TIFF IS WHERE YOUR LIFE CAN CHANGE BUT PROBABLY WON’T
I was twenty-four when I attended my first TIFF party. A distant acquaintance put me on the guestlist hoping the invitation would lead to some sort of press coverage at the trendy magazine where I occasionally freelanced. The party felt like a big deal. I was living with multiple roommates in a fire trap walk-up and paid for my writing habit bussing tables at an unfashionable restaurant in the financial district. In my head, it was a golden ticket and ruby slippers. I imagined rubbing shoulders with real Hollywood stars who — recognizing my joie de vivre — would usher me to my rightful place among the rich and famous.
The event was held in a midtown mansion. Promo girls walked the floor with champagne flutes and an opulent spread of charcuterie remained untouched by the svelte actors and industry types. Dressed in an ill-fitting sports jacket I stood in the corner for forty-five minutes nursing a signature cocktail made from a B-list actor’s new vodka brand.
Occasionally someone would try and make small talk — a beautiful brunette, a sweaty producer — but the conversations quickly trailed off when the other party realized I couldn’t do anything for their career or I didn’t have any cocaine. An overweight man claiming to be an agent did tell me I had nice eyebrows. I thought that might be my big break but soon after the man was pulled away by a concerned-looking woman in an expensive-looking scarf.
By the third cocktail, I realized I had more in common with the cater waiters than any invitees. Another night of the week I’d be holding the crab cakes and they’d be on the guest list. Finishing my drink I grabbed a tote bag full of complimentary soaps and emptied it into a nearby garbage can. I filled the tote with bottles of wine from an unattended bar and left out the back.
TIFF is the one time of the year when Toronto almost lives up to the world-class status it aspires to. The rest of the year we might as well be Milwaukie. But for two weeks in September, the world looks at my city for the next big thing. An Oscar-worthy movie. A new starlet on a red carpet. Funding for some short.
It can happen too. This year a buzzy young playwright teamed with an aging child star and channeled the hype into a run at HBO. An independent movie about the East End won the hearts of critics and is now rumored for a distribution deal. But for every success story, there are dozens of other artists floundering to make it past the big smoke. TIFF has a glamorous energy — no doubt — but blending into the industry buzz is a persistent note of desperation, high pitched and ringing above it all.
In the seven years since my first TIFF, I’ve covered the festival a handful of times. But for all the red carpet premieres and superstar panels I still like the parties best. It’s always variations on the same theme. People put on a little outfit and hope their dreams come true. For my own part, I’ve stopped expecting anything but an open bar and maybe a gift bag at the end of the evening
About a month out from the fest my inbox is flooded by publicists. Occasionally I draft curt replies to their requests. The magazine is not interested in the protein powder festival tie-in. The magazine cannot premiere the trailer for your Scandinavian body horror. The party invites are sparse this year — with the virus still raging people are hesitant to invest — but a few seem to have promise despite the constant refrain of the words new normal.
On, Instagram I message an actress/writer/model I’ve been trying to impress. I ask her to be my plus one for a media event at a five-star hotel but the actress is already on the guest list. She may see me there — maybe — but who knows. The sycophantic nature of it all feels like a bit much.
“I mean people will only do things for you if they actually like you,” she says. “ Nowadays I go to the parties for good conversation.”
—
I head to the party without a date, instead taking two of my closest friends: a businessman and an installation artist. The businessman is draped in a custom suit, his initials monogrammed into the lapels. The installation artist is in floral prints, wearing sunglasses even though it’s nighttime. It’s an odd pairing — the two are from different periods of my life and hadn’t met before this evening — but it is always good to shake things up when you have the chance to. We agree that if anyone asks how we know each other, we’ll tell them we met in jail.
The three of us arrive at the hotel shortly after the red carpet wraps up. The line is about fifty people deep, in part because vaccination cards are being checked and in part because having a line up for your party is advantageous to the hosts.
Every five minutes or so someone exits a cab, walks to the front of the line, and confidently proclaims that they’re on the list. The look of defeat when they realize that everyone is on the list gets funnier every time it happens. Tail between their legs they wander down the block, trying not to make eye contact as they rush to join the horde.
At the front of the line, I give my name — plus two — and we make our way inside. Immediately we are handed three small bottles of champagne. A photographer leans in close. We point our bottles towards the camera and smile with teeth. Later I look for the picture on Getty Images but never find anything.
The venue is all roman columns and roving spotlights. There is a back room for VIPs. It is co-hosted by a media company and a former teen sensation turned procedural actor. My friends turn to me and ask what happens now. I make a sympathetic face and suggest we get fucked up.
By our third soda Grey Goose, I catch the eye of a familiar face. It is an actress/writer/comedian I know. She’s blonde. Beautiful, like a lot of people in the room. I wave and the businessman asks why she looks so familiar. I explain that the actress is in a national commercial for Subway.
“Respect.”
The actress comes our way and is rolling with a crew. Her agent and manager, a bevy of aspiring twenty-somethings, a commercial director. Her crew is instantly fixated with the installation artist. The actress runs her fingers through his hair and asks if he’s in a band. Another asks if he’s ever thought about modeling. The agent wants to know if he’s represented. My friend shakes his head and adjusts his sunglasses. Right now he’s just really focused on sound design.
I turn to remark on the absurdity of the situation to the businessman but when I look over he’s being chatted up by a woman in leather pants and for a second I trick myself into thinking that maybe this is the night where it all happens.
From there I drink my fourth vodka grey goose and things get a little hazy. Scenes flash by in montage like a movie that is quickly running out of budget. A woman tells me she landed a role in an erotic thriller at Amazon. The host of the party makes a speech about the power of independent films. The DJ spins a mash-up of Daft Punk and my head starts spinning on the way to the washroom.
When I get back to the dance floor I overhear a conversation between two model types.
“He sounded really interested in the premise and I told him I only needed twenty grand to finish the editing. He wouldn’t give me his email but he took mine.”
I contemplate messaging the girl from Instagram. Instead I scrawl a message in my notes app: TIFF is where your life can change but probably won’t
Graham Isador is a writer in Toronto. @presgang
Photo via Getty Images.
