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In 2006, Flavorpill covered the Sundance Film Festival firsthand, dispatching daily video and blog posts from Park City. Relive some of the highlights here.

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Review

Man-on-the-Street Mashup

In addition to jotting down our bus, burrito, and on-the-street interviews throughout the festival, we were also talking to people on camera about the films they saw, and the lines they waited in. We've got a bit more written wrap-up content coming, but it seems only fitting that our last video is dedicated to the plain-old, die-hard moviegoers who come year in, year out, just for the love of film. We've rounded up some of the most (and least) articulate of the bunch here to opine on Al Gore's agenda, Justin Timberlake's hotness, and a movie we're now really sad we missed, Wristcutters.

Come Early Morning

Maybe it's the slightly Lifetime TV subject matter of her film, but something about first-time director Joey Lauren Adam's Come Early Morning brings out the inner tabloid writer: Finally, finally, poor Ashley Judd crawls out from under the long, grizzled shadow of Morgan Freeman to shine in the sunlight of (wait for it) Early Morning....

In sooth, because it so fully fleshes out its portrait of a working-class alcoholic woman, Come Early Morning deserves significantly less glibness. And from its opening shots, it's clear that Judd, puffy eyes squinting in too-bright sunlight, mouth twisted in a battle between defiance and self-reproach, finally delivers the versatile, fierce performance she's had in her all along. (Maybe because she is finally free of Morgan Freeman's long, grizzled shadow). [KEEP READING...]

Songbirds

Make no mistake: Were it not for its serious-as-a-heart-attack subject matter, Songbirds could be the next Rocky Horror Picture Show — Showgirls be damned. What else to do with a musical documentary about real-life British female prisoners who sing songs like "I'm Oh So Very Sorry!" while they dance under a stream of animated blood? I am genuinely curious about where, if anywhere, a movie like this could live, and I do hope it finds some kind of home. "Insane," declared one other critic upon exiting (early) a screening of the film, but I was slightly charmed. Rather than being mocked, the prisoners are compellingly, lovingly rendered — at least until they launch into songs like the ensemble number about international drug trafficking, "Mule It." Then, they're just plain highlarious, and ain't nothing wrong with that.

Wild Tigers I Have Known

With Wild Tigers I Have Known, director Cam Archer is clearly gunning to make the next Tarnation (director Jonathan Caouette even makes a guest voice appearance) or Mysterious Skin. But where those films draw on a raw-bitten realism, Tigers relies on stagey sets and stilted dialogue to feed us empty notions of alienation and sexual confusion. The film follows a young teen, Logan, who has a crush on a beautiful older boy, Rodeo (pronounced, unfortunately, as "Rod-aye-oh"). Shortcutting authentic narrative development, Tigers trades in heavy-handed symbolism and paints characters with single, crass brushstrokes. We know that this will be a story about the dangers of unacceptable desires because a news clip about a wild mountain lion cuts to a cage-like shot of a chain-link fence. We know that Rodeo is a brooder because he always sits alone, his hooded sweatshirt pulled close around his face. And we know that Logan wants to be loved because he writes "I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED" in black magic marker on his naked body. But what we don't know is why we should care.

Stephanie Daley

Hilary Braugher's first movie, the uber-contrived Sticky Fingers of Time (1997), sank with nary a trace — a shame, as it was also a highly original lesbian time-travel science fiction novel with a very, very dry wit. Now Braugher has finally helmed Stephanie Daley, her long-awaited second feature, and, rather than refining the sensibility she introduced nine years ago, it's as if she utterly reinvented her vision, complete with a whole new set of flaws. The story of a pregnant court psychologist (Tilda Swinton) evaluating a teenaged girl (Amber Tamblyn) who killed her newborn baby no one even knew she'd been carrying is ambitiously naturalistic, relying on little cinematic schtick and even less humor. Instead, it dwells, bare-bones, on whether women really do experience an irreversible bond to the young that they conceive. Swinton and Tamblyn do their best with the too-broadly sketched roles, but the tension simmering beneath the surface never really adequately comes to a boil, largely because most of the major events of the film are conveyed in disjointed flashbacks or in conversational references. Such minimalism may be preferable to the big-studio tendency to burden viewers with overexplanations, but Stephanie Daley might be one of the first movies I've ever seen, especially at this festival, where too many babies have been killed.

Neil Young: Heart of Gold

After guest-blogging Sundance in absentia for a week, a happy reward comes my way: a few days after its festival premiere, the latest Neil Young concert movie, directed by Jonathan Demme and shot in August 2005 at Nashville's Ryman Auditorium, had an NYC screening. Both Young and Demme are old hands at this sort of thing, and they transform the show, which introduced the new album Prairie Wind and then proceeded with Young classics, into a strikingly confident movie.

No trace here of the 70 cuts/minute of the Beastie Boy's Awesome! I F*ckin' Shot That. Demme's direction is all steady shots of Young and his band, which grows and contracts with each tune: Emmylou Harris, Neil's wife Pegi, a slide guitar, a string quartet, a horn section, and a group of gospel singers come and go. Says Demme: "I honestly felt that if we went for this classic approach, with fixed cameras and extended takes, it might just feel fresh and avant-garde." Avant-garde isn't the word that springs to mind, but there is something reassuring in the steady simplicity of Heart of Gold — without frills, a master songwriter performs songs about fathers, daughters, friends, dogs, god, the wind, and his old guitar. There is a lovable, straightforward courage and doggedness in it that speaks for itself.

Flannel Pajamas

Flannel Pajamas is curiously off. It begins on the first date of a couple. Stuart (Justin Kirk) and Nicole (Julianne Nicholson) verbally express attraction to each other, though their physical language conveys only a turgid wariness. They are also both immediately unlikable characters — she, brittle and unstable; he, controlling and wildly self-involved — although neither of them seem to register how obviously unappealing the other one is. If this level of self-involvement was the thrust of this movie, it'd be an interesting conceit that until now hasn't been explored much. Instead, the two fall into a dance of false intimacy, in which they transform into other irritating characters, rather than reveal the vulnerabilities fueling their irritating bravado. All of this movie, in fact, has that same feel of lousy improvisation. Major details about the characters emerge from left field during dialogue and major events transpire off screen, so that you're not sure what the events that do occur onscreen are intended to amount to, especially as they spool out so rapidly. And yet, this movie is not easy to dismiss out of hand, maybe because it answers harder questions about why people don't stay together than most films even dare to ask. Its chief problem is no small thing, however: it is as unlikable as its characters.

Steel City

By all rights, Steel City shouldn't be as good as it is. The story of 20-year-old P.J. struggling to piece together a life while his dead-beat dad serves time for manslaughter and his mom cobbles together a new family is the depressing stuff of which Sundance 2006 is made. But first-time director/writer Brian Jun makes sad-and-slow work, partly because he never condescends to his working-class Midwestern characters nor resorts to such novice tics as an intrusive soundtrack. His cast doesn't hurt, either. American indie film actors tend to fall into three categories: 1. The up-and-coming 2. The overlooked 3. The dregs. Jun sidesteps Category 3 like a pro, providing character actors Laurie Metcalf (Roseanne) and John Heard (The Chumscrubber, The Sopranos) with material they can sink their well-seasoned chops into. And relative newbies Tom Guiry (P.J.) and Clayne Crawford shine in serious turns as brothers bouncing off each other and their legacy of neglect. It's in those explorations of male relationships that Steel City shines brightest; scene after scene comprised solely of grunts and nods and, yes, fisticuffs lead us back to how little wiggle room restrictive codes of behavior allow men who're wrestling big emotions. Some shoddy editing, as well as its possibly unmarketable subject matter, may keep this film under the radar, but let the record show that it won't be deservedly so.

small town gay bar

At a flyweight 81 minutes, Malcolm Ingram's small town gay bar feels epic — and not in a good way. This Mississippi-set documentary investigates gay culture (or the lack thereof) in the deep South through two bars: Rumors in northeastern MS, owned by Rick Gladish, and the now-shutdown Crossroads in Meridian, MS, formerly owned by Charles "Butch" Graham. In talking to the present and former patrons of both bars, a single sentiment emerges: these venues provide a safe place for the scattered southern LGBT community, somewhere that people can be themselves and let off steam. As one interviewee says, "sometimes it's just nice to get out where you don't have to encounter terrified heterosexuals." Over and over, we hear drag queens, fags, and dykes say that they just don't know what they would do without such an outlet. The bars are the community.

As diligent Flavorpill Sundance readers may know, stgb was among the top ten films I was excitedly anticipating at the festival. And it has its moments: seeing drag queen performer Jim Bishop out of makeup and in scrubs at his vet office dayjob, where he's slight, fey, and utterly adorable; witnessing the bristly anger of Reverend Phelps as he says, "'God hates fags' is a serious, profound, philosophical statement," with a Godhatesamerica.com banner proudly displayed behind him (apparently, God also hates Sweden); and pulling for lesbian couple Lori and Ruby as they rebuild the Crossroads bar and, thus, revitalize Meridian's LGBT scene.

There is no doubt that the film's heart is in the right place (it's dedicated to Scotty Weaver), and there is no doubt that the struggles of the gays in the film are both valid and touching — not to mention that their wry resolve is often quite funny. But stgb drags; the last third of the film feels like a long, drawn-out goodbye. That said, it's hard to blame Mr. Ingram for wanting to linger with a group whose voices are so little heard.

Wordplay

Wordplay may be a trifle, but it's a fun trifle. The documentary about the New York Times crossword puzzle provides irresistible access to the mysterious man behind the black and white [drape, seven letters], Times puzzle editor Will Shortz.

The first half of the film paints every cog in a puzzle's life cycle — from its constructor to its editor to its solvers — as exacting and witty, albeit in an NPR capacity. One constructor's best line: "'Unkind Donuts' is an anagram for Dunkin' Donuts, and I do believe I've had a few of those." His second best line: "The Sunday breakfast table standard is a pain. I can't tell you how many times 'enema' would've helped me out of a constructing jam if I could use bodily function terms." Once Shortz gives his editorial approval, a host of celebrity crossword addicts, including Bob Dole, Bill Clinton, the Indigo Girls, Ken Burns, Yankee pitcher Mike Mussina, and Jon Stewart, devour it when it appears in the paper. Clinton and Dole reminisce about the 1996 post-election day puzzle that featured two entirely different sets of answers: "BOB DOLE IS ELECTED," and, alternatively, "CLINTON IS ELECTED." Ken Burns waxes Burnsian about the humanizing, meditative populism of the puzzle. Stewart growls, "Ah, Shortz. This is a Tuesday puzzle. I'm using pen, pen. No, I'm using gluestick!"

As long as the film sticks to the Puzzle and Celebrities Who Love It, it's breezy and very, very clever. When it shifts to the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, which Shortz hosts every year in Stamford, CT, it smacks unpleasantly of Spellbound and War of the Words. It's nice that this solitary hobby bonds intellectually versatile, punny people of all shapes and sizes, but a few too many wacky shots of crossword puzzle-inspired headgear bog down the story's momentum. Even at 90 minutes, Wordplay feels a bit long. (Nearly all the Sundance entries feel too long this year.) Make no mistake, though: Mike Mussina uttering "QED" and "ENE" aloud makes it all worth your while.

Open Window

I'm not sure why Open Window is here at Sundance. It's not just that it's downright craptastic; it's also one of the least innovative films I've ever seen at any film festival. An LA photographer (Robin Tunney, in yet another role unworthy of her talents) is raped. Her professor-husband feels enraged that he didn't protect her. She heals herself slowly through therapy and heart-to-hearts with her wacky, well-meaning parents (Elliott Gould in his now-standard role as cuddly big daddy; Cybill Shepherd, adrift in a badly written role and a sea of badly administered Botox). He heals himself through therapy and by reconciling with his unforthcoming father. Sepia-toned flashbacks to the rape: check. Confrontations with overbearing mother: check. A big breakthrough scene with a Good Mommy shrink: check. The death of a sideline character: check. The inevitable confrontation with the rapist himself: check. A mournful electric guitar soundtracking every emotional revelation: check. A main character driving his car against a big sky: check. Waste of a talented cast: check, check, check. Coming soon to a Landmark theater near you? Uh, try Lifetime TV, this time next year.

Sherrybaby

After getting out of jail, Sherry Swanson (Maggie Gyllenhaal) f*cks the first man she encounters outside of her parole officer. It's day two at the women's halfway house that she's staying in when Andy, the program supervisor, appears. The exchange goes something like this: Hi. Want some coffee? Cut to: Sherry and Andy having sex in the basement of the house.

This early scene is an apt, if disheartening, metaphor for Sherry's interactions with men throughout this Sundance Lab-born film by writer/director Laurie Collyer. As Sherry, a recovering dope addict, Maggie Gyllenhaal adopts a slouchy prowl, transforming her rangy body into a sex-charged weapon. She's trying hard to stay clean, and to win back the trust of her young daughter who's in the care of her brother, Bobby (the jovial letch from Me and You and Everyone We Know in a wonderfully ordinary performance), and his wife. But, with only a few paltry possessions, no income, and a history of drug use, the odds are against her. [KEEP READING...]

Thin

There are two kinds of draining films: those that pay off the misery of watching them, and those that don't. And last night, in an inadvertent double martini of despair, I experienced one of each: Destricted and Thin.

Destricted, the collection of shorts about porn by visual artists, is a classic example of a film that substitutes shock value for meaning — the ultimate adolescent equation. (Its only true value might be as a powerfully effective prophylactic.) But Thin, a documentary about four women in a locked ward of a Florida eating disorder clinic, is that rare film whose harrowing viewing experience is crucial to learning all it has to teach. [KEEP READING...]

The Peter Pan Formula

This Korean film by Cho Chang-ho is ostensibly about a boy's coming of age after his mother tries to commit suicide and slips into a coma. My feelings about The Peter Pan Formula are so mixed, however, that I've decided to just post my notes — straight-up and unfiltered. Ultimately, I think they give a more accurate, haiku-like portrait of the film than coherent language can achieve. Suffice to say, if you like handjobs, this is your movie.

- If Hansoo quits the swimming team, he'll never be Asia's top swimmer
- Suicide: herbicide vs. insecticide?
- Twin coma patients, sponge baths, sexuality — echoes of Talk to Her
- Steals her stockings
- Where is this set??
- Steals piano teacher's underwear and jacks off into them
- Is he masturbating or peeing?
- Wearing her stockings to rob convenience store
- "Sleep with me." / "No." / "Give me a handjob."
- How do they make the lights go on and off without the switch? Magic??
- Kite falling onto barbed wire. Oy.

Friends with Money

I wasn't sure what to expect from Nicole Holofcener's third venture, Friends with Money, the opening-night film of Sundance 2006.

Her first film, Walking and Talking (1996), was a genuinely funny and accurately observed movie about two NY women's friendship that's become a cult classic for a certain breed of chick. (The famous exchange: Todd Fields: Do we have to keep listening to this vagina music? Catherine Keener and Anne Heche, in unison: Yes!). But as so often happens with excellent female directors, Holofcener has mostly worked in TV since then — helming all the big girl-time shows from Gilmore Girls to The L Word to Sex and the City — and maybe all that Hollywood time soured her. Her next feature, 2001's Lovely & Amazing, about an LA middle-aged, well-off woman and her three chronically unhappy daughters, took such a pessimistic attitude about human nature that it rendered the characters not only unlikable but implausible. And the early buzz on Friends with Money mostly focused on Us Weekly's favorite former Friend, Miss Jennifer Aniston, who's lately wallowed in such a batch of ubercrap features (Derailed, Rumor Has It) that it wasn't clear if her cloud of martyrdom would extend to this film.

The good news: Friends with Money works. About the friendship between four LA women of varying means, it picks up where Lovely & Amazing leaves off, making its central subject their struggles to live authentically without surrendering fully to pessimism. Its secondary subject, of course, is no small thing, either: how money makes and breaks relationships. [KEEP READING...]

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