IN A TIFF
Jaclyn Greenberg
George. Brad. Reese.
The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF, if you’re in a rush) brings out the first-name-only stratosphere of Hollywood, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the possibility of standing toe-to-toe with Keira/Clive/insertOscarwinnerhere didn’t entice me to volunteer. Back in July, a new-found friend in the city emailed me the festival’s volunteer training session dates, and asked, “So?”
Fast forward past the training, past signing on at the gala-drenched Roy Thompson Hall, and past my studying the film schedule to decide which ones I want to spend my pink slips—payment in the form of a ticket to whatever film you can get into—on. It’s two hours before Canadian enigma/director David Cronenberg arrives to unveil his new Viggo-vehicle, Eastern Promises, and standing in line with the other work bees, warnings of festival-fever play over and over in my mind:
—Don’t pull a screenplay out of your shirt to give a director.
—Don’t whip out your camera phone when Matt Damon walks by you.
—Don’t stop doing whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing to turn into a crazed fan.
We represent the festival now, we’re told. And what a festival it is. The kick-off to awards season (No offense, Venice Film Festival) lures every major studio honcho, producer, director, and talent (as they’re called) from all over the world, and a fame-hungry lunatic does not a well-representing volunteer make.
One hour before Viggo, the paid professionals (read: those who wear headsets) look out over a sea of pumpkin-coloured shirts eyeing their pool of workers bees to chose from. Everyone wants the red carpet but the silver-haired maven isn’t looking for new faces. As she counts off her lucky 18, they’re greeted with a knowing smile, and occasionally even a name. Being a festival-virgin, I’m picked to work the balcony, where I couldn’t possibly congratulate Naomi Watts on her baby, and where an usher critiques the previous night’s premiere, Rendition, by telling me the ending while we show people where the bathroom is or which area still has two seats together.
Although the balcony lacks the intensity of the main floor, where esteemed guests are reared like cattle so armies of publicists can tell the Talent where to go and what camera to look at, it proves the right move. The second premiere, Le Deuxième Souffle, is sub-titled and natch, isn’t expected to pull in the same-sized crowd The balcony is closed and my friend and I are told we can leave early, but first, there’s a favour.
Whether they arrived by private jet or by coach, every film’s team deserves to have the same experience at their Gala Presentation—having their names screamed out, digital cameras shoved in their faces, people pulling at the Prada. We’re going to fake it so they feel like they’ve made it. We de-volunteer, badges in back pockets, awkwardly waiting to be told what next.
“Who are you waiting for,” I ask the true fan beside me (giveaway: de-capped Sharpie in hand)
“Monica,” she says. “Monica Geller?” I say, instantly embarrassed that was my first thought.
“Bellucci”
“Of course,” I say, probably blushing. “I was just kidding.”
The red-carpet maven comes over, thanks us for helping and within minutes, bodyguards appear, publicists stomp by and in a flash of light bulbs and screams from outside, the Euro-goddess sweeps through. I yell, my friend yells, the fans yell, we all yell. 10 seconds of yelling, one jaw-dropping hair sweep/body pivot and we’re done.
The whole thing was simultaneously enthralling and dull. Fun in an indirect way, but with all the waiting in between red carpets and credits rolling I’m not sure what I think. Or what’s up from down, for that matter.
Our night over and no energy to go out or the desire to go home, my friend and I head to the famous-people Mecca—Yorkville. A decaf latte and a little people-watching seems apropos. Twenty-five minutes and a few blocks later, it’s pandemonium. Cars are backed up down Cumberland Ave because drivers have literally deserted their cars, private school girls have tears streaming down their face and a middle-age woman holds her heart like she’s just seen a fireman save a puppy from being run-over. Lights are bright, people are screaming and the mob pulls us in like quicksand.
I feel like I’m in a Michael Bay movie. Its title? Brangelina.
It’s beyond surreal but somehow fitting to the day. Growing up on Vanity Fair and the like, I always read about how simultaneously anti-climatic, intense and glamourous movie-making was. And while I can’t testify to the mood on set, Toronto in September is anything but normal.
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