Every January, a growing horde ventures into the ice and snow of
Salt Lake City and beyond, in hopes of catching sight of the
glitterati meant to be roaming the streets like regular folk. My
home city, Los Angeles, being the natural habitat of film stars, I
was more interested in Park City’s four-legged celebrities:
the moose. The mountainous suburbs where I was staying, a few miles
out of town, were said to be full of them.
Friday:
My friend Tim and I had tickets to three movies, starting at
noon, but we first waited in line to try to see a 9 a.m. movie.
This would be the first of many instances of queuing up with the
hope of getting some no-show’s seat, and walking away
empty-handed.
However, at breakfast I thought I saw Matt Damon at the far end
of the room, … but when I put on my glasses to get a better look,
it wasn’t him. (Without my glasses, everybody looks like
somebody.)
Pithy review of the noon movie: “The Battle of
Heaven” ““ Carlos Reygadas’ art movie with too
much sex and not enough sexiness for the multiplex.
And the 3 p.m.: “Dear Pyongyang” ““ Yang
Yonghi’s devastating documentary about a daughter drawing out
her father’s true feelings from beneath the facade of his
allegiance to North Korea’s “Great Leader.” I
wept openly.
And the 5 p.m.: “Steel City” ““ One more draft
of the script might have turned this into the great film it wanted
to be. Don’t fret. Writer-director Brian Jun will work
again.
The snow and slush aren’t oppressive by day, but coming
out of a film into the icy darkness was a shock. We went to a party
hosted by Telefilm Canada, where we mostly missed dinner but
enjoyed the company of many friendly Canadians. No celebrities. But
the Canadians are celebrated for their moose, and I had the sense
they would welcome me up north.
Back home late, I stumbled into bed then pushed back up and
peered out the window. Still no moose.
Saturday:
At 11:30 a.m. we caught the animated shorts program. The
standout pieces were “Fumi and the Bad Luck Foot” and
“At the Quinte Hotel,” two very different films, but
each exemplary of good short-filmmaking.
Note to aspiring filmmakers: The magic number is 11. If your
short film is longer than 11 minutes, it’s not a short film;
it’s an unfinished feature. You will fail to entertain and
fail to convey narrative and theme to the level of your
ambitions.
We failed again to get tickets out of a wait-list line. But we
got into the Music Cafe, where we enjoyed the afternoon with Margot
and the Nuclear So & So’s, Augustana and Imogen Heap
““ who looked, without my glasses, like Johnny Depp in
“Edward Scissorhands.”
Taking a break, I sat down in the middle of the Main Street Mall
and was approached by two attractive women from Park City Radio
KPCW. A moment later, my voice was broadcasting live. I sugarcoated
my review of “Steel City” ““ why broadcast
anything negative? Then I said something perhaps inappropriate, and
she laughed and wrapped it up.
At dinner, I listened with envy as someone bragged about three
moose he passed driving home from skiing that day. The sky outside
my window was all stars. No moose.
Sunday:
The moose came while I slept. Understand that every time I woke
up I looked out that window and searched for moose. And in the
morning Jeremy saw them outside, within a dozen yards from where I
was dreaming of them.
At the Filmmaker’s Forum, Tim introduced me to Luc
Schaedler, director of “Angry Monk,” and Jocelyne Saab,
director of “Kiss Me Not on the Eyes.” Do documentary
directors count as celebrities?
Again unfed, we hurried off to stand in another futile wait-list
line. Then we slipped into a press screening of Bent Hamer’s
Bukowski adaptation. Pithy review: “Factotum” ““
Matt Dillon was born to play Henry Chinaski. He’s at his best
in the film’s long, single-take scenes, where Marisa Tomei
and Lili Taylor shine like goddesses of indie cinema.
Sunday night (two degrees and humid) was more like the Park City
I had expected, as the cold had driven away celebrity-gawkers and
celebrities alike. I returned to the mountain house with my
friends. No moose.
Monday:
Hoping that nonchalance might cause them to appear, I glanced
casually out the window. Nothing. I caught a shuttle for the
airport. A talent agent sitting in front of me fought impressively
on her mobile phone over payments to an actor I’d never heard
of.
As my plane left Earth, I leaned in from my aisle seat and
visually scoured the snowy mountains. Human encroachment had driven
the moose from view. So it was with the celebrities. Perhaps if
Park City were left alone for Sundance, the glitterati would once
more roam the streets in freedom.
Christopher Carter is a student in the MFA screenwriting
program.