The 42 nd Toronto film festival was notable for its strong describe of female aptitude not least an adorable coming-of-age humor directed against Greta Gerwig
It may not have the glamour and feel of party of Cannes, the romance of Venice or the boutique cliquishness of Telluride, but for sheer loudnes and scope, the Toronto international film carnival( or Tiff, to give it its perkily approachable abbreviation) is hard to beat. Even having cut its programme by 20% this year( about 60 movies fewer than previous instalments ), Toronto is a monster of an event.
This necessitates various occasions. The first, and least accepted, of these is queues. Miles of them, snaking around the streets of the city for impedes and managed by systems that border on the Kafkaesque. Punters join them automatically, sometimes without knowing what they are waiting for. But the queues are there for a reasonablenes, which makes us to the second point: the sheer number of sound claims. The timing of Toronto and its width means that it is an ideal platform on which to test whether a prestige claim has the legs to make it a hopeful in the apportions race.
Early marks suggest that it’s going to be another hard-fought duel in the best actress category, with a abundance of meaty, female-driven fibs. And the crowd-pleasing Battle of the Sexes , the most recent from the Little Miss Sunshine sending duo of Valerie Faris and Jonathan Dayton, is top of the list. Starring Emma Stone as tennis player Billie Jean King, the cinema tells the story of the much-publicised 1973 tennis pair between King and ex-champion, and self-proclaimed male-chauvinist swine, Bobby Riggs( Steve Carell, all tragicomic bluster and condescension ). But more than that it’s a love story, in which King, hopelessly smitten with hairdresser Marilyn( Andrea Riseborough ), was necessary to words with her own virility. Stone is terrific, establishing King a steely sweetness and a disarming vulnerability. And although some of the overt antediluvian sexism from the commentators outlined audible gasps from the gathering, the themes- equal salary and equal opportunities for women, LGBT acceptance in boast- remain depressingly timely.
Another powerhouse female produce comes from Jessica Chastain, playing the eponymous center character in Aaron Sorkin’s directorial debut, Molly’s Game . This is pretty much the archetypal Sorkin project- a slick firework flaunt of showy talk and jostling ideas and a main reputation with a witticism that Chastain manipulates like a flick knife. Based on a real-life attribute, Molly is a former Olympic-standard skier passed hostess of unlicensed, high-stakes poker games, who feels herself at the center of an FBI investigation. While Sorkin revels in a few too many self-congratulatory segues and flourishes, as long as Chastain is on screen- and she’s rarely off- the film has a crackling energy and propulsive drive.