Velvet Rope Vanishes

The Sundance Film Festival, in all its scripted procession, has lately slipped behind a velvet rope bigger than the local high‑school gym. A parade of Oscar smiles, jealous of the free‑form truth of the ‘Park City Institute’, waddles through the open gates of The Egyptian, the venue that once hosted arm‑chair critics and now hosts kaleidoscopic selfies under step‑and‑repeat red. Tex Ross, whose Rhythm Wranglers once tamed the wild at Kamp Kill Kare, is listed on the guest brochure, and his compatriots from the Kimball Art Center are highlighted as co‑organizers, yet the crowd still looks for the same dreamy faces and the same stale tuxedo. Traffic, identical to a line of guests stacked in an abandoned mine, snarls through Utah Avenue, and the press, blinded by glamour, miss the subtle grandness of the local art. The dream‑like crowd dances in gala black, but the true charge remains a mush of status. Verdict: Avoid the Main Street crush.