There is much about the Toronto International Film Festival that is sweet, if not downright endearing. There are the bleary-eyed lineups of film students who begin their vigil at dawn, sitting on cold concrete with battered Festival programs and highlighters, skipping Hollywood fare for obscure foreign choices. There are the psychotically helpful volunteers, looking like Creamsicles in their bright orange T-shirts, who admit to getting "psyched in June"; there is the well-mannered retired schoolteacher with watery blue eyes and a sensible raincoat who stakes out the Starbucks across from the Hazelton hotel every day to catch pictures of her favourite stars.
But the Festival is a like a giant party, and not all the attendees are class acts. Some make Torontonians long for a giant spiritual fire hose to clean the streets with.
There are the black-clad industry types, loping around with passes flapping on lanyards around their neck, talking endlessly into their cellphones about deals and who's attached to what and how "directors are so easily replaced, anyway."
There are the sales reps and marketing types who fill the lobby of the Hyatt Regency having "meetings," bragging about funding, projects in development, until it starts to feel that anyone who doesn't have something in development might as well just die and stop taking up space anyway.
There is the hyperbole that enters into every conversation about films: Movies are "staggering," the buzz surrounding a film is "explosive," performances are not good, they are "Oscar worthy."
And the inane hierarchy of it all: the regular folks who stand in line for hours on end while Priority Access ticket holders get the velvet-glove treatment. The absurd castes that form as the sun sets: the excusive parties, the not-so-exclusive parties, and the even less exclusive bars that fill with drugged-out stylists and celebrity hunters whose heads turn every time someone enters the room. Disappointed sighs follow when the person turns out not to be Nicole Kidman, but an Amazonian blonde with an outfit that makes you long for the imposition of Taliban rule. (Later on in the evening, the blonde will shake her head and look around and say: "God, this party is just full of drunks and losers." ) There is the peculiar experience of being thrown out of a hotel bar by a security guard in an Armani suit and an earpiece, simply because you're not with TIFF - never mind that two weeks ago you'd have been welcome there.
There is the endless parade of stars (many of whom look bored to tears) in front of jet-lagged journalists, all of whom ask the same questions and are rewarded with the same answers. (Later, the journalists will gaze at each other like tired children. "When will you sleep?" one will ask. "After the festival," the other will reply.) And there are the TIFF staff members, who behave, with their clipboards in hand and walkie-talkies abuzz, like they are running a peacekeeping force in a war-torn nation.
There is, in short, a lot of pretension and silliness surrounding a festival which is just about movies. The only antidote is to go into a dark theatre and watch a three-hour film about Korean history that will never, ever, make it to the big screen. The private pleasure of a hidden gem. That's what the festival is really about. As for the rest, as of midday tomorrow, it's all over.
Special to The Globe and Mail