So, another Los Angeles Film Festival has come and gone (with yet another fest – Outfest – holding it’s opening night this evening with Puccini for Beginners) and as I sit here (on my mountain of used Kleenex) reflecting on the past two weeks, I have to say it’s not a true film festival experience unless you’re so exhausted and sick that you’re bedridden for days after.
Little Miss Sunshine was the closing night film. After the speeches and the awards (since when is it customary to not allow a filmmaker into the theater so he can accept his award?) the film finally started. I don’t think you could have found someone in that audience who didn’t love it. Besides being very charming and funny in the most uncomfortable ways, the last 10 minutes straight had the theater screaming with laughter. The family at the center of the film managed to make some of the more absurd situations seem comprehensible. And at the risk of sounding like an old woman, Abigial Breslin is such a doll. She and her brother in the film, Paul Dano (star of one of the funniest movies ever!!) are sure to have incredible careers ahead of them.
The party afterwards was lovely. My date and I juggled with our plates of finger foods and cups of social lubrication as little Abigial B. danced to Rick James’ Superfreak (not kidding here). To be honest, it was a bit intimidating to be at this party without a coworker to tell me who everyone was. I did well on my own, though, and met some really intriguing filmmakers, including a strapping young man (there are a lot of them around these parts) named Ti West, who had been at the LAFF last year with his film The Roost. We talked about festivals and free stuff, but mostly we marveled at the dance moves another (most likely very, very high) young man. I tend to exaggerate, but I’m not when I say this guy danced as though this was 1997 and he was at a rave for hours. Who was he? Who let him in? Was he the entertainment? Someone please let me know. Is he available for bat mitzvahs?
I was definitely sorry I forgot my sure-fire crowd clearer at home, as I surveryed the huddle around Mike Ott. I had really wanted a few minutes to talk to him about his film Analog Days, and thank him for the mixtape, because that is all I have listened to for the past week. I tried to shoot him with my tranquilizer gun, but missed and hit Seth Meyers. Oh well. We stayed there quite late, or at least late enough to see people passed out of the giant pillows on the ground.
And then it was all over.
So here I sit, trying to fortify myself after the moral pneumonia that occurs during a film festival. Until next time, loyal readers!
(Oh, and remember: all hate mail, top secret communiques, marriage proposals and expensive baubles are greatly appreciated, although my response may be slow. Right now I’m busy e-stalking gathering information on fellow Chicagoan Brett L. Tinnes.)
(You better not get me sick – Ed.)
