The TIFFing point: last night at 9 p.m., the film fest ended in spirit, if not in fact
We regret to inform you that TIFF‘s party circuit is dead. The knell sounded just before 9 p.m. last night, on a quiet Yorkville Avenue, and it sounded a lot like cougars shrieking. Sure enough, up stumbled a terribly lush twosome. One was big and tall, with badly dyed blond hair and a suspiciously crumpled Holts bag (all the better to stow her flip-flops, we guessed). The other squeezed more easily into her Costa Blanca duds, but by the same token, seemed less able to handle her Jager shots. “Hey you guys! Are you gunna party all niiiight?” shrieked the lightweight into the street. She then added, redundantly, “We’re so wasted.”
With a helpless shudder, we realized: she’s going to talk to us.
“You’re so hot!” she exhaled. “Seriously. Do you know how hot you are? You know, right? Right? You guys, you’re lucky—you better be in love with this one.”
Our two male companions, who are very much in love (with each other) offered polite nods. When we suggested they might not be interested, disbelieving shrieks ensued. We looked desperately for a celebrity—any celebrity, even a Canadian one—to provide a getaway distraction.
At last, Big ’n’ Tall clued in: “Oh, gaaays! Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
“Have you heard of Nikki Beach?” asked Lightweight, earnestly. “It’s on the Park Hyatt! We’re going there now! You should come!”
“Lots of heteros!” added Big ’n’ Tall.
And then Lightweight gave us the clincher: “If you can’t get in—it’s kinda hard—just tell them Lucy sent you, okay?”