For those of you who missed the Obama love-in that was the “America Votes” IFOA event this past Saturday afternoon, let me assure you that it warmed the hearts of every Democrat supporter in the room (i.e. everyone in the room). Postulating on the impending election hoopla were Hugh Eikin, senior editor of the New York Review of Books; economics writer Jeff Madrick, author of The Case for Big Government; and host Michael Tomasky, the colourful editor of Guardian America, who promised to resort to “cheap punditry,” should he be prodded to do so. He was and he did, making the wise suggestion to “choose the smart guy this time.”

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Talking to writer/director Paul Gross about his epic new World War I movie

“I liked it because it’s Canadian.”

Apparently this was the wrong thing to say about Paul Gross’s new film Passchendaele, or so I learned from one of my Walrus colleagues the other evening over beer and nachos. “Trust me,” one of them said, Heineken in hand, “there’s no more back-handed compliment than saying you like something because it’s Canadian.” Hmm. I pondered the statement, growing a little red in the face. “Girls say it to me all the time,” he added with a sigh.

Did I play the fool for admitting I liked something simply because it came from the same place I did? Was I judging this film using criteria that disregarded artistic merit, that paid no attention to script, cinematography, or even (gasp) acting? Do we, as Canadians, observe our own creations through maple-leaf coloured glasses?

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I moved to Toronto from Vancouver a couple of weeks ago, and one of the things I miss most about home is the daily commute that took me over the Cambie Street Bridge and into the downtown core each morning. I’d hop on my trusty ten-speed (minus one brake cable, but who’s counting?) and rocket down the hill, past the all-too-familiar yellow and red safety vests of the Canada Line construction workers, and onto the wide bike-friendly path speckled with self-propelled individuals on their way to work. On rainy days my view from the bridge was limited to the slippery pavement in front of me, but on the rare and much celebrated occasion of a clear, sunny Vancouver morning, the city would rise up before me in all its tall, glassy glory.

To my left, the expansive curve of English Bay’s shores would wind beneath the Burrard Street Bridge, where tiny rainbow-coloured ferries shuttled market workers to Granville Island. To my right, the waters of False Creek would reach into the city, before ending abruptly at the foot of the Expo ‘86 architectural orb known as Science World. And in front of me, clusters of residential towers would form a shining wall across the horizon, some so distant that only the sharp glare of their reflections would register, others so close that I could see through their windows smartly dressed couples making breakfast and preparing for the day. It was easy to see how Vancouver earned the Coupland-coined moniker “City of Glass.”

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