For someone who likes to celebrate the smallest victories, that’s a feat.
TIFF is full of these swanky soirées.
Armed with my water bottle, notepads and silent snacks (Okay, just kidding… is there such a thing?), I’m not exactly geared up for schmoozing. I have to cut something and it’s not going to be movies.
My companions know what they’re in for when I invite them to come along. For 10 days, I scramble from film to film, checking in on the home front occasionally to make sure squatters haven’t invaded. It takes weeks for my pooch to forgive me.
When I sit in that black box with my fellow film junkies around me, I am wide awake, senses sharpened, ready for anything. The years that show up around my eyes and middle disappear and I am once again, the young McGill film student, in a darkened lecture hall, watching Not a love Story or Battleship Potemkin and falling in love with the wonders of cinema. That’s a celebration right there, baby.
Party on. I might join you one of these days when I can figure a way to wear heels as I dash.