Meaning: Sometimes used during Christmas and similar holidays to describe a weariness from all that cheer, it can also mean indescribable tiredness during any kind of festival, especially a 10-day city-ruling film one.
Usage: “An intimate soiree at Lounge IX to celebrate the remaking of yet a horror movie starring an ex-model and a procedural-drama TV actor? No thanks, I’m a little festigued.” ― me
You should know it because: TIFF is alllllllmost over, but lots of its guests are already done. Gone. Wearing sunglasses under the covers and shaking from champagne withdrawal. Hype can’t be sustained for 10 days, and between the filmmakers’ happy hours, the dinners, the soirees, and the 4 a.m. last call, the cumulative hangover is a fierce reckoning indeed.
Last year I fell asleep in a Kelly Reichardt film on Day Five (what?! They were, like, walking in the desert for 40 freaking years), and this year, by Day Whatever This Is, I’ve checked out completely. I’m sad to be missing films, but it’s only because the ones I saw—especially the last and best of all, for me, Andrea Arnold‘s Wuthering Heights—were so very good. I don’t want to be so festigued that I forget them.
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