Bill James first pioneered it for baseball in the 1980s, Moneyball made it popular, and now it is playing an increasing role within the dealings of NBA teams.
Sports analytics, as it is known, is fuelled by self-described sports-loving stat geeks, and is the go-to metric for professional sports teams to get ahead of the competition. It has taken sports by storm, and given PhD scholars and die-hard analytical fans a place in the same front office as old-school executives. To plan new strategies, to better evaluate player performance, to improve overall outcomes—this has become an extensive, numbers driven game.
Analytics uses data to formulate models to make forecasts about future outcomes, however specific the domain may be. It goes beyond the scope of traditional box-scores to gain an edge over the competition. The vast amounts of data are all there; the hidden truths and patterns lie within. It is what Nate Silver, an influential political forecaster who started out as a baseball analyst, refers to as “the signal in a universe of noise” when making predictions.
Do these models, then, make instinct and in-game decisions and out-of-date plays irrelevant? No, to the contrary. Analytics can either validate or dispel those intuitions with numbers from collections of big data: from 82 games, to outcomes of shots taken from the same spot, to tendencies of a pitcher at certain distinct situations, to data points from the same combination of players on the court—the possibilities are endless.
One of my favourite basketball analytical tidbits is that not all three-point shots are created equal: the corner three is generally scored at a significantly higher rate than other spots, a statistically validated fact. To Gregg “Pop” Popovich, head coach of San Antonio Spurs, this means more plays drawn for “corner three specialists” like Danny Green or retired shooting specialist Bruce Bowen. Since the three-point line is two feet closer to the basket from the corner than it is from the perimeter, it is no wonder that players tend to shoot at a higher efficiency. Shane Battier of Miami Heat is another example of a corner three specialist, who lives and breathes from the corner. That is how he (mostly) earns his $3M yearly salary, by knocking down those shots, and in doing so, spreading the court and space for LeBron to dominate the paint.
While it may be tempting to be consumed by such models and detailed statistics—trust me, there are plenty to browse through on a leisurely Sunday afternoon—it is equally important to keep in mind that these models, while useful, are not black-boxes to the future. There is, and will always be, some form of inherent randomness.
When Billy Beane, the general manager of the Oakland A’s took charge in Moneyball, he had far fewer financial resources to play around with than his competitors, yet he still had to compete against high-payroll teams like the New York Yankees. As the modern pioneer of analytics, he trusted numbers and data over traditional methods of scouting and watching. His goal was to find undervalued players who contribute distinct value to the team and come together to provide a good return on the team’s small investment. The A’s, a small market ball club, performed well and Beane’s theories were defended in practice. The victory wasn’t only beneficial for the franchise, but it also changed the field of sports analytics. At that point, the revolution had just started. Now, it’s moving to the forefront of sports management—a reality that will change sports for the better.
It began as your typical run-of-the-mill wintery sore throat. The slightly inflamed tonsils, scratchy throat, and minor shivers did not prove worthy of a lengthy emergency room wait, much less a painfully early morning, cued up in the cold to snag an appointment slot at the McGill clinic. But a couple of days of home remedies including Halls, fluids, and multivitamins failed to ward off the storm brewing in my brain. As pain increased and the sensation of thick skin amassed from the bottom of my nose to the top of my collarbone, the inability to distinguish my chin from my face or neck pushed me out the door towards the nearest hospital, Hôtel-Dieu.
As the Canadian healthcare algorithm goes, the more serious the issue, the shorter the wait time. I waited only a few minutes between my examination by the triage nurse and my meeting with the emergency room doctor. Taking a look at my throat, he spewed out a multitude of causes for the colony of lymph nodes protruding before him, comically casting my throat as “Nothing like I’ve ever seen in my 25 years of work!” and inviting all residents over to take a look at my freakishly swollen face and neck.
My first impressions of the hospital were nothing but positive. Clean, accommodating, friendly and efficient— what more could one ask for in such a vulnerable physical state? I was attended to by pleasant health care professionals, each assuring me that I would be able to fully open my mouth sometime soon, that this vial of blood should be the last, and that the intravenous would do its job.
However, an inability to pinpoint the infection that plagued me extended my stay at the hospital from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. While the prolonged visit allowed me to emerge from the hospital healthier and with a heavy dose of antibiotics flowing through my veins, it also became the first time I felt the weight of discrimination.
At first, everything was going fine, until my English-accommodating roster bequeathed to their homes for a rest in between shifts. When dealing with them, the doctors, nurses, and I would meet each other half way with broken versions of French and English to come to an understanding. One nurse even sought out another co-worker to do my blood work because of her inability to communicate with me.
But the new night nurse assigned to me, unlike her co-workers, made no effort to accommodate to our language discrepancy. Whenever I asked her a question, she would reply to me in French. Then, informing her that I could not understand what she was saying and requesting English, she replied, “Yeah, I can, but you speak too fast.” Aside from the illogical nature of responding to someone in a different language as a punishment for his or her apparent speediness when talking, keep in mind that the swelling of my throat forced me to utter only a couple of words at a time, stretching my mouth as open as possible to annunciate words without igniting too much discomfort.
Ten minutes after I asked to have a caretaker that I could communicate with, I was removed from my single room, which was directly across from the nurse’s station, to the back corner of a narrow hallway right in front of a door. As the nurse stormed away from our heated attempt at trying to speak to one another, I assumed her frustrations would be eased by a break or a breath of fresh air—not by forcing me out of my room altogether. When the hospital staff pushed my bed to its new location, she sarcastically waved and smiled goodbye to me.
One would assume that the snobbery elicited from using the English language in a typically French area would be limited to places such as restaurants, clothing stores, and government offices—in other words, places where clear communication could not mean the difference between life and death. My tumultuous encounter with the nurse had given me a new perspective of language discrimination for Anglophones in Quebec. I wanted answers.
It began with a quest for stories similar to mine. Telling my hospital-gone-bad story to friends and fellow students, tales ranged from one student recalling a time he hopped in a cab to get to the closest hospital, Hôtel-Dieu, and a cab driver warning him that, although it was further, driving the extra mile to the Royal Victoria Hospital would be much better, considering his lack of French.
Most other students interviewed attended Royal Victoria Hospital instead as well, regardless of its distance from their homes. As one student put it, “I feel more comfortable [at Royal Victoria] because I know it’s associated with the school, so I just assume there will be English speakers there.
Although the search for a first-hand account similar to my own yielded returns in which most students talked about intense wait times, further research proves that language discrimination in Montreal hospitals is significant in the field of medical ethics today.
“Dialogue McGill,” a two-day conference held this March to explore communication issues in Canada’s health care system addressed the question of language minorities—especially those who speak English—in Quebec. Keynote speaker Antonia Maioni, associate professor of the department of political science, stressed the strong relationship between health care and politics, emphasizing that changes in the greater Canadian political climate are bound to spill over and affect health care services, noting that “these language questions don’t exist in a vacuum.” She pointed out that in order to fully understand the complexities of protecting minorities in public services, such as health care, broadening the lens of analysis to account for the country as a whole is essential for understanding.
Specifically, Maioni believes the current federal government’s lack of special interest in social policy, combined with its tendency to stay out of provincial matters cultivates a “phantom federalism” in which the government will only pop up into matters as needed. This, mixed with the Parti-Québécois’ focus on keeping provincial doors tightly closed, and Canada out of Quebec’s health care, jeopardizes the protection of minority rights in a publicly funded service. In essence, this lack of leadership on the part of the federal government, Maioni believes, has a high impact on minorities. Despite health care services being a provincial matter, the country’s commitment to spending so much public money on providing health care services insinuates the promise of an equitable service; if all persons are expected to shell out cash for a service, they must have equal rights, and equal services.
In an effort to confront the challenges of providing equitable health care, health care professionals and researchers in the field are seeking to implement innovative strategies to accommodate for the fact that, upon arriving to Canada, 42 per cent of immigrants speak neither English nor French.
Preliminary findings in research conducted by Eric Jarvis, Rana Ahmed, Andrew G. Ryder, and Laurence Kirmayer presented at Dialogue McGill suggest that language discrepancies in the Quebec health care system have a lasting impact: patients are less likely to return for additional care, or follow-up appointments if they speak a minority language. Considering this, the discoveries suggest that, although health care in Quebec and Canada is fundamentally a publicly provided service, only a portion of the population feels comfortable reaping the benefits.
While the statistics may cast a negative shadow over Canada’s already scrutinized health care system, practical solutions can be put in place to lessen the impact for minority language speakers in Quebec. Jarvis et. al suggest employing different avenues for professional interpreters to make themselves available on-site for clinicians and patients.
Similarly, inducting new language teaching materials for nurses to boost confidence and efficiency in communicating in second or third languages will pave way for a clearer exchange. Elizabeth Gatbonton and Leif French of Concordia University, and University of Quebec at Chicoutimi respectively, call for a greater focus on garnering confident language abilities for nurses today, noting that in an already highly-sensitive communicative sphere, providing nurses with practical language tools will increase effectiveness in patient to clinician relationships.
Before Don Draper, there was Bert Stern—a man who forever shaped the way we looked at consumer products. Bert Stern: Original Mad Man takes an intimate look at one of the most influential fashion and celebrity photographers of the 20th century. Stern was a pioneer in the field of commercial photography, reimagining advertisements and fashion magazines alike with a modern and minimalistic eye.
The documentary closely examines Stern’s life, but often its story is sequentially unfocused. It shifts from the present day, replete with lawsuits and the travails of old age, to the past, by way of Stern’s memories.
Stern undoubtedly lived an extraordinary life, and is still lively and entertaining at the age of 94. Known primarily for shooting The Last Sitting of Marilyn Monroe six weeks before her death, Stern is a self-professed womanizer, who claims that women are his “favourite thing in the world.”
Starting out as the assistant to an art director at an advertising firm in New York City, Stern eventually moved into the realm of fashion and celebrity photography. This is what he is best known for today, having shot Monroe, Twiggy, Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and more recently, Kate Moss and Lindsay Lohan—the latter in an infamous recreation of The Last Sitting—throughout his long career.
The movie details Stern’s relationships with many women, but most notably his volatile marriage to American ballet dancer Allegra Kent. The focus on women lends the film an almost misogynistic tone, as it appears that instead of loving women and praising them in his pictures, Stern instead used the medium of photography to dominate and own them. Although Stern is not an unlikeable subject, some of his opinions are dated and sexist, and sit uncomfortably with a modern audience.
Director Shannah Laumeister is a close friend of Stern’s, and sometimes her relationship with the legendary photographer gets in the way of the film’s narrative. For example, the documentary tends to focus on their oddly sexual yet platonic friendship, instead of the more interesting, dynamic aspects of Stern’s life, such as his beginnings in advertising, and his relationship with his family. Removing the sections that feature Laumeister and her relationship with Stern would have created a much more focused and consistent direction for the film.
The director’s close relationship with the subject also allows for a large amount of bias, as more unsavoury (yet important) aspects of Stern’s personality and life are only casually revealed near the end of the documentary, only to be immediately swept away.
One of the most notable examples of this is Stern’s descent into mental illness in the ’70s, which is framed in a bizarre way that undermines the severity of the breakdown. Instead of portraying Stern’s illness as a cautionary tale against heavy drug use, its importance is downplayed.
Similarly, Stern’s estranged relationship with one of his daughters is hinted at near the end of the film, but her absence is given absolutely no explanation from Stern himself—Laumeister simply skims over the surface, instead of exposing any true familial emotion beneath Stern’s tough exterior. Interestingly, Stern’s son is not interviewed in the film, for reasons that also go unacknowledged and unexplained.
Despite the documentary’s subject’s extremely exciting life, Bert Stern: Original Mad Man becomes depressing.
“I shouldn’t have been so happy [when I was young], I should have saved it for now … when I need it,” Stern states in the film.
It seems that even with all of his experiences within the world of celebrity, the lack of close personal relationships in Stern’s life has come back to haunt him. His isolation is a topic which is conspicuously missing from the film, and it might be the cause of his estranged relationship with at least one of his children. It’s unfortunate—although he caught many beautiful moments on film, Bert Stern seems to have neglected to pursue them in his own life outside his studio.
Bert Stern: Original Mad Man opens Mar. 29 at Cinema du Parc (3575 Avenue du Parc).
It seems that Seattle has delivered yet another gem to the Montreal music scene.
Up-and-coming singer-songwriter and McGill music student Antoine Martel, who hails from the rainy city, recognizes the long line of talent that has arisen from his hometown. Leading a self-named band, Martel laughs as he lists the great number of his musical influences that happen to be from his hometown—Fleet Foxes, Eddie Vedder, and The Head & the Heart, to name just a few.
Martel’s folk rock album, Cough Drops in Autumn, has a calming acoustic sound, with complementing elements of classical and jazz. It is clear that Martel’s extensive musical training has had an impact on his songwriting. His compositions are far from ordinary. They are detail oriented, and clearly musically complex, replete with intricate melodies, woodwind, and fiddle solos, and topped off with his powerful lyricism.
As a child, Martel’s parents always encouraged him to get involved in the arts. He began classical piano training at age five, and continued for 11 years. Although these lessons gave him an unmatchable musical foundation, his motivation was low at the time.
“I didn’t actually like [piano], which is strange to think back upon now,” he chuckles.
After years of arguments over practicing, his parents made him a deal: he could quit, as long as he promised to pick up another instrument. So Martel finished learning one last piano piece, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, and made a quick switch to guitar.
Now, five years later, Martel is studying music composition at McGill’s prestigious Schulich School of Music, where he finds himself surrounded by an immense amount of talent.
“My band members are all way better musicians than me,” he humbly admits, saying that he only needs to bring his songs to them once before they are ready to perform. He raves over his band, which consists entirely of McGill musicians: Guillaume Pilote on drums, Alan Mackie on bass, Neil Heaton on piano, Alex Cherney on guitar, Devin LaCasce on flute, and Gareth Dicker on violin. Martel himself leads on guitar and vocals.
Martel draws inspiration from the city of Montreal, and his experiences as a student.
“Montreal has shaped this album in a lot of ways,” he says. Two tracks on his new album, “The Fire” and “How Things Change” were actually inspired by a funny experience he had as a first year student. In March 2011, a fire broke out in New Residence Hall, only a few floors directly above Martel’s dorm room. As a result of the damage, he and 17 other inhabitants were relocated out of residence for a month, and given temporary rooms at the downtown Delta hotel.
“I had this great balcony [at the Delta],” Martel says. “I sat on that balcony, and wrote a lot of tunes.”
He is similarly sanguine when discussing his music writing process.
“It changes … but it usually involves me with my acoustic guitar, around four in the morning, not being able sleep,” Martel says. “That’s where most of the things start happening.” He confesses that writing lyrics is the most difficult step for him, crediting Ben Harper and Alexi Murdoch as two artists he looks to for inspiration.
Though Martel is continuing to write and record, he’s mainly looking to get his music out there.
“You can have it for free, I really don’t care,” he jokes as he talks about his new album.
What’s next for Martel? He continues to enjoy all that Montreal has to offer, including places to perform. It’s evident that his future is bright, as he works to join the ranks of the other brilliant Seattle born musicians before him.
Coughdrops in Autumn is available online, pay what you can. Album release show on Mar. 28, 8 p.m., at L’Alize (900 Ontario est). Tickets $5.
Mozart meets the Industrial Revolution in Opera McGill’s final production of the 2012-2013 season, The Magic Flute—a joint performance with McGill’s Chamber Orchestra in Pollack Hall, presented on Mar. 21 and 23.
In the celebrated opera, Prince Tamino wanders into a distant land, and is asked by the grief-stricken Queen of Night to rescue her daughter Pamina from the evil Sarastro. Accompanied by the bird catcher Papageno, Tamino begins a fantastical journey, in which he learns about the importance of virtue, brotherhood, and love in this allegory of the Enlightenment.
The performance of the all-student opera company is marked by strong characterization. From the sass of the Queen’s three ladies, to the playful child-spirits, the performers bring considerable enthusiasm and humour to the fairy tale opera. Ginette Grenier’s complex costume design adds a steampunk aesthetic that helps most characters stand out from the bare stage. Only the Masonic priests seem less dignified than their roles require, dressed in Victorian overalls, while the wise King Sarastro barely stands out from the rest of his priests.
Vincent Lefebvre’s set is minimalist, with a very sparse use of props. Rather, images projected onto a large screen behind the orchestra set the scene, displaying different environments as metaphors for the various characters. For example, the Queen of Night’s realm is a frigid snowscape, while Sarastro’s singing brings spring. Although the concept has potential, the execution is shaky. The images projected onto the screen are disappointingly pixelated; obviously looping videos distract from the action on stage. Additionally, the choice of imagery used to portray Sarastro’s Masonic Temple of Reason mostly consists of turning gears, grinding clockwork, and ambiguous shapes, failing to create a sense of location for much of the performance.
Opera McGill director Patrick Hansen continuously toys with the separation between the audience and the performance, with actors often singing from the centre of the auditorium. Lighting by Serge Filiatrault also plays a role in this breakdown of boundaries, as lights are projected on the sides of the auditorium in addition to the main stage. Perhaps a response to the spatial challenge of sharing the stage with the orchestra, this artistic decision keeps the audience engaged, and even amused, as when one of the three child-spirits tugs playfully at the suit of conductor Boris Brott. Having the orchestra on stage further allows the audience to become more aware of the musicians, and their role in the opera.
Under Brott’s artistic direction, McGill’s Chamber Orchestra executes the acclaimed score flawlessly, without upstaging the talented members of Opera McGill. Papageno (Geoffrey Penar) steals the show with his refreshingly comical performance, all the while executing a challenging score. Rebecca Woodmass also shines as the Queen of Night, impressing the audience with the strength of her delivery of one of the most famous arias of all time. Her thunderous portrayal of the crutch-holding Queen surrounded by bodyguards adds layers of depth to the role. Aaron Sheppard plays a gentle Tamino, and displays much chemistry with soprano Vanessa Oude-Reimerink’s charming Pamina.
Opera McGill’s rendition of The Magic Flute chooses to emphasize the comedic rather than the philosophical in Mozart’s masterpiece. Although the set leaves much to be desired, the talent on stage carried the performance with humour, and ultimately succeeds at creating a performance as refreshing as its ensemble.
Comedy is not typically thought of as a strenuous field. Performers go on stage, talk for a few minutes about their lives, and get paid. However, Andrew Searles, the energetic and affable comedian performing a special show called C’est Moi! C’est Chocolat! at Théâtre Sainte Catherine this weekend, does much more than the average performer.
A recent marketing graduate from Concordia University, Searles has always possessed a love for comedy performance. After graduating, he decided to follow this passion, and bravely committed to an attempt to break through the glass ceiling of professional comedy in Canada. Although he admits the decision to deter the acquisition of a “real career” was also strongly influenced by a love for “sleeping until 1 p.m. and then watching Fresh Prince all day,” he has been working tirelessly to stand out in stand-up.
Even so, creating a reputation is “time-consuming and mentally exhausting,” says Searles. Even after several years of surviving purely off his performance, he is frustrated by clubs’ refusal to let him perform his own special show, one dear to his heart. So he personally rented out Théâtre Sainte Catherine, set up the entire weekend, arranged opening acts, and marketed the upcoming event in an attempt to circumvent big business and succeed independently.
His material ranges from his own lifestyle as a visible minority in Canada, to the antics of female “army units” in clubs. During the brief interview, he effortlessly caught this writer out of breath with laughter due to his quick wit and eloquence. However, he explained that being funny is not enough to be a comedian.
“You have to be flexible and adapt to the audience,” says Searles. “If they’re older, don’t talk about Facebook. If they laugh at a dick joke, then keep telling dick jokes. What people don’t realize is that the audience always controls the show.”
Searles can be a goofy guy—to promote his event, he did a photo shoot of women smearing chocolate pudding all over his suit—but his vision is the true cause of his success. He not only created the idea for the shoot, but organized the cameramen, models, rentals, and the distribution of flyers, as well as all other aspects of promotion.
“My marketing education has been instrumental for every step of the process,” he insists.
This upcoming weekend will feature five shows, and every detail of each were completely coordinated by Searles himself.
“This show is my baby, it’s something I’ve had in my head for about three years,” explains Searles, with obvious excitement. His only regret about this show is that he’ll have to miss Bal en Blanc—Montreal’s annual Easter rave party—but he seems confident his performance will be even better than his favourite artist Armin Van Buuren’s.
Searles makes a strong pitch.
“I can guarantee you’ll be laughing,” he says, with regard to his performance as well as those of his two openers, Rodney Ramsey and Guido Cocomello. To entice an Easter weekend audience, everyone will get a free chocolate bunny with admission. But one suspects that the offer of chocolate isn’t necessary to make C’est Moi! C’est Chocolat! a hit with the crowd.
Andrew Searles’ C’est Moi! C’est Chocolat! runs Mar. 28 to 30 at Théâtre Sainte Catherine (264 St. Catherine). Tickets $15 advance, $20 door.
Coming off the heels of their second appearance on the Polaris Prize shortlist, The Besnard Lakes are back with Until In Excess, Imperceptible UFO, another collection of orchestral slow burners.
Husband and wife bandleaders Jace Lasek and Olga Goreas and their bevy of collaborators have created eight dreamy, textured songs that shift and evolve over their many minutes. The songs are formulaic, opening with pulsing drones followed by Lasek and Goreas’ lilting voices alongside drums, guitars, and keys. The instrumentation blossoms into full-blown orchestral grandeur, while the vocals are eventually washed out. While the instrumentation is intricate, several of the tracks fail to make an impact due to the lack of discernable hooks.
The standout track of the album, “And Her Eyes Were Painted Gold,” uses Lasek’s vocals to control the song among the percussion, strings, keyboards, and guitars. While the vocal tracks are usually lost amidst the roaring instruments, this track avoids that pitfall, dodging the potential of being used as mere background music—a fate that unfortunately befalls most of the album’s other songs. Seven-minute album closer “Alamogordo,” for instance, fails to make an impact despite heavy percussion and synthesizers, and has little substance beyond sheer volume.
The album is technically impressive, and the songs are calm and easy to listen to. This is by no means a bad album, just one that occasionally drifts into the background of the mind.
Bonobo is back, and he has evolved. The North Borders, the British producer’s first album of original material since 2010’s Black Sands, boasts a heavily modern UK garage sound with inflections of fellow garage artist Burial.
Simon Green, also known as Bonobo, is the most popular guy on the Ninja Tune label. This album will only further solidify his status as one of the UK’s go-to producers.
The North Borders is exciting and vibrant, and begs to be played over and over again. Fans of the producer will not be disappointed with a track that features Erykah Badu, as well as songs that involve many new voices.
Standout tracks include single “Cirrus” and “Emkay,” the latter featuring a somewhat slouchy, loungey intro that evolves into a fast-paced garage track.
“Cirrus” (presumably named after the type of cloud) reaches lofty heights, transporting the listener to an airy, otherworldly realm with layers of light synths and chimes.
Album closer “Pieces” (with vocals by Cornelia) is a charming ditty, bordering on ballad territory. However, Bonobo maintains a heavy feel with the track—not surrendering completely to the pretty, whimsical sounds of the vocals.
All in all, this entire album is stunning, without even one dud track. It takes a couple of listens to fully get into some of the songs, but once you do, it’s definitely worth it.
Phosphorescent’s Matthew Houck has hit a career high with the release of his sixth full-length album, Muchacho, which creates the perfect blend of electronica and Americana.
The album opens with bubbling electro synth and harmonized vocals in “Sun, Arise!,” which, along with its sister song “Sun’s Arising,” bookend the album. Don’t be fooled, however—they are a far cry from the eight other songs that come in between.
The remarkable feat Houck has accomplished with this album is managing to balance perfectly arranged instrumentals—creating a lush and monumental sound—with his strained, reedy, and hiccupping vocals. Rather than detracting from the music, Houck’s poignant and passionate voice drips with heartache and lost love, adding a very familiar and relatable human element that resonates with listeners. Even if you’ve never had your heart broken, when Houck croons, “I’ll fix myself up to come and be with you” in “Muchacho’s Tune,” he might as well have been reading a line out of your personal diary.
Muchacho’s breakout track is arguably “Song for Zula.” With its resonant synths and pedal steel guitar, this song contains some of the best lyrics of the album. It is obvious this troubled troubadour has seen some trying times as he sings, “Oh but I know love as a caging thing / Just a killer come to call from some awful dream.”
Nevertheless, Muchacho is not without its upbeat, foot-stomping moments as well. In particular “Ride On, Right On” and “A Charm/A Blade” recall earlier works and speak to Phosphorescent’s versatility, a mastery that seems to have come with time.
Admission is a film that should probably end up in the “deny” pile. Directed by Peter Weitz (About a Boy) and starring Tina Fey, the film begins in the ivy-embellished halls of Princeton University. Fey plays Portia Nathan, a member of Princeton’s prestigious admissions department, where her job is to decide who, among thousands of applicants, gets in.
The film introduces Fey’s character as an uptight, play-by-the-rules, “boring” career woman, stuck in the same underwhelming job and uninspiring relationship.
As the yang to her yin, Paul Rudd plays John Pressman, a former college classmate of Portia and the over-the-top, free spirited principal of an alternative school out in the country. In John’s world, adventurous outside-of-the-box thinking, suspicion of institutions, and mastery of sustainable living are all intrinsic aspects of a good education. In McGill terms, John’s ideal school would be a mix of Macdonald Campus and Rad Frosh.
These two worlds collide when Portia stumbles upon John’s school on an admissions tour. John introduces her to Jeremiah Balakian (played by the charming Nat Wolf), a student prodigy and self-proclaimed “autodidact” with a shaky academic record, but nevertheless equipped with charisma and quirk. John is convinced that Jeremiah would succeed at a school like Princeton if given the chance, and that he may also be of particular personal interest to Portia.
Admission bravely wants to be a few different things. It definitely wants to be silly and lighthearted—the casting of Rudd and Fey as co-stars tells us that much. It wants to critique the rat-race nature of the U.S. university admissions process, which, as we see in the film, unfortunately degenerates into a game of whose application combines the most tear-jerking story with the best academic record. The irony is driven home without subtlety. In all its attempts at being holistic and all-examining, the U.S. admissions process does end up overlooking the real essence of the students it tosses into the accept or deny piles.
Admission wants to talk about the power of knowledge at a moment when a higher education doesn’t equate to employment, and more and more kids opt to travel and postpone university altogether. And it certainly, at its core, wants to be about that process of self-discovery, of finding oneself, and about believing in the oddball.
Unfortunately Admission’s comedic appendage feels forced, the plot is full of holes, and the characters seem shallow and overridden with cliché prototypes. Rudd, Fey, and newcomer Wolf had endearing moments, but Admission is oversaturated in sap and sweetness without any sustained heart. It does not outright fail in the themes it encounters, but we’ve all come to expect brilliance from Fey and Rudd. Admission should never have been admitted to the screen.
Admission is currently playing at Cineplex Banque Scotia (977 Ste-Catherine).
