Directors and Producers and Actors! Oh My! Part IV

SUNDANCE TWENTYTEN – Saturday Night Live

Saturday was to be the day that we finally got around to doing what most people do when attending Sundance: SCREEN FILMS.  The rest are there to party, ski, snowboard, and unabashedly star gawk.  Speaking of stars, that morning I grabbed the local paper which politely compiled a list of the expected A, B, and C list movie stars in some type of order (by films then in alpha order-and I mean by last name, not by ranking). It was a star stalker’s dream come true.  The only thing missing was a list of the hotels and houses where the objects of desire were staying.  Not that I would have used it or anything … really.

The first film we were to lay eyes on while in the snow drifted Park City, was Get Low, the much talked about Robert Duvall humorously haunting piece which was loosely based on a true story.  This was a must-see for us because as Washingtonians, we have a loyalty to the great Bobby Duvall on the big screen. The iconic actor resides with his gorgeous Argentine wife, in The Plains, VA.  While rather low-profile and keeping to themselves, the couple have been spotted at various charity fundraising events, the Blue Duck Tavern (rumored to be one of their favorites) and right wing functions.  The Oscar winner is an outspoken conservative.

Like the mailman, we were going to ignore the cold, sleet, snow, and inclement weather that crossed our path, making it challenging to drive to the Eccles Theater.  As David, Andy, Susan and I pulled into the full parking lot (and made our own parking space, thank you) we took note of the obnoxiously long lines outside of the building.  “Um, no way am I standing in that B.S.,” I remarked.  As luck would have it, we had arrived late enough that as soon as we hoofed it across the parking lot, the lines had started to move forward.  Granted, as with all events like this, there was a bit of mass confusion as in “which is the right line?” and “where are we going to get 4 seats in a row?”  Turns out we were in the correct line and the answer to the second question was unfortunately, in the balcony.

No matter. The screen was gi-normous.  The absolutely packed theater was buzzing with excitement because we collectively knew Get Low had to be an epic masterpiece. With a cast like Duvall, Bill Murray, and Sissy Spacek, this Aaron Schneider directed picture was sure to be Oscar-worthy.  I mean, how could it not?  It was a formula for success.  As the lights turned down, you couldn’t hear a breath in the audience.  Spoiler alert: I’m not going to give you one.

You can read all about the movie on any internet page, IMDB, or even the reviews from Sundance.  I’ll frankly say, it’s a movie I’d like to see a few more times.  It was also a good thing I brought my trusty dusty tissues because I needed them.  Basically, the setting is in the 1930′s and Duvall plays the old hermit, Felix, so well and so endearingly with such subtle humor, that you immediately feel a connection to him.  Connection to a hermit?  That’s the humanizing element to this film. After learning of an old friend passing, Felix decides to hold his own funeral…while he’s alive.  He’s acutely aware that the entire town folk have spent a good deal of their otherwise boring lives creating stories about who he is, what his past has entailed, and what he is capable of.  Felix has the means (and I mean stashed dollars) to pay Bill Murray, who plays a funeral parlor director whose business is in the process of dying a slow death, for this service.  This is Felix’s opportunity to bring every town person together for a “let’s get everything out on the table” scenario.  Who does a living wake?  Who thinks it’s a bright idea to play “what do you really think about me?”  Perhaps someone who thinks he has nothing else to live for.

The acting, the attention to detail for this time period, the timing, the delivery, the touching emotional moments that were so much about everyday life, death, love, anger, spite, fear, forgiveness, looking back and moving on, were without a doubt outstanding.  I admit that I lost it at the end.  There are only certain movies that can illicit my tears (usually involving animals and old men, for some reason) and this was no doubt one of them.  When the main stars came out onto the stage, including Lucas Black, Murray, Duvall, Spacek (pictured above) and the director Schneider, there was a roar of applause.  Our group sneaked out during the Q&A because we had yet another film to attend.

The next movie was Climate Refugees, which was back in town at the Library off of Main Street.  By now, not only was it dreary and gray out, but the crowds had begun to reach the level of RED ALERT.  DANGER DANGER WILL ROGER.  The streets were filled with furry hats, boots, tipsy loud shouting groups, and slush. Did I mention the slush?  We parked back up at the church again with David’s parking pass and made it down the street in the freezing slippery sidewalks and the throng of people.  Our group of four made it finally to the Red Carpet Main Event at the bottom (of course) of Main, where we met up with Nicole Boxer (pictured below with David and me on the couch), daughter of Senator Barbara Boxer and producer of Climate Refugees.

During Climate Refugees’ reception we mingled with Michael Nash, Justin Hogan, his business partner and Keith Kohn the movie’s score producer and Michael Mollura the composer (pictured above).  Lester Brown (above with Michael), one of the climate change experts who was interviewed extensively for the documentary, which took 2 years to film and a year to edit, chatted with guests in the small private reception.  As I looked around and met some folks, you know, doing the Metro advertising campaign: Take the time to get to know the person beside you (I figured this was a safe environment to do so), I conversed with industry professionals and Michael’s sisters (pictured above) who had come from all over the country to support him.  We couldn’t tell if there were a lot of movie people or “save the environment” people in the room.  I ventured to guess that the majority hailed from the movie world.

The entire group hauled their vodka filled bellies to the Library for the screening.  We were left to hang out in a makeshift green room while the rest of the audience were seated.  Then about 50 of us were escorted into reserved seats more towards the back of the auditorium.  Here I spotted Dan Glickman, the newly announced, as in brand newly announced Refugees International President.  Not one to be known for being shy, I immediately stood up and spoke loudly, “Mr. Glickman! Mr. Glickman!” After introducing myself (and probably frightening him with my aggressive behavior) and congratulating him on is new position – he had just left the Presidency at the MPAA - it was time to connect Michael and Mr. Glickman.  “Michael! Michael!” I think by now, the people sitting around me were more than annoyed.  “Michael, you have got to meet Mr. Dan Glickman, the new RI President and past president of the MPAA.  Oh, and don’t move. I need a picture of the two of you.” (as you can see the product above)

Proud of my good deed for the day (Michael is screening Climate Refugees to the RI Young Humanitarian Circle and speaking to some of the major Climate Center donors in March) it was time to settle in to the introduction of the documentary.  Michael spent about 2 minutes in a clever, engaging introduction.  We watched the film which candidly, for a documentary is not a short 80+ minutes of time spent in your life, however it is content filled and quite an education.  It stirred the standing room only audience so much, that the hands flew up during the Q&A.  Now, remember I wondered where the environmental people were during the reception?  Well. We found them.  Senator Boxer, who had flown in especially for the screening and who had also introduced it during the IMPACT Film Festival in DC last year, made her way up gracefully to answer a few of those environmentally/politically charged inquiries.

Once again, David, Andy, Susan and I sneaked out. Heck it was late, we had an after party to get to and we were more or less starving.  Note to self: 11pm on the Saturday night of Sundance opening weekend is probably not the best time to find a bite to eat, unless you think eating dirty snow is sufficient.  We trudged up Main (after spending the better part of 20 minutes looking for a cab) and literally walked into every food serving venue.  “No room in the inn” was the line we received back, or the kitchen was closed, or there was a private affair booked, or… the best one: sure, but it’s a 45 minute wait.  Our group felt hopeless. Then, like a beacon of pizza light, it came upon a midnight clear:  Red Banjo.  Shhh. It’s our little secret.  Yes, we ate pizza and salad and downed beer and wine at the Red Banjo with kids who were probably still in college.  As we looked around, we commented on the collegiate-like atmosphere that surrounded us. But now was not the time to bring out the snob card.  Starvation trumps elitism. At least it does in my book.

Then came the after party. But first came another trudge uphill and a virtual attack on a taxi van, which by the way, provided us with a 1 mile ride (if that) to our destination.  This taxi.  This taxi. This taxi was the taxi, the one glorious one we’d heard so much about: The MUSIC TAXI.  Unfortunately, our ride took all of 2 minutes and 1 minute of that was backing up and turning around in a driveway.  David got the driver’s number for our Sunday evening travel needs.  That David. He’s so smart and forward thinking.

We entered this after party as wide eyed as children about to frolic in Disney World for the first time.  Let’s take a moment here.  Now, I have watched enough CW and teen movies in the 80′s to recognize a “house party” and I mean one of those that when you see it onscreen, you roll your eyes and go, “yeah right. like that would ever happen.” Let’s be clear.  This was one of those parties.  I mean, minus the lampshade wearing and chandelier swinging, pretty much everything else was happening and it was no holds barred and just a P.A.R.T.Y.  A party in a rented house whose owners are most likely still paying for the damage.  But hey, as they say in the movies: Not my problem (nor did I contribute to any of the damage I’m sure, thank you).

The house was rockin’, the vodka drinks being poured by lovely ladies in barely-there attire were flowing and the dance floor packed. There was even a photo session with costumes.  Strangers were grabbing each other (yes, I was picked up by someone whom I’ll nickname the “Pick Up Artist” – he used the same lines on every girl at the party I witnessed and overheard later) to share in the sessions.  Everyone was open, inviting, celebratory.  There was not a care in the world.

“So, I just asked this girl if she liked the movie,” David said to me, after a quick sip and glancing around.

“And?” I responded, catching a glimpse of some guys doing strange poses in the hallway over a Red Bull can.

“She said, ‘What movie?’” he answered incredulously.  “Of course I explained to her that I was speaking of Climate Refugees, the MOVIE WHOSE AFTER PARTY WE WERE ATTENDING.  And she had no idea what I was talking about, but all the same, was happy to tell me that this was her party, her house she rented.”  We both shook our heads.  Later, I asked the Pick Up Artist the same question and received a blank stare: What movie?

As I said before, some people were there for the partying …

Checking out the room, I noticed that while my friends, including Michael, Justin and the rest of the Climate Refugees folks were dressed appropriately in cold weather attire, because well, it was about 10 degrees in January, the rest of these party goers were donning something that reminded me of the cast of Gossip Girl: Miami if there were ever to be that show, and let’s hope there’s not.  To complete the shot taking, break dancing, grinding group of 20-something year olds’ fun, there was even a tiny Alice in Wonderland-like door, which I heard led to a world of misbehavior.  Alas, finally it was time to go.  But before exiting, we caught glimpses of reality show stars through the paparazzi pile and some “rap star” complete with his entourage.  And after exiting, we caught a frightful scene of a girl fight, similar to that of the Bad Girls Club meets Cops! minus, but badly needing the cops, outside.  Yes, had these girls been on network television it would have been all: “BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP! and BLEEP! BLEEP!”  They also wore outfits that resembled the Jersey Shore gone off the deep end.  It was so time to go home.

Again, what a party. What a night. At least I knew that our tummies would be full with the Stein Eriksen Lodge brunch the next day … but first, some necessary shopping.