Velvet Lines, Faded High‑Society

In a Sunday runthrough through the back alleys of Park City, I glided past the mangled taxi lines and the hunchbacked crowd that only the Sundance Film Festival can attract. The Egyptian, ever the theatrical outpost, welcomed me behind velvet rope with a snarl of opulence: guests draped in jet‑black tuxedos, shimmering silk gowns, and guests exfoliated with tinsel. Organizers—Sundance Institute stewards—tight‑knitted the affair, and the guest list read like a blacklist of cultural capital: Cynthia Erivo, Ariana Grande‑Buitela, and the off‑screen patron trainer extraordinaire, Zachary Quinto. Yet I noted the desperation of a few ‘in the know’ people, who bumped elbow against velvet for mere entry. Though traffic could have turned us into a trampo‑drome, the sneak peek inside skirted it; the drama was an electric organ roll, under a shroud of trench‑coat Armani. Verdict: Send a check but stay home.