When I am sleepless in my Toronto hotel room, my thoughts turn to Viggo Mortensen. And, perhaps unlike other women at the film festival, I pity poor Viggo. Sure, like them, I would easily opt for Viggo over Clive Owen, who's also somewhere here in Canada, undoubtedly at a better hotel and, perhaps, still awake behind the barriers at an exclusive party.
I know it's counterintuitive to pity Viggo in the dark. I saw his sinewy, tattooed, naked Russian mobster Nikolai...
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