Sundance's blog

The alarm blares at 6 a.m. and I blurrily turn on the television to help me ease into consciousness. Instantly I’m sucked into an infomercial for the Magic Bullet, an ingenious blender thing that somehow makes smoothies and also alfredo sauce? It’s being offered at the insane over-price of $99.99, and yet somehow I’m besieged by the urge to order one for myself. Or maybe two! I am officially sleep-deprived beyond all reason.

September Issues

After typing, typing, typing for two hours, I scoot out the door to catch this morning’s screening of The September Issue – people have been going insane for this film, and the ticket was not an easy one to get, so I don’t want to be late. The theatre is about a third of a mile away, an easy 15-minute walk, so I’ve got plenty of time to spare.

Unfortunately, it’s been raining all night, which means the slush-factor is at an all-time high. I’m about half way into my stroll when I realize that I may be in trouble – things are so incredibly slippery this morning that every step is a new brush with disaster. I finally figure out that if I keep my feet connected with the ground, go very, very slowly, and adopt a supremely idiotic-looking ice-skating motion, I’m able to minimize my chances of death. I inch along like that for the rest of the journey, which winds up taking about three times longer than planned. By the time I get to the theatre, I’m one of the last in the long line of ticket holders, arriving just in time to hear the announcement that they’ve oversold the screening and will only have room for the first 25 people in line. And since I’m over a hundred souls back, it looks like I won’t be making it into today’s screening. Frownie!

Fame and Glory

Daily Insider production manager Carl comes to fetch dejected, hangdog me at the theatre and drops staff photographer Calvin and me off on Main Street for today’s man-on-the-street interviews. By now, the rain has turned to snow, and there are very few wo/men on the street to actually stop and interview. Those that we do find are in a hurry, racing past us like we’re asking them for money or a kidney. Inclement weather, it turns out, shrinks people’s hearts. You heard it here first!

As we’re interviewing some super-nice film students from UC Berkeley, the microphone and camera attract a swarm of day-glo tweens. “Are you famous?” they all screech at once, ducking and weaving like a flock of wild parrots, “Are you FAMOUS? ARE you famous? Are YOU famous?” The youngest one, who’s maybe eight years old, maybe, singles out one of the pretty college ladies and suavely says, “You MUST be famous, because you’re hot!”

Once they figure out that there are no actual celebrities in our midst, they flap off, and in the distance, we can hear their famous caw as they descend on another maybe-famous victim. The kids are in need of a good paddling, or at least a long, hard time out, but there’s also something beautiful about their bald-faced blatancy. It’s like the purest, most honest form of what’s been lurking around Park City all week.

Celebrities are easy to spot at Sundance because they’re always surrounded by a halo of faces and cameras, all facing inward like sunflowers tracking the sun. Time after time, after we finish interviewing our latest civilian on the street, a passerby will sidle up and whisper, “Who was that? Was he famous?” Unlike, say, me and my close, personal relationship with Mo’Nique, these people aren’t attached to a specific star, based on a love of the person’s work; they’re just looking for someone who’s somebody. At least these punk kids are loud and proud about their hunger for famous people.

Back at the office, we’re all getting profoundly punchy, this being the penultimate day of the Festival. At one point I yell, “A dingo ate my bagel!” and everybody groans. It’s clear I’m in desperate need of a nap, or a break…something.

The Butterfly Effect

Just in the nick of time, my Salt Lake City friends Heather (of Dooce fame) and her husband Jon arrive, pulling up at the Insider offices in their opalescent chariot. Also-impregnated Heather and I bump bumps by way of hello and, after pausing to admire the bustle and fatigue of my fellow staff, they Calgon me away to Deer Valley, where they wine and fine-dine me at the ridiculicious Mariposa. I proceed to spackle my mouth with the likes of:

• Tarty fried green tomatoes.
• Cute little pancetta-wrapped quail leg, the perfect prop for “If King Henry the Eighth Were a Giant” improvisations.
• Tender “free range veal” (huh?) with lemon-wine-caper sauce, mashed potatoes, and kale (I think this is about when I have to unbutton my pants).
• Life-changing chocolate cake with amaretto crème anglaise, which takes just 10 minutes to bake to order, but when it arrives, makes you feel like you’ve been waiting your whole life for it.

We savor everything at a luxuriously leisured pace bordering on glacial, with the meal clocking in at just under four hours. And maybe it’s the stark context of nine long days of rushed meals gobbled out of Styrofoam boxes, but I’m willing to swear that this is one of the top greatest meals of my life. At one point, the tastiness and the niceness of everything hit me all at once, and I actually start to weep, just a little bit, fanning my eyes like a beauty contestant.

Back at my condo, I lower myself down into bed. I lie there quietly, supine and stupefied, waiting for my food baby and actual baby to finish warring for elbowroom in my overstuffed midsection. I turn on The Incredibles and slowly drift off to sleep – because sometimes, after nine days of indie films, a person just need an animated blockbuster to cleans the palate and ease the digestion.

Tomorrow’s to-dos: Hit the Festival Awards Ceremony, visit the Lost and Found, and get packing!

MY FESTIVAL EXPERIENCE
Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | Day 8 | Day 9 | Day 10

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