Despite a day of event cancellations (the same tail end of Gustav that washed out the US Open saw off two open-air free concerts here), the festival is generating its usual buzz: photos of Keira Knightley and George Clooney (although the smart gossip is that JVCD, starring Jean Claude Van Damme as Jean Claude Van Damme, out-metas the Coen brothers’ latest metafest). There’ll be some of that here – although not photos of Keira Knightley, unless she’s partial to the fry-up at Cafe Diplomatico (Sarah Polley’s a regular, so there’s a chance).
But this blog is about the festival’s odder, less-hyped corners. From D&D in the Big Easy (The Dungeon Masters) to Kazakh shamanism (Native Dancer) (and that’s just Monday), I’ll be reviewing, interviewing, and chewing over the potential next big things. And I’ll be doing it in the style of Angela Chase, in tribute to my first-ever Toronto film festival celeb encounter: the 2000 North American premiere of Requiem for a Dream (Darren Aronofsky bizzarely but winningly used his intro to personally thank every single foley editor and audio goat glander [this is a real credit, although from Guy Maddin's Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary -- anyone know what it actually means?] who worked on the film), which I literally watched through Jared Leto’s hair. So in tribute to my close encounter of the Jordan Catalano kind, I will channel the girl who was a blogger before bloggers existed.
And, like, there’s nothing weirder than seeing a movie from the UK — in Canada. Because it’s like: does the audience get it? What are they going to make of, like, Terence Davies’ Of Time and the City? And does, like, Steve McQueen’s use of Maggie Thatcher’s voice in Hunger send, you know, — chills — down Canadian spines. Because these things are so… specific, you know? And seeing them in another country it makes them… weirder. And more beautiful. Because — well, Hunger gains a sort of universal dimension alongside the specificity: the bodies of the prisoners are at once in the Maze and in all prisons. The echoes of Guantanamo feel totally stronger here.
So that’s how I’ll be charting the, you know, like, weird forcefield generated in the city by a film festival. Think of it as totally psycho geography — with extra psychosis supplied by my contact on the inside, longterm Festival volunteer Shelagh Rowan-Legg. As befits a woman who gave Tura Satana a ride to the airport last week and comforted Eli Roth before the first screening of Hostel, Shelagh is a scream queen (while I’m the queen of squeam, slightly different), and she’ll be picking out the Midnight Madness movies destined to become new cult classics.
Wish me coffee with Keira. Or better yet: tea with Agnès Varda.
