Brent Hoff, editor and co-founder of Wholphin, has agreed to be the official Rumpus correspondent at The Sundance Film Festival.
C-packs, Neosporin in each nostril and hand sanitizer in the shwag bag, everyone spends a good deal of time here discussing their infallible strategies for avoiding the viruses they will invariably catch here at the Park City playground. But there is never any mention of a more subtle infection that is far more contagious and detrimental to the health of our nation’s filmmakers.
The first symptom is a distinct tension around the eyes. This is often followed by a loss of focus, verbal coherency, and nausea, culminating in bouts of “krampfhaft” (convulsive laughter) and in extreme cases, temporary blindness.
This as-yet-unnamed virus is a debilitating neurological illness resulting from the complete ontological crisis of needing desperately, with every cell in one’s body, to both get up from the bar and go network with Powerful Industry Professional X who can make your career in a single conversation, and to simultaneously stay right where you’re sitting and continue flirting with Unbelievably Attractive Person Y, who just might be the sexiest person you have ever spoken to, (excepting that girl who stole your heart in Amsterdam who was like a prettier, bubblier version of Natalie Portman.) It is easy to see how such an epidemic could spread here in Park City as unbelievable attractiveness is as common as a sore throat. For those who lack resistance, it can lead to a massive psychological breakdown,–because let’s face it, putting libido above art is basically admitting that deep down you are no different than the studio execs you love to hate, and that the only reason you want to shmooze Powerful Industry Professional X over there in the first place is to eventually raise your career to a level which will enable you to have a shot at attracting Unbelievably Attractive And Impossibly Perfect Persons, like the one you are currently inexplicably attracting.
Devil On Your Shoulder says: “Dude. She’s touching your arm! Cut out the middle man, save yourself a ton of aggravation and work, and go straight for the gold!”
Angel On Your Shoulder says: “But think of your contribution to society through the enormous gift of your art?? What will the world do without your semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story?? A dork who becomes a man over
the course of one wild hot summer?? That’s genius!!”
Realizing that both your angel and your devil are fucking liars, you get drunk and end up whining to your buddies, thereby spreading the virus.
The festival hasn’t even officially started yet, but if I were an epidemiologist, I would predict that this year’s outbreak will be nasty.
