COLUMN: Surviving the 2002 Sundance Festival
This year’s Sundance Film Festival – the pre-Olympics extravaganza in Park City – was my third outing to the highly-touted trendy exhibition of independent film. Without sounding bristly, this year’s road trip to Utah’s Babylon was a nudge better than last year, but like sludge compared to the festival of the new millennium.
Perhaps celebrities were still afraid to fly after Sept. 11th’s terror attacks, or maybe they were petrified by Bobby Redford’s House of Wrinkles exhibit on Main Street. Either way, finding the A-list stars was like finding something inexpensive to eat in Park City.
Sure, John Malkovich (Shadow of the Vampire) was seen lounging on Main Street, selling his directorial debut The Dancer Upstairs, and, of course, like nearly every filmmaker who wants to seem edgy, Malkovich sported the Sundance norm of goatee and complimentary black beret.
A few paces from Malkovich, Christina Ricci (The Opposite of Sex) window-shopped, posed for photographs and signed autographs as she made her way through the overabundance of art galleries, ski shops and bars. Somewhere along her trail, Robin Williams was spotted giggling with reporters, he too wearing a camouflage beret, perhaps a tiny homage to the soldiers overseas.
Last but not least, looking tan, anorexic and deceitfully happy, Brad Pitt (Ocean’s 11) and Jennifer Aniston (Friends) chain-smoked their way to the premiere of Aniston’s new flick, The Good Girl. But that was about it for celeb sightings. I heard rumors of Nicole Kidman skipping around some of the ski lodges, but never caught a glimpse of the red-haired beauty from Down Under.
Some media types have labeled Sundance 2002 as “toned-down” and “calm.” I’m not sure what they encountered in Utah’s Babylon, but Main Street after 7 p.m. is anything but tranquil. You see, instead of roaming celebrities, filmmakers and PR flakes, the sidewalks are littered with rich, high school juvenile delinquents preening in their tight pants and North Face ski jackets, talking on cell phones and spouting asinine barbs of dialogue like, “Oh, my gawd, Porsche. You should have seen this hat. I like so have to buy it. Seriously.”
They congest the streets, too, zipping up and down Park City’s main drag in their silver Lexus SUVs, BMWs and Mercedes automobiles. The only way to avoid such nonsense is to catch whatever films are playing at the press venues – The Alley and The Garage – or find refuge in one of P-City’s fashionable $15 burger joints.
Here’s some advice, skip Texas Red’s altogether, and instead, try the Judy’s Blue plate at the Irish Camel. Besides guests dressed in Prada, Dolce and Gabbana, and DKNY, everyone else at the Irish Camel was amiable, laid back and unpretentious. One waitress even let her dog in from the cold, and the droopy mutt worked the room like a Hollywood regular.
Clothes seem to be a big deal at Sundance. Most men look like the starving models from GQ magazine, and the females appear a few pounds heavier than Kate Moss’s waifish 90-pound frame. Everyone seems to be subconsciously announcing, “Hey, look at my square-toed shoes and microfiber pants. Don’t they look good with my skin-tight turtleneck and weathered leather pea coat?” It’s like living in a J. Crew nightmare, and when you’ve donned your best $3 Old Navy sweater, worn jeans and logger boots, the fashion scene at Sundance can be intimidating.
Even so, the whole experience is fitting. I’m at the festival representing a college newspaper, so why should Tinsletownites give me the time of day? As far as journalists go, I’m at the low end of the who’s who totem pole. But that’s OK. I learned to blame my situation on the laminated badge hanging from my neck – the bottom feeder press pass.
I also learned that to work in Hollywood, you have to compromise and sell your soul. It doesn’t matter if you’re an actor, sound technician, gaffer or the director, because to put your foot in the door you have to kick someone in the hindquarters, and I may be naive, but I’m not ready to be that cold.