TIFF 2012 - Condensed Mayhem - Volume 2, Connect

I see movies all the time. I love the whole all of it, from trailers to Awards Season and everything in between.  You'd think, after all these years and all these films that it would get old, tired and boring.  Another movie?  This again? But it doesn't and I'm thinking now that it's because of TIFF.  Every year at this time I see movies with a bunch of other special weirdos who love this as much as I do.  The buzz in the air at a TIFF screening is electric - you can sense the excitement of knowing that we're sort of in on something - and it charges you up utterly and completely.  Of course these special weirdos I speak of are my friends, but as we know, like finds like ...

Here we are again.  Left aisle, half way up at the beautiful and historic Elgin Theatre.  I'm jacked up.  MARION IN THE HOUSE.   Cres whips out her iPad and wants to test out the camera, on me.  Of course.  Whatever!  I'm not posing.  I'm looking around laughing and mostly looking and she snaps this:



Before I can see this gem for myself (totally ridiculous & hilarious, right?) a fellow behind us says "oh my gosh - that picture is so cute" ... and after many, many, many laughs, FBfriending and swapping of TIFF war stories, we discover that the iPad is the most perfect sleath camera.  Ergo, this completely awesome shot:

Classic, classic TIFF - a pair of special weirdos meet a similar pair of special weirdos and together find and an even special-er weirdo.

Thank you Scott & Andrea for a most entertaining pre-screening laugh party.  Cres and I are so happy we chose to see Rust & Bone.  ;) 

Rust & Bone
Marion Cotillard

This film was a manifestation.  A manifestation of loss, self pity and the worst kind of anger - the physical kind.  At times most difficult to watch, yet always riveting due to the power of Marion Cotillard and her impossibly expressive face.  I'm not side blinding on this one.  Yes, I absolutely adore her.  And, now more so because of her willingness to not play to her obvious.  This wasn't a 'let's get ugly Charlize/Halle Oscar Bait' part - this was still Marion, but Marion dialed down real and raw.  She tied the film together for me, gave it a soul and as she resurrected herself out of her own tragedy, we, too, rose with her - powered by that impossibly impressive, beautiful, face.

Next up .. Shady Pines & 7 Crazy People.  Confused?  Stay Tuned, we've only just begun!

TIFF 2012 – Condensed Mayhem – Volume 1, Merry TIFF-Mas!

Dim the lights!

Cue the music!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! 

Really, you say?  Better than Christmas? 

Yes!  Yes, indeed!  Just a tad, just a sliver, yes, just a bit!  Because all the money you spend on TIFF is just for you! And you get presents every day for eleven days (that makes it even better than Hannukah!)!

Merry TIFF-MAS!

This year we really wanted to dial it down.  But you know what happens, right?  You get caught up and sucked in and before you know it you’re seeing 18 movies and taking time off work and are caught up in it all again!

Merry TIFF-MAS!

I’m looking forward to much this year:  my girl crush Marion; my boys Ewan & Colin & Jason; the hope that I will actually like a Terrence Malick film; the potential train wreck of Cloud Atlas; Violet’s Annual TIFF Birthday; sleepovers; my Mom’s first TIFF; exit Grace, enter James and all of it – the buzz, the hype, the dashing around town … it IS the most wonderful time of the year!

Merry TIFF-MAS!

Tonight we kick things off with the premiere of Rust & Bone, starring Marion Cotillard.  She of my number one girl crush.  I had no idea what this movie was about until yesterday – Marion portrays a woman who somehow loses her legs and needs to find the love within herself to let love back in, all the while looking ridiculously gorgeous, or something like that.  I hate movies like this.  I can barely get myself together with all four limbs, what the hell?!  But, she’s Marion and she’s brilliant and starting off the festival with an odd one is always a good idea.  It gets you thinking about bigger things, other worlds and people, their struggles and challenges which are more often far worse than your own.  Amidst all the frenzy surrounding TIFF, that’s always at the core for me – powerful messages shrouded in entertainment.

Merry TIFF-MAS to all, and to all a good 11 nights!

Gotta Be

Do you read your horoscope?  I do.  Religiously. I know, seems kind of dumb for a ‘prove it to me’ person like me, but whatever it's usually pretty fun. 

Over the last little while though my horoscope has been major doomsday.  Apparently, my life is in major turmoil.  I have no direction.  I am searching for something that I cannot find.  I need help and focus.  I am lost on life’s great highway. 

Well, doesn’t that just suck?  Do these people know I am to be the hip hip hooray of the horoscope world?!  I can’t have this!  I’m better than that!  But am I?  It IS true that  lately I have been feeling out of sorts – not majorily, but somewhat.  I’m mopey.  Oversensitive.  I’m not really in the mood for anything.  It takes some effort to get me going.  I have tendencies of all these things, sure, but they just seem to be manifesting at the same time right now and it’s lasting way too long and I don’t like it.  I thought I was just tired, so I bow out of plans and then sit at home sulking, wondering what kind of fun all my friends are having without me.  I thought I needed a project to work on so I think I should move but then wonder where will I go.  I’ve been feeling annoyed at work so I figure I should look for another job but then realize I don’t want to do anything else.  I’m feeling beat up.  And restless.  What is going on?     

And amidst all this, when I’m really wondering what happened to happy-go-lucky-me and when she’ll come back, I read this:

“You may be lacking motivation right now, Sagittarius. That's because you haven't formed a formal definition of where you want to go from here, and who you want to be when you get there. That's why you need a personal motto that will capture your plans for your future self - something very positive and dynamic. Your new motto, which should announce your intentions for the kind of success you seek, will become your mantra. Once you've identified that, your path forward will be very easy to find and follow.”

What the hell is this supposed to mean?!  I know, I know.  It’s a horoscope.  Big deal. But seriously, this encapsulates so much of what’s wrong right now it could maybe turn things into something right.  A little focus, a little look forward.  It could help, at least a little.  Of course I’m now thinking about this all the time but nothing seems to jive. I don’t know what my intentions are.  I don’t know what I’m seeking.  Finding a mantra sure is tons of pressure. 

And amidst all this, when I’m really wondering what will ever happen to happy-go-lucky me and what if she never comes back, I hear this:

Yeah, I know.  It’s just a song.  I still have no idea where I’m going or what I want or why I’m feeling this way, but I know (I know!) that I can be all these things.  I can be bad and bold and wise and hard and strong and cool and calm.  Will love save the day?  Doubtful, but you know what, who the hell knows.  And if I am these things maybe it will.  Maybe I'll just figure it all out in my own sweet time. 

Right?

Oh, no. You. Didn't.

"Do you have kids."

"No, I don't."

"Oh, that's okay."

Oh, yes.  She. Did.

Aw, shucks, lady, thank you for legitimizing my lazy womb. 

Many Me's

I remember those days when I was little and my Dad would tell me I was the prettiest little girl in the world. I believed him because he was my Dad and why would he lie to me and of course I was.  OF COURSE I was the prettiest girl in the world.  Until I found out I totally wasn’t.  Far from it.  This was crushing if only because the reality was delivered by that super cute boy who called me an ugly fart face. Stupid Rudy Sarchuk.

Anyway.

Whether I was the prettiest girl in the world in actuality didn’t really matter because my Dad thought I was.  That’s all that really mattered.  To be fair, my Dad didn’t spend his days building my ego to epic delusional proportions, he was being a Dad with his little girl.  It was pretty awesome, even though after those little girl days it took him almost 30 years to call me pretty again.  I guess, in a way, that’s pretty awesome too.

Anyway.

I’m thinking now what would have happened if my Dad was telling other girls that they, too, were the prettiest girls in the world.  Finding out that it was no longer just me.  I wasn’t the only one. I wasn't special or any great shakes.  In fact, there were many me's.  Monumentally crushing is what it would be.  

Dads would never do this, but other people can.  They have the power to build you into  something special and just like that beat it right back out of you.  You’re not all that smart or fun or pretty or special – did you really think you were?  You’re just like everyone else.  You?  Ha.  As.  If.  I suppose how much power these people yield depends on how much power we give them.  It only matters if they matter to us.  But they always matter to us.  That’s why it hurts.  Not because it’s true, because, really, we are all nothing special, but because we would all like to be something special for someone at some point.  But if there’s no vice there’s no versa.  So for every Dad, there’s a Rudy Sarchuk. It just seems these days there are far too many fucking Rudy Sarchuks.

Fail

Last week (okay, precisely13 days ago actually but really who is counting?) I auditioned for the Conservatory Program at Second City.  As per their website, the CON (as those in the know call it) program is:

“… an exciting journey of study through the Improvisational methods developed at the Second City over the last 50 years. It is a 12 month program that explores Improvisational performance and its use to create content. Conservatory students move through 6 levels of study (once a week, 3 hours per class for 7 weeks). Students will learn to re-improvise and to write on their feet. Upon graduation, Conservatory students will have created an original Second City style revue with original sketches, songs and monologues.”

The Creative Team is basically forming a cast of 12 students, picked from about 50, who work together on a show for a year. The prospect of this is scary – 12 strangers forced to bond and build something from nothing, using only their wits and smarts - but also incredibly rewarding.  I want in.

So, audition I did.  The audition itself wasn’t hard.  Simple exercises I’ve done in class a zillion times.  But of course they don’t go the way they do in your brain.  What does?  I’ve prepared myself for anything (mainly a big NO) and thankfully, being the reigning Queen of the One Date Wonders, I can completely deal with rejection.  I am hard.  I am tough.  And I became this way by developing my own Defense Strategy Manifesto.  Read and Learn, Grasshoppers.

I Cope, Therefore I Am

Get it Out of Your Head

This never works.

Undermine The Shit Out of It

Who the hell wants to get into CON anyway?  It’s so lame.  So much work.  For what? Have you seen some of the people that get in?  They suck!  The new cast is terrible – who’d want to play with them?! 

Make Crap Up

This is a good one.  Like pretending the guy you really dig but doesn’t dig you is gay.  I heard that the CON program is actually a front for Scientology.  No jokes. 

Downplay Your Desire

So, yeah, I just auditioned because I had some time to kill.  No big deal.  (My shoulder hurts so much from shrugging I think I need to go to physio.)

Create a Cult of Lunatics (that you are not part of).

What a bunch of hipsters.  Can you be too cool?  Get jobs people!  Must we be ON all the time?  Is it possible to have a real conversation?!  We do not need to be funny and witty and wry all the damn time!  What is with your hair?!

Suck It Up, Fucko

And when all else fails, we have honesty.  I want this.  But we know that want isn’t enough.  Not in this cold hard world.  You need talent and luck and the stars need to align just so, but mostly you need talent.  Am I good enough?  Some days I think “hell, YES” and other days I think “man, do I SUCK”.  So, we wait and I’ll put on a resilient big smile face when I get the news because that’s just what’s done.  Dealing in general is what sets you apart.  If I know myself, I know I’ll be bummed for a bit (a long bit) and then I’ll pick myself up and try again.  And maybe, just maybe, in a semester or two my want will match my talent.  Here’s hoping.

So, yeah, I didn’t get it. Whatevs.  Seriously, who wants to hang with a bunch of hipster Scientologists for a year anyway?

Belong

Most of us spend a great deal of time looking for our place in the world.  This starts pretty young and often times lasts quite nearly forever.  If you’re lucky, your family provides this feeling of acceptance but ironically when you’re growing up they are the last people you want to get it from.  Growing up Greek-Life-Large in Whiter-Than-White-Bread Etobicoke was tough.  Fine, fine - not Crips vs Bloods tough but tough enough for mild, suburban Toronto.  We were the strange Greek family with the impossibly long name who spoke really loud but were never fighting in a language no one understood.  My brother and I could never understand why we never had lunches of  Kraft Dinner, but instead a strange concoction of scrambled eggs & french fries  We were so hard done by.

It’s really unnecessary to dig deep into these feelings of odd man out.  Look no further than the monstrosity of this name of mine:  Olga Constantopoulos.  Really?  4 + 15 = 19 letters of torture.  Spelling it, pronouncing it, spelling it again.  Only now can I be somewhat positive and thank it for my above average spelling skills and mildy annoying over-enunciation tendencies.

How in the world do Greek parents name their child Olga?  How does anyone name their child Olga?  How can you allow your child to make their way in the world by conjuring images of husky weight lifters from the Eastern Bloc, so mean, so stern? Sadly, we do have much in common:  grunting during any forms of physical activity; frizzy hair and disproportionate sized-thighs (one set filled with muscles, the other, Menchie’s) – there is nothing like projection.  Aside from all that, it’s just odd and nowhere was this more felt, by me anyway, than those kitschy touristy kiosks where everything you every thought you wanted has your name on it.  Well, not MY name.  YOURS for sure.   I’d wander and turn the stile hoping that after a Norman and before an Olivia would be me – an Olga to take home for my own.  Never if ever. 

I stopped looking ages ago. Who needs that stuff anyway! I’ll order my own personalized everything, thank you very much!  And I do, way too much! But you know, sometimes you just wander and you find yourself in front of a turnstile and you think, ah, what the hell, let’s feel like an outcast again.  Until, one day, you find this:

Is it more perfect that it’s Harry?  Of course it is.  Is it silly and childish that as soon as I saw it I ran over to my brother and he said “Olga, that’s so cool I’m buying it for you.”  Of course not.  He understands. 

Your family always does.