A Little Bit Of Change Goes A Long Way

I moved. To Ottawa. (from Toronto) And something happened to me. I'm not sure if it's simply the change of pace, maybe I was bored and therefore lazy by happenstance when in Toronto, but I seem to have become a different person. In the best possible way. I had slumped into a degenerate type of person; unhappy, unwilling to change, unsuccessful in about every form of life possible (love, work, friends, you get it...). I had become "un".

But let me tell you, if ever you want to change yourself, do it. I wasn't sure why I'd become so uncaptivated by the world, but I knew it was something I needed to dissipate. So I made a choice of moving. This may have seemed drastic to people who knew me, but to me living in one place for nearly a decade, with no chance of moving forward, it was drastic of me NOT to leave. That makes zero grammatical sense. Just go with it.

My seemingly quick decision has been the best thing for me. I've only lived in Ottawa for one month, and already I'm more social, more exhuberant, I've done more with my time and seen my family more. I have an amazing place (that's not costing me my first child) and I'm making sure to give myself the pleasures I've never allowed myself in the past.

Which brings me, not so directly, to my point of writing this entry. Do what makes you happy. Don't second guess yourself. Go with your instinct and pursue it without regret. Find ways in your life to give yourself happiness. What more is there to being, except trying to create bliss.

Here is a selection of activities/things I've done/given myself:

• a haircut

• new, FANTASTIC glasses

• two screenings to films that I've thoroughly enjoyed thanks to my dear friend (21 Jump Street and The Hunger Games [which I hope to review here once I've finished the book])

• bought a couch!

• rode OC Transport (trust, it's an event of excellent and terrible attributes occurring at the same time and thus deserves recognition here)

• started a new job!

• made a new friend (she is my life twin. It's weird, people)

• decorated my kitchen, office, and library. Yes, I gave myself a library.

• got an iPhone. Rock on.

• going to a concert for Said The Whale ( hasn't happened yet, but I never did shit like that before and I'm super stoked for it, so it gets an early mention)

So morale of the month of March: create bliss in your life.

The Scorpion Driver

The story of The Scorpion and The Frog opens with a dilemma; Frog needs to cross the river and the only one to help is Scorpion. Being a nice creature, Scorpion offers to carry Frog across the river on his back. Frog is hesitant. He tells Scorpion that he is worried he will be stung and die. Scorpion reassures Frog by pointing out that if he stings Frog, and Frog dies, Scorpion will drown under the weight of Frog's body. Frog agrees and the two journey across the river. A short while later, Scorpion stings Frog. While the two drown, Frog manages to ask Scorpion why he would sting him, if surely that meant his own demise. Scorpion responds that it is his nature.

During the opening credits of Drive, I realized I was watching a film which would be combining multiple stylistic features. Whether this would prove noteworthy, or just a shamble of too many ideas that couldn't make it to the cutting room floor, I would soon discover. Within the first ten minutes of the film, I had already been privy to an interesting aspect of a heist chase, eighties style opening credits (endearing for someone like me...), and the beginning of a film noir piece. All excellent styles of filmmaking, and in someway, all working perfectly well together.

Typically judgemental as I am, I did instantly think how awesome this film would be if directed by Michael Mann. As the helicopter shots zoomed through the streets of LA, I called back to the saturated film of Collateral, thinking that Drive might benefit from a more visually integral director. Okay, let me explain myself to everyone who's seen the film and is currently throwing tomatoes at me through the screen. It was the first TEN minutes, I had no idea who Nicolas Winding Refn was before Drive, and I had no idea what the next 110 minutes would be. During minute 11, Refn had me in every way a director can.

The greatest feat as a director (from a viewer's point of view) is if the style of the film becomes secondary and the essence of the emotion, the action, the drive of the characters is primary. Refn succeeded in bringing forth the importance of the story. Refn balanced the darkness and stoic nature of film noir, with the brutality of an action film, while underlying a sincere loneliness between Gosling and Mulligan.

The film Drive, and the brilliance of Refn's directing, cannot be discussed without delving into the dichotomy of Gosling's character. The film itself is a dichotomy of style, but Gosling channels an unprecedented duality of stoic heroism and shocking violence. The man who is passionate about helping others, the rescuer of damsels, and he truly cares for those people in his life. Shannon (played by a brilliantly subtle Bryan Chranston) as his unlucky mentor, Irene (Mulligan) as the endearingly naive love interest, and her young son Benicio (Kaden Leos), are figures that Gosling dedicates himself to protecting at any cost. The desire to help these characters, as with the Scorpion's desire to aid the Frog, leads the driver's true nature to arise. The violence Gosling captures is only affected by the constant desire of love for those he is helping. Although the luck of the draw may never fall in his favour, Gosling's unnamed character will break through any barrier to make those he cares for safe, even if those actions lead him to the very true nature he embodies; that of violence.

The moment that sold me on Gosling's performance was the emotion emanating through his stare at Mulligan after he kicks a man's skull in, in an effort to protect her. She sees his true essence, but his incomprehension of her fear leads you to believe he doesn't understand his wrongdoings. He sees his violence as a means to an end, and the confusion as to why someone would look at him in horror when he regards his actions as that of love, solidified my admiration for Gosling's talent. He captured the stoicism and horrific nature of the driver, a true Scorpion.

I'm glad the film was transferred from being labelled a blockbuster to that of an independent film. The underlying essence of the film is captured through silent moments and the grainy, hard-hitting style of film noir was much more presented through smaller production companies than it would have been through larger corporate companies. Had Paramount, or Universal gotten their paws on Drive, it would have been directed by Mann (not a bad thing, just not fitting for the overall style of the film) or hype up the action and violence instead of digging in to the duality of the character. There would have been no film noir, no quiet moments, no long pans on Gosling that left an eerie sensation in me. The film would have been thirty minutes shorter and Gosling would probably have a spunky sidekick. The right production companies got on board, with the right actors, and the perfect director. Each cog in the machine of Drive created a production I couldn't have asked for anything more.

**Photo Credit www.collider.com // Gosling with director Refn

Champions In Their Own Right

If you are to take any advice from me, take this: Experience moments in which you are unsure and naive. In no way am I condoning thrill seeking or doing a dangerous activity. I simply wish to pass on the joy of living in a moment where you normally would not have tread. And take advice from people you trust.

This is all attempting to explain my joy of today. And actually, the entire TIFF 2011. In my first year of going to the festival, I would be shallow (I’ll admit it!) and only see those films that have the biggest buzz - and not the good buzz. The buzz derived from a big name. My second year I spent so much effort attempting to discover different types of film. Since I was unemployed and volunteering, I had more time to dive into the program. However, I was consistent in being drawn to the names. I did make a point to see a foreign film (which is something I suggest every do. Just see one foreign film), and for these films see my postings from 2009. It’s a small selection of my viewings.

My third year took me in a different direction. I started listening to others and just going to see anything. This took me to one of my favourite films that A told me to see with her. I got a ticket last minute and when I sat down to watch it, I was blown away. I doubt I’ve laughed so genuinely and for so long during any film. I was eternally grateful for her bringing me to The Trip. Seriously, go see this film! ...Now.

Now we are brought to today. This entire festival started for me on Day 3. I had no idea what was playing, what any film is about, who is supposed to be here, what director is up and coming. I was a blank slate and I decided to go for whatever was good for time considering I’m working ninety per cent of the festival. So the first three films just came about from setting out to see any film and I was incredibly satisfied. But my happiest moment was when I ditched today’s possible agenda and took someone’s advice. While waiting for Like Crazy to begin, my Film Festival Goddess Friend (FFGF) asked me what else I wanted to see. So I told her I didn’t know, just to see her advice (which has never steered me wrong in the past). And in the midst of her listing credential films, the title Undefeated came up. Upon curiosity, FFGF broke it down by explaining, “It’s season 4 of Friday Night Lights”.

Done.

Holy Crap. This documentary has the most solid narrative and emotional strength I have ever experienced in a theatre. The connectivity the two filmmakers, Daniel Lindsay and TJ Martin, created had me in tears from ten minutes in. Undefeated is the film that everyone needs to know. Spread the word and shout it’s name. I will not indulge in repeating the events here. This is a film that needs to be experienced first hand. It captured moments in these lives that will have you cheering the team on, cringing when a tackle hits hard, crying when the boys struggle and wanting so much for them to achieve. Both Lindsay and Martin embraced techniques that were rooted within themselves in order to achieve certain heartbreaking moments on screen. Natural instinct - and 500 plus hours of shot footage selected down to a very solid two hour film - created an ambiance within each frame.

Upon hearing the boys had never shot a football game, I was astonished to see the quality of their work take on so much energy. Martin stated that they had a learning curve when shooting the games, and that with each one they consistently grew in ability and knowledge. The power comes from their point of view; opting out of the bird’s eye overview to find the true emotion in the game, which came from the sidelines. With only three cameras present at any game (five during playoffs), it was astonishing to see the coverage of the sport as well as the intensity. High school matches don’t have the same immensity as National, and even College, so placing the camera in the emotional zone (the coaches pacing strides along the sideline, the frantic searching for a fumbled ball, right in the midst of a play on the field) forced the audience to feel their triumphs and their pain.

Even if you despise football (firstly, I’m sorry, but we can’t be friends...), go see Undefeated. It may not convert you to the sport, but the film is much more than the games. This film is more emotionally captivating, more dedicated, more frustrating, more driven than anything I have ever witnessed.

I Love You Like Crazy

The story about love is better told in segments; broken up as memories. The good overshadowed by shouting, demands, jealousy. In the film Like Crazy, Anna (Felicity Jones) and Jacob's (Anton Yelchin) relationship is told through impeccable editing and silent moments of emotion. The film portrays the innocence of blossoming love as it occurs in reality. The stolen glances are so poignant, they demand attention above the beautiful dialogue. Although Anna's writing puts my finest prose to shame ("The halves that half us into halves"), I could not tear my attention away from Yelchin's gleaming eye-line and Jones's youthful sincerity.

Both actors encompass the journey of longing, love, jealousy, jaded anxiety, exhaustive annoyance, exuberant playfulness and overall struggle with communication. There were moment during the film when I felt connected to each snapshot of their on/off relationship. My only disconnect being I'm not British (damn...) and therefore I do not have a problem with my Visa. Other than Anna's citizenship issues, I became emotionally invested through my similarities to her character. Every gesture in Anna's incommunicado armory made me cringe for each of my exes.

If you have never seen yourself act in a horrible manner, I suggest you find the film that speaks to you as Like Crazy did me. I saw myself as my ex did and felt excruciating pain for him. Even I was perpetually annoyed with Anna when she pulled the oh-so-common girl shrug when she wanted her man to read her mind. I myself have weaponized that shrug to maim and torture (Not on purpose, of course...). Anna has made me wish for 2 things:

1) I wish to apologize to any man I have ever been in a relationship with.

2) Although I have started on this track for the past year, I wish to never be THAT girl again. I shall forever remember this film if I ever succumb to the need to be petty and spiteful again.

So, Thank You Anna.

Now the film was not depressing, anxious, or self loathing. In fact, Like Crazy portrays the heartbreaking with the joyful side by side. A portrayal that is truthful and performed with such sweetness and sincerity that I wanted to hug both characters, just for adversing through so much pain in order to live glimpses of happiness. With any story of love, it's a merry-go-round of emotions. Never ending, and if it's all worth it, never getting off.

In Between Viewings

First film of the day complete (Review Upcoming) and over lunch with my dear Film Fest Goddess of a friend, I deduced that I'm not in a bad position with my life. Hold on to your stetsons, this is going to be one of THOSE posts...

This is what I'd like to do. This , right here. What I'm accomplishing today makes me feel like I'm truly accomplishing. Although it may seem pathetic, I'm on the path. It may be dirt at this moment, but I see in the future gravel, then stone, and far along those years, concrete will support my feet on this journey to success. My own success. The name in print, the links to my blog, the acknowledgement that I have creativity and wit from others that don't include myself and my mother.

Today is my Day Off. So in the middle of the festival, I challenge myself to see as many films as I can. So far, one down (Like Crazy) and Two more on the horizon. Hoping for a third. In the end of this corridor, I hope to review each film, so look forward to that gentle viewer. No time to waste, off to Bell Lightbox 3.

'Til Next Time!

Take This Waltz, Take This Waltz. It's Yours Now. It's All That There Is,

There aren’t many films that delve into the inner workings of relationships and the hardships they ensue that do not make me feel a worse person for seeing it. Take This Waltz is a film about Margot (Michelle Williams) who lives a charming, yet passionless life with husband Lou (Seth Rogen) and finds herself unwittingly drawn to neighbor Daniel (Luke Kirby). Margot’s emotional betrayal of her husband is not what makes me feel less guilty; the honesty surrounding the three characters created by write/director Sarah Polley is an unseen portrayal of a cinematic affair.

Michelle Williams’ unbelievable performance occurred in last year’s Blue Valentine where the broken marriage took the life out of her character. Gladly, she did not simply repeat the performance for this particular troublesome relationship. I became connected to her subtly in Take This Waltz, which I give credit to the subtly of the role in general. Her restlessness in regard to Rogen’s distracted nature is not overplayed and there was a consistent emotional connection, even through to the end.

What took me by surprise was the performance by Rogen. He portrays THAT man. The man who, by no fault of his own, is content with his life, believes nothing will alter the peaceful existence and is in a moment of bliss with the woman he loves, unaware that his actions of nothingness are destroying her. William’s underlying restlessness plays throughout the entire film, climaxing in emotional betrayal of her husband. In a refreshing aspect to this played out tale, it is only after she leaves her husband when she awards herself the carnal actions of a lonely woman. Upon discovering his wife’s betrayal, the culmination of emotions Rogen emanates into a direct frame of his face is a moment I would not have expected out of the recognized comedian. Kudos to Polley for not only creating a moment of honesty on screen, but for not spoon feeding the audience with over analytical dialogue that would have only been trumped by the performance Rogen gave in those two minutes of heart wrenching emotion.

In a small sidebar, I would like to point out that never do I enjoy watching a film shot in Toronto. The city is most commonly used as a gimmick or it seems uncomfortable and foreign to watch the characters act out their lives in the streets where I live. However, production designer Matthew Davies utilized the city in a manner I have never seen captured. As Polley pointed out in the Q&A after the showing of the film, she enjoys the colourful nature of Toronto and wanted to show the city in that light. Mostly portraying the Annex, the brightness of the city popped on screen, yet never overshadowed the mis-en-scene. Subtle, yet beautiful. A growing motif in this review.

The film itself does what is not entirely expected. I do not want to be a reviewer who gives every plot point away to an unsuspecting audience, so I won’t go any further than saying I am glad Take This Waltz did not end in the typical fashion. It ended as honestly as it began, with pure emotion from the characters and with no need to simplify the subtext with extenuating dialogue. Granted, I left the theater not fully satisfied, but I’ve come to terms. In truth, I welcome the change of a film that did not end up the way I believed, or wanted, it to. Many may think the film does not fulfill what it was grasping to accomplish in the final thirty minutes. Yes, the last quarter was not as satisfying as the first three, but with that being my only criticism of the film, I believe it a success. The film was directed smoothly, performed honestly, and designed beautifully.

THE RANT: I Don't Think Myself Better, But I Am**

This week I had plans to write about a specific topic. It was all laid out. But no longer. Since the city has been overrun by starlets and flash photography, I wanted to give a few comments in regard to my love and hate for this annual festival of film.

I wish I was here for the time when TIFF was subdued. Subtle. Now I spend ten days suffering from screaming girls, obsessed fans, and gushing stalkers. No offense to the people who embody these traits...

Actually, yes offense! It may be that no one particularly reads this, or that I just watched the film "God Bless America" last night (trust me, you'll get the reference soon enough), but screw making sure people are not upset by my words. This is my time to rant.

I am bored of people fawning over the rich for reasons outside my understanding. I try to understand what makes people gush. Is it the fortune? The good looks? The... nope. I can't think of another reason. I won't hold myself on a pedestal and claim I don't get a little jump in my stomach when I lay eyes on a particularly naturally enhanced looking human being (but I do that year round, and not just for film stars). I can get star struck like the rest, but I will give myself decency and not imagine a life in which we're pals, that seeing the famous from across a red aisle gives me any superiority to those who stay home and could care less. I will not waste my precious moments of life trolloping around town in order to catch a glance of $150 of a $750 haircut.

And this is not a comment on the $750 haircut; they hold talent in some shape or form and I will defend them for that. This Rant is about my incomprehension to the fact that in a Festival dedicated to FILMMAKING, I hear nothing all week from the masses about actual filmmaking. I challenge the newspapers to create one line of TIFF related comments about films, and not the crazy world of superstars and red carpets. Let's have at least one column in a Toronto daily that rates filmography, not fashion style. Who cares where Pitt or Gosling ate lunch yesterday? Were their films any good? Are they worth a look, when they come out nationally in 2 WEEKS? Are they giving Q & As to their long awaiting fans, and what did they have to say about their films?

The moments of the Festival I cherish are those that occur organically and create a fun story to tell later in life. Imagine sitting over a beer and listening to your friend lead you down a path of excited speech and exaggerated hand gestures only to hear that after the four hours of waiting in a big crowd, the climax of the tale is that So-And-So waved in their general direction. I'd have rather sat in a theatre and watched a quality film instead.

And that's what I choose to do with the Festival. I will concede and say that to each his own; if a glance from someone who will never know who you are is all you need in life, then by all means soak it up for the next 8 days. I choose different. I choose to spend my days sitting in theaters with like minded people. With the directors, and cinematographer, and producers who give those people life. Plus, while you waited in a crowd aching for a glimmer of starlight, I watched while one actor walked on stage late for a Q & A, while zipping up his fly. Nothing better than a little bathroom humour.

In short, don't waste it. TIFF is about amazing filmmaking from around the word that you wouldn't get a chance to see otherwise. Embrace the culture of intelligence and surround yourself with talent.

Or actually, don't. You stand in crowds. I'll sit with the stars.

**NOTE: Re: Subject Line. See Sarcasm Comment From Previous Postings

I Am Riding The Zombie Bandwagon And I'm Sad

I've been getting into zombie movies more recently, and it's not a hopping on the bandwagon so I'd seem cool kind of move. It's because of Jonah Ray. The fact that I listen the Nerdist podcast is not a surprise to anyone who knows me, which now includes you. And whenever the topic of zombies comes up, mister Jonah Ray will always come to the educated rescue to inform the listeners of how it will all really go down.

Now I'm as sane as the next person and I know there isn't going to be a zombie apocalypse. At least not tomorrow...Nonetheless, I do enjoy the entertainment aspect of our dreaded demise when it comes to our plight against the living dead. I will pick up movies, tv shows, novels, and graphic novels depicting the inevitable struggle we will all take. And let me just say, I'm not scared.

Is that wrong? These are supposed to be part of the horror genre, so why am I never horrified? I don't believe I've become desensitized to the mass flesh feast. Why is it that no matter what creation I get my hands on, I don't shiver from disturbance?

I recently bought George A. Romero's Land of the Dead ($10 Blu Ray - I thought I would be okay). I wish I hadn't. There was nothing in that film that gripped me to my seat. I actually started playing solitaire on my phone at one point. I could care less for the characters; none were heartwarming, nor I felt a need to cheer for. I felt they were all pretty pleased with themselves and they had no redeeming qualities. Back stories were glossed over for the possibility of more gore, but no gore was to be had. All I found myself saying, out loud at one point, was "Well, you're stupid and deserve to die." No one had any sense of self preservation when it came to surviving. Even Simon Baker's character, Riley (which I had to look up in IMDB because I didn't care enough about him to remember the character name), I thought was an idiot for risking his life for a truck. Too many mistakes had by all and I'm surprised that the characters who did survive actually did.

And only to go to Canada. Because we're so secluded the zombies wouldn't think of coming up to us. And cold. Zombies can't survive in the harsh Canadian winters, right?

Besides the obvious analogies that are usually submersed in Romero's zombie flicks, I didn't care this time. I was too upset by the stupidity of everyone to even look past to see the harsh lesson of the haves vs the have nots and society's grips. Next time, Romero, create people I care about so that when their arm gets gnawed off, I feel some compassion.

But that rant aside, I haven't felt a sense of dread for the decaying mass when they enter the scene. Either the zombies seem cartoonish, or simply unrealistic. In any form of media I just don't find myself thinking I would need to run away from these creatures. The last time I felt worried was while watching Night of the Living Dead. The slow oncoming is what got me and the sense that it would never go away. You could fight, hide, and flee, but nothing would make a difference. It wasn't the appearance of the zombies in the film that frightened me, but the continuous determination they had to eat you that disturbed me. It feels like in current zombie apocalypses, the dead have a different motivation. Let's face it zombie extras, you're just there to eat flesh, not to get on the cover Entertainment Weekly.

If you want to see who's doing it right, just watch AMC's The Walking Dead. ... But that's obvious.

I Was Away On A Secret Mission To Mars

The absence from my blog has not truly affected my life. I have, I will admit, had a streak of laziness. (...a streak? maybe a long distance run)

Anywho. To continue...

For the past three years that I've had this blog, I've been contemplating the outlet of my life she will consume. Yes, she. I give sexuality to all of my inanimate objects. Maybe it's a result of working at aerie. I have come to the conclusion that I don't care. It's a new ZEN path I'm working out. This is my outlet; whether I talk about my life, 80's teen drama issues I deal with at times, or sex,or general nerdiness, or movies and books it will in the end define who I am since I am all of those things.

So I suppose this is my official HELLO post. I never really had one where I set out for the reader what to expect and if they would want to read on and such. So if you've read any of this so far, congrats to sticking to something with no expectations whatsoever. You're a good man, Charlie Brown.

I will hopefully post more reviews on movies and books, as that is my passion. I wouldn't want to bore you with general tidbits about my life, except if the troubles are universal. I can't remember what I've previously wrote about my sad existence (I don't read back my posts...), so hopefully none of that scared you away.

And on the note of possibly scaring you away, this is the incredibly devastating realization I had when sitting in the cinema yesterday. First, some backstory.

My dad is obsessed with the Planet of the Apes movies. The originals: Heston Styles. And I being a mini version of my dad (just a girl) have always tried to get into them. When I saw the first, I was in love. I thought it was innovative and strange and brilliant! But then I dropped the ball. I never watched another film in the series. I wish I had because then I wouldn't have felt so stupid yesterday.

I saw the remake of Planet and hated it. It rubbed me the wrong way. And it's not just because of Marky Mark. There were other reasons, but that's for later. So when I heard they were remaking Rise of the Planet of the Apes, I was kind of bummed. I didn't want another mediocre movie coming out and me being forced to watch it and hating myself for spending money on something shitty (that is the linear movement that occurs whenever I watch a bad film and I seem to never escape it). Since I had never seen the full original series, I never knew what this movie was going to be about. All I knew was it was yet ANOTHER remake, starring James Franco (love as a Freak, but loosing interest lately) and that was it. But I heard good things from 75% of people, so I went. Plus I snuck in after seeing Fright Night, so a free crappy movie was just what I needed.

To understand the long winded punch line to this anecdote you also have to understand that sometimes things don't click for me right away. The way words are formed don't necessarily compute. So when I sat down and the lights dimmed and the title sequence came on, something in me clicked. The movie is call The RISE of the Planet of the Apes. RISE. This movie is a PREQUEL! They explain how the world was overtaken by apes. (Yeah, I know. This girl is STUPID) Then it got me thinking about the story and how much I loved the original idea of the thing, and thus I became nerdily excited. Then after I realized what I had just realized (I'm so meta...) I felt idiotic, thanked God that I didn't say anything out loud, and sat back to watch the film.

Needless to say I loved the movie. Andy Serkis is an ape God (first Kong - yes I know, not an ape - now Cesaer. I mean, come on!) But I'm not sure if I would have loved it as much if I had seen the original. Since that question has haunted me since yesterday, I think I will need to purchase all of the originals. Now my investigating for BluRays of Apes is on!

Like A Teddy Bear

The gossip tree has a dangerous limb to crawl on; the thin branch of trust. An experience is told, in confidence, or at least reaching out for understanding and sympathy, and I trust my life won't be plastered in the thoughts of every open ear. I don't talk about who I am to anyone; I pick my friends carefully, I tell select few and I trust very little. And once again, I've been shown why I don't trust others.

It's not a betrayal. To betray there would have to be an ounce of hope in the other party. To betray, the other person would have to have character, merit, class. This is not betrayal. This is verification that nothing matters to a lot of people. Scratch that - Nothing matters to some people except for themselves. To be the person with the secret. To have others lean in and be invested in what you're saying. To be the big shot. I know something you don't know. The word pathetic comes to mind, but in fact everyone loves the notion that they are in the loop and can inform someone of the juicy details; the gossip; the dirt. Why is the world so focussed on up-to-the-minute details about people they don't even know? Imagine when the tale is about someone you know. Your co-worker is doing what? Taking advantage of the need-to-know urge in others is the lowest of the low, but not surprising.

So now I'm the drunk. Now he's the creep. Now I stand here in the depth of a lie, of a tarnished image I can't clean and I'm sinking. I want to scream, defend, argue ... but all I manage is a few (hundred) tears at four o'clock in the morning. My private life is a discussion between my friends. They look at me differently, talk behind my back, judge and snicker. I have the scarlet letter plastered on my chest, and unlike Hester, I didn't put it there, I'm not proud, and I don't deserve it.

I'm still sweet. I still have feelings. I have my own image I'm trying to build. The person I'm trying to be isn't who everyone is now thinking. My efforts are dashed. Reconstructing from the ground up is hard, especially when people have a preconceived notion. So my verdict is to what? Do I push on, ignore my anxieties? Do I kick up the dirt and throw mud in her eyes? Neither. I'm stuck in a roundabout where I can't find the right exit to get me on the road to a life without this. Round and round the garden. Like a teddy bear.

what light...

The hindsight of desire gives me perspective that I am in some tentative amount of control about who I'm becoming. When stating a simple fact of boredom, I somehow managed to turn my life into a spiral of experiences I never saw coming. But the glory of simply living your life without expectations means anything that comes your way has the opportunity to be pleasurable, so long as you shun the jaded, cynical aspect of reality.

I've come to realize not everyone consistently needs something. There aren't always hidden motives. Two people can simply be in each others' company; find solace and serenity in the aspirations of another. Possibly the one thing I've been missing in friendships is the companion. Everyone tends to look out for themselves. The dog eat dog mentality. Which, in the long run, is to be expected since who else will look out for you?

When I succumbed to, in essence, a person who embodies friendship, I came to terms with an honesty I shied away from. Talking gave new meaning to sharing and being honest with myself. To protect others, I gave tinted answers; not enough to see the true meaning, but just enough to guess what was behind the lies. I never felt like anyone, even M, wanted to know everything about me. The eyes would judge, the mouth would snicker at my inconsistencies, and the responses would fall short of truly accepting me for the ridiculousness of who I am. When everyone is judging your every tick, what's the point of showing the real you? Put on the veneer of power and confidence, people see through the cracks.

Honesty has become my shield. Although it appears counterintuitive, I determine the only way I can be happy with what I'm becoming is to become that person with truth and confidence. As long as I don't lie to myself; when angry, throw something; when sad, cry. When happy, and this is the key emotion ladies and gentleman, be happy. Don't cloud the sunlight with the cumulonimbus nature of doubt and determination to make everything harder. Life can be easy sometimes. Sometimes, when lying beside him, I let myself just have a moment where others' opinions don't matter, where there are no consequences for the next day.

The adage of living every day to its fullest tends to come to mind, but I've never been able to succeed. An afternoon wasted on television, dawdling and twiddling my thumbs could be a pastime, sitting in the cafe listening to ridiculousness that is "captain falcon". Not full to potential, but satisfactory in making me happy. So if my joy is making others unhappy, here's the honest truth; I could care less. Joy comes in small things. Listening to Kanye, hearing the intricacies of the rhythm, enjoying the company.

The eternalized scene from Fargo [you know the one with the tree shredder] is the perfect image to describe the Coen brothers’ latest dive into cinema; completely shocking, disgusting and hilarious.

Burn After Reading is a surprise enjoyment for me. I have to admit, I am slightly pretentious when it comes to celebrities. The hype building for this movie annoyed me. I prefer for a film to be respected for the directors, writing, cinematography and acting ability. Not how totally awesome the multi-million dollar leading man’s hair looks...oh my gosh and have you heard who he’s dating now? I felt cheated that TIFF premiered the film, causing chaos in the downtown core. The only name I heard for the first two days of the festival was Brad [not even Brad Pitt, as 

if you chat over morning coffee in his local Starbucks about how glowing Angelina looks in her latest pregnancy]. During the entire ten days, I cannot recall hearing the names Joel or Ethan. Not even Tilda, or Francis, or John. And heaven forbid Mr. Pitt should stay in town long enough to acknowledge his second screening. Fly in, jet out. 

But I digress. 

The Coen brothers lived up to the hype entirely. There was a perfect balanced between intrigue, comedic timing and gore. The perfect essence of a Coens’ film is the deliverance of hilarious content in a deadpan, serious tone. Each actor is uncanny in the classic comic Coen execution.

I don’t want to ruin anything for the unsuspecting audience. This is a film that needs to be enjoyed from start to finish without being spoiled. But the obvious Coen connections can be assumed by the intelligent film viewer. Of course, people will die. In a closet with a gun by a man just getting out of the shower. Or by a hatchet in the middle of a street in broad daylight. Bizarre. Beautiful. 

Although I regretfully have no faith in “Brad” as an actor, he happily surprised me in this comedic role, and of course, everyone else in the film is brilliant. Especially an amazing mini-role performance from J.K. Simmons as random C.I.A. head. 

I may have been one of the only two people in the theatre laughing out loud [the other person being my cousin], but it wasn’t for lack of intelligent humour. I think I simply have no shame in public. 

Go see this film.

I don’t usually watch foreign films. Stereotypical pretentious content aside, I never found myself with access to such films. What better place to experience different cultures on screen than at TIFF.

Germany’s Caroline Link displays a determined case of family loss in A Year Ago In Winter. The fortunate asset of Link’s film is it’s subtlety. The heartache of a lost son and brother is attempted to be rectified through a portrait. 

The idea of painting the recently deceased, especially someone who took their own life, is a bit creepy. Link not only discusses the creepiness, but also forms a beautiful piece of artwork, where the sister finds herself through the loss of Alex.

There are two portraits. The first is of Alex and Lilli at the piano. An image that without knowing any history of the siblings, conveys an essence of personality more powerful than hours of dialogue. There is an eerie sense of devotion from the dead sibling, where Lilli looks dismissive, uncaring. I yearned for the dead when seeing the portrait, feeling myself a sense of loss. I didn’t feel right looking upon the image, as though I was intruding on a private moment. 

The second portrait removes Alex from the piano, placing him as only an image behind Lilli. Although satisfying Lilli, I felt too much of a disconnection between the two characters. Through investigating this unknown photograph, Lilli discovers Alex’s image in the final portrait is of devotion for her. He truly loved her despite her dismissiveness. I did not see it in the portrait. 

I understood Link’s efforts in the multiple portraits, but felt the emotion in the second attempt fell short. I was incurious of the connection between the siblings, and left the film without satisfaction because of the portrait. Link branched from artistic grieving into a spiritual connection throughout the film between Alex and Lilli, which she managed to conclude sweetly in the final scene when Lilli dances in the snow. 

The question of why Alex commits suicide is never solved. Each member of the family gave their opinion as to why and mourned because they felt responsible, but a defined reason is never determined. And with reason. Suicide is never understood. To pretend that a single reason can be given for one’s sorrows is pathetic. There can be no sympathetic final scene where all is forgiven and understood so family members can move on with their lives. What can be expected is that people need time to grieve. Then they can move on. Never forgetting, but being able to live.

A man walks in to a bar. 

All stories start somewhere. The Brothers Bloom starts with a girl. And two boys. And a story. 

Rian Johnson’s second adventure [after Brick] manipulates and entertains his audience. A well crafted tale of confidence brings two brothers together, with two girls, to tell one hell of a yarn. 

Inspired after some of cinema’s greatest con-men tales, such as Paper Moon, Johnson brings the camera closer to the heart of the confidence men by splitting the common traits of such into two characters; Stephen, the brains, and Bloom, the heart. In this battle between brothers, we see the battle between the desire to be trusted and the urge to use that trust to gain value. Can the brain ever stop working, stop writing the cons, and let the heart live an unwritten life?

Johnson channels a Wes Anderson emotionality within his words. The dialogue is spiffy and quirky. Johnson lays down the punches minute by minute, layering humanality with humourism. Even a character with two lines [and one karaoke song] is directed flawlessly, with each eyebrow lift and wink conveying paragraphs of script. 

Johnson takes his audience on a drive within a different world. He leads us in to a wilderness, confiding the story until we follow where he’s pointing. We give him our watches. 

The characters are purely lovable and we yearn for an ending where everyone gets what they want; a perfect con. 

Johnson has created an iconic style. Inspiration with originality. Brick gave an unique twist on the crime story for a new generation, providing a challenging role for Levitt, which he played up to brilliantly. Another round of unique characters cons The Brothers Bloom. The brothers, in Brody and Ruffalo, are part of a whole in which each man cannot be successful without his counterpart. Rachel Weisz’s portrayal of the girl who knows everything yet has experienced nothing is fresh, and Bang Bang, Rinko Kikuchi, is bang on as a girl with only two lines, yet speaks volumes through imaginative direction.

Step through the looking glass into Alice’s side of life. Although the quirkiness can be out on a limb, it’s better to climb the branch and become immersed than think ill of Johnson’s fairy tale. Your cradle may fall.

A man walks out of a bar $1.75 million richer.

It is every critics dream to see an absolutely terrible film. 

The moment can finally arise from the ashes left after two hours of unbearable dribble to sharpen the pencils and have the vengeance that every audience member wishes to accost the filmmaker with in the parking lot of the theatre. With a tire iron. 

To witness pitiful acting, coupled with dreary cinematography, and a cameraman better left to shooting sex tapes, a critic can vanquish the dreams of a filmmaker with one simple stroke of the key. And it feels so good. To let out the diabolical and callous phrases that brings tears to the director’s eye on Friday morning can make the weekend a little brighter for movie-goers. It is truly a time to be merciless and remorseless.

This was not a terrible film. 

This was Zack. And Miri. Who together make a porno. 

A timeless tale of two life-long friends who have sex while shooting a pornographic film in order  to pay off the insurmountable debt they somehow accumulate manages to be one of the most touching love stories Kevin Smith has ever made. Yes, even better than Jersey Girl. 

Zack and Miri Make A Porno is reminiscent of the time Smith made films about comic geeks who get laid by lesbians and an uncle with a gerbil problem. For anyone who understands that people like sex (and have it) and can stomach over two hundred phrases uttering the f-word in under two hours, you are obviously a Smith fan and will obviously see this movie. You don’t need a critic telling you to see it. You don’t need four stars. You just need to know this is a film that brings back the Kevin Smith era of filmmaking where you don’t get the feeling he’s selling out. He just being absolutely crude. And I couldn’t stop laughing. 

‘Et tu, Brute?’ 

The question of betrayal is indicative of any relationship gone sour. Especially between that of a loyal supporter and harsh totalitarian. The interesting story is in the nature of the betrayal. Author Robert Kaplaw captured the relationship of admiration and disappointment between two people, one an overbearing egotist in Orson Welles, the other a young teenage actor in Richard Samuels, in Me and Orson Welles.

One year before War of the Worlds premiered on radio, Welles produced and directed Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in the Mercury Theatre in New York. A photo was taken of Welles with fifteen-year-old Richard during the production, giving Kaplaw the inspiration to imagine the world behind that photograph. Kaplaw surrounds his characters with questions of morals, the true nature of “the business;” a multitude of bullshit, and sex. 

Richard Linklater bravely entered a world he had never travelled to before. He had been to high school in 1976, Vienna, Paris, and even a baseball dugout with misfit kids, but never had Linklater produced such magic as travelling back in time to 1937. Linklater, teamed with a successful costume designer, set designer, and director of photographer, beautifully tells the story of Me and Orson Welles on screen with an impeccable cast of diverse talent and a beautifully recreated Mercury Theatre. The adapted screenplay displays a witty tongue and immersing tone for the film, but nothing is more immersing than the mimic of Orson Welles done by British stage actor Christian McKay.

From the first entrance of egotism (a personal ride in an ambulance because, according to Welles, there is no law saying you need to be sick to ride in an ambulance) to the last cockeyed comment asking “How am I going to top this?” to a standing ovation after opening Julius Caesar, McKay embodies Welles mind, body, and soul. McKay even claims he was “unbearable to work with” when the cameras started rolling. 

To be the ‘me’ of Me and Orson Welles would be a dream of any individual in the late 30s. Welles was a manufacturer of life in the business, who could just as easily take it away. Zac Efron’s debut as a actor outside of the Family Channel, although courageous, was stunted and unconvincing. A little disappointing, considering this could have been his big break into “real” acting. An educational experience, nonetheless, being next to phenomenal actor Ben Chaplin, playing George Coulouris of the Mercury Theatre company. 

The era of budding Broadway is a fitting backdrop to tell the story of Richard’s breakthrough into acting. A business that is displayed through Claire Danes’s character Sonja “spelt with a j but pronounced with a y” Jones. She builds up young Richard’s expectations only to ditch his heart in the middle of the New York streets by sleeping with Welles to get ahead in the business. Sonja mentors Richard about respecting Welles through dedication and servitude, warning the only way to stay in the business is not to have a personality. The criticism Me and Orson Welles has on the business is subtle yet accurate. Richard’s “in” into acting comes simply from crossing the street in New York and getting involved with a crowd outside of an unnamed theatre. Trying anything to get ahead, being a yes-man, knowing who’s boss, are staples of show business. 

Just as fast as Richard got the job as Lucilius, the loyal servant of Brutus (played, of course, by Welles), it is squashed. Welles banishes Richard from work as an actor after Richard defends the honour of his lover, Sonja. After firing Richard, Welles re-hires him to get his perfect opening night. Welles demonstrates his power over “the little people” by brandishing Richard around like a rag doll, discarding him as fast as Sonja. The only emotionally convincing scene from Efron comes after he learns he is being fired from a cowardly Welles, who refuses to tell Richard himself after the opening night curtain falls. Efron displays a powerful reaction of betrayal from a person he grew close to and admired. He was passed down the line, cut and stabbed, only to finish with Brutus, who shows no sympathy or vulnerability when he stabs Richard and leaves him without a hope of survival. 

I suppose a greeting is required.

Hello.

Enjoy.