.Gary Dretzka
.Leonard Klady.
.David Poland
.Ray Pride

January 27, 2003

The irony of Sundance ending on the same day as the Super Bowl every year always hangs over my head like a bald eagle with a spastic colon.  “Hello world!  We love The Station Agent!”  PLOP!  “Hulk Crush!” 

Wouldn’t you just love to see how the Bad Boys would have handled the Elian Gonzalez situation?  Michael “Aren’t I Pretty? - Yeah, pretty obnoxious!” Bay woulda blown that house to kingdom come and the only survivor would have been the Latina spitfire cousin. 

That’s better than Castro sympathizer Ollie Stone woulda done.  He’d try to make it all better by giving the family a pound of coke and suggesting therapy.  Fidel, honey, when Ol’ Ollie was asking about prostitution in Havana, it wasn’t a sociological question.  He was looking for a recommendation and maybe a presidential discount card.

The Sundance Award ceremony was its usual combination of winners and losers, losers, losers, losers, losers.  It's like going to a wedding where the bridesmaids not only aren't getting married, but they'll have to wear those horrible dresses until they get funded again.  For people who sold their films during the festival, it’s like losing the Super Bowl.  The year was great and they won something, but not winning an award is like a slap in the face.  “You may be able to sell that movie, but you aren’t the next big thing!”  (With apologies to Peter Dinklage.)

As the hour gets late, the party becomes more and more for people who haven’t been at the Riverhorse all week and who need to relax.  People wander around the soundstage-sized party hall, back slapping the winners, making stupid drunken comments and trying to get up the courage to approach that editor gal in low rider jeans they’ve  been checking out in the Starbucks line all week.  How many guys whispered something they thought was clever to Maggie Gyllenhaal about leather straps before she got her coat and left?

People talk about film buyers getting caught up in the Sundance hype, but those judges have it much, much worse.  There have been some hits to come out of the snow-n-fro of Park City, but the last Grand Jury winner that meant diddly was The Brothers McMullen and I am never forgiving those pretentious fools for inflicting Ed Burns on us  all these years.  That boy just keeps going from supermodel to supermodel.  Can’t act.  Can’t write.  Can’t direct.  Must be able to fuck like a monkey on ecstasy. 

What is with all the “this vote was unanimous” crap?  Isn’t that insulting to the losers?  No one else was even worth a vote?  I’d rather win in a tough fight any day.

American Splendor has a chance to be this year’s Ghost World.  Here’s my advice to anyone who wants to do gritty urban satire.  Get Bobby Crumb involved.  It’s not just because he fancies those of us with a little more to our back end deal.  Every film he is connected to makes an impact.  The documentary about his life is still popular on the cable.  Ghost World is culty kitsch.  Harvey Pekar not only got famous on Letterman, but now he has a movie about his life that he gets to be star in.  All thanks to Mr. Natural-ly Perverse.

Did you see how big all of those men we at the Super Bowl?  How do boys that fat manage to run around like that for so long? 

Beyonce Knowles seemed to be real interested in getting to know Carlos Santana, but ol’ Carlos looked like he forgot to pop his Viagra before coming to the show.

And what was Shania Twain wearing?  She looked like she was in the Sid & Marty Kroft version of The Matrix!

Did Charlie’s Angels 2 come out already?  Is that why we are supposed to remember our second time?  I do remember my second time, but not my first time.  I’m pretty sure I know what state it was in, but that’s about all.

It is always amazing to see how people burn cars in the street over sporting events, whether they won or lose.  I tried to encourage some of the Pieces of April people to burn a car on Main Street after they got shut out in the awards, but they weren’t going for it.  Anyway, I’m not 100% sure that Oliver Platt wasn’t playing on the Tampa Bay defense. 

I’d love to see Roger Ebert going after Bob Dylan with shoulder pads and a helmet!  Isn’t it sad to see icons fall into parodies of there former selves?  And at Sundance, where people are supposed to be hip to the room, they all lined up to kiss Dylan’s wrinkled hindquarters.  Ask me, they should have all been lining up to genuflect in front of Ms. Jessica Lange.  Her ass isn’t wrinkled, her dimples are fierce and she deserves to be treated like movie royalty. 

Why are they still giving chances to Skeet Ulrich?  What grown man goes by Skeet anyway?  He’s cute, but no one is that cute!

I was glad that they got a girl winner for the next Project Greenlight.  Shari Springer Berman and Catherine Hardwicke ruled the roost at Sundance this year, even though they were two of the just three gal directors in competition at Sundance this year.  I’ll take that over any three Women in Film luncheons! 

I made it through another week at Movie City News.  Maybe I’ll even get a link one of these weeks.  I’m happy to be here, but it stinks of too many boys!

Ciao for Niao!

Email Patricia Vidal