My Winnipeg

Guy Maddin’s frozen reverie on Canada’s “Gateway to the West” is barely defrosted by the warmth of the projector bulb. My Winnipeg opens with a bit of canned cheer in the form of the ’50s booster ballad “Wonderful Winnipeg.” Soon, however, the filmmaker is conjuring up his own “snowy, sleepy Winnipeg,” a place of eternal winter and endless night. A movie of moody reflection, My Winnipeg is shot mainly in black and white, punctuated with near-subliminal intertitles, fake snow flurries, and the melancholy sounds of trains crossing the prairie. The filmmaker provides a turgid stream of consciousness, babbling on in an urgent, incantatory mock-travelogue style—with recurring shots of his stand-in (Darcy Fehr) asleep as he rides the midnight special. Convinced that he must leave the city “now!”, Maddin instead finds himself back in childhood, living in a frame house fronted by his mother’s beauty salon. Restaging his youth but making his own detours, Maddin transforms Winnipeg into a city of mystery. The world’s smallest park is a single tree; the sole respite from the city’s flatness is the landfill mountain known as Garbage Hill. Most arcane are the hockey rites—and also the most personal: Maddin claims to have been born in the locker room of the Winnipeg Maroons’ now-demolished home. “Who is alive anymore?” he wonders as the movie wends toward closure. “It’s so hard to remember.”
Thu., Nov. 6, 7:15 & 9:15 p.m.; Fri., Nov. 7, 7:15 & 9:15 p.m.; Sat., Nov. 8, 2, 4, 7:15 & 9:15 p.m., 2008

 
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