Impact (Mar 1972)

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| i Wally? It’s Norman. How are you? No, I’m in L.A. Listen, I'm coming up next week, and I was wondering if we could get in some deer hunting. Is this the time of year? Can we make a deer camp? Hell, that doesn’t matter. I don’t care whether I fire the gun or not. I just want to see a maple leaf. I don't care if they’ re all on the ground. I just want to see one. I just want to stand in the bush and shiver. And think. There were countless interviews and it was the cocktail hour by the time the young man from Canadian Press arrived, and Norman was tired. He mixed himself a drink, sank back on the pale-green chesterfield, and it began again. Same questions, same answers. Trying to make the words a little different each time. But now, he was too tired for ingenuity. ““Yes, I'd like to do a movie in Canada. And [’ve read a lot of scripts, of films that would be shot here. I’ve just never found one that I thought . . . worked. Anyway, you know, it’s not that important where a film is shot. Films should be made for the world. The Canadian Film Development Corporation should know that. I’m glad they’re doing something. It’s about time. Countries half our size have a movie industry of their own. Look at Sweden. Israel. “But I think the government could do a lot more. We should have quotas on Americanmade movies, as England does. And we could have tax concessions as they have in Israel and England. If I make a movie in England, the government will give me back all the money, all the tax, that’s collected at the box office. That’s to encourage filmmakers to make their films in England. [ don’t see why Canada couldn’t do the same, “No, well, I don’t really see Fiddler so much as a story about Jews, as a story about people. Sholom Aleichem was writing about life, humanity, people... “Yes, my first musical. And I was frightened of doing a musical. There aren’t many whe & iia musicals that I really like. But I’ve always looked at Fiddler as being a folk opera, rather than a musical... “Important to me, yes. It’s two and a half years out of your life, you know. And I’m not that young anymore. [ don’t know how many films [ have left in me. I used to think The Cincinnati Kid was my favorite film. But not anymore. I think this film has something important to say, for everybody. I think this film will last...” He was ultra-courteous, as usual. But he was tired, and the interviewer was very young. When he talked about his future projects — Jesus Christ Superstar, a western, then maybe a Canadian film at last, Mordecai Richler’s Atuk — and the interviewer asked who Richler was, and how to spell his name — Norman stared at him for a long moment. “Well,” he said finally, ‘you just check. I'd just check, if I were you. Because he happens to be the most important Canadian writer today. Don’t you ever — you know, you should read Canadian writers. There are some pretty good ones around.” It was a gentle enough reproof, but for the first time he came close to letting go. Maybe because of it, he let the interview trail on another twenty minutes when it was already long past the set time. Finally he said, very softly, with a smile: “Tm sorry. I’m going to havé to call it a day. ’'m exhausted.”