Now, I would never be so presumptuous as to compare myself to Jesus, but I kind of know where the man was coming from when he entered the temple, because that's how I was feeling last week as I wandered the streets of Park City, Utah.
Every year thousands of people descend on the small ski town to attend, primarily, the Sundance Film Festival. Some come for Slamdance and TromaDance, which take place at the same time, but Sundance is the glittering object that catches the attention of star-struck rubberneckers and gossipmongers. Among the savage tan bodies clad in fur coats and jawing on cell phones about attending the Beastie Boys' party (which I hear was really cool) or whose ass they snorted cocaine off of, it is easy to forget why we're all in Park City. We're there to watch movies. At least in theory that's why we're there.
For almost a week, I watched movies for 19 hours a day. In between screenings, hours were spent negotiating with filmmakers to show their movies at the Longbaugh Film Festival. And when I wasn't watching or begging, I was writing. Through all of this, I fought my way through crowded streets of people more concerned about catching a glimpse of Kevin Smith or Jennifer Aniston than with actually viewing quality films.
This is what Park City has become. Sure, all the festivals that converge there have great stuff showing, but you might not know it if you didn't take time to break away from cataloging the bags of swag being shoved into your hands every few feet. Who needs to watch films when you can apply complimentary foot lotion while drinking free Starbucks?
I did see some great films in Park City. So Much So Fast and Beyond Beats and Rhymes were among the best of Sundance, while The Empire in Africa was one of Slamdance's highlights. Perhaps the best film I saw all week was a four-minute short—Between You and Me—that screened at TromaDance. But despite those magical cinematic moments, there were always the irritating sights and sounds of the circus parade.
For someone like me, who loves film and has dedicated much of his life to the art and the industry, festivals should be places to bask in the transformative flickering light of moving pictures. I should be concerned about what to see, and not about getting run over by some jackass in an SUV, talking on his cell phone about how much some film sold for. But the reality is that while I yearned to be moved by the Holy Spirit of independent film—the gospel of which is preached ad nauseam everywhere you go in Park City—I could not help but feel my place of worship had become a den of thieves.
See www.longbaugh.com for more of Walker's Park City adventures. Scoop will return next week.
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