Aug 5, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Flashpoint: -noun. A critical point or stage at which something or someone suddenly causes or creates some significant action. A critical situation or area having the potential of erupting in sudden violence.
Flashpoint: -noun. A Canadian cop-drama set in Toronto. Concurrently aired on CTV in Canada and CBS in the United States on Friday nights.
People either love Flashpoint, or look like you’re speaking a foreign language when you talk about it. Thankfully, I now live in that strange country, and invite you to join me.
Unlike so many regular shoot-em-up cop dramas, this is the show to watch to see how it’s all done right: well-written, superbly acted, complete stories. The character backgrounds are solid. The guest stars are amazingly talented. The scenes are thoroughly designed, and there is not one wasted second in any episode.
Whether a show focuses on one member or the entire team, there is always a sense of deep camaraderie between the characters, the actors, and those behind the scenes. The blending of so many unique talents is exquisitely performed.
Now in it’s fourth season, Flashpoint continues to attract and surprise its viewers with every scene. Although each episode is a stand-alone work of art, they also build on the last. For those of us who love the show, each Friday night is like coming home to family. Even if, at times, that family is a bit dysfunctional.
Like any real-life workforce, the family changes. Some people leave, some people come. Some people change, some people never do. The show is dependable in that it is never dependable. What started out as eight regulars was quickly dropped down to seven (let’s not forget the short-lived Dr. Amanda Luria), then six, then a small fluctuation of comings and goings, and rumor has it there will soon be another character change. As unsettling as these changes are, most fans are willing to tolerate the intermittent shake up, because in four years, Flashpoint has never disappointed.
The FP family also joins together on the producers’ official facebook page, Flashpoint Team One. It is a fanpage like no other. It was started by the producers to promote the show. It is kept alive daily by their constant interaction with the fans and all others who visit the page. It’s where I keep in touch with those who get it. Who get me. And why I love the show. Kate, Mary, Angelo, Laura, FPTO Katie, and all the others who interact on a regular basis. We work well together.
There isn’t a fan on that site that doesn’t know what it means to “go all coffee shop” on someone or “copy that” to a “Hot Call”. Everyone shares in the joys of the producers’ random acts of kindness (giving out Flashpoint merchandise to various fans just for the heck of it!), the discussion groups, Mary’s constant guard to keep spoilers off the main page for those in different time zones [personal shout out to the Sarge from this west coaster!], the collaborative fanfic efforts, and the overall community feel.
Fans proudly promote their efforts in sending Flashpoint out into the world.
Kate contributes her story ideas to www.fanfiction.net/tv/Flashpoint/
Angelo is the go-to guy for visuals (Kudos for the great pic above!). You can find more of his great stuff here: http://eclectickle.wordpress.com/flashpoint/
Fans become quick friends with each other. There is no pretense of shyness or awkardness. We’re all obsessed with bringing attention to the show, and we all accept the gushing that comes from everyone about each and every episode and producer interaction.
On any given day, you can find postings from a Canadian fan who happened upon cast and crew filming in Toronto; a tweet from the actors, writers, producers. Computer geeks share their wallpapers. Scribes share their ideas. Fans share their appreciation. It all blends very, very well; an overflow of the community that begins on set.
So it comes as a surprise to us fans, and to Flashpoint, that another change is about to happen. Having remained uncommitted to the series, CBS waffled on whether or not to renew. Canadian TV shows run only 15 episodes a year, whereas Americans are used to 22. Rather than stick the US with just as many reruns in a regular year, CBS has used Flashpoint as a filler for the past four summers. No wonder it hasn’t had the opportunity to grow into the market as well as it could. Nonetheless, CBS is well aware that Flashpoint has a die-hard following. They would do well to keep it going. But they moved too slow.
Next month, Flashpoint will be moving from CBS to ION Network. ION is a smaller cable channel, known mostly for its syndication-repeats and midnight infomercials. Not everyone in America has ION, which leads some in want of iTunes downloads. Here’s hoping that Flashpoint will be just the kick in the pants to jump start ION down a new road to aptly compete against the Big Four, and give CBS a “told-you-so” attitude.
Not every show has to have the crass vulgarity of Two and a Half Men or the horrific slaughters of Criminal Minds and CSI. While I’m a huge fan of those crime dramas, Flashpoint brings something more to the table. More realism. More in-depth characters. More honest reactions. More wanting for more.
There’s not a Flashpoint fan in the world who doesn’t hold their breath the last ten minutes of every episode, then share their angst when it’s over, having to wait an entire week to find out what happens next. Then we all go online and hash it out. Together. It’s our own brand of heroin. And it always leaves us wanting ~ no, craving ~ more.
*Check out these and other official links for more community:
Facebook – Flashpoint Team One
Twitter – Flashpoint Team 1
Flashpoint: One Moment Changes Everything. They Have the Solution.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Sam was out being a Man. Working his way through life by day; he was born in the wrong era. The first of six children, Sam was raised backwoods-style. He could have been a Pioneer. He and his brothers knew all about hiking, camping, fishing, and hunting.
It was a cold, almost snowy day in November when he picked up his deer hunting license, his rifle, his gear, and headed out. He was hungry for venison.
He set up quietly in the woods of Superior, Wisconsin. And waited. And waited. After a long enough time, and even longer, there was no deer to be had so he started the trek back to civilization.
In minutes that flashed by too quickly yet took too long to endure, a young bear wandered out of his den. He was too hungry to hibernate just yet, and Sam looked awfully tasty.
Being an experienced woodsman, Sam did what he could to scare the bear away. But the cub was young and had a mind of his own. He kept after Sam with a growing growl.
Bang! came the first shot. It got the bear in the shoulder blade. The bear was turning impatient.
Bang! the second shot caught him just above the left eye. It still wasn’t enough. Now the bear was just ornery.
Bang! the third and final shot choked the bear through his open mouth.
It fell, finally. Sam had conquered. With the help of other hunters in the area, he managed to drag it and strap it to the back of his car and make it home. A local reporter/photographer happened by, and turned around to get the story.
Sam made the paper. A butcher made the meat. A tanner made the skin. And Sam’s legacy lives on, its rug locked in the cedar chest; the story locked in our hearts.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
August 4th is always worth remembering. At least in my family. It’s not a holiday. No anniversary or birthday. It’s much more somber. It’s the day my Dad died.
And this time, it’s been thirty years. It just happened; it happened a lifetime ago.
I was young, then; in age and in mind. I was 13 with no mind to chase boys but less desire to play with dolls. I was in that stage. I sat at the kitchen table looking through the brand new JCPenney’s winter catalog. The one that every kid waited for. The pretty girls in sweaters on the cover. The hundred pages of toys in the back. The catalog was delivered in that afternoon’s mail, and it was always a treat when Mom said we could open its pages. She knew it meant wishlists and yearnings for things we could not afford, and days of begging for early allowances. But she was good about it all; taking it in stride of being a parent, and let me look.
It was hot. Hot the way August is always hot in the midwest: sticky and stifling. The air conditioner lent itself to a damp cooling inside.
Dad had come home from work early that afternoon. I was the only one around. It was a pleasant surprise, he wasn’t due back in town until that evening. Dad was the manager for a tri-state sales route. His team looked to him for leadership. He was good at what he did. I think it was in his blood.
He drove up, and I was thrilled. Just me. Just him. Some quality time. Unfortunately, at 13 years of age, a girl’s idea of quality time with her dad doesn’t typically mean house cleaning or mowing the lawn. But that’s what Dad had in mind. He wanted to do for my mom, what she always did. He wanted to take care of house and home.
I wish I would have known… I wouldn’t have complained. I would have helped, I would have been happier. I would have… done anything.
It was a few hours later when my brother walked home from his “business” of selling sodas to thirsty golfers two blocks away. It was his best day so far that summer. He was excited that Dad was already there to share in his accomplishment.
Mom’s coffeepot had a plug-in timer (before pots themselves were manufactured with them built in). The timer was defective, not always working. Sometimes the coffee would brew too early, or worse, not at all. So Dad had brought a replacement. “Shh,” he smiled, hiding the packaging after he installed the new one. “Don’t tell Mom. It’s a surprise.”
Mom came home shortly after and got busy making dinner. Corned beef and cabbage boiled on the stovetop in her old green pots and pans ~ the same green pots and pans that were mimicked in my kitchen playset. The aroma was Irish. Every so often, she’d ask me to put something on the table, or move something from it. As long as I could keep dreaming with the catalog, I was content to earn my pages.
Dad was in the Front Room. That’s what we called it back then. The living room. The TV room. The sitting room. All rolled into one. The Front Room. He was sitting in his black BarcaLounger, and it stuck to his arms and legs with a sticky ripping sound every time he moved for his ice water.
My brother was in the room with him; they were catching up, watching TV, being guys.
I heard my Dad call for Mom. She went to him, and I heard the panic in her voice. He wasn’t responding. I tried to look at the catalog, but it was confusing. The pictures blurred, but I didn’t want to look away. I didn’t want to be pulled from my dreaming into reality.
The neighbor-husband came. Did my brother get him, or did he just hear our screams? There was talk about phone calls, and people on the way, and more yelling.
This isn’t real. I stood between the Front Room and the kitchen; between before and after. I saw my dad laid on the floor, I saw the neighbor breathing into him. And I walked away. I went to my room and knelt and prayed.
This is my fault. I wasn’t happy to see him earlier. But, God, I’ve learned my lesson. And if you let him stay, I promise to love my dad more. I promise to do the chores without complaining. I promise…
But God had his own plans. Dad had a massive coronary. And at 6:04 that evening, I wrote in my vinyl-covered kid diary, “Dad just died.”
And my life was split between “Before” and “After”.
Before Dad died, we swam in the pool together. He took my brothers camping, but not me because I was a girl. I baked play-doh pies for him. We played Atari together.
After Dad died, we moved to California. I grew up. I had a daughter of my own. I take her to Disneyland. She paints. We play Wii together.
And I write. I remember, and I write.
I remember fireflies caught in spider webs along the highway. I remember backyard camp-outs and Sparklers on the Fourth of July. I remember the garden and big tomatoes. I remember teaching him how to read to us like Mom does, “with the voices”. I remember long drives to Grandma’s house, and beer-batter smelt, and a yard overwhelmed by dandelions which he always claimed was a weed but we didn’t believe him. I remember the story of the Bear Rug, that I still have. I remember the Rockford Files. I remember whiffle balls and crooked swingsets and building cardboard forts. I remember going into hysterics that night when Mom went to plug in the coffee pot timer; and I revealed Dad’s last act of love for her.
I remember you, Dad. I remember you like yesterday. I still miss you that much. And I know you’re proud. I love you back.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
