on 1 Jan, 1970
from National Post (Canada) / by Shinan Govani
Some stars are more in tune with Katy Perry‘s oeuvre than others.
As Toronto exploded into a thousand star-spotting smithereens over the weekend — there’s Keira Knightley at Nota Bene on Queen! Matt & Ben at the Terroni near Church! Everybody-everybody at the new Soho House! — we found ourselves talking to Édith Piaf, in a corner, about one of the tarts of Top 40.
“I wasn’t familiar with her work,” Marion Cotillard was telling me, hearts quickening around us, and glasses tinkling as if in soft-focus. The Oscar winner and I had collided at a Moët & Chandon-hosted dinner at Michael’s, on Simcoe, and I had wasted no time in hewing myself to her and getting the knock-out in Dior to talk Russell Brand-ex to moi.
Speaking in the sort of Queen’s English that is a hallmark of the learned French, Cotillard admitted she doesn’t mind of a bit of Katy Perry these days. Now that she knows who she is, thanks to the prep involved in making her new powder keg of a film, the Jacques Audiard-lensed Rust and Bone.
“I will never be able to listen to Katy Perry in the same way,” I admitted to her, referring to a scene in her movie that uses the happy-camper anthem Firework as a backdrop for a subversively not-what-you-expect scene involving her, a whale and an accident that eventually changes everything, and then, well, leads to both beauty and brutality in equal doses. The song reappears again in another astonishing scene when a wheelchair-bound Cotillard is shown trying to play conductor of her own life.
Both presently lost in the inner recesses of Cotillard’s blue eyes, and also acutely aware of the capriciousness of my own existence — which other parties were on now of the eight parties I had to get to tonight? What other celebs lay within what radius of this woman? — I paused dramatically, realizing I had nothing else left to say, and that I was suffering from TIFF-sponsored attention-deficit disorder.
So, I set her free, having (briefly) loved her.