|
I arrive in Toronto a little after noon to brilliant sunshine and
70-degree temperatures. I wonder if Toronto ever has different
weather, given that last year's festival sported the same forecast
for all nine days I was there. Not that I'm complaining of course,
especially when they're talking about a bit of rain for Sunday.
There's a touch of panic in the airport when the ATM won't give me
any money. I'm somewhat consoled that it won't honor my credit card
either. Stupid machine. Fortunately, the cab downtown takes my credit
card. After being on mass transit and a plane all morning, it's
relaxing to sit in a plush back seat and just stare out the window.
This year I'm staying at the Quality Hotel on Bloor St. It's not as
nice a place as where I stayed last year, but it'll do. My roommate
for this fest is Tim Porter who's the film editor for Paste magazine,
a relatively new publication I've been freelancing for. I've never
met Tim, but he seems like a good guy on the phone.
After dropping off my luggage in the room, I'm ready to head out and
get my tickets. First, I have to find another ATM. But there's a lot
more panic when the machine in the hotel lobby won't acknowledge my
card either. I brought a little bit of American currency but not
much. Why would I? I was going to be in Canada. So now there's a
nervous energy in my step as I scoot down Bloor St. looking for a
real ATM, not some stand-alone machine that's clearly defective.
To add more consternation to the situation, when I arrive at the box
office, none of the volunteers can tell me if I'm in the right place.
I'm not terribly excited to stand in a half-hour line only to be told
I have to go elsewhere. And I'm not sure if it's my frame of mind,
but these friendly Canadians don't seem as friendly as they did last
year. This day one hasn't started like I hoped it would.
But, patient reader, don't dismay (and don't worry — I'm getting to
the movies). Everything soon worked out. The next ATM was happy to
offer me money for the cut-rate fee of $2. And the next box office
location was manned by friendly volunteers who not only told me I was
in the right place but gave me my 41 tickets. A four-block-walk
later, I was sitting in the delightful Green Mango restaurant,
feasting on spring rolls and ginger chicken. Ahh, I was in Toronto.
|
| |
| My first movie was Oyster Farmer, but that had
been my second choice. My first choice was Paul Cox's Human Touch. Since
Oyster Farmer started almost an hour later, I decided to take a chance
on the rush line. Readers of last year's blog will remember my fondness for
the rush lines, and this one proved just as interesting. A warm, older lady
named Berniece started off by complaining about the Kiarostami movie she had
seen that morning, but it quickly became apparent that I shouldn't be
worried. Kiarostami is an acquired taste, and she just wasn't ready for it
yet. Another pair nearby got into an interesting discussion about the Godard
(Notre Musique). A cineaste about my age was trying, somewhat in vain, to
explain the movie to a middle-aged woman next to him. When he realized he
wasn't getting anywhere and noticing my interest, he turned his attention to
me. I tried to look like I was paying attention without actually hearing
anything he said. I'm hoping to see the movie when it comes to Chicago, and I
didn't want him to spoil anything. Then the rush line started to move. Twenty
people made it in. Unfortunately, I was twenty-fifth. Oh well.
Berniece was nice enough to walk me to the subway and show me how to
get to the Isabel Bader theatre, where Oyster Farmer was playing. The
Isabel Bader is a great space to see a movie. The screen is huge, and
the sightlines are good. I was pretty sure the movie probably wasn't going to
be anything special — it was a romance set in Australia starring some
hunky guy I had never heard of. But I became more certain when the
programmer, in her pre-movie intro, highlighted the movie's "cute boy"
factor. The predominately female audience seemed to appreciate that line.
Still, I saw some great middle-brow stuff last year, and I wasn't going to
judge the movie before it started.
Now that it's over, of course, I can judge, and this is pretty
mediocre middle-brow. Jack Flange (the aforementioned cute boy) has
traveled to the middle of a river oyster farming community (aka
Nowhere) to be with his sister in the hospital. The sister is merely
a plot device, as is much of this film. Jack takes a hard-working
job, though we hardly ever see him working. Instead he's flirting
with the local cute girl, sassing with his boss Brownie, and having a
good time with Brownie's wise-cracking father. In the midst of all
this is a robbery, a couple relationships in need of repairing
(including Brownie and his wife), and some out-of-nowhere
conversations with a Vietnam vet. The obligatory sex scene is
surprisingly well-handled, and there are some gorgeous helicopter
shots of the serpentine river. But the final act is predictable,
right down to Jack's decision to leave and then quickly return.
Kudos, though, to Jim Norton as the father. He's funny as a lovable
sourpuss without ever veering into Waking Ned Devine-mode. Two 1/2 stars, out of five |
|
| |
| My second film of the day was of a completely different order. Touch
the Sound is another documentary from Thomas Riedelsheimer, who burst
onto my radar with the gorgeous Rivers and Tides. His latest film is
similar in that Riedelsheimer focuses his camera on another artist,
this one percussionist Evelyn Glennie. Glennie is an incredibly
inventive and accomplished percussionist, as we see in several full
numbers. She mostly improvises with improvised materials, shaping
anything around her into a sonic device. She manipulates the sound in
fascinating ways, and in so doing provokes us to think about the
sounds in our lives and how much we take for granted. Complementing
all of this is Riedelsheimer's spectacular cinematography. Though he
doesn't have Andy Goldsworthy's color palette from Rivers and Tides,
he creates even more with abstract shapes, close-ups of Glennie's
"instruments," and architectural and landscape shots that Antonioni
would be proud of. In this way, Riedelsheimer becomes a perfect
collaborator, highlighting the visual components to dovetail with the
aural. There are numerous moments in the movie where I gasped out
loud from the sheer beauty on display. And one more thing — Glennie is
mostly deaf, which leads to some interesting philosophical discussions on the
nature of sound and hearing, though I have to point out that she's more
articulate with her instruments than she is with her philosophy. Still, this
is great stuff: accessible but never dumbed-down, inspiring and
thought-provoking. The rest of the audience was as thrilled as I was. Four
1/2 stars, out of five |
|
| |
| The last film for Day One was one of my most anticipated of the fest:
Bahman Ghobadi's Turtles Can Fly. Ghobadi directed the devastating A
Time for Drunken Horses, so I was more than curious to see how he'd
handle the Iraqi situation. How he handles it is through the staple of
Iranian cinema — by focusing on children. The main character is a
thirteen-year-old boy nicknamed Satellite who has made himself indispensable
in his Kurdish village by being a wiz with electronics. He also has great
trading contacts, to the point where he gets a satellite dish for a village
anxious to hear about America's war plans. Into the village come a girl, her
arm-less brother, and a young toddler who's going blind. Their physical
handicaps are barely noticeable in this area filled with land mines and the
people who've been maimed by them. In fact, Satellite marshals dozens of
children to clear farmland of mines, which helps feed the numerous refugees.
While Ghobadi's tale is a sad one, he leavens it with humor and
spot-on observations of how children interact. The non-professional
cast, another hallmark of Iranian cinema, is strong, even in the
final act when events grow more intense. Ghobadi, who also wrote the
film, has an agenda, one that he laid out in the post-film Q&A. He
remarked that everything we've seen about Iraq on tv is propaganda.
It makes Bush and Saddam out to be the superstars, while regular
people are "extras." Turtles Can Fly is designed to reverse that,
making regular people the stars and reducing the dictators (the plural is
his) to extras. In that, he largely succeeds. I wish the ending had been a
little more restrained, which would have given it an even greater power.
There's so much catastrophe or near-catastrophe we almost become numb.
Nonetheless, this is a powerful work, filled with incredibly striking
compositions and honest acting and emotions. Highly recommended. Four, out
of five |
Well, that's all for Day One. Day Two, with four flicks on the docket, comes
tomorrow.
|
