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Nose down, night buses carry them through Toronto, zero dark whomever with a press pass. Nine a. Anywhere else in North America, movies wake up around 11 am, the festival life is unreal to them, fleshless.
In the multiplex bathroom I raise the toothbrush to my tender gums and think, If I see blood, I share it with Boonmee. Cemetery of Splendour is an immediate highlight, a gracious host that leaves all its rooms unlocked while it runs a bath somewhere out of sight.
It serves as a festival-city experience in microcosm: rangily spiritual, smiling weakly on an empty stomach, reassuring us that the great mysteries are soluble. The top films at the box office over the festival weekend are The Visit and The Perfect Guy , both breakout hits.
Toronto teems beside them, keeping its own shoptalk sequestered to the Ritz. I consider the rolodex of awards movies at this festival, the known-unknowns. Spotlight has the righteousness; Room , the intimacy; 45 Years has Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay, both great, and an attention to bourgeois texture that rivals James Salter; The Martian finds ecstasy in the labor of nerds.
