by MATTHEW HAYS

Despite all the hype, despite all the stars, despite everything that the Toronto International Film Festival is soaked in, I must report that this year’s event has the nasty, vicious stench of disappointment around it. But a few days in, the entire thing feels like a letdown: yes, there are good movies here—there are always good movies here—but the mark of greatness, and the sheer magnitude of last year’s fest, leaves this one feeling less brilliant than it should. Mark Peranson, editor of Cinema Scope magazine, declared this year’s Cannes the worst ever. The dreck, it appears, continues to spill over on this side of the Atlantic.

Just so I don’t put absolutely everyone off, let’s start with the good news: for Quebec cinema, it’s a banner year here. Most of it has already been released on our home turf, so it may not sound that newsworthy, but the international press is duly taking note. Denys Arcand’s Les Invasions barbares received a lengthy standing ovation as the fest’s opening film; Mambo Italiano also received one; La Grande Seduction is also getting promising notices, as is Robert Lepage for his latest, La Face cachée de la Lune. Gaz Bar Blues got a big honkin’ shot of additional juice for its triple-award-winning round at the World Film Fest, announced on Sunday night.

It’s also worth noting that the Rest of Canada (ROC) is also having a tremendous year, including Guy Maddin’s The Saddest Music in the World (starring Isabella Rossellini), John Greyson’s Proteus and Carl Bessai’s Emile generating loads of buzz.

The big international film news is that Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides turns out to not be a mere fluke. Coppola has clear and undeniable talent, something driven home by her second feature, Lost in Translation. The film has Bill Murray, in what is probably his best role ever, as a washed-up action movie actor who’s stuck in Japan to do some soul-destroying TV ads for a whiskey brand. He’s hilarious, but also shows a tender side as he meets up with Scarlett Johansson. Despite the age difference, the two end up bonding over the fact that they’re both suffering from distant-spouse syndrome. Both funny and melancholic, Lost in Translation is a fine addition to the Coppola family’s film vault. Sadly, Coppola is completely worn out after the Venice festival, so she’s been giving monosyllabic interviews to journalists while here.

Great Scott

Ridley Scott was also here, basking in his own double-whammy glory. That’s Sir Ridley, I should say. The newly knighted filmmaker told me that when he received a letter asking him if he’d accept a knighthood, he thought it was a joke and almost threw the flipping thing out. Then he noticed the address, and the fact that it looked rather official, and says, “Yes, it was sweet. I accepted, of course.” Scott is being fêted with the world premiere screenings of the 25th anniversary edition of Alien, his ’79 horror-sci-fi-suspense masterpiece. He was also here for the premiere of his surprising comedy Matchstick Men, a pleasing conman movie starring Nicolas Cage that’s truly worth catching. It’s also one of those films you don’t want people telling you too much about. Just see it. (It opens this Friday, Sept 12.)

Of all the films I’ve seen at this year’s event, nothing left me more shaken than the latest offering from French philosopher/filmmaker Bruno Dumont, Twentynine Palms. How twisted can one movie get? There were plenty of walkouts for this, a seriously controversial film about two souls wandering about in the desert, screwing like mad and—well, I wouldn’t say I’m giving too much away to say that, despite its Euro director, the film is inspired by American trek movies like Deliverance and Easy Rider. I staggered out of the cinema after sitting through this. Love it or hate it, Dumont has fashioned the most audacious film of the year. He could be heard spouting off about American foreign policy, suggesting that Europe and North America aren’t any more democratic than any other places in the world. “The British were overwhelmingly against going to war in Iraq,” he said to the press. “Why did their government go along with it anyway?”

Stink bomb

But enough light, frothy fun and games. Now comes the inevitable: the bad news. And brace yourself, it’s bad. Nicole Kidman coproduced Jane Campion’s latest film, In the Cut. Originally, Kidman was supposed to play the lead. However, dear Nicole explained that the reason she didn’t take it on in the end was because she found the material too scary. I later saw the film, and that’s got to be the biggest pile of bullshit ever. Nicole clearly bailed because she read Campion’s script!

This is a true, bona fide cinematic catastrophe. In the Cut is a ludicrous film, in which Meg Ryan (who took over the lead from Kidman) stars as a struggling author and teacher living in Manhattan. After a murder nearby, she’s interviewed by a cop (Mark Ruffalo) about anything fishy she may have witnessed. The two end up shagging and talking dirty. What follows is some bizarre attempt by Campion to create a mysterious, intensely symbolic film noir. One of the biggest duds I’ve ever seen, the press screenings were packed and—undoubtedly because Campion’s name was on the film—very few people walked out. But as the final credits rolled, loud hisses could be heard from approximately 40 of those assembled. I’ve loved Campion’s work, especially Sweetie, and even Holy Smoke, a film many hated but I loved. But In the Cut is so bad, it’s virtually unforgivable. I couldn’t wait to get out of the cinema and 200-odd other critics had the same idea—there was a veritable stampede for the door during the final credit roll. Campion must have switched pharmacists or something.

In other disappointing news, though not quite as dreadful as the Campion update, is The Company, Robert Altman’s film about the goings-on behind the scenes of a great American modern ballet company. Those of us eagerly awaiting that great-unmade movie about dance will have to keep waiting. This film is so light and empty it makes Ready to Wear look like Nashville.

Another disappointment comes with The Station Agent, a treacly, maudlin entry about a dwarf who finds himself heir to a train station. He goes to live there and encounters various lost souls. As only happens in movies like this one, the disparate souls end up bonding and becoming a kind of chosen family. This film won a bunch of honours at Sundance, including an award for its script, which I find truly amazing. Those Utahans really seem to like things very, very sticky and sentimental, I suppose. Still some nice performances by Peter Dinklage, Patricia Clarkson and Bobby Cannavale.

So as not to end this on an entirely sour note, there have been films worth looking forward to this season. Errol Morris returns with the beautiful, if extremely disturbing The Fog of War. John Sayles assembles another stunning ensemble in Casa de los Babys, including Daryl Hannah, Rita Moreno, Marcia Gay Harden and Lili Taylor. And keep your eyes peeled for the release of I’m Not Scared, a super smart little Italian shocker and nail biter that played both here and earlier at the World Fest. And while The Human Stain isn’t quite as good as the original Philip Roth novel, it is still well worth a gander, if for no other reason than to see the rather surreal casting of Kidman opposite Anthony Hopkins.

The Toronto International Film Festival
wraps this Saturday, Sept. 13

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