So many movies, so little wireless time to write about them, at least up there in the mountains. All in all, I screened (at least part of) 28 films at Sundance 2006. The irony, of course, is that those 28 were but a drop in the pan of how many films I wish I'd caught; the worst was missing the only press screening of Spain's Princesas, which I'd hotly anticipated. That's the name of the festival game, though. You plan your film schedule carefully, fiddle with it based on word-of-mouth during the week, and, at the end, still wonder queasily about what could have been. I thought that the remorse might've been my own Rosmania, but pretty much everyone I talked to copped to the same malingering regrets. Still, many more films than 28 and I might now be languishing with a case of cinennui to rival a Tulsa projectionist's.

By far, the documentary categories proved strongest, whereas the American dramatics largely buckled under the weight of their own, ill-advised quirkiness and dime-store psychoanalytical revelations. In general, a few films rocked my world one way or another; a surprisingly many could reincarnate as excellent legal soporofics if they don't find other distribution; and pretty much everything was too long. Why the long films? Extending a feature past its ideal length is like adding extra spices to a stew: if it's bad, it'll just taste worse, and if it's good, why mess with a masterpiece?

Some cheers, jeers, and barely theres:

After all the bally-hoo surrounding Alpha Dog, it'd be nice if director Nick Cassavetes's cinematic drama rivaled his legal one. Predictably, though, the film itself never transcends its Titanic syndrome: You know the ending, and it ain't good. What's best are some of the startling strong performances Cassavetes coaxed out of his young actors, most notably from Six Feet Under's Ben Foster as Jake (get this) Mazursky. Such Hollywood homages proliferate the film, which is highly well-intended. But it's hard to make a film about such unsympathetic, self-involved people as Valley teenagers sympathetic. Apparently, too hard. And Cassavetes' legal problems translated into a sloppy tacked-on ending including at least five minutes of Sharon Stone weeping copiously in a fat suit. Come to think of it, though, that last bit may have had more to do with problems fulfilling a diva's contract.

There's a rumor that So Much So Fast may find an unshelfed life at PBS. With its NPR-style twangy guitar and almost unctuously voiced narrator, this documentary about one family's struggles with ALS has got PBS written all over it. Which is not to say it isn't great. As a person who grew up with the Heywood family, I may not have experienced this film objectively. But as it focuses on what does and doesn't transcend life's mad rush of time, I feel that my personal involvement — the last time I saw Stephen, the 30something son severely afflicted with ALS, he was an almost too-handsome rake in love with his family, pretty girls, and life in general — only enhances the universal emotional revelations about love and life that the film offers. That it somehow uncheesily imparts such revelations, as well sheds truly inbiased insight into how medical research does and doesn't work, is commendable.

At first, I adored Wim Wenders' latest, Don't Come Knocking, starring (and written by) Sam Shepard as a successful Hollywood western star who's a failure at life. A few days later, I still find it visually stunning; Wenders' eye and passion for the American West's wide-planked beauty, best evidenced in Paris, Texas, is of a caliber more easily mustered by a foreigner. But with classic 20-20 hindsight, I now recognize it as somewhat hackneyed as well. And a movie about making movies? Crazy that even Wenders fell into that meta-pit once in his career.

As I said, the biggest success of Sundance 2006 was its documentary categories. Some American entries, such as Who Killed the Electric Car?, did seem doggedly half-baked. But the world documentaries, from In the Pit, about Mexico City construction workers, to Black Gold, the UK take on the coffee industry, were consistently astounding. Not only did they convey truly important stories, but they conveyed them brilliantly, sensitively, originally. And by far, the strongest of these films is Viva Zapatero! (see picture above), the Italian documentary written and directed by the self-described buffoon Sabina Guzzanti about her crusade against the Italian government after a public TV network axed her immensely popular political satire show (think: John Stewart if he were a hot Italian renegade prone to pratfalls). When Guzzanti and her cronies recreate their show live at the film's end, so many Italians attend that thousands are forced to watch from big screens outside of the auditorium's gates. As an American whose country's media outlets are equally cozy with government and big business interests but whose countrymen tend to observe that fact from a prone position only, the Italians' solidarity and indignation gave me goosebumps. Here's hoping that Viva will render that commitment infectious.

Overall, yes, plenty of mumbles and grumbles were heard this year, and some were merited. Yes, waiting in endless lines in freezing snow would rankle a saint, let alone Jocelyn and me. Yes, the films were an uneven lot. Yes, altitude sickness really did have its way with my lungs and even my face for most of the festival. (How many noticed my cold sore in the videos?) And, yes, especially if you hate snow, Parka City itself is more of a frosty bastion of passive-aggression and bland cuisine than a cultural oasis. But I came to love my pretty-in-pink parka, not to mention the amazing conversations and tremendous good will that prevailed everywhere we went all day and every day. A casual conversation about the weather could transform speedily into a fervent debate about global warming and the Al Gore documentary. With Al Gore! So Sundance remains an amazing immersion program. The music was great; we nailed some serious swag; kicked it at some great parties; ogled some serious stars; laughed at some highlarious outfits; and learned more about the mainstream indie film machine than we could have ever dreamed. But the true highlight of our stay, by far, was bumping and grinding with the cast and crew of The Trials of Darryl Hunt at the Awards afterparty. After watching Hunt mid-week, we knew just how hard-won and well-appreciated the luxury to dance was for those cats. To join in felt like an almost hallucinogenic honor.

Which, at the end of the day, is pretty much how we felt about the whole of Sundance 2006. To join in was an honor.