I suppose every kid dreams of running away and joining a circus but that sort of dream, as well as other childish notions, almost always gets stored away, abandoned and forgotten in a dusty toy chest in the deep recesses of our mature minds. Once in a while something very special happens that allows us to lift the lid on that box and revisit one those childhood aspirations, if only briefly!
In 1967 I was spending a lot of time breaking and training remounts in the Horse Palace at the Exhibition grounds in Toronto. It was a dark, dreary, tomb of a place when the C.N.E. or The Royal Winter Fair wasn’t in session and I’m sure the horses must have felt like pit ponies longing for the light of day. I know the gloom was getting to me.
One day when I showed up for work expecting more of the same I was greeted instead with a bright and wonderful surprise. It was still dark outside but light shone from every window of the old building and the place was a hive of activity. Numerous trucks, vans and trailers filled the parking lot and what seemed like hundreds people were milling around and moving in and out of the big stable doors.
I found a parking spot for my old Volkswagen Bug and stopped the first man I encountered, “What’s going on?” I said, “Cosa vuole? Non parlo inglese,” he replied. I was no further ahead.
Instead of going directly into the Police stables, I made my way up a lane that skirted the building and led to the huge sliding doors that opened directly onto the large training ring where I generally worked. When I finally wove my way through the throngs of people carrying trunks, floodlights and armfuls of strange looking equipment and turned into the big doorway I was stopped in my tracks, dumbstruck by what I was seeing.
My gloomy old cave of a work place had somehow been transformed into a magical glittering cavern. The once dark long aisles that led from the centre paddock to the distant ends of the building were now fully illuminated and hundreds of brightly coloured costumes hung from seemingly endless rows of clothing racks on either side of the alleyway. A slight breeze was making its way into the building causing the gaudy clothing to sway, the sequins shimmering and reflecting multicoloured stars of scattered light. And it was not just one aisle. As I walked towards the centre of the building where I generally worked training the remounts I saw that most of the space on that side of the huge building had been put to similar use.
In 1967 I was spending a lot of time breaking and training remounts in the Horse Palace at the Exhibition grounds in Toronto. It was a dark, dreary, tomb of a place when the C.N.E. or The Royal Winter Fair wasn’t in session and I’m sure the horses must have felt like pit ponies longing for the light of day. I know the gloom was getting to me.
One day when I showed up for work expecting more of the same I was greeted instead with a bright and wonderful surprise. It was still dark outside but light shone from every window of the old building and the place was a hive of activity. Numerous trucks, vans and trailers filled the parking lot and what seemed like hundreds people were milling around and moving in and out of the big stable doors.
I found a parking spot for my old Volkswagen Bug and stopped the first man I encountered, “What’s going on?” I said, “Cosa vuole? Non parlo inglese,” he replied. I was no further ahead.
Instead of going directly into the Police stables, I made my way up a lane that skirted the building and led to the huge sliding doors that opened directly onto the large training ring where I generally worked. When I finally wove my way through the throngs of people carrying trunks, floodlights and armfuls of strange looking equipment and turned into the big doorway I was stopped in my tracks, dumbstruck by what I was seeing.
My gloomy old cave of a work place had somehow been transformed into a magical glittering cavern. The once dark long aisles that led from the centre paddock to the distant ends of the building were now fully illuminated and hundreds of brightly coloured costumes hung from seemingly endless rows of clothing racks on either side of the alleyway. A slight breeze was making its way into the building causing the gaudy clothing to sway, the sequins shimmering and reflecting multicoloured stars of scattered light. And it was not just one aisle. As I walked towards the centre of the building where I generally worked training the remounts I saw that most of the space on that side of the huge building had been put to similar use.
Some areas contained strange looking props and equipment, full suits of medieval armour, spears, swords, shields, jousting sticks and piles and piles of unidentifiable paraphernalia. Parked in the open area at the centre of the building were two beautiful golden chariots. On the walls beside each of them hung four sets of the most incredibly ornate jewel-encrusted harnesses. Beyond these vehicles sat several other authentic looking carts beautifully painted and decorated with scenes and landscapes that suggested a Mediterranean origin. Then I recognized some strange sounding neighing in the distance and decided to follow a man who was pushing a trolley with several bales of hay on it; he turned into the last aisle and I could hear several horses nickering to him. About fifty horses occupied the stalls. The first boxes held four matched pure white geldings, the second a similar number of identical blacks; they had to be the teams for the chariots. The rest of the horses were a mixed batch, all sizes and colours, well bred and in superb condition. I started back towards the Police stable determined to find out what the hell was going on-- all the pockets of people I had encountered so far had been jabbering away in some indiscernible lingo, no point asking them!
I had to pass through an area near the end of the riding ring where a crew were setting up a long row of dressing tables, the large mirrors framed with rows of small light bulbs. As I stood for a moment thinking what a strange place for a dressing room the man who seemed to be in charge accosted me. He was over fifty, small and pudgy and looked rather like an effeminate Danny Devito. He started shouting, waving his hands and rattling along in his foreign language; I couldn’t understand a word he was saying but it was obvious the little bastard was trying to kick me out of the building.
Of course I was not about to comply and the only way I could think of to communicate my intentions was a universal form of sign language: I gave him the finger. At this he became more heated and agitated and started tapping my chest with his finger.
I was about to pick the little bugger up and give him a shake when fate intervened. One of the crew who spoke English and had been witnessing the encounter, came over and offered his services as a translator.
When I explained to him that I was a policeman and that if anyone was infringing on anyone’s territory, it was the crusty little curmudgeon that I was standing toe to toe with. He began a rapid, long-winded explanation to his little associate in what I now knew was Italian; I didn’t understand any of it but I did pickup on one word that he seemed to be emphasizing.
I had to pass through an area near the end of the riding ring where a crew were setting up a long row of dressing tables, the large mirrors framed with rows of small light bulbs. As I stood for a moment thinking what a strange place for a dressing room the man who seemed to be in charge accosted me. He was over fifty, small and pudgy and looked rather like an effeminate Danny Devito. He started shouting, waving his hands and rattling along in his foreign language; I couldn’t understand a word he was saying but it was obvious the little bastard was trying to kick me out of the building.
Of course I was not about to comply and the only way I could think of to communicate my intentions was a universal form of sign language: I gave him the finger. At this he became more heated and agitated and started tapping my chest with his finger.
I was about to pick the little bugger up and give him a shake when fate intervened. One of the crew who spoke English and had been witnessing the encounter, came over and offered his services as a translator.
When I explained to him that I was a policeman and that if anyone was infringing on anyone’s territory, it was the crusty little curmudgeon that I was standing toe to toe with. He began a rapid, long-winded explanation to his little associate in what I now knew was Italian; I didn’t understand any of it but I did pickup on one word that he seemed to be emphasizing.
“Carabiniero, carabiniero!” he repeated several times pointing at me.
“ Carabiniero...” the little guy repeated slowly to himself as he took a step back and the blood drained from his face. He was old enough to have survived Mussolini’s reign of terror. I wasn’t in uniform but the brown shirt I was wearing may have been adding to the effect.
Through my translator he explained to me that he was the dresser for the ballerinas that were due to arrive shortly and that he thought that I was just another stage door Johnny waiting to ogle them while they tried on their costumes.
“Whatever!” I said with a dismissive gesture. I was about to turn and leave but the little guy rushed at me saying “Scusi, scusi" then wrapped his arms around my waist, hugging me and laying the side of his head on my chest. I felt that although his apology appeared to be sincere, it was a bit over the top so I pried him off me and took my leave.
When I got to the Police stable I found Inspector Johnson and Sgt. Peddler in conversation with two men who I later learned were executives from MGM and that was when I learned what was going on.
A production called Festival Italiano that was due to tour in the U.S. was going to be rehearsed and opened in the Coliseum next door to the building in which we stood; the huge cast and the large number of props and costumes involved had made it necessary for them to make an impromptu decision to spill over into the stable area and use it for storage and a large dressing room as well as housing their many horses.
Because it was a last minute decision, the Police Department had not been informed in advance and the Inspector and Sgt. weren’t all that comfortable with the decision. “We’re training men and horses in the riding ring right in the centre of all that hoopla and we have deadlines to meet; we can’t stop or move now.” he said. The guy from MGM assured him that they would not in anyway interfere with what we were up to and the conversation went back and forth several times before a compromise was made.
If the production company agreed to have their people stay out of our riding ring and leave a gap in the dressing room tables that surrounded one end of the enclosure so that I could get my horses and students in and out then things would be all right, -- and they were for a while!
“ Carabiniero...” the little guy repeated slowly to himself as he took a step back and the blood drained from his face. He was old enough to have survived Mussolini’s reign of terror. I wasn’t in uniform but the brown shirt I was wearing may have been adding to the effect.
Through my translator he explained to me that he was the dresser for the ballerinas that were due to arrive shortly and that he thought that I was just another stage door Johnny waiting to ogle them while they tried on their costumes.
“Whatever!” I said with a dismissive gesture. I was about to turn and leave but the little guy rushed at me saying “Scusi, scusi" then wrapped his arms around my waist, hugging me and laying the side of his head on my chest. I felt that although his apology appeared to be sincere, it was a bit over the top so I pried him off me and took my leave.
When I got to the Police stable I found Inspector Johnson and Sgt. Peddler in conversation with two men who I later learned were executives from MGM and that was when I learned what was going on.
A production called Festival Italiano that was due to tour in the U.S. was going to be rehearsed and opened in the Coliseum next door to the building in which we stood; the huge cast and the large number of props and costumes involved had made it necessary for them to make an impromptu decision to spill over into the stable area and use it for storage and a large dressing room as well as housing their many horses.
Because it was a last minute decision, the Police Department had not been informed in advance and the Inspector and Sgt. weren’t all that comfortable with the decision. “We’re training men and horses in the riding ring right in the centre of all that hoopla and we have deadlines to meet; we can’t stop or move now.” he said. The guy from MGM assured him that they would not in anyway interfere with what we were up to and the conversation went back and forth several times before a compromise was made.
If the production company agreed to have their people stay out of our riding ring and leave a gap in the dressing room tables that surrounded one end of the enclosure so that I could get my horses and students in and out then things would be all right, -- and they were for a while!
Things started out rather well. Merle Smith, the other trainer I worked with, got two young horses into the ring and started teaching them to neck rein. From where we sat high on our horses’ backs we could see the ballerinas begin to arrive from their rooms at the Royal York Hotel. There were about thirty of them and not a homely one in the batch, although Merle suggested that some of them might have conformation problems when he saw the way they walked with their feet at strange angles. There were also about fifteen male ballet dancers and they seemed to be getting more attention from my little friend the dresser than the girls were. The stunt men, who also looked after the horses and had also just arrived from California, were busy checking and grooming their animals but Merle and I were a lot more interested in what was going on in the dressing room area. Apparently everybody in the show had numerous costume changes and everything had to be tried on and adjusted. As the song went in ‘Oklahoma’: “They went about as far as they could go!” There was nothing shy about those Italian girls, and although we initially tried to avert our eyes, the scene was so continuous and pervasive we finally relaxed and enjoyed the scenery; what the hell! How did the saying go? ‘When in Rome, or Toronto as the case may be, do as the Romans do’. All and all it was a marvelous first day and for the first time in months I was looking forward to coming to work the next day.
When I arrived for work the following morning, things had already ramped up and rehearsals had begun in earnest. The teams of four abreast were hooked into the chariots and were practicing racing in the main arena and what a spectacular sight they were as they flew hell bent for leather around the arena kicking up tanbark dust! These were the same vehicles that had been used in the movie Ben Hur, no cheap theatrical mock-ups, the real thing.
The pure white team was truly spectacular performing perfectly and well in hand as they moved at a fast gallop but the team of blacks that pulled the other chariot was moving erratically and I thought I noticed one of the horses showing signs of lameness. It turned out that my suspicions were correct and the show was facing their first major problem because they didn’t have a horse the same size and colour to replace the injured one.
I went to see the chief stunt coordinator on my lunch break. I was about to garner a few Brownie points and possibly even a few dollars. A few days earlier I had noticed an old black Standard Bred gelding in a group of the horses Alec Stewart had at the stock yards. He was a pacer but that wouldn’t matter because the show required him to be galloping all the time.
When I arrived for work the following morning, things had already ramped up and rehearsals had begun in earnest. The teams of four abreast were hooked into the chariots and were practicing racing in the main arena and what a spectacular sight they were as they flew hell bent for leather around the arena kicking up tanbark dust! These were the same vehicles that had been used in the movie Ben Hur, no cheap theatrical mock-ups, the real thing.
The pure white team was truly spectacular performing perfectly and well in hand as they moved at a fast gallop but the team of blacks that pulled the other chariot was moving erratically and I thought I noticed one of the horses showing signs of lameness. It turned out that my suspicions were correct and the show was facing their first major problem because they didn’t have a horse the same size and colour to replace the injured one.
I went to see the chief stunt coordinator on my lunch break. I was about to garner a few Brownie points and possibly even a few dollars. A few days earlier I had noticed an old black Standard Bred gelding in a group of the horses Alec Stewart had at the stock yards. He was a pacer but that wouldn’t matter because the show required him to be galloping all the time.
A couple of phone calls and a little later he was delivered to our location and he settled into the job like the old pro he was. The next day I received an envelope with a small token of appreciation and a bottle of fine Italian wine. I helped the crew with several other small matters and soon found myself their local ‘Go to’ man whenever they needed special assistance.
Often, while he was picking my brain regarding some local logistical matter, the producer would invite me to join him while he put the various acts through their paces at the rehearsals and as I saw the show coming together I realized that what he was creating was a true spectacle, the likes of which had never been seen before. He would somehow transform the C.N.E.’s contemporary coliseum into a believable replica of its ancient counterpart: gladiators, in full antique regalia, armed with spears, triads, and short swords, fighting to the death in the arena while the producer stood like Caesar in the stands giving thumbs up or thumbs down on their performance. Then the ring would become the Roman countryside with ornate Sicilian carts lumbering past the stands filled with the fruits of a Mediterranean harvest with throngs of beautiful peasant girls dancing around with pitch forks and baskets in their hands Then it would change into the courtyard of a medieval palace where a giant chess board had been laid out with real fully costumed performers acting as the pieces, the kings and queens in large jeweled crowns and the knights in full armour and mounted on real horses. During the actual performance local dignitaries would be invited to play against each other but during rehearsals I gave the producer a chance to humble me at a game I was just learning. The pieces didn’t simply move from one square to the other; they were, other than the mounted knights, all ballet dancers and each move was an opportunity for self-expression. Numerous leaps and twirls were employed during the transitions especially by the men who frequently had to be reminded to tone it down a bit, “Sometimes less can be more,” the producer would shout trying not to hurt their feelings.
Near the end of the show a reenactment of the chariot race from Ben Hur would take place, often with several more circuits of the ring than was originally planned to make sure Ben Hur and his four white horses would win. The black former racehorse I had found for them seemed determined to make a come back and was very difficult to slow down.
The grand finale involved all the gladiators returning to the ring for a rematch; then both chariots joining the melee and with one of the charioteers curling his bull whip around Spartacus’s ankle and dragging him out of the arena on his back, a move that was especially appreciated on opening night when his loin cloth, the only thing he was wearing, was torn off and he was dragged buck naked in front of a sell-out crowd. To his credit, not wanting to affect the show’s rating he attempted to roll over on to his stomach but later claimed that it increased the drag too much so opted for comfort over modesty.
Often, while he was picking my brain regarding some local logistical matter, the producer would invite me to join him while he put the various acts through their paces at the rehearsals and as I saw the show coming together I realized that what he was creating was a true spectacle, the likes of which had never been seen before. He would somehow transform the C.N.E.’s contemporary coliseum into a believable replica of its ancient counterpart: gladiators, in full antique regalia, armed with spears, triads, and short swords, fighting to the death in the arena while the producer stood like Caesar in the stands giving thumbs up or thumbs down on their performance. Then the ring would become the Roman countryside with ornate Sicilian carts lumbering past the stands filled with the fruits of a Mediterranean harvest with throngs of beautiful peasant girls dancing around with pitch forks and baskets in their hands Then it would change into the courtyard of a medieval palace where a giant chess board had been laid out with real fully costumed performers acting as the pieces, the kings and queens in large jeweled crowns and the knights in full armour and mounted on real horses. During the actual performance local dignitaries would be invited to play against each other but during rehearsals I gave the producer a chance to humble me at a game I was just learning. The pieces didn’t simply move from one square to the other; they were, other than the mounted knights, all ballet dancers and each move was an opportunity for self-expression. Numerous leaps and twirls were employed during the transitions especially by the men who frequently had to be reminded to tone it down a bit, “Sometimes less can be more,” the producer would shout trying not to hurt their feelings.
Near the end of the show a reenactment of the chariot race from Ben Hur would take place, often with several more circuits of the ring than was originally planned to make sure Ben Hur and his four white horses would win. The black former racehorse I had found for them seemed determined to make a come back and was very difficult to slow down.
The grand finale involved all the gladiators returning to the ring for a rematch; then both chariots joining the melee and with one of the charioteers curling his bull whip around Spartacus’s ankle and dragging him out of the arena on his back, a move that was especially appreciated on opening night when his loin cloth, the only thing he was wearing, was torn off and he was dragged buck naked in front of a sell-out crowd. To his credit, not wanting to affect the show’s rating he attempted to roll over on to his stomach but later claimed that it increased the drag too much so opted for comfort over modesty.
The event that I was most interested in preceded the finale but was equally exciting: a jousting court was set up with a contraption that the knights of old used to improve their skills. It consisted of the torso of a dummy knight in armour suspended on a pivoting post. On the end of one extended arm was a shield and at the end of the opposing arm was a mace on the end of a short chain. The challenge for the mounted knight was to charge the device at a full gallop with his lance engaged and strike the shield; of course the impact would cause the dummy to instantly pivot and swing the mace at the knight. He had to be really quick and agile to avoid it. Luckily the studded ball on the end of the chain that was traditionally made of cast iron was now made of foam rubber but the thing could still give you a hell of a whack if you weren’t careful; that’s what happened one day as I spent my lunch hour watching a practice.
One of the stunt men was swept from his horse and landed in a clattering heap on the ground. The crew got him up and out of his armour and off to the hospital. Although he wasn’t seriously hurt it was clear that he wouldn’t be getting back on his horse for a few days and there was nobody to replace him.
This posed a real problem for the producer because he had a dress rehearsal coming up shortly and some of his backers were flying in from California to check out the show so he surprised me by asking if I thought I could stand in for the injured man.
I was dying to give the jousting a try anyway but it wasn’t all that simple for me. Technically I would be moonlighting and although I knew most of the brass on the Mounted Unit would turn a blind eye, I wasn’t so sure about Sgt. Peddler. For some reason he had been giving me a real hard time lately. I hadn’t given him any reason but he seemed not to trust me and was constantly riding me but the lure was too strong so I decided to throw caution to the wind and accepted the offer.
I spent a couple of evenings and early mornings practicing and after getting a couple of hard slaps on the back, seemed to get the hang of it. The rest of the cast members were starting to treat me like one of their own.
One of the stunt men was swept from his horse and landed in a clattering heap on the ground. The crew got him up and out of his armour and off to the hospital. Although he wasn’t seriously hurt it was clear that he wouldn’t be getting back on his horse for a few days and there was nobody to replace him.
This posed a real problem for the producer because he had a dress rehearsal coming up shortly and some of his backers were flying in from California to check out the show so he surprised me by asking if I thought I could stand in for the injured man.
I was dying to give the jousting a try anyway but it wasn’t all that simple for me. Technically I would be moonlighting and although I knew most of the brass on the Mounted Unit would turn a blind eye, I wasn’t so sure about Sgt. Peddler. For some reason he had been giving me a real hard time lately. I hadn’t given him any reason but he seemed not to trust me and was constantly riding me but the lure was too strong so I decided to throw caution to the wind and accepted the offer.
I spent a couple of evenings and early mornings practicing and after getting a couple of hard slaps on the back, seemed to get the hang of it. The rest of the cast members were starting to treat me like one of their own.
The ballerinas would spend a lot of time watching me when I was on duty training the Police horses or conducting riding classes. One in particular was constantly bugging me to let her ride one of our horses and although I explained that it was strictly against regulations, she persisted day after day till finally, in a moment of weakness, I succumbed to the way she pleaded in her cute, lisping broken English and gave her a leg up onto old Roy, tutu and all. I gave her a few elementary instructions and hoped that she would be satisfied but she was back the next day looking for more. This time she had three more of the girls with her and they were anxious to join the class.
Well, fair is fair! I didn’t want to show favouritism-- somebody might get the wrong idea. Besides, we had several older horses in the stable that hadn’t been getting much exercise lately. Emboldened by the fact that Sgt. Peddler hadn’t been around hassling me lately, I decided to take a chance and increase the size of my class. I knew there would be hell to pay if the sergeant ever caught me but as I watched those beautiful women bouncing around the ring in their tights, leg warmers, and braless bikini tops it seemed well worth the risk. The girls were quick learners and before the week was out they were trotting and cantering around the ring like real pros.
At the beginning of the following week, midway through our now regular class I caught a glimpse of something that made my blood run cold; in a darkened corner outside the ring Sgt. Peddler stood leering in my direction.
“That’s it, the jig’s up, I’ve had it, and my career is over!” I pretended not to see him as he opened the gate and started walking over to where I waited in the centre of the ring. I was not going to demean myself in front of my ladies. He might be able to take my job away from me but I was keeping my dignity. I could hear him breathing over my shoulder as he stood behind me watching the ballerinas circle around us at a sitting trot. When he finally opened his mouth and started to speak I was ready for the worst. Instead he simply pointed in the direction of the class and said, “Tell the one with the big tits to keep her heels down!” then he turned and walked away without a further word.
The days of magic lasted for about two weeks more and I gradually became more involved with the production, occasionally filling in for the charioteers and knights at the performances. I was also included in all the cast parties and informal gatherings and it was during one of these that the producer asked me to join the show. He assured me that the money would be good and that when the tour ended in Los Angeles he would find me a permanent job with one of the studios.
Well, fair is fair! I didn’t want to show favouritism-- somebody might get the wrong idea. Besides, we had several older horses in the stable that hadn’t been getting much exercise lately. Emboldened by the fact that Sgt. Peddler hadn’t been around hassling me lately, I decided to take a chance and increase the size of my class. I knew there would be hell to pay if the sergeant ever caught me but as I watched those beautiful women bouncing around the ring in their tights, leg warmers, and braless bikini tops it seemed well worth the risk. The girls were quick learners and before the week was out they were trotting and cantering around the ring like real pros.
At the beginning of the following week, midway through our now regular class I caught a glimpse of something that made my blood run cold; in a darkened corner outside the ring Sgt. Peddler stood leering in my direction.
“That’s it, the jig’s up, I’ve had it, and my career is over!” I pretended not to see him as he opened the gate and started walking over to where I waited in the centre of the ring. I was not going to demean myself in front of my ladies. He might be able to take my job away from me but I was keeping my dignity. I could hear him breathing over my shoulder as he stood behind me watching the ballerinas circle around us at a sitting trot. When he finally opened his mouth and started to speak I was ready for the worst. Instead he simply pointed in the direction of the class and said, “Tell the one with the big tits to keep her heels down!” then he turned and walked away without a further word.
The days of magic lasted for about two weeks more and I gradually became more involved with the production, occasionally filling in for the charioteers and knights at the performances. I was also included in all the cast parties and informal gatherings and it was during one of these that the producer asked me to join the show. He assured me that the money would be good and that when the tour ended in Los Angeles he would find me a permanent job with one of the studios.
I actually considered the offer for a matter of minutes and then reality set in and I knew I had too many responsibilities where I was for it to be a real possibility. I enjoyed every remaining precious minute of my time with the show and when I had to say goodbye and watch the long line of buses and trucks turn out of the Exhibition grounds and head out on their way to New York I looked at the street sign which said ‘The Queensway West’ but for me it said ‘The road not taken!’
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