I am a Sundance bum. I’ve never had a film here, I don’t ski, and I’ve never bought a pass. Occasionally I’ll see a film or two if someone has extra tickets. I come up for a week to do Doreen’s panel, attend the Snowball, and hang with my buddy Scott Holtzman from Disney. We rent a condo and usually have various roommates during our stay.
I try not to plan ahead. The fun thing about being here is texting “Where are you now?” to friends and letting that determine what to do next. I surrender to the serendipity of it all.
Why am I here? Because I love the surreal feel of it. For a brief magical period every year in this little snowy mountain town, the heads of studios, stars, wannabes, will-bes, filmmakers and fans of every sort converge in the name of cinema. It’s almost like one of those religious pilgrimages, but instead of visiting the tents of our favorite gurus to listen, we sit in small dark temples and watch.
Then, as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. Main Street is empty. The festival becomes another ghost of Sundance past.