The view from Toronto started out gloomy enough, but by the end of the first weekend it was almost looking like some kind of Danse Macabre — the film festival at the end of the world.
And I write that with all due apologies for hitting the end-of-the-world button again here. Believe me, I’ve gloomed out even myself here. Even my goth soul is crying out, how about some pink or a powder-blue kerchief with that squid’s ink burka?
I’ve vowed to look for the sunshine that still pokes through (and let the record show I did a whole issue digging up those rays of hope not three weeks ago).
But I’m also sworn to talk about the world as I find it, and as far as this week goes…
Don’t stop here
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