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Skipress - TWSSF Special Edition 2008 - Index

MEDIA WORDS
40 THE TWSSF ISSUE 2008
Chairlift Revue
Words & Stories
More Words & Stories
Photo: David McColm
Photo: Courtesy of TWSSF
Photo: David McColm
Behold the Spoken
WORD
— BY JULES OLDER
This ain’t yer faddah’s snowfest, that’s for sure. Art. Video. Fashion.
The winter world’s best attended slide show. But for me, the thing
that really announces This be different is the spoken word.
Snowsports are the antipodes of the spoken word. If you don’t
believe it, check out 99 out of 100 ski porn fl icks, where the modal
sentence is (all together now), “Just go for it, dude!”
By contrast, TWSSF has not one but two spoken-word events. One
is Words & Stories; the other, Chairlift Revue. Here’s the Jules Report
on each.
Words & Stories is about building an oral tradition of snow seekers.
An oral tradition of snow seekers. Nice. Worthy. Exemplary. Now,
let me tell you what that means.
The evening’s story tellers have told their tales: growing up in Whistler,
a snowboard trip to Iran, linking Africa and mountain culture.
Now it’s Lisa’s turn. Michel Beaudry, the event’s founder, introduces
a nervous but determined Lisa Richardson to the sold-out house.
With a tremulo in her voice that doesn’t settle but grows as she feels
the audience response, she takes us to December 23, 1995.
December 23, 1995. That’s Whistler’s 9-11. That’s the day the
chairlift collapsed, killing one, injuring many, leaving a dark shadow
that’s still carried in the spiritual x-ray of many a Whistlerite.
By the end of her recitation, Lisa’s voice is half quaver, half steel,
and half the audience is weeping.
Like I said, not yer average snowfest.
Chairlift Revue is a series of one-act plays whose common
denominator — in fact, whose only rule — is that they be set on
a chairlift.
Though most are comedies, this event also had me weeping, but
for a different reason.
I was one of the playwrights. And I was in the audience. Thus, I
got to experience every single extra word I’d left in, every single
obscure reference I’d insisted on, every single schtick that broke
the rhythm, line that landed with a thud, exhibit of the author’s
tin ear, proof of his inability to prune his own words, reason to
revoke his poetic license.
Not what you’d call a positive experience.
But a learning one.
My entry for this year is exactly half (1/2) as long.