Treasure Mountain Inn, Park City, Friday, Jan 24th, 5:30 pm
At the opening night filmmaker welcome for the 2020 Slamdance Film Festival, one of the founders, Paul Rachman, took up the microphone and told us about the origins of the festival: “In 1995, a few of us had had our films rejected by Sundance, but we came here anyway, determined to screen them. And we did.”
What started as an expression of frustration and perseverance has since become a highly regarded festival in its own right. This year Slamdance received 8,500 submissions, well over half of Sundance’s yearly submissions (and because Slamdance programs fewer films, its acceptance rate is actually lower than that of its elite cousin).
But Slamdance isn’t trying to be Sundance–far from it. A few minutes after Paul’s history lesson, he says something totally unexpected which proves to me that this festival, held yearly in Sundance’s shadow, is a completely different beast. Paul says we are all going to stand up and introduce ourselves–all 150 of us, one by one.
It’s a bit like the first day of 5th grade, and it takes a while, but it’s not boring. It’s actually kind of beautiful. “Look around,” Paul says, “See each other, meet each other, see each other’s films, support each other. Slamdance is a community, and you’re all a part of it.”
Down the street, all week
Community is important because working as a filmmaker is often isolating. From writing to producing to post-production, we spend a lot of time alone or nearly alone in front of computer screens–and at no point in the journey is success anywhere near assured. In fact, it’s unlikely. In the face of that uncertainty we have to be our own marketing team, our own megaphone, and this can go on for years. Years grappling with a script, searching for money to shoot it, arranging and rearranging footage, all while plagued by incessant doubt about whether it’s any good at all.
Meanwhile, examples of success in film are inescapable: the people who have found success in this industry make up a great swath of our popular culture. But while Hollywood’s exterior is an object of cultural awe, those who hope to break into the industry find it absolutely opaque.
This actually feels more true in Park City during Sundance than even in Los Angeles the rest of the year. Hillary Clinton and Taylor Swift aside, Park City was awash in Hollywood names this year: Ethan Hawke, Daveed Diggs, Elisabeth Moss, Eva Longoria, Taylour Paige, Tessa Thompson, Anne Hathaway, Alec Baldwin, Glenn Close, Mila Kunis, Christopher Abbott, Carey Mulligan, Rachel Brosnahan, Evan Rachel Wood, Logan Lerman, and on— it seemed like every actor in Hollywood was there, not to mention the producers, the financiers, the agents, each name a possible ticket to the big-time.
But as it turns out, tight geographic proximity to the stars and producers and distribution execs only amplifies the feeling of there being an invisible and impenetrable wall; all the parties have lists, most of the sponsored lounges are exclusive, and celebs are only seen as they’re ushered from events to SUVs. Netflix’s lounge featured papered-over windows and a sign on the door that read “Access by Appointment Only.” And truly, there’s no better image for the industry’s exclusivity than a couple of indie filmmakers shivering on Main Street, just outside a private party in the WME Lounge for which they are not on the list.
This is not to say that Sundance isn’t where every indie filmmaker wants to end up. Sundance remains the king of the American film festivals, and for good reason. But in a year when HBO, Hulu, Disney+, and Searchlight all premiered films under that prized Sundance glow and Netflix alone owned eleven Sundance films before the festival even began, one begins to suspect that we cannot simply call the festival “indie” and leave it at.
Back up the street
To the ambivalence of the festival down the street, Slamdance was a worthy antidote. In the opening night slot, Lynne Sachs premiered her documentary Film About a Father Who. Lynne, who is more artist than filmmaker (she held an intimate poetry reading at a bookstore on Main a few days after her premiere, and she paints, too!), is the antithesis of Sundance glamor. Confident and in the heart of a long and prolific career, it’s obvious Lynne cares about her art, not her renown.
I don’t believe Hollywood artists care more about their fame than their art, but they certainly operate within a culture that does, and as a result are whisked away to after-parties as soon as their screenings finish. I wouldn’t want to be mobbed by rabid fans either, but as a young filmmaker there’s something unambiguously authentic and nurturing about a festival where one can find the filmmaker right there in the lobby after her screening, answering questions and saying hello.
Nurturing is what Slamdance is all about. It’s about the filmmakers, and you can feel it: during shorts blocks, individual Q&As are held after each film instead of as a group at the end, panels are free and open to the public, and Slamdance invites its filmmakers to program the festival the following year (a tradition which contributes enormously to the festival’s indie integrity).
Even when it comes to the awards, Slamdance remains community-oriented. As was mentioned by two Slamdance winners at the awards ceremony this year, the environment wasn’t competitive; it was always supportive. Support is the culture of the fest, and it pours down from the founders and the staff and animates everyone. As a result, Slamdance networking is networking not upward but outward. It’s making friends.
And that’s important. Festivals and other industry events can sometimes devolve into a game of upward career mobility, but Slamdance doesn’t give you the opportunity to forget what it’s really about. “Slamdance is a community, and you’re all a part of it,” we were told that first night, and the room softened. 150 filmmakers, who for so long walked their own paths, had finally come together. A fellow filmmaker said it best, in the moments after the welcome: “I just want to hug everyone.”