And now, that depressing day of sifting through the accumulated mass of free "Variety"s and "Hollywood Reporter"s, of wishing I'd seen more movies, of wondering how the hell I'm ever going to survive another Festival. Step one: next year, get a hotel room--the hour-long commute is an energy sapper. Step two: do it alone. It's gonna be hard, but Chris let me know he was less than enthusiastic about accompanying me this year. He has a job, a life, and an Australian girlfriend. The last time he turned his computer on to surf the 'net was probably three weeks ago. We are vastly different people.
Recovering from a hangover as I write this; David Poland probably is, too, if his latest column, an inebriated rumination he promises will be erased from roughcut.com soon enough, is the God's honest truth. He, like myself, stopped by the official closing party, a soirée in the name of the Festival's final gala screening, How to Kill Your Neighbour's Dog. I couldn't get within an inch of Mr. Poland, because some fortunate individual had sequestered him into the V.I.P. area, a roped-off section of the Sky Dome floor.
The first time I attended a closer, in 1995, there was no segregation between those with money and fame and those with neither of the above; immediately upon entering, I recognized Giancarlo Esposito, introduced myself, and was invited to stay at his table for a drink. Later, I encountered Atom Egoyan, who was kind enough to entertain my drunken interrogation and offer precious advice on my then fledgling, now stalled filmmaking career. Maury Chaykin, Tom Sizemore--they all gave you the time of day. Perhaps I'm putting a spin on the events of that evening in speculating these celebs were just happy to get in touch with real people again.
What has happened in the five years since is that the Festival has gone glam. It was once a circus, now it's a zoo--do not touch the glass. Admire the stars' shiny coats and their ability to reproduce exponentially. The problem is not that I'm too poor to gain access to the V.I.P. areas, which are in fact mostly populated by sponsors, but that I care too much about what filmmakers do. Only those who check their attachment and sincerity at the door get to hobnob with the animals. And while I'm not "real people" anymore per se, I feel the opportunity to speak to famous types should be the light at the end of this endurance test we "reporters" call the Festival. It's called getting the better story.
I probably sound bitterer than I am. I mean, I had fun, I drank free booze, I gorged on chilli and pita bread (note to caterers, however: finger foods work best at these occasions). I finally met Bruce Kirkland, the Toronto Sun movie critic with whom I have corresponded occasionally via e-mail regarding the merits of DVD. We agreed that Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon has to be the very best of T.I.F.F. 2000, and he confirmed my suspicions that its director, Ang Lee, is a great interview.
I leave you with these words from an old film prof; we ran into each other at last week's Canadian Film Centre barbecue, and he imparted this sage wisdom between mouthfuls of ziti: "Quit this web thing and go back to writing screenplays. Tomorrow. Don't keep putting off that film career."
Maybe.
