I’d been invited out from New York to participate on a panel with a handful of fellow critics. I was put up in a remote mountain condo that had more guests than bedrooms, and spent the first night sleeping on a couch. The second night I was asked to share a room with a Chinese-American filmmaker who was very eager for me to see his film. Critics are not exactly meant to share lodgings with people who want you to review their movies. What if I hated it? What would the next night be like? Would I get out of Utah alive?
The afternoon of his screening I thought I had the problem solved: I was stranded on the mountain with no transportation into town (the festival staff didn’t quite have its act together yet). As I stood on the wintry road with my thumb out, my irritation was assuaged by the growing certainty that I would arrive at the theater too late for his film, armed with a mighty fine excuse. I could just slip into one of the other films showing at the three Holiday Village Cinemas. When I finally reached my destination, I slinked into the lobby only to be greeted with shrieks of joy by his producer, who swooped down upon me, locked my arm in an iron grip and promptly escorted me into a seat she had been saving. Please let it be good, I prayed as the lights dimmed. As luck would have it, the movie (which was called “The Great Wall is a Great Wall”) was witty and charming enough that I could sleep in good conscience that night, with a contented filmmaker snoring peacefully across the room.
The following year I had no trouble getting around, for I was a member of the Dramatic Feature jury, and there is no better way to do Sundance than as a juror. All doors are open to you and volunteers cater to your every transportation need, driving you from film to film and party to party, where, no matter how much you’ve had to drink, you must keep your juror’s lips sealed. And in those days, you could actually get into the parties at Sundance without fear of suffocation. (Just a few years later, once Steven Soderbergh’s “sex, lies, and videotape” had made Sundance hot, angry hordes of bitterly cold partygoers would storm the doors of the ultrachic Z Place on Main Street, begging to be let in. “I’m Danny DeVito! Don’t you know who I am!”)
It was wonderful being on the five-member jury, but also deeply frustrating. “River’s Edge” (with Dennis Hopper and a total unknown named Keanu Reeves) seemed to me clearly the best film, but only one of my fellow jurors agreed, the filmmaker Kit Carson. Arrayed against us were the director Randa Haines, producer Amy Robinson and the late actor/director Paul Bartel. Time I think has proven Kit and I right–does anybody remember the movies that split the Grand Prize that year, “Waiting for the Moon” and “The Trouble with Dick”? But we couldn’t convince our new pals to give a single award to Tim Hunter’s brilliant and disturbing film.
Five years later, in 1992, I was on the jury again, and this time we all saw eye to eye. It was an unusually good year for indies: “In the Soup,” “The Waterdance,” “Gas, Food Lodging” (Allison Anders’s first film), Gregg Araki’s “The Living End” and Quentin Tarantino’s explosive debut, “Reservoir Dogs.” The movie we all felt was the best of a very good crop, however, was Christopher Munch’s “The Hours and Times,” an elegant and sophisticated tale of the unrequited relationship between John Lennon and Beatles manager Brian Epstein. Unfortunately, the movie was only 50 minutes long, and thus, according to the rules, was ineligible for the Grand Prize for best feature film. We seriously considered giving it the top prize anyway, but in the end devised a special award for “artistic excellence.” The comedy “In the Soup” ended up winning the Grand Prize and “Reservoir Dogs” went home alone. (Note: this year Munch is back with the feature “Sleepy Time Gal,” with Jacqueline Bisset. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.)
By the mid ’90s, Sundance had completely outgrown Park City. Finding a parking place on Main Street was about as easy as finding a cab in Manhattan at rush hour on a rainy day. The festival had become a huge success and was covered by media from all over the world. Celebrities would pop in and out, sprinkling stardust: I remember being at a party in honor of Tim Robbins at the Silver Lake Lodge and seeing Glenn Close, Jodie Foster and Sally Field together in the same room. But wasn’t this supposed to be the alternative to Hollywood? Increasingly, the talk in Park City’s new upscale restaurants (for which one had to book reservations weeks in advance) was not about the films, but the deals. “Did you hear ‘Care of the Spitfire Grill’ was bought for $10 million!?” “How much will they get for ‘Shine’?”
Sundance had become a feeding frenzy, and many of the young filmmakers were all too eager to play along, seeing the festival not so much as a place to nurture their independent visions but as a ticket to a three-picture deal at Warners. As the Miramaxes and Fine Lines and Fox Searchlights–backed by studio money–became more ruthlessly competitive, a certain hysteria infected the festival. Fights broke out in restaurants over broken deals. Was it true a maitre d’ once asked a fulminating Harvey Weinstein to put on his coat and leave?
What the distributors often forgot is that Sundance is not the real world. At that altitude, reality gets seriously bent. The audiences there are wildly enthusiastic (maybe they’re just happy to be out of the cold). Standing ovations are common. Industry folk fight like dogs to get into movies you couldn’t pay them to attend at home. And as a result, huge amounts of money are spent on movies that, back at sea-level, nobody wants to pay to see. Anyone notice any standing ovations for “Care of the Spitfire Grill” in Chicago? I’ve seen it happen time and again: a movie such as the 1998 prizewinner “Slam” sends the enthused, politically correct Sundance audience into ecstasy, and barely raises an eyebrow eight months later when it opens in your neighborhood theater.
But for all the grumbling about Sundance’s fall from purity and grace, I always end up having a good time. Because when the lights go down in one of the less than ideal Sundance theaters (is there a festival that has worse sound systems?) and something appears on screen that sweeps you into a world you haven’t seen before, all the hype and hustling and hipster posturing fade away, and you remember what drew you to Sundance in the first place. The American independent film movement has produced more than its share of cinematic sludge, but it has also brought forth an impressive, idiosyncratic lineup of new filmmakers–and virtually all of them have been discovered in Park City.
Soderbergh and Tarantino aren’t the only talents first unveiled there: Richard Linklater (“Slackers”), Kevin Smith (“Clerks”), Whit Stillman (“Metropolitan”) and Bryan Singer (“Public Access”) all got their starts at Sundance. Todd Haynes’ “Safe,” Stanley Tucci’s “Big Night” and last year’s “You Can Count on Me” made up for all the hassles and headaches of hours of self-indulgent filmmaking. Year after year, you can revel in the best documentaries the country has to offer: “American Dream,” “Paris is Burning,” “Hoop Dreams,” “Crumb” and “Fast, Loose and Out of Control” are all alumni of the festival.
The approaching Sundance will mark my twelfth visit in the last sixteen years. On paper, the movies looks good. (Then again, on paper they always look good–the program notes are notorious for their overinflated fervor.) The usual frenzy may reach epic proportions this year, given the threat of an approaching strike in Hollywood. The studio art film divisions will be abnormally hungry for product to fill a possible future vacuum, which could make Sundance 2001 the biggest seller’s market in years.
Let the vultures descend. What do I care? All I’m asking for is a movie that will knock my socks off.
