Behind the Scenes: What You Don’t Know About the Sundance Film Festival

It took four days, 51 hours of sleep and a hefty dose of mind numbing VH1, but we’ve finally regained some semblance of normalcy after the melee that is 20-hours-a-day, five-movies-straight, living-on-Sugar-free-Red-Bull, did-I-just-spill-my-coffee-on-Spike-Lee Sundance.

Last week was filled with revelations, not the least of which was discovering that nothing is quite as restful as drooling on a pillow while letting waves of Tool Academy and Confessions of a Teen Idol wash over you. But, as Oprah loves to crow, we had a major “Ah-hah Moment” somewhere between our brain flying at half-mast and seeing some of the best films we’ve had the pleasure of watching in years.

We peeked behind the curtain in Oz.

After years of fantasizing, idealizing and romanticizing what Robert Redford’s winter wonderland of film would be, we’ve seen it, warts and all, and are left with no choice but to pull a Charlton Heston-style, Moses move, climb to the top of the mountain and preach on the truths we have been shown.

If you want to maintain the mystique, stop reading now. WARNING: Spoilers Ahead! The truth about Sundance is just a paragraph away.

Before arriving in Park City everyone told us, “It’s tiny!” “It’s quaint.” “It’s just one big J and everything is right there.”

Everyone was lying.

We have never walked so much in our life.

Literally five miles…in the snow…uphill…in both directions! And at 7,000 feet, you know there’s some major huffing and puffing going on. Park City is massive and the festival covers a swath of land miles wide. No matter where you’re heading, you’ve got some major distance in front of you.

The best thing Sundance has going for it is the free shuttles that everyone piles on. We haven’t taken that many buses since 1993. And if you’re looking for glamour, you’re not going to find it on the freebie bus.

We were expecting the nerve center of Sundance to be Main Street, the single block, mountain resort town we’d seen pictured in everything from Entourage to MTV News, with the deco Egyptian Theater on one end, mountains on the other and stars stacked five deep on every corner.

Much to our chagrin, it turns out, Main Street is basically Sundance’s Lake Havasu, but with paparazzi.

It’s where all the swag suites are set up (though there were very few this year), where celebs like Paris Hilton and Joe Francis go to have their photo taken and where the parties happen at night. Basically, it’s Robertson Boulevard in LA. Blah.

Speaking of parties, these people are straight up bass-ackward on how to have a good time. We were under the impression that Sundance parties were legendary. Make no mistake…Sundance parties SUCK!

They are as fun as a conference call at 7am.

Herds of people line up in the bitter cold (we’re talking 18 degrees after coming from LA, where it was 85), jockey for position, try to pull rank, bitch and moan and push and shove trying to get into a party where the booze is free but it’s whiplash central as everyone cranes and swivels, hunting for “Someone” to walk through the door as if then, miraculously, the conversation will be more stimulating, the drinks stronger and the music better.

At one party, where at least 100 people were waiting to get in and a man in his late forties was screaming “You’re a BITCH” at the doorgirl, we were practically trampled by security as a 90 pound PR girl frantically shrieked “MOOOOVE!!!!!!! I HAVE JEFF DANIELS WITH ME!!!!!!!!” as if she was escorting James Brown, risen from the dead, onto the stage of the Apollo Theater for a final encore.

It’s Jeff Daniels, lady. Get a grip. And he was wearing a Stetson. That is so many different flavors of not okay.

What’s hilarious about Main Street and all its chi-chi parties is, Sundance brings out Townies in droves. Wandering the streets in herds and piled into the free buses, you’ll find marauding droves of teenaged Utahans, stinking of Peach Schnapps, desperate for a glimpse of Ashton Kutcher. It makes for a great yang to the Hollywood folk’s yin, as they stand miserably at the back of a line they would normally be ushered to the front of. 

Luckily, the consensus this year was that Sundance was much less about the swag, parties and star sightings, it was about the films.

The films…which premiere in high school auditoriums and converted racquetball courts, in synagogues and hotel conference rooms.

Let the illusions of grandeur go, Sundance’s most prestigious venue, the Eccles Theater, is the Park City High School theater auditorium, the same place where the school puts on their Spring Spectacular and the PCHS Jazz Band has a scheduled performance in five weeks. Don’t get us wrong, it’s a beautiful venue…it just isn’t what we’d imagined when we envisioned THE Sundance Film Festival. Our favorite part was when the film’s stars walk up to do a Q &A at the lectern which was shaped like a cello. We were half-expecting someone to call roll.

Meanwhile, the press and industry screenings, where they do take attendance, noting your name and outlet on your way into each film, are held in one of two venues: the Park City tri-plex or the Yarrow, a hotel on par with a slightly rundown Comfort Inn, which converts their conference room into a screening room for the duration of the festival. The food is offensively bad, the carpet is worn and the whole place has a peakedness that was utterly unexpected.

And you know what…it doesn’t matter.

Because we can’t think of anything better than getting to see five films a day for ten days.

The fervor of Sundance is the most enlivening, compelling, stimulating atmosphere we’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

If we ever have a child who wants to go to film school, we’re giving them $1500 and a ride to the airport to catch a plane to Salt Lake City in January. The exercise of watching that many independent films and having access to people who are, at their core, storytellers desperate to have their voice heard, is the best education anyone could ever ask for.

Sundance isn’t about parties or stars. It’s about people like first time director Marc Webb whose outstanding film, 500 Days of Summer, could very well revolutionize the rom-com this year. Or Destin Cratton whose short film, Short Term 12, was one of the best things we saw at Sundance, in any category, and it was made on a shoestring budget with a cast and crew who worked for free for a director who understands filmmaking in a way that transcends a $30 million budget.

Just the thought of that much creative passion brings a mist to our eye and a sudden overwhelming craving to walk five miles in the snow, high out of our mind on Red Bull.

Sundance, we’ll see you again next year.

Until then, you will be missed.

—Sasha Perl-Raver