The Oser Essay

 In commemoration of Jean Oser’s contribution to Saskatchewan film culture, the Department of Film at the University of Regina awards the Jean Oser Prize annually for the outstanding critical essay written in a Film Studies course. The Saskatchewan Filmpool is pleased to reprint this essay in Splice.

Hockey, Violence, and Toxic Masculinity in Kevan Funk’s Hello Destroyer

by Jesse Desjarlais

In a personal email sent to Cameron Bailey, artistic director of the Toronto International Film Festival, Kevan Funk said of his own film Hello Destroyer (2016), “I can see how someone might decide to categorize my film as a coming-of-age story about an isolated character, but my real interest was one of looking at systemic issues of violence in our culture, confronting the construction of history in this country, and trying to grapple with a sense of identity within the specific context of Canada” (Funk). Seeking out a definitive Canadian identity, especially in the shadow of a history of violence and colonial enterprise, has long been a fruitless and frustrating pursuit for many Canadian artists. In Hello Destroyer, Funk exposes the roots of this problematic endeavour by portraying the violence in, and around, one of Canada’s longstanding cultural institutions: hockey. However, as Funk himself proffered, the protagonist Tyson Burr’s (played by Jared Abrahamson) coming-of-age in the intense and fast-paced world of junior hockey is mainly used as a vehicle for navigating systemic and historical violence, and by extrapolation, the building blocks that continue to shoddily prop up a narrative of colonialism in Canada. The continual repercussions of this narrative in the contemporary moment—a narrative of male violence, hatred, and imperialism echoing throughout Canadian history—is of the utmost importance to Funk, particularly how the perpetuation of this narrative through culture is vacuous, destructive, and disruptive to the ongoing process of establishing a Canadian identity. Tyson, as protagonist, is caught in a whirlwind of toxic masculinity, historical imperialism, and generational violence: tainted traits of a fatal Canadian identity both rooted in the past, and unsustainable for the future. The film’s themes are myriad: the destructive forces of phallocentrism and violence—in hockey and contemporary Canadiana—as a continuation of colonial and imperial methods (especially against Indigenous peoples, as will be illuminated by exploring indigenous imagery and relationships in the film); the consequences of this continuation, seen in Tyson’s role as a destroyer rather than a creator; and the continuing struggle to nail down a definitive Canadian identity in the wake of colonial violence. By viewing the film in light of critical commentary on hockey’s long-standing influence on nation-building, by comparing the film to other portrayals of hockey in cinema, and by examining these themes through a formal investigation of narrative, dialogue and cinematography, Hello Destroyer emerges as an exemplary achievement in a Canadian film industry desperate for relevance, cultural significance, and critical commentary on the historical narratives that continue to shape the contemporary Canadian moment. While Hello Destroyer mournfully reflects on the contemporary Canadian climate by showcasing Tyson’s fatal struggle to self-identify, as both a man and a Canadian, it nonetheless contains the slightest glimmer of hope or catharsis—particularly in Tyson’s brief relationship with his Indigenous co-worker Eric, and the demolition and burning down of Tyson’s paternal grandfather’s dilapidated house as a metaphor for the necessary reconsideration/destruction of the historical narratives that continue to thrive in contemporary Canada.

Hello Destroyer is rife with examples of chauvinism, ritual and generational violence, and the effects of these destructive traits in forging a Canadian identity: a violent and sexualized hazing of rookie players, the reappropriation of indigenous regalia as a signifier of white domination, fist fights at parties, drunk driving, parental abuse, and unsportsmanlike hockey violence. The ways in which Tyson Burr navigates and relies on violence to form his own identity is at the heart of the film. Despite Tyson’s status as a hockey player, it is clear from the opening frames—an intense fist fight on the ice where the rink is out of focus in the background and the action is in extreme closeup—that Hello Destroyer is more concerned with violence than it is with hockey; Funk himself acknowledged this when describing his vision for the film: “The hockey part is like a red herring or a misnomer. The only reason it’s about hockey is that I needed a big cultural institution at the centre of this film” (Ahearn). However, Funk’s use of hockey is more than just a cleverly employed surrogate in addressing actual problems of violence and the illusory Canadian identity—his interest is grounded in the historical nature of nation building through hockey in Canada. As Michael A. Robidoux, assistant professor of Kinesiology at the University of Lethbridge, writes in  “Imagining a Canadian Identity through Sport,” “the Canadian penchant to understand itself through hockey repeats masculinist formulas of identification that reflect poorly the lives of Canadians. The physically dominant, heterosexist, and capitalist associations of this specific identity are certainly exclusionary” (222). 

It is appropriate, then, that a Canadian cultural mode as ubiquitous and historically popular as hockey should serve as the centrepoint for an examination of this kind. Hello Destroyer should be considered in relation to criticism on the historical nature of hockey in Canada, its associations with violence, and some historical examples of hockey portrayals in film. For instance, Sociology professors Patricia Cormack and James Cosgrave write in Desiring Canada, “The naturalization of hockey and its links to national sentiment have allowed the state to represent itself within the cultural arena of hockey and thereby make use of its violence” (95). While Funk asserts that Hello Destroyer is not simply about hockey, cultural critics like Robidoux, Cormack and Cosgrave all suggest that hockey, violence, and the history of Canadian representations of identity are intertwined. Perhaps these notions are so embedded into Canadian consciousness that Funk couldn’t help but address hockey in this way, despite his assertion that the hockey is a red herring. The undefinable Canadian identity is an illusory and ephemeral subject in art; Hello Destroyer is no exception, but it astutely and sensitively considers the continually negative impacts of a history of violence on Canadian cultural and national identity rather than appealing to notions of patriotism. Viewing hockey as an extension of violence in Canada—and especially, considering the appropriation of indigenous imagery throughout the film, colonial violence—makes Funk’s film rather unique considering the historical treatment of hockey on film.

Like Hello Destroyer, it is certainly a cinematic tradition for hockey movies to be about more than just hockey; it is an ideal subject to celebrate patriotism, competition, male camaraderie—this is, however, regularly portrayed as a positive trait. There is an overwhelming lack of critical portrayals of hockey and hockey violence in film; Hello Destroyer is a welcome deviation from the tendency to cinematically address violence comedically—such as Goon (Dowse, 2011), Slapshot (Hill, 1977)—or to see hockey as an avenue towards patriotism and nation-building, such as Mystery, Alaska (Roach, 1999), or Miracle (O’Connor 2004). This patriotic bent found in hockey films is more in line with the concerns of Hello Destroyer, but it is a lens that rarely focuses on the implications of violence in hockey as a negative and destructive continuation of imperial domination. For example, Miracle—particularly Kurt Russell’s rousing pregame speech—exemplifies the kind of call to dominance and nation-building that Funk so openly criticises; it is however, celebrated, rather than condemned. Russell addresses his team of American underdogs:

Herb Brooks: Tonight, we are the greatest hockey team in the world. You were born to be hockey players, every one of you. You were meant to be here tonight. This is your time. Their time is done—it’s over. I’m sick and tired of hearing about what a great hockey team the Soviets have. Screw ‘em! This is your time! Now go out there and take it.

The scene is punctuated by military snare drum rolls and triumphant music, a glorification of militaristic imperialism—hockey barely masks this motif. Even the title Miracle speaks to an American destiny that is at once supernatural and messianic. As the Americans take to the ice against the Soviets, they walk stoically, brimming with pride and purpose, lauded and worshipped by the gathered media and photographers. While hockey has historically been a similar source of nationalistic pride for Canadians (as in the 1972 Summit Series against the Soviet Union, which itself was renowned for extreme violence), Funk refuses to engage with this narrative. Where Funk, Cormack and Cosgrave see hockey in the light of destruction and violent nation-building, this scene from Miracle plays as a masturbatory fantasy designed to self-praise; it instills devotion to national idealism, and falsely speaks to hockey as a creative and uplifting force—it is an all too common trope in art and culture, and exemplifies the cinematic tradition in which Funk was working—one that he actively attempts to subvert in Hello Destroyer.

Speaking on the violent, imperial nature of the 1972 Summit series in “Imagining a Canadian Identity through Sport,” Robidoux writes, “[D]espite Canadian behaviour that was an assault on international hockey, and on international competition in general, this assault was distinctly Canadian, something which is invaluable for the construction of a national identity” (221). Where Miracle speaks to how hockey and film can drive this imperial machine for good, Hello Destroyer is openly critical and doubtful of the destructive and untenable nature of the same machine in Canada—in this it is rather unique in calling out violence as a marker of a national identity. This approach exemplifies Funk’s assessment of a necessary paradigm shift in Canadian filmmaking and storytelling: 

I fervently believe that Canadian filmmakers need to be much more bold in terms of the films that we are producing, particularly with regard to a sense of agency that is anchored in a broader cultural exploration and interrogation…Our constant conversation about the crisis of Canadian identity (and the inability to articulate what that is) in a large part has to do with the fact that the majority of our cultural output (particularly in the arena of film and television) does nothing to engage with that narrative. (Funk)

Funk engages in a narrative of violence amidst a crisis of Canadian identity by employing hockey tropes to his benefit. Like in Miracle, Hello Destroyer includes a speech made by Coach Milbury addressing his players, and it is similarly intent on inspiring his players. However, it is a speech that speaks to laboriously building an empire through work and violence rather than destiny and miracles; it is ultimately a call to action that is built on the narratives of history, a call to violence that, as the title of the film suggests, destroys rather than creates:

Coach Milbury: Bricks and mortar—these things, they’re important right? They are important because we are building something here. We’re building something that is great. Because at the end of the day these things need to be built. They don’t just appear, there’s no magic potion, there’s no shortcuts, but they have to be built. Because you’re only going to get out what you put in. I mean, this is why we work hard, right? This is why we burn and bleed—to achieve greatness. It’s like we gotta take this rough-hewn piece of steel and we gotta pound it, pound it, pound it, pound it until we get Excalibur. Hmm? You know that story, right? The story of King Arthur and the sword? Well, here’s a little history lesson for you—because history, my friends, is so important. ‘Cause when you look at the history books...what’s the thing that you see and remember the most? Heroes! Hmm? Because last time I checked, there isn’t any room in the history book for losers now, is there?

[...]

No, ‘cause championships, banners, trophies, all of that, that was determined by people who were writing their own history. This is the place where it happens. 

This is the voice of authority in the lives of these young Canadian men; this is the voice that spurs Tyson to action, and it is one that speaks not only of the tradition of hockey violence, but of colonial and imperial violence in Canada’s history. At the behest of his coach’s words, Tyson repeats the violence of these myths and narratives, on and off the ice, in the hopes that he too might be a hero—in the hopes that he might find an identity. However, nothing is created with these narratives; they simply reenact militant, colonial violence, and their perpetuation serves as the destructive force in Tyson’s life. As his last name suggests, Tyson is left as a sharp and rigid edge on the metal sword: a burr. He is viewed in this speech as a malleable piece of metal, one that will be pounded and forged into a destructive weapon, like Excalibur. When Tyson, as enforcer and destroyer, fails to embody his role as a weapon, he is subsequently berated by Coach Millbury for failing to physically dominate his opponents—he and his teammates are punished and criticized for not protecting this empire with violence and force. Coach Milbury’s tirade sounds like a xenophobic, militant rant: “They are in our house, for fuck’s sake! Our fucking house, for fuck’s sake—protect the fucking house”—in other words, defend the narrative of colonial violence and hatred that created, and in some ways continues to sustain, Canada’s national identity. 

Tyson is steeped in the lie of this narrative, and Funk suggests that it continues to dictate the identity of Canadians in the contemporary moment. It is a narrative that Tyson has been written into by the male authorities in his life since he was born. There is no room for him to create his own story, or write his own history, as his coach so falsely promises. It is a troubling continuation of a colonial narrative of domination, and yet, in comparison to other hockey films, it is uncharacteristically played out in Hello Destroyer in white males who are living out the continuing fantasy of imperial violence. Funk is suggesting that this continuation is destructive, moribund, and unsustainable for Canadians. Tyson has no agency, no voice of his own, and no ability to subvert this narrative—or, as theorist Edward Said says in Culture and Imperialism, “The power to narrate, or to block other narratives from forming and emerging, is very important to culture and imperialism” (xiii). 

In this lack of narrative agency, Tyson is constantly infantilized. Throughout the film he is regularly portrayed as reserved and shy—one of the few examples of him opening up and showing any sort of joy is when he is playing with his landlord’s young son, as if the boy was emotionally or intellectually closer to him in this infantilized state (yet it must be stated that this play is simply mock violence). He regularly has difficulty speaking his mind and articulating his emotions, as if he doesn’t have the vocabulary to communicate in this world of adults. As a result he lashes out and communicates with violence, employing the codes with which he was raised, codes that have kept him in this state of arrested development. He is regularly silent and subservient, both when letting his legal representation speak for him and write his letter of apology, and later in the film under the rule of his physically violent father. He is a young man, but nonetheless has difficulty with simple tasks, like tying a tie—he relies on a surrogate mother-figure to aid him. This infantilization culminates in Tyson’s hearing near the end of the film. He is legally tried as an adult for his reckless behaviour in physically harming his opponent—the act of violence that cascades into all aspects of his life as he begins his downwards spiral—but as the reality of both the legal consequences of his actions and the personal consequences of being rejected and scapegoated by his only friends sets in, he tunes out and is deafened by a whirring, ringing white noise. 

Tyson had previously described this auditory sensation to his teammate as a fearful and traumatic sound that filled in moments of silence when he was a child. Following a game, sitting in a hotel room during the quiet hours of the night, the two attempt to have a meaningful conversation in which they open and up and display their weaknesses. 

Tyson: You know that ringing sound when everything is totally quiet?[...]| When if you’re like all alone somewhere and everything’s completely silent, like nothing...I used to hate that when I was a kid...I don’t know, it just really bothered me. Still makes me feel weird. I get really sick to my stomach and sweaty. It would feel like, I don’t know, like what a black hole would feel like, or something—can’t really explain it...the way I feel when I hear that sound, like nothing. 

Though incredibly inarticulate and vague, Tyson opens up to his teammate in a rare moment of honesty and transparency; the conversation quickly reverts to male posturing and levity. When his teammate suggests that Tyson might have been scared of the dark, Tyson attempts to laugh it off while adamantly denying it: his ego is threatened, and he must quickly re-establish his masculinity. Almost as soon as he opens up, he is forced to recoil and revert to the programmed narrative of strength and dominance; he let his guard down for too long, and he fears that there may be consequences. What he is essentially speaking to when saying “he feels like nothing” is the nauseating and disorienting feeling of being in a void—devoid of reference points or a grounded location: lacking a discernible identity and home. Robidoux also refers to this: “For a nation as young as Canada (confederated in 1867), this constructive process [of defining a national identity] is somewhat recent and largely incomplete, which is disconcerting for Canadians who have twice witnessed the threat of national separation” (209). Disconcerting, incomplete, separation: these are all terms that exemplify Tyson’s struggle to identify. He is suspended from his team, he is ostracized by his peers, he is kicked out of the house in which he is boarding, and upon returning home he is alienated, depressed, and treated poorly by a father that should accept him. As the film progresses, he slowly disappears into the black hole that he feared as a child; it eventually consumes him. 

Following Tyson’s opening up about his childhood fear of the burr and the void of a silent black hole, a quick cut abruptly ends the conversation. We are suddenly back in the world of hockey—Tyson is in the middle of an intense exercise with a teammate in the background spurring him on. By cutting directly from a moment of honest reflection, the physical exhaustion he is putting himself through appears almost as penitence, or self-flagellation—punishment for nearly breaking the narrative of machismo as he proves to himself and his teammates that he is not weak, cowardly, or afraid. Additionally, the placement of the camera is of note. Most scenes of exercise in Hello Destroyer are framed in such a way that the action of the exercise cannot be seen. We see the struggle, the movement, the violence, the buildup, and the release: without the cues of the exercise, the imagery is brutal, bodily, and subtly suggestive of masturbation. Additionally, the camera bisects these young men when they are filmed intensely exercising—they are rarely seen whole, intact, complete, as if to suggest that they are unformed or unidentifiable in this prescribed narrative. These men are disembodied and undeveloped, rarely seen from the waist down—there are, however, two interesting counterpoints of note: firstly, when Tyson is seen entering the showers after practice, and later on in the film when he is seen ironing. 

When Tyson is entering the shower after Coach Milbury’s speech, two of his teammates are seen nude with their genitals exposed. It is a masculine setting, dominated by phallocentrism; Tyson, though, is not viewed in this way, and is thus emasculated by the frame— he is already being cast from this phallic order. This notion of fracturing and unmanning is later reflected in the images of him leaving his boarding house, as the refracted glass of the front door splits him into many pieces; without a discernible home, family, or masculine identity, he is constantly fractured/cut/bisected by the framing of the camera, or by glass and mirrors in his surroundings. A particularly potent example of this use of glass is immediately after his bout of violence in a restaurant with his roommates. At this point he has been suspended for his violent act against an opponent, but, as is seen even outside of hockey, continues to repeatedly act out in violence. Following the praises of his roommates for attacking the men in the restaurant, we cut to an image of Tyson lying on the couch. He in the background, slightly out of focus as his identity blurs and disintegrates, and is once again seen fractured by glass—in this case, the glass of a fish tank. In the foreground, a fish, contained in a tank much to small, swims endlessly in circles as Tyson lies dormant. The fish is a perfect analogy for Tyson’s state, and the layering of the imagery instills this connection. The fish is Tyson—imprisoned in a tank of another’s making; owned, contained, doomed to swim in circles endlessly with no memory of the past, and no knowledge that there is another world outside of the tank. Tyson is spiralling downward; a potential solution for this is to get outside of this tank that contains him. Thus, he quickly returns to his childhood home. 

At the halfway marker of the film, Tyson, indefinitely suspended, takes a bus back east to spend time with his family in his childhood home. There is promise in this nostos: the opportunity to get away from the violence and destruction of life inside and outside of hockey, for Tyson to emotionally and mentally recover from the trauma of injuring his opponent. Narratively, the viewer expects that this can serve as a restorative escape from the world of violence behind him, that it can serve as a catalyst for positive change and recovery—and, in a way, this is true. We simultaneously learn, however, that Tyson’s trauma and history with violence runs deep. His father is a stern and emotionally frigid man who rules through fear and punishment; his relationship with Tyson is defined by emotional distance, militant assignations of labour and family duties, and, as we see after Tyson’s DUI, potentially long-standing physical abuse towards Tyson. Tyson’s father has a clear model of masculinity in mind, and, like Tyson’s hockey coaches, he violently prescribes it as often as he deems necessary. Tyson’s mother is the archetypical silent and meek housewife—while she occasionally expresses concern for Tyson, these offerings are rare. Viewers get the impression that her femininity is just as prescribed and regulated as Tyson’s masculinity. It becomes clear that the narrative of male domination and violence is widespread, and for Tyson, is nearly inescapable. At their first dinner as a family, his mother is nearly cut out of the frame; meanwhile, Tyson and his father are side-by-side. Their conversation is terse. In Saidian terms, the family culture is sustained by maintaining the narrative: when asked about his plans, Tyson’s father speaks for him and answers, “He’s going to work.” His father dominates his ability to speak, to narrate his own life, and quickly shuts down the possibility for other narratives to emerge. A haunting frame of Tyson’s father in the foreground and Tyson in the background, one in which the two men blur together, illustrates the kind of man Tyson will grow to be through the perpetuation of this narrative—this model of male violence and domination perpetually begets more violent and domineering men. 

Tyson’s familial duties and labour are in this same vein of violence. He is charged with scrapping and demolishing his paternal grandfather’s farm house; when he is not doing this, he is working in a slaughterhouse—once again, even outside of hockey, Tyson fills the role of the destroyer. He is surrounded by animals driven to the cattle prod, carcasses hung and bisected, for consumption—the look of empty horror with which he views this process speaks for itself; but as the cattle prod quickly cuts to Tyson eating a hamburger, he is ultimately familiar with this violent, while remaining ignorant to the fact that he himself is being consumed. There are brief moments of reprieve from the meat assembly line that defines his life, but they are few and far between. These deviations simultaneously do not vary from Tyson’s norms—he befriends a group of men playing recreational hockey, and outside of the games they get intoxicated; he runs endlessly on a treadmill in an attempt to stay fit, but the treadmill disallows progress, perpetually keeping him arrested: he continues to endlessly circle the fish bowl. His life back West is mirrored in the East, and his inescapable fate begins to descend on him like a bird of prey. His subsequent DUI, an attempt at rebellion defined by characteristically violent outbursts and destruction, leads to more familial violence at the hands of his father; the cycle is endlessly repeating, and any spark of decency left in Tyson is slowly being snuffed out. He is being sucked into the black hole he has feared since childhood—his structure, his identity, his culture, his agency, and his sense of self are going with him. His last hope, is with Eric.

Tyson meets Eric at the slaughterhouse—both share a role in the narrative of violence and death in the slaughterhouse, a continuing metaphor for Canadian culture defined by historical violence. Desperately in need of a surrogate father figure, somebody who will offer a different and tenable model of masculinity, Tyson soon opens up to Eric. Their first encounter is brief, but significant: Eric is gentle, funny, gracious, talkative, helpful, caring, restorative—everything that Tyson’s father is not. Here is a man unlike any other Tyson has encountered in the film. He immediately shows concern for Tyson’s injured hand, a hand Tyson later painfully reinjures when demolishing his grandfather’s home—breaking down the walls, exposing this family trauma, is difficult and painful. Tyson’s father, as opposed to Eric, is seen disregarding his son’s physical and emotional pain, and Tyson is seen avoiding conversations with his father. There is no trust remaining for the two, and an opportunity for Eric as a substitute model emerges—if not as a father-figure, then at least as a friend. These encounters also provide Tyson with the opportunity to see Eric—an indigenous man—in the light of sameness, rather than otherness. 

Tyson’s experiences with indigeneity in the film have been defined by imperialism in hockey. He played for the “Warriors”, a nominal and iconographic reappropriation of indigenous imagery; the most valuable player of the game was clad in a headdress, bone-white as if it was a remnant skull from the cultural destruction of indigenous peoples in Canada—this headdress is an object of desire for Tyson and his teammates, a fetishized commodity of imperial domination. When it is placed upon the head of another player by his coach, he is crowned to the words, “King for our knights!” Additionally, during the ritual hazing, the rookies’ heads are shaved after the team captain exclaims, “A proper Warriors welcome means we gotta scalp ‘em!” The reappropriation of these Indigenous markers, Tyson’s main experiences with indigeneity, is in line with sociological, historical, and colonial theory. Robidoux writes, “Hockey displayed men who were perceived to be stoic, courageous, and physically dominant: precisely the same images of masculinity valued in First Nations culture, and later by early Canadian settlers” (“Imagining” 220); simultaneously, Said, writing on the methods of colonial domination of local Indigenous peoples, reveals the colonizer’s dependence upon “the security of a situation that permits the conqueror not to look into the truth of the violence he does” (131). The hazing at the beginning of Hello Destroyer—the appropriation of indigenous culture, and the avoidance of the violent nature of the act—is demonstrably colonial. Tyson, as a product of this violent colonialism and imperialism, is forced to process and move past these notions in his relationship with Eric; by extension, Funk is clearly suggesting that this is a necessary step for all Canadians in the pursuit of a national identity—one that is built on the acceptance of the racial and cultural other, rather than destroying difference or transforming with sameness.

In subsequent conversations, Eric quickly opens up about difficult personal matters, even offering to fix the window that Tyson broke on the night of his DUI—rather than punishment or chastisement, Eric illustrates a masculinity defined by compassion, acceptance, and restoration—things that Tyson desperately needs in his struggle to self-identify and grow. Intercut with episodes of this budding friendship are scenes of Tyson’s continuing demolition of the patriarchal home—as these contrasting images are associated, the demolition of his grandfather’s house slowly begins to emerge as a cathartic and restorative process. Tyson’s positive experiences with Eric as an Indigenous man, and the exposure of the foundations of his grandfather’s home, are illustrative of a positive and honest interaction with history: moving through, and past, a national history of colonialism and imperialism in Canada—especially against Indigenous people—and Tyson’s personal, familial history of militant violence and toxic masculinity. As Tyson scraps this relic of the past—a rusty home that he says has “been empty for ages”—the narrative of violence that has thus dominated his life begins to crack and fray, exposed for what it is. 

Tyson catches glimpses of the illusory and unsustainable nature of this past narrative in his final conversation with Eric. Their conversation is dictated by topics of childhood injury and trauma, cowboys and Indians, illness, demolition, labour, fractured relationships and hockey. They share common memories of people with throat cancer—as if to mirror and highlight one another’s inability to self-narrate by portraying the site of language as a place where cancer grows and phlegm pools. The weight of history, both personal and collective, coalesces and grows, until Tyson’s laughter turns into sobs. His mind, suffering too much for too long, finally seeks relief; he opens up, in front of the only person in his life who could begin to understand, but, perhaps too late. Without the emotional vocabulary to discuss his problems, he simply tells Eric, “I’m fucked up man. Sorry, I’m just fucked up man...just drinking too much, fucked up, you know?” Eric simply tries to reassure him, while nonetheless lacking the insight and advice that Tyson truly needs. Their shared narrative is a debilitating and broken one, and while Tyson begins to unpack and dismantle that shared history—and his emotional and traumatic associations with it—he nonetheless fails to make necessary progress. In the end, despite the promise of hope in his fleeting relationship with Eric, Tyson succumbs to the deathly narrative he has been written into. However, despite the ensuing tragedy, the conversation between these two different men shows promise: a willingness to engage openly and honestly with the racial other, and with a history of violence. Tyson and Eric are on the verge of recognizing that the repetition and perpetuation of historical myths and narratives does not lead to renewal or truth—they sadly never reach that conclusion.

The remainder of Hello Destroyer descends into the tragedy it has been hinting at since the beginning of the film: dialogue is customarily sparse; there are more cattle to butcher, there is more blood to squeegee off the floor; Tyson’s childhood photos are seen discarded in the garage, broken frames shabbily holding forgotten photographs; he struggles to open up to his father, and he denies his mother’s assistance; he is seen tentatively approaching, yet ultimately turning away, from Eric and his offered friendship. Tyson returns to the gym, and is seen shadowboxing unseen enemies, suggesting that as he continually struggles to identify the source of his struggles, he maintains himself as a body capable of destruction; in the end, he is seen reflected in the glass of local trophy cabinets, inaccessible accolades that, for all his efforts, have evaded his grasp, just as the headdress evaded him at the film’s opening. Having denied his parents, he emerges as an orphan; having denied his one friend, he remains alone; having discarded his childhood photos and childhood ambitions of playing hockey for a living, Tyson emerges a fractured and confused man who lacks the necessary acumen to survive in this masculine-driven world of violence and domination. As he lights the fire that razes his grandfather’s house to the ground, he watches the inferno of his final destructive act on earth— perhaps already knowing that he will not live to witness the proposed pasture that will emerge from this purgation.

At this point in the film he has spiralled downward, and the symbolic order of his masculine identity has crumbled—he has emotionally opened up too many times, and he punishes himself for it. An alternative model of masculinity has emerged via Eric: one built on love rather than hatred, peace rather than war, creation and life rather than destruction and death—the tragedy is that Tyson is incapable of recognizing the merits of this version of masculinity. His whole life has been determined by men who stamp out difference, punish weakness, and promote violence. The life-saving masculinity available to Tyson—one embodying emotional expression, honesty, peace, love, and intimate connection with another/the other—is ultimately denied. A powerful cinematographic counterpoint to Tyson’s emasculation in the shower earlier in the film, solidifies this near the end of the film. In preparation for his legal hearing, standing in the living room of his childhood home, Tyson is seen ironing a shirt for his court appearance. A curious cut repositions the camera underneath the ironing board, pointing straight at his thighs and genitals—it is one of the only times in Hello Destroyer that Tyson is seen from this point of view. It seems to indicate this newly emerging, but elusive, vulnerable masculinity, as he is seen performing this household task that, in a film world dominated by binary gender roles, is stereotypically feminine; it is clearly in direct opposition to the way his teammates were portrayed: naked, taking refuge in their phallus and macho demeanour. There is an acknowledgement of Tyson’s phallus in this shot, but unlike his teammates’, it is concealed—for a brief moment we see him, if not in a constructive or creative sense, then at least in a mildly reparative way in his ironing. Though a small gesture, we see this brief restorative act in stark contrast to earlier on in the film when he couldn’t even tie his tie—there is a responsible and caring soul somewhere deep in his psyche, but he cannot embody it for all his efforts. Admittedly, there is hope, though, that the next generation of men may be capable of embracing it; during the scene preceding the ironing, Tyson is seen observing and nurturing his baby nephew—again, this in stark contrast to the roughhousing and mock violence from the beginning of the film when playing with his landlord’s son. Tyson’s father, believing him capable only of destruction, warns him to be careful with the baby. However, despite his father’s opinions of him, Tyson is attempting to iron out the wrinkles of this new identity, to embrace and progress into a pacifistic adulthood: it is a sustainable and tenable model of masculinity, in stark contrast to the masturbatory, impotent and violent repetition of history of his life in hockey. Tragically, though, Tyson’s transformation remains incomplete as he takes his own life upon learning his legal fate.

Not all families and individuals are as abusive or violent as Tyson, his family, and his hockey teammates: many Canadians abhor violence, and actively attempt to foster acceptance of others by recognizing historical and continuing acts of imperialism and colonialism in Canadian life. Even within hockey, there is a sociological suggestion that violence in ritual initiations, for example, is increasingly rare and exaggerated. Robidoux, in Men at Play: A Working Understanding of Professional Hockey writes: 

As far as I know, the extreme nature [of physical and sexual violence] is exceptional in hockey initiation rituals. It is uncommon for players to inflict physical pain upon the initiates[...]My conclusion is that initiation rituals in hockey have largely been reduced to ‘sweat box’ and a night of heavy drinking, during which rookies are often forced into performing humiliating and degrading acts. (108-109)

Humiliating and degrading—while perhaps not violent, nonetheless emotionally abusive. The mentalities run deep.

Regardless of whether or not the effects of violence in Hello Destroyer are accurate or exaggerated, a problem remains—Funk expresses a growing concern regarding the effects of hockey as a Canadian cultural institution historically defined by violence. Perhaps, Funk’s assertion that hockey is a red herring insists upon a metaphorical reading of the violence in the film: a perpetuation of toxic masculinity and emotional abuse, as much as physical violence. Perhaps, the hazing ritual that opens the film in which rear ends are spanked should be read as the players' stunted and frustrated sexuality, while forcibly shaved heads indicates an ideological indoctrination akin to Neo-Nazi skinhead initiation. Perhaps, as we see in Tyson’s familial trauma and repression, the violence is simply a byproduct of generational abuse and a history of colonialism, rather than a byproduct of hockey. Perhaps, as Robidoux, Cormack and Cosgrave suggest, violence being at the heart of hockey is simply a continuation of historical trends of violence in Canadian imperialism. Regardless, Funk illustrates the complexity of the issue, and its long-standing effect and influence on the definition of a Canadian identity, especially for Canadian males. Tyson’s behaviour and fate—his role as a destroyer—suggests that this past narrative, hierarchy and model of colonial violence must be demolished. It is tragic that his friendship with Eric could not blossom, but their relationship contains a glimmer of reconciliation and respect between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians. The burning down of the patriarchal family home—the bastion of masculinity in Tyson’s life—makes way for pastures and growth, Funk’s vision of a newly emerging Canadian identity that subverts a history of violence. Tyson does not live to see the potential cultural good that will come of his final acts, of his attempts to escape this narrative. However, having been molded to exemplify a moribund model of masculinity, he emerges as an unlikely tragic hero; a martyr, even. His final mortal act is not one of destruction or passivity or cowardice, but desperate intent and heartbroken protest—he dies not from suicide by asphyxiation, but from finally succumbing to the toxic fumes of masculinity and violence in which he has dwelled since his birth. As his head comes to rest on the steering wheel, the horn of his truck sounds out into the night, a final cry. Tyson’s ignorant and unaware family eat dinner alone. “O Canada” plays in the background from an unwatched television—another hockey game commencing. In spite of the patriotism and cultural joy that hockey has historically signified for Canadians, nobody is watching in these final frames of Hello Destroyer—instead, the sound of the horn in the background peals out as a death knell for an outdated, perpetually violent, and destructive mode of cultural and social discourse in Canada. 

Just over three years after Hello Destroyer’s release, on November 9th, 2019, Canadian hockey icon Don Cherry appeared on, what is most assuredly, his final installment of his popular Hockey Night in Canada segment, “Coach’s Corner.” Ever a mainstay in the lives of Canadians and hockey viewers, the outspoken and often abrasively nationalistic Cherry vitriolically exclaimed the following when expressing his disappointment at seeing immigrants not wearing poppies for Remembrance Day: “You people love, that come here...you love our way of life, you love our milk and honey, at least you could pay a couple of bucks for a poppies [sic] or something like that” (“Don Cherry fired” 00:34-00:39); he additionally stated that those who did buy poppies (presumably, as opposed to immigrants, those whom he visually identified as born in Canada) are “good Canadians.” Facing immediate backlash for such xenophobic and destructive remarks, Cherry was quickly fired from his long-held position. Bart Yabsley, president of Sportsnet, said in his official response: “Sports brings people together—it unites us, not divides us…[Don Cherry] made divisive remarks that do not represent our values or what we stand for;” yet, Yabsley also stated that “Don is synonymous with hockey and has played an integral role in growing the game over the past 40 years” (Strong). These events exemplify the climate that continues to surround hockey as a vehicle for unchecked and disruptive Canadian nationalism: an ongoing narrative of division, xenophobic othering, and colonial and imperial mindsets. Too long has Cherry had the pulpit and the audience to continually say such destructive things — especially under the guise of a cultural, nationalist, and patriotic agenda that he so adamantly and staunchly defends as ideal Canadiana. It could quickly be pointed out that Cherry is simply one outspoken man, that many Canadians do not share his opinions; while this is true, Yabsley’s official response very quickly and correctly states that for over four decades, Cherry has been “synonymous with hockey.” Don Cherry’s message is one that has ever defined this national institution; it is a message that has entered the homes of millions of Canadians over the years, at times, negatively influencing those who desire to subscribe to its hateful rhetoric. It reaches the ears of children wondering what it means to be Canadian; Funk’s fictionalized account of Tyson Burr suggests that it is a message that can disrupt the process of national self-identification. While it is certainly disingenuous to suggest that Cherry’s sentiments are of the type that inevitably lead to violence, it is nonetheless an ongoing debate as to why Canadians continue to perpetuate such a hateful and destructive narrative; why we knock down buildings to erect slaughterhouses rather than pasture land. 

Films like Hello Destroyer propose an avenue towards reconciliation and nation-building on the basis of love and respect, exactly that which Tyson was on the verge of experiencing when conversing and crying with Eric; filmmakers, like Kevan Funk, must continually insist that it is necessary to artistically interrogate political, social and cultural institutions in the pursuit of national identities. There is a lesson in Hello Destroyer that is of the utmost importance: whether the discussion is centred on hockey, violence, politics, cinema, Indigeneity, reconciliation, post-colonialism, new Canadians, gender issues, masculinity and femininity, there should be no fear or shame in exposure, honest reflection, and emotional growth for a Canadian people living in the wake of colonialism and imperialism. Tyson Burr’s fatal journey through these dominating forces should not distract, or deter, from the pursuit of new, inclusive, loving, and supportive national narratives. A poetic epigram to Métis filmmakers Christine Welsh and Sylvia Olson’s piece in Screening Culture: Constructing Image and Identity—on indigenous healing and recognition in the aftermath of residential schools— encapsulates this pursuit. It is a message that all Canadians should hear—a message of healing, and identification, that begins with a long overdue conversation—one that, in his own way, Tyson Burr desperately longed to have:

Do you think it is a sin to tell

no maybe it isn’t

but they told us never to tell

I don’t think it can be a sin

they aren’t around anymore anyway

but it might be best to just let the thing alone

it’s time to get on don’t you think

some of the elders are saying that it’s best left alone too

life is hard enough just dealing with what happens today

sometimes I wonder why it is so hard

nothing seems to make sense to me 

Maybe it is time to talk about it

memories keep coming into my mind

things that I have completely forgotten

I think I don’t remember most of it

I’m still afraid

Afraid to remember

I’m going to need someone to help

don’t leave yet 

I need to cry.

Jesse Desjarlais is a 3rd year English Honours student and Film Minor at the University of Regina. His growing academic interests include narratology, psychoanalysis, Modernist Literature, and the relationship between literature and film. He lives in Regina with his wife and daughter, Madeleine and Ginny.