When the Chips Are Down, Count on Art

In my darkest moments, art is where I turn when I need a reminder that there are things other than the daily news cycle. With its surges of concentrated outrage and corresponding dips of despair, it’s like the world’s most unfun roller-coaster.

Lately I’ve been listening to La bohème, Giacomo Puccini’s operatic take on poor artists living, loving and dying in 1840s Paris.

It’s the same version that my grandmother introduced me to as a little girl: the 1956 recording with Sir Thomas Beecham conducting and Swedish tenor Jussi Björling and Spanish soprano Victoria de los Ángeles in the title roles, supported by American baritone Robert Merrill and soprano Lucine Amara.

I don’t think this recording has ever been bested. It reminds me of my grandmother in all her complexity and wonder. She comes back through the music and the conversations that we had about Rodolfo and Mimi.

I know I’m not alone in returning to art. Even on the dreariest of days while walking to work in the grey February rain, the innate creativity of humans pops out. It’s everywhere, from cool clothes sported by a random fashionista to quirky bits of street graffiti.

The truism that people need art is self-evident. Not only as a source of comfort, but also as a reminder of what matters, and what is best about us contrary, infuriating, remarkable humans.

But what happens when arts funders and presenting organizations are co-opted by the forces of oppression?

It seems like the United States is about to find out with its recent Kennedy Center debacle that turned a national arts institution upside down.

Conceived in the late 1950s, the Kennedy Center operates on public funding and private donations, attracting thousands of visitors each year to its lecture theatre, concert hall, theatre and opera house in Washington, D.C.

The future of the institution was thrown into chaos when Donald Trump declared himself the chair of the Kennedy Center’s board, replacing incumbent chair David M. Rubenstein. He then fired Kennedy Center president Deborah F. Rutter.

In short order, cancellations and departures began.

Showrunner Shonda Rhimes, actor Issa Rae, Canadian writer Louise Penney and musician Ben Folds were among the first to publicly leave the Kennedy Center. Soprano Renée Fleming also resigned from the organization.

What the future holds for high-profile Kennedy Center events, like the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor taking place on March 23, remains to be seen.

The upheaval at the Kennedy Center was followed closely by sweeping changes to the National Endowment for the Arts.

The changes at the NEA make the Kennedy Center purge seem somewhat tame by comparison. Its funding for federal grant applications now depends on criteria set by the Trump administration.

Any project, program or individual artwork that focuses on “diversity, equity and inclusion... or promotes gender ideology” is no longer eligible for support.

Such a moment has turned heads in Canada.

With economic and travel boycotts already in the works, Canadians are now also cancelling their subscriptions to U.S. streaming services like Netflix and Disney+.

In light of the U.S. attack on culture, with its echoes of Pierre Poilievre’s commitment to ending the CBC, what are the best solutions to stand down the insidious forces of authoritarianism, oppression and intolerance?

Take in as much art as you can. It doesn’t matter what discipline or manifestation: dance, music, books, film, painting.

Think of it as arming your mind and spirit with incandescent artillery — not weapons of war, but reminders that we’re capable of unbelievable beauty in the face of the greatest darkness.

This soul-reviving stuff is everywhere, but sometimes in the most unlikely locations.

Take a ‘Grand Theft Hamlet’ for your troubles, friend

I didn’t think that a documentary about staging Hamlet at the height of a global pandemic within the confines of the video game Grand Theft Auto would prove to be spirit-raising, but I was wrong. It’s a goddamn tonic.

Grand Theft Hamlet is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. A couple of U.K.-based actors named Sam Crane and Mark Oosterveen were going stir-crazy in 2021, when the early pandemic shutdowns kept them indoors and out of work. With little to do but fritter away the hours playing video games, they were bored, despondent and wondering how to cope.

In the middle of wandering around the violent hellscape that is Grand Theft Auto, a video game infamous for its glorification of violence and lawlessness, the pair stumbled upon an open-air amphitheatre called Vinewood Bowl, modelled after the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles.

After reciting a few soliloquies for each other, they wondered if it was possible to stage the entirety of William Shakespeare’s most famous work within the world of the game.

From there, it’s off to the races. We follow the friends as they post audition notices about their production and hope that interested people will show up. The curious part is that they do, although some just to shoot the would-be producers in the head and then gallop off, willy-nilly-killy-style.

The scenes of Crane and Oosterveen throwing their hands in the air, when menaced by other players, saying “If I could request that you refrain from killing each other and don’t kill the actors either,” are equally harrowing and hilarious.

It’s also deeply funny that so many of the play’s most famous speeches (“To be or not to be”) have a curious relevance to video game world, where people are simultaneously both — both here and not here, if you will.

Co-directors Crane and his partner and documentary filmmaker Pinny Grylls let the conceit roll out, mixing in conversations between the players alongside the many exotic locales in the game. These range from oceanic vistas to sad-sack motels to underground transit stations.

A word to the video game newbies, of which I am most definitely one: it takes a moment to orient oneself with how Grand Theft Auto works. There are non-playable characters, or NPCs, hanging out in every scene.

Much like extras in a film, these background figures exist to add flavour with the occasional bit of spicy dialogue. Only actual players have agency to steal cars, have shootouts with the police and generally wreak havoc.

Like any live theatre production in the real world, anything that can go wrong will do so. But some of these mishaps aren’t what you would expect. There are some unusual problems, such as cast members slipping off an airborne blimp, hoisted high over the city.

And much like a stage play, death in a video game is never a permanent state. If the actors get blown out of their sneakers, no biggie! They’ll be back almost before you know it.

Another aspect of the game/play environment is the ability of players to assume almost any appearance that suits their fancy, from stubbled bad boys to naked green aliens with perky butt cheeks. This is the favoured appearance of ParTebMosMir, a self-designated helper who lends himself as a sort of security detail to the troupe of thespians.

Bringing the production to a successful conclusion takes a few twists and turns worthy of Shakespeare himself. All’s well that ends well.

Watching the film in yet another moment of global uncertainty, I was reminded that art and the humans that make it are downright astounding.

When the chips are down, count on art.

Theatre, music, film, the Bard or a tiny porcelain dragon to remind you that the world is good and worth fighting for.

In ‘Porcelain War,’ a heartbreaking reminder of resilient beauty in times of crisis

A little porcelain dragon is a major part of the Academy Award-nominated documentary Porcelain War, which knocked me off my feet.

The story of how Porcelain War was made is almost as amazing as the film itself.

Slava Leontyev and Anya Stasenko met as children and married after both attended art school. He sculpts delicate porcelain figures, while she embellishes them with fantastical paintings.

Their unique co-creations garnered the attention of filmmaker Brendan Bellomo, who had initially approached them about the possibility of making an animated film based on their work.

All of that changed when Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022. From there, the film took on an entirely new form.

Bellomo communicated with the film’s subjects, neither of whom had ever made a film, from many thousands of kilometres away. Although neither Leontyev nor Stasenko had ever handled a camera, they were both willing to document their experiences.

Long-distance training sessions via Zoom provided the basics of cinematography, and the couple started filming what was taking place around them as the war ramped up.

It’s the small details that cut the deepest, such as scenes of Stasenko painstakingly criss-crossing tape across the windows in the couple’s apartment to keep them from shattering during bomb blasts. Or their entire neighbourhood taking shelter in the subway station to escape a Russian attack.

While his partner works from home, Leontyev, who had previously been a member of the Ukrainian special forces, trains ordinary citizens in the basics of military defence. Prior to the Russian invasion, most of these folks were teachers, shopkeepers and accountants. But they all give up their previous lives and defend their country with grim determination.

After winning the 2024 Sundance Film Festival Grand Jury Prize, Porcelain War was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature Film. The couple temporarily relocated to Colorado in 2024 to continue their work, as well as offer support to the film.

Leontyev, Stasenko and their close friend Andrey Stefanov, not to mention the couple’s dog, a fearsome little guy named Frodo, make a remarkable cast of characters.

But it is Ukraine itself that comes shining through. We see it in the actions of citizens banding together and in the resplendent beauty of the country.

What unites the narrative in Porcelain War, similar to that of Grand Theft Hamlet, is the commitment shared among a group of people who very consciously decide that they will do everything in their power to maintain their sense of identity and shared values as well as their belief in art and community as a potent form of resistance in the face of catastrophic events.

Be it a global pandemic, the threat of annexation or the horrors of war itself, the song remains the same: find your community, support the people who most need help, celebrate victories wherever and however they come.

Take joy in the goofiest stuff, whether it’s video games or TikTok. Become ungovernable in the best way possible.