Bloor Cinema

Speaking to co-owner Carmelo Bordonaro, it’s impossible not to detect the fierce independence that shapes how he and his brother Paul run the 800-seat theatre. Bordonaro recites what could be a mantra for all small businesses: “Without independents there’s no diversity; without diversity there’s no choices, and without choices there’s no freedom.”

Although Bordonaro is an independent sort, he’s also a realist. Nobody understands better than he does that the Bloor’s success comes from balancing guaranteed money-makers with independent fare that appeals to a smaller audience. This equation comes from experience, he says. “I’ve seen businesses that have failed because they were screening nothing but artsy, independent films and I’ve also seen businesses that have failed because they refused to take chances on independent films.”

There’s little worry the Bloor will meet a similar fate. This month alone, the cinema is showing the Eminem vehicle 8 Mile, the world premiere of the documentary Songs of Freedom, which examines life for Jamaican homosexuals, and the classic Casablanca.

Besides offering film lovers a multitude of options, Bordonaro believes the Bloor Cinema has been a positive force in the larger community. Discussing the Annex of 1979, when he first became involved with the Bloor, Bordonaro mentions a Toronto Life article from the early ’80s about the commercial revitalization of the neighbourhood. It ended with the line, “Does anybody else think that the Bloor Cinema has something to do with all of this?”

Plus, he says, “For the student community, the Bloor offers good prices and also support for film students. For example, we offer free memberships for York film students and we also have screenings for the Ryerson film projects. As for the film community, we offer cheaper rates on rentals and we also offer a large place for them to screen their projects and the opportunity to reach a larger community.”

Although Bordonaro is clearly in love with his business, he feels the financial constraints of running a rep cinema. His visions of renovations are frustrated by the amount of money required. As he says a couple times throughout our conversation, “Between me and my brother, we work about 70 hours a week and at the end of the day we probably make less than $10 an hour.”

Still, he’s militantly opposed to raising membership rates, saying if he were forced to, “I would raise the membership rates for adults a couple of bucks and leave the student and senior rates the same.” The Bloor, he says, is more than a money-making enterprise. More than just a cinema, even. “It’s not about the movies, it’s about the people. The movies are an escape for people who just come here to enjoy an experience in a communal setting.” —Andrew Chin

Royal Cinema

The Royal Cinema, on College St. in the heart of trendier-than-thou Little Italy, began life as an Italian theatre, then became a Chinese moviehouse before entering its present-day incarnation. It certainly looks different than your average multiplex, with an art deco interior that hints at more prosperous days (or at least days when people gave a rat’s ass about the interior décor of movie theatres). Olivia Go, assistant manager at the Royal, says rep theatres fill a cultural gap. “It’s a much more authentic experience,” she says. “No one’s wearing uniforms around here, or smiling because they have to.”

Another part of the appeal is variety—the usual second-run Hollywood fare, but also classics and cult films—and the prices don’t hurt either. At $6 a pop ($8 for non-members), the Royal is a bargain. With such cheap prices, though, are rep theatres profitable? Go hears complaints once in a while from the management, but she dismisses it as more light-hearted grumbling than serious worries. “Besides,” she says, “even though films are chosen partly for their profit value, profit is not the main motive.”

The Royal’s programmer, Colin Geddes, has created Kung-Fu Fridays, where martial-arts films both classic and obscure are given a rare screening. It draws the Royal’s largest audiences each week. Employee Mark Pesci says it’s more of an event than just a screening.

“Colin introduces each film and then there’s a giveaway draw of movie posters from the films and other kung-fu related memorabilia.” In fact, he got his job through attending Kung-Fu Fridays as a patron. “This is a real neighbourhood theatre, and it’s something we definitely need more of.”
—Dora Zhang

Cineforum

You’ve passed the Cineforum’s notices hundreds of times. Posters advertising a “Surrealist Anarchist Film Fest” or “Sex and Violence Cartoon Fest” beckon you to strange dens, full (in your giddy mind) of acid-dropping revolutionaries in berets.

If you ignore the posters, it may be because you’re worried the experience won’t be something you’re used to. (You’re right.) If you actually come to Reg Hartt’s Cineforum, you might turn around when you see it isn’t an actual theatre, but a house, undistinguished except for boarded-up windows and a Biblical quotation in Hebrew above the door.

If you did turn away, that’s no problem. It’s part of Hartt’s plan to weed out people who are “boring” and “unadventurous”—“the type of people you find in the line-up at Cinematheque or the Bloor,” none of whom “have any balls.” (“You can quote me on that,” he said.)

Clearly, Hartt is opinionated and cantankerous, as you learn when you attend a screening. He usually introduces films with a mini-lecture, peppered with colourful anecdotes and film lore. This has aroused the ire of filmgoers who expect reverent silence before a film. But Hartt enjoys being a provocateur, and his favourite stories are those of how he got into a fight (and won) with this or that irate patron.

“It’s my equipment and my film, so I’ll say whatever I damn well want,” he regularly declares. The audience usually says whatever it wants, too, making for great post-film discussion.

Hartt doesn’t show films in his house to make money, nor does he care about serving the community. So why show his films to people at all? “Because I’m interested in the people who come here,” he said.

“I’m not a collector. Film collectors live in a fantasy world because they can’t deal with real people.”

This non-collector is still a hoarder of movies, however, and owns roughly 1,000. They’re mostly classics, running from Antonin Artaud’s Freudian The Priest and the Seashell, banned for its representation of a sexually repressed priest, to sex-and-violence cartoons featuring Bugs Bunny, to Rudolph Valentino. I saw an excellent print of Fritz Lang’s M there, one of the first sound films made, and it still had the power to unsettle.

Many of the films shown at Cineforum are silent, with scores created by Hartt himself where the original was generic or unfitting. His score for Metropolis, for example, mixes Kraftwerk, classical, and modern symphonic music.

And there are no acid-dropping revolutionaries. You will find people eating Italian sandwiches and sharing cases of Keith’s bought across the road, as well as rescued alley cats and an always-changing stream of tenants who share in discussions.

Cineforum is one of those places that makes a city worth living in, a place where ideas are exchanged and films that usually sit buried in dusty academic libraries are given a second wind. Hartt is a boon to Toronto, whether he means to be or not.
—Sarah Barmak