When, within the first ten minutes, two young boys discuss the size of their penises while still photographs of tigers are intercut and weird space sounds are on the soundtrack, I knew I was in for an unusual film.

For reasons that I am not entirely clear on, when most film critics go to Sundance (this doesn’t seem to hold true at Cannes, or most other festivals I’ve attended), they only stay for three to five days before heading home. The festival runs 11 days, with eight of those days featuring full slates of new programming; however, it’s usually a little front-loaded, so it is generally those first few days that critics are all in town. This means that this year, since practically all of the “big” press screenings are in the last two days of new programming, I won’t have as much competition for a spot in line. Hooray for me.

After writing yesterday’s entry, I headed back to the Yarrow to see American Hardcore, a doc about the hardcore punk scene circa the early ’80s. I had heard that it was good and was interested in the subject matter, but there’s one very glaring problem here—this topic was covered more or less definitively in Penelope Spheeris’ The Decline of Western Civilization, Part One. If one were to ignore the existence of Decline, American Hardcore would be a very good movie; it’s just that it pales in comparison to Spheeris’ doc. Also, while regarding much narrower subjects, both Todd Phillips’ film Hated as well as Julian Temple’s The Filth and the Fury are better films.

When American Hardcore let out, I got right back in line to see Wild Tigers I Have Known, a picture produced by Gus Van Sant that was playing in the same auditorium. Tigers was much more experimental than I was expecting (I thought it was going to be a regular narrative), but when, within the first ten or so minutes, two young (13 years old, maybe) boys discuss the size of their penises while still photographs of tigers are intercut and weird space sounds are on the soundtrack, I knew I was in for an unusual film. But it was interesting and looked very nice, so it all worked out OK.

On the way back to my dorm from the Yarrow at 12:30 a.m. or so, it was snowing. The first two or three days I was here, it would snow about four inches at night and then get up to about 40 degrees the next day, so I was constantly walking through slush, but then it quit snowing and stayed fairly warm, so my daily walks were often rather nice. While it was cold as hell last night, I have to say that the snow looked fantastic; it looks a lot more like very small diamonds than the type of snow I’m used to in St. Louis. Still, I’ve been walking through slush all day today, so I’m not sure that it was worth it.

This morning I saw the Will Oldham–starring Old Joy, which was one of the films I was most looking forward to going into the festival, because I’m a longtime fan of Oldham’s career as a musician. (His career as an actor isn’t bad either, including, most notably, John Sayles’ Matewan.) As a contrast to what I said about Wristcutters the other day, Old Joy is a very good early morning film; it’s short (70 minutes or so), not plot- or dialogue-heavy, and features lots of nice scenes where the camera just looks out the window of a moving car while a score provided by Yo La Tengo plays. Old Joy is a wafer-thin film that would probably annoy the majority of the country, but I liked it.

Immediately prior to coming here, I saw the Robin Williams thriller The Night Listener, which was the third major acquisition of the festival (after Little Miss Sunshine and The Science of Sleep). It’s pretty bad. Plus, like I was saying about Sunshine yesterday, it feels very much like a mainstream, studio film. What’s with the studios coming out here and only buying the films that seem as if they could have been made in a studio anyway? Granted, there has been a relative deficit of new talent here this year (the directors of Half Nelson and Wordplay are the only ones that come immediately to mind), but still, it seems like a waste of time for everyone involved.

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