An Update From My 60s Project.

Depending on my mood, I promised you a series of posts that would celebrate or lament my upcoming milestone birthday at the end of the year. In typical Dawn fashion, I have found dozens of things far more essential to occupy my time and writing has become an afterthought. And while surfing the intertoobs for comfortable socks was a massive priority during those many months of lockdown, reconnecting with friends and family has taken precedence over fiddling around in this space or any space online. There are people to see, places to go, and celebrations to attend. We do so with great caution, masks, and lots of testing, but off we go. This brings me to how lovely it has been to see all of the happy pictures on social media over the last few days. Photos of newly minted graduates, happy couples celebrating engagements, weddings, new digs, and brand new babies have filled my timelines. It is a happy reversal from the usual doomscrolling, and with the improved weather, my disposition has definitely shifted. To facilitate my reemergence into the land of human interaction, I was in desperate need of some new clothes.

I can't possibly be the only person on earth who spent significant chunks of the pandemic clad in yoga pants, sweatshirts, and Crocs? It was almost as if my lifelong fashion choices had been validated by seven billion people. Every few weeks, I would slip on a pair of jeans to make sure that they still fit, but comfort was definitely the watchword of the lockdown. And now I find myself in a crisis of conscience. What does an almost sexagenarian wear to a wedding these days?

An aside. How great is that word? Sexagenarian. I am all a flutter at its provocativeness. I realize that its roots have absolutely nothing to do with erotica, but I very much like the idea of a sexy sixty.

Where was I? Ah yes...clothing.

I have never enjoyed clothes shopping. It is the furthest thing from a passion, and I have always been far more about functionality and comfort than style. Also, I loathe trying on clothes at a store with the fiery passion of the seventh circle of hell. One simply hasn't lived a full and complete life until one has had a salesperson remark on the size of one's breasts or the glaring lack of one's butt. These are encounters that have been imprinted on my psyche, and a lifetime of positive affirmation statements won't diminish them. In addition, trying on clothes that countless others have already squeezed themselves into seems unsanitary right now, but accepting social invitations means dressing in something more than a tank top and workout bra. Knowing that several weddings and functions were coming up this spring gave me the "dry heaves" when figuring out an outfit for my figure. So, I did the unthinkable.

I surfed the intertoob waves. 

I can hear the screams of derision coming through the screen. 

Yes, I shopped online for a dress for my nephew's and almost niece's wedding. And, here's the kicker.

I WAS SUCCESSFUL!!

I am as stunned as you must be. It isn't like I'm an easy fit. The options don't exactly overflow when you are under five feet tall, have short legs, a long waist, and big boobs. Standard sizing has been one of the banes of my existence. But, I was running low on options. Omicron was everywhere, and I was extraordinarily uncomfortable venturing into a store. I don't sew. (The Mother of the Groom/aka The Yin to the Lil' Bro's Yang, is the artsy one in the family, and she is making her dress. I have no doubt it will be of Vera Wang quality.) So, I was left with the intertoobs or sackcloth and ashes.

In February, I was in the Southern Home and was taking a cursory peek at some online dress shops. I was looking more for the style than an actual dress. I was stunned to find a shop that carried a variety of appropriate petite outfits that 1) didn't make me look like a dowager, 2) had a variety of colour palettes, 3) were made of fabrics that were both easy to keep and very forgivable in all the right places, and 4) wouldn't make me feel as though I was mortgaging my grandchildren's future education. I closed the computer and said no. This can't be possible. But, Jeff Bezos and internet cookies changed my mind. 

The site followed me around the web to Amazon. It seems as though this shop also has an Amazon shop that carries the same merchandise. They were willing to ship the dress via Amazon Prime with a one hundred percent refundable return policy. And on Amazon, it was thirty percent cheaper. I hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send. I figured that I would simply return it when it came and was wholly unsuitable.

The next evening, the dress arrived at my door. The Husband was incredulous.

"You know you'll hate it, don't you?" he said. (Everybody needs a supportive partner.)

I went into the bedroom, slipped off my sweats, and tugged on the dress. When I tell you that it fits as though it were made to measure, I am not exaggerating. It doesn't require hemming; it covers my problematic body areas; it's comfortable; I can wear a regular bra, and it has a bit of bling on the hip. I walked into the other room to show The Husband, and his reply was,

"How did you do that?" (SUPPORTIVE!)

Still totally flabbergasted, I made my way to my mom's to show her. I was confident that she would have some concerns because moms are trained to see the big picture. 

She stood stunned, and her only question was, "Do you have shoes?"

I DO!

The dress is now hanging in my closet, awaiting the chuppah this weekend and two other functions later this spring. 

A lifetime of shopping trauma had led to this moment. It was the most accessible and least miserable retail experience in my almost sixty years. 

There is a moral to this story. Clothing can look great and be comfortable. There are ways to dress without torture and expense, and we women shouldn't have to wait until we are sixty to figure it out. So, fuck standard sizing, fuck hating our bodies, fuck overpaying for an outfit you will only wear once, and fuck others telling you what is fashionable.

Here's the dress.  I promise to post a photo of me in it after the weekend. 

A Letter To Molly On Her Fourth Birthday

 My Dearest Molly,

I wrote the first of these missives a few weeks after you were born, and I have continued to post them annually on your birthday. As you approach your Flashy Four, I find it difficult to gather my thoughts into coherent sentences. The world is a really shitty place right now. (Yes...Bubby cussed. It is something that Bubby does, and I rarely apologize for it.) I wish it wasn't, but I promised that I would never lie to you. Sometimes, things are difficult. Occasionally, we all feel overwhelmed and exhausted. It isn't weak to admit that we are tired, need help, and need to lean on others. How I wish I was turning four like you, and the only care I might have is whether Mommy and Daddy will let me watch Paw Patrol after dinner. I hope that when we talk about this miserable era one day, you will only have snatches and glimpses of memory. I hope you recall how hard everybody worked to keep your life as normal as possible. I hope you remember how you readily accepted wearing a mask and how it became a mantra for keeping you and your friends healthy. I hope that you remember how wonderful your preschool was and the outstanding teachers that put joy in every day for you. 

I hope...

Last week, you and I sang some of our favourite songs from Encanto. Unsurprisingly, you know all of the lyrics and most of the choreography. Daddy says that you are a sponge. You hear or see something once, and it becomes a part of you. I asked you if you had a favourite character. Your answer was typically long and winding, as you named off the entire Madrigal family. I asked you if you could guess who my favourite Madrigal was. Excitedly, you yelled out, "Luisa!" "How did you know that?" I asked. And you said, "She's the strong one."

You were absolutely correct. Luisa is the strong one. She can move mountains, and she takes responsibility for everyone else in the family. But, I also told you another reason why I love Luisa. Luisa is strong, but sometimes she cries. You asked me, "Why does she cry?" I told you that sometimes everybody feels sad, and it is absolutely ok to cry when we do. You knowingly nodded your head. It was like I was having a mini therapy session. It was an intense and philosophical conversation to have with a four-year-old. You then showed me your Paw Patrol pups, and the universe was in total balance again. You gave me permission to cry that day, and I will be forever grateful. 

Four is such a magical age. Four-year-olds are the "in-between," not really babies or toddlers but not quite ready for the prime time of memory-laden childhood. But, oh, the things you can do and the things you say. Four-year-olds speak their minds without the filter that comes with age. Oh, how I wish I could utter some of the things you do and get away with it just because I'm four. There is a purity to your thought that is marvellous. It is yet to be tainted by rules of civility and propriety. Only young people and old people can live their lives without any shits to give. Those of us in the middle are stuck dealing with decorousness and etiquette. Enjoy it while you can, dear one. The decorum police will soon be on your doorstep.

You are a whirling dervish of imagination and chatter. There are times when I am sure that your parents just turn on the TV so that you will stop talking. I love it! I love listening to your stories. I want to crawl inside your brain and watch it work. I am in constant awe of everything that comes out of your mouth. Don't stop talking, Molly. Keep expressing yourself in ways that get you noticed. Tell the world how you feel and never hide your emotions. If someone calls you a chatterbox, tell them that you are loquacious. Words matter, and how we use them matters. Never allow yourself to be defined by somebody else's negative perception.

Are you stubborn? No, you are strong-willed. Are you picky? No, you are discerning. Be yourself, but be kind.

Kindness is in such short supply these days. People have forgotten how to interact and behave. And yet, I see it in you all the time when you comfort a friend who is having a difficult day at school or in the gentle way you treat Talia. Kindness matters so very much. We often forget that we need each other, and if we forge a bond of compassion and empathy, we can get through the difficult times together. Always return to kindness, Molly. There will be times when anger takes over, and your words might be sharp, but trust your kind heart. It will not fail you.

I have been so impressed with how wonderful a big sister you are. Talia is still so new and still learning so much. I love how you make it your mission to make her smile and laugh. Nobody makes that baby laugh harder than you. She adores you. I watch her face light up when you come close. She trusts you implicitly and wants so much to be like you. Sisters have a bond that is unlike any other. She will be your best friend, biggest fan, and best confidant. She will probably also be your biggest nemesis, aggravation, and irritant. Remember the good stuff and minimize the bad. Your relationship with your sister will be your most important and enduring. Cherish each other and work together. Always be there for her. 

You have grown so much this year. There is some wariness, and that is normal. I believe in caution, but it is essential to never let nerves overtake your desire to try something new. There are so many exciting adventures awaiting you this coming year, and it is my hope you dive in with both feet and embrace all that is offered. 

I am in constant awe of you. I love who you are becoming and am fascinated by what fascinates you. You are in ceaseless motion, and I wish I had a tenth of your energy. Keep dancing with joy. Continue to help with the cooking and baking because they feed both body and soul. Keep trying new things and embracing fresh escapades. Never stop asking questions and never settle for the easy answers when you feel them lacking.

Happy 4th Birthday, Molly. Celebrate it with dance and cake because life is always better with cake. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Bubby

 

My 60s Project

I haven't written a great deal lately. You might consider that a hidden blessing, depending on your perspective, but the truth of the matter is that I haven't had anything all that interesting to say. It would be so easy to comment on every ill and injustice that is happening right now but screaming into an empty void isn't really my style. If you all are anything like me these days, you are exhausted. I mean, "fall on the floor ten minutes after you've gotten out of bed because the world is a flaming pile of pigeon dung" exhausted. It is my guess that you are probably even more stonkered by amateur hacks like me spouting bullshit from every corner of the internet. My malarky metre pings actively these days. I have wearied of friends, family, and mere acquaintances posting whatever brainfart they conjure and I have yet to figure out if that is a product of my advancing age or the first real signs of my own personal apocalypse. For the sake of my mental health, I am going with the "getting old" theory and I have decided that after more than two years of stunted personal development and growth, I am ready to re-engage with society. I pray to whatever deity who is listening that I don't bore the crap out of my tens of readers. Rather, I wanted to embark upon a year-long project of essay writing. You see, I have a pretty big and round-numbered birthday approaching at the end of this calendar year. I am hoping to record some of my thoughts about where I have been and where I see myself going as I climb that mound of advancing years and slip quietly into dotage. My goal is to find something worthwhile or trivial to examine in pixels every month. As it is now March, I am obviously already behind in this quest. Chalk that up to the aforementioned soul-crushing exhaustion. I promise to catch up so that hopefully, there will be a dozen or so essays at year's end. Don't feel obligated to read or to follow along. I am simply sending out a fair warning of my upcoming intellectual masturbatory tendencies.

As that decade of doom rapidly approaches, I really don't feel all that different from when I entered my thirties, forties, or fifties. Many of my old anxieties still haunt me. I still feel a roiling discomfort in my own abilities that I am certain to never fully shake. I don't want to suggest that I haven't evolved at all. I have definitely mellowed and the shit doesn't hit the fan nearly as often as it did twenty years ago. I have suffered loss and change and I have been witness to great joys. I have come to terms with the realities of life and have found most of them to be pretty damn good. If the past two years have taught me anything, it is to live every day as if there might not be another. It has been tough to do when fear and disease are everywhere and the boredom of isolation has fully ingratiated itself into my psyche. I will admit to thinking about death far more often than I ever have before. When you have lost people to this disease, pondering one's own mortality is an inevitable by-product of the process. I am not trying to be morbid but rather existential. How do I want to live the rest of my time? How do I wish those days to unfold? Nora Ephron once said, "Eat every meal as if it's your last; when the last one comes, you probably won't be very hungry." Do I really want my last meal to be a bowl of All-Bran because it aids in my digestion?

Lately, I have been giving thought to some of these questions. What do those next days and years hold? And so...I am answering one of the many niggling issues confronting me right now. There comes a point in every woman's life when she looks at herself in the mirror, sees the image before her and asks that age-old question, "Colour or grey?

The pandemic has made this question moot for so many. Allowing the grey to flow freely has been a wonderful side effect of the lockdowns. Those roots that cost so many of us thousands of dollars to eradicate are now liberating hues of silvery-white. And age has nothing to do with it. I've seen women in their thirties who are embracing the natural. I am fascinated by their serenity and the ease with which they have welcomed their new shades. They are so beautiful, each and every one of them. I see that shimmering halo of grey around my own crown and as I hope to embrace my inner Gloria Steinem, I yell into my reflection at the top of my lungs...

AH, HELL NO! I'M NOT READY YET!  

I still feel the need to look in that mirror and recognize myself. Call it vanity or call it insecurity. I am going to continue to embrace the colouring bottle for a wee bit longer. Does it make me weak? Maybe, but the greatest part of feminism is being able to choose how I deal with my own body. This week, I watched a wonderful contestant on Jeopardy who was coming out of her last course of chemotherapy. In that first episode, her hair was long and flowing as she discussed her recent diagnosis and recovery. In the next three episodes, we discovered that she had been wearing a wig and that she wanted to show herself with her new growth post-chemo hair. She talked about how sometimes, cancer patients will wear a wig not only for themselves but for the comfort of others. She was insistent about removing the stigma and being seen for all that she is and all that she had been through. I admire her and her authenticity so very much. 

Maybe when that birthday creeps up on me in December, I might try on a new colour. What do you all think of fuchsia?

The Learning Curve of 2021

I went for an early morning walk today. I saw a lot more people running, walking, doing yoga, or tai-chi than I would on a typical day. I chalked it up to New Year's Resolutions and probable new personal commitments to exercise. I wonder just how many of those intrepid runners will still be at it come February? Because that's the thing about resolutions. They are usually doomed to fail unless one has a constitution of steel and a mind ready to bring on change. Most of us simply don't have either.

It is why I rarely start fresh on January 1st. Other than Betty White no longer walking this planet, what has really changed since yesterday? Change can only happen with true fidelity to the cause and real change comes from growth, experience, and education. I am a big believer in the power of knowledge and learning. And so it was, that I asked some friends to share with me one thing that they had learned throughout 2021. One thing. It could be a thing that led to something positive in their lives or it could be a realization that something toxic needed excising. One thing learned. It seems so simple when the question is asked but for some, it required a bit of soul-searching. I was impressed by the answers and the generosity with which they were shared. 

Some took the opportunity to have tangible and hands-on learning experiences.

"I have started to learn to paint in acrylics. A new hobby that can be done at home. I took a TDSB adult education course online to get started--an opportunity not usually available."~Janice S.

"I learned to use Squarespace to set up my new website. Definitely a learning curve."~Sandee S.

"After years of painting in acrylic, I am learning to paint in oil."~Karen P.

"I learned that I love plants, that 10K+ steps per day are great for the soul, and that a little TV is relaxing.~Kim A 

"I've learned how to use an industrial leather sewing machine. (I help my wife realize her creations.) Working on learning leather tooling and carving."~Scott M.

Last year in this space, I remarked how important new hobbies and ventures had become to me during the early days of the pandemic and that continued into 2021. Baking, cooking, and online classes have continued to stimulate my mind and feed both body and spirit. I am in awe of people with artistic abilities and can't wait to see the fruits of their labours. 

But...there was more. Friends who continued their educations in far more formal settings.

"I learned that you can go back to school after 50 and earn a new diploma."~Zoe S.

"I've learned that I can still rock the cap and gown."~Larry T.

"I've learned/got better at controlling my patients' diabetes with newer medications."~Ellen G.

I love my friends who understand and have committed to lifelong learning. We are better humans when we realize that we don't know everything and then open ourselves up to expanding the reservoirs of knowledge. 

There were happy posts that shared milestones...

"I learned, not surprisingly, that I love being a grandparent."~Kathy S.

And the painfully honest and understandably angry and fed-up posts...

"I never want to experience another pandemic."~Francine

I think that she speaks for 7+ billion of us. 

And then some dug deep within themselves and had no difficulty sharing self-actualizations and realizations. I appreciated how profoundly personal these were and was honoured that they felt comfortable enough to make them public. I think that I will remove names at this point because they aren't friends of the entire intertoobs. If you are my Facebook friend, you can read them for yourself.

"I learned that I cannot control life. I'm not even talking about my life, bigger than that. I am truly just a player in this thing, so I need to focus on enjoying and surviving, not on anticipating or predicting. That's just so big for my mental health journey."

"I learned a great many things, but most of all who really matters."

"Stress is not something someone hands you on a platter, you "serve" yourself. So, choose your stresses wisely!"

"I learned that I am stronger (emotionally and physically) than I thought I was."

"I learned that although I love my job/profession, I cannot work 7 more years until retirement. Life is short, so I am working on retiring in 3 years." (This came from a healthcare professional.)

"I am learning to always be true to myself. Life is too short to settle and/or to allow anyone to make me feel any less than what I am."

"I learned that I LOVE being a homebody. Shocked the hell out of me."

"I learned אם אין אני לי מי לי This is a quote from Rabbi Hillel in Pirkei Avot which translates to "If I am not for myself, who will be for me." (This is Dawn speaking now. The rest of the quote is instructive too as it reads, "And when I am for myself alone, what am I? And if not now, then when?")

"Remember to tell people how much they mean to you because you might not get a second chance."

During a time of so much pain and suffering, people found ways of coping, learning personal truths, and coming out stronger. It hasn't been that way for everybody and so many are still struggling but I am giving standing ovations to those who are living authentically.

It wouldn't be fair to ask you all to share and for me to merely act as observer and stenographer. Here are a few things that I learned this year. Some are difficult to hear and the Canadian in me wants to apologize for them but...well...here goes.

I learned that in the name of actively listening to every voice we tend to give credence to stupid and dangerous ideas.

I learned that I only have so much bandwidth.

I learned that my exhaustion sometimes explodes at inopportune times and at the wrong people.

I learned that giving in to that exhaustion isn't selfish.

I learned that what is "normal" to me might not be "normal" to you.

I learned that as a society we have elected the dumbest motherfuckers on the planet to lead us. This is irrespective of party or political ideology. 

I learned that a long walk with a good book in my ear can be soothing.

I learned that watching the world through the eyes of children can be soul-cleansing, especially when those children are grandchildren.

I learned that while I can't control people or their stupid behaviour, I don't have to let them into my life. 

And here's the toughest of all...

I learned that cutting off toxic people, even if they are family or formally close friends, is a mental health imperative. 

I want to leave 2021 on a positive note and enter 2022 with hope and so, I will give you a few more from dear friends who are obviously far better people than am I.

"Be kind every day."~Naomi C.

"Being an empty-nester isn't as bad as I thought it would be"~Kim A

And...this...my favourite of all...was attached to Scott's comment above.

"I learned that I love my wife of 30 years more than I thought possible."

Me too, The Husband. More than I ever thought possible.

Onward and upward 2022. 

Let's go.

A Birthday Story

Today is my birthday!

This story has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that today is my birthday but it is such an oddity during these difficult and bizarre times, that I am accepting it as a gift. Let's call it a birthday phenomenon. 

This morning, The Husband and I were attempting to install some extra shelving in our kitchen. (Yes, I realize that birthday celebrations in the time of Omicron have taken on a whole new level of excitement.) His phone rang during this wild time and since he was busy and didn't recognize the number, he chose to let the call go straight to voicemail. When he finally did retrieve the message, he discovered that it was from somebody who works at Benjamin's Funeral Home. Now before I continue, for those of you who are not from Toronto, Benjamin's is one of two Jewish funeral homes in the city. The woman was quick to point out that this was not a call of condolence or sadness but that she did hope that The Husband would return her call at his earliest convenience, which he did.

It seems that Benjamin's received an odd call this morning that had to do with The Husband's dad (z"l). He passed away almost seven years ago, so even the people at Benjamin's were a bit surprised by the request. The caller identified himself as a former client of my late father-in-law's and was anxious to get in touch with a member of his family. He knew that he had died but hadn't found out at the time as they had lost touch. When he finally did learn of his death, he tried to call his former legal office which had, of course, been closed and disbanded. He was about to give up when a Jewish friend suggested that he contact Benjamin's or Steeles Memorial and see if they could help. Benjamin's wasn't about to give out any contact information to a random caller but they did offer to act as a go-between and thus they made the call this morning to The Husband. They had next to no information about the caller other than his name and phone number and left it up to The Husband if he wanted to make the connection.

I tend to be suspicious and overly cautious these days. (Damn it, I really wish I wasn't) I made The Husband block his number before he called Surinder so that the Caller ID couldn't track it. Unfortunately, this is the world we live in right now. After a few formalities, both The Husband and Surinder were eager to verify the other's identity. There was no question that both were who they said they were and knew things that only someone acquainted with my father-in-law (z"l) could have known. It turns out that Surinder was indeed a former legal client of The Husband's dad and had been for over thirty years. He was anxious to touch base with The Husband's mom and was saddened to learn that she died last year. He went on and on for about ten minutes about what a wonderfully gracious man Dad was and how he took such great care of him both professionally and personally. He regaled The Husband with stories about how his dad was forever talking about his family and how proud he was of his children. As I could only hear one side of the conversation, I was struck by how choked up The Husband got and how moved he was by the effort to reach out.

But wait...there's more!

Surinder very much wanted to make a donation of $1000.00 to a charity of The Husband's choice in memory of his dad and wanted to know if The Husband had any suggestions. He was crying a bit at this point and suggested The PSP Society of Canada which is the truly horrible disease that claimed the lives of both his dad and his paternal aunt. (I am providing a hyperlink to their website in case somebody reading this might want to send a donation.) He asked The Husband if he would text him the information and he would take care of it today. 

These past two years have been filled with constant sadness and pain. We all have tended to wallow in the morass and I think it is possible that the goodness that is out there has been somewhat blurred. Surinder could have very easily made that donation in memory of my father-in-law without reaching out. He could have salved his own conscience easily with a credit card but he made the effort today, seven years later, to let my husband know something special about his dad. I don't think I could have asked for a better birthday present.

One Beautiful Second

Editor's Note: For the fifth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. While TIFF is offering in-person and drive-in experiences all over the downtown core, neither one of them is yet ready to sit in a theatre with other potential Delta vectors, even though every patron is masked and vaxxed. The roster, while not nearly as robust as in previous years, still offers some wonderful choices so they have increased their number of films to view to six.  Because they are old and, as previously stated congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this still raging pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone calls that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres are from Molly or Talia because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.

As TIFF '21 draws to a close, I am once again reminded of how much I love this art form. There is a lot of garbage that has found its way to celluloid over the years, but that hasn't diminished how wonderful the movies truly are. Superheroes and comic books notwithstanding, there are so many stories worth telling and viewing that I am very grateful for one of the world's best film festivals that brings them all together for a fortnight. And in my hometown...bonus.

It is in this heartfelt vein that TIFF '21 chose for its closing gala, director Zhang Yimou's love letter to cinema, One Second. This breathtaking and visual masterpiece was scheduled to be released at the Berlin festival in 2019 but it was pulled because of what was described as "technical issues." The film world is fairly certain that the Chinese government was none too happy with some of the portrayals of mid-1970's Maoist China and demanded cuts before the film could be screened. Two years later, we have the final product but I'm left wondering what ended up on the cutting room floor. All of that backroom drama was for naught because what remains is a visually stunning and heartwrenching depiction of a man who escapes a labour camp to see a film that has within it, a glimpse of his long-lost daughter. Along the way, we are treated to magnificent and striking desert landscapes and a cast of characters who tie themselves to his quest for their own personal reasons. There is a harshness to the setting to be sure but there is also a true adoration for the power that film has, both as entertainment and propaganda, and what can occur when movies are communally viewed. 

We absolutely loved this film and were so grateful to be among the first audiences in the world to view it. The first digital showing happened at the same time as the theatre screening. We saw seven movies this year at TIFF and this is the only one that I wish we had seen in person with other patrons. I missed the oohs, aahs, and knowing glances of fellow movie buffs.

Dawn and The Husband give One Second two huge YUPS. See this movie.

**And that's a wrap on TIFF '21. We hope that we can do it again next year in person.**

A Hot Mess From France and Love and Loss From Britain

Editor's Note: For the fifth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. While TIFF is offering in-person and drive-in experiences all over the downtown core, neither one of them is yet ready to sit in a theatre with other potential Delta vectors, even though every patron is masked and vaxxed. The roster, while not nearly as robust as in previous years, still offers some wonderful choices so they have increased their number of films to view to six.  Because they are old and, as previously stated congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this still raging pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone calls that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres are from Molly or Talia because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.

It was double feature day. We built in a hiatus for Yom Kippur and, as a result, had some trouble fitting in the movies we wanted to see. We have done doubleheaders before at TIFF. Usually, it means sprinting from one cinema to another and arriving breathless and sweaty for the second film. When one does TIFF digitally, a two-film day merely requires a ten-minute break to pee and gather snacks. In all honesty, we would have been happier with one movie because the first one was a hot mess.

We have entered into the world cinema phase of our TIFF '21 experience. We always like to choose films from the foreign language repertoire for several reasons. Filmmaking is a worldwide art form. In our experience, films that are made outside of the North American (read: American) lens are usually fresher, more original, and with stories that we have never before seen. They are more often than not independent and outside of the studio system. American filmmakers will often snatch up the best of these and remake them in watered-down English language copies. For my money, it is always important to check in on the world cinema selections at TIFF. That said, our first foray this season into this genre was a bomb. France is the story of a narcissistic, fame-loving television news reporter/anchor who cannot seem to ever get enough adoration from her fawning fans. She puts her work over family, is egged on by her social media-obsessed assistant, and is an empty vessel for anything other than her own narratives. She stage directs her reports, re-positions her interview subjects to manipulate the stories, and is more of a celebrity than a journalist. How many times can the audience watch her take selfies with fans? It grows mouldy very quickly. There is a real opportunity here for director/writer Bruno Dumont to create a real satire on the problems of modern television journalism but unfortunately, he veers off into so many tangents and subplots that the movie loses its centre. New characters pop up without explanation and crappy things happen for no reason. Bond girl Léa Seydoux is dour and miserable as the leading lady and she changes her clothes so often, it felt more like I was watching a fashion show than a film. (I counted at least 12 different coats. Who in the world has 12 different coats?) The movie is a morose morass that left us wondering why we wasted over two hours watching it. If we didn't have to read the subtitles, we both would have been sound asleep. 

Dawn and The Husband give France two hot and deep NOPES.

We fared far better with our second film of the day. I generally love a good British period piece and Mothering Sunday checks off all of the boxes. Featuring wonderful performances by promising young actors Odessa Young and Josh O'Connor (The Crown), Mothering Sunday is a steamy adaptation of Graham Swift's novella set in inter-war Britain. The film follows Jane, a young maid in service, through three generations as she navigates life, love, and loss all while developing her inner artist. This film is one of the most sensual and frankly hottest movies I've seen in a long time and yet, every scene was directed with sensitivity and purpose by Eva Husson. She literally strips her characters naked and it gives their conversations and movements a tinge of ache and realism. But above all, Mothering Sunday is about loss and how we cope with grief. In one extraordinary scene, Jane's boss, played masterfully by Olivia Colman, is recalling her own heartache at the loss of her son during the war. She comments on Jane's upbringing in an orphanage and tells her to be grateful for it. "You are totally bereaved from birth. You have nothing to lose and never shall,” she tells Jane during this poignant exchange. Of course, that is a simplistic view of one woman's anguish and the film's future tragedies prove that grief is never definable. While we see Jane mature as both a woman and an artist, we never really see her art but we know that it is superb. Mothering Sunday isn't a perfect movie but it is a really good one and I loved that such accomplished actors like Colman, Colin Firth, and Glenda Jackson took small supporting roles simply to be a part of it. I urge you to see this film. It is well worth your time.

Dawn and The Husband give Mothering Sunday two very enthusiastic YUPS. We both loved it. 

**Our last film is this evening. The final review will be published tomorrow. Thanks, TIFF.**