Up in the Air

I have a PHd in Loyalty Programs.

Last winter I bought $30 worth of Knorr Soup at Sobeys because of the promise of 500 Club Sobeys points. I accumulate Shopper's Optimum Points with the same fervour that pre-Reformation Catholics accrued indulgences. I regularly transact simply to earn reward miles and If I could, I'd probably marry my CIBC Aerogold Infinite card.

So imagine my delight when I saw a film at the Toronto International Film Festival which deftly weaves loyalty in its many forms through seven strong subplots.

Up in the Air is directed by Jason Reitman (late of Thank You For Not Smoking and Juno) and stars hottie George Clooney as Ryan Bingham, a corporate downsizing specialist.

Clooney is the guy on the other side of the table holding the compensation package that you're getting not because you're "fired", but because you're standing on the precipice of new opportunities. His dispassion for the emotion of his job is turned on its ear when his own high-flying life is threatened...pointedly when he's on the cusp of achieving an incredible frequent flyer milestone.

It's almost impossible to separate the cinematic Clooney from his public persona. But make no mistake. He's too good an actor to give a performance that isn't nuanced.

He's at his best when matched with strong women. Who can forget his onscreen chemistry with Tilda Swinton in Michael Clayton? In Up in the Air, he's at his best with Anna Kendrick as Natalie - the fresh faced new recruit whose hiring stands to ground Bingham -- and Vera Farmiga as Alex, one of the strongest female characters to come along in years. Farmiga is Bingham in female form. She holds up a mirror to his commitment issues. And her independence is to be revered.

Up in the Air is worth a viewing. Even multiple viewings. I'd even go so far as to say that Clooney might get a nom for his performance. A film with a script this tight really deserves an audience.

Sadly, Clooney was a no-show at the Sunday morning screening of the film. I guess he couldn't commit.

Leave this Grass

My candle burneth at both ends these days.

By day I fight crime (or rather, sell people things they don't need) while by night I attend screening for films that may or may not change the world.

The cast has been in attendance at some of the screenings. Some major wattage, depending on your perspective.

Last night, Edward Norton (who is very tall) showed up for his movie Leaves of Grass, along with co-star Felicity (Keri Russell -- who, I'll admit it, I'm a little enamoured by). Rhea Perlman and Danny Devito were there to cheer on their daughter Lucy, who played a small but pivotal role in the film. Other stars in the film who didn't show included Susan Sarandon and Richard Dreyfuss.

Too bad the film sucked. A lot.

I guess "uneven" is a good word for anything that involves Greek tragedy, Walt Whitman, marijuana grow-ops, fish gutting, orthodontists, death by cross bow, an exploration of anti-semitism and the Jews of Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Norton played two roles -- identical twins with different characters. He's a supremely talented guy. But don't mess with perfection. Hailey Mills did the twin thing in The Parent Trap a long time ago.

There was generous laughter and applause from the crowd. Not surprising since at least half the theatre was taken up by insiders. The other half - stony, confused silence.

Anyway, my guess is Leaves of Grass won't make it to theatres in its current form. And if it does, its audience might wish that they were a twin -- the one who stayed home.

It is what it isn't

Can I just go on record as saying that I hate the expression: It is what it is.

It isn't.

It is what you think it is. With our thoughts we make our world.

Life's little balancing act

Over the years, I've struggled with both over and under-extending myself.

I either get so deeply involved in a job or task that I completely ignore everything else around me. Or I hermit myself away in sometimes happy solitude.

There's often no middle ground.

The over-extending myself bit happens when my body fails to give the "enough" signal. It's like when there's a bowl of ju jubes around and I unhinge my jaw like a snake and eat them until I want to throw up.

But the "enough" rarely has to do with food. It usually has to do with energy.

The over-extension can manifest itself in workaholism. Or in over-programming my social time. Committing to too much volunteering. Or spending too much time talking on the phone. (This last bit, you'll note, is a real problem for me. The phone is for me what the Dementors were to Harry Potter.)

Where I struggle is often in recognizing true fatigue when it comes along.

Because I know that I have an innate love of solitude and a tendency to isolate, I'm aware that most social events come with a an element of discomfort...at least for the first few minutes. The challenge is realizing when the discomfort is a true signal to slow down, take stock and re-energize.

It's knowing your tank is empty before you truly run out of gas.

Time to go on a literary diet

Okay, the time for eating candy is over. But what a time it was. I decided to usher Labour Day Weekend in with a couple of frolicksome reads.

The first bit of candy actually had some nutritional value. Swish: My Quest to Become the Gayest Person Ever, by Joel Derfner, is a wickedly humorous and keenly insightful look into contemporary gay male culture. It is at once light and airy, and poignant and heartbreaking. Think David Sedaris, if Sedaris had graduated from Harvard and was working in musical theatre. You don't have to be gay or even male to find insight in what Derfner writes. He's tapped into what makes us the big ball of human insecurity that we all are.

Don't judge me. Okay, go ahead. But I actually ended the summer the same way it began -- by reading the latest installment from our favourite 90210 friend, Tori Spelling.

Mommywood is Tori's account of giving birth to her two children with Canadian wife cheater Dean McDermott and how she plans to do things entirely different than her own Mom, whose name (not coincidentally, is really Candy). It's a real page turner.

I actually like Tori a lot -- even though (or especially because) she's the Queen of TMI.

In Mommywood we learn that when she and Dean met, they used to have sex three times a day. Now, with the kids, they're lucky to have sex three times a week. We learn that when Dean's away, Tori's best friend (the man she refers to as her Gay Husband) sleeps over, on Dean's side of the bed. And we learn of the unfortunate demise of Mimi La Rue, her beloved pug, whom Tori insists actually enjoyed dressing up in frilly outfits every day.

You can borrow them if you want. But I'll tell you -- they're best enjoyed when the sun's beating down and you're happily enthroned on a lawn chair. As for me....I'm breaking out the classics.

Michael Bryant's really bad week

Michael Bryant is having a really bad week. In the same week we buried Ted Kennedy, the former Ontario attorney general is facing his Chappaquiddick.

Bryant is now facing criminal negligence causing death and dangerous operation of a motor vehicle charges, after an angry clash with a cyclist on Bloor Street on Monday night.

The cyclist, a bicycle courier named Darcy Allan Sheppard, spent his last few minutes on earth clinging to the side of Bryant's Saab, before being flung into a mailbox and dying in front of the Bloor Street Sephora.

My heart goes out Sheppard's family. It's a tragic and ridiculous way to die.

But I don't think there's a driver in Toronto who doesn't have some heart for Bryant. Who hasn't come close to hitting a cyclist at some time or other? Who hasn't felt some rage when a cyclist darts out in front of your moving vehicle or feared for your own life or the life of the cyclist when you hit the brakes in order to avoid them?

The particular stretch along Bloor where the altercation happened has been torn up, rerouted and narrowed all summer long.

There may even be a mitigating factor -- media reports today are suggesting that police spoke to Sheppard earlier in the evening after an altercation with his ex girlfriend. Alcohol may have been a factor.

But that's no excuse, really. Along with the legal responsibility of driving a motor vehicle comes the moral responsibility.

Bryant might not serve any time, but his career died on that sidewalk along with Sheppard.

King Tut

This will be short because I'm on my way to a doctor's appointment. I'm also watching my fridge perform a spectacular Wicked Witch of the West number (ie. "I'm melting").

But thought I'd share a little nicety with you.

Part of my beloved membership at the AGO (which is really the best $90 I've ever spent -- I have to tell you) is a free ticket to the upcoming Tutankhamun Show, starting in November. What a steal. My membership paid for itself by the second month, since I regularly stop by the gallery for periods of a half hour or less when my soul cries out for Emily Carr, Lawren Harris or my personal fave, Kurelek.

The Surrealist show (which I think is still on) was terrific -- and even had a a great, rather pertinent advertising component.

But King Tut. That's something kind of special. He's our favourite kind of honky.

So I leave you with this. Click on he title above.