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.
The dirty diapers at Pitchfork went and gave Lulu, the debut collaboration between Elder Statesman Lou Reed and mosh mascots Metallica, their lowest available rating, and from the uproar one finds all over the music webisphere, Pitchfork is not alone in their disgust. Indie purists, please. Calm the fuck down. If there's one thing we've learned about Saint Lou over the years, it's that he's never going to stop merging his interest in highbrow literature with his passion for rock and roll. Stop insisting that he write another Sweet Jane and let the man fucking do his thing. If you can't slam your fists around the brutality which envelops the galloping 
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 
