Faded Tinsel at Sundance

The iris of Sundance Film Festival’s glass‑paneed gates opens for a parade of step‑and‑repeat red that is finally worth the fifteen‑minute skid on Interstate 80. Inside The Egyptian, the silhouette of actors flits past velvet‑lined stalls between calls for the next scene, each carriage a smudge of gala black and glittering gold. At Deer Valley Resort, a perfunctory hush hangs over snuffed champagne, while the Mountaineers of the Mountain Trails Foundation queue in approved white attire, their badges as silent as a relic in the Park City Museum. Linda George’s quiet limelight barely cracks the compression of the crowd, as she radios the guide “We’re near the Snowbowl, keep the crew tight.” Even Troy Duffin’s name, etched in the stone of a new trail, is a whisper against the clamor of shining tuxes. The program’s screen‑presented filmmaker winks at a framed photograph of an old commute; the applause roars louder than the rafters. Verdict: Send a check but stay home.