![](06_Inside_Story_The_Jerky_adolescent.jpg) |
Colette
the weathergirl graciously allows this gag shot, in which I
imitate one of her pet peeve "jerky adolescents, who get in
the background during her live shots. I have to promise I won’t
give the finger like they do, though. |
A change of view and subject seems in
order, so we get the van going and renew cruising downtown Montreal. We
pass by the corner of Peel and St. Catherine’s Streets, where, says
Jacques, one can find the "most people per square foot of any spot
in Canada; the Times Square of Montreal". Beautiful wrought iron
spiral staircases spill off the second stories of even the most humble
apartment blocks.
We go down St. Laurent Street, the
dividing line between English-speaking and French-speaking Montreal.
Someone with Montreal license plates asks Jacques directions. They do so
in English, unable to pose the question in French. Although French
speakers outnumber English speakers by more than five to one, it’s
quite possible to spend your entire life in Montreal without learning
French and, according to Jacques, many do just that.
Does that make you indignant, I ask?
He shrugs philosophically and, puckering
his lips, makes a noise that sounds – I’m sorry I can’t think of a
better way of describing it – like a small fart. It’s a common
French-Canadian tick, used frequently to punctuate conversation, usually
to indicate, "Well, what can you do?"
"We were always told "Tu es né
pour un petit pain", Jacques answers. The phrase, literally
translates as "You were born for the small slice of bread",
meaning you were born to be a second-class citizen; deal with it.
Do you resent Americans, I ask?
"Not really. I mean, sometimes we
call them les maudits americains ("the accursed
Americans"). But we have little in common with English Canadians
and much in common with the Americans. The car I love (a Plymouth
convertible) is American, the music we listen to is American, the movies
we watch are American. For us, the English Canadians hardly exist".
Jacque’s pager goes off. He’s been
assigned the weather girl shot. It’s the universally familiar moment
in every local newscast, the one where the weatherperson is at some
scenic spot to give the forecast. I wonder how Jacques can do it since
our truck is not equipped with any satellite or microwave equipment. It
turns out that the station maintains some twenty-five permanently
installed plugs at frequently recurring locations.
He hopes we’ll be sent to Old Montreal,
a beautiful, historic waterfront district, but as it happens. we’re
assigned to the parking lot behind the station. Jacques tells me the
weathergirl shot is coveted by cameramen because it’s easy.
"Idiotic adolescents" who get in the picture and give the
finger while on the air are a problem. More recently, and even more
irksome to Jacques, are yuppies who position themselves so as to get in
the live picture, flip open their cell phones when the broadcast begins,
and call friends and family to announce that they’re on TV.
We have time to kill before the
weathergirl shot, so we go across the street for a bière en fût (draft
beer). While waiting for the bières to arrive, Jacques starts
talking about Le Mondial. I interrupt to ask, what’s Le
Mondial?
For the first time, Jacques loses
patience with me. "You don’t know what Le Mondial
is?" He slaps his forehead and exclaims "Calis Americain!".
It’s another Church-derived expletive, literally "Calice
American" but having the meaning of "unbelievably ignorant
American". I learn that Le Mondial is, of course, the World Cup
soccer tournament. Good-natured Jacques soon regains his equanimity,
though, and I redeem myself somewhat by asking to be taken to a souvenir
shop so as to buy a Montreal Canadians (the beloved hometown hockey
team) sweatshirt.
It’s time for the weathergirl shot. The
weathergirl is Colette Provencher, and she’s an old pro having done
the weather at TVA for 8 years. I ask her if she ever gets nervous.
"Jamais", she says. "J’aime mon public, et
mon public m’aime". (I love my public and they love me).
I ask her about her work and she shows me
a half-sheet of copy paper, on which is scribbled the forecast in
shorthand. She tells me proudly that she memorizes this each day so as
to be spontaneous while on air. She wants to know what something is in
English, and after some fumbling back and forth I finally get what it is
and tell her: partly sunny.
I ask Colette if I can take a gag
photograph of me standing behind her like one of the jerky adolescents.
She graciously agrees, but only after I promise not to give the finger.
Another reporter appears: the setup will be used to film the top story
of the day as well. A studio assistant is on hand and I ask what the top
story is. He has no idea.
The top-story reporter, surprisingly
young and disheveled, stands before the camera, crouching first to place
his cellular phone on the sidewalk in front of him. He is looking
straight into the camera now, talking with someone in the control room,
oblivious to anything but his unseen audience. The reporter has no
worries about his cell phone; he knows the crowd of gawkers that have
assembled behind him will never dare to invade the sacred space of live
TV.
The news broadcast begins imperceptibly.
I am watching the top-story reporter and assume he is still bantering
with the control room. The tip-off is that Colette has taken the chewing
gum from her mouth, sticking it on a parking meter just out of camera
view.
The top-story reporter finishes and
during the interregnum between his story and the weather report, we
watch our broken water main story in the viewer of Jacques’ camera. It’s
strange, to say the least: I get the sense of looking at a mirror with a
mirror.
Colette is in position now, her moment
arrives, she performs faultlessly. Within two minutes of finishing she
is into her modest sedan and on her way. She lives in the suburbs with
her two teenage children and will back in time for the 11:00 broadcast.
"That’s it", says Jacques.
"C’est fini".