Circus Peanuts and pretzels the same way I loathe them.
I've thought of a pretty good tagline for the film Keep the Lights On: Love Means Never Having to Hold Your Lover's Hand While He is in a Meth-Addicted Fog While Being Sodomized by a Hustler. (Seriously, though, it's a great film with an excellent soundtrack by Arther Russell--check it out when it hits theaters.)
I saw Cheyenne Jackson in the lobby of the Festival Headquarters, and good god is that man tall. He was with another gent I assumed to be his husband who was just as epic in size, and my hope is that medical science will find a way for them to birth a baby together, thereby breeding a race of super-tall toddlers which will one day rule the world.
While seated waiting for a film to begin, a woman stands near me chatting with her friends seated next to me: "Oh! I never knew this theater had a balcony!", she exclaims while looking up. "I've never done balcony. Have you ever done balcony?" Not "done the balcony"--but "done balcony", as if it were a drug.
I've only walked out of two shit films, which is a new low record for me at Sundance. I must be getting better at sniffing out the duds before entering.
I thought of a pretty good tagline for the film For Ellen: It's Kramer vs. Kramer for the MTV Generation! (Seriously, though, it's another great film by So Yong Kim--check it out when it hits theaters.)
Whenever I'm in line for a screening, there is a moment in line where someone standing next to me asks where I'm from, and for a split second I debate whether or not to lie rather than admit I'm from Arizona, the Land of Fucktards.
The Grand Jury Prize for U.S. Dramatic Film went to Beasts of the Southern Wild and it was wholly deserving of all the accolades. It's a grand work, thematically ambitious and addressing a fully-formed range of ideas, and yet the filmmaker is only 29 (after suffering through the reprehensibly boring Save the Date and its sitcom-level concerns, I had wrongly assumed all 20-something filmmakers cared about was telling stories of other 20-somethings trying to figure out this thing called love). I'm reading a great deal of reviewers referencing Terrence Malick as an obvious influence, and although the narration of wise-beyond-her-years lead character Hush Puppy does put it in the same category as Days of Heaven, there seems to be more going on than that initial comparison. I'd go one further and cite Malick devotee David Gordon Green's George Washington, Charles Burnett's Killer of Sheep and perhaps even Pedro Costa's Fontainhas trilogy (specifcally In Vanda's Room) in its deeply humanistic documentation and celebration of outcasts struggling to survive while being wiped away by outside forces. So moved was I by this film that I've decided to skip all the screenings for the rest of the festival. Beasts is such a perfect film, mixing moments of visceral tenderness, textured imagery and mythical grandeur in equal measure, I want to make sure this is my last memory of the festival.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Well, look at you Chris Kattan! You're such a tiny little thing, it's probably not such a good idea to stand next to Graham Phillips for too long. Oops, too late. He's already towering over you.
When I shook your hand, Vera Farmiga, I could tell you were completely interested in who I was and where I worked. It was as if the entire universe stopped at that very moment and you were consumed with making sure you heard every word I uttered. Call me...?
Thank you for taking the time to pose for a photo with my boss, David Duchovny. Your brain might have gone to Princeton and Yale, but that smirk will always be reserved for the undergrads.
If there is one thing you've got to love about William H. Macy (besides his flippy-floppity hair and the ability to stay glued for almost an hour on a single cell call) is the fact that he doesn't know who LCD Soundsystem is, thus allowing him to politely decline an invite to James Murphy's DJ set in the Bing Lounge. I wish William H. Macy was playing at my house.
Was that you, gay Bishop Gene Robinson, wearing that severely flashy purple Catholic blouse with the ornate cross on top during the private photo shoot? Just because there is a new documentary on you playing this year doesn't mean you get to hog the fashion spotlight from all those girls walking the streets of Prospector Square drunk in their Uggs.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Snow Must Go On (Because Sundance is a Kind of Show, Surrounded by Inches of Snow.) (This Proves I am Clever.)
2012 Sundance Film Festival. There is probably something more to say about this right now, but I'm too busy just hoping my cojones don't fall off from the cold. If that happens, please don't mock me at least until I'm able to mock myself.