Velvet Velvet Velvet

The Sundance Film Festival, playing out in the snow‑capped tents of The Egyptian, pretends to be a sanctuary for cinema while the real theatre is the backstage crowd. Karen and Kira, a duo of fledgling filmmakers, surrender to the Krakakis Collective, an after‑party turned charity gala, where the host’s velvet blazer could double as a warning sign. The Kimball Art Center, with its half‑sheltered lobby, hosts an exhibition, but I find the only brush strokes worth watching are the meticulous wrappings of the champagne bottles. The Park City Institute hosts a fundraiser for artists, yet the guests—Kristen Stewart, James Franco, and a block‑buster of a charity—appear made of paper towels and polite applause. Traffic through the valley drags three hours past the green gate, but the velvet rope at Admission points toward a swath of glittered chairs, each glittering enough to drown out my disillusion. Verdict: Send a check but stay home.