Why I had to make a film about Ontario Place before it disappears forever

Cutaways is a personal essay series where Canadian filmmakers tell the story of how their film was made. This TIFF 2024 edition by director Ali Weinstein focuses on her film Your Tomorrow.

One evening in June 2020, when we were all looking for an escape from our stifling homes, I found myself walking around Ontario Place with my best friend. We sat on a hill overlooking Lake Ontario to watch the sunset and then we roamed the meandering paths that led us through forested areas; past mysterious parts of the old, abandoned log ride; and around the towering, futuristic glass pods and domed Cinesphere emerging from the lake.

I hadn't been to Ontario Place since I was a child, but like most millennials raised in Toronto, I remember plummeting down the log ride and getting back burn on the epic set of waterslides when I would go there with my family every summer. 

My parents have even more formative memories of the place: seeing the first IMAX films at the Cinesphere and watching some of the biggest bands in the world play at the Forum. 

As I got older, I visited Ontario Place less often, and in all honesty, I didn't pay much attention when it was decommissioned by the provincial government in 2012. But on that special night during the pandemic, I became enchanted with it again, even more than in my childhood. 

It soon became the meet-up spot for my pandemic social bubble — a de facto community centre when bars and movie theatres and everything else was closed. The space felt endless and magical, and each time I went there, I discovered a new nook offering a different amusement. 

There were people fishing from the breakwater and others swimming and paddleboarding or just hanging out on the pebbly beach. I saw groups of cyclists, skateboarders, basketball players, birdwatchers, and boaters partying in the marina at night. The park felt vibrant and alive even though its rides, restaurants and exhibitions had been shuttered for close to a decade. 

I began researching the history of the park and learned about the idealism and vision behind its original design. It opened in 1971 after the province commissioned the new waterfront attraction, inspired by the success of Expo 67 in Montreal. The government wanted to provide affordable recreation to its citizens and showcase Ontario's innovation and creativity. 

Almost 50 years later, in 2020, I marvelled at the fact that I could still feel the joy and wonder that the visionary architects, Eberhard Zeidler and Michael Hough, had imbued in the space, even though the park sat virtually abandoned and wild. 

I knew the province was planning to redevelop Ontario Place, and that many people worried that the heritage architecture and landscape design would be destroyed. 

When Premier Doug Ford announced in 2021 that the government had leased much of the property to three private companies — including an Austrian spa provider, which was planning to transform the whole West Island — I knew I wanted to document this place I had grown to love before it changed forever. (One of the companies, Montreal-based Ecorecreo Group, has since pulled out of the project.)

I thought for a while about how to cover the story — and what the story even was. I thought about following the fight to "save Ontario Place," but figured people could read about redevelopment plans and any legal action in the news. 

One day, lying on the beach surrounded by the diverse group of people who had formed a community there, I realized the film I wanted to make was a very simple document of Ontario Place in limbo — after its heyday as a bustling entertainment complex and before it was redeveloped into something entirely new. I wanted to show how people were using this space right then as a free public park. 

And it seemed to me the best way to do that was to document it observationally, in the manner of Frederick Wiseman or Allan King. I decided not to do any interviews, but instead to use the camera as a fly on the wall to observe how people interacted with the space. 

Through contacts I made, I knew when some preliminary construction would be starting, so despite not having enough money, I started to film. 

I set out with just a cameraperson — my friend, Andrew Moir — and I did sound. We documented the landscape and then started to film the people. And we met some really interesting people! 

We filmed with the university-age security guards who worked there; the group of dedicated swimmers who were at the beach every single day, even in the winter; a retired  couple, who would walk the paths of Ontario Place every day after their morning coffee and sit in the same Muskoka chairs to take in the view. 

We filmed for about 95 days this way. It became a bit of an obsession to try to document the hundreds of things happening in this place — a place that didn't quite know what it was anymore and was being defined by the people using it. 

When it came time to whittle down those 95 days to a feature-length film, I was very grateful to work with my friend and collaborator, editor Caitlin Durlak, who understood the essence of the film right away. She was always looking for what any given scene was contributing to our story, not letting me get too attached to anything just because a scene was great on its own. She edited upwards of 75 scenes that didn't make it into the final film. 

We were constantly talking about what was important for viewers to see, and we kept coming back to the idea that we wanted audiences to connect to the film's participants and feel their passion and love for this place. 

I felt really lucky to work with people during production and post-production who were as enamoured with the space and the people we were documenting as I was — and who were critical thinkers who did not want to oversimplify anything in the film. 

While I know I will miss the versions of Ontario Place I got to experience both as a kid and later as an adult, I don't feel it's my role to tell anyone what should happen next at the site. 

By documenting the experiences that so many different people have had at Ontario Place, I hoped to create a film that will contribute to the conversations we are having about how we want our cities to look — and will serve as an ode to a very special and unique place in the world that is part of our story as Ontarians. 

Your Tomorrow screens at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival, which runs September 5-15.