Sundance Diary: Day 8
Day 8 (Thursday, January 24):
I’m not even going to brag anymore. I was up at 8:45 a.m. I’ve successfully gotten up at a reasonable hour every day of the festival. I have not overslept and missed anything I was supposed to see. It is a major victory for me in the ongoing battle between me and myself. I will win this war yet! I will not allow myself to triumph!
The weather continued to be lousy today. In years past we’ve generally lucked out and had maybe one day of snow during Sundance, while the remaining days were clear (though still cold). But this year it’s snowed at least a little bit almost every day. IT IS ANNOYING. I intend to register a complaint with Robert Redford, if I can find the hollow tree he lives in.
It was a light day, movie-wise. Several of the press screenings were for films I simply had no interest in seeing — documentaries about lint, or angsty German dramas about bored housewives, that sort of thing. I also needed a good, long chunk of time to write. It’s hard to get anything done when you’re doing it in half-hour spurts. By the time you find a place to sit down, get out your laptop, connect to the wifi, check your e-mail, get up to go to the bathroom, grab a snack from the concessions stand, chat with whichever pal you run into, and complain about the weather, it’s almost time to pack it up and go to the next screening. So I needed some real time to do some real work.
But first was a screening of “Donkey Punch,” mentioned in a previous entry. The title is an attention-getter; the movie itself is only so-so. It’s a thriller about three English chicks who hook up with four guys while on vacation, and the seven of them go out on a yacht to party, and someone accidentally gets killed, and then panic and paranoia set in. I’d say the major selling point is that the mythical “donkey punch” actually figures in to the plot. The lesson of the film is that you should not do Ecstasy and meth while at sea with guys you just met, which is one of those lessons that really shouldn’t have to be spelled out.
For me, the most enjoyable thing about “Donkey Punch” was telling people I was seeing it. “Sorry, I can’t join you — I have an 11 o’clock donkey punch.” “Is this the line for the donkey punch?” “Hi, I’m here for my donkey punch.” Also playing the fest is a film called “Good Dick,” which inspires similarly hilarious double-entrendre. Don’t pretend you’re not amused.
After our “Donkey Punch,” Renshaw and I headed over to Burger King for lunch. One of the things we discussed was how we hadn’t looooved anything at the festival yet. Liked a lot? Sure. But we hadn’t been blown away. Is it too much to ask, after “Donkey Punch,” to also be blown away?!
Now it was time for me to set up shop in the Yarrow lobby and get some work done. I sat at the table, which is much more conducive to writing than sitting on the couch with my laptop balanced on my lap. (I don’t care what it’s called, my laptop belongs on a table.) I got down to business, hammering out reviews and stuff, pausing only occasionally to chat with other members of the press as they passed by, and also to eat half a box of Cheez-Its that I had fetched from my car. (Cheez-Its are very helpful in the writing process, and somewhat healthier than what a colleague of mine uses: a thermos of coffee and bourbon, which he calls “genius juice.”)
Tom Arnold walked by a couple times while I was writing, but I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for that. I might not even mention it in this diary.
Somewhat more interesting was that one of the kids from “The Recruiter” — the doc about an Army recruiter in a small Louisiana town — was hanging around the lobby, evidently waiting for a ride. He was the one in the movie who had displayed the most proficiency in basic training. The film’s “where are they now?” cards at the end said he was doing well with the Army and working in an “undisclosed location.” Apparently that location is the Yarrow Hotel. Don’t tell anyone!
It had been snowing lightly most of the day, but at around 4 p.m. it started to come down like the proverbial mofo, the wind blowing so hard that the snow was falling sideways. The Yarrow lobby is generally cold anyway because the doors are always opening and closing, but it was extra-cold today because the fireplace wasn’t lit. Someone asked why and was told that it was “broken.” How can a fireplace be “broken”? It’s a hole in the wall. You put wood in it, and then you light the wood on fire. Calling a fireplace “broken” is like saying your carpet doesn’t work.
Then we found out it’s a gas fireplace. There was something wrong with the gas line. That made more sense, and I deleted all that stuff I just said.
Cinematical Kim wanted some of us to go to dinner at Squatters, a brew-pub down the street. She and I and Cinematical boss Erik Davis met up with James Rocchi there, along with a friend of Kim’s who was in town for a visit. It was nice to sit down in an actual restaurant and have someone bring food to us, rather than telling the lady at Burger King what I wanted and waiting for some teenagers in the back to make it for me.
Just before leaving the Yarrow we saw something astonishing: The new issue of Entertainment Weekly was sitting on a table, and it had Heath Ledger’s face on the cover. He died Tuesday afternoon. This was Thursday evening. How in the world did they throw a tribute together so fast? From a purely logistical standpoint it was amazing. They must have called staffers back into the office Tuesday evening and worked feverishly into the night. Surely the magazine must go to press Wednesday afternoon at the latest, to be in people’s mailboxes and on the newsstands Friday. (EW is a sponsor of Sundance, so we get the new issues hot off the presses Thursday night.) I was very impressed.
I also felt bad for Brad Renfro, who died a few days earlier and was relegated to a little paragraph inside the magazine. You were no Heath Ledger, Brad Renfro.
The snow had stopped falling by the time we were done with dinner, and we trudged back to the Yarrow. I had a 7:30 screening of “Baghead,” from the guys who made “Puffy Chair” a couple years ago. They call this genre of movie “mumblecore”: hipsters in their 20s, semi-improvised dialogue, hand-held cameras and cheap lighting, wry humor, slacker characters, and so forth. “Baghead” sort of spoofs the mumblecore thing, as well as independent film in general. It’s fun and sweet.
My last film of the day was to be a 10 p.m. screening of “American Teen.” It’s a documentary that follows the lives of a few high school students in their senior year. I’d heard it was great, and I knew Paramount Vantage had already bought it, but the description sounded too much like those shallow TV “reality” shows that follow teens around. I hate those snotty kids and those awful shows, and so “American Teen” didn’t really appeal to me. Still, everyone kept saying it was great. I might as well give it a try.
And guess what? I found a film to love. “American Teen” is nothing like “Laguna Beach” or “The Hills” or any of those other stupid TV series. Its characters are normal Indiana high school kids — a jock, a queen bee, a band geek, a misfit, and so on — and the film captures all the drama and passion of adolescence. This is often said of really good documentaries, but it’s true: “American Teen” is more compelling and enjoyable than most fictional films. I laughed and cried and was completely swept away by these kids’ everyday stories.
Still on the high of finding a new gem of a movie, I met Kim in the Yarrow lobby. Weinberg, Childress, and Davis had all departed for home at various points during the day. Kim and I found Rocchi in the Yarrow bar and hung out there for a while. It was crowded and noisy. Over in the corner I recognized former New York Times film critic Elvis Mitchell sitting at a table having a lively discussion with someone. That someone? Quentin Tarantino.
Now, I’m not a fanboy. I haven’t loved everything Tarantino has made, and I do blame him for reviving John Travolta’s career, a deed that now seems like an act of terrorism. But come on: It’s Quentin Tarantino. He inspired a whole generation of filmmakers, and while many of their efforts have been derivative and uninspired, at least they were inspired to make movies. Plenty of good movies have come from the post-Tarantino mindset, too.
Unfortunately, there was no way for me to talk to him. He and Elvis Mitchell were having an animated conversation (the only kind QT knows how to have, I think), and I would be interrupting — interrupting just to say, “Hi! Me fan, me like movies, you make good things!” I opted to spare him the indignity and instead tried to overhear what they were talking about. I was unsuccessful. The bar was too loud. And when you’re loud enough to drown out Quentin Tarantino, well, pat yourself on the back.