Behind the Lens

Caught in the glare: Brad Pitt arrives for a screening of the film Babel. (Adrian Wyld/Canadian Press)

Saturday, Sept. 9
6:28 p.m.
“Paparazzi are shutterbugs,” photographer Peter Bregg tells me derisively. “Insects.” I’m under the white tarp of a gala press pit, here to venture inside the hive of the TIFF photography pool and emerge with welts. I’d earlier learned the secret of a winning shot from an Australian photographer: “Just keep your lens pointed at them and wait for them to do something stupid.”

The gawkers are jammed a dozen rows deep on the sidewalk from the theatre entrance as Russell Crowe steps out of a white SUV. Each time he turns to wave, the crowd erupts in screams of “Russ-all!” It’s a game of call-and-response, or Russell Says. But this is just the warm-up. The real show will be later tonight, with the 9:30 screening of Babel and the promised appearance of its star, Brad Pitt. A volunteer tells me rush-ticket hopefuls began lining up at four this morning.

When the stars have all entered and the screaming has stopped, I sidle up next to Bregg as he plugs his digital camera’s memory card into a laptop to view his take — some 210 frames. He’s disappointed. “They all look the same. Some people just stand there and look like they’ve just lost their favourite aunt.”

7:55
Reporters and photographers are milling casually. Some sit on foldable step stools they’ve brought for an extra foot of height when the melee resumes. The fans across the street are jammed against metal barricades from one end of Simcoe Street to the other. Suddenly, a limousine. The pit jumps to life. “He’s not here already, is he?” someone yells. False alarm. The limo rolls by, cameras flashing indiscriminately.

9:02
There’s a sense of imminent Brad. The squeals get more anxious with each arriving star. People have climbed the windowsills of the building across the street to catch sight of him. A helicopter is chopping overhead.

9:04
A stretch SUV lumbers toward the red carpet. Brad has landed. The screams are blinding. He walks to the fan barricades and for several minutes signs autographs and poses for pictures while Ontario Provincial Police officers mill awkwardly beside him. All around, women and men are chanting “Brad! Brad! Brad!” in a staggered chorus that seconds later sounds more like “Borat! Borat! Borat!” Which only proves that star-struck fans have no rhythm. Now, Brad is on the carpet, the cameras snapping like bugs hitting a speeding windshield.

“To the left please, Brad!”

“Up in the corner! Look up in the corner!”

He responds like a trained dachshund. Co-stars flock in behind him, unnoticed.

9:17
Brad slips into the theatre and it’s as though the wind has left a whoopee cushion. I ask a local photographer how it went. “As soon as Brad showed up, all the rules went to pot. There was a lot of elbow-rubbing — I’m just glad nobody fell off a ladder.” He blames the mercenaries. “I think people come up from New York and say, ‘What, you guys all get along?! That’s not right!’”

9:40
The pit has mostly cleared. I wait for the photographers in the theatre to emerge. I’m looking for one in particular: George Pimentel. I’m told he calls himself One-Shot and has the best war stories. I ask a photog what Pimentel looks like. “Look for someone scowling.”

Sure enough, there he is. A black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a mop of tousled black hair, faded black Chuck Taylors, a massive camera around his neck. And a deep scowl dug around his black eyes.

The Toronto-born Pimentel is a minor legend. At 39, he’s seen it all. He has sources in every hotel, restaurant, agency, theatre — anywhere a star might be. He also has sidekicks, young photographers who comb events on his behalf. Should they get a saleable shot, he’ll give them a cut.

But he has no time to talk tonight. Bill Clinton is holding a fundraising dinner at the Royal York hotel. Kevin Spacey is supposed to be there. And Jon Bon Jovi. And Pimentel’s sources say Brad Pitt might swing by. That could be an exclusive — the goal of every freelance shutterbug, a celebrity shot the mainstream press doesn’t have. A Brad Pitt exclusive could snare $5,000. (His partner, Angelina Jolie, is worth four times more.) The others are pike. Brad is a great white whale.

First, though, Pimentel has to stop at the launch party for Hello! Canada magazine, one of his clients. He’ll talk to me in the cab if I want to tag along. I do. “Shit, I only have five dollars on me,” he says, pulling a crumpled bill out of his pocket. I tell him I’ll cover it. He gives a handful of memory cards to an assistant and hails a cab.

Locked and loaded: Members of the media milling about outside Babel news conference. (Adrian Wyld/Canadian Press)

10:10
In the back of a taxi, en route to the Hello! Canada party. “The problem is I’m Canadian,” Pimentel says, “so I take too much on. I can’t say no.”

He was at the Venice Film Festival until just a few days ago. “I’m a little bit jet-lagged.” Of the Toronto festival, he says, “It’s tough out there. Every year it seems to be getting more press.”

And more paparazzi.

“I don’t do 'papping,’” he says. “It’s a dirty term. When you’re paparazzi, you’re doing the dirty work.” He’s chasing Brad for personal reasons. Pimentel wants to shoot him with his baby: his old, manual Hasselblad camera. “Marilyn Monroe-style,” Pimentel says. What he means: classic, iconic, in black and white.

“I’m still looking for that special shot.”

10:27
The Hello! party is humming, but Pimentel doesn’t sense any celebrities. “The type of people, the type of atmosphere… you can tell no one’s here.” He kisses a few hellos. “I lost my voice tonight yelling at Brad,” he croaks. He grabs hors d’oeuvres from every plate he passes. “This is my first meal today. Well, I had a fruit bar.”

10:40
We take another cab to the Intercontinental, a well-known TIFF hotel. Pimentel’s Mercedes coupe is parked out front. He gets his “Blad” from the trunk. A few photographers and autograph hounds are loitering by the hotel’s entrance. Pimentel is dismissive. “If there were any action here, those people would be on the other side of the road.”

His cell rings. “Hello? He’s watching the movie? Then where’s he gonna go? OK. What entrance? All right. Bye.” The latest report: Brad will be at Bill’s bash.

11:20
A dozen photographers are huddled on either side of the entrance of the Royal York. “This is the s--- I love,” Pimentel says. “Just waiting. It’s old-school.”

The others are antsy. “There’s no way he’s coming in through here,” says one. They all suspect the barricades might be a diversion, to keep gawkers (and them) away from the hotel’s other entrances. Pimentel has a source find out which entrance Brad will use.

Meanwhile, Michael McKean and a blond starlet wander past. Pimentel stops McKean. “Can I get a quick picture?”

“What about her?” McKean asks him.

“Okay, her too.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Sure.”

“What’s her name?” McKean asks. “No name, no picture.”

Pimentel struggles to place her. “You were in the… the show. The fat actress…”

The starlet takes pity. “Kirstie Alley?”

“YES!” Pimentel shouts. I’m momentarily stunned by the exchange, until I realize Fat Actress is a sitcom with Kirstie Alley. And this starlet, whose name is Rachael Harris. Pimentel gets his picture and the pair strolls off. “In the end,” Pimentel says, “people just love to be flattered.”

Midnight
Every black car that passes puts the photographers on their toes. “This is papping,” Pimentel says. “There’s something about the energy, the lights… I feel like I’m at home.” He gets a text message. “They’re coming out [of the screening]. Brad’s not gonna be here.”

“Can we leave?” one photographer whinges. “Can we leave so I can eat dinner?”

Another is doubtful. “Who’s your source? How do you know this guy?”

“Don’t ask these questions,” Pimentel hushes him. “We’ve got a reporter here.” (Me.) Pimentel gets another text message. Brad accepted the RSVP. He may show yet.

12:11 a.m.
Still waiting. A reporter arrives. “Can I ask you guys what celebrities were here?”

“Gloria Estefan,” Pimentel deadpans. “Huge.”

12:14
A chartered bus pulls in front of the entrance and a line of VIA Rail employees climbs out. The photographers are incensed. “You can’t put a bus there!”

For one shutterbug, this is the last straw. “I’m waiting five more minutes.” No sooner has the bus left than two secret service agents (dark suits, earpieces) open the lobby doors. All gripes are forgotten.

“Something’s about to happen,” Pimentel tells his assistant. “Get ready.” An agent moves the barricade further down the sidewalk, away from the lobby. Pimentel doesn’t like it. “You can’t tell us where to stand!”

“Sir, this is private property.”

“No it’s not, it’s public property.”

“You’ll move back or I’ll put you under arrest.”

“Hotel security can’t arrest people! You’re not a cop!” But Pimentel and the others grudgingly move.

12:17
Agents are stationed at either side of the walkway. Pimentel is still sour about the lost real estate. “That guy was a little too aggressive,” he calls to the agent nearest him. “How can hotel security arrest you?”

“They’re secret service,” his assistant says.

“That’s not secret service. Secret service isn’t fat.”

12:22
Another text message. “Brad’s not coming,” Pimentel says. “I’m done.” A photo of Bill Clinton just isn’t worth losing another night’s sleep. Pimentel has more pressing and lucrative subjects to shoot tomorrow. His assistant stays behind.

Half an hour later, Bill Clinton is brought out the side entrance. The remaining photographers, and a few reporters, run to look. Clinton waves to the small crowd and climbs into a black SUV. A few bulbs flash as his caravan drives away. Former president, perhaps, but he’s no Brad.

Guy Leshinski is a Toronto writer.

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