Adventures of a film critic in Montreal

 Angela Baldassarre

It’s day three at the 29th edition of the Montreal World Film Festival, and I’m bored stiff. I guess one shouldn’t complain, especially considering that most critics believed the fest was toast after Telefilm removed its funding. But relentless president Serge Losique managed to raise the money, and here I am.

The flight from Toronto was pleasant enough, pity it took nearly the same amount of time for the luggage to be unloaded as it did to fly here. Then the horrid traffic! I calculated that if I took the train from Toronto to Montreal, the voyage would’ve been approximately 5 hours. I was at Pearson International at 12pm for a 2pm flight, and I arrived at the hotel at 4:30pm; for that half-hour, and cost difference, it’s worth the former these days.

The Hyatt Regency is posh enough and right downtown, problem is the Molson Indy is also happening this weekend and by the way some of the guests are dressed, there’s also a wedding. This means queues for the elevators several feet back. I decide to first check out the press room, in the lower level, in the hopes that the elevators will be less crowded on my return.

“FIPRESCI,” I tell the young lady at the accreditation desk, indicating that I’m a juror on the FIPRESCI Critics Jury. “FIPRESCI?” she asks. “What country is that in?” That made me smile. I explain it’s a jury, after which she hands me my press badge, and a bag of goodies including the invitation to the opening night film and party.

I push my way through the elevator and make it to my room where, to my horror, I discover there is no mini-bar! I’m starving and thirsty, and then I remember that the Festival is paying me a $50 per diem for my services. So I call up room service and order a light dinner — soup — and a bottle of Chateau des Tuileries Bordeaux. There goes the per diem for that day!

As I sip my wine, I sit back and make the schedule for the week. We’re to judge the films from the main international competition, and to my delight I notice that all the competition films screen every morning, one at 9am and one at 11:30am, which leaves my afternoons and evenings pretty free.

My plans for the evening is to go to the opening night film, Xiaogang Feng’s “A World Without Thieves” at 7:30pm, and hit the party here in the hotel. But first I want to check out the gym. (Yeah, I’m one of those.) I hop on the treadmill and begin at a steady fast walking pace. I figure I take it easy, as I’m tired, but beside me is this gorgeous looking couple that are running like mad and conversing in French without a hint of being winded. Inspired, or embarrassed, I crank up the speed and off I go. I manage to keep up for 30 minutes, but no more. As I exit the gym, the beauty and her beau are still going at it. Geez.

After taking a nice hot bath, I sit on my bed, turn on “Malcolm in the Middle” and the next thing I know it’s 10pm. I fell asleep and missed the movie! So I head down to the party somewhat scatterbrained, and I notice that somebody keeps filling up my glass with champagne. I’m a married woman getting drunk on bubbly by a French-speaking stranger… and a handsome one at that! I escape to my room.

Saturday morning and I call up my fellow jury members — as the Canadian delegate it’s my job to arrange our meetings. We agree to meet at 8am for breakfast at the café. Rainer Gansera, from Germany, meets me in the lobby and tells me he can’t stay but will meet up with us at the screenings. Chris Fujiwara, from the United States, is lovely but shy, and Christian Monggaard from Denmark is hefty and affable. We like each other, and that’s a relief. There’s nothing worse than tension when sitting on a jury. We walk to our first screening, Roy Battersby’s “Red Mercury,” a British film about three Muslim terrorists who keep patrons of a London restaurant hostage when the police close in on them. “I made this film before the London bombings,” says Battersby before the screening, and the rest was “blah, blah, blah.” Despite the presence of Juliet Stevenson and Pete Postlethwaite, as well as Americans Ron Silver and Stockard Channing, the film was disappointing and unconvincing.

Following a 10-minute break, during which we were asked to seat elsewhere to make room for Greek filmmaker Theo Angelopoulos, who was presiding over the main jury, it was time for the second film, Miel van Hoogenbemt’s “Miss Montigny” from Belgium. This time the producer of the film made a short introduction in French, following which we enjoyed a lovely movie about Sandrine, a 19-year-old who sells cheese in the supermarket by day and does manicures in the evenings. Her long-held dream is to open up her own business and gain hold of her own destiny. But getting the money together isn't easy, and things get very complicated indeed when Sandrine decides to enter a local beauty contest in an effort to raise some cash.

After a quick lunch, I decide to check out the newest film by my friend, Toronto filmmaker Steve Sanguedolce. “I couldn’t get into the Toronto festival, so I’m here,” he tells me almost apologetic. The screening for “Dead Time” was nearly empty, and my heart went out to Steve. A brave picture about four people who recount their experiences as alcohol and drug addicts, “Dead Time” is hand processed and coloured, but some viewers found it a little hard to watch. I think it deserved to be in Toronto.

I take it easy that evening, doing the gym thing again this time sans the pretty bodies to embarrass me. I have dinner in my room, chat with some Montreal pals on the phone, and watch movies until 1am.

At 8am I meet Rainer, Chris and Christian, as well as our fourth jury member, Javier Porta Fouz from Argentina who arrived the day before, for breakfast. They all want to know what’s happening between this festival and the New Montreal Film Festival that takes place at the end of September. I give them the spiel, which justifies the rotten state of the movies we’ve been forced to watch to so far.

It’s a rainy and dark day, and we’re all hoping to see something half decent. Gerardo Herrera’s “Heroina”, about a Spanish mother who rallies other moms to shut down drug dealers in the Galicia area of Spain, is well intentioned but ultimately long-winded and uninspiring. I still don’t have any films on my short list, so I have great hopes for the 11:30am film, Robert Connolly’s “Three Dollars” from Australia. “This is my most personal film,” says Connolly as he introduces the film. “It’s about a bloke who’s fallen on hard times. He’s married, has a kid and only three dollars in the bank.” Funny guy, let’s hope the movie works.

Eddie (David Wenham) is a government employee who has always played by the rules, and expected that his needs would be taken care of as a result. Sadly, government cutbacks mean Eddie, who's pushing 40, is out of a job. All the man has as he walks away from his job are $3 in his pocket. When we walked out of the screening, we were appalled at what he had just seen, a relentlessly dull, unfocused, and terribly performed picture that certainly didn’t belong in a competition. “This is the worst film I’ve seen so far,” says Chris. Indeed. My short list is still empty.

While the others take off for lunch, I head for the “Heroina” press conference. What was I thinking? First off, there’s no one controlling the badges, so sitting next to me are these little old ladies who are staying in the hotel and are certainly not members of the press. I look around, and among the 20 or so people, there are only four of us with press credentials.

Enter Herrera, two producers, an actor and TWO translators. Oh, oh! Not a good sign. A question is asked in French; Herrera answers in Spanish; one interpreter translates the question and answer into English; the other interpreter translates the answer into French. Considering the press conference was only 30 minutes, at this pace only two questions were asked and answered. Absurd.

It’s 5:45pm and it’s raining in downtown Montreal. It’s time for my daily visit to the gym; perhaps a dip in the pool. The evening is young yet.