For two weeks now I have been visited by three distinct scenes that play in my head over and over again, like back to back commercials. When I’m walking, spacing out, cooking, or mindlessly puttering in the bathroom, they appear in my mind’s eye and play through; like meditation melodies that melt into each other. All three are different but meaningful and have taken up space in my thoughts; dug their sharp toes into the sand of my grey matter. They are poetry and regret imprinted on my brain.

In the first short scene I see a massive dark colored Ford Galaxy, a giant 70’s gas guzzling automobile, pitching backward and forward, trying to slide into the narrow open-air garage, too narrow for this mammoth vehicle, and running over a week’s worth of dog poop on the floor. A cigarette is being smoked to the stub by the driver as he coaxes the beast into the space with careful but awkward precision, like a drunk hand working its way into a glove. He’s in no hurry to see his kids. The scene is black and white: It’s 1970’s Mexico.

Next, I see a middle-aged Italian American tough guy, greased and suited; a chauffeur hired to drive a touring Jamaican-born classical pianist through the deep south USA. It’s the 1960’s and it’s the middle of the night. The driver is standing on some stairs heading downward. He turns to look up at his boss after rescuing him from arrest for being caught in a YMCA shower, naked, with a white man. The pianist, shamed and outed, waits for the reaction of his driver. I can see it and hear it - the chauffeur looks up and says, “I’ve been working in bars in New York city my whole life. I know. It’s a complicated world.” With a nod and as much warmth as a half smile can radiate, he carries on down the stairs. Brotherhood and empathy in one sentence.

Lastly, I’m thrown into a scene with a frantic, professional, middle aged woman blasting instructions into her cell phone, directing colleagues to take over a film introduction that she is late for at an international film festival. Frenzied and scattered, she is running and working her way up the concrete stairs from the bowels of a packed downtown parking garage. Losing her way, distracted, she flings open a heavy metal door expecting to be at street level, instead, it’s a dead end; a closet-sized room. The smell is a surprise to her as much as the sight of a sleeping homeless man with grimy possessions lying at his head and a dark crumpled blanket covering only a third of his body - if indeed it is a ‘him’. She lets the door go and races away to find the actual door to the street, still blustering instructions into her cell phone. The man remains behind the door, undisturbed; she runs off into the glamour and excitement of the festival. It’s Toronto, in 2018.

Two of these three images are from films that played at the Toronto International Film Festival, 2018. The first, Roma, is Alfonso Cuaron’s latest semi-biographical film, and the second is Green Book, inspired by a true story, directed by Peter Farrelly. These scenes are carefully crafted to be memorable, evoke emotion, and maybe even start a discussion. The third, is a memory of my thoughtless behavior on my way to work at the festival one day.

The mission of the Toronto International Film festival is to “transform the way people see the world through film”. That morning I amazed myself. With the dedication of a surgeon mid-procedure, I ignored the community around me and threw myself into the world of make-believe as if it were life itself. I raced off to consume stories created for my viewing pleasure like a hot breakfast after a long night and nothing en route to that meal mattered; an empty hallway connecting me to a cinema. So much art is created to encourage people to engage with the world around them. Sadly that morning, I allowed art to replace engagement.

It was surprisingly easy to run from a real person drowsing on a concrete floor in a parking garage and jump to the service of movie stars waiting to inch across red carpets after exiting large black SUV’s that never pay for parking, but only circle the earth waiting for beautiful people, like mythical unicorns in a secret world.

I was so enthralled by the films I saw at the festival that I made promises, threats almost, to take my kids and family to some of my favorite films when they are released and to spread the word to everyone I know about the entertaining and gripping films to come. It’s my way of giving back and supporting the arts; paying for tickets and encouraging others to do the same. I want to support Bradley Cooper’s foray into directing and music by making a night of A Star Is Born. I will have discussions surrounding race, respect, friendship and saying ‘yes’ to life’s impossible challenges after sending everyone I know to see Green Book. I will contemplate what poverty looks and sounds like for under educated women around the world after recommending ROMA to all the women I know. This was my commitment after the festival; to be more of an advocate for the arts and cinema - even though my tastes are often at odds with many-a-cinephile. Experimental film and I do not see eye-to-eye, and definitely not heart-to-heart.

But I keep going back to that third scene; not from a movie but from my morning en route to work.

Working the film festival, I had many memorable encounters with creative and impressive Hollywood names - some were meaningful conversations, others were all business and pleasantries. Over a glass or two of wine, or bottle or two, I’ll likely share these stories for years. I love movies and celebrity and gaining insights into their creative and privileged lives but the hangover I seem to be left with is the shame I feel for not sharing the story of the unknown person I encountered and ignored. I raced off to camera calls and film Q&A’s for stories that I know are important but at the end of it all, leave me looking up to a screen to see humanity and history reflected back at me instead of looking beside me and deeper still, within me.

The first scene, from Alfonso Cuaron’s stunning semi-biographical film ROMA, is more than a giant car trying to slide into an ill-fitting parking garage. It is the first of many scenes portraying people trying to make things work; to make things fit. It is perhaps most importantly about being a woman and surviving in circumstances beyond our control and navigating a world that is often not made for us: A heart-filled tale of living between the family you are born into and the family you create.

The second scene I replay in my mind is from Green Book. It’s really only a moment on screen but one of my favorites of all time right now. In 1960’s America when race, sexuality and ethnic heritage were calling cards for division, isolation, false pride and hate, Tony Vallelonga, played by Viggo Mortenson, shows intense compassion and acceptance with one non-judgmental “whaddya gonna do?” kind of phrase; “I know. It’s a complicated world” releases his new friend from a life of secrets and struggle to a life without shame, adding a titanium layer to this newly minted, if not completely unexpected friendship we can all learn from.

Both these films are inspired by true events and real people but none can compare I’m sure to the story that lay right in front of me. I could have paused. I could have been more compassionate and at the very least, at the very very minimum, I could have asked him if he was ok. This man in the stairwell.

My commitment to enjoy and support film remains. I will always enjoy the stories and laughs they produce - experimental films aside. Sorry - they’re just too weird for me. Beyond a shadow of a doubt the greatest art is inspired by real life, real emotion, and the layers of human experience that have crusted over our species.

“Filmmaking is a chance to live many lifetimes.”

Robert Altman

I would never again want to waste the opportunity to live the life right in front of me. I will always regret running from that moment and not reaching out to this person who should have had my attention, who entered my story. Or did I enter his?

When Frida Kahlo said, “I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality”, I imagine her stopping to acknowledge many of the people she encountered in her lifetime, to feel their realities and enrich her own. When the lights are up, and the film has yet to begin, it’s still time for me to feel, engage, and be part of a story. It’s not all lights, camera, action for me anymore. I promise.

It’s a complicated world.

By Carol Sloan

If you are interested, two of my favorites :

https://www.dailybread.ca/ (Daily Bread Food Bank)

https://www.ysm.ca (Yonge Street Mission)

If you enjoyed this and would like to read more, please feel free to put your email address below and you will receive a notification when there is a new post. Thank you for reading! You're my favorite :)

Lights, Camera, Compassion