INT. — SALT LAKE CITY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT — MORNING

I’m leaving finally. I get to return to my bed, Varsity hamburgers and as much bumper-to-bumper traffic as any man could want. After three days of updates, I decided there was nothing worth telling until the end. The Sundance Film Festival is a marathon, not a sprint. When tackling the beast it’s important not to get burned out.

Had I gotten a media pass (wink wink, Ed, just kidding), there might be more to share. For the causal movie-goer, the festival itself is relentless. There is no end to the screenings, discussions, presentations, panels and stargazing. It really is amazing, and it engulfs two cities. It swallowed me whole by Wednesday. I needed a break after four consecutive days of waiting in line, sitting through panels and just a general lack of naptime. Reporters are like bats. We’re mostly blind and sleep for days.

So I chose to gamble in my downtime. Wendover is a small community of casinos and fast-food restaurants just across the Nevada boarder. With sin just about an hour-and-a-half away, I chose to go blow my rent money. I actually came away with about $168 bucks, most of which I spent on souvenirs — one being a poster I just realized I lost.

But I didn’t come to Utah for posters. Even ones that regrettably cost me $12.50. No, I came to experience Sundance and I think I did just that. Did I see any celebrities? Not really. It’s harder than you might think. I was in Park City three full days and I saw more deer than I did celebs. I suspect some of the edge of the week was off after the death of Heath Ledger. I tried walking around in circles for hours and all I seemed to find were thousands of people doing the same exact thing.

There was a moment I was sure I saw David Duchovny coming out of an American Apparel, but he doesn’t seem like a man who wears tights and I’m pretty sure he’s shooting the X-Files sequel.

Ledger’s death seemed to suck the life out of everything, but the hustle and bustle moved on. A small mountain town became a hotbed of the rich and famous and various media groups. At any point you could see three to five film crews doing anything from man on the street interviews to just general B-roll shooting. It was a spectacle.

If you come, come for the film. I think my sampling was good. In all, I saw seven films and a variety of short films. My favorite of the week was easily Absurdistan. I found that most of the screenings in Salt Lake City came with introductions or Q&A sessions with the cast and director. Viet Helmer, Absurdistan’s director, was one of the best. He introduced his film and let his cast answer questions at the end. There was nothing particularly memorable about these sessions, but it gave the experience some depth and a better connection with the film.

Sadly, Helmer got no credit at the awards ceremony, but an old enemy did. Ballast received the Directing Award in the Dramatic category and a nod for Excellence in Cinematography. A list of all the winners can be found here.

I completely agree with the latter of Ballast’s two awards, but the appeal of the film escapes me. I can only imagine that Lance Hammer’s use of a non-actor cast gives him some cred for the Directing Award, but the movie was a painful experience for me. I’ve never had my skin peeled off my arm like a banana, but I think the two experiences are similar.

But that’s what Sundance is for. It’s a chance to experience some of the best films in the world. And there are greatly differing ideas of what those films should be like. Ballast just happened to be the orange marshmallow shaped like a peanut in my bag of Halloween candy.

My week was spent looking forward to one experience and one experience alone: watching Where in the World Is Osama Bin Laden? I had to see this movie, even if it meant breaking friends, smuggling nuclear weapons and whining very, very loudly.

The time came on Friday. I had already missed out on tickets for three other screenings and seen two wait-list lines of 100-plus for this film. There was a good chance it would be hideous, but I didn’t care. As I said before, it has become my white whale.

The final screening I found was at the Broadway Theater in Salt Lake City. I thought there were only two venues in the city, but I was wrong. The Broadway was like any other all-American theater. While juggling three screens for Sundance viewings, Broadway was also showing Atonement, No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood. So I figured if I couldn’t get into Where in the World, I had something to fall back on.

The screening was at 10:30 p.m. Wait-list tickets would be handed out at 8:30 p.m., so naturally I made my friends arrive at 7:15. That may seem silly, but 30 others had arrived by 7:45. My favorite was a younger Russian woman in town for a trade convention. She sold granola bars. She was No. 6. My group and I took No. 1 through No. 5 and my friend Johnathan got a free volunteer ticket.

I was happy to see a wait-list line free of drama. There had to be at least 80 people waiting for tickets by 8:29. We took our passes and went down the street for a beer. By this point in the week, I had accepted a variety of Utah quirks. For one, beer memberships really weren’t as bad as I first thought. A temporary membership was good for three weeks, so really it was like paying one cover charge for the year. A weekend in Buckhead can bankrupt me, so this was a welcome change.

Also, Mormon bashing was ever present. Salt Lake City has the highest non-Mormon population in the state, kind of like how Atlanta is a little blue, liberal dot in the center of Georgia. I made my own jokes, but slowly I started to figure something out. As crazy as Joseph Smith and Brigham Young were — and they were crazy — religion in general is all really the same. Crazy is relative.

Mormons aren’t bad people. They’re actually clean and nice. Their laws do piss me off. Like bars aren’t allowed to be zoned in together. Places like Little Five Points or Virginia-Highland would seem like Dodge City to Mormons. It’s a funny climate for one of the world’s great film festivals — one full of inspirational art and a great horde of people who you’d imagine would want to drink like a Kennedy.

But the community loves its film, and this year Where in the World seemed to be drawing them out in droves. We got back around 10 sharp, to get in line for the wait-list tickets. About 10:10 my friend Johnathan gave me his volunteer ticket and told me to go in and grab seats for everyone. I was thankful because at the very least it assured me that I would get us a good spot.

As it ended up, it only assured me a spot in the theater. By 10:20, the screening was full. Of the 80-plus people in line for the screening, only two wait-listers got in. Both were my friends, the others — including my friend Johnathan — took off. Wish good karma on him. I did the customary “Do you want me to come out?” that happens in these situations, but since I had talked about the film for a solid week, Johnathan hung up on me twice, giving me a quick “No.”

This act of kindness assures him of 1,000 virgins in heaven I think. The anticipation was killing me. I am a big fan of Morgan Spurlock’s last film, Super Size Me. My hope was that this would be better. The result was somewhere in between (see the review).

Everyone seemed to enjoy the movie, but the icing on the cake came afterward. Spurlock dropped in for a Q&A with the audience. Most questions were geared toward the film’s ending. Spurlock (SPOILER WARNING) didn’t actually find Osama as you might have guessed, but he seemed to learn a lot about America’s place in the world today. In general, people wanted to know about the most dangerous sequences in the film, the interviews and how the cameraman got everyone to smile — including radical Muslim leaders. It was interesting, but I had a question of my own. I didn’t want to get the audience-tilted response. I wanted to look the horse in the mouth, so I snuck up following the Q&A.

ME: Good film, but I had a quick question … (Reaches for handshake)

SPURLOCK: Ah, sure, but wait … can’t touch you. (Jumps back like I have leprosy) I’m sick. You don’t want this. (Gives me a manly elbow, like I just hit a walk-off homer.)
ME: (Me awkwardly elbowing him back) I’m sure the weather helps that.

SPURLOCK: Yeah, not at all. The altitude is a pain in the ass, too.

ME: Sure, I bet. Well, yeah. I wanted to know what the impression of the U.S. troops in Afghanistan was. Your film raised some good points about the environment of the Middle East and how Osama can have the power he does, but do they really think we’ll ever actually find him or is he dead?

SPURLOCK: Actually, for the most part, they think he’s dead. Or at the very least they don’t think we’ll find him.

ME: Great. Well, I’m glad you tried.

We took a photo. I geeked out a little and wanted to offer to take him out for a Big Mac, but I decided against it. The entire week was worth this moment: getting to watch a movie I can enjoy and then meet a filmmaker I respect and then possibly getting the flu from him. No one wanted to be around me for hours. I was completely satisfied with the experience, like the feeling you get when drop that monthlong diet for a trip to Popeye’s.

This is the experience of Sundance. Not only getting to hang out with the film community, but getting to see them enjoy their craft. Waiting for my plane back to Atlanta, I can’t imagine sharing a similar experience in our fair city. I’ll probably see Cloverfield this week because I’m a fan of Godzilla films, but it just won’t be the same unless I get a chance to meet the 300-foot monster following the screening.

Maybe I can get him to actually shake my hand.

There are no adequate ways to describe the experience of Hamlet 2. Well, there is one way, but you’re not going to like it. OK, ready?

It feels like I just got raped in the face. And for some reason, I’m totally OK with that. And you will be, too. You may even ask for more. There are likely few films at Sundance carried as far by a performance than that of Steve Coogan in Hamlet 2. He’s absurd and hilarious, and he has to be to champion a script this loaded with the offensive material.

I thought racist midgets in In Bruges were bad. Hamlet 2 — in theory — should be worse, but it isn’t. The movie dances across the line of dignity with the grace of a ballerina.

Coogan plays Dana, a failed actor-turned-theater-teacher who never embraces his desolation and lack of talent. His dream of Hollywood greatness stays alive and well in his classroom work, translating such greats as Erin Brockovich to the high school stage. Coogan limps through life guiding his two eager students and attempting parenthood with his wife.

Turmoil strikes, however, when the school begins cutting electives in Dana’s high school. There is less money floating around and new, diverse students are being pushed into Dana’s class. Theater’s fate is on the chopping block, and the only way to save the arts is to raise $6,000. Dana decides to produce one of his own works — a schizophrenic sequel to Shakespeare’s Hamlet. There’s a time machine, a “Rock Me Sexy Jesus” song, and a chorus about getting raped in the face.

Awesome, right? Well, not for the parents of Dana’s class and the school board. The play becomes a media storm bringing together Dana and his rag-tag group of actors.

The concept is funny enough, but the Hamlet 2 songs and Coogan’s performance are enough to leave a lasting impression with Sundance comedy greats like Napoleon Dynamite and Little Miss Sunshine. I actually like this film better than those two, and that’s saying a lot. There’s a reason the movie was bought for one of the largest distribution deals in festival history. It’s that good.

The material is risky but never boring, and Coogan is worth his weight in gold. Consequently, the film will be earning plenty at the box office. Make sure you are one of the ones moving the turnstiles.

Rating: A

If you were to tell me a film using less than 15 minutes of dialog was the best thing I would see at the Sundance Film Festival, I might laugh and then spit on you. There would at least have been a long, crazy laugh.

But you’d be right. Absurdistan is — and I hate saying this — a wonderful display of the strength of international film and storytelling over ours here in the States. I love American film, and in a year in which we’re given two of the best American movies in years (No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood), we’re still behind.

The movie just gets everything right. It’s beautiful, hilarious and heartwarming, but most of all it’s charming. Absurdistan gives us a look at the lengths to which man will go to woo the love of a woman or to simply get in her pants. The story follows a young pair of soon-to-be lovers, Aya and Temelko. Their homeland survives off the hard work of the women, the sexual vitality of the men, and a slow but steady water supply from a pipeline feeding out of the mountains.

But once the water begins to run dry, so does the women’s patience. Aya takes her stand against Temelko, telling him that they can’t be joined — in the biblical sense — for the first time until the water problem is solved. The town’s women notice this standoff and begin to do the same with their lazy, sexually addicted husbands. No water, no sex. This is when all hell breaks loose.

Temelko, eager to get the water problem fixed, fights the issue on his own while the town’s men just find new ways to be useless and pout. The initial sadness turns to rage and the once peaceful community becomes divided by chromosomes with only Temelko exploring ways to solve the true issue.

What’s amazing about Veit Helmer’s film is that he moves the narrative through the guidance of his two main characters, Aya and Temelko. The pair’s voices follow all the action with exception of an occasional break for dialog. The move is bold and extremely well-done. There is no end to Helmer’s imagination. Every scene packs enough properly constructed choreography and skillful acting to tell the story without the subtitles or audio.

The story is an allegory, so it becomes absurd — get it … never mind — at times, but it never feels out of place. Whether this was a fictional or real city forgotten by the rest of the world, Absurdistan is a place worth visiting. And it’s not a film to be missed.

Rating: A+

INT. — PARK CITY PUBLIC TRANSPORT BUS — MORNING

Salt Lake City is a pleasant town with what will serve as an adequate taste of what the Sundance Film Festival is about. But the meat and potatoes still rest in Park City. It’s a very small city full of ski resorts and enough money to make Alpharetta jealous.

I have two goals for the day: catching Where in the World Is Osama bin Laden? and stargazing. The latter is simple, really. You just walk the streets stalking famous people. At this point I’d take Jack Black and 50 Cent. Actually, I’d take French Stewart. I have to look like I’m doing my job here.

Parking isn’t really an option on Main Street, so my party finds a Wendy’s and hops on a bus. Transportation inside Park City is free, but the service does encourage donations. As far as I know, I don’t get an expense account, so fat chance of that happening. I can’t help but notice what looks like a newly developed Wal-Mart across the street from the bus stop. Seeing a Wal-Mart here is how I would imagine stumbling across Michael Vick at a PetSmart would feel. There’s not a lot to the town other than rich housing communities and snow.

Skiers board and exit the bus at seemingly every other stop, but they are still a minority. Everyone on the bus appears to be headed to the festival. If the brochures and film booklets stuck in every pocket and purse aren’t enough, it’s obvious where we’re going because of the chatter.

Films are being analyzed, recommended, sliced and diced, and in one woman’s case, weighed on a scale of sexual content vs. lack of sexual content. Someone brings up Ballast and an insult escapes my brain before I can stop it. I’m immediately refuted. Seriously, everyone seems to like this film, and it is beyond me. Batman & Robin people, Batman & freaking Robin.

The bus route takes about half an hour, but along the way we find the Library Center Theatre (which I read Liberty and asked for directions to twice). Morgan Spurlock’s film will be playing there at 8:30 p.m. That gives my group about seven hours of stargazing before we need to line up in the wait-list group.

Once off the bus, my friends and I find the center of town. It’s basically just an incline of buildings swimming with average Joes, media and a variety of as-yet-unidentified celebrities. Bars, restaurants and ski shops line the sides of the road with a thin sidewalk caked in snow and a constant stampede of feet.

The scene really isn’t as impressive as I hoped, but I was expecting the red carpet at the Oscars … just with snow instead of carpet and myself glad-handing Robert Downey Jr. and James Cameron. But once we ascend the incline, I already spot my first celeb. It’s not much, but it will do. His name is Brandon Molale and the only reason you’d know he exists is if you’re a big fan of Dodgeball and “Reno 911!,” which I think he’s been on a handful of times. He’s a very distinctive- (read: tall drink of water) looking human being with a face that looks like it was stolen out of a comic book. Consequently, he’s been lobbying for the role of Captain Marvel for a soon-to-be feature on the classic DC Comics character Shazam!. Yes, I’m a nerd. No, I don’t have a life.

Moving on. My party decides to grab a beer and pizza. It seems that everyone moves from restaurant to bar to restaurant in an effort to find celebrities. I suspect an average Sundance-goer will gain about 47 pounds by week’s end and, yes, I’m counting all the lost calories from the walking. Before we slip into a restaurant, I pick out Rex Lee (Lloyd from Entourage) doing an interview on a second-story balcony.

In an effort to pass the time, I attend a technology exhibition in a small mall off the strip. It’s basically a young filmmaker’s dream. Sony and other movie companies have displays for their latest equipment. I wander into a discussion and showcase on Sony’s XDCAM EX camcorder. It’s small, inexpensive, lightweight, saves directly to disk and can transfer 100 minutes of video to your laptop in less than three minutes. I may have ordered seven of them without realizing it.

Discussions like this are common, but not limited to equipment. There are focus groups on helping rookie filmmakers talk to studios, what equipment to buy and where to find it cheap, and various panels on the world of cinema. There are also a handful of editing workshops, all meant to help small-timers like myself.

On the way to a screening at the Library Center Theatre, I finally catch a celebrity I’d want to talk to. His name is Mark Boone Junior, a large, bearded man that someone could spot from about a mile away. I did and I stared at him for about five minutes. He noticed and said hello. Instead of asking him for a photo, I nodded and greeted him back. Boone has had a random career. He’s obviously tight with Christopher Nolan, because he was in both Memento and Batman Begins, as Detective Flass in the latter. He was in a pretty good episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” playing a homeless man.

Most recently, Boone was in 30 Days of Night – which wasn’t very good, but it’s nice to see him working. I really wanted a photo, but I’m not sure what the protocol is here. You’re either in a position to just say hi and share a good story later with a friend or come off looking like a freak. I doubt Boone has fans, so I froze, not wanting to seem weird. Mark Boone Junior 1, Me 0.

The walk to the Library takes about 15 minutes, but even though we’re nearly three hours early, I can tell Morgan Spurlock will be lost to another day. The wait-list line is almost out the door, so our placement would be somewhere between 108-115. Where in the World has now become my white whale. My last chance to catch a screening may be in Salt Lake City on Friday. This is the difference between screenings in SLC and screenings in Park City. The hordes don’t mess around up the mountain. You’d better have tickets, arrive ridiculously early or get back in your car and drive home defeated.

It took us 45 minutes to get back to our vehicle. The drive home was about 35 minutes, and we arrive in SLC in time to grab wait-list tickets for Robert De Niro’s What Just Happened? (see review). The cast is loaded with Bruce Willis, Sean Penn, Stanley Tucci and several others. I don’t understand what it’s about from the description, but when you have that cast, it’s difficult to mess things up.

We get into the movie with quality seats after grabbing some food next door and a latte. On my schedule, I was supposed to be dining with Morgan Freeman and Denzel Washington, but when you can’t even ask Mark Boone Junior for a photo, you’re not going to open many doors. Lesson learned. I’ll have to try again later in the week.

I have this theory about Robert De Niro, and it goes something like this: Use only in case of emergency. That’s not to say Bobby can’t do any film he wants. He deserves that option. But when it comes to films like What Just Happened?, it’s like Michael Jordan joining the Harlem Globetrotters.

It’s fun to see him there, but you just can’t get over feeling that he needs to be playing at a higher level.

That may be my biggest criticism of What Just Happened?. In a film stacked with a marvelous cast that lives up — or in Bruce Willis’ case, surpasses — expectations, De Niro assumes the role of captain for a ship that runs just fine on its own.

De Niro plays Ben, a languishing Hollywood producer juggling a pair of ex-wives, children with both, a titanic embarrassment sailing into Cannes and bearded, fat Bruce Willis, which becomes more of a problem than you might think. Ben is constantly on the move and never able to escape the world of problems swirling around schedule, but we can only handle them one at a time.

First up is Michael Wincott’s fabulous portrayal of Jeremy, an emotionally unstable, recovering substance-abusing director with a potential bomb heading into the Cannes Film Festival. Ben’s charged with changing the ending, which is polarizing and painful, depending on how you look at it.

The director wants to keep his cut intact, but the studio won’t stand for it. Ben is left to deal, but most of his attention lies with his most recent ex-wife. The pair is seeking counseling to ease the transition into separation, a fun concept and one of the film’s bright spots.

The strength of the movie comes from its performances, but the story seems to languish at times. There’s fine resolution that is diluted with what appears to be an extra 20 minutes of footage director Barry Levinson just decided to throw in at the end. You just want the movie to end. It’s not annoying, necessarily, but it feels wrong.

What Levinson and writer Art Linson do well here is keep us entertained. The übertalented cast is given a wealth of material to feed off of and therefore deliver. Wincott is quirky and fun. Willis – who plays himself – is uniquely not Bruce Willis. Stanley Tucci could wander into any film as far as I’m concerned and be fine, and John Turturro finally gets a make-good for being in Transformers.

I did like De Niro is this role, but I really felt like it was more me liking Robert De Niro than me liking the role. The film has received mixed responses at the festival, but that may not matter. Was it worth watching? Yes. Is it up to the same level as its Sundance peers? Not necessarily, but it is a movie you’ll enjoy, with performances alone worth talking about.

Rating: B -

There are great perks to being locals during the Sundance Film Festival. For one, Utes can purchase tickets in advance for any screening they want before the horde descends upon their quiet, mountain town. Box offices are set up in Park City — the actual site of the festivities — and Salt Lake City, which hosts screenings in two theaters: the Rose Wagner Performing Arts Center and the Tower Theatre. So the collective buzz of the events seeps down the mountain into the state capital.

We’ve decided to spend the day in Salt Lake screening two films, the festival opener In Bruges with Colin Farrell and a small, independent production by a first-time director called Ballast. I know nothing about either film. In Bruges will be showing at Rose Wagner, a gigantic, ultramodern theater packed with balconies and the type of stage you’d expect for one of the world’s best film festivals.

Then there’s Tower, which will remind you (anyone over the age of 25) of the days when floors were sticky, seats uncomfortable and movies were still about what was on the screen and not the 27 ads beforehand. Tower’s lobby even doubles as an old-school movie rental with several hundred films you’ve never heard of but probably should.

The Trolley Box Office is one of the many satellite locations for patrons to pick up tickets. I scan the daily films, but there’s really only one I care about, Where In The World Is Osama bin Laden? By Morgan Spurlock. It’s probably the film with the most buzz at this year’s festival. Spurlock is best-known for his Oscar-nominated documentary, Super Size Me. I’d eat a month’s worth of McDonald’s to meet the man, but for now I’ll settle on seeing his current film.

Word on the street was that Spurlock had actually found the man the U.S. government seems to have forgotten about. That has since been proven wrong, but it should be a great film nonetheless.

The ticket counter worker informs me there is one ticket left for the Friday screening in Salt Lake City. All other venues for the week have been sold out. By the time she runs my card, the ticket is already gone. That’s how life is at Sundance. If you’re not quick, opportunity will pass you by. Or if, say, your friend who happens to be working the event forgets to buy you tickets to the films you specifically asked him to since he lives in Utah and you don’t … then opportunity will pass you by.

We purchase tickets to Ballast decide to wait-list for In Bruges. Regular tickets are $15 and wait-list are $10, only if you get accepted into the theater. It’s chance, but when your worthless friend forgets to get tickets, it’s the price you pay.

INT. — ROSE WAGNER PERFORMING ARTS CENTER – MIDDAY

Wait-listing proves to be dramatic. You head to a venue about two and half hours in advance and stand in line for a number. These numbers are handed out exactly two hours before the film, and wait-listers are expended to be back half an hour prior to the screening to line up for a chance at admission. If there’s room with 15 minutes to go, the Sundance volunteers will start ushering in the wait-listers.

This should all be a simple process, free of drama or name-calling. But it’s not. I was in line for less than eight minutes before a lone woman in front of me let three of her friends slip in. I was hovering about No. 17 in the line, so I really didn’t care. For any given showing 20-30 extra people get in. But in my particular line No. 18 – a small boy in his early 20s carrying a book and a purple scarf — was pissed. We’ll call him “Ned.”

Ned jumped line to talk to an official. When he came back, to quote Martin Lawrence, shit got real. The group of cutters was composed of two older gentlemen and their wives, one with a notable bad knee. Ned, ignoring this, inquired whether or not he thought it was fair that three should skip one and that one person is only allowed to hold a spot in line for one additional person. The younger of the two gentlemen, we’ll call him “Steve,” didn’t let Ned finish before blurting out, “I bet you’ve been a little piss ant your entire life, haven’t you?”

I decided to find something interesting to stare at on the wall. Steve’s wife tried to calm him and before Ned could suffer a beating, the numbering process had began. I took my number and headed to the restaurant across the street to kill the two hours needed to wait before the start of In Bruges.

Nothing relieves awkwardness — and I guess creates it — like beer. My friends and I found the place only because we stalked a middle-aged man named Rick up and down the street looking for a place to watch football. It’s Sunday, and as far as I know Mormons still like the pigskin.

We settled in at the bar next to Rick and ordered some pints of Polygamy Porter. Take that, Saltwater. The Patriots were playing the Chargers for a trip to the Super Bowl and I was suddenly reminded of The Gameplan. That Rock sure can act.

Rick proved to be interesting. He told me he’s a local English professor who has been trying to take in some films to get away from the wife, who apparently had friends in town. Stories like this strengthen my belief in marriage. We talked about the newspaper industry and how the daily paper seems to be on its last leg, while weeklies seem to be surviving the Internet boom fairly well. I agreed. Creative Loafing 1, AJC 0.

We took in some more beers that lampooned the Mormon religion, watched the Pats stay unbeaten and headed back to Rose Wagner. I was ready for Round 1: Ned vs. Steve, death match.

* * *

No blood was spilled this day. Most of the waiting-list crowd got in, which was about 50-55 extra movie-goers. In Bruges proves to be a pleasant surprise (see review). The audience was sold from the opening voiceover. Once finished, we ran to the car. If you’re not to the next screening within 15 minutes of the showing, it doesn’t matter if you have a ticket. Wait-listers will get in ahead of you.

Tower and our screening of Ballast were about four blocks away with half an hour to spare. We beat the line and grabbed a seat in the back. It wasn’t until the opening introduction that I realized I was sitting directly in front of the director. His name was Lance Hammer, a first-time man in the director’s seat. He seemed nice and artsy enough, but I was worried when I noticed his bio included work on Batman Forever and Batman & Robin. I feared something very, very wrong about to happen on that screen. As it turned out, I was right.

My friend Houser sitting next to me turned with a desperate expression for freedom midday though the second act. I suppose the 17th shot of a small child running away on a motorbike got to him. I refused to leave because I wanted to a) give the film a chance and b) I was sitting in front of the director — whose name consequently sounds more like a porn star than visionary for a low-budget indie.

The crowd was receptive of the work, but two gentlemen in front of me got out of the theater before the final minutes. They could have been leaving for a variety of reasons, but I like to assume it was because of how bad the movie was (see review). Maybe I just missed something in Ballast. But then again, maybe I missed something in Batman & Robin as well.

It was a solid first day. Salt Lake seems unaffected by its wealth of visitors, but there is a definite blanket over the town of the comings and goings just up the mountain in Park City. I was pleased with the first day of screenings. It’s important to see a variety and I did just that. One good, one bad. I could sleep on that.

I was disturbed, however, when I was channel surfing before bed. The Giants had upset Green Bay on the road in the NFC Championship later that night. I’m not a Packers fan, but what was haunting was that the Super Bowl would be played between New York and Boston, which were actually the two cities in the title game of The Gameplan. I’m worried this means that the Rock is actually some sort of prophet, handed to mankind from Vince McMahon and the WWE. I guess that’s not too far fetched. When you’re in Utah, anything seems possible.

UP NEXT: Into the fray, climbing the mountain into Park City

You are going to hear quite a bit about this film, and I will be honest, I cannot figure out why. It has affected me to such a degree that I will not be using contractions throughout this entire review. I want every word to be spelled out against the growing storm of enthusiasm for this film by first-time director Lance Hammer.

The story is simple, and that may be its greatest problem. Ballast is a movie about a tragedy and its affect on a small Mississippi family. There are three main characters who deserve our attention. We meet James first, a 12-year-old boy with too much time on his hands. Then there’s Lance Lawrence, an older man who shares ownership of a local store with his twin brother Darius. Tragedy slips in when Lance Lawrence finds his brother dead, having committed suicide for some reason we are never adequately given.

Perhaps living in rural Mississippi is enough. Ballast does do a good enough job of emphasizing the monotony of such an existence. No one expresses this better than our third character, Marlee, a struggling single mother who pays for her trailer and son James’ motorbike gas by scrubbing toilets all day.

It does not take long to figure out the connection. Darius was the father of James, but was never around. Instead of trying to pick up the pieces, Lance Lawrence attempts to take his own life. A gunshot wound to the chest lands him in the hospital.

Nothing worth remembering happens until we finally get to how Lance Lawrence deals with his new life. He returns to find his home burglarized by his nephew, who suddenly has taken an interest in his newly deceased father.

The pair’s relationship builds in one of the film’s stronger sequences, with young James returning on multiple attempts to rob his uncle at gunpoint to fund his growing crack habit. I’m not making this up, but it doesn’t come off as bad as it might sound.

James finds that his new cash cow draws the attention of his older, crack-dealing friends. They want a donation for their services and harass James and Marlee to get it. The unwanted attention leads the mother-son pair to escape to Darius’ empty yellow home, which sits across the property of Lance’s Lawrence’s blue identical one.

Darius left the house to Marlee to atone for his years of absence in James’ life, but the gift soon becomes a curse as the three are forced to deal with the tragedy and the awkwardness of their new arrangements with each other.

Ballast is a film that plays off of understatement in trying to develop an inner-personal look at the fractured lives of these three characters. It is at times beautiful but seemingly always boring. If I were to wander into a student film festival and catch this, I might not be so harsh. But this is Sundance and what I expect is an effort not grounded in mediocrity.

Hammer’s skill in framing a painfully real rural Mississippi town should not be lost, but what it seems to be more often than not is space filler and not masterfully sculpted puzzle pieces. And lost in the filler are some truly worthwhile moments and performances by an all nonactor cast.

The idea of man dealing with the forsaken family of his twin brother should ooze with compelling possibilities. What we get are endless amounts of painful dialogue, unnecessary montages and cinema as stale as a low fat Saltine cracker.

I wanted to respect Hammer’s work for what he was trying to do, but the more I think about it, I feel like his great accomplishment with Ballast was fooling people into seeing something that wasn’t there. A good idea is worth a reward, but not when it fails to deliver on its potential.

Rating: D

Truly talented writers can form a jumble of words into a sonnet or a make a trip to the dentist seem exciting. Martin McDonagh could probably do both, but what he’s really good at is making racism fun — especially when it involves midgets.

If you’re offended by the last sentence, you probably should be. But in McDonagh’s latest work — In Bruges — nothing seems offensive. Even a racist midget. The film was selected to open the 2008 Sundance Film Festival, and the committee seems to know what it was doing.

McDonagh earned an Oscar for his 2006 short film, Six Shooter. He doesn’t venture far from his genre here with a skillfully mixed blend of violence and humor. But Pulp Fiction this is not. In Bruges is more of a caper film without the caper. There is violence, but not enough to turn the stomach. Instead, we’re blessed with the downtime following the crime, and through McDonagh’s eyes, it’s actually very exciting.

We meet Ray (Colin Farrell) and Ken (Brendan Gleeson) on the first day in Bruges, a beautiful Belgian town that polarizes the odd couple. The two are hitmen fresh off a recent job, told to sit tight until new orders arrive. Ken, the older of the two, enjoys the gothic stylings of the city’s architecture while Ray yearns for a beer, a woman and a way back to London.

What develops is a story surprisingly adept at touching a range of emotion. There are laughs packed into every scene, but the humor wraps something at the heart of McDonagh’s script that stands out as more beautiful than the scenic backdrop of its title city.

When new orders finally come in, they aren’t good for Ray. The pair’s latest job took a tragic turn, which Ray is still trying to digest. His fate is left in Ken’s hands. But neither hitman is a hardened criminal ready to bend to every will of his boss, Harry (Ralph Fiennes). The ensuing calamity is what happens when the pair begins to think about their decisions and deal with the strange, hilarious and tragic consequences.

It wouldn’t be fair to McDonagh’s script to divulge more. It’s very clever and extremely tight, leaving no loose ends. While Gleeson and Farrell make an unlikely pair of hitmen, the chemistry between the two makes that initial puzzlement easy to forget. Gleeson could seemingly carry a film, and has worked with McDonagh before in Six Shooter. Farrell is a solid surprise here. Somewhere between SWAT and Alexander he hid some charisma and it shines perfectly here.

There are strong performances throughout, but what you should enjoy the most is Fiennes’ portrayal of psychotic, yet oddly moral crime boss. He curses a lot, breaks phones and is frightening and funny at the same time. The cast isn’t large, but the selections for those characters was dead on.

What the film is at its heart is a good story developed by an even better director. But don’t be fooled into thinking this is another great shoot-’em-up to sit beside your collection of Reservoir Dogs and Layer Cake. It will feel like that, but in reality, you’re getting something with a little more to it than just some jokes dropped between mindless violence.

That stuff is there, too. But it’s just done better here, and as a bonus, you get to meet a racist midget. Now that takes talent.

Rating: A

Sun-dancing

By Glenn LaFollette

INT. — HARTSFIELD-JACKSON AIRPORT — DAY

A crowded terminal BUSTLES with the TAPPING of feet and the CLICKING of BlackBerry keys and the RIPPING of ticket stubs.

A thick, blanketing snow falls just beyond the terminal windows, clinging to anything it can find.

A lone WRITER sits at the end of a long row of seats, staring at his pants and the four-inch-long pool of ketchup spreading down his knee, GROANING because of his two-hour snow delay and lack of hot dog coordination.

This is how I left Atlanta — a booming, all-American city with too much traffic, great diversity and more homeless people than you can shake a stick at it. It’s home and it’s beautiful. Why would you ever want to leave? OK, besides running out of water and a retarded governor, why else would you ever want to leave?

Well, this particular week I had a very good reason. It’s called the Sundance Film Festival, and it’s everything a film junkie, budding writer or celebrity seeker could want. I find myself to be a little of all three.

If you’re not familiar — and I’m sure you are if you’ve made it past the first 157 words — Sundance is an annual film festival in Park City, Utah, bringing together an eclectic mix of ambitious independent filmmakers. The festival has been going since 1978 and has given national spotlight to such films as Reservoir Dogs, The Blair Witch Project, Napoleon Dynamite, Little Miss Sunshine, and Sex, Lies, and Videotape. It’s basically a springboard for the hoping-to-be-rich-and-famous to land a major distribution deal or at least some street cred.

Sundance was actually named after Robert Redford’s portrayal of the Sundance Kid, because it was his favorite character. I found that cool and fortunate, since his favorite role could have been that of Johnny Hooker in The Sting. Hooker Film Festival just doesn’t carry the same nobility.

What you’ll find here are my collective thoughts, reviews, observations and drunken ramblings as I journey into the heart of Mormon country for the dream that is Sundance. Currently, it is nothing more than an idea. For all I know, it could just be a Mormon trick to fool the rich and famous into dumping one crazy religion — Tomcruiseology — for another.

Alien spirits or Jesus in Missouri? You pick your poison.

For now, I’m going to get back to cleaning my pants and waiting for the good people of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport to de-ice my plane. From the looks of it, I don’t think they’ve ever had to do it before. It must snow in Atlanta as much as it rains. Just something else for the governor to pray about.

INT. — U.S. AIRWAYS FLIGHT 471 — FOUR HOURS LATER

We’re in the air, and this has given me time to do two things: read most of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men and highlight the films I’d like to see at the festival.

The first half of the journey I spend my time watching the in-flight movie: The Game Plan with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. I’m on my way to a film festival, so I think, “What the hell? Let’s have some Arby’s now so I can appreciate the escargot later.”

I told myself I would review every film I saw, no matter how bad. So this is what you can expect. Think of it as our training-wheels review.

THE GAME PLAN

Directed by Andy Fickman
Starring the Rock, Kyra Sedgwick, Roselyn Sanchez, Madison Pettis, Morris Chestnut, Spike the Bulldog

Plot: Joe Kingman (the Rock) is a gridiron god who just can’t get past his own ego to win the big game. With his self-worth reaching all-time highs, Kingman finds a surprise on his doorstep. What could it be? A big payday for mailing in a Disney film? Nope, his 7-year-old daughter who decided to drop in and let him know she exists. Can Joe find a way to be an MVP on the field and in parenthood? Stick a fork in your brain and find out.

Review: It comes down to this. U.S. Airways owes me money. Sure, I voluntarily plugged in my headphones. Sure, I laughed that time the dog was in the tutu. Sure, I got a little emotional when the Rock was like, “I never answered your question. What’s the best thing that ever happened to me? It’s you.” But does that mean this is the film that should be used to kill one-third of my flight to Phoenix? The answer is a solid no.

Don’t feel bad for me. I knew what I was getting into. I honestly did spend five to 10 minutes discussing the likelihood or unlikelihood of A) a man who looks like a middle linebacker playing QB and B) said man returning in the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl with a separated shoulder to lead the game’s winning drive with my in-flight neighbor, Charlie, a twentysomething Los Angeles native who spends his time rappelling off of skyscrapers to hang advertising banners.

I found this way more interesting than what I do, but anything that involves rappelling off something usually does. After the movie, I turned to No Country. If you haven’t seen the movie, do it now. It will win the Academy Award for Best Picture. Atonement is equally good, but for different reasons. Since you’re not a badass — like myself — take some time to go see these films, because they’re the best of the year and the best that you (normal people not going to Sundance) will get to see. I’m pretty sure going to Sundance gives me the right to be vain and only take in the very best of the cinematic world.

Hold on, they’re playing Transformers. Got to get back to you. I’m going to … um … read some more.

EXT. — SALT LAKE CITY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT — NIGHT

I don’t think there are many emotions that replace touching land when one has not been on land for a great deal of time. Whether you’re flying or roller-skating, sometimes it’s nice just to have stability under your feet.

I’m instantly looking for celebrities, and then I realize everyone else is doing the same thing. My inside sources — my friend and his boyfriend — have confirmed two sightings: Jack Black and 50 Cent. They were together and for some reason this doesn’t surprise me. Fitty obviously isn’t making music anymore, so why not hang out with Jack Black.

The baggage claim takes about 20 minutes, so I take some time to soak in my surroundings. One of every three people seems to have skis, and I’m not sure about this, but there may not actually be any African-Americans in Utah. Wait, there’s one. Scratch that. She’s from South Africa and is here for the festival. I asked.

This doesn’t surprise me. Everyone seems to be here for the festival. The minute my plane landed, seven different couples were dialing friends to assure they had tickets for that night’s showings. My local friend, Johnathan, is actually volunteering, so I hope I’ll be fine in that department. Nothing bad ever came from assumption, right?

One of the locals notices my Braves hat and inquires about my place of origin. I tell her I flew in from Atlanta, but to please not hold it against me. She asks why. I change the subject. She asks about our water-shortage issues. I tell her we’re working on them and that the governor is praying for rain. She says that seems like a good idea. I realize I’ve met my first Mormon.

My local friends pick me up. It’s my first time in the city, and from what I can see it’s beautiful. Salt Lake City sits in a valley, surrounded by a group of mountains that makes the Appalachians look like a fatter, lazier younger brother.

It’s too late to catch any of the Sundance films that show in Salt Lake. The festival uses both SLC and Park City venues. Instead, we head to a bar. This wouldn’t be anything worth noting, but Utah must have been the last state to abolish Prohibition. Alcohol is not easy to get. Bars require membership fees. No average Joe can just walk in and get a drink. You have to be a member of the bar, pay for a three-week temporary membership or have a patron sponsor you. Restaurants are similar. You have to order food before getting anything to drink, and the staff can’t deliver another beverage until the current one is completely empty.

My friends also tried to convince me you are only allowed to use the bathroom once every two days because of the city’s waste-management issues. This was an obvious lie, but when a state holds alcohol hostage like this and tends to think Native Americans were painted by God for their sins, anything sounds reasonable to me.

It’s the end of a long travel day, and I need to rest. I will call a couch home for the next eight days. That’s not going to be a problem, but holding my No. 2, that’s going to be killer.

UP NEXT: Exploring Salt Lake and the ups and downs of the standby line.