It’s happened faster than you can say “wannabe.”
Yes, my friends, the entireties of Los Angeles and New York have evacuated their places of abode into our sweet land of the beehive. The Persons In Black have landed, complete with their annual influx of caffeinated specialty drinks, expensive cigarettes and a perfectly fabulous urban attitude.
It’s the “I’m better than you” attitude.
The locals’ camp out in Park City boasted 300 bodies. The numbers in Salt Lake City were comparable. These people spent upward of 18 hours of their lives waiting patiently to purchase tickets. The hope of these buyers, of course, is that these little slips of paper will grant them access to rub elbows with the rich and famous.
And sadly, I was among them. Before you judge, know that I am experiencing extreme self loathing for actually paying to be spit upon by the Hollywood elite. I could just as easily stand under a camel.
I’m sorry-truly, I am. I try to hate the 10 days of Sundance like a good little local, but I can’t seem to knock my own admiration for the world of filmmakers. I am embarrassed that the epitome of greatness in my tender young life was meeting Brad Pitt at Jennifer Aniston’s premiere of “The Good Girl” in 2002, and more so that my friends and I took an entire roll of pictures of Brad’s beautiful butt when he was bent over in front of us. Think they’d sell on eBay?
This is the sort of pathetic episode that Sundance brings out in us normal folk. I’ve seen perfectly rational 40-year-old women turn into sobbing messes when Robert Redford enters a room. I’ve seen blas goth teenagers morph into screaming, hair-grabbing freaks at the thought of seeing Britney Spears.
Here are some facts you may not know. The Sundance Institute was created in 1981 by Robert Redford and colleagues in an admirable gesture to expose low-budget films to a greater variety of viewers. Since then, the budget of the festival has grown to a whopping $10.6 million and each year grows by leaps and bounds.
One really horrible facet of this growth is that the low-budget filmmakers are slowly finding themselves replaced with big name production companies and hungry-for-prestige stars. You can’t be cool in Hollywood anymore unless you do independent film. This idea is the death of the low-budget wonders that the festival was originally designed to harbor and protect.
Films at Sundance used to be rare-the sort of movies that would be nearly impossible to see in a traditional theater. This year, you have such guaranteed blockbusters as “The Butterfly Effect” which will be released nationwide Jan. 23 and “Iron Jawed Angels,” officially released on Feb. 9. The mainstream quality given to these two movies totally kills the magic of their supposed indie origin.
Why would I want to stand for hours in the freezing cold to see a movie that I could see cheaper if I waited a couple weeks?
Yes, Ashton Kutcher will be at his premiere. Metallica will be at the premiere of their documentary. Julianne Moore will be at the first showing of “Marie and Bruce.” Ben Affleck and Matt Damon are notorious Sundance groupies.
These big names would be a good excuse for frostbite and line waiting if I didn’t have the utter perfection of Brad Pitt’s butt waiting for me at home.
So why I am going? Honestly, I’m going in a last-ditch attempt to see the movies that won’t be at Century 16 before the next episode of “Punk’d” airs on MTV.
I’m going for such filmmakers as Bertolucci, for performances of the weird, the different and the sometimes obscure. I’m going for movies like “Born into Brothels” and “The Last Life in the Universe,” small examples of a quickly fading beauty in cinematic progressions.
Seeing Brad Pitt again wouldn’t be bad, either.
