It’s been awhile since I felt like an Accidental VIP. Summer has been pretty casual, but now September is here, and I always feel a new beginning in September. Once upon a time it was because I was an academic and September, of course, marked the beginning of a new school year. Now, however, my lofty ideals have brought me to a new annual tradition: the Toronto International Film Festival. I am moving past the Uma Thurman party this year and checking out some of the films and exhibitions that make this festival wonderful.

Earlier this week I was fortunate enough to have been invited to a private viewing of Road Movie, a film installation from directors Elle Flanders and Tamira Sawatzky. The exhibition examined the segregated road systems in the West Bank, incorporating stop motion photography and personal narratives from the very people who use these roads to create a visually arresting and thought-provoking work.

With three double-sided screens set up in sequence to call to mind the road blocks and checkpoints along the road systems of the West Bank, the installation is a physical manifestation of two nations on opposite sides of the wall, trying to make sense of what separates them.

I spent about an hour viewing the films and listening to the audio pieces, and to be honest, I was left a bit speechless afterward. I wished I had given myself a day or so to digest what I was seeing before interviewing the directors. Nonetheless, and with no small thanks to Elle Flanders and Tamira Sawatzky, consummate professionals who were able to answer the questions I didn’t think to ask myself, I managed to get their take on the exhibit and its relevance to the queer community. You can listen to that interview here.

Road Movie is showing at O’Born Contemporary, in the studio space on the 5th floor of 51 Wolseley Street, until September 18th. There will be a reception with the directors in presence on Saturday, September 10th, from 6 to 9 PM. Check it out—it’s incredible.

As TIFF continues on, I have been at the receiving end of a few invitations to post-film parties. It both tickles me and annoys me that I couldn’t get tickets to any of the films I wanted to see, but I can still gain access to these VIP parties.

Last night the big shindig was a party for Uma Thurman at Brassaii. I was like, Uma Thurman party? Count me in. I have been starstruck by her since I saw her sporting those ridiculous prosthetic thumbs in the horrible Hollywood adaptation of Even Cowgirls get the Blues.

Mikey was like, “Show up at around 9, before the crowd sets in, we’ll take some photos on the red carpet, and we’ll go in. Done!”

So Michelle and I proceeded to get ourselves dolled up for Uma and for Brassaii. I had not yet been to this club, but had been assured that it was “the place to be” by a number of higher-ups at the radio station. In fact, earlier this summer I recall one of my coworkers making a sidelong remark to another coworker that this club was not really the kind of place where one of the butchier dykes at the station would fit in. I believe the exact words were, “Brassaii isn’t exactly a [Butchdyke] kind of place,” followed by some derisive laughter.

As something of a butch myself, I thus felt both vindicated and maliciously pleased when Mike very plainly and publicly offered to me and me alone his invitation to this TIFF party, right in front of the very person who had made that remark. Take that, exclusionist! Fine, I was feeling a bit exclusive myself, but at least I based my elitism on not being a snob, rather than fitting into some heteronormative ideal of beauty. *ahem*

Anyway, so as we were leaving the house, I got an urgent text from Mikey: “Babe, meet me at the corner of King and Spadina and I will let you in. Security’s being a bitch.”

So we went to King and Spadina and met up with Mikey, who was looking very fetching in his black-on-black, if a bit stressed out. He led us not to the front door of Brassaii, as I would have expected, but along Spadina to an alley behind the King Street businesses. As he strode along, seemingly effortlessly picking past the stashes of garbage strewn throughout the alley, he explained that Uma’s publicist was something of a…handful, let’s say. She was throwing Hollywood agents out of their own party, and security was instructed not to let anyone in, even those who had been invited to the event. It was a bit out of hand. He would explain more later, but for the time being, he parked us outside the fence separating the alley from the Brassaii patio.

There we crouched quietly in our fancy pants and suit jackets until Mikey appeared on the opposite side of the fence to let us in through a discreet gate that led in behind the patio bar. We just sneaked into a TIFF party through a back alley. Good times.

I soon learned why Mikey had been so stressed. Uma Thurman’s party was inside the restaurant portion of the building, closed off by a sheer white curtain from the irritated milieu of media folk who had been invited to the event only to be kept outside of it. Apparently nobody is permitted to see Uma eat. The patio was full of disgruntled agents, screenwriters and assorted media personnel in dark blue jeans with black turtlenecks and blazers. One agent complained that she had been thrown out of her own party by Uma Thurman’s publicist.

Apparently the publicist had also called Brassaii about a half an hour in advance of their arrival to demand Mexican food for her charge, although there is no Mexican food on Brassaii’s menu. The publicist, however, was adamant—Uma Thurman, it turns out, is on a Mexican-only diet. That’s a new one for me. I do appreciate a good burrito, though. There’s a Z-Teca down the street, if you want. I am pretty sure Brassaii ordered the food in from somewhere else, though.

The bar had been bought out for the entire week by a certain online social media company, which had hired camera people to film the events for its website. Those camera people were also ousted from the goings on inside the place, even when invited to shoot by guests at the party. This seemed an especially unfortunate choice, because the film hasn’t been picked up yet and doesn’t even have a trailer. In fact, of all of the people I met at this party, nobody even knew the exact title of the film—so one might think that a little bit of publicity on one of the most pervasive social media networks would be welcomed. But…no.

On the glamorous side of things, there were certainly quite a few notable names about. I saw Jason Reitman grabbing some air and texting on the patio. The ousted agent chatted him up for some time, possibly in hopes of regaining access to her party.

Henry Winkler, whose son directed the film, was also there, and let me tell you, the Fonze is no diva. In fact, he was inviting people to take photos with him while he waited for his son to get his coat. Security, of course, nixed the photos, so I didn’t get to pose with him. The best I can offer is this:

‘Eeeeeeyyyyyy. Total highlight of the night. Well, that and the open bar.

Finally, there was a buzz among the media milieu. “She’s coming! Here she comes!” And so, feigning our best Toronto ennui, we banished partygoers sipped at our gins-and-tonics and cut our eyes as though only mildly interested at the Hollywood royalty passing us: Uma Thurman gliding by, escorted by that notorious publicist and an entourage of agents, security burlies, and assistants, with the flash of a pink scarf and that face that stops you and makes you think that the five seconds that it took for her to traverse the length of the patio lasted at least five minutes. She’s just so very, very pretty. It kinda makes the diva antics of an over-protective publicist worth the trouble.

Not enough trouble for me to repeat the process for the Keanu Reeves party tonight, though. I had my TIFF experience, and I think I’ll sit the next one out.

September is film festival time in Toronto and every nightclub wants to be the IT place for celebrities. Mike Chalut, my constant host to the city, has informed me that I am to spend my week at his parties. Who am I to argue with such a charming host?

So last night, Michelle and I had Acey, Mike’s afternoon show co-host, and her girlfriend over for drinks and snacks before we all headed out to Maison, which is holding its grand opening during TIFF. Mike had equipped us all with nifty little cards that gave us access to the place, but we didn’t actually need them, because he was there waiting for us on the red carpet when we arrived. He ushered us in, making a show of pulling us through the crowd lined up outside. It was all very Studio 54.

Having been a person passed over for prettier, more scanitly-clad women in the crowd myself, I am not really sure how I feel about the whole exclusive club experience, to be honest. I don’t really get why anyone would line up around the block to get into Maison, or any place, for that matter, when there will inevitably be another watering/dancing hole a half block down the street anyway. But hey, the drinks were free and I had good people with me, so I didn’t think too much on it.

Inside was a mishmash of style without context. There were classical mouldings along the walls and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but that more traditional décor was paired with modern minimalist white boxes for speakers and bars. There were random things like shoes hanging along the walls, and disco balls punctuating the place. It was very odd. The music was uptempo dance and Top 40, accentuated by these massive LED screens showing the most ridiculous videos, such as a porn-fantasy version of women in prison pressing themselves against the bars for a dancing dominatrix prison guard. I cracked up.

Watching the crowd made for an interesting ethnographic study in the mating habits of straight people. Next to us was a group of men with a couple of women. One of the women, whom I will call Leatherpants for the purposes of this story, was the object of desire of every man in the group. One by one, the menfolk engaged in some sort of demonstration of their masculinity in hopes of impressing her. Some of them danced, some brought her mounds of drinks, some lifted things, and some wrestled with each other for her amusement. Leatherpants was blitzed drunk and enjoyed every one of their demonstrations, without returning any advances.

In the meantime, the other woman, whom I will call OtherWoman, was trying desperately to win some attention away from Leatherpants. She pulled on the arms of the men, downed shot after shot with them, and even climbed up on a table and danced seductively until a bouncer came over and pulled her back to ground level. At one point she finally managed to nab herself a dance partner. Leatherpants saw people dancing and seemed to think it looked like fun, so she joined them, at which point, of course, OtherWoman’s hard-won catch deserted her for the more coveted prospect.

I found myself wondering how these arbitrary decisions on attraction were made. Both women were pretty, and both seemed quite pleased with the company. If it was about sex, OtherWoman seemed very willing and eligible, so why were the men all drawn to Leatherpants? Further study would be required in order to answer that question.

But as it was, my drink tickets had run out and I decided to call it a night. At one point I saw Mike, who had been running around making sure the party was pumping all night, and he reported to me that Ed Norton was supposedly on his way over, but I didn’t stick around to find out if he made it that far.

In general, Maison isn’t really my kind of place. It’s just a bit too straight for me. But despite that, I had a surprisingly good time just dancing and people-watching. I had my Studio 54 moment and it was pretty fun.