Scrappy Little Nobody(16)
On our second day at the festival, we shuffled into reserved seats at the back of the Library Theatre to watch our movie. The film screened and something surreal happened. It played HUGE. People were laughing. A lot. They got all the in-jokes about Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and ’Night, Mother and Stella Dallas. I didn’t even get the joke about Stella Dallas.
When subservient Fritzi poisons Jill, Todd tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Get ready.” Fritzi deadpans, “The goddamn show must go on,” and the theater exploded in cheers. I felt electrified. I was just sitting in the audience, but my ears were ringing like I’d been struck by lightning.
When the credits rolled, each character’s face appeared for a moment, with the actor’s name at the bottom of the screen. I gripped my seat waiting for mine. My face came up, and again, that electric feeling went through me. It was MY name. I’m not sure I can explain this properly, but I was still expecting to see my character’s name. This was MY name. This was the name my mother called me and my teachers called me and the neighborhood kid who flashed his penis at me in fifth grade had called me. Seeing it on film gave me the same feeling you get when you see yourself in the background of a photo you didn’t know was being taken. I didn’t feel especially proud or accomplished—if anything, it reminded me what a dummy I was for being so surprised to be listed under my own name—but seriously, guys, holy shit.
Then the strangest thing happened. The audience was on its feet. For a movie with no real actors in it. For a movie about losers who sang show tunes. For a movie that looked like crap and had no production value.
We went out and partied like only a group of dorky teens and young adults who’ve just had an incredible first screening of their weird movie could. That is to say, we crashed the Pieces of April party and drank them out of house and home.
Trying to blend in with the established Sundance crowd and succeeding.
The next day, I got a call from a friend back home. At this point, Sundance was at the height of its unintentional rebranding from respected independent film festival to celebrity hangout. In fact, the following year, Paris Hilton showed up for no reason, which actually helped the backlash reach critical mass, and soon after, Sundance returned to being more about movies than celebrities. (Although I’m told it won’t ever be the same as it was in the nineties. We get it, Kevin Smith; it was real back then.) My friend made small talk for a while, then said, “Hey, my mom was just watching Access Hollywood and it said something about Britney Spears and Fred Durst being at Sundance right now. Isn’t that weird? You’re at something called Sundance, and then THE Sundance, with the famous people, is going on at the same time. Did you know that?”
“What? No, I’m . . . what are you talking about? I am at THE Sundance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m in a movie that is playing at the Sundance Film Festival right now.”
“Wait, really? Have you seen Britney Spears?”
I had not seen Britney Spears, but this conversation recontextualized the underwhelming response I’d gotten in French class. They had heard of the Sundance Film Festival; they just thought I must have meant something else. I suppose it would be like a coworker you’d known for years telling you they were about to compete in the Olympic trials. You assume they meant, like, the company Olympics, and forget all about it.
“No, I haven’t seen Britney Spears, but the movie got a standing ovation, which everyone says is really rare here. And I met Oliver Platt!”
“Oh. Ross called Lauren S. to ask if they had biology homework for winter break, but she says that she saw him write down the assignment in class.”
“No! Did Jenna dump him?”
Double life. James Bond.
? ? ?
The movie came out and did not do well. The beauty and curse of Sundance is that the screenings are packed with film lovers, most of whom connect to the pain of being an outsider and get obscure references. They are also generous audiences for new talent. They forgave a lot of the film’s flaws.
Marketing the movie to the general public as a teen romp backfired enormously, and many people who thought they were going to see a musical American Pie were turned off by the homosexuality, cross-dressing, and vintage synthesizers. They were also less forgiving of the uneven quality of a low-budget film.
Being in that theater at Sundance is one of the great memories of my career, and maybe my life, so far. But when I met a guy in London the following year who said the movie was boring and weird, I couldn’t fault him. And when I met a girl six months ago who told me she named her car and her dog Fritzi, I made a mental note of her distinguishing features in case I had to describe her later for a police sketch.
* * *
I. The first shot of a new scene that establishes the location for the audience. You know how on Seinfeld there’s always a shot of the exterior of the diner before they cut inside and we see the gang slowly ruining their lives? That’s the establishing shot!
II. After the first wide “master shot” of a scene is done, the subsequent camera angles (close-ups, two-shots, etc.) are considered coverage. You know the opening sequence of Boogie Nights? It’s the opposite of that.
the mayor of squaresville
I like to tell people that I’m a square. It’s a charming way to warn someone that I’m a finicky little brat without freaking them out. I got to work with Lisa Kudrow recently, and when she told me she thought she was probably an even bigger square, I maintained that couldn’t be true. We traded stories for a while, trying to out-straitlace each other.