Sunday, 12 September 1999

"I have generally stuck to the "don't drink and write" rule, but the pint of Amsterdam Nut Brown sitting next to me is too hard to resist."

The column starts today from Foster's on Elm, a brew pub/restaurant that is serving dinner just before 6 p.m. as I try to take in some of the calm of the Toronto late afternoon while still making it to a lot of movies. I decided to bring my computer with me on the rounds, at least for today, to try to make my schedule work a little better. I was too tired for the 9 a.m. and 11 a.m. screenings that I went to today, but I managed, only to head back to the hotel for a three hour nap which kept me from some of the more obscure titles that I should be spending time with. We'll see how this works.

I have generally stuck to the "don't drink and write" rule, but the pint of Amsterdam Nut Brown sitting next to me is too hard to resist. I could have used a pint during the screening of The Five Senses. Pitched as "the Canadian film to see if you were going to see one Canadian film," it did seem like the one Canadian film we have all seen. That is to say, one by Atom Egoyen. This Egoyen-light meditation on life and death and loss had all the Egoyen touches. Great actors. Small events made bold. And every bit of air sucked out of every scene with such intensity it made me feel like I was going to suffocate. In fact, I think I may have, at different moments, gone blind, deaf, olfactorily lame, out of touch and found my tastebuds on strike. Well, I didn't lose my taste completely. I have enough left to suggest that you see a real Egoyen or perhaps a Schrader rather than this pale imitation.

You know, people walk in Toronto.

7:00 p.m. -- Sorry. Interrupted by two nice guys. I had a great steak out on the street. You don't get to do that in L.A. It's either atmosphere or food. You rarely get both. This was just some joint and it was perfect.

I got to Snow Falling On Cedars and was immediately misinformed about the availability of seats in the second theater. That left me twice as far back in line for the second theater. I'm a bit surprised that this many people want to see this film. There are about 500 seats, an estimated 700 journalists and a bunch of people who have already seen this in L.A. Plus, there are a few early movies with parties connected and you know what party whores we journalists are. Anyway, they are now auctioning off seats in the theater... like cowpokes herding in overpaid cattle. Negotiations continue. I'm going to sign off again until after the movie. I still have to tell you about The Limey, the new Steven Soderbergh movie that I saw before my nap. But now, on with Snow Falling On Cedars.

9:27 p.m. -- Starbucks - Snow Falling On Cedars is like a giant moving coffee table flip book. And like most coffee table books, it is best left out for show, with occasional moments of pleasure taken from looking at the pretty pictures. If there is a true star of this movie, it's not Ethan Hawke, but Director of Photography Robert Richardson, who creates a rather stunning pewter sepia-tone for the film that manages to sometimes trump his achievement in last year's coffee table book of a movie, The Horse Whisperer. But that may be a bit unfair to The Horse Whisperer. I actually liked that movie, much as I hated the cop out ending. Snow Falling on Cedars was more reminiscent of a trip to a dentist who plays great music in the headsets he gives you and has a dental assistant whose tush is worthy of a 45 minute stare, but who, nonetheless, dulls your senses with novocaine and causes you pain that will last for days. My urge to leave this film was even greater than it was yesterday in Rosetta because I knew that there had to be some point to Rosetta, much as I knew that there would never be a point to this movie.

But there is hope. Some people may love this one. People who sat through Come See the Paradise, another sepia-toned look back at Japanese-American relations circa WWII that failed despite a fine cast and a quality director at the helm. (I would call Alan Parker a great director and I haven't seen enough of Scott Hicks' work yet to know any more than he is a solid pro who knows how to work with actors.) The movie does what so many movies seem to be doing lately, which is to mix genres to try and create art. This one mixes the mystery-thriller with the social guilt trip genre. And as so many of these mixed marriages do, it fails miserably. It doesn't take the time to effectively explore the weight of assimilation by the young daughter of a first generation immigrant family nor does it establish the effective structure of a thriller. That is because, in part, there is no real mystery. And like so many other moralistic thrillers, (a small spoiler that I will disguise a bit coming up in this sentence) we, as an audience, are supposed to feel that man not sticking to doing the dishonorable thing after having the power to end the entire saga from the beginning, is now to be honored. All he did was what he should have done. That is just human. Especially when his reason for not doing it is so lame. Just as in The Fugitive, they should have always been looking for the one-armed man themselves. (If that confuses you, see the movie. Or don't. That way, you won't hate me for sending you.)

After that boredom fest, I have come to see a film I know very little about and was pitched by no one. When I arrived at the theater, the mob scene dissuaded me. But they were all there for Dogma. I'm seeing that tomorrow morning at 8:30 a.m., the perfect time for religious comedy. On the first day of Rosh Hashana nonetheless. I'll sit down and write about the movie I'm about to see just as soon as I finish seeing it. Cool, huh? I may get some sleep tonight after all. And that is kind of sad in a whole different way.

10:31 p.m. -- Ix-nay on the op-i-Tay of the ood-a-Fay ain-I-Chay. The Dogma screening was so out of control that the 10 p.m. Top of the Food Chain screening still wasn't letting in at 10:30. So I left. I'll be shooting for the Midnight show.

Instead, I'll write about a film that used some of the same tricks as Snow Falling On Cedars, but actually worked. The film is The Limey from Steven Soderbergh, who gave us Out of Sight last summer. In some ways, The Limey is a step backwards for Soderbergh, who showed that he could make art that had commercial potential, even if Out of Sight's release was botched by Universal. But The Limey is clearly another brisk step in the life of Soderbergh as the artist. The film has that same retro feel that Out of Sight had, but even more unconventional is its freewheeling use of images. Yet you are never lost, never confused, never distracted. Every choice tells the story and Soderbergh keeps in mind one of the basics of dealing with art in movies: don't make the story too complicated. This story is classically simple. A girl is dead. Her father, a "limey" criminal, comes to L.A. to find out who is responsible and to act as the wrath of God if his daughter's been done wrong.

Terrence Stamp is as powerful as ever in the lead. Peter Fonda plays a great role as the grinning egomaniac-trying-to-be-spiritual-despite-his-taste-for-20-year-old-beauties who spends much of his time checking his teeth out in any mirror he can find. And supporting work by Luis "Don't Call Me Louise, You Variety Bastards" Guzman and Nicky Katt, who has the kind of impact that Charlie Sheen had in Ferris Bueller's Day Off is exceptional.

Again, there is Oscar® buzz on this one and I suspect that Terrence Stamp may get himself a nomination. I would guess that Peter Fonda might also, but I had this odd feeling that people didn't really enjoy his Ulee's Choice Oscar® run as much as they'd have liked to. But we'll see. This is another precious film that will have a hard time finding a mass audience. Someone I was talking to got a very sour look on his face when I said that and bemoaned the idea that it wouldn't be a box office smash as somehow an indication of his odd taste. His taste is good. Audiences just aren't interested in subtle greatness. The Limey will join the list of the beloved. It just won't play in Peoria.

12:55 a.m. -- I went to go to the Midnight Madness movie. Because of Dogma, it's not starting until 1 a.m. In the real world, that would be fine. Here, I have an 8:30 a.m. Dogma screening and I'm not about to go on three hours sleep. Sorry, gang.

But here is the good news. The hole in my work life gave me a chance to have some David time. And, do you know what? The more Toronto I experience, the more I love it here. I finally took the time to pick up some Cuban cigars. You can get them in L.A., but I've pretty much given up on smoking cigars in L.A. It's not a city meant for cigars. It's just pretense there. You sit there and talk about not being allowed to smoke like it's some sort of privilege. And for me, a cigar tastes best outside and as often as not, with a beer in my hand. Can't do that in L.A. unless you hang out in a pricey club where you pay for the privilege. Here, I light up and walk. And I watch the city go by. I walk through College Park. I walk up to Yorktown and watch the straight Greenwich Village come to life. I run into friends in the street. I stop for a beer at a pub with outdoor seating and I don't have to fight for a chair because unlike L.A., there is more than one pub here in Toronto.

And now, after two cigars and a breath of life, I feel like me again. That may not seem to matter to you, but what it means to you is that I'm not going to be whining anymore. And I suspect that this will bring you some comfort if you've been putting up with me the last few days. Tomorrow, football season starts and all will be right with that part of the world. Wednesday night, the Yankees and the Blue Jays play for my pleasure in the SkyDome. And I think I may even go visit some of my favorite publicists tomorrow, reinvigorated and ready to say, "no" and even "yes." You can even scratch the "kind of sad" line from the section above because I'm not worried about that anymore either.

Many of you reading this live in smaller cities and towns. But a city that breathes with passion is a wonderful thing. And Toronto is a city that does that. Hallelujah.

Tomorrow: Dogma, Bill Forsyth's sequel to Gregory's Girl, Gregory's Two Girls, Boys Don't Cry, The Girl of Your Dreams and, I suspect, more. Until then...

READER OF THE DAY: Gang, a little light today. Perhaps today's column will inspire you to more e-mail.

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E ME: You know the drill. Just e it.