On Redford's Mountain

By RICHARD ZOGLIN/PARK CITY

The evening's "official" party, thrown by the Samuel Goldwyn Co. to celebrate the premiere of its film Golden Gate, was noisy and crowded and located in one of the area's poshest ski lodges. But as usual, the serious action didn't begin until later, at the unofficial afterparties. The hot ticket that night at the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah (pop. 4,468), was a bash thrown in a rented condo by the William Morris talent agency and 20th Century-Fox. Actually, invitations were hardly needed; anybody who could find a parking spot on the clogged, snow-packed streets and squeeze through the crowd spilling out of the jammed condo could venture into the belly of the Hollywood beast.

This was not a glitzy, see-and-be-seen Hollywood fete. It wasn't a place to find stars, or the press, or major industry movers -- no Michael Ovitzes, Barry Dillers or Steven Spielbergs. Instead, the horde consisted of the callused foot soldiers of Hollywood: agents, producers, entertainment lawyers, talent managers and screenwriters -- most of them in their 20s and 30s, all busily looking for clients, jobs, gossip, attention.

"David Anspaugh, I don't know," mused one fellow pinned against the wall in the gridlocked hallway. "((His film)) Rudy, did you see it? It was sweet. Only did $22 million. I don't know if he could do an Upper West Side women's picture."

In the living room a junior mogul was touting his new projects, among them a pirate epic and a film he described as an "Animal House for the '90s." "Hey, it's product line," his companion said sympathetically. "They can't all be gems."

Over by the couch: "I want to represent Renee." "Oh, Renee is great. She's young, and she's a comer."

Off toward the bar: "Got it. Read it. Making a deal. Gonna close it any minute."

Around midnight, actor Peter Weller showed up, flaunting a cigar and an entourage. After five minutes of trying to navigate the packed rooms, he scurried out, pursued by an importunist: "I know this girl Gigi! She still loves you! You should give her a call!"

This was once a quiet little backwater showplace for independent American films, run by Robert Redford's Sundance Institute since 1985. But ever since sex, lies and videotape was the surprise hit of the 1989 event, the affair has become Hollywood's annual home away from home for 10 days in late January. Festivalgoers complain about the overcrowded screenings (nearly all the hot films are sold out weeks in advance); reporters snipe about the proliferation of cellular phones on Main Street. Even Redford, speaking to the filmmakers / gathered for the closing-night awards ceremony, felt obliged to take note of the "hype about cellular phones and jets. That's outer-space stuff. It doesn't mean anything . . . This festival is for you." Actually, the place could use a few more cellular phones; making telephone contact with anyone at Sundance is a festival of frustration.

The fact is, there are really two Sundance film festivals, which don't seem to have much to do with each other. At the official festival -- the most important annual showcase for independent American films -- 32 fiction and nonfiction features competed for prizes this year, and dozens more pictures were given special screenings and premieres, ranging from major studio releases (Reality Bites, starring Winona Ryder and directed by Ben Stiller) to a selection of offerings from Latin American and Native American filmmakers.

Lurking behind this is the shadow festival. Here the conversation only rarely strays to the films that the movie folk have ostensibly come to see; instead, it's the same talk that goes on year-round in Hollywood, transplanted and intensified and extended into the wee hours. The shadow festival is a curious mix of collegiate revelry and Sammy Glick desperation. For participants, it's a chance to make a year's worth of contacts in a few sleep- deprived nights. For outsiders, it's a zoological treasure trove, a place where all the major species of Hollywood schmoozemeister can be observed in an only slightly unnatural habitat.

The conventional wisdom is that Hollywood has taken over the Sundance Film Festival. But one could just as easily argue the reverse. The Mike Ovitz pretenders flock to Bob Redford's mountain to view the sort of offbeat, low- budget films that they would probably not otherwise see or pay much attention to. Struggling filmmakers, meanwhile, can meet, and perhaps impress, Hollywood decision makers without a bossy secretary blocking the way. "The festival gives people access to Hollywood who wouldn't otherwise have it," says Tom Rothman, president of worldwide production for Goldwyn. "Here you don't need a reservation at Morton's." Observes Ira Deutchman, president of Fine Line Features: "As irritating as it is to have the place swarming with Hollywood folks, I can't see how that's a negative. Without them, Sundance would be a marginalized event."

It certainly is a lively venue for dealmaking. At least four films picked up distributors during this year's festival: Go Fish, a lesbian comedy (to be released by Goldwyn); Spanking the Monkey, a startling drama about incest that won the audience prize for best dramatic feature (Fine Line); Clerks, a low- budget comedy set in a convenience store (Miramax); and Martha and Ethel, a documentary about two lifelong nannies (Sony Pictures Classics). Several other movies are under negotiation with distributors, among them Hoop Dreams, a nearly three-hour documentary about two ghetto youths aiming for basketball success that was perhaps the festival's most exciting discovery.

Still, popularity at Sundance is no guarantee of success outside the rarefied air of Park City. Last year's graduating class -- including Boxing Helena, Ruby in Paradise and Bodies, Rest & Motion -- did little business at the box office. One problem, say some distributors, is that an increase in serious movies from the major studios -- among them Schindler's List and In the Name of the Father -- has made it tougher than ever to find an audience for small "specialty films" (the new, commercially correct term for art film).

Then, of course, there's the question of what happens if they do find an audience. Commercial success is both the goal and the fear of this schizophrenic festival: Can a filmmaker be embraced by Hollywood and avoid selling out? At Sundance, the issue is still of vital importance, and the next step is the acid test. When the hot new discovery returns to Park City, will it be to screen another iconoclastic feature? Or just to hang out at the afterparties?