Me and My Precious Feelings While Attending the 2012 Sundance Film Festival. Me, Me, Me. [Part 3]

There is this young long-haired surfer dude I keep seeing at every film I attend, which means he has the same festival pass as me, and we always end up sitting on the same aisle (it's the one with the most leg room).  Without fail, if I hate a film, I hear/see him enraptured over it.  If I find a film engrossing, I observe him fidgeting with his cell phone.  I've come to the conclusion he is me in Opposite Land.  I must talk to him and find out if he enjoys 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.

If There is a Jukebox in Heaven, I'll Bet It Never Requires Any Coins (Nor Would It Require Electricity) (Or Records)

Almost three years after the unbearably sad death of Lux Interior, I am now on Stage 6 of the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief: listening to The Cramps Jukebox over and over and over in the vein hope that repeat listens of this 2-CD set will miraculously bring him back to life. Songs on this (authorized?) CD, such as Did You Mean Jelly Bean (by Joe Clay), Bila (by The Versatones), Real Wild Child (by Ivan), Olds Mo William (by Paul Peek) and Jennie Lee (by Jan & Arnie) are but a shallow balm for all the pain and loss in which I am still very much engaged. I'm so terribly lonely and cold. Hold me.

Most of My Heroes Don't Appear on No Stamps

Now that more of my pop culture icons are dying off, I've come to the slow realization that the artists who most changed my life are the least likely to have their passing mentioned on any mainstream TV shows.

Case in point: this morning, still in a daze over the untimely death of Lux Interior, I switched on The Today Show expecting them to do a little retrospective video piece on his life. What the fuck was I thinking??? Somehow I equated my enormous affection for Lux with the amount of popularity his death would receive in the dominant culture.

This has led me to conceive of a formula to articulate just how important a dead celebrity was in my life: if the newly-deceased artist garners no mention on the network news, they are truly one of my all-time favorite musical heroes. If the deceased artist garners video tributes on every channel--with sad tinkly music underneath--this means they are one of my sworn enemies.

When Iggy Pop dies, there will be no mention on mainstream news. Ergo, he is one of my all-time favorite musical heroes.

When Billy Joel dies, there will be retrospective videos all over the fucking place. Ergo, I hate his guts.

When Exene Cervenka dies, there will be no mention on mainstream news.

When Joni Mitchell dies, there will be retrospective videos all over the fucking place, doubtless with one of her sappy ballads played underneath.

Daniel Johnston? No mention.

Paul Simon? Non-stop video tributes.

Bob Mould? No mention.

Stevie Nicks? Non-stop video tributes.

Mick Collins? All-time favorite hero.

Joan Baez? Non-stop video tributes.

Mark E. Smith? All-time favorite hero.

Kim Gordon? All-time favorite hero.

Captain Beefheart? All-time favorite hero.

You can play this game at home yourself. All you have to do is wait for a celebrity to die. Usually, the wait isn't very long.

PS: Rest in peace, Lux. You will be missed.

It's a Disco:Very vs. Elisabeth Kübler Ross Smackdown!

The First Song Popping Up on Your iPod Which Makes You Weep During the Long Drive Home from the Funeral:
Don't Bother, They're Here by Stars of the Lid, due to its tender ethereal weight. A vast soundtrack to the cosmos, it makes you reflect on loss and grasping the infinite, asking yourself what the fuck it's really all about.

The Second Song Popping Up on Your iPod Which Makes You Weep During the Long Drive Home from the Funeral:
Song for Bob by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis (from the soundtrack to The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford), due to its epic sadness, exposing the massive tragic destiny of life, making you ponder what the fuck is beyond living and dying.

The Third Song Popping Up on Your iPod Which Doesn't Make You Weep During the Long Drive Home from the Funeral, but Instead Just Makes You Ask "What the fuck???:
A Feast for Famished Ravens Part 1 by Xynfonica.

The Kurosawa Flick Which, After Enduring the Death of Your Father, Holds New Resonance and Wisdom, Pointing a Way Towards Understanding and Accepting a Loved One's Illness and Passing:
Red Beard, but only the scenes involving Yuzo Kayama witnessing elderly patients dying alone, not the scene where Toshiro Mifune is violently breaking the arms and legs of his attackers outside the brothel (this only occurred, like, just a few times in my youth, and even then only after I'd finished all my homework).

On Death and Dying, Part 1: It's become more common, when one dies in a driving accident, for your loved ones to mark the sight of your roadside death with flowers and mementos in remembrance of your life. I've decided, if I were to be killed while driving, that I'd rather my loved ones not commemorate the spot of my demise with trinkets. Instead, simply block off the road with massive cement barriers, making sure nobody is allowed to traverse on that particular street ever again.

How I Would Like to Die: The makers of Forrest Gump and The Puffy Chair (two sides of the same overwrought coin) are pitted against each other in a battle to the death, staged in an enormous outdoor stadium, broadcast worldwide. In my glee over the possibility of both sides getting slaughtered, I find myself slipping from atop my perch in the nosebleed section and rolling down the stairs, smack into the middle of the violent melee. My arch nemesis, Sarah Jessica Parker, is watching from the sidelines, cheering on my imminent demise. To her surprise (and to my delight), a swarm of alligators are released onto the field, all of whom quickly chomp onto the neck of Mrs. Matthew Broderick, killing her instantly and diffusing any chances of a sequel to Sex & the City: The Movie. Meanwhile, all the actors from The Puffy Chair--along with anyone who enjoyed this tepid turd of a film--are suddenly gobbled up by a pack mob of flesh-eating microbes, leaving the cast and crew of Gump momentarily victorious. But not for long: a large cache of M-16 missiles are mysteriously thrust into my waiting arms, allowing me to smite everyone remotely connected with this. In my haste to waste these cinematic vermin, I slip on one of Sarah Jessica Parker's Antique Rose Prada boots (a slightly amusing irony) and crack my skull open, dying instantly.

On Death and Dying, Park 2: It's quite natural, when envisioning your own future death, to ponder who precisely will be attending your funeral, and if their presence is because of unconditional love or merely out of a sense of duty. One way to guarantee the sincerity of your mourners would be to erect a Fear Factor-styled obstacle course outside your place of burial. Loved ones must traverse impediments such as acrylic crates of hissing cobras, walking over scalding coals, and so on. Nothing says "you will be missed" more than gulping down a spoonful of juice squeezed from pig intestines.

Taking Flight

Snicker at me if you must, but I'm shedding tears (above and below the waistline) over the Flying Nun: Heavenly Pop Hits documentary currently being offered in various segments all over You Tube. It's more than an historical perspective on one of indie music's most thrilling success stories, it's also a chance for non-New Zealanders (such as moi) to see rare footage and music clips for the first time. Why, the mere act of watching my pop heroes The Clean mug and bounce to some of their early hits is enough to make me give up oxygen for Lent.

Are You There, Me? It's Me, Me.

I'm back from the 2007 SXSW film festival. Actually, I returned a bit earlier than today but needed some "personal" time to process the following observations made while in attendance:

1. The woman at the trade show booth for Music Supervisor looked disturbingly like my Aunt Gracie. I kept expecting her to scold me for not waiting an hour after eating before I went swimming in her pool, followed by backhanded racial insults slyly directed towards my mother.

2. Pegging your pants to a diameter smaller than that of your ankles is The New Flared Corduroy Loose Fit Jeans (previously known as The New Black). Also, there were a shocking amount of attendees who resembled Harry Knowles in both girth and hair style. I weep for a generation. Especially if they all start reviewing movies on-line.

3. While I applaud the practice set forth by the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas--that is, bringing food directly to your seat while you enjoy a movie--I would recommend that, while watching a midnight horror flick involving a man whose eyes are being pulled from its sockets by a Satan worshiper, it's best not to be eating Creme Brulee.

4. Although everyone else was in line to obtain the autograph of director John Sayles during a special festival appearance, I was in line to demand he pay back the six hours of my life he owes me for sitting through Casa De Los Babys, Lone Star and Sunshine State.

5. While everyone else at the Austin Airport was gawking as Peter Buck walked by, I was demanding he pay me back the $60 I paid for the past four REM albums. The punchline is: I downloaded them all for free.

6. The ultimate in nerd overload is to attend a sold-out screening of the new typeface documentary Helvetica, where you will find interactive dorks and graphic design junkies of all shapes and sizes. The punchline is: I was the eighth one in line.

How To Sundance

Do everything possible to assist global warming in melting the world's snow in a speedier fashion. Ridding the earth of the icy nuisance that prevents you from seeing more movies is a most commendable endeavor.

The cliche, in this case, turns out to be quite true: everyone living in Utah really is a white, middle-class, heterosexual Mormon family.

When running behind schedule for a screening after sleeping late, the ability to brush morning breath from your teeth while driving 65 m.p.h. down winding slippery snow-crusted highways is a skill well worth nurturing.

Should your cinematic hero David Gordon Green happen to sit on the same shuttle bus as you, remain calm. Do not wet your pants, no matter how enjoyable that might be. Quickly but firmly approach, conveying how much his films mean to you and what an honor it is to meet him. He will be humble, polite and will shake your hand. Retreat as fast as humanly possible back to your seat. When the woman sitting next to you asks, "What filmmaker is that you were speaking with?", try to refrain from weeping.

Abstain from disembarking off the shuttle at the same time as David Gordon Green: it will lead him to think you're a stalker. If this is unavoidable, bury yourself in the festival program, giving him a few seconds head start to be in front. Sadly, things take a turn for the worst when you find yourself walking right alongside him again a few blocks later; worse, he catches you looking at him. Pretend to be distracted--whoa, there is something really super duper interesting in that shop window across the street! Speed up, passing him in a dramatic fashion as a reassurance that this has all been one big coincidence. Chartering a zigzag path doesn't help: shockingly, you suddenly find yourself right next to him yet again a few minutes later! Holy fuck, how does this keep happening? Eventually, you will have to duck into the festival headquarters to finally and truly avoid walking next to him. Later, fantasize that he relates this run-in with a crazed fan to all of his movie genius buddies as they sip Meisterbrau in the lounge of their private-membership cineaste salon.

When driving between the Sundance Resort and Park City, be sure to seek out the woman selling blankets from her front porch in the quaint town of Heber City. These handcrafted gifts all bear the likeness of various favorite childhood characters: Mickey Mouse, Dora the Explorer, Barbie and...N.W.A???

That Peter Zaremba look-alike you saw on the street the other day turns out, in fact, to be god-like filmmaker Chris Smith. You don't understand this, of course, until later in the day when he makes an appearance for a screening of his latest effort, The Pool. Wait in line to speak with him after the film ends, sulking further when you only have enough time to ask what song played on the soundtrack over the credits. He promises to post the tune on the movie's website but this statement is only meant as an abrupt conversation closer. When leaving the screening of this excellent new film, refrain from slapping the women next to you who--knowing nothing of Smith's background as a documentary filmmaker--complains that it was "too slow" and that "nothing happened".

If you happen to blank out on the name and filmography of marginally interesting queer filmmaker Gregg Araki as he scurries past you, it's best to be accompanied by an aspiring filmmaker friend with few inhibitions. He is more than eager to shout out, "Hey! Hey, you! Did you make The Doom Generation? And what's your name?" The notorious filmmaker seems amused by this arrogant and ignorant outburst; the boyfriend standing next to him, less so.

If you are a frightfully hip young man from L.A, with artfully coifed blonde hair placed just so, a good way to project just how much more evolved you are than the teeming masses sitting amongst you in the theatre would be to continue wearing your expensive brand name sunglasses as you enter the auditorium, taking great care not to remove them until just before the lights go down. You should also take great care to avoid the blogger watching you from two rows away--if he catches you alone outside, he's liable to take those sunglasses and shove them so far up your ass, you'll have to call in a search team to find them.

Because you are movie star hunk Paul Rudd, your ears will burn due to the excited shrill conversation about you between three high-pitched sorority girls who spied you strolling down the street earlier in the evening. Although the encounter with you probably took all of 30 seconds, their recounting of this brush with fame will stretch for a little over an hour.

It's not unusual to find Protagonist, the new film by Jessica Yu, surprisingly accessible because of its direct emotional core. A seemingly simple exploration on the practices of character development handed down from ancient Greek dramas (all enacted by puppets), it's the interspersed personal stories of four real-life men reflecting on power, violence, hubris and redemption which has you bawling tears of empathy. Don't be embarrassed--everyone around you is crying, too.

When flying home, don't be afraid to speak with the diminutive gentleman behind you, taking off his shoes for the X-ray machine. It's comedy legend Bob Balaban and he's the nicest man in the world. He'll accept your compliments gracefully and engage you in a friendly conversation long after he had en excuse to end it. Both the talents and the warmth of Bob Balaban make the world a better place.

Rainy Days and Red Red Meat Always Get Me Down

Depression is a rarity for me (my life is pretty flippin' great). Probably a handful of sad movies (Nobody Knows, Tokyo Story, A Thousand Clouds Of Peace, Faces, You Can Count On Me, Before Night Falls, The Day I Became A Woman) and sad songs are the two motivators that get my eyes all misty-like. Some of the saddest songs ever written are by the no-longer-with-us Red Red Meat. How sad was this band, you might ask? So much so that they even sounded sad when they covered someone else's song (in this case, Polara's Listening Now). Cheer up and buy this 7-inch split single (Polara covers Red Red Meat on the flip) from Perishable Records.

One Day I'll Grow Up And Be A Beautiful Girl

If there was ever an album deserving a "you either love it or hate it" tagline, I Am A Bird Now, by Antony And The Johnsons is it. The initial shock might be the melancholy cover photo of transexual heroine Candy Darling as she lounges in her hospital death bed. Or it might be the forceful, angelic vocals, which leap across any and all boundaries of gender. Perhaps the most surprising: a performer wielding such raw yet delicate emotional depths in a cultural climate overburdened with ironic satire. It's almost unsettling to hear such a personal work informed with unflinching sadness and pain. Every song on this album is weighted heavy with death and mourning, conversely seeking release in metaphoric flight from the darkness, finding its power through defiance against unseen odds. Don't feel bad if you find his work too painful to witness upon first listen--it's taken me almost four months to warm up to this most enlightening of albums. Antony almost dares you not to be affected when crooning the album's opening lines of Hope There's Someone. Press on, and you'll be rewarded. You can find this superb cd at most record stores, or buy it from the record label itself.