WHERE THE CRITICS SHINE

Once upon a time, the Toronto International Film Festival was considered the belle of the city’s ball. While it may no longer be the Oscar primer or a lightning rod for celebrity gossip, TIFF remains somewhere close to the top of Toronto’s “glamorous” events.

It’s a takewhat-you-canget syndrome, and what we’re getting isn’t all that bad. TIFF offers an annual slate of hundreds of films, some of them big-ticket items, and many independent, international vehicles you may never see otherwise. But TIFF is also an intense, two-week maze of mixed temperatures, ludicrously long lines, suffocating schedules and a cocktail of exhaustion, hunger, regret and envy. One must have a strong stomach, bladder and feet to withstand it all.

For whom does such a festival truly exist? Beyond the autograph hounds and the movie buffs there are the film critics.

For critics, TIFF is not unlike prom – except this time, they are free to come dressed in their plastic frames, cardigans, ill-fitting jeans and trendy sneakers. It’s a gala for the off-beat. Like reuniting at summer camp, they get their kicks bonding in the back right row of Greta Gerwig’s directorial debut or the new Todd Haynes in between filing reviews at the bar, and going to party after party. It is the recesses of Film Twitter come to life, a narcissist’s orgy in 16 mm.

For 11 days, their hive takes over the city and no bee ever buzzes alone – finally. They are free to mutually navel-gaze and ego-stroke at exclusive invite-only rooftops with sprawling views of the city, where they’ll take an ironic Instagram shot or two. Their voices may ooze an “over it” attitude, but their eyes and hearts scream “OMG OMG OMG.”

Make no mistake, TIFF is for the critics. And that’s okay. For all intents and purposes – whether they admit it or not– no one cares about TIFF as much as the critics. It’s their time to step out of the darkened theatre with their pen lights and notebooks, and shine as brightly as the stars they normally cover. It’s when their opinion matters most. And it’s when they’re working their hardest – each screening, a badge of honour; each cancelled interview, a battle scar.

The film festival is their battlefield, and for 11 days every September, we’re merely collateral damage.