SXSW Diary: Day 6
Day 6: Wednesday, March 15
This was it, folks. My last day at SXSW (or South By, as the kids abbreviate it in conversation). The films continue through Saturday, but Erik and Scott were leaving today, and thus my hotel gravy train was ending. (Note: The hotel contained no actual gravy. Or Internet access, for that matter, unless you paid $10 a day.)
After checking out of the hotel, I ran into Will and we went to the Alamo Drafthouse for an 11 a.m. showing of “The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael.” The people who made “The Lost” should be grateful for this movie: Because of it, “The Lost” is no longer the worst thing I saw at SXSW.
“The Great Ecstasy” has a large cast of characters in a series of plot-less fly-on-the-wall scenes. It seems to be going in no particular direction, with no point whatsoever, but only for 80 minutes. In the last 10 minutes, it suddenly becomes shockingly violent and exploitative, moving from the realm of the merely boring to the genuinely deplorable. I suspect filmmaker Thomas Clay would say that if he provoked a strong response, then he considers himself to have succeeded. But I say it’s easy to do something shocking or taboo. What’s hard is to do it in a way that is thematically, artistically and cinematically justified — in a way that doesn’t seem to be doing it just for the sake of doing it, in other words.
Will and I both hated this movie, and we raged about our hatred for it as we walked back to Congress Avenue to a cafe called the Hideout, which had caught my attention earlier with its promise of free wi-fi and gigantic cookies. (It delivered on both promises in splendid fashion.) Will eventually left me to my writing as he went to stand in line at the Paramount for the 4 p.m. “surprise” screening of “A Scanner Darkly.” If there was ever an official announcement of the title, like a press release or an e-mail, I didn’t see it. Yet somehow everyone knew about it, and we anticipated that the lines to see it would be lengthy.
We were right. Everyone with a SXSW pass congregated in that line, but before any of us were let in, the 400 people on the “guest list” (i.e., Austin film industry types, their friends and families, and people tangentially connected with the film) were admitted. Thanks to Will staking out a spot early, we were at the front of the pass-holder line — and still, by the time we got inside, the theater’s main level was two-thirds full, with only the back rows and the balcony still open.
Nearly all of our crew was there. Erik had flown back to Chicago and Laura was goodness-knows-where, but Scott, Oz, Will and I snagged a row, and our new best friends Greg, Amber and Kristina joined us, as did a girl I didn’t know. We made her sit on the end, next to Oz.
The movie is the latest from Richard Linklater, whose previous films include such diverse fare as “Dazed and Confused,” “Waking Life,” “School of Rock” and “The Newton Boys.” “A Scanner Darkly,” based on a Philip K. Dick novel, is animated the same way “Waking Life” was: Scenes were shot in the usual fashion, and then artists colored over the frames. There’s no particular reason for this except that it looks cool, and therein lies the rub. Without the rotoscoping (as it’s called), the film would be completely undistinguished. The story, a futuristic thing about surveillance and identity, is nothing special, and neither is the acting (though it’s always fun to see Robert Downey Jr. play a crazy person).
My friend Michael arrived from Houston not long after “A Scanner Darkly” ended. After checking in at the Motel 6 where we’re staying tonight, we searched downtown for a place to park so we could eat dinner. We found a spot, and at the very moment we saw it, a homeless man pointed it out to us. I was unfamiliar with this scenario, but Michael was experienced. Apparently you have to tip the homeless man for his unnecessary service or else run the risk of having your car vandalized. Michael forked over a dollar and thanked the gentleman for his keen work in gesturing at a huge empty parking space, and I counted myself grateful to live in Portland, where our gigantic homeless population has not yet become so industrious.
Michael and I ate at 6th Street’s Iron Cactus, a decent restaurant that was ridiculously busy and probably understaffed. The music part of SXSW was now in full swing, and the streets, pubs, tattoo parlors and restrooms of Austin were thronged with people. At 31, I was older than almost all of them. Every time we walked past a bar from which loud live music was emanating, Michael worried whether he should have brought earplugs. No, he’s not an old man; he’s just a wuss.
It had been my hope that we would see the 9:30 screening of “V for Vendetta,” but the more I examined the situation, the more I realized the idea was futile. I would have no problem getting in with my pass, but Michael would have to stand in the regular-people line, and those losers only get in if there are still seats left once the pass-holders are in. At 8:30, the pass-holder line was already lengthy, and the regular-people queue was stretching around the block, too. So we said goodbye to Scott (who was already in line), abandoned the “V for Vendetta” plan, and joined Greg, Kristina and the new girl at a watering hole several blocks away. Amber had ditched us for a party to which she was invited but we were not. (Is Amber a snob???????? You decide.)
At around 11, Michael, Greg, Kristina and I, now joined by a different new girl — Greg has lived in Austin long enough to have acquaintances everywhere he goes, and I’ve started making a conscious effort not to bother learning their names — went to the ATX Magazine party, being held in a gravel parking lot on the southeast edge of downtown. Bands were doing their sound checks when we arrived, and about 30 people were milling around waiting for something to happen.
After a few minutes, the event’s organizer approached a group of would-be revelers and said we all had to go out the gate, have our IDs checked, and then be re-admitted before they could begin the festivities (and by “festivities,” as with most SXSW-related things, I mean the serving of complimentary alcohol). For some reason, he was looking directly at me when he made this announcement, like somehow hit was my fault the party hadn’t started yet, or my fault that they had left the gates open and let people wander in before they were ready for them. Accepting my apparent position as ringleader, I led us out of the gate, where our IDs were checked and we walked back in.
Unfortunately, we five were the only people to do this. So 10 minutes later, the organizer made the announcement AGAIN, and about 20 people — us included — exited, got carded, and re-entered. That still wasn’t everyone, but at this point the organizer gave up and returned his attention to getting the kegs tapped, a process with which I confess utter unfamiliarity. (It’s a big barrel of beer. Can’t you just drill a hole in it and let it pour out?)
It was a tragically lame party, probably the lamest party in America after Ralph Nader’s Green Party. The gravel parking lot didn’t exactly exude elegance, there were no restrooms, and the only beverage available was beer. Don’t drink beer? Too bad. They didn’t even have water. The weather turned drizzly, too, which I guess wasn’t ATX Magazine’s fault, but they didn’t really do anything to stop it, either.
I realized it was time to say goodbye to SXSW. Michael and I are heading to Houston tomorrow, where I’ll spend a couple post-film-festival days before returning to Portland. With heavy heart I bade farewell to my new best friends, and Michael and I found our way back to his car, pleased to see his payment of $1 had been enough to prevent the bum/extortionist from keying it.
Sundance is legendary for its parties, but my experience has shown that reputation to be undeserved. There are raging parties, no doubt — but they are exclusive and secretive. The official, Sundance-sponsored ones are always worthless, poorly attended and mostly ignored by the regular festival-goers. At SXSW, the official parties were great — in fact, the only bad one I went to was an off-the-record one — and everyone from filmmakers to actors to film critics to regular pass-holders attends.
This turned out to be an important distinction between Sundance and SXSW. At Sundance, if the movies are mediocre, you really feel it. At SXSW, the films were occasionally sub-par, yet I didn’t notice. Why? Because I was having fun anyway. Eating at the Drafthouse, going to SXSW parties, watching “Washington” back in the hotel room, getting caught up in one another’s personal dramas, making fun of Harry Knowles — these six days were outrageously entertaining whether the movies were any good or not. And several of them were very good, of course.
My thanks to Matt Dentler, the suave “conference and festival producer” who is the de facto face of the fest. He introduces almost every screening, using some kind of time-space portal to travel all over Austin, and has been good to the HBS.com crew. Elizabeth Derczo is the festival’s publicist, and she was instrumental in getting me credentialed and making sure members of the press had what they needed. My friends and colleagues Scott and Erik were lovely to let me occupy space in their hotel room, and it was good to see them again so soon after Sundance. Nice to see Oz again, too, and to meet Will and Laura in person for the first time. The Internet makes it possible for us to be friends, but I’m glad we have occasional chances to hang out in real life, too, if only to see what one another smell like.
I don’t think I could live in Austin. It’s too sprawled out for my tastes, and I’m not sure how much fun it is without the festival. I know I don’t want to be here in July, when it’s 110 degrees and there are armies of scorpions patrolling the streets. But I’ll definitely be back next March for SXSW, even if I have to sleep in the street and disturb all of downtown with my snoring.