By Matthew Rodbard
PARK CITY, Utah — On the opening day of the Sundance Film Festival, I didn’t know what to do. The game was new to me then. Journalism schools don’t teach how to weed through the lengthy press materials of 200 films to construct a rough screening agenda, and Vilas has no classes on handling prima donna publicists. No formal teachings could have prepared me for the chaos of the first day.
The Shadow Ridge Resort (the official Sundance headquarters) was surprisingly calm when I arrived. It was just past 11 a.m., and most of the scribes wouldn’t arrive until the afternoon. The checking-in process was pleasant, aided by several of 1000-plus congenial volunteers.

I met a chap from the U.K. Home Counties who had recently landed stateside and had spent a few days in Los Angeles before hunkering down in Park City. He had traveled over 2000 miles on his own shilling to help me chat with actors and directors. This just wasn’t fair. With a notebook full of contacts, I ventured to the publicity suites to see who I could persuade/con/beg to talk.

Credential applications were up by more than 25 percent this year, and I overheard a rather snobby writer sarcastically lament how a paper in Roanoke, Va., was turned away. “I didn’t know they did that here,” said the PIB (the locals call the converging media/studio people People In Black).

The festival publicists have a soft spot for the college press, which is probably because most, if not all, of them are just out of college themselves, and realize how important the independent-minded readers of college rags are.

Therefore, I would like to thank you for supporting film. Without your dollars flowing into Madison’s art cinema houses, I couldn’t have previewed the wonderful independent films you most certainly will see at a later date.

Waiting for the resort’s sole elevator, I met a photographer for a noted glossy. “This your first festival?” inquired the man, while gazing at my overflowing manila folder, which included the recommendations of the Hollywood Reporter, cell phone numbers arrowed to publicity contacts and a reminder to catch Groove Armada at the music caf? later that week, all marked in a cryptic mess.

“I’ve been here three times and still haven’t seen a film,” said the photographer, who would later drunkenly introduce me to an even more noted glossy’s “party reporter.”
The third and fourth floors of the ski lodge, momentarily the center of the independent-motion-picture universe, looked and felt like a motel hallway, complete with Impressionist knockoffs, stained carpets and a cigarette haze.

The first contact I made was easily the worst. The suite looked like a Clancy-esque brain center, with stacks of press kits, laptop after laptop piled on overflowing desks, invites to private parties in the surrounding hills and lots of attitude.
Most major companies that rented space at the Shadow Ridge rep between three and seven films. This firm covered only two, but one had that all-important pre-festival buzz. I was ready to negotiate.

The publicist was better-than-average looking and less than willing to help me with a smile. I introduced myself: “Hi, I would like to interview X director. Is she available on X day?” I immediately knew I had erred, naming a noted fashion designer with the last name of the director. The horror!

An interview was eventually booked after several minutes of uncomfortable negotiation. This process was repeated several times that afternoon.

For the most part, each publicity person accommodated with a smile. One firm dished out one of Spike Lee’s favorites and an aging television star. Two quality bookings in one visit is a writer’s dream.

The second day of the festival called for three screenings, additional negotiations and a VIP party sponsored by one of the large entertainment glossies.

There are two types of screenings that a member of the press is privy to. First, there are the public screenings that cost $50 to get into. A member of the press can attend these wonderful events for free (most are followed by panel discussions with the filmmakers and cast members).

In the event a public screening is sold out, the press member seeking entrance must petition the clipboard-toting publicist standing at the door.

For large outlets, most screenings are available, but for the smaller ones, the journalist must attend the press-only screenings, which has its pros and cons.
Pros: always free, always a seat, networking possibilities, true world premieres (I caught the first public screening ever of Project Green Light’s “Stolen Summer”). Cons: screenings are in less than luxurious locales (including a converted city plowing garage and an unheated warehouse). The talent never attend these occasions, presumably for their own safety.

For the first screening of the festival, I twisted my way through a lengthy corridor located just off Main Street to the warehouse. Once seated, an entertaining game of neck-craning ensued as black sport jackets filed into the 50-seat space.
The film, the Mr. Show-inspired “Run Ronnie Run,” was better than expected. The crowd included a few major dallies, one fellow student journalist from California and a newsletter editor who walked out after 25 minutes.

Afterwards, the 30 of us funneled out onto Main Street, which was now packed with cameras, mic booms, cell phones and “profile people.”

Ben Foster, Todd Solondz, Gus Van Sandt, Shannon Elizabeth, Chloe Sevigny and Dick Wolf all crossed my path on the narrow streets and alleys of Park City that day. Most festival attendees are immaculately dressed, and all appear to be “profile people.” My well-attired companion had roughly 10 photos taken of her by a mysterious telephoto while sitting outside a caf?. She is a junior journalism major and not of note.

I have never been part of a press line. Normally reserved for the professional paparazzi types, I found myself in a group of tenacious writers looking for a shot of celebrity visage (or ass, in Mariah’s case) outside the Egyptian Theatre early one evening.

The event, Sundance’s lifetime achievement honor, promised an interesting cast of characters. With festival sponsor Sam Adams on my breath, I extended my point-and-shoot lens to the tightest setting and waited for some action. After no less than three steamy exhales, the surroundings transformed into a celebrity-induced CO2 haze when Mariah Carey, Mira Sorvino and Melora Walters appeared when exiting the “Wisegirls” premiere.

Each actress, perfectly coiffed down to the eyeliner, dressed the part of movie star. The glow from of each of the actors’ sculpted grills flipped into halogen mode when the cameras pointed their direction.

After the ladies disappeared into a van, my waiting game resumed. A Court TV anchor standing alongside assured me that Benicio Del Toro (the award’s honoree) was on his way. As each unmarked van approached our blocked-off curb, the 100 or so press/autograph seekers/straight-up Del Torophiles rushed for a closer peek.
Some of the un-click-worthy people getting out looked like seasoned pros as they strolled past the row of cameras, while others looked like deer in headlights. Eventually the tribute’s emcee Kevin Pollack rolled out of a Humvee and snidely answered a few questions before entering the theater. Sill no Benicio.
As Pollack chatted, three casually dressed men, one donning a red hood, entered through a side door with Russian Mafia precision.

After a lull, a few of us wondered if Del Toro had entered earlier or had just snuck in through the side like the hooded mystery man, who turned out to be Dave Matthews.

Soon enough, a large Land Rover pulled up to a makeshift aisle. As the doors opened, I focused on a dashing blonde in the passenger seat. Our eyes briefly met as I felt a sharp jab in my side. My companion informed me that Benicio had just entered the building. (the blonde ended up being one of the actor’s many handlers).
As I sulked with disappointment, several of the photographers and camera crews strolled past the velvet ropes. Of course I followed, entering with the flash of a laminate.

Instructed to follow the woman in a headpiece, I ended up against a wall with a few AP photographers and Surface Magazine’s festival correspondent. I felt like a freshman misplaced in the senior gym class.

The lights dimmed, and Pollack strolled in, eliciting hundreds of flashes from all around the tiny theater. Del Toro strolled in next, dressed in the standard black with noticeably perfect hair, tossed with the perfection of a Ducasse salad.
As the crowd settled in, Pollack gave the standard tribute speech, with anecdotes to show his personal connection to the subject. In this case it was a story about the famous lineup scene in “The Usual Suspects.”

Del Toro’s brief, laconic speech left the impression he was either modest, shy or dreaming of a warmer clime. After a brief thank-you speech, the press was asked to leave so that the event could achieve its “intimate” aims.

I knew I had just witnessed an event most student journos don’t have access to.
The lesson learned: when a press line is in sight, fake the funk. It might just land you in something official, or better yet, unofficial.

The media circus the Sundance Film Festival has become started a little more than 20 years ago with a simple mistake. Legend has it founder Robert Redford was riding his motorcycle cross-country when an errant left turn landed him in a wooded utopia. The actor/director bought the land on the spot and eventually founded the town of Sundance, Utah.

A quick 45-minute jaunt from Park City, where the bulk of the festival now takes place, Sundance is Redford’s ode to creative expression. On-premise labs are reserved for emerging filmmakers, while plush theaters display the finished projects. The institute prides itself on maintaining the independent spirit of the arts. Park City may be the festival’s body, but Sundance is the soul, a sacred place where artists are artists and not money-making machines.

My first Sundance experience left me with mixed opinions about the film industry. It’s catty and chock-full of the poseurs I deplore.
Media and festival attendees bully their ways into packed screening facilities, even though seats have been assigned for weeks. The publicist controls the writer.
Heavy-toned film critics spout off absurdities, thinly connecting x to y in a game of “who has the loudest bark.”

There are also moments that achieve Redford’s vision. The pie-eyed undergrad praising a film professor for helping an idea become actualized. The cinephile volunteer deciding that they do have what it takes to start writing a script. The rookie feature director enjoying standing ovations before retiring to a guesthouse he shares with his cast.

Everything becomes grounded with these helpful reminders, examples of the root of an art form so tainted with greed. There is hope, though — it’s just not as apparent as I had wished.