Oh, to be a part of the Great Bright North
And the Oscar for the opening ceremony goes to . . . me? I was in the audience Friday, one of those human pixels waving flashlights and battery-powered candles. Just leave the statuette on my porch, thanks so much.
How did I do it? You don’t want to know. Let me just say that the press area I was in was pretty low-tech. What you did was write your story on your wrist. Then a volunteer in a blue jacket took a picture of it and sent it by dog sled on to the main media center back in Ottawa. What you’re reading now is a product of that amazing process.
It’s a miracle, really, as was that lovely bit of stagecraft the Canadians concocted with barely an hour of audience rehearsal. As I’m writing this in the dark, 100 feet above the BC Place floor, I’m still impressed with how they -- we -- pulled it off. Canadians, eh?
The show was . . . what’s the Inuktitut word for it? Stirring? Let me just say that these audience participation events really wear me out. As you may know, Canadians like things just right. I’ve gone to enough hockey games to know what an angry Canadian can do to you. So I made sure to play along.
First, to achieve that glowing northern lights effect, each audience member received a flashlight and a battery-powered candle. By the time I had them assembled, half the audience were already waving theirs.
I have to confess that since I wasn’t being paid, I sort of went through the motions. You scoff, I’m sure, but I’ve made a pretty good life of just going through the motions.
An hour before the show, rehearsals began.
“We really want to get this right,” the instructor told the crowd of 60,000, so I tried to focus.
In each seat, six props. More than 200 young women scattered throughout the arena cued the audience on whether to bang a drum, wave the flashlight, etc. Sometimes we waved the flashlights in tiny circles, sometimes in big figure eights. One time, I spelled out BEER ME, but no one came.
Sounds fairly easy, all these motions, except the 60,000 individual seat kits allowed for 361 combinations of motions, lights and sounds. I get winded just recalling it.
By the way, will some of these world leaders please get together to outlaw those robotic cameras at sporting events? They always look to me like the scout team for some alien invasion. Really, one day I’m going to shoot one.
Anyway, rehearsal went very well, as I said. The leaders were very perky. Puckishly perky. Like cheerleaders after 15 cappuccinos.
Then the athletes came out and the show began.
The story line, as you probably know, was the Canadian landscape itself -- the colors, the textures, the fiddling.
What doesn’t quite come across in NBC’s fawning, sometimes-cheeseball coverage is how young some of these athletes are. One athlete, I think his mom dropped him off. These kids don’t need a gold-medal moment; they need puberty.
The snowboard team, for one, is like a rougher-hewn version of the Jonas Brothers. I have shoes older than some of these guys. They are pre-puppies, these kids. Earth to Nickelodeon: There’s a show in there somewhere.
The message of the spectacular show was inspiring if not all that original.
“Forget my arm but hold my hand,” one of the lyrics went. In French, that translates into “Laisse on bras, mais tiens ma main,” which just sounds so much better to me.
And way more interesting.
The ceremony wasn’t a complete triumph. There was the “Fiddler on the Roof,” moment, with a canoe against a moon. And way too much tap dancing for my taste -- maybe that’s just me.
Overall impressions? Not to get too sentimental, because I know you hate that. But if I could get in touch with my emotions, I would’ve cried. Honestly, didn’t you? Only a few events manage to transcend the hype, no matter how ridiculous. That’s what happened Friday night. Canada left it all on the playing field.
Anyway, I’m running out of room on my wrist, so I’m going to wrap this up now. If anyone somehow manages to read these words, it will be another example that the Olympic spirit is alive in all of us.
Batteries included.
