Nowhere Boy, Enter the Void or: So This Is Sundance 2010

James Franco as Allen Ginsberg in “Howl.”

So. Sundance. I guess this is kind of a big deal. But in that mildly annoying way, like those T-shirts people put on their babies that say, “I’m kind of a big deal.” Well, noted. The New York Times can tell you why this might be “the most important Sundance in years,” but so far all I can really tell you is that it’s a little like one of those T-shirts, on somebody else’s kid.

Sometimes I worry that going to the movies all the time encourages isolation from real life. So now I’m doing it for 10 days straight in a snowed-in resort town in the mountainous northwestern shoulder of a desert state full of Mormons. That should help.

It’s my first time. And it’s nice here, in its strange way. As is the custom at film festivals, people have been eyeing each other’s lanyards, sizing each other up with a silent exchange of mutual interrogation: Should I know who you are? Should I care? Here, it’s sillier and more conspicuous because we’re all bundled up against the elements and harder to see.

And although it makes the whole world and all its hideous problems seem really far away, Sundance also reminds me that privilege is relative. The thing about being kind of a big deal is also being necessarily stratified. Controlled. Even with a (low-grade) press pass, there are bar-code scannings and singings-in and secondary credentials and occasional waitings in line outside, and even then there are no guarantees. For instance, I haven’t been able yet to get in to “Hesher,” the new Joseph Gordon-Levitt vehicle, also with Natalie Portman, which I’ve heard described by someone who did see it as “despicable.” Nor did I make it into the similarly buzzy “Howl” on opening night. But of course that didn’t keep me from posting links to other people’s comments about it, without bothering to add any useful or original thoughts. That’s my way of being a “rebel,” in accordance with the festival’s belabored theme.

Given the ambience of dissociation, it seemed fitting that the first two movies I did see were “Nowhere Boy” and “Enter the Void.” The first is a respectable if not indelible account of John Lennon’s teenage years, and basically the backstory of his song “Mother.” The second is the explicit and violent new film by explicit violence enthusiast Gaspar Noé, best known for 2002′s “Irreversible.” I exited “Enter the Void” wondering exactly how Noé goes about making his films, and trying to imagine his notes to self: Had Monica Bellucci raped. What next? Tokyo DMT trip as sex-and-death-infused episode of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos”?

But I can’t get into movie details just now, because I’m still preoccupied with logistics: triangulating buzz and relevance and personal interest, reading dispatches from those more important journalists with better access and more to say anyway, planning what to see, and how, and when. Also: trying to stay vertical on the slushy sidewalks, dodging lethal-looking icicles, avoiding blindness from the snow or the gleam of James Franco’s teeth.

Speaking of him, I did at least get in to the “Howl” press conference, where copies of Allen Ginsberg’s poem were freely distributed and largely, sadly, ignored. But at least a panel of the film’s actors and directors and producers had been convened to discuss, among other things, how great and important the poem is.

Here is an example of the other things they discussed:

Jon Hamm: “I think I ran into you once in the make-up trailer.”
James Franco: “That was awesome.”

How weird to see Don Draper of “Mad Men” and Daniel Desario of “Freaks and Geeks” in conversation, if only briefly. I look forward to seeing them together in their new movie. Eventually. Hopefully.

Also, before the panel got started, I noticed a would-be paparazzo snapping photos of Bob Balaban fiddling with his mobile phone. How nice, I thought, that this strange place is one where people recognize Bob Balaban, and how not nice that he can’t check his email in peace. Then I wondered if anybody has been snapping photos of that guy pacing around the labyrinthine halls of my hotel hacking up endless phlegm. Should we know who he is? Should we care?

More of these profundities will be forthcoming, dear readers, as they accumulate in my rebelliously dissociated mind. Meanwhile I refer you to Julie Limbaugh, who’s also here, doing the ‘dance after hours, and blogging about it.

You may wonder: Is she the Julie Limbaugh who wrote about being related to Rush for Salon? Actually, it would be funny if she wasn’t that Julie Limbaugh, because then she could also write about being confused with the Julie Limbaugh who wrote about being related to Rush for Salon. But for now she definitely is the Julie Limbaugh who’s blogging about parties at Sundance for The Faster Times.