Cill and I grabbed a few precious rays of sun in Park City yesterday at the Sundance Film Festival. Of course we took in a pre-matinee. Hell, I’m a tiresome old timer. All I could do was think about the festival’s early, intimate days when a handful of us sat around with the guests, maybe Cicely Tyson or Molly Haskell or the poet Henry Taylor, talking for hours in little thrown-together corners. There were no 500-seat venues, and you didn’t hear anyone on a shuttle (which hadn’t been thought of) saying half of New York is here. I looked down the aisle of the bus yesterday. Yes, and the other side was Los Angeles and you could tell just when it crossed into Hollywood.
Fairly good film. What is it about the hand of the amateur that announces itself so early? But that’s the fun of it. Next year, the director might have the timing, the story-line figured out and his new film will take its place beside the memorables: “Napoleon Dynamite” or a “Trip to Bountiful,” “sex, lies and videotape,” “The Blair Witch Project.”
Learning—all of us.