Wheelchair-bound fan slapped by rabid gawker as Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson land at Ultra

Wheelchair-bound fan slapped by rabid gawker as Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson land at Ultra

What do Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson have to do with the Toronto International Film Festival? Nothing. And everything. Headlining the eTalk party and closing out 10 days of star-studded excitement at an unofficial TIFF party at Ultra, this tabloid twosome overshadowed the film program and created a pop-culture media circus over personalities, champagne, short shorts and intoxicated blitz. Critics got angry, Torontonians got confused and little girls became violent, trying to push their way to the VIP front lines for a glimpse of the red-headed troublemaker. Our own LiLo sighting and a slap fight with a wheelchair-bound fan, after the jump.

Breaking through the red carpet barrier at Ultra last Friday required strategy and assertiveness. Misguided filmmakers requested entrance with pleas of “I have a film in the festival” but were met with looks of “We don’t care.” We made it in, but, trapped in a sea of US Magazine overeaters, our feelings of success quickly turned to self-loathing, realizing that we too were a part of the shift from groundbreaking films to dolled-up smut.

Shame quickly turned to fear when a skinny, tyrannical 20-something fan smacked a girl in a wheelchair in an attempt to take her prime Lohan lookout. Disgusted and shocked, we pushed through to aid the young slapee, which provoked the out-of-control fan to turn her rage on us. First, she gave us the “L” sign, as in loser. (Who does that? The answer: people who swat at those in wheelchairs.) This was followed by some adamant bird flipping and a couple of empty death threats. Rather than get our face torn off, we scurried through the crowd to tap the shoulder of the first enormous bouncer we could find. The out-of-control Lohan fan was then seized and removed. Phew.

It was a binge gone wrong, and even the washrooms seemed attacked. Toilet seats were ripped off and bowls were overflowing with toilet paper. Smashed glasses littered the floor while groups of girls huddled in stalls professing their love for one another. Kate Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” began to blare, and it was a race to see which clique of tarts could seem the most lesbian, bopping their breasts against each other, grinding down and playing with each other’s locks while guys in tight white T-shirts yelled out, “Oh yeah!”

Samantha Ronson then emerged to take over the decks. She looked like a tough young Mia Farrow who wanted to be anywhere but Ultra Supper Club. We couldn’t read whether the grimace on her face was a look of disgust toward the frothing crowd—which now took on the life of a wild wave pool—or if she had finally realized how awful it is to be the opening act to LiLo’s arrival.

After waiting for three hours, getting spilled on, stomped on and shoved, we were beyond fed up and ready to call this mission quits. Then, with no warning, a train of enormous men pushed us aside, and in the middle of the swarm we saw the guest of honour herself, face glowing and head tilted down. The chosen one was being ushered into the VIP hub. The already unruly crowd became barbaric—fans were standing on furniture, taking hundreds of photos of nothing. Had we leaned with all our might and lifted both feet off the floor, we would have been picked up by the force and moved in the direction of the mob.

Unlike Paris earlier in the week, Lindsay did not do a good job as hostess. She squirrelled herself away in a corner, looking irritated and alone. Hey, LiLo: thanks for keeping us waiting three hours for that. Desperate for air and normalcy, we gave a snarl to Miss Ronson and fled. Queen Street was relatively, mercifully peaceful.—Jen McNeely