(posted from the ground)
After an eventful weekend at the Toronto Film Festival, I am approximately five and a half hours into my purportedly five hour trip back to Los Angeles (read: Venice). Air Canada, hospice to surly flight attendants and a bulwark against oppressive airline Wi-Fi, kindly let us passengers on the 10:25 flight back to LA that the flight would be “en retard” (I am not making this up, nor is my command of Ontarian French strong enough to disregard the obvious synergies) for an additional deux heures. Of course, it might have been more helpful to let us know this most valuable information more than five minutes before the original boarding time for the flight. Hey, well at least Pearson had wi-fi, Starbucks and multiple other diversions, like Woody Harrelson walking around in an orange t-shirt (inadvertently?) promoting some kind of fresh fruit juice.
Yeah, I know.
After getting in on Friday, Mario Grigorov (composer and pianist of much ability, and famed thanks to his memorable scoring of the terrific academy-award-winning Precious) cabbed it downtown to the Metropolitan, which is not to be confused with the much more tony Soho Metropolitan. Our Metropolitan was the relatively-low budget version of a downtown Toronto hotel, serviceable and residing in the less than luxurious range north of a Best Western, and well south of a Hilton, not to mention the Hyatt Regency, which serves as TIFF’s headquarters. Livable, a bit scabrous, perhaps a tad bit far from the festival’s headquarters at the Hyatt, but with running water, wifi and mostly free from (i) pests, (ii) excessive street noise and (iii) recently-updated lobby furniture (honestly, I had a nicer couch in law school). Still, they make a mean Maker’s Mark Manhattan (neat, thanks) and I ran into the ever-cool Bill Duke (Predators) in the lobby. So I’ll assign a passing grade and presume upon some lobby improvements.
After getting to the hotel and grabbing a shower, we met up with the Tunn3l team for whom I am consulting these days and headed over to Queens Quay for a beer at a nice outdoor bar, before the Brooklyn Brother’s (a TIFF title) party. Mario, Kyle, Jay, Matt and I rolled into the place where we were literally inundated with free shots, drinks, pretty decent-yet-low-cholesterol-diet-breaking-appetizers, and a live music show featuring the eponymous Brooklyn Brother’s band from the movie, led by Ryan O’Nan on guitar and guest performances by Arielle Kebbel, Jeremy Renner and Jason Ritter. Ryan directed Brooklyn Bros. as well as starred in it, and posted it at Tunn3l’s post-facility in Santa Monica. Coincidentally, he is starring in and co-writing Life, an upcoming film that was co-written by one of my very closest friends, who also happens to be named Ryan.
The sound system at the party venue was screwed, or the mixer was on two tabs of acid, I couldn’t tell which. Regardless, it made the acoustics, shall we say, challenging, and Ryan, though a gentleman, seemed rightfully frustrated. Riding on fumes by about 2AM, and despite having been playfully accosted by a cute, green-card seeking blonde Canadian waitress with a longing for Orange Country, CA, I was more than ready when we grabbed a cab back to the hotel.
Saturday morning, the Tunn3l guys (OK, I am not writing it like that anymore, fair warning) headed over to a breakfast morning. Mario and I ventured over to the Hyatt to check out all things “festive” and catch up with the guys after their breakfast. They had additional meetings and then had to deal with sleep deprivation, so Mario and I padded down some Toronto thoroughfare with a unintelligible and clearly memorable (not) name like Spirudana or something, and headed into Toronto’s very fine Chinatown. Thirty one Canadian dollars (an even swap for the greenback these days) of dim-sum later, Mario and I had to walk off the starch, sodium and various mystery ingredients, so we waddled our way back to the hotel. Mario then departed for a screening while I grabbed a nap, despite gorgeous Toronto afternoon sunshine. Plans for later were still being formulated.
Saturday night the guys (sans Mario, who attended some chic private dinner at a restaurant called Crème in Yorkville with Rob Lowe) hit the ICM party at a chic little venue, newly-opened and with the filmic name, F stop. The name made me wonder if it was a venue temporarily opened for TIFF, but apparently that’s the somewhat unfortunate name of this nicely-appointed spot. With a well-appreciated open bar and no shortage of cocktail waitresses who easily could have passed as the next crop of ICM starlets, we had a good time for a few hours enjoying the buzz of vodka and bourbon. Ryan O’Nan showed up and spilled some background on his directing debut. We made a pit stop with Jay’s friend and sometime-partner, Pat Murphy, at a middling French bistro next door before calling it a night at around 2AM once again. The Malbec was good, at least.
Sunday morning, Mario and I, reunited, headed out to find repast, with the Tunnel guys at yet another breakfast meeting. We discovered a Torontian version of Eggs Benedict, which used shrimp rather than ham. I actually ordered it inadvertently, but happily survived the experience without complaint.
Sunday, being the first full day of American football, yielded a quick stroll through the Hyatt lobby, where I reencountered a group of friendly rfilmmakers at TIFF in support of their well-reviewed South African film, Lucky. Congrats to the British director and the film’s Rochester-based producing team on their very impressive Hollywood Reporter review. I look forward to talking with them soon, as well as seeing the humanistic Lucky.
This peremptory stop didn’t last long, as kickoff loomed for the 1PM NFL games (being on EST definitely has its benefits – watching football at 10AM in California still seems an awkward endeavor to me). We headed to that bastion of American football, Wayne Gretskies (o.k., well, maybe not, but they had every game on), congregated with other American’s jonesing after the interminable NFL offseason. Even Mario joined us, though I can’t say that his Iranian/Bulgarian/Australian upbringing made him particularly interested in the outcomes of the games or in the Bloody Caesars, which I learned from another cute, California-lovin’, green-card seeking, Canadian waitress (not making this up, truly, and a brunette this time) is considered by some to be the national cocktail of Canada. After a lifetime without Clamato (best I can recall), I’ve now had a Bloody Caesar twice in the last two weeks (the first was courtesy of Cove producer Charles Hambleton in Las Vegas). The largely TIFF-laden American crowd included Kevin Iwashina of Preferred Content, Kevin Kasha (Anchor Bay) and Michael Roban (IM Global). I wouldn’t have been surprised if a few acquisitions were made right there at Gretskies back tables, amongst the poutine and the hockey sticks.
We hightailed it after the early games (sorry about your Browns, Matt, no doubt you’re sorrier about my Giants) back to the Metropolitan to prepare for Kyle’s film’s premiere, the Marc Forster-directed Machine Gun Preacher. I got stuck waiting outside for Matt Berman, producer from Brooklyn Brothers, who arrived quite late after ending his screening for his movie at another venue. We made it to our seats just before the lights went down, though, so no harm, no foul.
The movie was really well-done, with Gerard Butler going above and beyond, Michael Shannon excellent as usual, a great supporting cast and nary a dry eye in the house by the end of the screening. A packed Roy Thompson hall gave an extended standing ovation to the film at its conclusion. Congrats to everyone involvd are in order.
From there, Matt, an investor-client of his, and I killed some time at a pub near the theater before heading to meet Kyle and Jay, who had been attending the private dinner for the Preacher cast and producers. We met them outside the CAA party at bungalow 8 in some semi-seedy neighborhood on Queens W, but as I am apt to do in the event of potential door drama, I left the group rather than wait outside with the maddening throng. (I was informed this morning that I really didn’t miss much, in any event, which I’ll happily accept as the truth.) The idea of yet another party full of Hollywood agents seemed less attractive than a few additional hours of shut-eye in advance of an early morning trip to the airport for the flight home. If only Air Canada had let me know that I could have slept an additional two hours in the morning before heading to Pearson. En retard, indeed.
In any event, I’m halfway back to Los Angeles, I have an empty middle seat next to me, Mario’s wife is picking us up from the airport, and there is more NFL tonight (though my fantasy league match-up is looking less than promising after a middling-at-best Sunday). Perhaps I’ll at least get a valuable draft pick, and I will happily sleep in my own bed. It’s been a busy month or so of travel after jaunts to NYC, Vegas and now Toronto, and I am more than ready to be back in Venice by the beach for a while.
Grumps.
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