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.

Me and My Precious Feelings While Attending the 2012 Sundance Film Festival. Me, Me, Me. [Part 2]

Oh Parker Posey, you adorable urchin of independent cinema. When I saw you from below the staircase you were ascending, it almost felt as if you were treading on my heart. And where did you get that slim figure? Who knew that the improvisational comedies of Christopher Guest would make an actress burn so many calories! Too bad your boyfriend at the photo shoot likes the generic wanky reggae of Bob Marley. P-U! Dump him pronto and get a new beau with better taste in music.

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.

Me and My Precious Feelings While Attending the 2012 Sundance Film Festival. Me, Me, Me. [Part 1]

Just attended the first screening of The House I Live In, a searing expose by Eugene Jarecki on America's so-called War on Drugs and its extreme effects on various racial and socioeconomic communities. There's probably more to this documentary than that, but I had been huffing goofballs all afternoon so the entire film is a haze.  I have a vague recollection that it has a happy ending.

The Snow Must Go On (Because Sundance is a Kind of Show, Surrounded by Inches of Snow.) (This Proves I am Clever.)

For the rest of the week, I will be writing you from the 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.

Live Blogging The 2011 Telluride Film Festival

I have an idea how Sony Pictures Classics can market their forthcoming Holocaust survival flick In Darkness: "It's Schindler's List...filmed in tunnel vision!"  Also, they should consider changing the title to the catchier Sewer Jews.

George Clooney is here in person, apparently. This caused several people to riot, burn down dozens of theaters and march through the streets with Ken Burns' head impaled on a pitchfork.

This year's Guest Director (and one of my musical heros) Caetano Veloso is signing autographs today, and I've brought several CD's for him to mark up. Here's how I hope it will go down:

Disco:Very: Good evening, Caetano. You are but a god.
Caetano Veloso: Thank you, Disco:Very. You are one of my idols.
Disco:Very: When you give me the signal, I will overthrow the U.S. Government and smash the capitalist pigs.
Caetano Veloso: The time to end America's reign of terror is upon us!
Disco:Very: Viva Los Gringos!

Here is how it will really go down:

Disco:Very: Good evening, Caetano. You are one of my favorite musicians and--
Caetano Veloso: [Quickly signs my CD with a rubber stamp bearing his signature.] Done. Next!!

A Doom Metal Announcement

[Sung to the tune of Seance by Furze.]

I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I wi-i-i-i-illlllll be-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
a-a-a-a-awa-a-a-a-a-ay fo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-rrrrrr a we-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-k
a-a-ate-e-e-ndi-i-i-i-innng The Telluride Film Festival

I-i-i-i-ffff I-I-I-I-I-I-I do-o-o-o-o-n-n-n-n-n-nt re-e-e-e-e-etu-u-u-u-unnn,
it w-i-i-i-i-lllll be-e-e-e-e be-e-e-e-eca-a-a-use
I joi-oi-oi-oinnned The Demonic Order in the Eternal Fascist's Hall.

Genitals Are People, Too!

My annual trek to the Telluride Film Festival beckons, which means I won't be posting in the next few days. Despite the fact that the organizers haven't yet sent me my laminated pass, I'm feeling a keen sense of euphoria and pee-inducing excitement. Who knows what adventures await me? Will I once again be yelled at by an incensed Charlotte Rampling after I selfishly plop my ass into the seat directly in front of her? Will I once again find myself stalking Mark Ruffalo while waiting in line for a film? Could my precious penis once again gain proximity to the withered penis of UK filmmaker Mike Leigh while standing next to him at a theater urinal? Both me and my penis will tell all upon my return.

No posts for a short while as I will be in Los Angeles for the next 5 days. Let me know if you want me to buy you anything at Amoeba Music. Please note: I will not really be buying you anything at Amoeba Music.

My Precious Feelings on the 36th Telluride Film Festival

Although I am not the winner of this year's edition of the Be the First to Spot Ken Burns game, I do, however, witness many 4-year-olds around town with the same bowl-cut hair style, which scores me a few points in the end.

The next morning, I happily spot Mr. Burns being nagged by his wife in broad daylight and provide him momentary respite from her by insisting I get my picture snapped with him (that's me on the left).

The minute the festival schedule is announced, rumors being to swirl like Lysol® Power Toilet Bowl Cleaner as it washes away pesky lime and rust. Due to a surprise announcement that Up in the Air will be screening, everyone is on the lookout for George Clooney to make an appearance. It certainly explains why I keep getting stopped in the street by strangers assuming I am him. Curse my masculine square jaw and rugged good looks!

The festival begins on a high note for me thanks to Henri-George Clouzot's Inferno, an engrossing recounting of the unfinished masterwork-which-could-have-been by the director of The Wages of Fear and Diabolique. Some of the visuals are so strong, you want to take them home in your pants pocket to take out and look at later when you're alone.

I walk out midway during the first screening of the three-part Red Riding: 1974, which is too formulaic for my tastes. A few hours later, I endure a screening of The Miscreants of Taliwood--a potentially fascinating documentary on the local film production of Pakistan as it wrestles with local Islamic fundamentalism, but the story is overwhelmed by the self-absorbed director who inserts his hammer-over-the-head moral judgements into nearly every frame.

Despite critics who find his vision far too bleak, I personally delight in the films of Michael Heneke (Cache, Funny Games) and his deeply morbid take on the world, especially in his new flick The White Ribbon (a perfect date movie if you're trying to woo a Goth). He sometimes tries a little too hard to be The Bad Boy of Cinema ("I hope you have a disturbing viewing experience", he proclaimed before the screening I caught), but he'd be the type of person to which I'd gravitate at a party, especially as he gloomily points out the violent malicious nature of humanity to the shocked and horrified guests.

One of the delights of a great festival is when the selected films share similar thematic concerns. Such was the case of two very different films, A Prophet and Coco Before Chanel:

A Prophet: The protagonist is trapped in an oppressive prison system with no means of escape.
Coco Before Chanel: Lowly employees are trapped working for the oppressive Coco Chanel without any means of escape.

A Prophet: The lead character must resort to violence and murder to climb his way to the top of the prison hierarchy.
Coco Before Chanel: Coco must resort to violence and murder to climb her way to the top of the fashion hierarchy.

A Prophet: The protagonist conceals a razor blade in his mouth in order to slit the throat of an opponent.
Coco Before Chanel: Ditto.

It is announced that a special appearance will be made by Helen Mirren, who is in attendance with her new costume drama The Last Station. It certainly explains why I keep getting stopped in the street by strangers assuming I am her. Curse my matronly demeanor and bosomy man-boobs!

I hereby apologize to everyone sitting near me during It Came From Kuchar, the side-splitting new documentary about the Kuchar twins, George and Mike. The campy clips from their lewd filmography had me convulsing with booming laughter during the entire 90 minutes.

Early on, I decide to skip the special screening of the new Todd Solondz film Life During Wartime. If I wanted to experience tiresome smart-ass writing whose only intent is to make the viewing public uncomfortable, I'd just read my own fucking blog [*rimshot*].

I have a newfound respect for filmmaker Alexander Payne, whose films (About Schmidt, Sideways) have always slightly annoyed me. All of his picks as Guest Director of the festival were worth catching, from the weepy 1937 drama Make Way For Tomorrow to the Spanish black comedy El Verdugo to the darkly ironic Samurai epic Daisan no Kagemusha. His presentation of the splendid Italian romantic comedy Le Ragazze di Piazza di Spagna, which featured a very young Marcello Mastroianni in one of his earliest roles, was made even more special for me because I was sitting a mere two rows away from his frequent co-star Anouk Aimée. Being able to look over at her as Mastroianni appeared on the screen had me in cinematic heaven.

On the Cutting Room Floor

Once again, I must apologize for the lack of posts. Everyone in Hollywood has been scrambling to repeat the runaway-freight-train success of the family-friendly Disney flick Beverly Hills Chihuahua, so as a result, I've been hired to script one of the many dozen sequels in the works. America, I give to you an all-Chihuahua version of Caligula! I don't want to give away too much, but in my version, castration has a more beneficial purpose.

In between my daunting writing schedule, I will be at the 36th Telluride Film Festival for the next few days. I promise to gossip about everything I see upon my return.

Money Doesn't Grow On Trees--It Does, However, Tend to Blow Amongst Heavy Traffic on Sunset Boulevard at Opportune Moments

If you're the person in Los Angeles who lost that $100 bill I found lying in the street this past weekend, please write me immediately so I can thank you from the bottom of my heart. That green sure came in handy when Amoeba Records had that rare used version of Recombo DNA, the internet-only limited-edition 2-CD comp of outtakes and demos by robotic New Wave pioneers Devo. Can you imagine how your inability to keep track of your moolah has instantly enriched my life? Now I can listen to Sloppy (I Saw My Baby Gettin') (demo) and Girl U Want (demo alternate version) whenever I damn well please without ever having to resort to the shameful practice of illegal downloading. Thanks to your nimble wallet, my disposition is so sunny I even find myself listening to the tracks made during their later barely-interesting period following their surprising chart success. I hope to be in your area again in three weeks--do you think you can see to losing another $100 dollar bill during my upcoming visit? And a little closer to my hotel wouldn't hurt, either.

Live Blogging SXSW 2009 In Exasperating Detail, Part 4. [Let's Suffer Through It Together.] [Hugs!]

Now that I'm back home, away from the glitter and gloom of the 2009 SXSW, being back on solid soil has given me plenty of time to reflect on what I learned from my trip:

1. If you witness T.J. Jagodowski (the balding guy from those Sonic commercials) ambling down 6th Street, nobody is going to recognize him but you, so go ahead and gawk. Make it extra special by keeping a count of how many homeless people over which he is able to step with a confident strut.

2. If you have intentions of meeting hot-director-of-the-moment Catherine Hardwicke during her DVD signing, you'd better enjoy standing in line with 800,000 vampire-lovin' goth geeks, cuz brother, they've all seen Twilight and they want a piece of her flesh. Also, actually bringing one of her movies on DVD to sign would be a good idea, too.

3. Make sure that when you introduce yourself to Todd Haynes in the Austin Airport that you depart his private space immediately. If you accidentally walk past him again less than an hour later, he'll give you that help!-I'm-being-stalked! look similar to the one shown to you by David Gordon Green during the 2007 Sundance Film Festival. It's always your cinematic heroes who tend to be most unnerved by doe-eyed idol worship, isn't it?

Live Blogging SXSW 2009 In Exasperating Detail, Part 3. [Let's Suffer Through It Together.] [Hugs!]

A Few of the Notable Panel Discussions I've Enjoyed at SXSW 2009

Pegging Your Hipster Jeans to Their Maximum 80's Tightness Without Damaging Your Sphincter

Film Critics and the Two Remaining Fans Who Love Them

Making Your Own Mumblecore Feature Film On Half the Budget and Twice the Talent

From Script to Screen to Trash Heap: Why Your Feature Film About Young Singles Looking for True Love in the Big City is Not Worth Being Filmed

A Cinematographer's Symposium: 101 Things You Should Know Before Working with Christian Bale

Rethinking the Brand: What To Do When Some Delusional Guy Who, Because His Booth is Next to Yours, Believes He Should Push His Wares on You Even Though There is Not Even a Tenuous Connection Between the Two Companies, and He Stands Around Your Area for Ten Minutes Babbling On About Who Fucking Knows What Because You Stopped Listening Two Minutes After He Began Talking, and He Then Suggests You Take His Business Card and Then Realizes He Doesn't Have One on Him and Makes You Wait for the Eight Painful Minutes It Takes Him to Find One, While You Stand There Thinking "When You Decided to Come Over and Waste My Time with Your Fucking Spiel, Why Didn't You Figure Out That It Would Make Sense to First Dig Out Your Fucking Business Card Before Hovering Around My Personal Space, Asshole?": A Case Study

A Conversation With Elvis Mitchell's Dreadlocks

Exploiting the Film Festival Circuit (By Pretending You Actually Have a Film You're Going to Make)

Harry Knowles and the Tiny Voices Which Push Him Ever Onward (Hurrah!)

A SXSW 2009 Symposium: Attendee Observation 101: The Future of Overused Colons in Panel Discussion Titles: How to Know When Too Many is Too Many: A Discussion

Live Blogging SXSW 2009 In Exasperating Detail, Part 2. [Let's Suffer Through It Together.] [Hugs!]

The trade show begins today. I have a lengthy visit at the booth for Lost Zombies, billed as "a social network whose goal is to document the zombie apocalypse..." I am not making this up. I'm told by one of the creators that the most contentious argument on their forum is whether zombies--when chasing potential victims--move slowly or quickly. Please excuse me while my eyes glaze over from brain damage.

There is a large booth representing the Australian film industry which seems to attract a sizable crowd throughout the day. I thought of suggesting to them that they should offer a free trip to their homeland to the first person who admits to having sat through Australia, but relented when I realized the international incident which would ensue would surely conflict with my lunch break.

During my visit to the booth of WhoLinksToMe.com, I make the mistake of telling this up-and-coming website that I am the President and CEO of www.DiscoColonVery.net, after which they suggest I use their sister site, www.WhoGivesTwoShitsAboutYourSnarkyBlog.com.

A popular trade show giveaway this year seems to be items which ease the workload of drinking beer: I spotted a business card and a lighter, both of which double as bottle openers. Stress balls were, as always, the most sought-after gifts but I'm convinced vendors only give this away so when customers clamor for them, they can overuse the easy joke, "Our balls are huge!"

Each year, every SXSW trade show sees an influx of intelligence-deficient attendees who seem to have been dropped off in front of the Austin Convention Center by the local mental ward. One gentleman spent nearly 10 minutes at our booth speaking softly about the weather and how long he's lived in his home state, never once attempting to link his chosen profression as a musician with the goals of our organization. Another man, standing all of 5ft 5inches, bound over to our booth to exclaim, "I've been coming to SXSW since I was little!" [Pause. Wait for it.] "Now I'm visiting again and I'm still little!" Buh dum dum. This well-rehearsed joke was actually worth a chuckle when uttered at our table; less so when we heard him repeat it again word for word at the next booth over. And again at the booth next to that one.

Throughout the day, SXSW conducts live interviews with bloggers which are then broadcast via streaming audio & video on its website. Call me biased, but interviewing someone who obsessively documents the minutiae of their day is a bit like singing a song about people who write songs. The subject is so meta, it's eventually going to implode on itself.

Live Blogging SXSW 2009 In Exasperating Detail, Part 1. [Let's Suffer Through It Together.] [Hugs!]

I'm waiting to board the plane which will whisk me away to sunny Austin, TX (except that it's currently pissing non-stop rain there at the moment). The adorable father/daughter duo dressed in look-alike pink shirts/blue jeans also awaiting their departure warm my heart. It's an affirmation of all that is good and precious to see a late-40's-ish father treat his early-20's daughter with so much affection and...holy shit, now they're kissing. OH MY GOD, THEY'RE TOTALLY MAKING OUT!! HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THEY'RE A COUPLE!! IS ROMAN POLANSKI OUT TO RUIN ALL OF OUR SOCIAL INSTITUTIONS???

It's time for breakfast. The spunky young African-American cashier at the bagel shop is eager to sing along loudly with every artist playing on the restaurant radio, and truth be told, her voice is easy on the ears so it's a pleasure to witness. She matches each song note for note: a tune by Paula Abdul, another one by Cher, a track by Brandy, etc. When Help Me, the overplayed annoyance by Joni Mitchell is aired, she clams up and has no interest in singing along. There's a joke here just waiting to be written but I'm not sure I'm up to the task--something about white not being a recognized color in the spectrum of music.

A visit to Austin means non-stop exposure to KVRX, the top-notch college radio station. I thrill along to everything they play until, that is, they roll out the oh-so-precious child-like twee folk of Agent Ribbons and their Barney-esque sing-along "Chelsea, Let's Go to the Circus". HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THEY'RE SERIOUSLY SINGING ABOUT GOING TO A CIRCUS!! IS JONATHAN RICHMAN EVER GOING TO PAY FOR HIS EVIL INFLUENCE OVER AMERICA'S YOUTH???

My Precious Feelings on the 35th Annual Telluride Film Festival

As usual, I was the first in my party to spot Ken Burns. I somehow end up winning this spirited competition every year, with Burns and I gravitating towards each other within mere hours of the festival’s beginning. Is it because I, too, am a 40-something male sporting the bowl cut hairdo of a 12-year-old?

While waiting in line for Firaaq (a film so pedestrian, I had to depart 30 minutes into it), I spy Salman Rushdie conversing with the film’s director Nandita Das. I briefly considered carrying out the fatwa which has been exacted upon him, but realizing there was no financial reward involved, I quickly lost interest.

Although I am against public stalking in principle, during a screening of Max Ophuls’ newly-restored 1955 epic Lola Montes, I spy my favorite husband and wife filmmakers Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor (also known as the Desperate Optimists) taking their seats. Needless to say, I can’t resist planting myself in front of them to blather to them how much I love their films, especially Who Killed Brown Owl, a film which still haunts my thoughts every so often. Thankfully, they are gracious and polite, completely refraining from having security remove me from their vicinity, although the restraining order presented to me after the screening did hurt my feelings somewhat…

If the timing had been a bit more perfect, I could have crossed swords with actor Greg Kinneer in the men’s restroom right before viewing the tepid Danish blockbuster Flame and Citron. Instead, I am a few nano-seconds behind him, performing my last-drop dance at the urinal while he’s already at the sink soaping up. I had an “in” (we attended the same college) but by the time I had worked up my opening statement (“Hello, Mr. Kinneer. You lather your hands with the same dedication you showed in Little Miss Sunshine—and I even walked out of it halfway through!”) he was long gone. Curse me and my long-winded time-consuming verbosity!

Another restroom encounter, this time with UK director/genius Mike Leigh. I briefly entertained reaching out to introduce myself and proclaim my love of his movies, but he’d just left the urinal and had not yet washed up afterwards. Yes, he’s created some of the most acclaimed films in recent British film history, and more than a few of his cinematic efforts are on my Top 100 Favorite Films list, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let his pee-pee backsplash rub onto me as we shake hands. Ewwww!

A day into the fest, I once again spy Ken Burns, this time one row in front of me during the screening of the gritty Italian film Gomorrah. Oddly, he and his wife make tsk-tsk faces at each other during the film’s frequent outbursts of violence, as if to say couldn’t the director scale this bloodshed back a little? Considering it was a film about the present-day Italian mafia, he’s lucky the carnage wasn’t more savage than it already was. If only I’d had a bottle of tequila with me, I could have made their shocked reactions into a drinking game.

Imagine my surprise when Hunger—the film I was most reluctant to watch--turns out to be one of my favorite flicks of the entire fest. The elliptical style and the stark camerawork had me captivated from beginning to end. Bonus points go to those seated near me who did not seem to mind my loud munching on carrot sticks during the hunger strike scenes.

Take the frantic family antics of Capturing the Friedmans, turn the dysfunction up about 10 notches, toss in a third-act link to Orson Welles and you have Prodigal Sons, a discomforting autobiographical documentary by Kimberly Reed. After it’s over, you’ll almost find yourself feeling lucky for being born into your own family. Almost.

Rain is one of my least favorite weather elements (right behind tornados, swarms of locusts and ash clouds spewed from active volcanoes). To avoid one of Telluride’s typical torrents, I reluctantly grabbed a place in the dry tent-covered line for Paul Schrader’s Adam Resurrected merely as a means to avoid the downpour. Had I known what was in store, I’d have gladly chosen a deluge of Biblical proportions instead. Imagine the worst parts of Patch Adams, Life Is Beautiful and (I assume) The Day the Clown Cried tied together in a Holocaust comedy/drama vehicle for Jeff Goldblum. Goldblum is made to behave as a dog under the Nazi thumb of Willem Dafoe, later causing him to engage in dog-like animalistic sex on all fours with sexy nurse Ayelet Zurer (it's quite natural that hot women spread their legs for aged men 30 years their junior). Did I mention he attempts to heal the heart of a young Holocaust survivor who thinks he’s a dog?

One feels a sense of wonder and innocence while watching Jan Troell’s 1966 coming-of-age tale Here Is Your Life. Then the scenes of the where-did-that-come-from? homoeroticism pop up and you just end up feeling like a pervert. Bonus points for the snippet of conversation between two aging film professors I overheard before the screening begins: “My students are on You Tube all the time. I’ll send you the link.”

While exiting Tulpan, the acclaimed new film from Sergei Dvortsevoy, I find myself behind a contingent of marketing brass from Turner Classic Movies, all of them underwhelmed by this subtle award-winning work, utterly perplexed are they by the frequent images of goat herds living and dying on the Kazakhstan plains. It’s good to know the vast cinematic library overseen by TCM is in such capable hands.

A Dream Deferred: A Play in Three Acts

ACT ONE

The scene opens on a line of travelers awaiting the task of showing their boarding passes to an FAA inspector at the Tucson International Airport as they prepare to fly to Los Angeles. The line moves slowly--the inspector is courteous yet thorough in her duties--but dispenses each traveler in line at a steady pace. About three people from the front of the line is ASTRONOMY PROFESSOR, a married man in his early-to-mid 50's, balding yet continuing to grow his hair in a shaggy swirl as if still in his 20's. He is wearing a blue long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck and accented with a novelty tie emblazoned with a planetary pattern (the moon, Saturn, Venus, etc, all of which is surrounded by a wash of stars and galaxies). The shirt is tucked into loose-fitting professorial khaki pants looped with a nondescript belt. The footwear chosen to compliment this ensemble is flip-flops. Directly behind ASTRONOMY PROFESSOR is DISCO:VERY who is watching the man in front of him with astonishment and disbelief.

The ASTRONOMY PROFESSOR is now at the front of the line as he hands the FAA INSPECTOR his boarding pass.

FAA Inspector: [disinterested monotone but professional nonetheless] Good morning, sir. How are you today?

Astronomy Professor: Living the dream. [Spoken with renewed emphasis] Living. The. Dream.

ACT TWO

The lights come up on DISCO:VERY who has just witnessed the actions in the previous scene. He collapses, clutching his heart and falls to the ground in spasms.

ACT THREE

A hospital waiting area. Everyone who has ever glanced at and/or loved reading DISCO:VERY is crowded into the tiny room as they await word from THE HEART SPECIALIST. The actors adlib their grief over DISCO:VERY's situation as THE HEART SPECIALIST enters stage left and walks into the densely packed waiting room.

The Heart Specialist: [Speaking to the gathered crowd with courage and conviction] I'm sorry. I tried everything I could to revive him, but his heart just couldn't take what he witnessed. My sympathies are with you during this difficult time, but, jeez, c'mon! It's not like there aren't billions of other self-obsessed blogs with which you can replace it in your computer reading rituals, right??. Get over it.

CURTAIN

Another Pause, Another Grinding Halt

It's bad enough I've been blatantly shirking my posting duties, now you won't see any n-line musings for the next six days while my glamorous job flys me to the SXSW Film Festival, held in good old Austin, TX, whose automobile population holds the largest concentration of anti-Bush bumper stickers I've ever seen in one place. If you happen to be attending, you'll almost certainly find me most of the time at booth I-13 of the film festival trade show, so do drop by and pretend you're interested in what I'm selling. Or just hang around Waterloo Records and look for the guy running through the racks muttering album titles to himself in a crazed effort to fill in those missing gaps in his CD collection. You'll also be able to spot me at Magnolia Cafe, attempting to consume those gigantic gingerbread-banana pancakes in one bite.

Help Me, I Think I'm Tripping

For the next 5 days, no postings, thanks to yet another trip, this time to the Telluride Film Festival. After this is over, a stronger promise could not be made: no more trips for at least 4 more months. Check back on Tuesday night for a strong return to form.

Sleep Is For The Wicked

Just returned from Glasgow, Scotland last night after nearly 17 hours spent in airports and airplanes. Sleep was near impossible on the final flight because the creepy Harry Potter-obsessed Mormon dork beside me kept trying to strike up conversation. Hence, You Made Me Forget My Dreams, taken from Our Favourite Party Songs, one of the better-made (and better sounding) Belle & Sebastian live bootlegs I've encountered over the years. Recorded in Vredenburg, Utrecht, the Netherlands on March 31, 2004, the band appears to be taking their job a little more seriously during this tour and the between-song awkwardness normally plaguing their live shows is completely absent. Although their are no liner notes to speak of, it appears to be a soundboard mix, with a nice blend of audience volume thrown in as well. I was lucky enough to find it in a tucked away record store by a Glasgow train station, but if you're wanting to find more of this recording, Revolution In The Head has some of it available on its website.