Work Text:
Driving through the tall-grassed, empty fields, it can be difficult to wrap your head around why one might choose to retreat to this particular stretch of Canadian countryside to restart a life. In the case of Moira Rose ( Sunset Bay, The Crows Have Eyes III: The Crowening) it was less a choice, more a forced governmental opportunity.
“We’ve had a marvellously fabulous reception in the town we now live in,” Rose says over the phone, in the course of setting up this profile. I’ve been invited to the wedding of Rose’s son, David, to his long-time partner, Patrick Brewer: one of the last times Rose will be in this tiny little town, whose name she refuses to say out loud, for several weeks as she prepares to hit the road for Crows press.
Founded in 1895 by Horace Schitt, Schitt’s Creek is still governed by the Schitt family, mayor Roland his wife Jocelyn, although power structures became a bit more muddled after the Roses purchased the town, moved in, and assumed governmental seats of their own.
“Really, Johnny and Moria are just — they’re Schitt-y people, you know what I mean? They got here and from the beginning, the town just opened their arms and welcomed them, thorns and all,” says Roland Schitt. We’re standing together on the edge of the wedding venue, a crisp white outdoor tent set up in the field behind the town’s one motel, the Rosebud Motel.
Named for Johnny Rose, former owner of Rose Video and long-time supportive husband to Moira Rose, and his business partner Stevie Budd, the Rosebud has become quite the little beacon of success in the tiny town. When I call to book a room, rumor has it that they're otherwise booked solid. And while the wedding had brought in a crowd, it isn’t the first time in recent history that this has happened. For my part, I can say that the cinnamon rolls are delicious and the coffee is chemical grade. The most interesting thing about the town, though, isn’t the motel, or the giant-menued Café Tropical — it’s the people.
As the town gathers for the wedding, it’s easy to see the ease with which the Roses have cultivated for themselves quite the sense of community. Local veterinarian, Theodore Mullens, goes back and forth between a group of local townsfolk and his girlfriend, the youngest member of the Rose family, Alexis. A collection of women dressed in matching navy blue blouses run through vocal drills in the corner. A man named Ray Butani informs me they’re the local acapella group, the Jazzagals, and they’re preparing to sing for the ceremony. I see Moira Rose amongst their number, and Ray assures me I won’t have long to wait for a solo.
“It really will be quite the sight to see,” he says, and his smile is knowing.
In fact, the majority of the people gathered today have easily knowable faces. It’s refreshing, in an age where people so rarely say what they mean, to be surrounded by a community that seems founded on the principles of honesty and earnestness in equal measure.
“You can’t be wearing that,” Alexis shouts as she half-skips across the yard towards a woman who has a flannel shirt wrapped around her waist, fitted sleeveless tuxedo shirt revealing pale arms that stand out against the navy blue of the wedding party. “Stevie!” Alexis chirps, and the smile the other woman wears as Rose pulls her away can only be described as wolfish.
It’s easy to forget, surrounded by the gentle hum of cicadas and the buzz that accompanies a group effort like a wedding, but it’s not the wedding I’m technically here to cover (don’t worry readers, as you’ve seen from the headlines, I manage to cover the wedding anyway). It’s Moira Rose, and more collectively, the Rose family. I’m here to tell the story of a woman, a family, whose lives combusted beneath them and – instead of retreating and licking their wounds until they could slink back to something the rest of us might recognize – retreated to a small town and rebuilt for themselves a life so many only dare to dream of.
Moira Rose recently graced the silver screen in The Crows Have Eyes III: The Crowening and while the title and position in the generally dilapidated franchise might turn off viewers, let me assure you — this movie is genius. It’s a commentary on community, on consumerism, on the dark parts of the human condition. And giant, mutant crows. It’s been touted as the sleeper hit of the year, building an almost cult following through it’s genius social media maneuvers. Including the one that saw us all watching Moira Rose walk through “the town where she now lives” with an almost obsessive attention.
Which brings us to now, as I sit in a white wooden folding chair, ankle-length grass dewey where it brushes my ankle, bouquet of wildflowers and ribbon hanging off the back of the chair in front of me. I see bachelor buttons, and meadow larkspur, baby’s breath and white gladiolus, half a dozen other flowers not so easily identified. There’s a planned yet chaotic look to the arrangements, and they fill the space underneath the tent with a riot of color.
Slowly, the crowd fills in alongside me, including Moira Rose herself, who I manage to snag on her way to the back of the pavillion. “Not now, dear, I’ve got an espousal to institute, I am so glad you were able to come, though.” Her daughter Alexis is hot on her heels, and promises me a full interview before the night is over.
As dusk falls, and the tent continues to fill with friends and family, the lights strung across the roof of the tent buzz on. The bare edison bulbs radiate a warm glow and an industrial aesthetic that combine in a way much like the flowers did — beauty in the opposition, stability in the chaos.
An anticipatory stillness falls over the tent just as the sun hits the far horizon, and it’s easy to see why, as the rays filter through the far trees and make the entire space seem to sparkle. It’s an almost melancholy feeling, until the music starts and the procession appears.
Patrick Brewer goes first, walking with his mother and father, Marcy and Clint, to the front, where he waits under a gorgeous chuppah of simple pine poles, topped with a cats-cradle of blue and cream ribbons, a small fortune in twinkling fairy lights. Next down the aisle is Moira Rose herself, hand tucked into the elbow of Johnny Rose, as she blows the occasional kiss and gives a small wave to many of the gathered towns people. When she reaches her seat, she rather loudly says, “Patrick, you look absolutely pulchritudinous.” And I have to hand it to Brewer, he takes her statement with kind eyes and a gentle smile, thanking her and gesturing for her to sit. The crowd laughs, and it’s warm and comfortable because it’s clear beyond a shadow of a doubt - no one here is laughing at anyone.
It’s time for the main event, and the gathered crowd stands as the classical strains of something Vivaldi shifts into the slow, soulful voice of Ella Fitzgerald’s “At Last”. All eyes shift to David Rose, who looks stunning in a black velvet tuxedo and crisp bow-tie. He’s got a cream-colored shirt on that lends a ruddy, glowing color to his cheeks, although that might also have a great deal to do with the absolute button of a man waiting for him at the end of the aisle. He’s being escorted, according to the program, by his maid of honor Stevie Budd, who looks truly stunning in a similarly cut black suit of her own, with the addition of a men’s Rick Owens leather jacket. However, it’s hard to look away from a face caught in as much joy as David Rose's. When I finally force myself, I turn and find Moira’s face — and that is what I’ve driven all this way to see. That’s the story I’ve come to tell.
The story of a mother, deeply in love with her son, after what the tabloids all predicted was hundreds of thousands of dollars in future therapy bills. The story of a woman who stands tall in her Tatehana heels and belted Isabel Marant amongst a sea of denim and diesel — and has somehow found a way to fit, to be a Rose in a garden of other wildflowers. It’s a story no one in New York would have predicted, and it’s the kind of story that makes its own kind of magic.
Now, because this reporter still has a sense of romance and common decency, I’ll leave a majority of the vow specifics to those who were lucky enough to be in attendance. There was one portion that I’ll share with you, though, from David Rose to his soon-to-be husband because, well. You’ll see:
The first time we kissed, Patrick, you thanked me. For doing that for us. And at the time, I had this man in front of me, looking at me with these loud eyes, telling me he’d just opened a whole new door on his life. So I didn’t thank you then. I didn’t thank you for walking into my store and hiring yourself before we’d even opened. I didn’t thank you for putting in what I now know were sleepless nights coming up with plans and promises for a store you only had a general idea of. [Brewer interrupts: “but also a very specific idea”. Laughter] I didn’t get to thank you for dressing up for our first date when I was terrified out of my mind to believe that someone like you could love someone like me. Thank you. For loving me. For loving us, and our business, and the future we can build together. After everything that happened, Schitt’s Creek is the place where we were planted, but it was never a place I felt like I could put down roots until you found me. [Brewer interrupts: “We found each other”.]
It would be an understatement to say that there were more than a few tears staining this reporter’s cheeks. Indeed, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the time rings were exchanged and the glass was stomped. Brewer and Rose — now just Mr. and Mr. Rose — have more joy on their faces than can be believed, and the smile on the new Mr. Rose’s face is evident even as he curls into David, presses his face into the space between his shoulder, burying his face in his neck. It’s an intimate moment to witness between the new couple and all the more beautiful because of it.
The champagne flows, and passed hor dourves intermix with what appears a to be a locally sourced buffet from a farm not too far out of town. The food is delicious, but it’s the chance to finally sit down with Moira Rose that’s the best part of the reception.
I ask her what it’s like, coming back to the small screen after this many years, and she just looks at me, eyebrow raised, chin dipped, like she’s Vivian Blake and I’m the next unfortunate slap recipient. “You know that art can be a fickle mistress, dear, certainly I don’t have to tell a philologian such as yourself the draw of masterfully crafted dialogue, the pull of an enlightening new tale to tell. It’s my joyance, my bon vivant, my reason for being.”
That’s certainly hard to argue with, but I have to wait for the end of the official mother/son dance to ask her my next question — whether she sees herself moving back to New York soon. “Would that we had such contrivances,” she says, and it’s the first time her face has fallen since the conversation began. She glances at Johnny Rose, currently on the dance floor with Jocelyn Schitt, and the corner of her mouth twitches upward. The pride in her eyes is strong enough to be a physical force, and not for the first time in following their lives, I find myself wishing that I could find my own Johnny Rose. “Fortunately for the Rose progenitor, business lately has been absolutely booming, as they say. Wilma Tisch better hold on to her pearls,” she raises a glass to toast me, but only after adding four extra syllables to the way she says ‘Wilma Tisch’.
There’s one question left on my mind, on the mind of those who have been following Rose family for years — and those who have more recently become enamored of her talent — what’s next for the Rose family? If not New York, then what? Grandbabies in Schitt’s Creek? An international tour with her publicist/daughter? Retirement? This last one gets a laugh, perhaps almost as big a one as the grandparent comment, and she doesn’t answer until she’s wiping tears from her lash line with one gorgeous manicured finger nail. “We do what all Roses do, my darling. We bloom.”
And as the music shifts to something more bassy and Rose joins the assembled group on the dance floor, the mental picture practically forms itself: Rose, arm around her husband’s shoulder, head thrown back in a moment of unguarded laughter. Her son, arms around his new husband’s waist, chin rested on his shoulder as they talk to Alexis and Ted. Stevie, hands full of champagne flutes, some of which she seems to be drinking while others she hands out to any open hand. They float around each other like butterflies, and yet enter in and out of each others space with the kind of practice you can’t force. You have to build it.
Bloom, indeed.