In a world overwhelmed with stimuli and fast-paced entertainment, what could a short black-and-white documentary from the 1960s on skateboarding possibly have to offer? Everything.
In 1984–85, I was a CEGEP student and aspiring writer, hoping to eventually make a name for myself writing poetry. One of my English teachers introduced me to the work of PEI poet Milton Acorn, and I was drawn to him right away.
“There are no ghosts in Canada… The country is too new for ghosts,” proclaimed a character in Susanna Moodie’s 1852 novel, Roughing It in the Bush. You might be tempted to apply the same sentiment to the notion of monsters lurking in the country’s cultural closet: there are no monsters in Canada or, at least, they typically go unnoticed.
It’s June, 1970, close to the end of the school year. I’m in Grade One at Lynwood Elementary School in Edmonton, Alberta. Our class is going to the gym to watch a film. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a film in a big room like this.
If you’re anything like me, whenever you find yourself staring down the infinite possibilities of a search bar, you inevitably end up typing the word “pug” and hitting “enter.”
What does it mean to be Canadian? I’ve often struggled with this question. Growing up in the 1990s, I began to doubt whether I would ever be part of the “Canadian identity”.
Inspired by Evelyn Lambart’s Mr. Frog Went A-Courting, David Van Poppel, a passionate NFB fan, went as far as writing a song.
Released in 1994, Villeneuve’s short immediately jumped out at me from the titles in the NFB’s collection, as it offers a glimpse of the successful director’s early work.
I first came across Rocks at Whiskey Trench as supplemental course material during my undergrad. Initially, I was interested in the film because it spotlighted an element of the Oka Crisis of 1990
My father was born in Ontario, the province that doesn’t have traditional seasons like summer, fall and winter, but rather measures time by which blood-sucking insect is currently out to get you.