In a short film from 1947 called Johnny at the Fair, a five-year-old boy and his family spend an exciting afternoon at the Canadian National Exhibition. Bored while his parents peruse the art exhibits, little Johnny sneaks away and embarks on a wondrous adventure, touring the midway, hobnobbing with celebrities (Joe Louis, Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King, Olsen and Johnson), and even visiting an exhibit called “Chemical Wonderland,” where a smiling Ex employee throws him a bouncy ball of Plutonium. Oh, 1947…
I was much like Johnny when I was his age. During my first few years at the Ex, my parents would always make me watch the Second World War veterans’ parade—an unbelievably boring spectacle if you’re five. While my grandpa waved at us in the audience, I anxiously eyed the midway, shaking like a junkie going through withdrawal.
What I love about Johnny at the Fair is its wide-eyed innocence: like my own five-year-old self, Johnny is able to take the Ex purely at face value. For me, the Ex began to lose a lot of its luster when I became a teenager. Why, I asked, would I waste my time on The Zipper or The Haunted House when I could get a better rush on the Drop Zone at Wonderland? Why would I want to wander through a shopping centre with a bunch of skinny men in crew cuts selling mops and Jacuzzis when I could just go to the mall? And oh dear god, what sort of social suicide would I face if one of my friends saw me with my parents at the Superdogs?
Granted, Johnny had the advantage of living in a time when the Ex was a decidedly greater cultural force than it is now. Whenever I go to the Ex, I wander through the always-unchanged “Hall of Memories” (I love seeing that same picture of the Three Stooges year after year) and suspect that I’m witnessing a wistful yearning for better times rather than a pleasant walk down memory lane. Indeed, it sometimes feels like the Ex is virtually unchanged since Johnny visited: a decaying time warp from an era when a trampoline act was exciting and cultural exploration consisted of eating Chinese Chicken Balls at the Food Building.
But this year is different. This year, Bill Clinton is coming to deliver a speech, and curiosity has compelled me to buy a ticket. In the years since the end of his mediocre presidency, Clinton has painstakingly transformed himself into a beloved elder statesman, and one of the most expensive and sought-after public speakers in the world. The Ex, which boasted Elvis Stojko and Petula Clarke as its other big guests this year, rarely lands such an A-list attraction.
I’m back to see Clinton, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been lured to my old haunt. The turning point came last summer when ’70s singer and Branson, Missouri mainstay Tony Orlando came to perform. My knowledge of Mr. Orlando came from his frequent appearances on the Jerry Lewis Labour Day Telethon, where the washed-up entertainer annually belts out his couple of nearly forgotten hits and generally appears as a sad testament to the fickle nature of fame.
I’m ashamed to say that I went to Orlando’s concert solely to laugh at him. “Any Tony Orlando fans out there?” asked the DJ from the radio station sponsoring the event, and I chortled when the throngs of middle-aged couples enthusiastically cheered this kitschy, hack relic of the ’70s. But when Orlando came out on stage and launched into his repertoire, pausing now and then to tell a funny anecdote or banter with his band, he was actually good. Nobody would confuse him for Bob Dylan, but what he lacked in artistry he made up for in likeability, stage presence, and a keen understanding of how to put on a crowd-pleasing, well-paced show. I daresay that I (gulp) enjoyed his performance un-ironically.
I feel much the same way about Clinton. His speech was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship: from the opening moments when he praised Toronto, talked about how much he enjoys fairs like the Ex, and revealed his memories of Ted Kennedy (whose funeral he had come directly from), it’s clear that this is a man who knows how to make sweet, gentle love to his audience. The thousands of people in the BMO Field were eating out of his hand. When he launched into what I can only assume is his standard speech about the environment, the potential for political unity, and the essential goodness of humanity, he occasionally sprinkled it with crowd-pleasing facts about Toronto and the Ex (did you know that the Ex was the first fair to have electric lights?).
There was nothing life-changing about the speech, and I doubt it really mobilized anyone in the audience, but I appreciated it for what it was: a chance to see an old pro deliver a smooth, well-oiled performance. Later, I headed to Ricoh Coliseum to see an ice show of popular songs from movies, during which Elvis Stojko skated to the Kill Bill theme. This was a pretty dreadful show, but there was Elvis, giving a technically flawless performance and providing some mild entertainment.
The Ex is no longer the Toronto juggernaut it once was, but neither is it the tacky embarrassment I saw in my teens. It’s a charming diversion, a chance to play a game of Bingo, sit in a hammock-chair, try out a Miracle Mop, watch a man being fired out of a cannon, or some cows get milked, and leave your self-consciousness behind. Eating my traditional bag of Tiny Tom donuts, embracing the modest pleasures of this tired old fair, I feel, for the first time in perhaps a decade, a little like Johnny.
