The Globe and Mail's Leah McLaren on the realities of covering something like TIFF.
Film festival time is upon us here in Toronto and like hundreds of other crusty journos from around the planet, I will spend most of the next several days sitting under the fluorescent lights of the press room in the Sutton Place hotel trying to figure out how to juggle the Ang Lee screening with the Rachel McAdams round table with the Brad Pitt press conference.
Despite what you may believe, it is not glamorous being a cog in the celebrity-making machine. The writers – a legion of flabby middle-aged men in black-framed glasses – are a cranky bunch. The critics, worn down by decades of dross and having their thoughtful opinions ignored, are on intellectual suicide watch.
Even those perky entertainment-show hosts are invariably grouchy beneath their bleached-out smiles. The red carpet has a way of highlighting the devastating hierarchy of fame, and there is nothing more ego-shattering for a local celebrity than getting camera-ready, mike in hand, only to be waved away by Mandy Moore's handlers in favour of a 30-second hit with Cojo.
All of this is to say that while there are delightful aspects to the practice of celebrity journalism (the travel, the odd good film), the least delightful part is interacting with celebrities themselves. And yet people seem to think that one of the side benefits of spending time in hotel rooms with celebrities is that you might, just maybe, end up pals. “Did you like her?” my friends will always ask of Maria Bello or Naomi Watts or whomever. “Did you get along?” “Would you invite her out for drinks?”
Nothing could be more beside the point. Bad things happen to journalists who make friends with stars, as the Sydney Morning Herald writer who was befriended (and was later harassed by) Russell Crowe recently found out. As a Hollywood television director once advised me, “The first rule of show business is don't make friends with the actors.”