Later, I rushed from a haircut to a screening of Walk the Talk at SIFF Cinema and then to see the extra presentation of For the Bible Tells Me So at Harvard Exit. In my haste to get across town, I flagged a taxi and learned about my driver's ongoing project to write the first textbook of Somali grammar on the way. I'm glad that decided to scurry around for the last day of the festival -- both movies were good, probably somewhere in the top half of my nonexistent rankings.
At the SIFF closing gala, the food disappeared before we could make it to the buffet. The bottles of Bombay Sapphire at the bar, however, were bottomless; so you can guess how that party turned out. We mostly congregated on the balcony, keeping warm under the heaters, trying to spot famous people, occasionally being confused for famous people, and fending off the mango pastries being peddled by the Pan Pacific Hotel staff.
We managed to leave a little bit before the authorities started expelling late-stayers and I was guilted into making the long hike up the hill. The three week festival is kind of like camp; sometimes it's hard to say goodbye. Particularly when there's an open bar.
Friday and Saturday was also sorts of SIFFy, but I already posted a pretty journalish thing about it elsewhere [metblogs]; so you might as well click over there if you're interested in hearing a little bit another gala, Cthulhu, Sex and Death 101, One Day Like Rain, Arctic Tale, Miss Gulag, the Fremont Solstice Parade, and a partygoer in a light-up jacket with fire sticks. As you can imagine, I was so afraid that he'd set them ablaze and start spinning them around.
I might have forgotten to mention that I also chatted with #18 from that silly suitcase gameshow.