People in their forties still recognize me. “Hey, it’s the Smoking Man,” they call out to the blank stare of their twenty-year-old friend. “Remember The X-Files?” they continue, barely able to divert their young friend from texting her schoolmates. The show was a global phenomenon of the nineties. The show itself now seems as ephemeral as the stories on which it was based. Soon it may appear quaint for having used real actors and for telling stories written by writers, with the viewer forced to sit and watch, unable to influence the story whatever button she pressed on her remote. Well, maybe things won’t get that bad. Maybe actors will still be needed for something, the commercials if nothing else.
And so how does the life of William B. Davis proceed? In the mid-nineties acting overwhelmed all other aspects of my professional life, directing disappearing altogether and teaching relegated to very brief stints. Recently, the wreckers tore down my old school, making a hash of it with large blocks of concrete falling in the street — the ghosts of the actors resisting to the last, like the actors’ photos that still stood after fire gutted the Dundee Repertory Theatre. With the series fading into memory, acting for me might have declined anyway, but its current decline has been hastened by a general contraction of the industry in Vancouver. As I move into my seventies I suppose I could retire and work on my golf game. But I don’t play golf, so that won’t do.
Barbara Ellison and I continue to be professional colleagues while our personal lives have diverged. We came close to wrecking our lives by doing a daytime series for the CBC called 49th and Main. We won a national contest to produce this series, which Barbara wrote and I directed; we shot seven episodes before the CBC decided that a daytime series was not in their budget. I wrote and directed three short films, working my way towards doing a feature, which I might do sometime. And just as if X-Files had never happened, I am scheduled to direct two plays for the theatre, one for an acting school and one for a community theatre. There are still occasional acting roles, and for those of a certain generation there are still conventions where, strangely, people will pay good money to get my autograph on a picture.
I continue to look for ways to make a difference, to alert people to the impending twin disasters of climate change and resource depletion, to convince people that back to the land will neither happen nor work, that immense conservation combined with intense use of the technology that will work — nuclear power and GM food to name two — need to be deployed yesterday, or it will be too late.
And my inner struggle between stability and adventure, between domesticity and romance, continues into my seventies. I have fallen in love, maybe for the first time (when you get to a certain age it’s now or never) with a lovely young Italian who, to my wonder and delight, finds a man of my age — well, this man of my age — to be exactly what she wants in her life.
William B. Davis
Vancouver, 2011
Acknowledgements
One of the unexpected pleasures of writing a memoir is searching out people from one’s past for their memories, thoughts, and assistance. Many people whom I had not spoken to for decades gave of their time. My thanks to Ray Stancer, Karl Jaffary, David Gardner, Jackie Burroughs, David Calderisi, Dan MacDonald, Sandra Ward, Fred Euringer, Donald Sutherland, Hannah Gordon, and others with whom I enjoyed a renewed friendship.
I am especially grateful for those who took time to read parts or all of the work and give me valuable feedback. I thank Jerry Wasserman in particular, not only for reading the first section of the manuscript, but for suggesting I write a memoir in the first place. Donna Wong-Juliani’s unflagging enthusiasm inspired me with new energy. And David Helwig’s clear editorial eye helped me trim a lot of dross.
But particular appreciation goes to Barbara Ellison who shared so much of the process and gave me such wise counsel and editorial experience. And finally to my editor, Jen Hale, who rode the bumps with great good will and gave such enthusiastic support.
Where There's Smoke...: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man, a Memoir Page 31