Toronto critics award 'Polytechnique'
By Brian D. Johnson - Wednesday, January 13, 2010 - 2 Comments
Last night was the Toronto Film Critics Association‘s gala awards dinner, and I’m still buzzing. Full disclosure—I’m president of the TFCA and this soirée is my baby. With generous sponsorship from Rogers, we launched the event last year, pitching it as the Giller meets the Golden Globes on a more intimate scale. And it’s taken off. Last night the cream of Toronto’s film community, and trio of Quebec filmmakers, gathered at Toronto’s Nota Bene restaurant to celebrate a year in film. All but one of the 2009 TFCA Awards, which are voted by the member critics, had been previously announced. But last night our guest of honour, David Cronenberg, announced the winner of the Rogers Best Canadian Film Award and presented it, with a $10,000 cheque, Quebec director Denis Villeneuve for Polytechnique. The other two other finalists, Benoit Pilon (The Necessities of Life) and Bruce McDonald (Pontypool), were both worthy contenders, but Villeneuve’s film was perhaps the most ambitious of the three. If I can quote my own TFCA press release: “Polytechnique is a film of astonishing courage. Without a whiff of exploitation or crude moralizing, Denis Villeneuve brings a sensitive, unflinching eye to the 1989 Montreal Massacre – an event most filmmakers would consider untouchable. Villeneuve conveys the horrific tragedy of the event while exploring underlying issues of misogyny, male guilt and institutional circumstance. Set in a haunting silence of snow and concrete, Polytechnique’s contemplative drama honours the victims by preserving the mystery of an unfathomable crime, and never pretending to unlock the psychology of the killer. With grace, empathy and a stark, formal beauty, Villeneuve shows how a memorial can be an act of imagination.” When Rogers vice-chairman Phil Lind presented the cheque to Villeneuve, the director confessed, “I haven’t paid my Rogers cable bill.”
No one can accuse Toronto critics of being Toronto-centric. Another Quebec filmmaker, Xavier Dolan, showed up to accept the inaugural Jay Scott Prize for an emerging artist, which carries a cheque of $5,000. This charming wunderkind—who wrote, produced, directed and starred in his much-acclaimed feature debut, J’ai tué ma mère (I Killed My Mother), received the award from Atom Egoyan, who was over the moon with enthusiasm for the film. For the full list of the other awards, which were announced last month, go the TFCA website.
After the presentation, I had a long and fascinating chat with Cronenberg, most of which should remain off the record. But he did point out that there was some irony in him presenting the award to Polytechnique, because after the Montreal Massacre, Toronto Star columnist Michelle Landsberg had the bone-headed temerity to suggest that the violence in Cronenberg’s movies might have contributed to the killer’s motivation.
-
All Along the Watchtower
By Brian D. Johnson - Thursday, March 5, 2009 at 12:27 PM - 6 Comments

MALIN AKERMAN as Silk Spectre II and PATRICK WILSON as Nite Owl II in WATCHMEN
Big opening weekend. Last night I saw Watchmen, the last word in comic book movies. And as I left the theatre, someone pressed a card into my palm promoting the opening of Bruce McDonald‘s cool zombie movie, Pontypool, featuring a Q & A with its star Stephen McHattie—who also has a minor role in Watchmen. On the invitation, Watchmen‘s title was printed in bigger type than Pontypool. I guess that’s called counter-programming. More on Pontypool and One Week later, but now for the main event.
I came to Watchmen as a civilian. Hadn’t read the graphic novel, and didn’t want to confuse my palate by boning up before the screening. Figured I might as well get the benefit of seeing the movie fresh, without knowing much about it. Well, not much except for the media hype, which has tended to dwell on dueling anxieties—on the one hand, fans of the graphic novel were fretting that the movie might compromise its hard-core pulp purity of its doomsday scenario; and on the other, industry types wondered if a mass audience of the uninitiated was ready for an ultra-violent R-rated movie without movie stars that’s almost three hours long and amounts to an operatic essay on Cold War existentialism costumed as an comic book blockbuster.
Maybe I’m just impressionable, but this Watchmen neophyte was, well, blown away. I mean, I think I was blown away. Because this is the kind of movie that tries to blow you away and then asks you to clean up the smithereens and ponder their significance. And Watchmen does seem significant. With brutal ambition, it trumps every comic book movie that’s gone before. Based on a 12-episode series of DC comics created by writer Alan Moore, artist Dave Gibbons in 1986 and 1987, and later compiled as a graphic novel, it’s the grail of superhero adaptations. It’s also the first proudly adult comic book movie, with graphic violence and frontal nudity—at least on the male side. (One of the Watchmen, a the radioactively reconstituted Dr. Manhattan, is a blue-skinned, white-eyed, stark-naked superman who struts around in his anatomically correct, heroically endowed birthday suit like a man-god looking for salvation on a nude beach.) Thematically, meanwhile, this maybe the first comic book movie that finally pays off the dark promise of that first Batman by Tim Burton. It’s not just that its costumed crusaders are anti-heroes. These days, every superhero worth his salt—Spider Man, Iron Man, Hellboy, Hancock—is an anti-hero in a liberal deconstruction of heroism. But what’s remarkable about the Watchmen is that the moral ground they’re standing on is quicksand. And some of them are blithely capable of atrocities, from a brutal sexual assault to the murder of a pregnant Vietnamese peasant. What’s also rare is that this comic book universe is conjoined with a perversely warped version Richard Nixon’s America. The story takes place in an alternate version of American history, with a legion of real-life historical figures (from Pat Buchanan to Lee Iaccoca) showing up in cartoonish cameos that make the Watchmen seem real by comparison. But this is no Forrest Gump. There’s not a lot of room for cozy nostalgia in a movie where superhero vigilantes massacre peace protesters and America wins the Vietnam war. Continue…
-
Blindness, deafness and babbling zombies
By Brian D. Johnson - Sunday, September 7, 2008 at 11:27 PM - 0 Comments
One of the maddening things about TIFF, at least for a journalist trying to cover it single-handedly, is that most the action is front-loaded into the opening weekend. That’s when the big, star-driven movies premiere. The Hollywood studios invite a horde of North American press into town for junkets to promote these prestige pictures , and many of those same journalists have gone home by Tuesday or Wednesday. Which means if you want to get maximum media exposure for your film, you need to show it on the opening weekend. Which makes for a hectic time, to say the least. All this is by way of an apology to say it’s hard to find time to see all the absolutely unmissable films, interview all the absolutely irresistible stars and find time to blog on a daily basis. You’re always running to catch up to a festival that seems to be forever sliding through your hands.
It certainly doesn’t leave much time for parties, even though there are enough of them that you could make collecting bold-face names over cocktails a full-time job. Everyone keeps asking me, “Are you having fun?” Well, I don’t like to complain about life in the fast lane. Hey, I’m not in Afghanistan. But no, it’s not a whole lot of fun.
Last night, however, after screening my last movie, I did force myself to attend a party, even though I wasn’t in the mood. I thought maybe it will be like having sex when you don’t feel like it: it will turn out to be just what the doctor ordered. Continue…















