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Lone
Wolf
Howl:
IT'S
A
MAD
MAD
MAD
MAD
ISLAND
(Originally
published
in
Calgary
Country: July 2004)
In early June I attended a play at my daughter's school. It was a musical adaptation of HG Wells' 1896 novella "The Island of Dr. Moreau", and was offered as their spring 'Dessert Theatre' production (complete with a great big slice of chocolate cake and glass of McDonald's mystery drink). For those of you who missed the musical - and the original book - and the late Marlon Brando's performance in the 1996 movie -- here's a quick synopsis: Dr. Moreau, the archetypal mad scientist, isolates himself on a deserted island in order to carry out his experiments; namely, the transformation of beasts into humans. How ironic, I thought, for such a story to be staged by a middle school in the middle of a school system that is currently involved in a frightfully similar experiment, except this experiment sees humans being transformed into beasts. The good doctor in charge of education on our provincial island is gleefully transforming our children into cattle; generations of dutiful bovines who will follow the herd from kindergarten to kollege, looking for the trough, never thinking, never questioning, and never stopping, never, never, NEVER!!! (cue 'insane laugh' sound effect). The doctor is mad, I tell you. Mad! It will never work. He'll never get away with it! Our children are by nature creative and imaginative. They won't stand for being turned into cattle, unless… unless they don't know it's happening. Hmm. Their parents will stop it! Of course! Mom and dad won't stand by and watch their kids being turned into cattle, unless… unless they don't know it's happening either. (cue 'foreboding' sound effect) Oh no! They don't know. They don't know because… because… they've gone through the same experiment, and have been successfully transformed into… into… (cue 'moo' sound effect). Sounds scary, doesn't it? It is. We're living in it. That night in early June, I watched moms and dads guffaw at inane jokes; applaud singers and actors painfully oblivious to the most basic tenets of stage performance; and finally give an overwhelming standing ovation when all was said and done. The program said "Thank you for Supporting the Fine Arts". There was no art - fine or otherwise - in what was presented that night. Plenty of entertainment value (similar to the entertainment value that causes heads to look up and stare when a car drives by a field), but nothing resembling art whatsoever. It's not the teachers' fault, I know. Nor the students'. It's just all part of the good doctor's experiments. Approve a 14% mandatory salary increase to keep the teachers happy and the voting public off your back, but don't give any additional funding to meet that increase and force the principals to cut and slash their already miniscule budgets. Give it to me straight, doctor: what are the chances of hiring a drama specialist? Just for fun ('cause hey, that's what the arts are all about, right?) let's try this experiment: slash the phys-ed budget (make it an option), appoint a math teacher who hasn't stepped inside a gymnasium for 40 years to teach it, then put together a football team and send them to a tournament. Can't you just see the parents sitting by and applauding when their son starts dribbling the pigskin and running towards his own end-zone? Can't you hear them cheer warmly, admiring his courage and tenacity, and then give the entire team a rousing standing ovation at the end? Charge them ten bucks, throw in a slab of cake and non-descript orange drink, and they'll all go home feeling proud that they did their bit to support the starved Sports Programme in their child's school. Oh yes, the experiment on our little island is working like a charm. However, a word of caution to the goodly doctor as he continues to transform generations of our children into cattle: sooner or later, someone's going to get really angry over this. And as a few of the other doctors here have recently learned, it only takes one mad cow to shut the entire island down. Back to Resources Page |