The Sundance Syndrome

After having finally experienced Sundance non-vicariously - I've figured out why it's become so popular. First of all celebrities love it - they flock to the place like it was Narnia, because when they're here, no one bothers them. They can wander about freely, intermingle with other members of their species - with little or no fear of paparazzi, or any other kind of crazies. True, there's gonna be a couple of timid Mormon housewives with little Kodaks, but they keep their distance then scamper away giggling, no harm done. So what is it about this quaint mountain retreat that could produce such a strange phenomenon. Simple - "everybody" up here thinks they're every bit as fabulous and important themselves. Even your garden variety peasants up from Salt Lake City comport themselves as though they'd just been nominated for the Oscar for "best performance by an assistant produce manager. The juice just flows through everyone when they're up here.

The reason I figured this out is simple, I'm every bit as guilty. Most people up here are wearing big passes around their necks which identify them and offer a brief description as to what it is that they're doing here. It's not long before you realize that people don't make eye contact, their eyes go straight for your tag. So the first thing I did was turn mine around backward (in all the hustle and bustle things can get twisted). Now I'm having fun. I could be anybody. and by affecting just the slightest hint of condescending disdain, a little boredom and forced-patience - Voi-la! I'm huge, I could make or break you with a phone call - outta my way. It really does work. If you've got a few minutes to kill and you want to know what it feels like to be Russell Crowe give it a shot. "Insufferable Prima Donna for a Day." There's a reality show for you to pitch. Before I go any further, Crowe is maybe the best actor alive, I'm not knocking him, but it might be nice if he were hypnotized in such a way that when he hears the words "It's a Wrap." he slumps over in his seat and two hired Crowe-nies load him in a box, until he's needed for more acting. Remember - no dream is too big here in Narnia. At Sundance everyone is a star and stars are just like everyone. The recipe for magic in a handy little couplet.

Still I wanted to find out just how deeply ingrained this little theory of mine really runs - so I decided a small experiment would be just the ticket.. And soon the perfect subject presented herself. I was hanging out in the lobby of the Eccles, just jotting down a few thoughts I didn't want to forget about some of the films I'd seen, when all the sudden there was Sally Field. Not exactly a tabloid regular these days, but once upon a time - back in her Norma Rae, Oscar-winning "you really like me" days, she was as popular an actress as there was. Yet no one seemed to even notice her. She was walking around kind of aimlessly, gabbing on her cell like she was at home in her jammies and no one seemed to be paying her any more mind than if she were the weekend news anchor from KRSP Rock Springs. This was perfect, if Sally Field didn't want to be a star, at the age of 59 with nothing but a lot of television to show for the last ten years - then my theory is straight genius.

Now, under normal circumstances, if I were Sally Field, I'd be flattered if not somewhat grateful and relieved if some nice looking fellow stepped up politely and asked for my autograph. But we're right smack dab in the center of Sundance, this is going to tell the story, right here. So I waited until she was off the phone and stepped up with a pen and something big and easy to write on and made the universal "may I have your autograph" gesture - and sure enough she copped an attitude. YES! To tell you the truth I was pretty surprised - I honestly didn't believe that this thing could possibly run so deep. I am not lying - she snatched away my pen, gave me a withering glance and scratched off a pissy signature so illegible that I could have convinced anyone that it was someone's autograph far more impressive than Sally freakin' Field's. Even though she'd proved my theory beyond any conceivable doubt, it kinda hurt my feelings, she was downright rude about it.

In fact I could feel her nasty glare burning holes right through the back of my jacket all the way over to the garbage can. There was plenty of "Places in the Trash" to deposit her snot-o-graph so I did just that. Ride "this" Sally - I was just trying to give your flagging ego a shot in the arm, I should have kept it and told people it was Shelley Long's autograph. They would have been every bit as impressed and completely unable to dispute it's authenticity. Wow, I gotta be honest with you, that was quite a belly-drop. I never would have guessed in a million years that it would have taken such an ugly turn. Goodness, I tell ya - Science ain't Pretty. I hope, by this, you don't think I'm an autograph collecting type of cat. Unless the signature is on a baseball card and worth more than 250 dollars, you can keep your damn name. I've never quite understood the autograph thing? I mean who are you going to show Sally Field's signature to, who's gonna give a Flying Nun? I really don't Gidget. Even if it were Angelina Jolie's signature - it's really just a little piece of paper with some writing on it, that, for all anybody really knows, you scribbled on there yourself? So what - you take it home and stick it in your drawer full of other worthless crap, where it gets lost among your Air Supply ticket stubs and the keys that no longer have corresponding locks. I find that sort of thing kinda sad.

Later that same night Adam and I spotted Roger Ebert. The man (and I use the term loosely) looks like Yoda with a wig. Seriously it's like - is that my great grandmother? No it's just Roger Ebert. First of all, Roger should never leave his seat on the aisle, because he's barely three feet tall, if he were any shorter his jowls would drag on the ground. So we approached the Nobel Prize winning film critic, who once upon a time wrote the screenplay for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, because we wanted to know why he hadn't seen the best film of the year. The best film of the year, in case you're wondering, is a documentary entitled New York Doll, and the guru of all things cinematic had neglected to see it - hence it hadn't made his much vaunted ten-best-of-the-year list. He seemed to be in more than a jovial mood, goofing around with some people, taking their picture for them with their camera - he was obviously on some sort of medication (that's what I should have asked him for.) Anyway, so we waited until he'd simmered down a bit and made our approach. When the moment was right we were the very model of politeness and respect as we got his attention and asked him why he hadn't managed to see the best film of the year and just like Sally, he flipped out. His eyes rolled back in his head, he started speaking in tongues and before we could apologize for sending him into whatever sort of paroxysm we'd innocently caused, he started shaking his head violently back and forth until he'd knocked us both unconscious with his great swinging jowls. Those fleshy flappers are like Num-chucks. The last thing I remember was watching my glasses fly across the lobby..

I always wanted to be rich and famous, but I'm starting to think that being rich would be just fine. The night ended with Sally taking Roger by the arm and gently leading him to his waiting RV. And I couldn't help but thank my lucky stars as they made their way out, to see the two of them together like that, it just made you grateful. Grateful that they never made a sequel to Mrs. Doubtfire.