A Tale of the Toronto Film Festival

With more than 250 films to see, there is no one, definitive festival experience. Here's mine.

James Franco in 127 Hours, pre-self-amputation
Chuck Zlotnick
James Franco in 127 Hours, pre-self-amputation

Speaking of expectations: Back in Los Angeles, chatting with a couple of indie filmmakers, I wondered if the significance of the reportedly healthier Toronto sales climate had been overblown. On the contrary, I was told—the market activity at TIFF, in fact, had created a temporary, lucrative window of energy. Suddenly, financiers were eager to make deals, fast. Is this a sign of real turnaround, or is this chaos theory? A butterfly flaps its wings in Hong Kong and it rains in Bermuda; a few companies drop a few million dollars on a handful of films in Toronto and a writer/director in Los Angeles gets financing to make a movie? Like so much having to do with TIFF, it depends on how you choose to see it.

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