A screening of ‘Tab Hunter Confidential,’ a film about the decades the Hollywood idol spent in the closet, includes a Q&A with the 83-year-old.
A ripple of panic swept through a downtown boardroom the other day, at the possibility of an aging movie star going AWOL.
This was during a logistics meeting for Toronto's annual Inside Out LGBT Film Festival. As a dozen or so staff worked through a long list of last-minute agenda items – sorting out which VIPs get access to the roped-off popcorn and bubbly area, co-ordinating volunteers, the precise explanation of how to label boxes for the move from the festival's headquarters to a temporary home at the TIFF Bell Lightbox – a publicist asked what arrangements might be made for Tab Hunter.
The former matinee idol is visiting the festival Friday night in honour of Tab Hunter Confidential, a documentary about his decades in the closet, and he and his entourage will be strolling the pink carpet for the prescreening camera call and then participating in a postscreening Q&A.
But, as the publicist gently pointed out, many guests do not stay in the cinema during the screening of their films. And at 83 years old, after a long day doing press followed by a couple of hours chatting with sponsors during a cocktail reception at the Spoke Club, Hunter might wish to spend some time relaxing elsewhere.
"We can book a table at Luma for him," offered Scott Ferguson, the festival's executive director, referring to the upscale dining room on the second floor of the Lightbox.
"We can talk to his people and find out," the publicist replied.
"If they want to be chaperoned by us, we're happy to do it," Ferguson added. "If not, we can leave them on their own, as long as they're conscious of time and when they need to be back."
The director of programming jumped in, looking as aghast as he sounded. "We never leave them on their own," said Andrew Murphy. "They will not be alone. We will lose them."
The publicist nodded: "We usually stalk them," she said, then laughed with self-deprecation. "From afar."
Glamour may look gossamer-light, but at film festivals such as Inside Out, which opened Thursday night with the international premiere of the Lily Tomlin drama Grandma, it is underpinned by heavy machinery and serious planning. Whoever had drawn up this day's agenda had dubbed it a "prenatal meeting." Labour and delivery were imminent.
Already, the staff had conducted a walk-through of the three cinemas they would be using – they noted approvingly that the curtains were aglow with shimmering rainbow lights – and now they were trying to figure out whether microphones would hinder or help the Q&As.
There was also the matter of seating: Normally, collapsible film directors' chairs are used onstage, for a pleasing Hollywood effect. But someone suggested Hunter might prefer a more comfortable seat.
Another person spoke up, asking where smokers might be able to indulge their habit. Philip Wong, the director of development, said he knew a good spot. "It's completely private – for when you don't want to be judged. There's a place on Widmer directly behind the theatre. It's right by the hot dog supply store."
"I had no idea there was a hot dog supply store," a publicist said. There was some discussion about the place, a one-storey building whose owners had reportedly refused to sell to developers. "It is a variety store, ultimately," Wong explained. "But their main business is hot dog vendors."
They moved on to discussing the plans for opening night. Wong mentioned he'd been getting special seat requests from patrons. "My latest was 'centre-centrish.' They said, 'I hope you know what that means,'" he told the room. "Yeah, I think so – like the Green Party?" he quipped.
Another member of the staff outlined plans for the opening-night party, which was set for the Lightbox's elegant sixth-floor event space, Malaparte. Filmmaker Bruce LaBruce and musician JD Samson would take turns spinning tunes and actors with the Storefront Theatre would be doing pop-up scenes throughout the night.
"They might be playing out a scene from Brokeback Mountain," she suggested. "Steamy!" someone said.
After a couple of hours, they were starting to wind down. Ferguson told the room that tickets and memberships seemed to be selling well. "Right now, we're about $8,000 above this time last year," he said, to murmurs of approval.
Alma Parvizian, a publicist, piped up. "Will you let us know which films potentially need a little pushing?"
Ferguson nodded, then he said: "Whichever one doesn't have a shirtless man in the photo."