Catch You on the Flipside, Toots

Your loyal reporter rocketed all the way up to 68th street last night to catch Toots Shor: Bigger Than Life, Kristi Jacobson's documentary about the life and libations of Toots Shor, the famed New York saloonkeeper, who also happens to be her grandfather. Apparently Mr. Shor, who died in 1977, is quite popular with the upper west side crowd: to my surprise I staggered out of the subway and right into a lineup of at least 100 people. And a more impeccably groomed group of moviegoers I have never seen. Anyway, I'd heard great things about it, and I was clearly not alone, as the line's fearless leader said he had been there almost an hour.

It's fitting, in a way, that we should all be clamoring for an audience with a dude named "Toots." In the 1940s and '50s, Shor's eponymous restaurant and saloon at 51st and 5th was the place to be for anyone with cash in their pocket and heat on their name. Shor's ethos, however, was famously egalitarian -- no VIP hazing rituals or starlets jackknifing from the tables -- and on a given night you could find Frank Sinatra, Walter Cronkite, Lauren Bacall and the guy who did all of their dry cleaning having a drink at the bar. Despite his knack for fostering a sense of community in New York that some say is now sorely lacking, Shor was terrible at managing his bank account, and died penniless, if fondly remembered.

I can't say much more than that because I didn't see the movie. Half an hour after my inauspicious arrival the entire line was turned away; apparently those in the know were already inside. And if you don't feel sorry for me yet, you've never seen a mob of upper west siders not getting what they want. Men bared their fangs and raised manicured fists to the sky, and I was nearly blinded by a multitude of teeth and Tag Heuers; women threw their arms wide with anguish, cashmere wraps sailing. I broke free and outran them all (sensible shoes), ducking back into the subway. It was too late to see anything else and salvage the evening, so I settled into the interminable subway ride, playing an extended version of a game I like to call "Who's the Loneliest Person on the Train."

I hope to see the film soon so I can tell you more about it. But I still think Toots would have let us in. This festival-going business is not for the faint of heart.

A little update on The Bridge, a film I wrote about last week. Embattled director Eric Steel is probably taking a Spa Day after showing his film at the San Francisco Film Festival three days after its world premiere at Tribeca. The reception in San Francisco was obviously more volatile, and in reading some of the coverage I was surprised to learn that what we watched last Thursday night had not yet been seen by the family members of the victims. San Francisco writer Violet Blue gives her thoughts on the film, and included there is audio of a Q and A that Steel did after the screening.