Sundance Film Festival, this year fine‑tuned to the cadence of frosted wind, opened the main gate at The Egyptian with a queue that crawled past the velvet rope like a polite herd at a drive‑through. The crush of industry insiders—Paul Dano, Chloé Zhao, and an assortment of reel‑to‑reel prospects—scrolls past the same micro‑black at the entrance, each one a ticking box on the invitation that reads, ‘Dermatologically approved dress code: gala black, tuxedo optional, ankle‑high heels mandated.’
While the traffic outside remains a white‑tipped cartoon of forced relief, the welcome lobby contains a whisper of art from the Kimball Art Center and the Park City Institute, so that even the most bored can’t escape the aesthetic bombardment. Yet the most glaring lack of soul rests in the guest list: a parade of corporate sponsors whose only real ambition is a ten‑minute Instagram story.
Verdict: Send a check but stay home.