FILM TIFF 2010: 82 hours of cinematic exhilaration By Christopher Schobert Rinko Kikuchi and Ken’ichi Matsuyama in Anh Hung Tran’s Norwegian Wood; All film stills courtesy of the Toronto International Film Festival. The 2010 Toronto Film International Festival opened in stirringly “difficult” fashion with an un-subtitled French film that alternates between seemingly random sequences set aboard a mostly septuagenarian cruise ship, a gas station, and a modest family home, all intercut with one-word title cards and clips of everything from Hitler to YouTube kittens. And I for one wouldn’t have it any other way. This, after all, is TIFF, an ever-exhilarating, occasionally confounding stew of high art and straight commerce, a place where, in a matter of hours, you can spot Jon “Don Draper” Hamm onscreen in The Town, see Sam Rockwell’s derriere in Conviction, and hear David Schwimmer, while introducing his surprisingly powerful online-predator story Trust, taking a moment to announce, “Someone’s phone is ringing …” This was the fourth straight year for Spree colleague Jared Mobarak and me, and it was an important one in TIFF history, as the festival’s new home, the TIFF Bell Lightbox, was unveiled amidst much pomp, circumstance, and free cupcakes. With a stunning lineup of year-round programming, the uniquely designed Lightbox should be a major cinephile attraction—more so, I expect, than TIFF 2010’s opening night film, the Canadian-to-the-point-of-parody Score: A Hockey Musical. (To which we said, “Pass.”) This was also the site for the world premiere of the Keanu Reeves-starring, Buffalo-shot Henry’s Crime. Sadly, we missed it, so I can’t comment on quality; let’s just say the reaction was so-so. Mathias Domahidy in Jean-Luc Godard’s Film Socialism and James Franco in Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours. One thing that has not changed is the festival’s audience-friendliness. One need not be a member of the press to have a true film fest experience. And while celeb-spotting in the streets, on stage, and at press conferences is a nice TIFF bonus, for us, it’s all about the movies. To that end, we managed fifteen of them in about three-and-a-half days, living on Twizzlers and emerging with weakened tailbones and a serious case of sleep deprivation. The “difficult,” un-subtitled film to which I referred is Jean-Luc Godard’s Film Socialism, his first shot entirely on video and rumored to be his cinematic swan song. To put it mildly, it troubled much of the audience; roughly thirty seconds in a middle-aged viewer behind us practically shouted, “No subtitles?!” As Film Comment’s Amy Taubin astutely theorizes, it seems to be a work “about the failure of language and meaning,” so much so that when it debuted in Cannes, Godard actually included “Navajo English” subtitles. I’d venture a guess that about one-third of the audience walked out, which makes me a little sad. Cheers to those who stuck with it. A review is beside the point; let’s leave it at “comme ci, comme ça.” Ron Perlman and Demi Moore, and Josh Hartnett and Woody Harrelson, in Guy Moshe’s Bunraku. Post-Socialism, a few of Spree’s fifteen were: Bunraku, a fun, Technicolor-fully absurd graphic novel-esque tale of a post-gun world that has returned to the samurai sword; Rochester resident John Curran’s strong moral study Stone, which features fine work from Robert De Niro, Edward Norton, and even Milla Jovovich; and my pick for flop of the fest, Peter Mullan’s Scottish seventies-depression-porn Neds. The long-awaited adaptation of Haruki Murakami’s Tokyo-set coming-of-age classic, Norwegian Wood, was a morose but moving film that lacks the narrative drive of the novel yet retains the sense of wistful sadness so effectively brought to life in Lennon’s song. Meanwhile, after the particularly somber bunch that preceded it, Anna Fleck and Ryan Boden’s teen-in-a-mental-ward comedy It’s Kind of a Funny Story hit the spot like a cold Arnold Palmer. It’s a warm, if occasionally sitcom-y, crowd-pleaser. Robert De Niro and Edward Norton in John Curran’s Stone and Domhnall Gleason, Carey Mulligan, Keira Knightley, and Andrea Riseborough in Mark Romanek’s Never Let Me Go. And then there was Joaquin. The greatest moment of Casey Affleck’s Joaquin Phoenix-starring is-it-a-documentary-or-a-giant-hoax I’m Still Here actually occurred offscreen, as a clever bunch of bearded JP impersonators—many female—tried to bum-rush the screening. The film itself—which, Affleck now admits, features Phoenix “in character”—was a compelling hot mess, and honestly seems more interesting now that I know it is all fake. It’s a train wreck I couldn’t turn away from, and an acting job that is undeniably stunning. In fact, considering the extent to which Affleck says the film was scripted, perhaps Phoenix is giving the best performance of the year ... or something. Lucy Punch in Woody Allen’s You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger. Now onto some genuine, undeniably great films. Never Let Me Go, Mark Romanek’s adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s haunting, ever-so-slightly-sci-fi novel is a stunner, a subtle, deliberately paced wonder with three brilliant leads: Carey Mulligan, soon-to-be-Spidey Andrew Garfield, and Keira Knightley. That the critical reaction has been mixed doesn’t surprise, but it does depress. The less plot explication for this one, the better; while it doesn’t have a “twist,” per se, it does have a central secret that lends a melancholy air to every moment, from the chilly British boarding school of its opening to the mysterious “cottages” and antiseptic hospitals that await our trio. Mickey Rourke and Megan Fox in Mitch Glazer’s Passion Play. For me, though, it was Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours that took the festival. It’s based on the true story of Aron Ralston, the mountain climber who, when trapped under a falling rock, was forced to perform an almost unthinkable act in order to survive. Ralston himself was at the screening, and hearing his choked-up reaction to watching the film with his wife and sister was devastating. He seemed genuinely moved and pleased that Boyle—who has made a tighter, more powerful work than his earlier Slumdog Millionaire—and actor James Franco were able to bring his story to life in a way that is almost unbearably intense, yet also positively hopeful. Clichéd as it may sound—cue violins—the recent birth of my son perhaps drew me into the story in a more profoundly emotional way than others; while trapped, Ralston had a vision of the son he didn’t yet have, and this, more than anything else, seemed to give him the strength to create a way out. (We see the real Ralston with the son he has today before the end credits.) While the idea of—ahem, spoiler alert—watching a man have to cut off his own arm with a dull pocket knife likely sounds deeply unappealing, 127 Hours is as involving an experience as any I’ve seen onscreen in recent years. (For greater detail on these films and others, visit buffalospree.com and read the blog reports filed by Jared and me as the fest ran, from September 9 to 19.) Keanu Reeves in Malcolm Venville’s Henry’s Crime and Natalie Portman in Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan. Joaquin Phoenix in Casey Affleck’s I’m Still Here. The great disappointment at this or any film festival is that you simply can’t see everything, especially when you need to race back to home and real life. In addition to Keanu-does-Buffalo, at the top of my Missed List was Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan, which not only offers 2010’s most thrillingly dark trailer, but also the casting of fanboy dreamgirls Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis as rival ballet dancers. If that’s not enough, Aronofsky has called it a companion piece to his brilliant, Rourke-resuscitating The Wrestler. And once the description “Cronenberg-ian” popped up, I just about had a case of the vapors like a twenties-era dowager. Other regrets for us included Woody Allen’s You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger, whose ravishing Lucy Punch drew raves, and TIFF Audience Award winner The King’s Speech, which just might bring Colin Firth the Oscar he deserved for A Single Man. And one more tough call was choosing to see Joaquin-goes-wild instead of Mitch Glazer’s daffy but intriguing-sounding Passion Play; while it garnered some of the worst reviews of the fest, the screening did feature in-the-flesh appearances from the cast’s crazy-sexy-cool trio of Mickey Rourke, Megan Fox, and Bill Murray. Admittedly, nothing at TIFF 2010 haunted my dreams like last year’s dazzling, unholy triumvirate of The White Ribbon, Antichrist, and Enter the Void. But the best films of this go-round had their own mojo. I still get goosebumps when I tell people about 127 Hours, and that, friends, is a rarity. And I must return to Godard, and that strange, bewildering, frustrating, fascinating Film Socialism. Its closing line—one of the few spoken in English—provides not just a suitable conclusion to an unequaled career in cinema, but also a worthy response to those chattering, quick-to-judge filmgoers intent on entering the theater with minds plied shut: “No comment.” Spree associate editor Christopher Schobert wishes to extend international middle fingers to the border official who chastised him and Jared for “not looking” at him while driving away from the toll. SUBSCRIBE NOW Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top