At top-tier events like the Toronto International Film Festival, the number of films screened each year is enormous. Some choose Toronto for their world premiere, others for their North American debut, and there are also ones that arrive after already premiering at festivals elsewhere in the United States, hoping to further expand their influence. Naturally, not every film can receive equal treatment.
Beyond the main venue, more than a dozen screening halls are scattered throughout the city. Film lovers can pick a theatre near where they are to watch the movies they’re most eager to see.
For a completely independent film like Buried, there was no chance of holding its premiere at the main venue—even though this was its very first meeting with audiences worldwide. After all, the festival lasts just eleven days. Once you subtract the opening and closing ceremonies, only nine days remain, and on each of those days, just a single film can enjoy the honour of a grand premiere in the main hall. So, Buried was arranged instead for a secondary venue in Toronto’s Entertainment District, where it would formally meet the public.
This secondary venue was a modest theatre, seating only six hundred. Its entrance, hallways, and overall scale were all downsized accordingly. Perhaps that was why the entrance now seemed almost overwhelmed: a lively, tightly packed crowd blocked the red carpet as if sealing it off completely. The scene was so bustling that, if not for the bright and tranquil afternoon sunlight, one might have mistaken it for the main venue’s gala premiere.
Around twenty to thirty journalists were crammed into the narrow press zone, jostling shoulder to shoulder while the relentless click of shutters rang out. At least a hundred passionate festival-goers lined both sides of the red carpet barricades, cheering and screaming with excitement. The atmosphere surged into a frenzy that unmistakably felt like a true premiere.
Rodrigo instinctively wiped the sweat running down the back of his neck. The turnout was far beyond what he had imagined. The problem he had feared hadn’t happened, but now another concern rose in its place—how could he face so many reporters without freezing up? His shirt was already soaked through. When he pulled his right hand from the back of his neck, he found his palm drenched with sweat. Only then did he realise: how on earth was he supposed to wipe his hands?
Thankfully, Andy, sitting across from him, offered a tissue. Rodrigo hurriedly accepted it, wiping away the sticky dampness in his palm while murmuring repeated thanks.
Renly took in the bustling red carpet with careful attention, and then—amid the bursts of flashing cameras—he caught sight of a figure both graceful and composed. A shimmering dark-silver sequined deep-V top paired with a black suit jacket and tailored trousers; crimson pointed high heels striking against the ground; long dark-brown hair tied neatly into a ponytail, revealing her whole face with a clean, confident elegance. She carried a balance of style and ease, of formality and casualness, and without effort became the centre of attention.
It was none other than Natalie Portman.
The noise and bustle on the red carpet were immediately explained: as one of the most talked-about actresses at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival, Natalie was the undeniable centre of attention wherever she went. This afternoon, she was dazzling—radiant, smiling, and graceful. It was clear she was in an excellent mood.At that moment, her hands were full with recorders as she chatted and laughed with the reporters, the atmosphere lively and animated. It almost seemed as if she were the true star of this premiere, her mere appearance seizing the spotlight and putting her in a position of advantage within this subtle game of showmanship.
Turning his head, Renly caught Andy’s gaze. The two exchanged a smile, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, without hesitation or the slightest trace of stage fright, Renly patted Rodrigo on the shoulder and gave him a look that said, “Open the door.”
Only then did Rodrigo snap out of it, hurriedly pushing the car door open and stepping down.
But the crowd on the red carpet, like sunflowers turning toward the sun, remained fixed on the dazzling figure at its centre. Almost no one noticed that another guest had arrived—an awkward moment indeed.
Gavin Hunt was the first to spot Renly—or, more accurately, he had been waiting for him all along. After endless anticipation, Buried was finally premiering, and Gavin was eager, almost impatient, to hear Renly’s thoughts and to gain deeper insight into the film.
Truth be told, there weren’t many journalists like Gavin, present purely for the sake of the film. Most were either official festival outlets or gossip press following the buzz around Toronto’s rising newcomer, Renly. Most publications hadn’t even sent their top-tier reporters; most were here to watch the commotion.
So Gavin immediately locked onto his target. Striding purposefully to the front of the press area, he called out loudly, “Renly” His excitement surged, uncontrollably spilling over as he even raised his right hand and waved it enthusiastically in greeting.
The red carpet itself was barely fifteen meters long and no more than two meters wide. The compact space exaggerated everything twofold, or even threefold—the distance collapsed, the proximity magnified, the energy pressing in like a wave. The fervour of the crowd became almost overwhelming.
From amid the sea of faces, Renly instantly spotted Gavin’s eager expression. He couldn’t help but feel both helpless and amused. Rodrigo, standing beside him and clueless to the situation, leaned in and whispered, “Is that one of your fans?”
“No, that’s a crazy stalker,” Renly quipped. Rodrigo, taking it seriously, looked at Gavin in alarm, which only made Renly burst into laughter.
Bradley Adams of The New York Times also noticed Renly’s arrival. Unlike the others, what intrigued him was not gossip but curiosity about Renly’s future trajectory. He had a strange, almost absurd sense that Buried would prove to be an outstanding and significant film. That instinct drove him to abandon Natalie without a second thought, turning instead to Renly and pressing down on the shutter.
Daisy Lucas from Vanity Fair appeared calm and composed. With practised ease, she lifted her camera and focused it on Renly as he stepped out of the car, capturing every movement in rapid succession without pause. Buried wasn’t even on Vanity Fair’s priority coverage list for the Toronto Film Festival, but Daisy had still chosen to attend the premiere in her own personal time, without any hesitation.
In her ears came Gavin’s impulsive, almost frenzied shouting. Both Bradley and Daisy were momentarily stunned—they had assumed it was a crazed fan yelling. But when they turned to look, the fans were quiet, showing no unusual reaction. The one who had truly lost control was their fellow reporter. The contrast was so unexpected that it carried a strange, almost comical absurdity.
Just then, another voice rang out, bold and spirited:
“Hey, handsome! Yeah, I’m talking to you—look over here.”
At that moment, more than ninety per cent of the fans were cheering for Natalie. Thanks to her role in the Star Wars prequels, she had amassed a legion of diehard supporters, and Toronto was no exception. The crowd had nearly doubled in size the instant she arrived at the secondary venue, and more fans were no doubt still on their way.
This sudden voice, however, cut through the noise. It didn’t carry the frenzy of fans or the devotion of admirers—it sounded more like a teasing catcall on the street. By now, Buried’s premiere had already seen its fair share of surprises: first Natalie, then the overzealous reporter. What harm could one more odd twist—a random girl—really do?
Bradley, Daisy, and Gavin all turned instinctively toward the source. Other reporters soon noticed the disturbance as well, twisting around to look. For a moment, the fevered energy of the scene quieted, the focus of attention slowly shifting in a new direction.
The girl’s shout wasn’t loud enough to dominate the crowd, but the difference in tone made it stand out. Though the fans’ cheers were noisy, the contrast was obvious, and Renly caught her voice without effort. He lifted his head and there she was.
A tall, blonde young woman. She wore a black T-shirt under a light blue denim jacket, her look radiating youthful vitality with a dash of confidence. Her blonde hair was tied up high, and her style, though somewhat similar to Natalie’s glamorous ensemble, came across as much more approachable, carrying a touch of girl-next-door playfulness.
Renly froze for a moment, then his face lit up with delight as he changed direction and walked straight toward her.
“You’re…” He thought carefully for a beat. “Chanel Laurent!”
The blonde girl’s smile blossomed in full. “Hey, you actually remember my name, and you even pronounced it right! That’s such a wonderful surprise!” She raised her hand and gave his shoulder a playful tap. “So, what do you think? Do you like my surprise? I kept my promise and came in person to watch the movie. You’d better not disappoint me, or I’ll definitely make you cover my travel expenses.”
“Haha, no problem at all.” Renly laughed heartily, then noticed Rodrigo at his side—he looked a little lost, instinctively trailing along with Renly. “Director, don’t you remember her? She’s the girl from my audition—the one who thought you were kidnapping me and rushed in to help. We even had a short chat with her afterwards, didn’t we?”
Rodrigo’s eyes widened before he finally recalled, though his expression remained dazed. “Wow, your memory is really something.” Clearly, the details had grown fuzzy for him.
Renly spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m only fulfilling a gentleman’s duty. Of course, I’ll never admit the real reason is that I’ve already developed the burden of being an idol.”
His playful, witty remark sent Chanel into peals of laughter, clapping her hands in delight.
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