A Weekend at the 28th International Toronto Film Festival

Article posted Fri Sep 12 12:35:29 2003

The 28th International Toronto Film Festival began September 4, and continues until Saturday the 13th. The festival is a welcome sight in a city battered by bad press in the last year or so—the SARS scare, Mad Cow, West Nile, and blackouts have devastated the tourism industry.

This year, my second covering the festival, I was struck by the two markedly different Toronto International Film Festivals that were going on, at exactly the same time in more or less the same place. The parallel festivals overlapped some, but overall each had its own set of attendees, lists, and goals.

The film festival that most people see is focused on celebrity. Nightly news reports on the Canadian stations CBC and CTV run features on what stars were in town and what they did. The Celebrity festival folks are there to see stars and to be seen, to catch glimpses of Denzel Washington or Nicole Kidman as they attend opening galas dressed in their designer finery. The Celebrity festival attendees work the crowds, trying to find out where the parties are and which stars might be there.

This is all well and good, but there is another, more down-to-earth festival also going on. The Film festival attendees aren’t holding lists of celebrities in town, but lists of films to see. They are often dressed in jeans and carry backpacks and sip coffee. They wait in long queues called rush lines hoping to see the latest film months before it comes out. If the Film attendees see a star or director entering a nearby theatre, it’s a bit of thrill, but not worth crossing the street to see and losing 45 minutes of time in line.

As a journalist covering the festival, I was mostly there to see the Film festival, but I dipped my toes in the Celebrity festival just a bit. Doing both really is impossible: with so many films and so few days, the screenings start around 8:30 in the morning and last until midnight (in the case of the “Midnight Madness” program, even later). As a result, the continual stream of celeb dinner parties and galas necessarily conflict with many of the films. Not all are gems, of course, and some of the films can not only be missed but should be missed. Still, it does make one choose between the two Festivals. At any given time, there may be up to a dozen films showing concurrently among the six theaters.

Reporters struggle to do the impossible: cover even a tiny portion of the over 300 films. One said to me that, in the blur of press conferences, screenings, and trying to find time to eat, corners get cut in the rush to make deadline. “You try to get to what you can, but if the film is after your deadline, you’re [screwed]. Sometimes you just grab all the press releases you can and pretend you saw the movie. There’s a lot of pretending going on.”

Continuing my tradition of straight, zero-bullshit coverage, I will eschew any pretending. (See my coverage of last year’s Festival in the Article Archives). I will write up comments on the films soon. For now, let me give you a taste of the Film Festival I attended. If you just want to know what actress showed up at an opening and what she was wearing, you can get that elsewhere. The Celebrity Festival is well covered in entertainment magazines and on Entertainment Tonight. If you want to get an idea of what the festival was like on the ground, you’ve come to the right place. Given that at least some of the Festival was a maniacal blend of deep film appreciation, exhaustion, and reportage, I thought it appropriate to give a blow-by-blow account. Seeing films is a subjective experience, so there’s no reason a report from the Festival can’t be.

8:30 AM Saturday: leave for Toronto

11:00: arrive Toronto, drive up Yonge Street, park near the press office at the Delta Chelsea Hotel

Enter hotel, looking for celebrities. See one guy who looks like Abe Vigoda (but isn’t).

Elevator to third floor; sign in, get ten “press & industry” vouchers.

Buy program book, realize the next screening I could catch, titled How To Get The Man’s Foot Outta Your Ass, is in 40 minutes and about a half mile away.

Suck down complimentary Starbucks medium roast, extra cream and extra sugar.

Scan schedule, fervently picking out ten films to see over the next 36 hours.

Realize I’ll never get to How To Get The Man’s Foot Outta Your Ass on time; look for next film, at noon.

Taxi to the Royal Ontario Museum (six dollars Canadian) for the noon film.

See nearly three-hour epic about Los Angeles and its filmed history. Scribble impressions in pocket notebook for later deciphering.

Cross off the next film I was going to see because I missed it, not realizing the last film was so long.

Realize there’s a filmmaker program with indie director John Sayles at four, the same time as the next film I was going to see. Walk back to hotel, have briefcase lunch on the way; Coke and bruised banana for lunch.

At press office, ask if I can attend Sayles program. Politely told no.

Look at watch; it says nine fifteen. Realize watch is broken, switch to backup digital watch I brought just in case. It’s now fifteen minutes until four; I hit a brisk pace, knowing I probably won’t make it.

Progress stopped by an army of thousands of Chinese people in red shirts marching in the streets, chanting. Fear subsides as I read one of the many banners: “Christian Chinese Canadians: Marriage = 1 Man + 1 Woman.” Delayed by anti-gay marriage rally.

Pass by the Red Sea for four blocks; realize a taxi would not be any faster. Exasperation sets in as blister develops on right foot and I miss both the film and the filmmaker program.

Check schedule; get in rush line to see series of six short films. See two good and two awful ones, skipping the last two so I can go outside and get in line to come back in for a six o’clock film from Austria that looked good, Free Radicals.

Watch Free Radicals, about how a young woman’s death affects those around her. Scribble impressions in pocket notebook for later deciphering.

Out at eight, have two hours to eat before the last film of the night, The Cooler, starring William H. Macy and Alec Baldwin. Eat at Popeye’s Fried Chicken, drop my briefcase in the car, grab a Coke from a cooler, and head back yet again. See a woman who looks like Jodie Foster (but isn’t).

See The Cooler, about an unlucky guy whose fortunes change in a Vegas casino. More notes for later deciphering.

Out into the cool Toronto night air, though by now I’m sweaty and somewhat aromatic from all the walking. Half-hour drive to the hotel in north Toronto, made even longer by late-night lane closures on the highways. Marvel at the novelty of a 1 AM highway traffic jam; curse at the sea of cars.

Find hotel, lug bags from distant parking garage. Check in, lug bags across long hall and in elevator to third floor. Find room 209, as far as physically possible from the elevator.

Try plastic key thing. Note red light. Try plastic key thing. Note red light.

Drop bags, tired, hungry, and irritated.

Try plastic key thing. Note red light. Try plastic key thing. Note red light. Try plastic key thing. Note red light. Try plastic key thing. Note red light.

Feel around in my pocket for my apparently outdated yet unfailingly useful metal keys.

Grab bags, furiously waddle back through the maze, down the elevator, back down the quarter-mile hall. Toss my plastic key card on the counter, glancing at the wall clock that says I’m not getting to sleep until at least 2 AM. Tell the middle-aged Indian clerk to give me a key that works. He asks me if I tried it several times; I glare. He mumbles an apology, finds another, and says he hopes it will work. I say I hope so too and return to the room.

Deep breath. Go to my happy place. Center myself in front of the door.

Try plastic key thing. Note red light. Try plastic key thing. Note red light.

Whimper. Try plastic key thing. Green light comes on, accompanied by soft click.

Push door open before it changes its mind.

Get shower, check blister, call front desk for 7:45 wake up call.

Lay in bed, trying to relax. Suddenly realize there’s a crying baby in next room. Waaaaah. Waaaaah.

Growl, toss and turn, finally look at clock and realize it’s 2:30. Get up, take sleeping pill, sleep.

Sunday. Up at 7:30, shower and get ready to go.

Look at watch before putting it in my pocket. Watch says LFIOIIL or something like it.

Backup watch is broken; toss in trash. Must now rely on strangers and calculate film running times very carefully.

Check out, head back to Toronto, looking at schedule while dodging traffic and eating breakfast (yogurt, strawberry Slim-fast, and a cookie). Decide to see a Canadian film (Dying at Grace) instead of an American one (Underworld), because I don’t need to go to an international film festival to see mainstream American films.

Drive up Yonge street again, determined to park closer to the theaters to reduce further blisters. While stopped at a light, look to my left to see about a dozen people scattered along the sidewalk like ordinary pedestrians except that they are standing still. A Black man in a suit, two Asian women in dresses, etc. I look to my right to find a camera crew on the sidewalk, setting up floodlights.

I realize that some TV series or film is being shot, and they needed an exterior shot of downtown, figuring that 8:30 on a Sunday is probably as vacant a time as they’re going to get.

Passing the Mountie directing traffic, I park off Bloor Street, near the theaters.

See Dying at Grace, a moving documentary about dying people filmed at Grace Hospital, only a mile or two from where I am. More notes for later deciphering.

Out around noon, back to the car to get a Coke and drop off briefcase. Decide to use the free hour to go see and photograph a labyrinth in downtown Toronto (for ongoing research). Hoof it down there, grabbing two slices of pizza on the way. Blister is no better but no worse.

When done at the labyrinth, look up at clock tower for time. Seems to say eleven, which can’t be right. Look at second of four faces; that one says 2:30, which doesn’t sound quite right. I stop looking, reminded of a quote: “A man with a watch knows what time it is; a man with two watches is never sure.”

Ask people for the time; most look at their cell phones instead of watches. Modern technology.

After dropping camera back at the car (preview screenings are tight about that, for fear of video piracy), I hurry to the next screening, a series of short films. I want to try to see a press conference for a new film starring Woody Harrelson at four, but the films end around four. Despite shaky math skills, I calculate that I can see the first four shorts, then I have to leave to get back to the hotel in time.

See three short Canadian films, Guest Room, Animal Nightmares, and Terminal Venus. All are pretty good, but the fourth, Perfect, I find trite and boring so I skip out. Another cell phone tells me it’s 3:30; right on time.

In taxi to the hotel, I calculate I can stay at the press conference for only about a half hour, as I need to get back to the theater area in time to line up for Veronica Guerin, a much-anticipated (and probably heavily attended) screening. I’m also a little worried that I might not be allowed at the press conference, even though I am an accredited journalist. (The Big Boys from national magazines get priority, natch.)

Up to the conference room, where I take a seat in the nearly-vacant area. I wonder why no one else is there, then realize I’m still early. A forest of camera on stands are in the back, rows of chairs in the middle, and an elevated stage at the front with tables and room for about six or eight people. Triangular, laser-printed name plaques from the last conference are still on the tables; Dean Cain and Denzel Washington sat three chairs apart.

Busy myself looking through screening schedules, expecting crowds to begin filling in around me at any time.

Hope no one comes in and kicks me out. Look busy and important. Look busy and important.

Finally two women in their sixties come in; as they open the door, I distinctly hear the word “cancelled” in the background.

I hope they are referring to Whoopi Goldberg’s new show. I ask the ladies; they are not. Maybe Woody got busted with some pot, or is still leading a mass yoga exercise (as he had done earlier that morning at York University).

Ten minutes of looking busy wasted. Vaguely irritated but retaining a good nature, I take a photo or two of the empty room, get another free Starbucks medium roast (cream and extra sugar). Head back downstairs for yet another half-mile sidewalk trek back to the theaters.

Chat with the ever-helpful and pleasant festival volunteers as I wait in the rush line. Looks like a lot of people ahead of me; I look for later, alternate screenings in case I miss this one; nothing really that strikes me, though there is a Peruvian film, What The Eye Doesn’t See, that looks very good. Main drawback is that it starts at nine, ends after eleven, and I still have over two hours to drive back home. Plus I need to be at work at nine the next day. Decide to flip a coin after the film, if I get in.

I get in; they let me and about a dozen others into two darkened theaters. Veronica Guerin just started, and we need to find the few scattered empty seats in the dark. After two attempts I find one and settle in. The true story of an Irish journalist who was killed by drug lords for her reporting, the film is compelling and quite good.

Out at 6:30; not sure if that was the last film for the weekend. Still have three film passes I can use. Wander the mall for a little while, then sit out on concrete steps.

Weariness and blister threats veto the coin-flip: It’s a wrap. Hopefully catch the Peruvian film on video some time, and if possible return for one more day of the festival, schedule allowing. Still have lots of deciphering to do. Plus I gotta write up something for my Web site on my weekend….