It really is hard to imagine something you can’t see.
Greta Gerwig, writer/director, Little Women
68% male. 84% white. That’s how these Oscar 2020 nominations went down; that is the group who nominates and votes. That is how films like The Farewell are ignored.
Diversity will only happen when that body of membership changes.
To become an Academy member, artists need professional credits.
To build credits, they need to find work. To find work, they need someone to give them a chance and look past gender, skin colour (and boob size) and see human potential.
Change starts at the gate marked Enter Here.
Change is also only possible when critical bodies stop echoing bad choices from one another sounworthy, boring and utterly non-essential films cease receiving recognition, no matter how relentless a marketing campaign. Yes, I’m looking at you, The Irishman.
We see you and we hear you, Old White Guys of the Academy. We get it. You don’t want to be forgotten. We will always have your stories. They are burned forever in our collective consciousness. Your 2020 choices reflect your panic. But you still have the chance to do the right thing. Vote for Parasite.
The future is here. You can open the gate or you can just watch it being crashed by exciting new mediums and storytellers from every corner of the planet.
Elusive as ever, joy was still ours to be had in Toronto yesterday. It took a sporting match to make that happen and one other key ingredient in that mass celebration on parade through the downtown core: accessibility. Over and over again, fans were to be heard gushing over “our team.” It was the story of our neighbourhood streets and that neighbourhood is global. Everyone owned a piece of the Raptor’s championship. We felt close to it, felt it was ours. Millions of fans had access to refracted glory.
I was a point guard in Scarborough growing up. All the children of immigrants- Vietnamese, Asians, Black, Brown, we all played religiously so it is really special to now be with my fellow Canadians and be celebrating together. Everyone in Canada knows each other. We are one big family.
Omer Aziz, author
I played basketball too —badly—for a brief inglorious spell in high school and don’t pretend any grasp of the sport’s mechanics. Nor did I watch it much until these championships lit up and I began to peer closely at this group of talented athletes. Such power! Such poise! And for this hockey fan, such spectacular restraint under the most intense stress. I was won over by the manner in how this Raptors winning team played the sport, rather than the sport itself. So yes, I too sped downtown last Thursday night and high-fived in the wee hours with my daughter (who played basketball for years) and my other half, a fan since the origin of the Raptors. That’s him in the grainy photo, playing in the streets of Kensington Market. They were both there yesterday here in Toronto, making their way through those happy throngs. We were all there in spirit. Communal moments are as rare as perfect sleeps in this digital era.
Our collective glory held the day until some thieves tried to steal it with a gunshot scattering through a sea of peaceful humans. For those injured, a horrific moment. For those in the stampede, a panic sure to cause future sleepless nights. But these criminals were apprehended by quick thinking cops. Most of the crowd were not affected; thousands and thousands of fans dancing down the streets still turned their faces to the sun.
Fleeting as it is, joy can not be stolen. It was ours. We would do well to mark it. Bring our joy globes out to marvel and remember. There will be shadows again, but that moment is now embedded in our collective history. Age affords us this wisdom or why else are all the old folks grinning their wrinkled smiles to themselves? Someday that will be me, remembering the boys with their cigars and champagne splashing out in a spray over all of us. For the briefest moment, turning us all into bubbles.
Next Sunday’s Game of Thrones episode, known by those who made it as The Long Night, took 11 weeks to shoot, all at night and will be the longest episode in Game of Thrones history. According to Collider, it will also feature the longest continuous battle sequence ever put to film. I will need fortification to watch it, unlike last night, where I nursed my sadness over my favourite hockey team’s playoff loss, with a belly full of mini chocolate eggs.
Next week is Greek Easter where my inlaws and their relations will eat (delicious) lamb. Wine will be my main course if I am going to watch beloved characters fall to the White Walkers.
I loved this past Sunday’s episode of Game of Thrones. It was epic without all the touted violence to come, epic because Brienne was knighted and her smile that followed was the best thing on the small screen this week even if you lined up all the hats in the Easter Parade movie I watch every year. There just isn’t that kind of moment on what is increasingly garden variety Netflix. Sorry binge watchers. That moment comes after deep investment by millions of fans and all those HBO creatives who make magic. Epic because Sam and his sword hand over, giving question to the fan theory that he will survive the battle at Winterfell and be the scribe who captures all of this story for future generations. Epic because little Arya finally got some (nookie). Epic because characters sitting around a fire musing about their death offers chances for scriptwriters to bring powerful poignant pauses to what has always been a horrifying violent series. Epic because it ended with Florence and The Machine’s Florence Welch singing over closing credits.
Who is your favourite character? How do you see the show ending?
Drop yourself anywhere in Paris and your immediate view is a film set lit avecplaisir for even the weariest heart. Each step forward, backward, and around a fabled corner and still the same miraculous mise en scène. How can we not stop and embrace right there in the middle of the street? Are we not directed to by this very stage? How can we not revisit those leaner frames we inhabited once? We were here decades ago when I ignored parental protests and scampered about these very streets with my Sorbonne student-boyfriend and considered (with great sobriety) never returning home. Paris does that to you.
The pastry shops do that to you. The chocolatiers are no mere extras either but take their proud place centre stage. There are hundreds and hundreds of food artisans in Paris and patience will get you a taste test in the middle of a charming square while your traveling companion (crazed wife) drags you from neighbourhood to neighbourhood for sinful samples. (Check back later this week in this space for my favourites)
Dining in this city is notorious for a few things: snippy service (I experienced nothing but gracious welcomes), beaucoup wine (who needs water?) and status as a UNESCO world intangible heritage. In 2010, the UN cultural organization singled out French gastronomy worthy of the same kind of protection as historically significant sites or natural wonders. Certainly, the foie gras ravioli I experienced at the historic Le Comptoir de la Gastronomie in Les Halles (‘tasting’ is too boring. Here we “experience” the food) was worthy of some kind of protection from overeager dining companions. As was the grilled duck and asparagus cooked for us another evening by our host; dear friends whose idea of hospitality was champagne and strawberries as evening starters to set the mood at sparkling and fluffy warm croissants with coffee and melon from their local market waiting for our sleepy morning kitchen entrances. I’m in, merci beaucoup and Ooh La La and that’s all the French I can remember until you pour me another glass.
Paris in spring means Paris and people. All of them wearing les baskets that are not the runners you are wearing right now to walk the dog.
Every kind of tourist is here along with us but the city holds these players with grace. We joined a few in a pastry class as we learned how to fold the dough encased in blocks of butter. Huge blocks of butter. Did I say yet that I love this city?
We mingled among them as we oogled the Impressionist Masters and wondered how we could go back in time (okay this was just me wondering) and warn these models in painters studios that someday their bodies would be out of fashion and tell them that’s just one way the world has lost its way.
We walked by them splayed out on lawns with their wine glasses the night we came to see the Eiffel Tower do its hourly dazzle. (Paris by night. Yup. It’s all true).
We joined them in the procession into Notre Dame, and formed a hushed collective as we stared up into the glorious soaring space. No one is tacky here: we are all immediately humbled, whatever our belief systems, for this iconic cathedral has always been a living monument, one revitalized by writer Victor Hugo.
The greatest products of architecture are less the works of individuals than of society; rather the offspring of a nation’s effort, than the inspired flash of a man in genius…
Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
That any of it would ever be gone wasn’t even a whisper. That I tried my hardest to ignore the rules about photography but failed when I saw this Joan of Arc statue…well I’m glad I did today as I look at those stunning images of flames and mourn along with the rest of the world as this spectacular mise en scène is blackened with smoke.
Paris, like my home town, has other smudges. On our first day of many walkabouts (my calves are as tight as my beltlines) we were stopped and searched and not permitted to walk along her most glamorous avenue thanks to recent rioting by the “Yellow Vest” protestors: their outcry continues as it highlights problems France has wrestled with for many years. That their protests involve violence is sure to affect Parisians and tourists alike. Parisians are not tilted by any of it. Today at least, there is solidarity and support over a landmark known around the world.
We flew to Paris en route to London. Along the way, we met up with these two, who are currently students in all things Euro, and proceeded to explore that ancient city for days on end. Check back in this space for my Best of London when I’ve recovered.
PS: Je t’aime, Mark. Je t’aime, Kazumi. Je t’aime Connor (and of course, Buddy!) Forget the boulevards, the Arc, the museums and the Art Fair. Forget the tower. Forget the artisanal wonders. You guys are the best in the city.
Wolfgang Puck is in charge of Oscar sweets this Sunday. I propose this one, a classic combination if there ever was one. This is for the chocolate orange fans. The rest of you can go play with the other kids in the playground. Read More
Is there ever a time you can’t muster a high? When you scoff at such a list; mind blank and steeped in bleak forecasts?
Are you screaming YES?
This was a year maybe a high might be hard to find.
A year to confront aging. A unknown father rushes in moments before a school holiday concert and mouthes “sorry” to his annoyed wife. As he brushed past me (proud aunt in the front row) to take his seat down the row, I found myself breathless-he was so very very young, this tardy father. Suddenly I was seized with panic. I was that wife, when? Yesterday, wasn’t it? We were the parents with little ones in concerts we never missed. Now I’m…what? Old?
NEVER. Have you seen me do my ab exercises? MOVE ON, NOW.
I was silly and stern and strong this year. Sad and deliriously happy. Woeful and wonderstruck both. Age is my friend after all, even if nobody gave me Time for Christmas. Hint for Santa: I only want TIME and you can bring it without wrapping as our blue bin is full.
A funny thing happened on this adventure in adulthood: there’s always a high. We go high when they go low, says Michelle Obama.
What makes me high? (My lawyer has advised me to refrain from the truth when crossing the border). Here is the secret: stories.
Here are some stories on page, stage and screen that shone for me in 2018 and maybe a few from my own story. Read More
Every year, I listen to filmmakers introduce their films, and dish their art at Q and A sessions, and am reminded: these artists are all infused with hope. The very act of making their film, from whatever corner of the planet they inhabit, is one of crazy mother f—–g courage. Remember what that looks like? Every year I am inspired, just in time, as every student should be at the start of September.
Here are a few of my takeaways from TIFF 2018:
Stay in touch with your college roommates
The most compelling on stage moments this year came from the cool intellect of writer/director Barry Jenkins (If Beale Street Could Talk) who talked in detail about his relationship with language, the novelist James Baldwin, and his spectacular creative shorthand with his old roommate, cinematographer James Paxton, who has shot every short and feature Jenkins has made. The result: stunning filmic portraits.
“James and I went to film school together. I’ve known him since I was 20. We were actually roommates. We were those cats who talked shit about the other students who weren’t watching, we were the inner nerds, film school nerds kind of thing; we have this language. James is actually white but he’s become celebrated, because we’ve been working together for so long and most of the stories I tell feature black actors, he has developed an eye and sensitivity to the way—especially the history of emotion in black skin is a very complicated history— and he and I have worked over the years to go against the grain and present black skin and black faces on screen.”
I asked Jenkins what his life is like as a filmmaker after winning the Oscar for Moonlight.
“People return my phone calls now. They reply to my emails now. That’s the biggest thing. But I work with all my friends. My producers are people I went to film school with, my editors are from my film school, my cinematographer etc, so those people have seen me at the lowest level, and seen me being really ridiculous and will tell me You’re being a bit extra right now, you may have won the Oscar but you’re still the same dude. I feel like opportunities are much more readily available. However, I wrote this film in 2013 at the same time I wrote Moonlight so there was no pressure, it was already set in motion. I do whatever I can to get out of the headspace of somebody who has won the Oscar.”
Jenkins is at work on another literary adaptation. His next project is to write and direct a one hour drama series adapted from Colon Whitehead’s bestseller, The Underground Railroad, currently in development at Amazon.
When making a film means survival…
Edge of the Knifewas the first film to be told in Haida dialects, languages that less than twenty people on the planet still speak fluently. The film, set in Haida Gwai in the 1800’s, follows the classic story, shot with beautiful cinematography, of the Wildman (from Haida legend) who haunts the land. In making their film, co-directors Gwaii Edenshaw and Helen Haig-Brown achieved the colossal: preserving a culture. The world premiere for this film was easily the most moving of all the events at this festival as the cast and crew spoke passionately about their film collective, one vastly different from the usual hierarchal film sets. The most wonderful element of the film, for me, was the attention paid to the grandmothers, the nonnies who shone through the screen. An audience member wanted to know what it was like working on the set.
“I’ll speak briefly and pass it off to others because I don’t know what it’s like to be on any other film set. Working with my nonnies, I thought I was the boss but we all know who is really the boss in those situations.”
-Gwaii Edenshaw, co-director, Edge of the Knife
When titles fit…
“I’m always thinking about people hundreds of years from now; what will they say of us? They will say, I think, “These people were living at the time of the fall of the American empire.”
-Denys Arcand, director
When dumb questions are permitted…
Looking back at the film right now, is there any scene you would have done better, says one audience member at The Hummingbird Projectpremiere (as the rest of us mutter, geez)
“If you’re a sane actor, the answer would be all of it. I haven’t watched myself in a movie in ten years for that reason. I can’t look. I’m so mortified by it. The only analogy I can possibly give you with regards to judging myself is when you go on a vacation and you take, like, 100 photos and then you look at the photos and you think, I’ll send maybe two of them to people, as I hate the way my neck looks in the other 98. That’s the way I feel about movie acting. To answer your question, I wish I could do better always. “
-Jesse Eisenberg, star of The Hummingbird Project
When they won’t stop asking female performers about being mothers…and the actor in question handles it with grace.
Carey Mulligan is one of the standouts this year in actor Paul Dano’s directorial debut, Wildlife.
“I’m more tired now and have less time to indulge in lots of research. The bar has been set so much higher with what I do want to do because I don’t want to be away from my children so when the opportunity to work with someone like Paul and make a film like this and get a role that’s this rich, detailed, complex, and truthful that is now the barometer for everything I do now. I want it to be as as good an experience as this, with as good a director, as good a script.”
-Carey Mulligan, star of Wildlife
When there’s no pretty faces in your film…
The Swedish fantasy film, Border, written and directed by Ali Abbasi, features two unusual looking characters inspired, in part, by Nordic folklore.
“The film has different ambitions. At the core of it what I found important and subversive about the project was that every time you see people in movies they tend to be perfect. You see a CSI episode and the lab assistant is beautiful with perfectly symmetrical features. I’m not super beautiful and perfect and I know a lot of people that aren’t, in fact the majority of us, right? Every time you see a person who is fat or ugly or whatever they tend to be villains or some kind of comic relief. Here we have a chance to actually take characters and give them an arena where they can experience an emotional life, one that you can engage with. Hopefully, if we’ve done our job right, the movie, somewhere in its course, you, the viewer, will start to see the the beauty in them as well. That kind of experience, I would love for everyone else to have, to look at The Other and see how they feel and not just look back and observe them.”
-Ali Abbassi, writer/director, Border
When you’re 27 and “a miserable lawyer, and you have a script burning inside you but you’re living the life expected of you and you don’t want to take a risk and be estranged from family and community and be seen as implicity rejecting everything that was offered to you” …
One of my favourites at this year’s TIFF, Wild Rose was written by Glasgow-born Nicole Taylor, among the more inspiring female screenwriters heard from at this year’s festival. On stage at the world premiere of her latest creation, Taylor (former lawyer, now successful screenwriter) spoke passionately about what she hopes are universal themes.
“I feel so many people, almost everyone, has had a relationship with their home town where they feel they can’t be themselves there, they’re not allowed to be themselves, and of course you want to leave, but if you leave you take yourself with you. If you ever want to be an authentic, coherent person, especially if you ever want to sing a song, or write a screenplay, you’re going to have to find, no matter how far you get from your home town, you’re going to have to find some way of integrating who you are and where you came from to where you’re trying to get to. I suppose in the broadest, most self-indulgent sense, this film for me was making my piece with Glasgow.”
-Nicole Taylor, screenwriter, Wild Rose
When there really is a wizard behind the curtain…
One dazzling event was surely the premiere of Quincy, a documentary about the long career of the prolific musician Quincy Jones, mined from 2000 hours of archival footage and 800 hours verité footage. The film is pure inspiration. Jones, now 85, whip smart ever still, joined the directors, which include his daughter, on stage after the film screened. Asked if there were any surprises to discover from making this doc after growing up with her dad, co-director Rashida Jones:
“I think it was the consistency of this pattern that he pushed himself to the limit every day to the point of, sometimes a heath crisis, or a nervous breakdown or whatever it was, and then every single time managed to survive, reset, recalibrate and make a decision to live his life a different way. He’s done it over and over again. You’ve had a lot of lives, Dad.”
-Rashida Jones, co-director, Quincy
“Don’t stop until you get enough”*
When the food nazi is sleeping on the job…
There I was, waiting for the film to start in my seat, munching happily on my green apple, one of the delights discovered in a treats bag given to me by one of my cherished TIFF buds, who handed it over outside in the lineup as if it was the normal thing ever instead of the thing that likely saved you that day. (That and the scarf you bought in two seconds from downtown Winners when you realized the weather had changed while you were inside the theatre: just another typical day in Canada).
“You there, yes you, there’s no food or drink in the theatre!”
Mr. I’m in Charge admonished, pointing at me with everything but a spotlight, me there in my seat, with my mouth full of apple. Clearly, the chocolate chip cookies in said snack bag called for stealth.
Stealth was on holiday for a screening another day at the Princess of Wales theatre, which surely has not seen pyjama clad patrons in those velvet seats very often. In a crowded house, nobody cares what you wear but what you eat? Perhaps I should have guessed their backpacks had some treats as a trio plunked down beside me. As appetizers, a pickle jar passed between them for the first half, before an entreé of odorous sandwiches, followed by dessert of peanut butter from those tiny samples given at diners, licked one finger at time, all relished with a soundtrack running parallel to the one on the big screen in front of me. Cursing is free in your head.
Kindred spirits are everywhere if you’re looking in the right place:
When the lights are down, and we’re bombarded with sponsor messages ( HeyL’Oreal, yes I am worth it, but your models sure don’t look like me, or anyone else I know) , volunteers let the RUSH line in and there is a scramble to fill any empty seats. Done properly by a highly capable volunteer quad, the rest of the theatre doesn’t even notice. Done poorly, and the volunteer flashlights and whispering into the first minutes of the film becomes an annoyance. Still, I had to smile in recognition at one last minute elderly fan wearing rad sunglasses who arrived in the darkened theatre after all of us were seated. On her head, a Tilley hat, and no, she didn’t remove her sunglasses as she realized the one seat remaining was smack in the middle of the second row down in the front.
“Can you please get up so I can just climb over and get to that seat?,”
The ask was a bold one, as she pointed to the seat holders in front of her. Request granted. Over she hopped nimbly; up went her arms in triumph. Yes, we all cheered. It was that kind of day, that kind of audience. These are my peeps.
*Yes, you were paying attention. That is the line of Michael Jackson’s hit, produced by Quincy Jones. Turn up your volume.
If my Scrumptious list are films that made me feel something, this one is the group (in no particular order) of almost-rans. Within each of these hide films that want to be great. The effort is so there. What remains at the end is something memorable. Many are already critical darlings. They won’t make my Best of 2018 list but they might just make yours. All are worth your time.
Worth it for the film’s final stretch (which lasts about 20 minutes long) as the voyage to the moon is simply thrilling to behold, and for those of us old enough to remember, a wondrous memory of the way it was. This part of the film was shot on Imax so see it on an Imax screen if you can. If ever a film belonged there, it’s this one. My quibble is with the focus on Armstrong. I get it—he’s the guy, it was updated by Oscar winner Damien Chazelle on a book about Armstrong after all—but he just wasn’t charismatic. He may have been brilliant (and haunted by a personal tragedy) but his reticence lends restraint that doesn’t belong there, even with Ryan Gosling as his avatar. As for the ridiculous flap over the flag, just add it to the stinking pile.
The Hummingbird Project
Quebec’s Kim Nyugen directs this caper movie with confidence and style, and the script is as snappy as the cast. Jesse Eisenberg and Alexander Skarsgård are cousins who share a dream to build a fibre-optic cable straight between Kansas and New Jersey. Salma Hayek is their former boss trying to stop them from their billionaire quest. Michael Mando is fantastic here as well as the contractor hired to help these dreamers. Hugely entertaining (just wait for it…Skarsgård’s dance down a hotel floor aisle); the film’s only weakness? I didn’t care enough for the actual quest itself. This is one for the Sat night at home on the couch, though. I loved Nyugen’s previous films more, including the fantastic War Witch.
Touch Me Not
This Romanian drama is more research project, then cinema, or says Adina Pintilie, who won the top prize at the Berlin Film festival for this, her first feature film! An exploration of intimacy, Touch Me Not is also a daring study of the inner self. I liked much of it and hated other parts, specifically the scenes in erotic clubs that didn’t work with the rest of the piece. What did work: the narrative around Laura, a repressed middle-aged woman attempting to lose her inhibitions was deeply moving. This film is the kind of work festivals should show as they push boundaries and change the very context of film itself. I wasn’t troubled by all the nudity or the sex, but it was all a little precious for my liking.
This documentary only slipped from my Scrumptious list due to length, and still I just wanted more, but not more of the incredible trajectory; more of the man himself, Quncy Jones, a giant, just a beautiful man. His daughter Rashida acts as a dutiful archivist here in writing and directing this documentary of a workaholic legend. See it now on Netflix. Turn up the volume and invite some friends in for wine and a fantastic musical trip through time.
Go see this for Viola Davis. She’s just hot hot hot hot here in a very sharp thriller directed (and co-written) by Oscar winner Steve McQueen. The British director can do no wrong. But for the gangster sheen, I might have slipped this up a notch. I just get tired of guns, even if they’re touted by badass women. And I have a bias here: I’m longing to see Liam Neeson in something other than the tough guy he’s been playing of late. The movie opens with Leeson and Davis in bed together and never stops from there. PS:Colin Farrell fans, yes he’s here too. It is sure to be a commercial hit.
Over in my column of checks, female director is high on the list so it was an easy yes to seeing French writer/director Claire Denis’ first film shot in English. A head trip like no other, High Life is, on paper anyway, about a group of convicts aboard an intergalactic prison ship with a twisted scientist intent on saving the human race. That would be Juliette Binoche, who has some fun here in a sex chamber on board. The whole thing is trippy enough to satisfy sci fi cinephiles other than this one, who saw it late one night as my fourth film of the day, and struggled to keep awake. Robert Pattison and a baby on board may cause a few hearts to flutter, but the real strength here is in filmmaking which is eerie and utterly hypnotic. Go see it if you like your films doused in despair: these travellers are headed for oblivion.
The Wild Pear Tree
Ignore the beautiful girl in the photo above: she’s in the film for one scene. Ditto the other women in this three hour Turkish epic (Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s follow-up to Palme d’Or winner Winter Sleep) their characters are minor players written in to serve the through line about an aspiring author and his complicated relationship with his father. Chopping characters is nothing new but this one is three hours and there is no way you can convince me that there wasn’t room to develop the women’s roles. Sigh. It’s a pattern throughout film history and just one of the reasons for the huge rally held at TIFF this year during the festival. I digress: everything else about this film is wonderful.
Another family portrait, this one from Kazakh auteur Emir Baigazin, who is known for his stunning cinematic compositions. The story: five brothers living in isolation on a dusty farm. The isolation is deliberate: their father, severe and unrelenting, wants them cut off from outside influences. Enter flashy cousin from the city who brings with him a smart tablet. I won’t spoil it but what happens next is unfolded in a series of highly disciplined scenes that drove me a little nuts at times, even as I admired the aesthetic. This is the final in a trilogy by the acclaimed director, and the young cast of brothers were outstanding.
Another mystery about an aspiring writer, and one beguiling enough to keep me awake for 148 minutes, Burning is a South Korean drama adapted from a short story by Haruki Murakami, favourite writer of at least one member of my household. Like the Wild Pear Tree, this film won my favour for its haunting qualities but lost me in the end for rendering the interesting female characters ultimately invisible. This is the story of a young writer obsessed with a woman who appears to have chosen a wealthy man who may or may not be a dangerous arsonist. Steve Yuen, You Ah-in, and Jeon Jong-seo round out the principal cast who handle the thriller aspects of this film with aplomb. What remains here for me is still the beautiful direction that had Cannes audiences raving.
The Fall of the American Empire
Denys Arcand got my attention in 1986 with The Decline of The American Empire and he’s back with his playful self here, continuing his focus on societal ills. This final in his trilogy is a crime caper about a Quebecois philosopher who drives a courier truck (when he’s not helping the homeless at a soup kitchen) who then interrupts a major robbery. There’s a love interest (of course) played here by Montreal’s Maripeier Morin (Tv host and star of the reality show Hockey Wives). Best thing about this film is Rémy Girard as a reformed money hustler, and Arcand’s script, which had my TIFF audience howling with laughter, despite the far-fetched plot lines. My beef: a sub-plot with gangsters that almost derails the social conscience of the film.
Dublin writer/director John Butler has created a beautiful essay about loneliness but what spoke to me was gorgeous Matt Bomer’s raw performance; one I won’t forget easily. Bomer plays a heartbroken gay weatherman who suffers a breakdown on the job. Recovering at home involves painting his deck and for that, he hires a Mexican migrant day worker, and forms an unlikely friendship. It’s a tiny slip of a film, almost too tiny to register, but it should. I wished for some of the other characters to have developed more, but have nothing but praise for Bomer here as you will too.
Every year along come films from actors who have become directors -and this year I saw three of them, all finely crafted and commendable, if not yet masterly. (Wildlife, directed by Paul Dano:very good, Teen Spirit, directed by Max Minghella, also good). Boy Erased is directed by Australian actor Joel Edgerton, who also acts in the principal cast. Lucas Hedges plays the son of a Baptist minister who is pressured into a gay conversion therapy program where he clashes with the head therapist played by Edgerton. I liked this film enough, although it felt like a Sunday movie of the week, although one I hope receives a wide audience given the crucial message of the film. Second only to a few documentaries I screened, this was easily the most disturbing subject matter of this year’s festival. What I will remember is Russell Crowe and Nicole Kidman as the parents; Kidman shines so brightly here. I also saw her in Destroyer which I’m sure you’ll hear lots about but it did nothing for me —just another damaged cop film and she, as blasphemous as this is to report, isn’t as great as the gushing reviews suggest. But here, in this film, Kidman is tops.
Yet another film with lots of buzz is this weeper. Addiction was another thematic thread this year in theatres. Let’s just call this film for what it is, shall we? Oscar bait. Steve Carrell made me cry. His performance? Surely among the best of the festival, best of the year at that. There’s not a parent anywhere who won’t see themselves in him. Timothée Chalamet is equally strong as the young addict but dammit, that guy is beautiful indeed and never once did his head of curls lose their gloss. I found it hard to believe in his downfall physically despite some fine acting chops. The whole piece lacked edge. But again, see it for the performances. Based on two bestseller memoirs written by real life father and son, David and Nic Sheff.
Time to confess: I’ll see anything with Guillaume Canet. Yes, yes, I know he has a beautiful girlfriend (Marianne Cotillard) but the guy does it all: acts, writes, directs, and makes it all look effortlessly cool. French director Oliver Assayas has assembled some other talents beside Canet for his latest, a screwball comedy, Non-Fiction. Canet is Alain, a successful Parisian publisher grappling with the looming digital shadow threatening to take over the industry. Married to an actress played by Juliette Binoche, Alain begins an affair with a digital expert..and well, I won’t spoil it but this film isn’t about plot points anyway. It’s very chatty and oh so French and somehow feels like a sparkling dinner party with your wittiest friends. This is the film, all meta, where little happens but dialogue. And oh, what dialogue! I wanted to scribble away in the darkness, such was the brilliance of Assayas’ script. Warning: If you don’t like conversation films, you should skip this. It slipped from Scrumptious for me because I threw my hands up: bring me more plot please.
British-Libyan filmmaker Naziha Arebi made her debut at TIFF in her first feature length documentary which tracks a group of female soccer players struggling for acceptance in Libyan society. There was much to love here, especially the young women themselves who will inspire all viewers, athletes or not. Arebi began filming in 2011 after the Libyan revolution, and the film spans five years following three main characters who became activists to encourage the younger generation. I loved their passion, and Arebi’s cinematography style, clearly one to watch in the future.
What You Gonna Do When The World’s On Fire?
The most urgent film of the festival surely should be seen by everyone. Italian director Roberto Minervini tackles ingrained racism in four parallel threats in this gripping examination; some work better than others. I saw many films this year about boys (I’m still waiting for the deluge about girls. HELLO WORLD?) but the pair in this film broke my heart. Ronaldo King and his brother Titus are the most memorable characters of TIFF for me. I wish to know their future. I hope and pray for their future.
The Friendly Greek and I ran into TIFF head Piers Handling at the St. Lawrence market late summer and were happy for the occasion to shake his hand with thanks: this is his last year at the helm and we TIFF fans know what he’s done for the city, for film, for all those young aspiring filmmakers seeking a platform. The amount of talent this guy has unveiled here in festival theatres is astounding. Anyway, Handling offered up his personal festival picks and we greedily snapped them up. Had to laugh though: these wizards likely have nuggets for every TIFF fan they meet. Handling suggested Cold War and off we went. Impressive yes. Director Pawel Pawilikowski won Best Director at Cannes last May for this film, an epic love story set against the background of the Cold War. So much to admire here: the music, the gorgeous black and white cinematography, the performance of lead actor Joanna Kulig. But I didn’t really like either of the lovers. One doesn’t need to like a character to embrace a film. But lovers? To buy into a big messy love affair, I needed to feel something. See it and tell me differently. Love to hear your thoughts. The critics are all over this one. Gasp.