The sun has come out again in Vancouver after a week and a half of rain and grey skies but one gets the definite sense that summer has turned the corner and should one care to squint, one can make out the smiling, tweed clad figure of autumn striding purposefully up the road.

The wind brings an unfamiliar chill, leaves are contemplating their demise and women are wearing an extra half inch of length on their “Daisy Dukes”.

(Honestly I have never seen a town so fond of cut offs as Vancouver. But I digress)

Last night was spent sitting in an enormous sound stage filled with various scientificky looking apparatus and we all powered through another delightful scene of genetic experimentation.

As tempers grew short and double time penalty rates drew near, we all received our “halfway through the shoot” gift of a base ball cap emblazoned with the film’s title and tag line.

There are many moments of many days that throw into relief the inane and disconnected nature of a life coddled by the American film industry, and this particular gesture was probably the least striking among them thus far, but as the night wore on into early morning and we all wore our hats in amusing and jaunty ways as if to say ” haha! What a silly thing this hat is that I don’t really care for in an acceptably nonchalant way,” I was struck by the idea of all of these talented and intelligent people giving their very best to a project that they all thought was a bit silly, and that this was par for the course.

Perhaps it is.
Perhaps there is something inherent to the nature of Hollywood studio film making that leads to an inevitable dumbing down of any clever ideas. A blandification of anything unique. Perhaps Fox employs a boardroom of homogenizers to ensure the broadest possible appeal at the most moderate of levels.

Better that everyone “kind of likes it” than one sub set of the culture absolutely love it.

How foolish of us all to knowingly dig such a dry well. From the artists that create the product to the consumer who spends money on a ticket expecting only to be mildly interested in what he has spent fifteen bucks on.

But now we start getting into battles with our higher nature.
Our survival instincts versus our drive for achievement, and that’s another tedious and flatulent post entirely.

Take care all, I need to finish my Grande Mocha.

I Told The Trolley That I Love You from Roderick Fransham on Vimeo.

2005 from Roderick Fransham on Vimeo.

Charles Darwin, Winston Churchill, James Earl Jones, Rowan Atkinson, Sir Issac Newton and myself, believe it or not,  all have one thing in common: A stutter.

I tend not to talk about it these days as I have become fairly skilled at masking it and sometimes for days at a stretch it will disappear completely. Besides that, it tends to illicit a sort of mood blanching unctuous sympathy that makes one’s gums itch.

I was set into a reverie on the subject when I ran into a fellow secret stutterer at the gym today. His affliction would only have been apparent to the initiated as he was boisterous and jovial, but the tell-tale facial micro spasm and subsequent downcast, disappointed expression, followed by a lightening fast checking of the faces of his companions for recoil or discomfort, gave him away better than a written confession and got me  thinking about the secret world that these blighted individuals inhabit.

It sounds a tad melodramatic I know, but I assure you that no exaggeration can be made as to the personal and psychological trauma that can be experienced by those whose attempts to communicate are persistently thwarted or met with derision.

When I was younger, up until my mid twenties in fact, I could scarcely utter my name without embarrassing facial contortions and exhausting vocal exertions. Talking on the telephone was something I avoided like vomit on the subway and I lived a very solitary existence, taking great pains not to have to engage in conversation of any sort.

The only time it ever went away was when I was performing. Of course I would stutter through auditions like Porky Pig and subsequently found myself almost solely working in the silent world of dance and physical theatre.

No one has really been able to agree on the root cause of stuttering. Some say it is a neurological pathology, others say it is entirely psychological. The truth, I believe, as with most complex human conditions, lies somewhere in between. Though the fact that I never stutter when I am pretending to be someone else certainly lends weight to the latter theory.

A surprising percentage of stutterers are drawn to the performing arts, some notable examples being Bruce Willis , Julia Roberts, Harvey Keitel and Marilyn Monroe, surprising because at first you would think that being unable to speak would be a bit of a hindrance to success. Well it is, but I think that a lifetime of enforced personal censorship drives people to find a legitimate outlet for self expression.

It’s easier to talk when you are allowed to talk.

I used to have a sort of mantra that I would say before I stepped onstage to ensure that I was in the right headspace to get through my lines. I would say the words “Chicken Burrito” out loud to myself as I exited the wings.

This pertains to a humiliating (though in retrospect quite amusing) experience I had trying to order the aforementioned food item, where I simply could not say the words, and after some time making the most valiant of attempts, I had to up and leave to the guffaws of the ignorant restaurant staff. I sat in the park for hours, hungry and unable to move, weighed down by humiliation and self disgust. The recollection of this event still brings a visible tremor to my hands and seeing the look of self loathing on this young fellow’s face this afternoon set my stomach turning in ways that I had almost forgotten.

I am much more resilient these days being older and wiser and seldom identify myself as “a stutterer”, but I wonder what I might be able to do to assist my fellow sufferers in shaking off the accumulated embarrassment of being put in the class with the brain damaged, of being looked at with pity when enquiring about the school speech competition, of being ignored at the bar when trying to order drinks, of being seen and not heard.

This piece by the great writer and humourist Charles Lamb is the best bit of writing I have ever encountered on the subject, so I will leave it here, hoping that the eloquence of a better writer is attached subconsciously in your minds to the experience of reading my blog.

        "Reader, if you are gifted with nerves like mine, aspire to any
character but that of a wit. When you find a tickling relish on your tongue
disposing you to that sort of conversation, especially  if you find a
preternatural flow of ideas setting in upon you at the sight of a bottle
and fresh glasses, avoid giving way to it as you would fly your greatest
destruction. If you cannot crush the power of fancy, or that within you
which you mistake for such, divert it, give it some other play. Write an
essay, pen a character or description - but not as I do now, with tears
trickling down your cheeks.

        To be an object of compassion to friends, of derision to foes; to
be suspected by strangers, stared at by fools; to be esteemed dull when you
cannot be witty, to be applauded for witty when you know that you have been
dull; to be called upon for the extemporaneous exercise of that faculty
which no premeditation can give; to be spurred on to efforts which end in
contempt; to be set on to provoke mirth which procures the procurer hatred;
to give pleasure and be paid with squinting malice; to swallow draughts of
life-destroying wine which are to be distilled into airy breath to tickle
vain auditors; to mortgage miserable morrows for nights of madness; to
waste whole seas of time upon those who pay it back in little
inconsiderable drops of grudging applause, - are the wages of buffoonery
and death."

from Essays of Elia by Charles Lamb, 1896,