There’s a grain that runs through that special space up the North Fork of Provo Canyon from the texture of the rock at the entrance to the weave of the rugs on the walls above the Kachina dolls. It’s also found in the ice along the creek banks and the path leading from the Owl Bar to the Screening Room.
To attend Sundance at Sundance, one first must ride over the river and through the woods it’s a grandmother’s house kind of place. This year the hideaway is rather iced up, crystalline, clean and brittle, fractured into kalidoscopic purity.
Cheeks exposed for a any length of time are rosy. As are the cheeks of Sundance volunteers. The cause might well be the flashlights they use like scalpels to slice through the darkness to seat film buffs.
Outside, arguments ensue as to whether it’s as cold as a welldigger’s posterior or a witch’s augmentation. Concensus has it that a caucus will be held in front of the fireplace in the library to settle the issue. If that cozy den is inaccessable, the default site will be between the espresso machine and the scone stash in the General Store.
The pace, or rather, the lack thereof, toys with the mind. What have they done with scurry, hustle and bustle, scoot, and make a beeline? Where are the paparazzi, the limos, the glitter, the glam? Where are the ever-present lines for a parking place, a shuttle, a cup of joe, a beer?
Actually, none of the above is a bother. To some of us, Sundance in Park City is a holy week — at least for films and music and the odd snifter of anejo. It’s just that Sundance at Sundance has always flaunted more of a tranquil tone. There is less disquietude and more stillness.
The North Fork tempo allows one to repose with a reposado or stroll in unannounced for pasta and pinot. And waiting for a film is more book and muse friendly than shuffling feet or leaning against a concrete wall. Huge couches in front of ever-present fireplaces await those looking for an interlude of brain candy and fantasy.
It’s about composition, the manner in which the snow up Cascade Cirque finds a way to liquify and transcend the ice of Stewart Falls before entering the pool between the Screening Room and the Rehearsal Hall all under the sculptured gaze of the stone chief.
There is a hush that goes along with the grain that runs through the space. You can walk on it, do the backstroke in it, roll it up and smoke it. As to whether its composed of particles or waves, well, there is talk of gathering at the beach outside the shack at the top of the hill to settle the issue. It’s a quantum affair.
Back at the fireplace, the reading is all about a thread of continuity that runs from Baudelaire up through Henry James, James Joyce, Virginia Wolfe, Marcel Proust and Franz Kafka. Wouldn’t do to lose that thread. The couch might issue a siren’s call. Becoming one with the horizontal at this point is not an option.
The projectionist comes to the rescue and fills the screen with light. We find ourselves following a bicyclist along a not-so-beaten path upon the Mongolian Steppes. The Japanese photographer is pedaling the planet after beginning his journey somewhere near Tierra del Fuego.
We weren’t invited on that part of the trip but soon will be welcomed into the ger (yurt) of a three-generation family we will not soon forget. “Puujee,” the name of the film and of the captivating and rebellious young girl at the center of the documentary, is a perfect example of why independent film so captivates and nourishes hungry hearts and minds.
The day lingers towards the warm and fuzzy. That would be an interior forecast. Outside, the welldigger and the witch are still very much in play. Footsteps crunch along various paths as the mind continues to wander. Focus is nowhere to be seen.
The art of eavesdropping introduces a couple of young lovelies set to rendezvous with “restoration and rejuvenation in a Sioux-inspired sacred environment.” Obviously, the near-deaf hear what they want. The sense is that they’re probably not heading for the Owl Bar. Drat!
Back in the dark, it’s all about a couple of Irish hit men hanging in a Belgium burg awash in Flemish architecture. But, be aware, that’s only the setting. Guaranteed, that’s not what it’s about. With Martin McDonagh at the controls, this could go anywhere. Suffice to say, the seatbelt is snug!
Having experienced a couple of stage plays of his concoction, the backpack is brought to bear as a form of whiplash protection. But no worries! “In Bruges” turned out to be as brilliantly bizarre as both “The Beauty Queen of Leenane” and “The Cripple of Inishmaan.”
Meanwhile, back at the Owl Bar, a table near the band readies itself. Chairs are pulled back and filled. Glasses are raised to Puujee and McDonagh. Serenity slowly blankets the room.
Looking down, it’s easy to spot that now-familiar grain running along the unvarnished floorboards, up and across the tabletop, and, through refraction with ice cubes, bending back towards the textured rock out on the canyon road. Sundance at Sundance has performed its magic once again.
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio, among other pursuits. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.