I can still feel the September air of 1984, crisp with possibility, as I lean against the brick exterior of the Varsity Cinema. Not that I was actually there – I was barely four years old – but the story has been told so many times by my film professor father that it feels like my own memory: the night Harvey Weinstein allegedly threw a phone at a festival volunteer who wouldn’t let him into an overbooked screening.
“It was like watching a grenade go off,” recalls David Cronenberg, whose film “Videodrome” had screened at the festival the previous year. “Back then, TIFF wasn’t the polished machine it is today. It was scrappy, chaotic, beautiful.”
As the Toronto International Film Festival marks its 50th anniversary this September, it stands as both a mirror and architect of Canadian cultural identity – a journey from humble beginnings as the “Festival of Festivals” in 1976 to one of the world’s most influential film events, second perhaps only to Cannes in industry significance.
The transformation wasn’t without growing pains. Former TIFF programmer Jesse Wente remembers the 1990s transition period vividly. “We were becoming something bigger, but there was real concern about losing the festival’s soul. Would Hollywood swallow us whole? Could we maintain our commitment to diverse voices?”
Those questions lingered as TIFF evolved from a cinephile’s treasure hunt into a red-carpet spectacle and Oscar kingmaker. The 2000s brought the “People’s Choice Award” into sharp focus as films like “Slumdog Millionaire” and “12 Years a Slave” used TIFF momentum to capture Academy Award glory. According to TIFF data, 15 of the last 20 Best Picture winners screened at the festival.
But the most compelling TIFF stories happen away from the spotlight. Filmmaker Deepa Mehta recalls the 2005 midnight screening of her controversial film “Water” after fundamentalist protests had shut down production in India. “I was terrified,” she told me during an interview last year. “Then the standing ovation came – seven minutes long. I understood then what this festival meant to outsider voices.”
Indigenous filmmaker Alethea Arnaquq-Baril remembers a different kind of revelation. Her 2016 documentary “Angry Inuk” challenged anti-sealing narratives that had devastated Inuit communities. “TIFF gave us a platform when southern environmental groups had silenced us for decades,” she says. “People finally heard our perspective on our own cultural practices.”
The festival’s archives tell stories of legendary mishaps too. During a 1994 screening of Quentin Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction,” the projector broke mid-film, plunging the theater into darkness for 43 minutes. Tarantino reportedly entertained the audience with impromptu storytelling until technicians could resume the screening.
In 2007, George Clooney’s car dropped him at the wrong entrance for “Michael Clayton,” forcing him to sprint through Toronto streets while being chased by fans. And who could forget the 2011 incident when a sleep-deprived Brad Pitt accidentally walked into the women’s restroom before the “Moneyball” premiere?
Behind these anecdotes lies the evolution of a cultural institution. TIFF’s 1976 inaugural year saw just 35,000 attendees watching 127 films from 30 countries. By 2019, before the pandemic, those numbers had swelled to over 480,000 attendees viewing nearly 400 films from more than 80 countries, according to festival archives.
The 2008 opening of the TIFF Bell Lightbox – a year-round home for the festival and film programming – represented a physical manifestation of the festival’s permanence in Canada’s cultural landscape. The $196 million complex now anchors Toronto’s Entertainment District, a testament to film’s economic and cultural power.
Former TIFF CEO Piers Handling, who guided the festival through its major growth period from 1994 to 2018, points to a delicate balancing act. “We needed Hollywood’s star power to survive financially, but our heart remained with discovering new voices and championing Canadian cinema,” he explained during the Lightbox’s 10th anniversary celebration.
Climate activist and filmmaker Naomi Klein notes that TIFF gradually expanded its environmental consciousness too. “In recent years, the festival has reduced its carbon footprint by 35 percent through digital screeners, reduced plastic, and sustainable venue practices,” she told attendees at a 2019 Climate and Film panel.
This environmental awareness accelerated during the pandemic years, when TIFF was forced to reimagine itself. The 2020 festival featured just 50 films with limited in-person screenings and a robust digital platform. Cameron Bailey, TIFF’s current CEO, calls that period “our existential moment – we either evolved or disappeared.”
The festival didn’t just survive; it used the disruption to address long-standing criticisms about accessibility. The digital platforms remained even as in-person screenings returned, allowing film lovers across Canada to participate without being in Toronto.
“That was revolutionary for me,” says Winnipeg-based film student Janelle Carrière. “I’d never been able to afford traveling to TIFF before, but suddenly I could be part of it from my apartment.”
As TIFF celebrates its golden anniversary, questions about its future identity persist. The rise of streaming platforms has disrupted traditional distribution models. Some filmmakers wonder if festivals still matter when algorithms increasingly determine what audiences see.
Director Sarah Polley, whose “Women Talking” premiered at TIFF in 2022, believes they matter more than ever. “Algorithms give you what they think you want. Festivals give you what you didn’t know you needed,” she observed during a Canadian Film Centre masterclass.
What began in 1976 with a screening of German director Wim Wenders’ “Kings of the Road” has become a complex cultural ecosystem that generates an estimated $200 million annually for Toronto’s economy, according to Tourism Toronto figures.
But perhaps TIFF’s most enduring legacy isn’t economic but emotional – the collective experience of watching stories unfold in darkness among strangers. As legendary director Agnes Varda said during her final TIFF appearance in 2017: “Cinema is not just images projected on a screen. It is the shadow and light in which we recognize ourselves.”
When the festival opens its 50th edition this week, that recognition continues – five decades of foibles, triumphs, and the occasional phone-throwing tantrum that together create not just a festival but a testament to how we’ve grown, changed, and seen ourselves through the frame of a camera lens.
