I hate to whine (not that you’d know it given the amount of whining I seem to do), but I’ve been in Toronto for barely seven hours and I’m already exhausted.

Gone are the days when I could see 50 movies over the 10 days of the festival. Now that my job is to get interviews first and to see movies second, it seems all but impossible to make a schedule without having major holes in my schedule every day. And I swear that the studios are scheduling their screenings in a competitive way: it’s not good enough that they get you to see their movie, they want to make sure that you miss a big competitor while you’re at it.

That’s probably unduly paranoid, but what’s inarguable is that in the past decade, as Toronto has grown to become a showcase for the kind of movies that Hollywood is proud to brag about (as opposed to the ones they make money from), this festival has become ridiculously toploaded. The festival lasts for 10 days, but most if not all of the high profile films are shown in the first few days. Sure, over the weekend you can get to talk to George Clooney and Matt Damon and Ricky Gervais and Jennifer Garner and on and on. But by Monday afternoon, they’re all on the way back home.

So scheduling for the film journalist who also loves watching movies is a major nightmare. Every choice you makes seems to shut off three other opportunities. That’s why I find it best not to even look at the screening schedule until the last minute: why torment myself with all the movies I’ll have to miss?

The press screenings started at noon today. I opted for Lars von Trier’s Antichrist, which reputedly had ‘em puking in the aisles at Cannes, partly because von Trier will be doing a rare press conference here (albeit by satellite from Europe—he doesn’t fly), but also because I figure the bulk of the press corps will either be at the new Pedro Almodovar movie or ogling Megan Fox in Jennifer’s Body. But Antichrist is sold out, and I sit in the first row of a theater that has seats built way too close to the screen—for a movie that’s going to be in my face anyway. It turns out to be two thirds dull talk and one third unwatchable violence, with a finale that can only be described as a distaff equivalent of the climax of Marco Ferreri’s The Last Woman. (You can’t accuse me of being a spoiler if I reference a movie just about no one has ever seen.)

More later …