Day 5 (Monday, Jan. 25)

The snow stopped falling yesterday, and my nose stopped bleeding, so I guess Mother Nature and I have reached détente, at least until I offend her again, which is probably imminent, what with her being an odious slattern.

I was looking forward to today’s first film, “Cyrus,” written and directed by the Duplass brothers, Mark and Jay. Their other films, “The Puffy Chair” and “Baghead,” were smart, funny little gems, and this was what you might call their Hollywood debut: a real budget, with recognizable actors! John C. Reilly, Marisa Tomei, Jonah Hill, Catherine Keener!

I was not disappointed. What do you know, it’s another very smart and very funny comedy, and it has heart, too. The opening scenes establishing Reilly’s character as a pathetic but lovable loser reach wonderful heights of awkwardness.

Next was a film called “Lovers of Hate,” which, like “Douchebag,” is a terrific title for a bad movie. They have other things in common, too. Both are about two brothers and a woman, and both would be good titles for a Rush Limbaugh biopic. “Lovers of Hate” has some farcical situations that are played not for laughs but for … something else. I’m not sure what. Having spoken to a few people who loved the movie, I can see another interpretation of it that might make it more palatable. But even then, I wouldn’t be able to get past the banal dialogue and unlikable characters.

It is also, with “Frozen,” the second Sundance film this year to have been shot at least partially in Park City. Future Sundance hopefuls might want to take note of this strategy.

Many of us were planning to see a film called “Blue Valentine” next, as word from its public debut was glowing and effusive, and we movie critics love glowing and effusive things. “Lovers of Hate” ended at 6:30, giving us a half hour before “Blue Valentine” would start, and so far that had been enough of a window to get into the screenings. But not this time. My pal Erik Childress and I, having endured “Lovers of Hate” together, returned to the press tent to find way too many people already in line. The theater seats 164; Childress and I wound up being numbers 167 and 168. We used this as an excuse to dislike “Lovers of Hate” even more.

By the time they had filled the theater and determined unequivocally that there were no seats left, it was 7:20 — 20 minutes past the start time and 50 minutes since we’d gotten in line. There were about 30 more people in line behind me and Childress, but those people ought to have known they weren’t going to get in. The seating capacity is public knowledge, and it’s easy enough to count (or at least estimate) the number of people in line ahead of you. Why, it’s our old friend math, lending a hand!

I mention this because when the venue coordinator — a very patient and long-suffering fellow named James — announced that the theater was full and no one else was getting in, a crazy fiftysomething Italian woman flipped out. The rest of us were disappointed, of course, and there was a general groan of remorse when the proclamation was made. But this Italian lady LOST IT. She immediately begins yelling, “Thees ees the most unorganiz-ed thing! We have been waiting a long time in this-a line!” She was gesticulating wildly and speaking in heavily accented English, a living stereotype of batty Italian broads. While the rest of us were reacting maturely and rationally, she was frantic, like a peasant demanding food rations from Mussolini.

She then made a beeline for James so she could scream at him more directly. “I need-a to see this movie,” she screamed, presumably in the hopes that once he realized she NEEDED to see it, he would march into the theater, find a person who only WANTED to see it, and give her that person’s seat. She was yelling and being irrational, and I actually had a legitimate question I needed to ask James, and so I said to Crazy Italian Woman, “Yelling about it isn’t going to help.” I maintain that this is true. Few things are improved by yelling.

She paused a moment and began hollering again, repeating her assertion that she NEEDS to see this movie, and that the system is unorganized, and so forth. I interrupted her again to say, “Being loud doesn’t make you right.” Then Childress pointed out that we’d waited in line, too, and in fact had been ahead of her, which means we’d waited EVEN LONGER. Her reply to Childress was, “I don’t know-a what you are doing here, but I came here to work!” Apparently, the fact that we weren’t wailing and rending our clothes and demanding the blood sacrifice of our enemies in response to this minor setback was an indication to her that we don’t take our jobs seriously. If we were REAL film journalists, we’d be pock-marking James’ face with flecks of our spittle.

This hilarious tirade made up for missing “Blue Valentine.” Childress and I were delighted, and we screamed at each other in thick Italian accents for the rest of the night.

Missing “Blue Valentine” meant we’d have plenty of time to get in line for the next film, though. (Crazy Italian Woman was first in line. She was NOT going to miss this one.) It was another hot ticket, “The Runaways,” starring Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning as Joan Jett and Cherie Currie, the mid ’70s jailbait rockers. Most of the people who saw “Blue Valentine” wouldn’t get in to “The Runaways” unless they left early to get in line, which several people actually did. One such person, a fellow movie blogger, joined me in line and said he was starving and needed a snack, so I asked him if he wanted the little package of cheese and crackers I had in my backpack, and he said that would be great, so I gave it to him, and then I realized that I had turned into my mother. It always sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?

I didn’t care much for “The Runaways.” Once you get past the creepy sexualization of 15-year-old Dakota Fanning’s 15-year-old character, nobody’s very interesting. The story is the typical rise-and-fall-of-a-rock-band template, only it’s a band that wasn’t very good. Meh.

I did learn something from the film, though. I learned that in fact I can name more than one Joan Jett song. I thought “I Love Rock and Roll” was the only one, but then over the closing credits there’s “Crimson and Clover” and “Bad Reputation,” which I also recognized. Three songs! Good for Joan Jett! Still don’t care about The Runaways, though.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 28th, 2010 at 2:58 pm and is filed under Sundance Film Festival. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.