ROLL OUT THE 'RED' CARPET

VANCOUVER INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL

Press conferences are strange things.

Based on the principals of ceremony, fuss and optimism, the organizers of any great festival collect themselves in front of a podium, make announcements, thank the festivals’ (most generous) sponsors and essentially, cut their hard earned ribbons and celebrate.

These are people who have essentially spent the last year preparing for what will transpire over the course of the next 16 days. And they have much to be proud of. That, and from such individuals, you really get the feeling that they care about film. From the producers to the production assistants. They put a value on story. It’s ability to shape the world. And, dare I say it. Consider the motion picture to be an ‘art form’.

I think very little of the business side of film, but it was nice to be reminded of a few things. The detached optimism one has when experiencing ‘film’ from the other side of the screen is a special thing. But to take that feeling and go through all the hassle of creating a festival around it is pretty cool indeed. That, and one can only spend so long in this business before you get caught up in the nasty side of things. After a while you might actually forget the day, long ago, when you would have sold a lung just to be near it.

It’s good to remember.

Unfortunately, even the clearest pools can become contaminated by the first hand reaching for a drink. Such was the message upon our arrival at the door.

My ‘name’ was on a list of filmmakers. And it was the only name. But ‘with me’ were Madison Graie (Producer) and Jonathan Tyrrell (Editor) and with the exception of Derrick Garland, these people are the very heartbeat of Centigrade. Anyway, my name was checked off, but Madison’s and Jonathan’s were not there. And so, the young lady (who was very nice) at the door began to ‘add’ Jonathan and Madison to the list.

It took only two seconds for ‘someone’ to notice it, dart over and say, “Whoa. What’s going on?”

The young gal at the door explained the situation to which was was replied, “Well, you need to know that we don’t have room for your guests.”

No introduction. No welcome. No hello.

Nothing.

Feeling obligated, I simply replied that, “They’re not my guests. They’re the filmmakers.”

“Oh, well we may not have room for them and you need to understand. So, just so you know. You probably won’t… Oh, and I’m ‘____’ by the way. Just so you know.” And walked off.

This woman had been the one e-mailing us back and forth for the last couple weeks. The one we’d spoken to over the phone. And the one, who in a few broken sentences, rendered herself completely irrelevant.

Why do I bring this up?

As is with anything in life, I’m always interested in the fact that you have people that truly subscribe to the greatness of an event, art form or idea. Then there are those who only come on board to bathe in the wash of flash bulbs. The ‘coordinator’ slash ‘artiste’. The ‘all access’ temp worker. The pay rolled wannabes who grip their clip boards and walkie talkies just a tad too tightly. The power trip.

Granted, we have a short at this years festival, not a feature (then again, it’s better than most damn features but so what?). It is a festival. Try being festive.

Such people are only a small handful (thank God) but they are always there. The ones who could care less about the spirit of film but who once met the receptionist for Telefilm Canada at a party attended by Don McKellar. They only recognize the artistically ‘relevant’ and in an instant you’re back in junior high school.

But we’re stoked just the same. It’s so nice to be able to enjoy this festival as locals. It’s our home town and we’re going to have a blast. Right now we’re scheduled to screen on Sunday, October 7th and Monday the 8th. Sunday in the evening and Monday in the afternoon.

Which is great because if it works out, we’ll hold an after party and invite everyone from the theater to come out and have some fun. (Well, maybe not everyone.)

You know, I love Vancouver, but this town can be so uptight it’s suffocating. Vancouver is the only city in the world where you can light up a crack pipe on the steps of City Hall, but they’ll bounce your ass into jail should you get caught riding your bicycle around the sea wall without a helmet.

It’s very strange living here. Vancouver is such a liberal town and there’s nothing in the world colder or more elitist than the artsy fartsy liberal. And I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s fear. Vanity. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because many of them here dislike religion (well, Christianity really.) And not that I’m any big fan of holy water and pipe organs, but perhaps it explains the greater value put on all things ‘artistic’. Who needs God when you can make a chair out of marshmallows?

But I don’t need God to know there’s big money in it. Tax payer money. Everyone out here knows that if you want some cash, write a script about sex, suicide or heroin (victim based storylines). The commercially driven distributors won’t touch them. But the arts councils and film funds love that crap. The judicators for almost every cash granting body in Canada are off the chart liberals. Not hippies mind you. Socialists. Artistes. Antidepressants. Cater to their prejudice and politic and you can clean up. (On other peoples money of course.)

And I say “SIGN ME UP!!” baby. I’m an equal opportunist. Give me that 3 million dollars for my next film and I’ll wear the Che’ Guevara t-shirt. Tell you that Hitler was a great vegetarian. Nelson Mandela isn’t a Ghadaffi loving communist and that George Bush is a genius. Just give me the script. I’ve been selling soap for years.

I suppose we could have kept going. Hit up the government and played the game. And we probably would have if I didn’t suck so bad at it. I just can’t stand selling out to some college brown shirt who thinks he’s qualified because he once saw The Conformist and Rules of the Game.

Ah. But what the hell do I know?

Think I’ll re-read Pauline Kael’s review of Last Tango in Paris and hit the sack.

‘Night.