The Tragically Unhip

As our train pulled into Union Station in Toronto, just in time for us to attend the closing festivities at the Toronto International Film Festival, I caught a glimpse of the CN Tower aglow in hues of red, white and blue. Fido sent me a text message: “Welcome to the United States of America!”

It was fitting, I suppose, because this week of all weeks, “Hollywood North” was literally just that. It was, in fact, my reason for going. I, a budding screenwriter, along with my actor boyfriend, Julien Elia, considered the trip to be an excellent networking opportunity, as though we were saving several hundred dollars on a trip to Los Angeles and not having to deal with customs. It was going to be the best of both worlds: industry professionals, movie premieres, and Williams-Sonoma, minus the weaving freeways, bad food, and random shootings.

Not at all to our chagrin, we did not meet or even catch a glimpse of any celebrities (so don’t ask). But the city was bustling with anticipation; everyone had their eyes peeled while shopping or dining, eagerly in search of a familiar face. I stood at the fixings counter at Starbucks, putting some raw sugar into my medium roast, when a woman approached me, having overheard me asking the barista where I can find a good cupcake in the city. The woman recommended Pusateri’s on Yorkville and Bay (she was right; the cupcakes there were terrific), and then told me that her friend wanted to know if I’m Sophia Bush. (I guess I was having a good makeup-slash-hair-slash-everything day.) Then, while enjoying my cupcake on the terrace patio at Pusateri’s, icing all over my face, a man stood on the corner with his friends, looking at me from the corner of his eye, and I heard him say very distinctly, “I know that girl.” No, he didn’t. And there are two reasons why. The first is that there were no celebrities left in Toronto by the closing weekend except for Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, neither of whom had films at the festival (thank goodness), but who were hosting flashy parties at exclusive clubs. The second reason is of significantly more importance to me, not as someone who cares much for celebrities (except, perhaps, Edward Norton), but as someone who is interested in the Celebrity, as well as human nature: You’d be hard pressed to be within five feet of a celebrity at TIFF, even when they, ostensibly, are swarming the city.

At the closing gala film, The Stone of Destiny, I had the opportunity to speak with a couple who had attended the eTalk opening party which was held at the CTV headquarters on Queen. They were on the guest list.  They put on their Saturday night best. They waited in line. They spent an outrageous amount of money on a bottle of Skyy Vodka. And then they realized that they were in the Civilian section of the party. A staffer tuned a television to CTV, and everyone present had the treat of watching all their favourite stars walk the red carpet (which was just outside) on television—something they probably wouldn’t have bothered doing if they were actually at home. They then realized that the Celebrities were attending the party in a separate area of the building, and the Civilians were not allowed in.

I witnessed another version of this at the closing gala cocktail party held at Metro Square. The enormous, canopied space was split in two, with one side—the larger side—dedicated to Normal People. The other side was smaller, but had actual tables so that the ladies (not including me) didn’t have to shift and teeter around in their high heels. I cozied up to the doorman. “What’s the difference between those people and us?” I asked him. He smiled. “White wristbands.” “OK, and what’s the difference between the people with white wristbands and us?” “They’re the big people. Producers, sponsors… they like a space just for them.” It didn’t matter if my outfit and accessories came out to a month’s rent, or that just getting into the party cost me an arm and half a leg—I was still too common to be in their midst.

After the screening of The Stone of Destiny, Julien and I descended the stairs from outside the balcony section to head over to a small party at the Windsor Arms hotel (the birthplace of the festival). As we approached the doors to head out into the rain, something happened. Actually, two things happened. First, the guy from the Rogers commercial checked out my boobs. Then, perhaps more significantly, the Talent emerged from the theatre and large bouncer-type men stopped us in our tracks, hung a red velvet rope across the hallway, and kept their arms out so that the Talent—the Haves—could exit without coming within five feet of Us: the Have-Nots.

This is what I’m going to remember about my TIFF experience. When I had initially gone to inspire myself, to show myself that my dreams aren’t as elusive as they seem, what I left with is the unsettling feeling that I am a Nobody, and that while my dreams are only five feet away, I can’t get past the fat guy without a white wristband.