The Toronto Film Festival officially ends tonight, but for the few journalists still lingering here, the party was over two or three days ago. I haven't had a problem getting into a press screening since Wednesday - unlike the first half of the festival, when you had to show up at least a half-hour early if you hoped to snag a seat.
I wish I could say that the extra elbow room gave me the chance to catch some worthwhile movies, but most of what I've seen over the last 48 hours has been on the level of Bonneville, in which Jessica Lange, Joan Allen and Kathy Bates play three Mormon women who go on a road trip from Utah to California in a Pontiac convertible, a la Thelma and Louise, and raise all kinds of hell, like drinking coffee or laughing so hard inside their motel room that they disturb the neighbors.
It's always strangely fascinating to watch good actors in a bizarrely bad movie, although the novelty wears off after 30 minutes or so, and you start wondering why, exactly, you're forcing yourself to watch the thing. The best moment in Bonneville came when the hapless heroines are stranded by a flat tire in the middle of the Utah salt flats and they see a figure on the horizon approaching. The critic sitting next to me leaned over and whispered "Maybe this is going to turn into Wolf Creek," which momentarily got my hopes up. Alas, it was not to be.