our line producer on Meatballs III, was to direct it. John Dunning

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So we told the Hudson civic officials that we needed another ten days to complete shooting on Meatballs III. And we shot Junior in just ten days on a six hundred-thousand-dollar budget. But the Hudsonites seemed mighty perplexed when they saw the marina go down in flames and heard gunshots coming from the set. They wondered what kind of comedy Meatballs III could be. We decided not to have the Meatballs III wrap party in Hudson – to spare the citizens more noise and grief. We held it instead at a loft on St Laurent Blvd, and we partied hard. I left late, along with my cameraman and his wife. They got into their car while I stopped behind it, ready to cross the street to get into my car. Bam! The next thing I remember I was in an ambulance on my way to the hospital. The cameraman had backed up his car, not realizing I was behind it – or did he? I suffered a concussion, a broken shoulder, two broken ribs, and a broken nose. An intern straightened my nose, but couldn’t do anything for the rest. By then my wife had arrived, so I was released to her care with some painkillers and the advice to wake me up every few hours because of the concussion. So much for wrap parties – they can be wild. Junior ended up being sold to an American video company. And I, oddly enough, ended up falling in love with tranquil Hudson. I managed to purchase a lovely little place on the waterfront a few years later. It had belonged to a German actress, who had been in Munich and who had no intentions of selling. But after she caught her lover using the place with another woman, she had a change of heart and sold it to me. I’ve been vacationing there ever since, but I don’t think any of my neighbours realize it was me who was involved in burning the marina. •••• No sooner did we finish Junior than we were back on the drawing table creating Frankenstein 2000, anticipating a demand for horror films. It was a thriller about this badly burned fellow who was being You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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kept alive inside a liquid suit. All he had was his brain and a computer hook-up to sustain him. We circulated the script around and 20th Century Fox bit. And we got a green light to go into production. We had been gearing up for production when the Fox ownership changed hands. Oilman Marvin Davis took over and pretty much cleaned house. All the execs who had supported our production were gone. Not surprisingly, we got a call from the studio. They didn’t want to go through with the film. André and I explained there would be legal problems. So I flew down to LA with Don Carmody to meet John Davis, the son of Marvin, and the man put in charge of our production. We met at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We were joined by Pierre David, who was involved in the production. They had their group of lawyers and execs. We were all sitting around and John asked how much it would cost Fox to abort and cover our pre-production expenses. After speaking to André, I told him it would be about two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. The film had been budgeted at three million. Strangely enough, Fox told us to go ahead and make the movie. And then the fun really started. Their first move was to send in a producer to represent Fox and to keep tabs on us. The first thing he wanted was a corner room at the Four Seasons Hotel. That we could live with. But during script discussions with this producer, we discovered there were other matters which we couldn’t tolerate. The producer’s next demand was that the character in the liquid suit have eyes. In our conception, he had no eyes. His head was a dull, grungy black metal shell. We couldn’t understand why this producer wanted him to have eyes. He said it was to make the character more sensitive. He also said it was a deal-breaker if we didn’t comply. My stomach was already in knots over that one when the producer came back and insisted that the character not merely walk into town, but be brought in on a train. This would have played havoc with our budget. I blew a gasket, and then threw the script, which was unbound, in the air and walked out of the room – one of the few times I had ever done that. It came down like confetti all over the hotel room. John Dunning

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I went to sit down on the fire escape stairs in an effort to calm down. Meanwhile, my poor writers had to assemble the script I had just chucked. When I went back into the room a few minutes later, more composed, it was quieter. We had to bite the bullet, the character would have eyes. There was nothing else we could do. Jean-Claude Lord, a hot Quebec film-maker, directed and did a fine job. When shooting wrapped, Don and I headed off to LA with a rough cut to show Fox. John Davis now had a bungalow on the Fox lot, but he insisted that we set up the film on a vcr setup in his weight room. As we were setting up, a red convertible pulled up by the door and window and a curvaceous blonde driver called out: “Johnny!” So Johnny told us he had to leave. There we were in his weight room. We had no idea when he was coming back. I was getting really pissed off and was just about ready to walk out, when the red convertible pulled up forty minutes later and out popped Johnny. We showed him the rough cut. But he was non-committal, mostly owing to the fact that he wasn’t yet too familiar with the movie business. He had no comments, although we were still bugged by the eyes. But they gave us the go-ahead to finish the film, which we did. We later delivered it to Fox with a new title, The Vindicator. One-word titles suggesting revenge were in, like The Terminator. So I scoured my thesaurus and came up with The Vindicator. But it was all for nothing. Fox ended up killing the film. They had done one crappy ad for the film. Then they shelved it for a spell. And finally it went straight to video. André and I were totally disillusioned. We just couldn’t work and live like this. After our adventure on Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone, when the studio sprung us with the 3D at the last minute, we figured we were at the end of the line with the big Hollywood studios. When the studio imposes a producer on you, that producer’s game is to justify his existence with the studio bosses who hired him. So they essentially just want to break your balls. A typical conversation between this producer and the studio bosses would be of this nature: “These guys here don’t know what the hell they’re doing. But, don’t You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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worry, I’m handling it, everything will work out. I’ll make sure of that. Relax.” We were doing our jobs, but the producer’s role was just to be a shit-disturber, always questioning our motives and always calling Hollywood to complain about us but pledging to fix everything. What André and I really learned was that, as independent producers, we didn’t have a chance in hell of working harmoniously with Hollywood studios. No one had confidence in our abilities and we were too far down the food chain to have clout with their system, no matter how efficient we were. It was maddening. •••• And yet, with all those dreadful experiences, we still didn’t learn our lesson. It’s like we really wanted to punish ourselves when we signed on with itc. This renowned English production company had been taken over by Americans. The boss, Jerry Leider, wanted to take advantage of the tax deals still available in Canada in 1986. Jerry also had a woman writer, with whom he was very close both on and off the set. She had written a teen comedy called State Park, the misadventures of three girls on a camping expedition in search of boys. Our attitude was that we would simply cop a fee as producers of this six million dollar movie, and that would be that. Right! The writer came up to Montreal with her script. Don, André, and I then proceeded to look it over. It was a whopping one hundred and sixty pages long! It was just way too long and rambling. It would take us months to shoot. We called Jerry at itc right away and told him we’d have to chop forty pages. He said to shoot it as it was. So, we asked who would direct. He said the man who directed an award-winning short film called The Dancing Policeman. Jerry said he was very artistic. Perhaps, but he had never directed a feature, let alone one with a one hundred and sixty-page script. The director and the rest of us headed up to the Laurentian resort area of Mont Tremblant for shooting. The film got off to a bad start John Dunning

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when Don, who felt uncomfortable with the script, up and left. We understood. He had another film to go to and we had been delayed with all the interference on the production. But his departure put us in a huge hole. Everyone had to move up a notch in our production hierarchy at the last minute. Good thing I had my pacemaker. After shooting just two days, we were already four days behind. This director was as slow as molasses. The film was going down. We had to let him go, so I spoke to the producer imposed on us – who was a decent guy, it turned out – and we agreed that he had to be fired. The director was also a nice guy, but he was just so out of his element. He was really stunned and upset after I gave him the news. He then had his lawyers file an action against us. We decided that Rafael Zelinski, a Montreal director, would be a good choice to replace him. He had just completed a couple of youth films in Florida, but after a run-in with one of the producers, he was keeping a low profile. So he took over, and our next big obstacle was the woman writer who was on the set to make sure her entire script was being shot. Any time there was a question of making a change to the script, she would leave the room and go into an adjoining one. We would hear this rattling coming from the room and we didn’t have a clue what was going on. It sounded like she was rolling dice. Close. She was casting the I Ching. She was making script decisions with the I Ching! This was truly one of the craziest shoots I had ever been part of. Strangest of all, when we finished shooting, we realized we had two separate films. One was about these three girls looking for romance. The other was about these heavy metal guys performing a concert and making out. We called Jerry to tell him we had two films: State Park and Heavy Metal Summer. I suggested we release them separately. He said no. So, our first cut ended up being three and a half hours long. It was a joke. Fortunately, we had the rights for Canada, so we were able to cut a version we liked and released it as Heavy Metal Summer. But itc didn’t have much success with their version. This had been a real learning You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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experience for André and me. We wanted to go back to our low-budget independent film roots. There was just no upside. It wasn’t pleasant. It was all aggravation. •••• Then during this period, the most unimaginable, horrific thing happened. My daughter Valerie died in a car accident on October 10, 1986. She had just turned twenty two days earlier. Previously, she had been working on the set of State Park in the costume department. She was also taking night courses at Concordia University during this period and was hoping to go back to school full time to get into the university’s film program. She liked the business and would have likely ended up in it. She had the makings of a good editor. She had been mixed up a little, as were a lot of people her age, but she was turning her life around. She had an apartment in Lachine and had been at our place for dinner with us that evening. It was on her way back to her apartment when the accident happened. There had been a flashing sign on the road advising of some repair to a bump. This had narrowed the road. We didn’t know exactly what had happened, but we got a call at one in the morning to tell us that our daughter had died. We tried to figure out how. Perhaps a car was coming in the other direction and had to pull out around the sign in the road and had blinded her in the process. She then might have had to pull away, which caused her to jump the curb and hit this iron fence on the side of an estate. The fence bent in the collision and became almost like a ramp, causing her car to flip over. She was crushed and died instantly. If it had been a wooden fence that she hit, she probably would have been fine. A policeman, visiting here from Texas, witnessed the accident and said it was the most bizarre one he had ever seen. I was out that night taking photos of the scene of the accident. And all I know for certain was that the next day the flashing sign in the road was gone. I wondered why it was removed. The repair hadn’t been done. John Dunning

John’s favourite photo of daughter Valerie taken in 1985 in his home office on Comber Avenue in Dorval, Quebec.

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My wife, my son, and I were absolutely devastated by Valerie’s death. I was in a state of total shock. I had come off this nightmarish film production. I was a mess. I ended up with more bouts of tachycardia and a painful autoimmune disorder affecting my thyroid, related to stress. I went off to the Royal Victoria Hospital for a two-day executive health test and it was determined I was suffering from chronic stress. I was put into a programme of meditation and therapy with a therapist that would last two and a half years. I was taught the Harvard meditation plan, which had analyzed all the religions and determined that rote repetition was the key to them all. The constant repetitions of prayer bestowed a therapeutic benefit. They gave me my own mantra, but told me that if I were thinking pleasant thoughts not to use it, that I should follow the power of pleasant thoughts. It was only to be used when having bad thoughts. I would do this twice a day for ten minutes. It not only helped bring down my blood pressure and relax me, but also helped to solve script problems I would have on the job. I still do this meditation today and it’s every bit as therapeutic. This therapist had been treating soldiers during the Second World War who had been suffering what today is called post-traumatic stress disorder, to prepare them to go back into battle. He explained that I had suffered the same sort of stress disorder the soldiers had. But I didn’t go to war, just to film sets. •••• As mentioned, working on low-budget films with ten to twenty day shoots was extremely intense. This is what bonds people in our field. Everyone supports each other and hangs in through sheer will. They’re half-asleep, almost always hit with some sort of virus that wipes out everyone on the set as immune systems crash. But they still function and never pack it in. That’s because there’s real passion and pride in what they do. People always come up after they learn what I do and tell me there must be so much glamour in my world. Not quite. The glamour is at John Dunning

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the film festivals and fancy dinners. That’s another world. That’s not our world in low-budget filmmaking. I heard that Humphrey Bogart had it in his contract that he would never work past five in the afternoon. In our world, though, the clock is always ticking. The pressure is relentless. A major studio is content to shoot a page of script a day. We often have to shoot seven pages a day, and that could include three location changes. It’s crazy. But there’s a certain pride we take in our work. And while others have come and gone over the years in this business, I’m grateful to still be here. It’s been said that good stress is doing something you like and that bad stress is doing something you don’t like to do. Well, I can at least say that I’ve suffered mostly from good stress. Oh yeah, The Vindicator spawned a film called RoboCop. It was a huge hit that became a hit series. And the principal character had no eyes – like our Frankenstein 2000. But he had a shiny metal covering, while we opted for a grungy black metal. Yup, once again, it was close but no bloody cigar.

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

Keep breathing: you never know when life might be worth living again. Graffiti of unknown origin

Mike Paseornek came into our lives in the late 1980s and became an integral part of our operations. He was a great gentle bear of a fellow and extremely creative. He was a writer and had done speeches for several heavy-hitting politicians in Washington DC – including a couple of US presidents. We met, however, on less stately business. We had commissioned a comedy script called Stitches, about the adventures of some young interns and nurses. The humour was to be basic. (“Nurse! I said to prick his boil ...”) The writer we had commissioned was Michel Choquette, who had earned his stripes working on the satirical magazine National Lampoon. He was Canadian and he had a flair for comedy. He brought in Mike as his co-writer. We gave Michel an outline of what we wanted in the Stitches script, but he came back with a jumble that was both our idea and his own idea. It was not only a mess, but it was also a whopping three hundred pages long. Michel was a major talent, but that talent had to be harnessed. So the task was left for me and Mike to weed through it and dredge out the script we wanted from the three hundred pages. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get the film off the ground here. Instead, we sold the script to a producer in LA. But it was the start of a great relationship between us and Mike – who is now president of Lionsgate Productions. Mike had an amazing knack for writing dia-

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John and screenwriter Mike Paseornek survey the action on the set of Snake Eater.

logue. He could do anything: black, white, Jewish. And he had a terrific sense of humour. During this period, video production was all the rage, largely because of the low-cost factor. Mike, André, and I then came up with the concept of a safe-sex video to help combat fear of aids. The video You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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was called Making It Safe and was budgeted at one hundred thousand dollars. It was a quirky concept. We had footage from a condom museum in Ontario and a schtupperware party. We had comedians and adult film stars commenting. Our host was Dr Marian E. Dunn, director of human sexuality at the State University of New York Health Science Center, who spoke about safe-sex techniques. We hired a local actor, François Ouimet, to engage in soft-core lovemaking techniques. Mike supervised the production and directed the New York sequences. We launched the video without great expectations. But, to our amazement, it really touched a chord with the public and it started to win a bunch of awards, such as the Gold Award at the Houston International Film Festival. It was praised to the stars by the Canadian Public Health Association, Canadian Press, TV Guide, and the Toronto Star. And it was even recommended by the American Library Association as one of the best safe-sex videos in the marketplace. We thought we had just struck gold and all at a cost of one hundred thousand dollars – as compared to the millions necessary to make movies. We felt we were on a roll and decided to try our luck on a how-to-win the Lotto video, like the 6/49 lottery. We hired a university student majoring in mathematics for a summer. We wanted him to analyze all the winning numbers over the years and come up with laws of probability for numbers. The idea was to cut down on the odds, which were about ten million to one in terms of winning it all. He came up with a form where the user would pick eleven numbers. But the user required fifty-one dollars to play the necessary fifty-one cards to have a shot at winning something. Our idea was to release the video along with the forms and a game simultaneously. We were all set to shoot and market the video until our lawyers advised us we were treading in dangerous territory. Our legal advisors feared that folks would sue us if they didn’t win. There were just too many entanglements, threats, and worries. So we mothballed the project and kept it on file. Ironically, though, we used the

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system and actually ended up making money by picking three or four numbers. Undaunted, we next dreamed up another sure-fire concept, The Beauty Video: The Deneuve Mystique. French actress Catherine Deneuve was in her prime, and we conceived a script where she would offer advice on everything from travel to culture, plus give beauty tips. Unfortunately, we were unable to convince Deneuve, and that plan went down the pipes as well. Guys could dream, right? But of one thing we were certain: action films were plenty hot all around the world. This brought us into our Snake Eater phase. •••• “Snake Eaters” were jungle fighters engaged by the military in Vietnam. They earned their name by being able to kill snakes, then eat them. They’re still around the US military today. We went with the name, but now we needed a lead. Lorenzo Lamas came to mind. He was hot at the time playing the Latin lover in the smash TV series Falcon Crest. Fortunately, he wanted to prove to others that he could do more than play a Latin lover on the tube. So he signed on and we headed off to New Brunswick to shoot – mostly because we were running into labour problems in Quebec. George Erschbamer, who had done solid, second-unit directing work in State Park, came on as director. George had learned his trade as a special-effects supervisor, dealing with explosions and gunfire. André and I felt he deserved the opportunity to direct, and it proved to be a good decision. We signed Larry Czonka of nfl fame as well as Ron Palillo from the hit TV sitcom Welcome Back, Kotter. This was in keeping with our philosophy of hiring well-known personalities – but from outside the movie biz. This was the story of a bunch of rednecks who torture and kill Snake Eater’s sister, mother, and father on a houseboat. Snake Eater seeks revenge. He finds these hillbilly yobs and eliminates them. So

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far, so good. Our first scene was to take place on the houseboat. Great idea in principle, except that the river was bone dry and our houseboat was left high and dry on the rocks. It escaped the local crews that the river on which we were supposed to shoot emptied out at low tide. So we had to move the boat and everything to a river with water all the time. Apart from that, the most memorable thing about the shoot was a biker gang we hired in Saint John for a scene in the Indiana Jones mould. We had sent our production manager to Saint John to speak to the bikers. They flattened all the tires on his car, but they did agree to participate. I’ll never forget the morning the bikers showed up. I could hear the rumble of their motorcycles at six in the morning. I was with my costume guy. He was gay and he suddenly decided it would be for the best if he didn’t have to dress these bikers. He took off, leaving me to do the job. I was scared shitless at first. I explained to the bikers that they needed a few accessories for the scene. They thought they looked convincing enough as is. But I was finally able to get them to add jewelry, vests, and leather bras for their biker chicks. They turned out to be fine. I just had to be careful in handling them. But they were tough and into every vice imaginable. Fortunately, though, they really liked Lorenzo, because he had a Harley and a bunch of tattoos. It turned out well. And, thankfully, we were able to shoot the other films in Quebec. That’s because every time I flew in or out of the New Brunswick location, I was met by this woman security guard who really had it in for me for reasons I could never figure out. She would insist on inspecting my overnight bag with a fine-tooth comb, almost causing me to miss flights on several occasions. I even considered getting back at her by slathering the crotch of my underwear with peanut butter and grossing her out in the process. But common sense prevailed. Following the release of Snake Eater, we were once again castigated by the usual suspects for being purveyors of schlock. We were being John Dunning

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called the Roger Cormans of Canada – and not as praise – and the critics were chastising us for our lack of cultural content. We started to question ourselves. Was it possible we’d be forever tarred with this brush? Then we came to the realization that we had never made a socially relevant film. We began to ponder if we actually could at this point in our careers. •••• So we were about to clean up our act and surprise many in the process. I had just finished reading a book, Princes in Exile, about a cancer camp for kids. We decided to explore the possibilities of making it into a movie. I called the author and he was ready to sell and write a script. We then optioned the script, got an outline and things started to fall into place. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation bit and signed on. Our search was now for a director. We figured the nature of the project would require a sensitive nfb-director type. This brought us to Giles Walker, a most respected director. We had also distributed two of his earlier films. Giles was a nice guy and an extremely competent filmmaker. But he was not remotely interested in doing this film at first. His wife had just died of cancer, and the subject was too painfully fresh for him. But we continued to pursue him, telling him that it would be a socially significant film for kids, and he finally agreed to direct it. The nfb came in. We already had the cbc and the necessary tax credits. The film turned out to be one of the most wonderful experiences I ever had. In addition to our child actors, we also cast kids suffering with cancer but without acting experience. Their parents were delighted to have them get involved. It was such a warm and human movie, although it did prove difficult on the commercial sales front because of its sad nature. But one of the best parts was the nfb involvement on the technical front, specifically sound. The nfb mixers and engineers did such a magnificent job on the soundtrack. For years, Canadian films had been You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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stigmatized in the US for their “Canadian sound.” That wasn’t a compliment. They complained that our soundtracks were very amateur and they would often re-do them, charging us for them. We then started entering Princes in Exile at different festivals around the world, and we soon started winning a slew of awards in the process. Awards like the Gold Nymph at the Monte Carlo Film Festival, Best Dramatic Feature Film at the Houston International Film Festival, Plum of Honour at the Moscow Film Festival, and Best Screenplay at the Montreal World Film Festival. We felt so gratified winning awards, knowing that we could do socially redeeming movies. Princes in Exile proved to us and to others that we didn’t have to be forever branded as schlockmeisters. Nevertheless, we returned to familiar turf for our next project. We had optioned the rights to Dean Koontz’s Whispers before he became well-known. But as he began to get popular, Koontz wanted to buy the book back. He started making us offers. We paid something like thirty-five thousand US dollars for the rights and now he was offering over one hundred thousand to have them back. So we figured that if he was that anxious to get the book back, maybe we should do it ourselves. Our first task was again finding a director. Enter Douglas Jackson, another veteran nfb director. He had a reputation for always bringing films in on budget. But his talents were unsung and he was a much under-rated director. We cast Jean Leclerc, a Montreal actor who had made a name for himself on the US soap operas, as well as Victoria Tennant and Chris Sarandon. The film was a riveting thriller about a woman author being stalked in her home. Despite the fact that we made a deal with itc to distribute the movie – in retrospect, a mistake – the film surpassed all our expectations. Again, we got some good reviews – Variety hailed it as a superior thriller – and we won awards. And like all our films, this one had its share of quirks, too. We needed beetles. Real beetles. Lots of beetles for a scene in which Jean has to get covered by the critters in the cellar. Through our intrepid research, we discovered that the best beetles came from a facility in John Dunning

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North Carolina. But we worried that by importing five thousand of these beetles into Canada, we could somehow change the ecology of the country if any of them managed to escape – and create a horror movie within the horror movie. However, we got permission to import them from the appropriate government agency. It seems that the beetles, even if they did escape, could never last the winter. For the scene, we also used fake rubber beetles to mix with the live ones. And you really had to hand it to Jean. He lay there covered in beetles. They got into his ears and they would pinch him, but he never complained. •••• It was around this time, in 1989, that our company, Cinepix, joined forces with Cinexus/Famous Players to form cfp Distribution. The move was precipitated after Alliance Productions joined forces with Cineplex Odeon to form their own distribution company. But the condition was that funds released to cfp could only be used in the acquisition of product to be distributed. It could not go toward production. André stayed more involved in the distribution, while I handled production. In the same year, I was able to get Snake Eater II: The Drug Buster off the ground. Or at least I thought I did. sogic (now sodec), the Quebec film-funding agency, sought to disallow the tax credit given the film. The agency said it was not an original script, that it had been written years earlier and that the writers weren’t really Canadian. This was preposterous. Mike Paseornek happened to be a landed immigrant and Don was living in Outremont when the script was written. Still, sogic argued that the script was written before Snake Eater I and therefore could not be considered a true sequel. Our investors were going nuts. We spent almost a year in court trying to straighten things out as our investors were being charged compound interest daily on their tax credits. We would have been lynched by our investors had we lost. Fortunately, the presiding judge had good You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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sense. We explained, apart from the fact that the writers were Canadian, we had indeed written the script, Kelly’s Crazies, before the first Snake Eater but that we decided to adapt it for Snake Eater II. He understood. After two years, we finally won the case and our investors were off the hook. But, man, what a nightmare! There was always something – even when a film didn’t go into production. During this period, I would go to the American Film Market to meet heads of studios and to do the Hollywood pitch. It was the usual routine. Except this one year when Don Carmody and I had lunch with Bob Reamy, a real heavy hitter. Problem was that I was running a fever of close to one hundred and four. So there I was, delirious with fever, making the classic Hollywood pitch to Bob and his colleagues about a movie with a killer baby that, through a genetic mistake, eats through his asshole and shits through his mouth. I was raving. Bob and his boys were absolutely disgusted and horrified. Meanwhile, Don did his best to get me out of there. Mercifully, he succeeded. But, big surprise, the killer-baby movie never did get made. It was tough enough to talk to studio decision-makers in Hollywood in person. But on the phone from Montreal, it was pretty much impossible. We referred to it as the “call-back nightmare.” You have to get by the assistant to the executive you’re trying to reach. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll be put on the call-back list. But you have to get their support, or else you’re dead. Then again, with the advent of email, it has become even more impossible to get through. We took to calling this advance in technology “the Wall of Silence.” And it was.

John Dunning

I am hurt, but I am not slain, I’ll lay me down and bleed a while, And then I’ll rise and fight again. St Barton’s Ode

With the influx of capital from Famous, our theatrical and video distribution units grew by leaps and bounds. André was looking for capable talent from Toronto to assist in the growing number of acquisitions to be released. He needed a top-flight executive to steer the company along the path that the relationship with Famous required. He met with Jeff Sackman. They hit it off immediately, and an arrangement was made. Jeff became executive vice-president of cfp, responsible for all of cfp’s English-language activities, including those in the US. We had opened an office in New York City – headed by Mike Paseornek – to maintain a US presence. Jeff had been vice-president of Cineplex Odeon Films before joining us. Personable and adept at deal-making, Jeff had both the drive and resolve to keep the company going forward. Now cfp needed a francophone executive officer in Quebec. Christian Larouche was our man. He was a true Cinepix success story, having started with the company as a driver and working his way up through the ranks. He displayed a tremendous eagerness to learn all facets of the company’s many and diverse departments. So we named him senior vice-president of French Canada Operations. We also named Mara DiPasquale – who had come over from Price Waterhouse – senior vice-president of Finance.

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With all these titles being bandied about, I ended up with the title of chairman. Alas, I had no experience in dealing with the more formal administration of the business, and a power struggle would ensue as more and more department heads came on board. André always said that loyalty goes to the person who hires you and signs your paycheque. But as I had hired no one, I could feel the rumble of distant thunder for my future in such a major developing corporate enterprise. It was definitely beginning to feel a little schizoid. We had cfp for distribution and Cinepix for production. But with all the energy being devoted to cfp, Cinepix production went on the back burner. I began occupying myself with overseeing the marketing of our videos as well as supervising our art department for theatrical releases and corporate advertising. In hoping to have Cinepix focus on the future, I also continued to look at projects and develop scripts in tandem with Mike in New York. The growth of the video-retail business and our lack of production gave me the time to develop an idea that had been percolating for a while in my head: how to cash in on this escalating growth industry. Video-rental outlets were popping up everywhere. But I took a different tack. I had an idea to create a video store that would cater to collectors. My son Greg was completing his mba at Michigan, so I asked him if he and a few of his buddies could come up with a business plan for a sell-through store. They came up with Video Shoppers World. We picked Ottawa for our first store, largely because advertising wasn’t expensive there and per-capita income was high. Greg started to run the store, along with his friend Ian Amos. While I underwrote the majority of costs, André came through with some of the financing, even though he detested the idea of getting into retail sales. The concept took off, but we had not taken into consideration the amount that the studios were charging. Our mark-up wasn’t high enough. We needed a buying volume from a host of stores to allow us to make better deals with suppliers. We then opened a second store in Toronto. Big mistake. The cost John Dunning

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of advertising killed us. I couldn’t interest cfp in participating and had no knowledge about how to land financing from the private sector. So, eventually I had to close it down. The internet was just getting going, and we thus missed a golden opportunity to expand Video Shoppers World globally without the necessity of having stores and massive overheads as a consequence. I took a fairly strong financial hit, but I was at least somewhat comforted by the pleasure we were able to give those collectors who had supported us. What surprised even me were the diverse interests of the video collectors: One fellow collected only old Republic serials; a woman had a fondness for only mgm musicals; and another customer was solely interested in Japanese animation. Unfortunately, I soon came to the realization that the restriction on production imposed on us by the Famous agreement would prevent us from the possibility of attracting investment financing with the view to eventually going public. We needed to combine both production and distribution under one roof to attract this funding. So we re-acquired our release from the Famous deal. We kept the cfp name, which had become well-known and respected. We were now Cinepix Film Properties, combining both the assets of Cinepix and Famous. Famous had given us reasonable repayment terms for their interest. So we were off and running. Meanwhile, the Snake Eater series was successfully racking up foreign sales. The films had been acclaimed as both action-packed and brimming with tongue-in-cheek humour. So we mounted a third in the series through Cinepix, Snake Eater III: His Law. Lamas initially planned to come aboard again for what was to be his last Snake Eater. But he was demanding a higher salary plus a percentage in the production, which was too much for us to accept. Eventually, he ended up starring in a successful and syndicated TV series in which he played pretty much the same character as he had done with us. Employing our usual format in casting established celebrities from outside the acting profession, we made a deal with World Wrestling Federation star Bam Bam Bigelow to play the biker gang leader, who You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

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kidnaps and rapes a young college student. The film was once again shot in Montreal, with George Erschbamer directing. Much of the filming was done in a quarry, where we could do all the explosions and action sequences in peace. We blew up the bikers’ clubhouse and some motorbikes there, but one of the charges on a bike was excessive. The explosion went over thirty feet high and had us scrambling to avoid bike parts falling on our heads. Never a dull moment in this business. The film not only turned out well, but had the distinction of becoming the first Canadian film bought for general release in China. •••• André and I had always been toying with the idea of doing something with the incredible costume that Stan Winston had designed for us for The Vindicator. It had been gathering dust in my basement for years. So along with Mike in New York, we kicked around a few ideas. This was just the beginning of the rave scene, an underground cult phenomenon where the young and restless assembled on deserted locations to drink, drug, and dance to the progressive music being spun out by DJs. These were all-night affairs that attracted thousands. So it occurred to us that if we made a movie depicting this subculture, it could get the attention of the all-important youth market. Mike put together a script which we had developed about a rock star who loses both his hands in an accident but, with the help of some computer wizards, gets to play with artificial parts. He hides himself in a futuristic suit and bills himself as Cyberstorm. Now a success, he is able to reconcile with his estranged girlfriend who had supported him during his rough stretch. We were able to sign Christina Applegate, who was hot at the time, thanks to her TV series Married with Children. But she had stipulated that she would only take the part if we hired James Marshall to play the lead. He wasn’t our first choice, but we agreed. And he did, after all, have the reputation of being a hot up-and-comer as a result of his work in the hit Twin Peaks TV series. John Dunning

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The film was to be shot in New York City, with all its gritty locations. It was to be our first experience in the Big Apple. We were pumped. We rented a studio in Brooklyn, where we were to build some sets. We hired a woman contractor for the set construction. She, in turn, oversaw a group of female carpenters and painters, collectively known as the Lesbians from Hell. Their work was first-class and it came in on time and budget. Just adjacent to our studio was a large Orthodox Jewish community. Many of the merchants who lived there worked in Manhattan’s diamond centre. They would carry small fortunes in their paper lunch bags. If a stranger wandered through their community, the inhabitants, equipped with whistles, would signal a warning until a number of men would gather around the stranger and walk him out of the district. It could be very intimidating. The unions were very sensitive about non-union shoots in New York City, but we were very low-budget and we kept a very low profile. We managed to get by with everyone but the Teamsters. They forced us to take one union driver and pay him the union rate. He sat in a truck all day and all night and never did anything other than read a newspaper. One night, the sports car of our make-up/hair guy had its wheels stolen right in front of where the Teamster driver was parked. He just let it happen. Mike kept his cool throughout and handled the talent well. For the raves, we conscripted some well-known DJ ensembles like Utah Saints, Moses on Acid, and U96. The shoot went well and we finished the film without major incident. Now the challenge was to get it distributed. I felt it had a good chance to connect with the teen market. The major studios had developed a saturation release pattern for their features. They would book two thousand to three thousand theatres to play the film simultaneously and they would spend millions on national advertising to promote it. We simply didn’t have the means or money to do this. I had an idea about launching the film on five or six screens in a small area of the US and spending a good amount on promotion. The people in that region wouldn’t know that it wasn’t a national release You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

John and André pose with their Genies in 1993.

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because we would match the majors in media exposure. It was a gamble, but times had changed. Now you had to convince a gaggle of company execs on such a plan, and this wasn’t my forte. In the end, we decided to take this approach in a few theatres in Quebec. It didn’t work. Quebec wasn’t ready for a film about raves, so off it went to video. •••• Around this time, the Academy of Canadian Cinema and Television presented André and me with the Air Canada Genie Award for Outstanding Contribution to the Canadian filmmaking industry. The Genies are Canada’s answer to the Oscars, and we were truly touched. André did the acceptance as I, fidgeting in my rented tuxedo, was fighting my sociophobia and remained mute throughout. My God! We had come a long way from our humble and sometimes reviled beginnings. We were now being covered with the blanket of respectability. Needless to say, we were taken aback. In the midst of this excitement, we were visited by Harry Alan Towers, an engaging rogue with whom we occasionally crossed paths. If there were a tax advantage to be found somewhere in the world, you were sure to find Harry there. He had this uncanny tenacity and ability to put together the most complex of production deals. He practically lived in airplanes and by the age-old adage: “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” And he didn’t. His constant movements made him hard to pin down if and when problems arose from his deals. His base was Toronto, a place he seldom seemed to visit. Harry presented us with a deal to make two movies in Russia. He told us that he had permission from author Len Deighton for the use of his fictional hero’s name, Harry Palmer, as well as a commitment from Michael Caine – who had starred in the Deighton adaptations of The Ipcress File and Funeral in Berlin – to assume the lead role. Jason Connery, son of Sean Connery, was to play in both films, while Michael Sarrazin was our Canadian acting contribution. These were

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to be English/Russian/Canadian co-productions – with us as the Canadian component. It was a complicated deal, but off we dispatched the Canadian component of the production team, including director George Mihalka. Production proceeded, but not without problems. One was the difficulty in doing chase scenes in Moscow. It seemed that different parts of the city were controlled by the Russian mob, and we had to deal with them financially or else they would disrupt our shoot. It was the old protection racket. In one instance, one of the cars in a chase sequence was supposed to clip a mail box on the sidewalk. The Russian set-makers were to make a dummy light mail box because the real ones were made of cast iron. But when the driver did the stunt, he hit a real cast-iron box instead. They had not bothered to change it. Luckily, he was not badly injured. But when the driver went to berate the Russians for this snafu, they told him he’d better go or they would kill him. At one point, even Michael Caine was threatened and he expressed an interest in leaving the production. The final problem occurred when, in finishing the first film, Bullet to Beijing, director Mihalka broke his leg. So we desperately needed another director for the second, Midnight in Saint Petersburg. Fortunately, Doug Jackson was available, and he had the advantage of being married to a Russian – which was a huge plus. The films were both completed, but they never played theatrically in the US, ending up as Showtime cable premieres. But cfp scored quite the distribution coup when Jeff Sackman succeeded in landing distribution rights for Miramax Productions in Canada. Turns out Sackman was tight with Miramax’s Harvey Weinstein. The good news was that it enabled cfp to gets its mitts on such film classics as The Crying Game, Like Water for Chocolate, Strictly Ballroom, Il Postino, and The Piano. But the bad news was that it sucked up mostly all cfp’s financial resources as Miramax structured a heavy financial deal, albeit one that enhanced our status in the distribution field and garnered the attention of various investment groups. John Dunning

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But because of this focus on distribution, Jeff was in favour of cfp doing pick-ups on ready-made productions rather than financing our own films. This was a blow to me since I felt we could still do some of our productions with pre-sales as well as dealing in pick-ups. What this really meant was that the chance of a break-out high-concept film disappeared. I had to accept the fact that the financing simply wasn’t there and thus had to adapt to the new circumstance of dealing with pick-ups – to see that they had at least some production value in the script and that they might be able to go to the screen. It wasn’t an auspicious start. These pick-up deals were now made in Toronto. The first was to be Ski School 2, a sequel to Ski School. And let’s just say we would have been better off if we had added an “n” to Ski. So it was. And so it went. It was the end of an era for me.

You’re Not Dead until You’re Forgotten

E P I LO G U E Bill Brownstein

John Dunning stopped writing his story in 2004. With no production possibilities available via the Lionsgate gatekeepers, he contented himself with helping staff editors fix the story and sound problems that were rife in the pick-ups that were being acquired. Then he would lend a hand to the graphics department in the design of the posters, newspaper ads, and dvd packaging. One morning in 2005, while completing his morning bike ride ritual, he was struck by a motorist who ran a stop sign. He spent four months recuperating at the Montreal General Hospital and another year getting back on his feet, but he had lost a step. Also, while in the hospital, he learned that he had multiple myeloma. The oncologists at the General were reluctant to treat his cancer but he convinced them otherwise. Inspired by Paramount’s surprisingly successful catalogue dvd release of My Bloody Valentine, Dunning and screenwriter Lorenzo Orzari began work on a sequel. The story incorporated the legendary eight minutes of gore that was cut (and archived by Dunning) from the original Paramount release, and ten ingenious new “bloody hits.” Paramount, of course, passed on the sequel but Lionsgate bought it, along with the remake rights. The remake, My Bloody Valentine 3D, was released in January 2009 and grossed over fifty million dollars in

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North America and over one hundred million worldwide. In 2010, the rights to the sequel’s bloody hits reverted back to Dunning, and so the two screenwriters began writing a new thriller centered on the theme of teen bullying. They finished the script in May of 2011. Dunning died on 19 September 2011.

Epilogue

Testimonials FROM DUNNING’S COLLEAGUES You only fail when you quit. Unknown

André Link

They had a partnership that defied all odds. It lasted more than forty years – longer than most marriages and certainly much longer than most business marriages. And yet there was nary a harsh word uttered between them. They never fought. They had the perfect symbiotic relationship: John Dunning made the creative decisions and André Link made the commercial decisions. The system worked like a charm. The two gentlemen prospered like few in the business and like almost no one in Canada before them. Nor were they dependent on government. But whatever they borrowed, they, unlike almost everyone in the Canadian film biz, paid back. True, they were mostly peddling soft-porn, horror, and schlock, but they also provided work for so many filmmakers across the country and launched the careers of some of the biggest names in the business. But when the end came to their golden era, Dunning was bitter that he could no longer pursue his trade. Link, on the other hand, recognized the fact that the gauntlet had been passed, and eagerly accepted the windfall from the transformation of Cinepix into Lionsgate. Dunning and Link started Cinepix in 1962. Prior to the firm’s creation, Link had already known Dunning professionally. But Dunning already had a partner: Wilfrid Dodd. The two wanted to hire Link, but the latter declared he would not leave the TV production company

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where he had been working unless he was to become a full partner at the new operation. “I was thinking of making a career change anyway,” Link recalls. “I was thirty at the time, so we decided that for a year I wouldn’t draw any salary, but if after a year they were happy, and I was happy, I would get a one-third interest. So that’s how we started out.” Dodd cashed out a few years later and Dunning and Link then became fifty-fifty partners. “It was sort of a strange relationship because, first of all, we were really alter-egos. John was consulted in all the financial transactions that were proposed and I was involved in all the productions in one way or another. He called me ‘the Suit.’ He was the artistic side, but nevertheless there were a number of projects we developed together. “We had a very strange arrangement that I don’t think many people have in a partnership: that is, if either of us was reluctant to go into a venture, then there was no veto. The one that was reluctant had to go along with the one that was adamant about the deal. That wasn’t written – it was an understanding. But you really had to be sure of what you were doing because you were dragging along your partner. So that was why we had a very amicable – and I would say risk-taking and ambitious – arrangement, because we were never blocked. If one of us wanted to do something, we dragged the other one along. “We were like Siamese twins, joined in business together right to the end. We had to take into account it was not just a partnership, but it was also a friendship, almost like a brother relationship. We were very close. Our wives were close to each other. It was really a marriage made in heaven in every way you look at it.” Cinepix began in humble quarters, at a studio Dunning had repossessed. The two partners occupied the two makeup rooms. They had one assistant between them, and that was it. But then they grew and they grew. They had a great run together. “I would say we did the whole spectrum, from the sublime to the ridiculous,” Link says. “We found niches that were not really developed at the time. We really initiated certain trends. We were not really Testimonials

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supported by Telefilm Canada. We were the black sheep. We actually made money, and that was not the Canadian way. Most in the business here sucked on the tit of Telefilm. They made movies that were ‘socially meaningful’ – though I don’t really believe they were meaningful. We were left out in the cold, with our asses in the sling and we didn’t make films with other peoples’ money. We risked our own, and sometimes we lost, and lost heavily, and sometimes we made great financial successes.” Dunning and Link occasionally broke from their tradition and did a “socially meaningful” film like Giles Walker’s Princes in Exiles, a poignant look at a camp for kids suffering from cancer. Not surprisingly, that is the Cinepix film that Link is most proud of. “That’s when we proved we could make films that are socially important. It was a limited financial success. But that was a demonstration that we could make films that win awards at the festivals.” But it was certainly no Meatballs, which remains one of the most financially successful films ever to emerge from Canada. For Link, like Dunning, took great pride in being able to kick-start the career of Meatballs director Ivan Reitman. “That was so gratifying. We also helped to launch the career of David Cronenberg, with whom we did two films. On the French side, we did films with Denys Arcand.” But Cinepix’s real bread-and-butter came from the distribution of the films made by other producers, not only in Canada but worldwide as well. “That was quite something, when no one in Canada sold pictures, and the nfb was just giving their films away. “When we went with Valérie to Cannes and made sales worldwide, a distributor from Portugal said he wanted five prints. I told him he could order as many prints as he wanted, but he would have to pay for them. He told me he did business with the nfb and didn’t pay royalties. He would just get prints. I told him this was a different ballgame. With us, one had to buy the rights to distribute and then go to the lab and make as many prints as they wanted. But that’s what we were up against making commercial films in Canada.” Link and Dunning had intended to go public as a means of raising André Link

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funds for their film ventures. “But we were not considered important enough. So we raised ten million dollars in loans from several banks. With the cash requirements to run a distribution business, we were so exposed that we really had to watch every payday. When we bought films, we had to figure out how to pay for them. It was an infernal machine and we couldn’t go on. We couldn’t go on our own and going public was not easy. Plus, the Canadian banks were extremely tight. And we had to guarantee everything we had as collateral, but even there we hit a wall. “Then we met Frank Giustra. He had the financial resources, and he had the entrée to Bay Street. We raised something like seventy-five million dollars. He thought Canada was small potatoes. He gave sixty million to (US producer) Peter Guber who fleeced us. So we lost. We got back five million about four or five years after, and that put us in the poorhouse. We were not any better than before. We hit some very difficult times. That’s when we got involved with Jon Feltheimer and Michael Burns, who were backed by LA money. They managed to get funds, issue bonds. It then became an operation that grew and grew out of LA. “I would say we were first exiled to Canada, but then things grew so much in the US. They built up an infrastructure there and neither John nor I felt like going out and living in Hollywood. So, we got sort of cut off from the decision-making, even though I was at that time president and ceo and then a member of the board.” And so their Cinepix operation, which became cfp, got bought and was swallowed into what has now become Lionsgate. “They installed certain systems that I could agree with, and we started producing in the US. They had departments: home video, TV, regular distribution, and a green-lighting system that I was part of, but I was only one of five or six voices. It became very, very difficult and, frankly, there was a prejudice against Canadian film. “They bought us when Giustra came in. That was in 1998. We got shares. But then Lionsgate got somewhat taken over by Feltheimer and Burns. And that’s when the decision-making shifted. Because until it Testimonials

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was Lionsgate, and Giustra had made the huge mistake of giving so much money to Peter Guber, we still ran Canada and the US operation with Jeff Sackman. And we could do pretty well what we wanted within our means. But when Feltheimer and Burns came in, and they got money from a number of sources, it became a big holding company that had involvement in every major studio. It became a mini-major in the US. At that point the Weinstein brothers were more important than we were but gradually we overtook them. Then they sold to Disney, and we were the only mini-major.” And suddenly around the turn of the millennium, Dunning and Link’s employment contracts ran out. Dunning got a development deal with Lionsgate, which gave him a salary and a secretary and development money for three years. Link stayed with the executive branch of the company, until he left in 2005 – which was around the same time Dunning’s contract expired. Then the two were simply shareholders. “We liquidated our shares, but, unfortunately, too soon. Still, we sold at a good price, because it was at the time when Icahn tried to take over the company. We sold out at seven dollars-plus a share, but today it’s fifteen dollars. If John had lived longer, he would not have sold and we would have made more money, but we can’t really complain on that front. “But John got very frustrated, because the projects he tried to develop were shut down by LA. They were shut down partially because of the prejudice against Canadian productions, but partially because one of our last ones really bombed. So there was a reluctance to continue producing in Canada. Telefilm was not investing in any of our films, the tax shelter disappeared and the only advantage was the tax credit on Canadian employment. Even there we had such restrictions that either the scriptwriter or the director had to be Canadian, or from Quebec if you were making them here. “They just simply said, well, if we want to make a film, we make a film and are not bound by all kinds of cockamamie rules. That was when John became really upset, because he had some decent projects and he couldn’t get them going. And there was one person there, Joe André Link

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Drake, who was like the bête noire for John. Joe was the one who had to do foreign sales. In order to green-light a film under Lionsgate, every department had to put in an estimate and had to sign it. They were held responsible, not financially, as far as their prediction was of what was the worst-case scenario. Joe Drake wasn’t that friendly with John, and, systematically, I would say that he was a blocking person. That’s when John became really disenchanted.” Regardless, Link remained highly respectful of his partner’s filmmaking acumen. “John knew film, even though he didn’t go to any film school. He was the best editor I’ve ever known. When he was reading a script and making corrections in a script, he was already editing the film, and in many cases he saved the film with his editing. The first time we saw the cut on Shivers which David Cronenberg made, he had to re-cut the whole film because David was learning, too. John had an incredible relationship with talent, be it directors or writers. He could be trusted by the talent. “I was not the one trusted by the talent, because I was negotiating with them. But John was really involved and respected. He also wrote very well. That was his forte, and suddenly that was all taken away. But it was taken away because, in part, John didn’t want to move to LA, and be in a milieu where he would make alliances with agents, talent and so on. He was really good with talent here, but he was totally unknown there aside from just a few people.” Dunning was also not a schmoozer, particularly outside of his circle of colleagues. “John had stage fright,” Link points out. “So when we had to attend awards galas and the like, he was not only uncomfortable, but he was also very anxious, even making the shortest acceptance speech. So he was not developing his contacts and networking. “The business has changed so much today from the business that we started in 1962. Now it’s all digital, and with the quasi-disappearance of dvds, everything has changed. The networks buy a lot less feature films. Now it’s the specialty channels, but it’s not the same.

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That really started in the ’90s when there was a shift and low-budget films no longer had the same kind of market. “John was hurt, but he never gave up. Never. He was writing scripts, even though we were overtaken by time, by age. Even though cinema is protected by governments in Europe and Canada, the only place where there is really a market and a business is Los Angeles. We had chances along the way to go to the US, but we didn’t want to live there. If we had done that, the whole story probably would have been different. Bottom line: John was very unhappy when his artistic power was taken away, even though he never gave up.” Yet in spite of the changes to their business and in spite of the fact that Dunning became embittered while Link learned to accept the new reality, the relationship between the two never faltered. “I think that right to the end, although we were in different positions, we were still very tight,” Link maintains. “After 2006, I stopped being involved with film and started more in the investment field. The point was that the centre of decision had shifted. Both Jeff Sackman and I were sort of out of the loop. Not as much as John, but still. So the point was, because of the structure, if you were not there and championing your film, it was easily dismissed. Although he had a development deal, John got disenchanted with the fact that the project he wanted to develop didn’t really have a home. It was difficult for him to realize that once we sold and they took over, that it was Feltheimer and Burns running the show. Even though John had a champion – Mike Paseornek who was president of production – it was not feasible for him to continue in the role he once had, and that was something that disappointed him. Not financially, but from a creative standpoint, that was hurting him. “I lasted a little longer, but I don’t think he was bitter regarding me. I never felt that. Sure, financially it was a good thing for him, but from an artistic point of view, he lost his power. Really, both of us lived modestly; we were not big spenders. “There are mergers and acquisitions all the time in this business.

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It’s a ruthless business. You may have the best parking spot one day, but then the next day somebody else is in there. Am I happy to be out of the business now? Absolutely.” The irony is that for someone who wanted no part of the film business when he was young, Dunning just couldn’t quit it at the end. “That is so true,” Link says. “After he was hit on his bicycle, when he was in and out of emergency at the hospital, it slowed him down a little but it couldn’t stop him. Before that, when he was healthy, he was just so determined to keep it going like he always had. They say that in this business, if you are totally hooked, they have to carry you out. That’s what John was. He just felt that his creativity was no longer in demand and that made him bitter – understandably so. “The funny thing is that John could have been a great director. But his heart issues at first required him to be close to a hospital at all times – until he got his pacemaker. But by then, it was too late to start to be a director. The reality was that he directed the directors! He watched the rushes every day, told them what to do, sent memos, what to cover, what to re-shoot. He was really hands-on. But John was also a producer in every sense. He was in command on the artistic end, and I was the money. “He still felt he had the wherewithal to do more, but when his role became illusory, he felt he was no longer doing what he wanted to do. But John always remained a rare gentleman in this jungle.”

Testimonials

David Cronenberg

He’s been hailed as “the most audacious and challenging narrative director in the English-speaking world.” He is the recipient of the 2014 Lifetime Achievement Award from the Canadian Screen Awards and is among the most visionary filmmakers not only in his native Canada, but throughout the world. And who does David Cronenberg consider his movie mentor? That would be John Dunning, whom Cronenberg credits for helping launch his career. Cronenberg is considered to be the father of the “body horror” film genre, one that graphically explores the fear humans have of uncontrolled physical changes to their bodies. It was Dunning’s Cinepix that, in the mid-1970s, backed a then-unknown Cronenberg on Shivers and Rabid, two of the films that helped define the body horror genre and would serve as a springboard for the man who would go on to be dubbed “Canada’s master of the macabre.” “Cinepix was an oasis in a movie-making desert,” Cronenberg asserts. “And John introduced the reality principle into my filmmaking, and he did it in the sweetest, most enticing way.” This is high praise from a man who would go on to make some of the most provocative films ever to surface at the multiplex: Dead Ringers, Crash, Naked Lunch, A History of Violence, Eastern Promises, Cosmopolis. Some may have difficulty with the Torontonian’s slasher-film roots, but Dunning, among many others, felt that Cronenberg be placed on

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the same pedestal as Hitchcock, Scorsese, and Spielberg for his contributions to culture. After all, Cronenberg did to trips to the gynecologist in Dead Ringers what Spielberg did to dunks in the ocean in Jaws: he made folks most leery. Cronenberg has been able to craft images in his movies that are bold, intoxicating, and masterfully conceived – images will linger with the susceptible for decades. But it’s more than shock value: he also plays billiards with our brains. Few people even dare to dream the visions that dance through Cronenberg’s fevered mind, and far fewer would ever dare to back that madness on a movie screen. But Dunning did, and marvelled at Cronenberg’s evolution. Cronenberg’s fascination with matters frightening began in high school, when he wrote self-described “dark stories.” While studying at the University of Toronto, he crossed over to film with shorts like From the Drain. “But John was really my film school,” reflects Cronenberg. “I had done some underground films and was influenced by the New York underground, where you just grab a camera and do it yourself. But I had no understanding really of a professional film set, professional filmmaking, or distribution. And after I had made my two underground films, Stereo and Crimes of the Future, I decided that if I was really going to continue making films, I was going to have to make money doing it and would have to do it on a professional level. “And the only place in Canada where films were being made was Cinepix. So I went to Montreal to meet with John and to propose getting involved with him as a director; he would produce. Cinepix was making these very gentle erotic films, and I showed John my two underground films. In assessing me, John said he knew I had a very strong sexual sensibility in cinema, but we’re just not sure what kind it is,” Cronenberg laughs. “My movies were very androgynous and multi-sexual. And I thought his assessment was rather accurate and sweet and funny. The thing was that John was very sweet and funny, which made me, a neophyte filmmaker, much more relaxed. He really paid attention to me

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and allowed me to shoot a scene for him on a film he was about to make, with a girl having sex on a swing. I was shooting from all kinds of crazy angles. But I was trying too hard. So he wasn’t that impressed with me as a potential commercial director.” But Cronenberg was entranced by the scene at Cinepix headquarters. He realized he could learn much from Dunning. Not long after their first meetings, Cronenberg brought him his script for Shivers. “He was very excited about the script. They could sell their erotic films in Europe, but not in America. Here was for the first time a genre film, a low-budget horror film, that he could sell in America. But they didn’t really want me to be the director. They weren’t convinced I could direct a commercial film, especially considering we would have a very short schedule for a very low-budget film. I spent a lot of time trying to convince John that I could do it.” He finally went to the Canadian Film Development Corporation [now called Telefilm Canada] to see if he could get money from the government to invest in the film. The cfdc was very reluctant because they had never before seen anything like I was writing. They were kind of shocked actually, because they were really doing National Film Board films about wheat and farmers and fishermen and how difficult life on the prairies was. But here was something really different, a genre film that was not being made in Canada.” Cronenberg figured he would have to uproot to the US to get his films made. His Toronto crony Lorne Michaels – who would go on to create Saturday Night Live – was in Los Angeles working on a Lily Tomlin TV special. So Cronenberg headed down to LA to show Shivers around to various industry players, including Roger Corman’s people. “Everyone was telling me it was a great concept and they would definitely make the film,” he recalls. “So I came back to Toronto thinking that I was going to have to move to LA – something I really didn’t want to do. Then I got a phone call from John telling me that the cfdc had finally caved and agreed to put money into Shivers – or as we were calling it then, Orgy of the Blood Parasites. That’s really what kept me in Canada – John, Cinepix, and the cfdc.” Testimonials

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Cronenberg ended up commuting on his Ducati motorcycle between Toronto and Montreal. He spent much time hanging with Dunning at Cinepix’s offices. “John was incredibly open with me. I’d be there all night. I was practically living in his offices. Everything was lying around, so I would check it all out. I was so very curious about how the business was run, because I was so very ignorant of that. “In the first production meeting I had, I had no idea who any of these people were. Didn’t know what a production manager was, what an assistant director was. I didn’t know what their functions were. But John really shepherded me through the whole process. It was like an intensive film school for me. And he was always so incredibly kind and sweet about it. And very funny as well, in terms of how you deal with crazed actors and the adventures he had with them. He would tell wonderful stories about the experiences others had making films for him. I understood about art film, underground film, but John taught me about commercial filmmaking. The mechanics, the organization of it. The relationship you have with your audience. “It was a very congenial introduction for me to a business that’s actually pretty tough. John was the key there. When I did Rabid a couple of years later, John offered me his country place with my then-girlfriend, who would later become my wife. We just stayed there while I was writing Rabid. He really helped me through many crises of confidence – that it was ridiculous, too insane, that it was never going to work. He just marshaled me through it. He nurtured me. He was so capable and understood all those aspects of filmmaking from makeup to costume to cinematography. “And so we basically got the movie made, which was very difficult because Robert Fulford – writing as Marshall Delaney for Saturday Night magazine – really slammed Shivers. The cfdc got really sensitive about that. It was just bad publicity that the government should put money into some hideous horror film – the way that it was described.” Regardless, Shivers – or Orgy of the Blood Parasites or The Parasite Murders as it was also called – was made for one hundred and eightyDavid Cronenberg

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five thousand dollars and was the hit of the Cannes film fest in 1975. It went on to gross more than five million dollars. “It may have been the first movie the cfdc invested in that made money for them,” Cronenberg quips. “John had to find ways to get Rabid made. He tried putting it together in a package, so it would kind of be invisible. He tried many ways, and once again the cfdc caved and put money into it. But it took a lot of cajoling and manoeuvring to get that to happen.” One can only imagine how cfdc execs reacted. If they thought Shivers – wherein Cronenberg lets a pack of sexually twisted parasites loose in a high-rise apartment building – was a tad risqué, it’s a good bet they were less amused with Rabid, featuring porn star Marilyn Chambers with an insatiable hankering for human blood. “I think by then they accepted that they themselves didn’t really understand the genre, but it obviously worked, because the first movie made money and was starting to be considered a cult classic and it only cost one hundred and eighty-five thousand. But it was Fulford’s article that really delayed the progress of my career for a couple of years. He denies that, of course. He thinks he gave me a kind of an edgy cachet. So John had to overcome that as well as the usual kind of difficulties. “Sure, I wrote the scripts, but John was the one to appreciate that this was something new, interesting, and quite striking. Obviously, not everyone reading the scripts would have that reaction. He understood what I was trying to do, even if it was not something he would have ever imagined to begin with. Yet once he saw what I wrote, he got it and understood the appeal, the resonance, the symbolism of it all. The whole fear of disease, death, and mortality. He also lived that. “Now the so-called ‘body horror’ – which is not something I ever named it – has become a genre in itself. It’s been used even in the movie Alien. There were a lot of things taken from my film Shivers. I had parasites that bred in your body and burned their way out of you, then leapt on to your face. Basically, those early films have, let’s say, influenced people.”

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Cronenberg understands the angst Dunning felt after Cinepix was sold to Lionsgate. “I could see it coming. I had seen it at a distance with Ted Turner and Bob Shaye at New Line. After New Line was sold to Turner, Turner got rid of Shaye – just like Turner was turfed out of cnn. The line they all use is: ‘But you sold the company. What do you expect?’ Often they expect that they will have the same control. But it’s a delusion. That never, ever happens.” Cronenberg remembers calling Dunning after the latter had suffered serious injuries when the bike he was riding got hit by a car. Many believed Dunning would not recover and ever get back to work. Cronenberg, for his part, had no doubt that the indomitable Dunning would be back. “I was very happy to tell him then how important he was to me and how he had been my film school. And not just me, but so many other filmmakers as well. And for that, John Dunning should never be forgotten. He was an archetypal filmmaker, working with no problem with both anglo and franco filmmakers before that was in vogue. He had such huge passion for the process and the medium. And he did it very much alone, in a kind of desert. “Again, Cinepix was an oasis in that movie-making desert.”

David Cronenberg

Don Carmody

He has over one hundred film credits. His productions have grossed somewhere north of two billion dollars. One of his films won the Oscar for best picture. John Dunning was immensely proud of Don Carmody, whose ascent in the movie world shot past one of his first employers and mentors. Like Dunning, Carmody tends to avoid the spotlight and as such, his name is not bandied about like those of many contemporary Hollywood players. But his record speaks for itself: Carmody was involved with such top grossing films as Meatballs, Porky’s, and Resident Evil: Afterlife – the latter, a Canadian box-office record holder, after taking the title away from the two previous pictures. Carmody also had a hand in the production of such David Cronenberg splatter pics as Shivers and Rabid. Carmody worked his way up from being Julie Christie’s – unpaid – driver on the epic Robert Altman anti-Western, McCabe and Mrs Miller, to serving as a location manager on the screen adaptation of Mordecai Richler’s The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, to producing the Oscar winners Good Will Hunting and the musical Chicago – which netted the Academy Award for Best Picture in 2002. Over the years, Carmody has worked with some of the biggest and most re-

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spected names in the business: Jack Nicholson, Sean Penn, Robert De Niro, Hillary Swank, Gene Hackman, Morgan Freeman. Carmody, a native of Braintree, Massachusetts, was raised and educated in Montreal, and graduated from Concordia University film school. He later went on to get a degree in law from McGill University. Not long after, he served as vice-president of production for Dunning and André Link’s Cinepix. But following the release and success of Meatballs, he started his own production company in 1980 and operated out of Hollywood and Toronto. In addition to film, Carmody later diversified into the theatre world with the touring production of Evil Dead: The Musical, a send-up of Sam Raimi’s cult horror flicks. But it was well before Carmody toiled in production at Cinepix that he had his first contact with the company. While studying film in the early 1970s, he approached Cinepix about a job. A Dunning assistant informed Carmody there were no production jobs available. “But if you want to be in an orgy scene, we can hire you as an extra for the skin flick Le diable est parmi nous,” recalls Carmody of what was said. Carmody turned down the opportunity and went back to working as a lifeguard that summer. However, shortly after graduating from film school, Carmody was to get another opportunity at Cinepix. He was hired to work on the film U-Turn, directed by George Kaczender (who later went on to make In Praise of Older Women). “They started shooting outside Smith Falls, Ontario, and one of my jobs was running the film back and forth between the location and the film lab in Montreal, and then doing various sundry errands in between, like picking up the film the next day and driving it back up,” Carmody notes. “My routine was: going to the lab, going to the editing room, picking up the dailies from the day before from the editing room and driving to Cinepix, where I would sit and screen the dailies in Cinepix’s editing room with John. Then I would drive back and take the notes to George in Smith Falls and actually run the projector at the hotel for that day’s dailies. Then

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I’d take his notes back to the editor in Montreal, as well as his response to John. “I’ve always referred to that as my real film school, after just coming out of film school. I had never even learned how to thread a camera at film school. It was really interesting because it would be just John and myself in the screening room, and he would be dictating his notes to me.” At the end of the shoot, Carmody was promoted to the position of production manager at Cinepix. He was, understandably, rather flattered. But the deal was that he would also have to serve as George’s assistant editor for the duration of post-production on U-Turn. Not long after, Carmody was promoted to head of production at Cinepix. He was all of twenty-three. “I got along very well with John. I could communicate with him. I understood his sense of humour, which was a little … interesting. He trusted me. And he was always very, very reassuring if I didn’t understand something. He would always say the worst mistake you could make was saying you understood something that you didn’t understand. “John was really my film school. At Cinepix, when we weren’t doing movies, John would still involve me, because I was able to write a little bit in those days. He would bring me in to write on some of his movies. There were always contests going on: who could come up with titles for this movie, who could come up with a tagline for this French skin flick. Then there was ‘the kitchen,’ a fascinating place where they did their editing. Some of those people, now well-known editors, started there for nothing. They would take skin flicks from the US or Italy or France, pretty hardcore but still nothing like what we have today, and edit them so they could be shown at local theatres.” Unorthodox as the work was, Carmody was grateful for the opportunity to serve as Head of Production at a time when Canadian cinema was in its infancy. He got the opportunity to work alongside then-budding directors like Ivan Reitman and David Cronenberg, who would later become luminaries in the business. Testimonials

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Carmody also learned quickly about Dunning’s attitude in dealing with the federal government on film subsidies and tax credits. “John was never fond of the feds and did not like going to them. It bothered him to see people just standing around and waiting.” Carmody would also become André Link’s eyes and ears on the financial side of the operation. “At first, André was only involving me on the budgeting side, but he later brought me in to help with getting the foreign partners and with writing out involved production queries. It was fascinating. “There have been three mentors in my life in this industry, and two of them were André and John, who very early on taught me everything.” Brilliant, yes, but there was no denying Dunning’s quirks. “The few times we could get John to LA for meetings, he would refuse to fly business class, opting instead to fly coach with Jean. He would also bring his own baloney sandwiches,” laughs Carmody, who also recalls that Dunning would meditate daily for about twenty minutes. “But John was very proud of all the pictures he made. I’ve made about a hundred and eight movies now, and I constantly get asked which is my favourite. I always quote John on this. I asked him if his favourite was the one that made the most money or whatever. And he would say: ‘You know, Don, these movies are like our children. We dress them up in the best clothes we can afford, we send them out into the world, and we just hope somebody loves them.’ And that’s the answer I give all the time; there are no favourites. I want every one to succeed.” That said, Carmody feels that Dunning’s favourite would be Princes in Exile, Giles Walker’s sobering but uplifting film about kids with cancer at a summer camp. “That’s because John felt that this film made a difference,” Carmody explains, before adding with a laugh: “But then again John could also make the Ilsa films.” Carmody doesn’t hold back in talking about the Lionsgate fallout and Dunning’s feelings of resentment and rejection: “They kept André on the board, but they didn’t want John anywhere around them. That Don Carmody

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was really unfortunate because John was so smart and had amazing skills. He could script. He was very good at and very concise in getting to the bottom of production issues. But they saw him as tarnished. I think they were embarrassed by some of the movies he had made, like Bloody Valentine and the Ilsa series. “I remember visiting John about six months before he died, and he was still pitching me a script. When he sent it to me, I said: ‘Hey, this is pretty good!’ “I don’t think he blamed André. They were buddies for life. Worst thing he ever said to me about André at that stage of the game was: ‘Well, he gets off one cruise and gets on another.’ John could not figure that out for his life.” Carmody insists he’s hardly the only one who holds Dunning close to his heart: “We all were really a part of his legacy. I know that David [Cronenberg] definitely feels that way. I’ve spoken to Ivan [Reitman], too. There were so many who worked with him who went on in the business. There was also another guy that no one ever thinks of and that was Danny Goldberg, who went on from Meatballs to the Hangover series. Danny was part of that group as well. “I don’t know anyone who worked with John who didn’t like him. I would see Denys Arcand over the years, and we’d always reminisce about John. Denys was very fond of him. A lot of people weren’t that fond of André, because he was all business. But John? They all respected his opinion.” Carmody has some telling anecdotes about his time with Dunning at Cinepix. One entails the time Carmody made his directorial debut on The Surrogate. “I had written the script and thought: ‘Screw it, I can direct this.’ So I went to John and told him. He said he supported me. I then directed the movie, and it was competent. But basically the experience taught me that I wasn’t a director. I didn’t think like a director; I think like a writer. I think literally; I don’t think in images. It’s very different. But the experience really made me a better producer as a result and I’ve been much nicer to directors ever since, because that was really one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had to do.” Testimonials

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Carmody also remembers that he had a really bad cold while directing. The problem was that the film had to be shot in a mere seventeen days. “But I was so sick that I basically just collapsed. So they called John, and he asked what happened. They told him I collapsed and they shut down the set. John came flying down. It was icy and snowy, and he was in such a hurry to get to me that he slipped in the parking lot and fell badly. We both ended up in the hospital. That was the kind of guy he was. Rather than call from his home and ask someone how I was doing, he came down to the set to support me and he hurt himself in the process. He was not a young man then, either.” Another of Carmody’s favourite Dunning memories revolves around the lunches they would have at Montreal’s now-defunct Brown Derby deli with André. “John would order and the poor Jewish waitresses would go: ‘Ugh, treyf [unkosher]!’ That’s because we were having the smoked meat, the tongue, the usual deli stuff, and John would have a baloney sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise. “The man was an original.”

Don Carmody

Ivan Reitman

Ivan Reitman has directed some of the most successful and acclaimed comedies of all time. His films have grossed more than $1.6 billion. But the maker of the mega-hits Ghostbusters and Ghostbusters II, Twins, and Kindergarten Cop actually got his start on the dark, macabre side, including producing David Cronenberg’s breakthrough horror flicks Shivers and Rabid in the mid-1970s with Cinepix’s John Dunning. Although Reitman produced National Lampoon’s Animal House before his involvement with Cinepix, it was with the Montreal-based production company that he directed his first major chuckler, 1979’s Meatballs, which won Canada’s Golden Reel Award as the country’s highest grossing film of the year (and held the Canadian record for biggest box office before being supplanted by Porky’s, produced by Cinepix alumnus Don Carmody). Meatballs, which went on to spawn two follow-ups without Reitman, also launched the career of Bill Murray – much the same way Animal House sent another Saturday Night Live stalwart, John Belushi, soaring into another dimension. Regardless, Reitman’s roots are hardly the stuff of comedy. His mother was a Holocaust survivor and his father a Second World War resistance fighter. They moved to Canada from then-Czechoslovakia when he was four. He graduated from Hamilton’s McMaster Univer-

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sity with a degree in music. However, he opted for cinema shortly after graduation and made Canadian history by having his debut film, Columbus of Sex, banned by the Ontario Board of Censors in 1969 – the first and only time a Canadian feature was to receive this penalty. Reitman fared better financially – and with the censors – with Foxy Lady in 1971 and Cannibal Girls two years later. But they did bring Reitman to the attention of Cinepix, that production hotbed for lowbudget erotica and horror. Reitman then hooked up with Cinepix after he moved from Toronto to Montreal. “I remember John and André having liked my previous films and they felt that I was in sync with them entrepreneurially. So they suggested I join up with them, in the production end of their company, and we would become partners. At the same time, I was getting married and was looking for work in Montreal.” So the alliance began. “I spent the next few years shepherding Shivers and Rabid with David,” he recalls. “I also advised them on other film matters. And then I did Meatballs with them.” His recollections of Dunning are warm. “I liked him a lot. He was also a really straight shooter. He had all kinds of good ideas and a really strong story sense. He was from a different generation than me, so his comic sensibilities were quite different. But it didn’t really matter. He was so organized about how he worked on screenplays. I think I picked up some of that while we worked together, and I’ve carried that along with me ever since.” Reitman would also pick up producing credits for such Cinepix fare as Ilsa: The Tigress of Siberia in 1977 and Blackout in 1978. Then he had the brainwave for Meatballs, and Dunning was smitten after hearing this zany tale of a wholly unorthodox camp counselor (Bill Murray). “I had done Animal House already and wanted to direct again, because I hadn’t directed since Cannibal Girls. So I called up John and André. They agreed to put up the money with me. We were still partners, although I was ready to go off on my own at that point. “Although Meatballs was something I could have done on my own, Ivan Reitman

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we had agreed to do this together, so we stuck with our deal. That’s because I felt that John and André were so honourable themselves. They had a strong moral sense about right and wrong. I think one of the reasons they were so successful selling movies internationally was that they had built up such solid relationships with independent distributors all over the world who really appreciated them for their honesty and straightforwardness.” Reitman would partner with Cinepix for the last time on the 1983 3D horror epic Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone. “That was John’s idea, and I had been working with the director-writer that he had been working with. He wasn’t really up to the job, so we replaced him with another director, Lamont Johnson. That was really our last working film together. I think they felt more comfortable in the exploitation field, which they built their whole careers on. “But for me the nature of the business was really changing, and I was more interested in doing comedy. I had been successful with both Animal House and Meatballs. When I moved to Los Angeles, we sort of formally separated. They went on to do a couple of Meatballs sequels. I’m not quite sure they got my permission to do that. I think it annoyed me. But I think I felt that they were there at the beginning, so I didn’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think that they were particularly good movies, and so I think that was sort of the end of our relationship.” Reitman later made the move to Hollywood, where pretty much everything he touched turned to gold: the Ghostbusters series, Legal Eagles with Robert Redford, Dave, Father’s Day. He would go on to produce his son Jason’s award-winning Up in the Air with George Clooney. In 2000, Reitman founded Montecito Picture Company. Reitman would occasionally touch base with Link when he was in Hollywood for sales meetings. “Unfortunately, I never got to see John before he passed away. My memories of him are as someone who was the more active of the producers, especially on the screenwriting. André worked on the selling, but John focused on the scripts and then on the marketing end – more on the creative side. John just had so

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much energy and such a terrific sense of humour about what he was doing. “That’s another thing I took away from him. It was really nice to see the kind of joy that he got out of movies. We would have regular Friday night screenings of the latest releases at Cinepix back then, and the conversations after the screenings were always so lively. But what I came away with most from my time with him was John’s appreciation and joy of just watching films. He truly loved movies.”

Ivan Reitman

Christian Larouche

Christian Larouche is one of the most successful and respected film producers in Quebec. The president of Christal Films, Larouche has overseen the production of such seminal Québécois fare as Louis Cyr, about the famed strongman, and Gerry, about Gerry Boulet, the late, great vocalist for Quebec musical supergroup Offenbach. Larouche has produced more than thirty-five films, but even he would not have dared to dream this métier would be possible when growing up in Quebec’s rural Lac St Jean region. He began his film career in the most inauspicious manner possible. At the age of nineteen in 1973, the newly minted Montrealer got a gig as a messenger for Cinepix, and so began a most unlikely Cinderella story. Some forty years later, Larouche gives full thanks and credit to Cinepix’s John Dunning for encouraging him to grow and develop, and for giving him the opportunity to do so. Larouche spent thirty-five years working alongside Dunning and André Link. “John was the artist and André was the businessman,” Larouche notes. “When I started, Don Carmody was already there and Ivan Reitman was just coming in. About three years into the job, I remember John called me into the office to meet David Cronenberg, who was about to shoot Shivers. He asked me if I wanted to be in the

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movie. They needed someone to play a soldier riding on a garbage truck while holding a rifle.” And so Larouche took the role and was smitten by it all. He later approached Dunning and asked him if he could learn to be a projectionist, especially because there were so many screenings of films and of daily rushes of movies in production taking place at Cinepix. Dunning gave him the go-ahead and Larouche was soon overseeing screenings. Then Larouche asked Dunning if he could sit in on his meetings with the director and screenwriter of whatever film was shooting at the time. Larouche promised to keep silent, and, sure enough, Dunning let him sit in on these meetings. “Taking in these screenings and meetings, I learned so much about the business – about the making of movies, about the editing of movies, about making trailers and ads and about the promotion of movies. And this was all because of John who was so patient in teaching me about the process of filmmaking, including the making of the trailers and newspaper ads for the movies, which John also did. He did it all.” Without that film education, Larouche doubts he could have ever been in the position he is in today. “He was so eager to share his knowledge of the business with me. He was always so constructive, too, when I started doing ads and making trailers. Somebody recently asked me which film school I went to. I told him my film school was John. “John lived for this business. He rarely took vacations. He hated to travel. He was a workaholic and he was also a creator. He was always in his office early in the morning and was friendly with everybody, always eager to help anyone out. I feel just so lucky to have been on the job with him. And to think it all started as a result of being a messenger there.” Like many others who had hooked up with Dunning, Larouche knows that Dunning would have made a first-class director, for few understood the mechanics of movies better than he did. Larouche also

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knows why Dunning didn’t direct: his fear of travel and his myriad medical issues. “Apart from his other skills, few could analyze a script better than John. He was always on the mark, with scripts in English and French. He would speak to me in French, because I was too shy at first to speak English. Eventually, my English got better and so did my understanding of English scripting.” Larouche also praises Dunning for having – unlike so many other anglo producers in the country – his finger firmly on the pulse of French films. “It was very important for him to understand the desires of the community and to tailor films for that market. He not only produced many French films here, but he also bought many French films from France. He understood the French market as well as anyone in the province – and certainly more than just about any English producer here.” While it is well documented that Dunning helped launch the careers of such filmmakers as Cronenberg, Reitman, and Carmody, he also worked with some of the giants on the franco side: Denis Héroux, Francis Mankiewicz, Claude Fournier, Jean Lafleur, and Jean-Claude Lord. “Don’t forget John’s first big hits were with films like Héroux’s Valérie and other French films. And so many of those films were his own ideas. John was really ahead of the curve there. “He was also one of the few to take chances with young, new directors – French or English. When Cronenberg first arrived at Cinepix, he had virtually no experience. But John believed in him. Nor was John surprised when Shivers became a huge hit. John also had faith in Ivan Reitman, even though he was just starting out. I remember he came into the office and said he wanted to go to Cannes, but he didn’t have any money. So John just advanced him the money to go. He was so generous with his time and his money.” Larouche also recalls the bitterness Dunning felt when Cinepix was eventually sold to Lionsgate. Larouche initially went to Lionsgate, until his own issues with the company prompted him to leave and found Christal Films. “I felt his pain. Some felt that John should be Testimonials

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happy to take a pension and retire. But this was someone who never wanted to retire. He was working on film ideas until the day he died. He was just so in love with his work. It wasn’t about the money. “He had been so good and supportive of me that I told him he would always have an office wherever I ended up. He was always there for me. So when I created Christal, I gave him and André offices there. He would come in every day to the office, which was so very important for him. It was very tough for him not to be in the action any longer.” Larouche doesn’t feel Dunning really got his proper due. “Because he was such a low-profile guy, he didn’t want to be in the limelight. He was so shy. He was at his happiest in his office, creating with others. He was one of the great pioneers of Canadian film yet never really got the honours that should have come his way. His films made money, and he used his own money to make many of them – pretty rare for a Canadian producer. He was one of the great ones. Maybe one day they’ll do a film on John. His story is fascinating. Maybe one day I’ll do that film.”

Christian Larouche

Mike Paseornek

Mike Paseornek currently runs the Lionsgate division of Lions Gate Films Productions. He had previously established the US operation of Lionsgate predecessor Cinepix – which later morphed into cfp – in New York City. Since the Lionsgate takeover of cfp in 1998, Paseornek has been president of the company’s film arm and has overseen development and production. Under his guidance, the company has cranked out up to eighteen releases a year, everything from such acclaimed fare as Monster’s Ball and American Psycho to the vast array of Tyler Perry pics. Paseornek’s first stint in the limelight came after graduating from New York University in 1974 when he hooked up to write with Michel Choquette, the Montreal artist and performer who was then the editor of National Lampoon. Following that collaboration, Paseornek toiled as a speechwriter for well-placed business execs and politicos like Bill Clinton. He later got involved in scripting several TV and film projects. He joined forces in the late ’70s with the Cinepix tandem of John Dunning and André Link to work on the sequel of their smash comedy, Meatballs. His Cinepix credits included, among a host of other productions, The Vindicator as well as the provocative and prize-winning aids doc, Making It Safe. He made his directing debut in 1996 with

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the rock ‘n roll odyssey Vibrations, which he wrote and which was produced by Dunning and Link. Though he is now one of the most powerful people in the film business, Paseornek has always given credit to Dunning for giving him his first big break. He considers Dunning one of his early mentors. “John was so dear to me,” Paseornek reflects. “He started so many people in this business, including me, and I’ve always had just such immense respect for him. He was just so far ahead of his time with so many of the ideas he had, and in the way he saw storytelling. I don’t know how many people know just how groundbreaking John Dunning was in so many areas, especially in genre. John saw the movie business truly as entertainment. He understood there were ‘important’ pictures. He loved important movies, but he loved entertaining people. And so many people forget what John set as his goal, which was just creating a fun couple of hours at the movies, which is what we should all be striving to do. “He never got into an argument with any filmmaker over ego. It was always what was best for the movie. He was a really sincere guy and he was someone I just totally enjoyed. He was great at inspiring you, and he was someone who launched many ideas and took joy in seeing someone take his ideas and go even further with them, as opposed to some people who want credit for every idea. John was someone who lit fires.” But Paseornek was also abundantly aware of the challenges Dunning and Link confronted when Cinepix got swallowed by Lionsgate. “What John and André had was a mom and pop shop. Even though they started a lot of great careers and had a lot of great success, they did what they wanted. John was the creative soul of the organization and André was probably his muse. Even though a lot of people don’t think of André as creative, he did have a lot of great ideas. He would take John on, when John got on one of his rolls. But going from that, where John was sort of the creative soul of the organization, to a large organization, was a big step. Although Lionsgate wasn’t that large when it started, it was certainly more formal, and it became a public Mike Paseornek

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company. A bigger company has to look at the industry as a portfolio. We look at movies as portfolios, we know that half or more are not going to work. “So for someone like John, having a movie or an idea treated like a widget was very painful, and he couldn’t accept that. And yet the business guys look at it like: ‘Yeah, we always hear this is going to be the greatest film ever. Every filmmaker comes in and tells us that.’ So the job at a studio actually becomes marrying the passion of the creative people, for whom every movie is like their children, to the kind of statistical view of the studio which looks at it like a portfolio. And my job is to nurture the portfolio, to make sure its going in the right direction. But, still, we can’t give full influence to a lot of people and a lot of passion beyond what we think is acceptable. So John could never fit into that world, of portfolio versus passion. And that in my opinion is why John began to find it too painful.” Like others, Paseornek believes Dunning could have moved to Hollywood to play the game – had he so desired. “But he had no desire to try to get into the in-crowd in Hollywood. Ivan Reitman wanted to go to Hollywood to be a director. He understood how the game was played there. John never wanted to be part of the in-crowd. He liked being in Canada and he liked doing things his own way. He didn’t want to have the perspective that I have. “And what I’ve realized is that it almost doesn’t matter how much money you have in Hollywood, it’s the last caste system. I’ll have a billionaire call up and say can I get a ticket to this concert that no one can get into now. But it’s because of the chair that I sit in, not because of me. Once we’re out, it’s like the ocean covering our footprints in the sand; they’re gone, they’re washed away, and the next person is standing in that place. A lot of people here don’t understand we’re only borrowing the chairs we sit in; it’s not about us here. And John had a tough time accepting that you could work a career and have experience, and then be at the mercy of a new wave of people in there that don’t care about you. John had more courage than me and just

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refused to have that perspective. And yet John had a lot more frustration than I have. But I admired him for his convictions.” He first encountered Dunning in 1978 while writing scathing parody at the National Lampoon with Michel Choquette. Dunning offered them an opportunity to do a re-write on a script for a medicalschool comedy called Stitches. “And so we were launched on this journey with John Dunning. I had run into John on the street in Manhattan where I lived. He said that they wanted us to develop a medical school comedy. John told us, ‘You know, there hasn’t been an unsuccessful comedy set in a hospital. Let’s come up with something like that or let’s do a summer camp comedy.’ That’s how Meatballs was born. Or, he’d say there’s a coal mine that we can actually get access to, so let’s do My Bloody Valentine. Everyone would sit around and come up with ideas. And that’s the way we made movies.” So Stitches was born – the re-worked screenplay, anyway. Dunning and Link sold the script to a studio, mgm, who decided not to make it because they got an offer from someone else to buy it from them. Paseornek and Choquette were also conscripted to develop a sequel to Meatballs. Not long after, Paseornek ran into Dunning in New York. “He asked if I ever worked without my partner Choquette. I told him we weren’t writing partners any longer, and the next thing I knew, he flew me up to Canada to start doing re-writes and working with him. “John and I had a creative affinity for one another. We would get such a kick out of each other, even if John was more than twenty years older than me. I was in my twenties when I met him. He had this board in his office, and he would draw maps of situations on it. For example, if we were doing something that involved a building, like a horror scene, John would – and I’ve never seen someone else do this before in the development process – draw up the house, where he thought people would be standing. He was very visual, and whereas normally you would talk most producers through a scene, John thought like a director. He would’ve been a great director, but he always said he

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didn’t know if he could survive the anxiety on a set, because he was such a perfectionist and he wouldn’t stand for people standing around not doing their jobs perfectly. “He also would watch dailies, and unlike other people, John would take notes on every take of a director’s movie and would then write notes to the director: ‘Did you miss a shot of this? Do you need an insert shot of that?’ That’s the way John worked. He was detailed. He was a great mentor to me to learn how to produce, because no detail was too small for John to pay attention to, whether the part in somebody’s hair or the yellow in their teeth. John paid attention and he didn’t have a filter. He would say anything that was truly on his mind. He didn’t weigh things. “What was interesting about John was, while he would get upset about the tiniest things, he would tell directors not to. He would sit down with a director and go over the day. I remember when we did the little film Vibrations, and you could see under the neck of a costume from one angle. John made me re-shoot the scene and I thought, “No one but John Dunning is ever going to notice that.” But it drove him crazy. He was ready to pay for it out of his own pocket to re-shoot something only he would see. I think that’s why André used to be a good balance for him. But even André knew, if something was driving John that crazy, he wasn’t going to argue with him. No one cared the way John cared about things, and it broke his heart when other people didn’t care the same way. He would almost demand that people pay attention to his movies. And John would say anything to anybody. He so believed in what he was doing. That’s why he never gave up on the many projects that he initiated.” When Paseornek thought about employing 3-D technology on a film, he thought of My Bloody Valentine. So he bought the rights back from Dunning and Link and made them executive producers. The film scored big at the box office, with receipts of more than fifty million dollars in the US. It also played well on different parts of the planet. “I had a very specific idea of how I wanted to make that movie, but John disagreed with me and I thought: ‘Uh-oh, he’s going to take Testimonials

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me through the script and tell me why he hates it.’ But John called me and said: ‘I know it doesn’t matter, but do you wanna hear my thoughts?’ And I said: ‘John, it’s almost going to be too painful for me to hear your thoughts, but I’ll do it.’ And for an hour, John dissected the script, and I thought, he’s right about some of this stuff, and I had it rewritten. The movie came out. I was pleased with it and I think he was pleased with it, too. “So the last movie John had the credit on is still one of the most innovative movies in that it was inspired by him and the original. The whole 3D thing was something – John loved a good gimmick. And we were able to kind of bring the John Dunning/Cinepix flair into today, which really brought me a lot of joy. I hope it brought him joy, too, seeing that movie come together.” Paseornek still thinks back fondly on his early years in the business with Cinepix. “John and André were the fathers of the Canadian film industry. And when you think about it, John put what is now Lionsgate into motion, and many people have gotten jobs in all walks of this industry because of the vision of John Dunning. That’s something I don’t think a lot of people know, but it’s something a lot of people have to hear.”

Mike Paseornek

Jeff Sackman

Jeff Sackman has had a long and varied career in the film business, going back to 1990. He has produced or executive produced sixty films, from such critically acclaimed fare as Buffalo ’66, American Psycho, and the doc Chasing Madoff to such self-explanatory efforts as Young People Fucking, Suck, and Love, Sex and Eating the Bones. He joined Cinepix as executive vice-president of the company, and helped guide its course into US distribution in the ’90s. When Cinepix-turned-cfp was merged into Lionsgate in 1998, Sackman became president of the company. Under his stewardship, the Vancouver-based company moved to the US and revenues for the publicly traded company soared from six million to one hundred and twenty-five million dollars. Sackman left Lionsgate to start ThinkFilm in 2001. He bolted from ThinkFilm in 2008 and now toils as an independent producer in Toronto. Sackman looks back fondly at his early days in the business with John Dunning and André Link: “I hooked up more with André than with John. André and I are still remarkably close in a father-son type of way. Like André, I’m primarily a business guy. The beauty of John and André’s relationship, I think, was that it was twofold. They respected each other and had the perfect personalities to complement one another.”

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One thing about the Dunning/Link relationship that always stood out to Sackman and forever cracked him up entailed the tandem’s frequent forays to the now-defunct Brown Derby deli in Montreal’s Van Horne Shopping Centre. “When the bill would come, they would get separate checks. I go through life not worrying about whether I pay half more or someone else pays half more. It doesn’t matter. But that was the nature of their partnership. Perfectly complimentary, yet a recognition that they’re still two unique people. They were great.” No question, Sackman changed the direction of the company. He was hard-nosed, all business. He put Cinepix on the map, particularly in acquiring rights to Miramax films in Canada. But Cinepix also had a partnership with the Famous Players movie chain in Canada, and the situation got a tad dicey when a then unknown film, The Crying Game, a pioneering thriller dealing with the taboo subject of transgender sexual identity, did bumper business at the box office. Sackman had booked the film at several art-houses in Kingston, but Famous Players took heed and wanted it for its theatres. Regardless, Sackman had already made a commitment and wouldn’t back down. “The Famous people told me: ‘You don’t understand, we own you. You’re going to give it to us everywhere.’ I said no. The long and short: the guy running things at Famous decided he would like me fired. John and André came down to Toronto for a pow-wow with the two senior guys from Famous Players who basically said they wanted me fired. John looked at them, and … well, John didn’t negotiate. He was not a negotiator. He was more emotionally based as opposed to cerebrally based much of the time. He looked at them and said, ‘There’s an old biblical expression about not casting stones in a glass house.’ Basically, ‘Fuck off you guys, unless you’re perfect yourselves.’ I don’t even remember what the resolution of it was. I just remember that he came and he stood up for me, but he didn’t have to do it. He wasn’t the business guy. André was the business guy.” By then, Cinepix was growing by leaps and bounds. Sackman recalls speaking to Link after Dunning’s death. Link offered unique perspective on his partner: “The thing about John was that he put as Jeff Sackman

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much passion and belief into films like Snake Eater III as Bertolucci put into his films.” Yet Sackman believes Dunning wasn’t able to move with the times, that it was the end of an era for him. “John put a lot of energy into projects rather than just creating a forgettable product. He fell in love with people who respected his role, his vision, and his passion and his creativity. But he wasn’t evolving and yet the world was really changing. The Snake Eater phenomenon was ending, and you had to do the Buffalo ’66s and the American Psychos and those kinds of movies. I think he felt ostracized. Other people came into the company and were moving in those directions. But John wasn’t. He was still doing Snakes on a Plane.” As for the oft-made comparison to B-movie king Roger Corman, Sackman isn’t sure: “John could not have achieved the financial success that he did without André. Roger achieved way more alone. Roger understood the business, that it was an extension of his nature. Roger was about putting out product, making money on the product. But being the cheapest guy ever, he kept re-using footage from one film to another to keep costs down. That was just an extension of his personality. John was so much more about being creative. André and John were like this two-headed creation, always in sync with one another.” But for Sackman, there was never any doubt about Dunning’s integrity: “It was at the highest, highest level. I got to know him well, and he was so emotional and passionate and everything good. He paid attention to the most irrelevant things that had no bearing on the ultimate value of the film. But to him, they were important. He was all about the film. “On the other hand, I have to say too that he had very little selfreflection. He was who he was, and I think that back then that was necessary. André, however, has self-reflection, André lives in the world. John lived in his little yellow office. André got out into the world.” While Dunning regretted the end of an era, Sackman believes his former boss was lucky to have been in the game when he was: “The best time in the business was from 1987 to 1995 because the whole Testimonials

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Jeff Sackman opens the trunk full of Oscar-winning movies which John sent him as a wedding present.

video revolution hit big and hit hard for the benefit of everybody who was in it. Sure, it distorted a lot of peoples’ belief systems, who thought they were actually good. They weren’t good. They were just there. There was an element of André and John’s success that came from when they were born. They were there when the industry unfolded the way it did. “But then, that’s not the gig anymore. André knows that. He accepts it, but John didn’t accept it. He thought it was an affront against him. It wasn’t against him; it was just the way the world moved.” Sackman did delight in Dunning’s devilish sense of humour: “He liked tweaking the system, and he was effective at it. But it wasn’t clever satire. It was an in-your-face title like Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS. It was a ‘fuck-you’ to the world. I remember I was so excited about Ilsa when I got to Cinepix. I had heard about it as a kid, and the first thing I did when I got there was to watch Ilsa. They made me a vhs copy of the film. I think it’s a great reference to John’s sense of self and Jeff Sackman

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sense of humour. He liked going against the system and Ilsa was effectively doing just that. He was anti-authority at heart, and a contradiction in so many ways.” But there was no denying Dunning’s heart of gold, Sackman insists. “For my wedding present in 1997, John spent about six months finding every Academy Award-winning movie from 1927 to 1997. It took thought and effort, and it wasn’t easy. He really had to work to get every one of those films. Best wedding gift ever!”

Testimonials

Margot Wright

Executive assistant Margot Wright worked with Dunning from 2004 to 2009, following the Lionsgate merger with cfp and through to his ultimate retirement. “John never forgot those he was close to and he never wanted to be forgotten,” Wright says. “The latter for him really represented the kiss of death.” Dunning was a father figure for Wright as for so many others. He loved to share his knowledge with those aspiring to make it in the film business. “He was both so kind and so generous with his time,” Wright relates. “He created a bond with so many. He felt it was important to impart his knowledge to others.” But Wright concedes the Lionsgate takeover left Dunning feeling much like an outsider. “He eventually felt forgotten and that so devastated him. He was full of ideas. He was full of creativity. He still wanted to write and produce, but felt that he was being thwarted. “Relationships were so important to him. He worked so hard to maintain them. He never forgot friends and colleagues, be it for their birthdays or for Christmas. He would give these great gifts, often tshirts he customized for the individual. So it hurt him all the more that he was being forgotten, when people in the business stopped returning

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Margot Wright, John’s executive assistant, in 2007.

his calls. Then again, it probably would have given him so much pleasure to see how many of his onetime colleagues showed up at his funeral to shower him with praise.” As was often the case with co-workers, Wright, too, was initially taken aback by the fact that the avuncular and cultivated Dunning was grinding out B-grade horror and titillation flicks like My Bloody ValenTestimonials

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tine and the Ilsa series. “At first, I was a little shocked typing out notes and scripts of these films. But then I got used to it. In a way, it was almost liberating. It was part of who John was on a certain level. And yet it wasn’t at all. “He was such a gentleman and so professional. In a business with a lot of sketchy, slimy characters, he really stood out as the opposite. He was a man of high moral standards on a personal level. He was very classy. He was also an intellectual, who, while he may have been making these kinds of films, was well read on the literary classics front. He just had such integrity – also a rarity in the business. That mattered more to him than the films themselves.” But it was Dunning’s steadfast determination that made the biggest impression on Wright. And that was never more in evidence than after a near-fatal bicycle crash Dunning suffered in 2006. Though he was seventy-nine then, Dunning would bike four miles every day – in addition to doing sit-ups and lifting weights daily. The bike crash resulted in the partial, permanent collapse of his right lung. His rib cage was left resting on his hip bone, thus resulting in limited mobility. He suffered neck and shoulder trauma and, consequently, constant pain in those areas. He was unable to stand for more than ten minutes at a time. Plus his jaw got misaligned, and he had to undergo major dental work. “That accident would have killed most people his age,” Wright recalls. “And if it didn’t, it surely would have meant the end of their working lives. Not John. He was not about to let that stop him. He went through months in the hospital and then more months getting rehab. But he was hell-bent on getting back to work – and he did. That was John. When he put his mind to something, there was no stopping him. I’ve never met such a determined person. He just refused to give up, even if others had given up on him.”

Margot Wright

LAST W O R D S

Last words about John Dunning go to his family: his wife Jean and son Greg. As dedicated as Dunning was to film, he was even more so to family. Family meant everything to Dunning, perhaps because he lost his father at an early age. And not just his wife, his son, and his daughter Valerie, who passed away too young, but also his extended family. No matter how trying a day Dunning was having, he made certain to be with his family for dinner every night. “He didn’t bring his work home with him,” recalls Jean. “I truly was not very much involved with his work, and that suited him just fine. When he came home, he closed the door. That was it. He wanted me to be there, he wanted quiet, he wanted me to look after him. That was John.” Jean recounts her courtship with Dunning: “I met him at a party at his house. I was on a date with a friend of his. He was living at home in Verdun. I was about eighteen. We soon hit it off, but he was a very difficult man to get to the altar. We were engaged for about six years. He was just so involved with his grandmother and his mother and work following the death of his father. He felt a responsibility at an early age to take care of his family.” The couple married in 1957, to the delight of Jean’s parents. Jean had long before sensed that he was different from the other boys she

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John, Greg, and Jean celebrate John’s eighty-third birthday in April 2010.

knew and dated. “He was very private, very sensitive – almost aloof. He was quite the introvert, but he was always there to help anyone in need. Yet he had to deal with adversity early, particularly with his heart condition.” Jean too feels that her husband, once he accepted the fact that the film business was to be his career, would have loved to be a director. But he had to back off because of his heart issues. Greg Dunning agrees. “He would have been a great director. That would have suited his personality. He was such a control freak and, really, all directors are control freaks.” Greg spent his summers while still in school working on his dad’s productions. He got a new appreciation for his father from his inter-personal skills with co-workers on the set. “The little guys on the film set all liked my dad, because he would talk to them and he would listen to them. He had no attitude,” says Last Words

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Greg, who would later work at Telefilm Canada. “He had given so many people work and helped launch the careers of not only directors and writers but also soundmen, cinematographers, and special-effects people.” What Greg particularly admired about his dad was that he wasn’t in the film business for personal fame but rather for a genuine dedication to the art-form. “He totally shied away from the limelight. That just didn’t interest him in the slightest. “He was one of Canada’s most famous producers whom nobody knew. There was no ego. It was all business and he understood that his business happened to be the business of trying to entertain people. He had no desire whatsoever to be in the social pages.” Greg pulls out a photo of his father being honoured with an award: “Look at his face in that picture. He’s absolutely petrified. He was so stressed, so nervous because he had to accept an award and he had to say something after being presented with the award. That was absolutely the worst thing for him. He even tried to pay people to accept awards for him.” Both Greg and Jean note that Dunning took it hard when the company he had built with André Link was taken over by Lionsgate. “He was so depressed,” Jean says. “It was like someone had stuck a knife in his heart, because he could no longer do what he so loved doing, which was to create films. He had come so far and had done so well, and he felt it was all being taken away from him.” Greg relates the situation to sports: “Let’s use a baseball analogy. A baseball player who is making a bagful of money. He’s fabulously wealthy yet he finally has to pack it in. But he can’t do what he really loves, and no amount of money can change that.” To borrow from the old Frank Sinatra mantra, Dunning did it his way, with little help. “Not all his films were box office successes, but most made money,” Greg says. “My dad measured his success by how much money they were making. Most in the film business try to coerce the federal government and the provincial governments into giving them money. Not my dad and André. Not only that, but they never took Last Words

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money from the business. They kept putting it back and putting it back. I’m a product of my dad’s thinking.” “He had a lot of stress in his life, but he used to say it was good stress,” Jean says. “Even when he was ill at the end, he would be totally engrossed in whatever project he would be working on. It would be like he was forty years old again. His voice changed. He was back in the game again. He was back when he felt involved in the creative process. That’s what he lived for,” Greg says. “He found, maybe by accident, what he was really good at and what he really loved,” Jean says. “Not too many people can say that about their work. He was fortunate. He was happiest when he was being creative.” Retirement was never an option. “Lie on a beach? Retire?” Greg laughs. “You’ve got to be kidding. If he wasn’t working, he felt guilty. He couldn’t wait to get back from vacation. He was bored when not working. Work and family are what sustained him and what gave him happiness until his last breath. He lived a special life.”

Last Words

AC KN O W LE D G M E NTS

The inestimable J.H. Karpati; the artiste/acteur Stephen Lack; André Link; David Cronenberg; Don Carmody; Ivan Reitman; Christian Larouche; Mike Paseornek; Jeff Sackman; Margot Wright; Jean and Greg Dunning.

FI LM O G RAP HY

1969 Valérie Budget: $80,000 Location: QC Director: Denis Héroux John Dunning: Producer, Writer Note on Director: 1st Film 1970 L’initiation Budget: $200,000 Location: QC Director: Denis Héroux JD: Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film

L’amour humain Budget: $300,000 Location: QC Director: Denis Héroux JD: Producer Note on Director: 3rd Film Love in a 4 Letter World Budget: $200,000 Location: QC Director: John Sone JD: Associate Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

214

1971

1973

Pile ou face Budget: $400,000 Location: QC Director: Roger Fournier JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

Ah! Si mon moine voulait Budget: $400,000 Location: QC/FR Director: Claude Pierson JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Film in Quebec

Loving and Laughing Budget: $400,000 Location: QC Director: John Sone JD: Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film 1972 Keep It in the Family Budget: $450,000 Location: QC Director: Larry Kent JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film in Quebec 1973 Le diable est parmi nous Budget: $400,000 Location: QC Director: Jean Beaudin JD: Producer, Writer Note on Director: 2nd Film Filmography

Across This Land with Stompin’ Tom Connors Budget: $150,000 Location: ON Director: John Saxton JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film 1974 La pomme, la queue et les pepins Budget: $240,000 Location: QC Director: Claude Fournier JD: Producer: Note on Director: 2nd Film

215

1975

1976

Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS Budget: $200,000 Location: US Director: Don Edmonds JD: Producer

Ilsa: Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks Budget: $225,000 Location: US Director: Don Edmonds JD: Producer

Shivers Budget: $250,000 Location: QC Director: David Cronenberg JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Feature Film

Death Weekend Budget: $550,000 Location: ON Director: William Fruet JD: Executive Producer 1977

Tout feu, tout femme Budget: $500,000 Location: QC Director: Gilles Richer JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film The Mystery of the MillionDollar Hockey Puck Budget: $200,000 Location: QC Director: Jean Lafleur and Peter Svatek JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

Rabid Budget: $600,000 Location: QC Director: David Cronenberg JD: Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film Ilsa: The Tigress of Siberia Budget: $500,000 Location: QC Director: Jean Lafleur JD: Producer Note on Director: First Film Alone

Filmography

216

1978

1981

Blackout Budget: $800,000 Location: QC/FR Director: Eddy Matalon JD: Producer, Writer Note on Director: 1st Film in English

Yesterday Budget: $2,000,000 Location: QC Director: Larry Kent JD: Producer, Writer Note on Director: 2nd Film in Quebec

1979

Happy Birthday to Me Budget: $3,200,000 Location: QC Director: J. Lee Thompson JD: Producer

Meatballs Budget: $1,600,000 Location: ON Director: Ivan Reitman JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film 1980 Hot Dog Cops Budget: $1,200,000 Location: QC Director: Claude Fournier JD: Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film in English

Filmography

My Bloody Valentine Budget: $1,800,000 Location: NS/QC Director: George Mihalka JD: Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film 1983 Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone Budget: $12,000,000 Location: US/BC Director: Lamont Johnson JD: Producer

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1984

1987

The Surrogate Budget: $1,000,000 Location: QC Director: Don Carmody JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

Making It Safe Budget: $100,000 Location: QC/US Director: Michael Paseornek JD: Producer 1989

1985 Junior Budget: $600,000 Location: QC Director: Jim Hanley JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

Snake Eater Budget: $1,300,000 Location: NB Director: George Erschbamer JD: Producer, Writer Note on Director: 1st Film 1990

1986 Meatballs III: Summer Job Budget: $4,200,000 Location: QC Director: George Mendeluk JD: Producer The Vindicator Budget: $3,000,000 Location: QC Director: Jean-Claude Lord JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film in English

Whispers Budget: $2,400,000 Location: QC Director: Doug Jackson JD: Producer Heavy Metal Summer Budget: $6,000,000 Location: QC Director: Rafal Zielinski JD: Producer

Filmography

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1990

1995

Princes in Exile Budget: $2,700,000 Location: QC Director: Giles Walker JD: Producer

Bullet to Beijing Budget: $5,000,000 Location: CA/RU/UK Director: George Mihalka JD: Producer

1991

Ski Hard Budget: $1,500,000 Location: BC Director: David Mitchell JD: Executive Producer, Writer

Snake Eater II: The Drug Buster Budget: $2,400,000 Location QC Director: George Erschbamer JD: Producer, Writer Note on Director: 2nd Film 1992 Snake Eater III: His Law Budget: $4,200,000 Location: QC Director: George Erschbamer JD: Producer, Writer Ski School II Budget: $1,500,000 Location: BC Director: David Mitchell JD: Executive Producer

Filmography

1996 Mask of Death Budget: $3,500,000 Location: BC Director: David Mitchell JD: Producer Midnight in St. Petersburg Budget: $3,000,000 Location: CA/RU/UK Director: Doug Jackson JD: Producer Bounty Hunters Budget: $2,800,000 Location: BC Director: George Erschbamer JD: Producer

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L’homme idéal Budget: $2,800,000 Location: QC Director: George Mihalka JD: Executive Producer Hawk’s Vengeance Budget: $2,400,000 Location: QC Director: Mark Voisard JD: Producer 1997 Hardball Budget: $3,400,000 Location: BC Director: George Erschbamer JD: Producer, Writer Vibrations Budget: $2,200,000 Location: US Director: Michael Paseornek JD: Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

1997 La conciergerie Budget: $3,500,000 Location: QC Director: Michel Poulette JD: Executive Producer Stag Budget: $2,400,000 Location: US Director: Gavin Wilding JD: Producer 1998 Johnny Skidmarks Budget: $3,250,000 usd Location: US Director: John Raffo JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Film Jerry and Tom Budget: $3,500,000 usd Location: ON Director: Paul Rubinek JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

Filmography

220

The First 9½ Weeks Budget: $2,200,000 usd Location: US Director: Alex Wright JD: Producer Money Kings Budget: $3,400,000 usd Director: Graham Theakston Location: US JD: Executive Producer Adventures of Marco Polo Budget: $1,850,000 usd Location: CA/Ukraine Director: George Erschbamer JD: Producer Buffalo ’66 Budget: $2,700,000 usd Location: US Director: Vincent Gallo JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Film I’m Losing You Budget: $2,700,000 usd Location: US Director: Bruce Wagner JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 1st Film

Filmography

1999 Prisoner of Love Budget: $2,500,000 usd Location: ON Director: Steve Dimarco JD: Executive Producer Note on Director: 2nd Film 2009 My Bloody Valentine 3D Budget: $11,000,000 usd Location: US Director: Patrick Lussier JD: Executive Producer

INDEX

3D technology, 123–4 5th Avenue Theatre, 6, 12, 19, 24, 29, 36–7, 51, 56

Beaudin, Jean, 85–7 Belmondo, Jean-Paul, 49 Berval, Paul, 117 Beurling, Buzz, 20–1

Academy of Canadian Cinema and Television, 155

Birth of a Baby, 59 Blackout, 108

adult cinemas, 61–2, 64–5

Boisvert, Nicole, 108

aids, 141

Bronstein, Martin, 83

Albert, Eddy, 114–15

Brunswick pool hall, 43–4

Aliens [series], 100–2

Bullet to Beijing, 156

Alliance Productions, 147

Bureau de surveillance du cinéma, 53,

Allied Artists, 77–8

62

Allyson, June, 109 Amerivision, 44, 49

Caine, Michael, 155–6

L’amour humain, 75

Canadian Broadcasting Corporation,

Anderson, Melissa Sue, 117 Applegate, Christina, 152 Arcand, Denys, 74 Aznavour, Charles, 49

41, 44–7, 56, 145 Canadian Film Development Corporation, 74–5, 86, 102–3, 114 Canby, Vincent, 94 Carmody, Don, 103, 123–4, 126–7,

Bam Bam Bigelow, 151 banks, 46–7, 56, 62

130, 132–3, 135, 147–8, 150 Carradine, Robert, 109

222 Century Theatre, 7, 16–17, 19, 24, 26, 28–9, 32–3, 57 cfp Distribution, 147, 149–51 Chambers, Marilyn, 106–7 Choquette, Michel, 140 Cinepix, 47, 50, 57, 76–7, 89, 147, 150

Dunning, Leah Hurrion, 12, 16, 24, 26, 38–40 Dunning, Samuel John “Mickey”, 4–5, 12–13, 17, 21–2, 24, 30, 42 Dunning, Valerie, 51, 57; death of, 136–8 Duplessis, Maurice, 32

Cinepix Film Properties, 151 Cineplex Odeon, 147, 149

Edmonds, Don, 93

Cinexus/Famous Players, 147

Erschbamer, George, 143, 152

Cloutier, François, Dr, 42, 63 Columbia Pictures, 43, 123–4

Famous Players, 6, 39, 68, 149, 151

Connery, Jason, 155

film distribution, 43, 47–50, 52, 58,

Connors, Stompin’ Tom, 90–1 Cronenberg, David, 75, 87, 100–4, 106–8 Czonka, Larry, 143

62, 64, 93, 111–12 Ford, Glenn, 117–19 Forum, Montreal, 105 Fournier, Claude, 80, 117 Fournier, Roger, 76

David, Pierre, 81–2, 132

Foxy Lady, 75, 90

Davis, John, 132–3

France, 48–50, 52, 54, 61, 66, 74

Davis, Marvin, 132

Freaks, 59–60

De Govia, Jack, 93

Friedman, Dave, 92

Death Weekend, 105

Fruet, Bill, 106

Deighton, Len, 155

Fruitman, Orville, 82

Dempsey, Patrick, 129

Fulford, Robert [aka Marshall

Le diable est parmi nous, 86

Delaney], 102

Diller, Barry, 110 directing, 127–8

Gavin, John, 87

Dodd, Wilfred, 47, 60, 77

Gélinas, Gratien, 86

Dorfman, Robert, 58

Genie Awards, 155

Drapeau, Jean, 32–3

Giroux, Claude, 77

Dunn, Marion E., 142

Goldberg, Danny, 90, 102, 110

Dunning, Greg, 56–7, 150

Guérin, André, 53, 62, 76–7

Dunning, John Parnell, 16–17, 38–9

Index

223 Happy Birthday to Me, 117

Laurier Theatre fire, 6–7

Harris, Jack, 90

Lautrec, Donald, 80

Heavy Metal Summer, 135

Lawrence, André, 79, 83

Héroux, Denis, 45, 70, 75

Leachman, Cloris, 114–15

Hoffman, Guy, 44, 54

Leclerc, Jean, 146–7

Hollander, Xaviera, 89

Lelouch, Claude, 67

Hot Dog Cops, 116

Lévesque, René, 45, 89

Hudson, Ernie, 124

Link, André, 50–3, 58, 60, 67, 71–2,

Hudson, QC, 130–1

78, 81–2, 96, 98, 102, 108, 111– 12, 123–4, 128, 130, 132, 134,

L’initiation, 71, 74 Ilsa: Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks, 94

136, 141, 143, 147, 152, 154 Link, Trudi, 66 Lionsgate, 140

Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS, 91–4

Lord, Jean-Claude, 133

Ilsa: The Tigress of Siberia, 94

Love in a 4 Letter World, 79 Loving and Laughing, 83–4

Johnson, Lamont, 124 Junior, 130–1

Making It Safe, 142 Marleau, Louise, 75, 86

Kahane, Rabbi Meir, 94

Marshall, James, 152

Keep It in the Family, 87–90

Matalon, Eddy, 108

Kellerman, Sally, 130

Mayer, Louis B., 6–7

Kent, Larry, 87–8, 109–10, 115

McGill University, 13, 21–4, 114

Koontz, Dean, 146

Meatballs, 109–10

Lafleur, Jean, 71, 105, 124

Meatballs III: Summer Job, 128,

Meatballs II, 128 Lamas, Lorenzo, 143–4, 151

130–1

Lamy, Pierre, 46, 104

meditation, 138

Landry, Bernard, 74

Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 7

Lapointe, Jean, 117

Midnight in St Petersburg, 156

Larouche, Christian, 149

Mihalka, George, 120, 122, 156

Lasalle, 38, 40

Milland, Ray, 109

Laure, Carole, 126

Montreal Canadiens, 105

Index

224 Montreal Morality Squad, 32, 64

Police Academy [series], 116

Motion Picture Association of Ameri-

La pomme, la queue et les pepins, 80,

ca, 122

82

Murray, Bill, 110–11

La Presse, 60, 82, 84

My Bloody Valentine, 120

Princes in Exile, 145–6

The Mystery of the Million Dollar Hockey Puck, 105 Myzner, Jean [Jean Dunning], 38–9, 56

Rabid, 103, 106 rave scene, 152–3 Raymond, Marie-Josée, 80, 117 Reamy, Bob, 148

National Film Board, 67, 85, 87, 145–6 Naubert, Nathalie, 76 Nessis, Larry, 114–15

Reems, Harry, 116 Reitman, Ivan, 75, 89–90, 102–3, 105–6, 109–11, 123 Renaud, Chantal, 73–4, 81

New Brunswick, 7, 143–4

Riberolles, Jacques, 73, 75

Niagara Films, 41–2, 54, 63

Richer, Gilles, 104 Richmond, Sandy, 93

Ouimet, Danielle, 71, 73

Ringwald, Molly, 123

Ouimet, François, 142

Robocop, 139

Palillo, Ron, 143

Sackman, Jeff, 149, 156–7

Paramount Pictures, 110, 122

Sanderson, Derek, 84

Park Theatre, 4, 18, 35, 37, 41, 43,

Saturday Night, 102

57 Paseornek, Mike, 140–2, 147, 149– 50, 152–3

Saturday Night Live, 109 Savoy Theatre, 6, 12, 43 Saxton, John, 90–2, 94, 96–7

Peraino, Joseph, “The Whale,” 69

Seal, Don, 64, 77–8

Pile ou face, 76

Seguin, Fernand, 41, 45–7

Pilon, Daniel, 117

Shearer, Norma, 6–7

Pimpare, Claire, 114

Shivers [aka Orgy of the Blood Para-

Plante, Pax, 32 police, 12, 25, 27–9, 32, 36, 37–8, 118

Index

sites, The Parasite Murders], 75, 100, 102–3 Ski School II, 157

225 Snake Eater, 141, 143

Trudeau, Pierre, 89

Snake Eater II: The Drug Buster,

Turan, Kenneth, 96

147–8 Snake Eater III: His Law, 151

Tweed, Shannon, 126 Twentieth Century Fox, 132

Société Générale des Industries Culturelles du Québec (sogic) [later,

United Theatres, 49, 60–1

sodec], 147 sociophobia, 44, 48

Vaccaro, Brenda, 106

Sone, John, 79, 83

Valenti, Jack, 122

Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone, 123

Valérie, 72–3 Van Patten, Vince, 114

Spencer, Michael, 74–5

Van Zee, Joy, 93

Stitches, 140

Verdun, 3–4, 6, 8–10, 12, 19–20, 25,

stress, 22, 26, 28, 30, 63

28–9, 36–8, 40, 42–3, 48

Stroud, Don, 106

Veronka, Arthur, 79, 83

The Surrogate, 126

Video Shoppers World, 150

Swartek, Peter, 105

Ville-Émard, QC, 3, 7, 16–17, 30, 35 The Vindicator, 133, 139, 152

tachycardia [Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome], 57–8, 125, 127, 138 Tassé, Gérald, 76–7

Walker, Giles, 145 Weinstein, Harvey, 156

Tati, Jacques, 62–3

Weintraub, William, 19, 67–8

tax credits, 113–14

Westmount, QC, 6, 16

Telefilm Canada, 74

Winston, Stan, 152

television, 40–2, 61, 112

World War II, 3, 5, 12, 20–1, 50, 68,

Théâtre du Nouveau Monde, 44, 54–5

91–2, 94, 98, 138 World Wrestling Federation, 151

Thériault, Yves, 71 This Time Forever, 114–15

Zelinski, Rafal, 135

Thompson, J. Lee, 117–19 Thorne, Dyanne, 92–3, 95, 97 Tout feu, tout femme, 103 Towers, Harry Alan, 155

Index