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Sundunce
by zhehai chopin
As a longtime contributor to the Frankfurt kultur/art magazine “Durstig für Durchfall” I know art, I know film, I know that hall of mirrors we call culture like the veins on my strapping Hindenburg. And I can assure you, reader, that the bloated whale of bourgeois melodrama, that factory of vomit, the Sundance Film Festival, hemorrhaging its plethora of scheiße videos each Winter, no longer deserves the pure black outfit of the true auteur. So let them come, those petty pig-slurpers in puffy coats, cell phones slung on their sides like amateur cowboys, filling the ridiculous streets of Park City with their nattering conversation. “O I was the gaffer on Seducing Mama!” “Really! Last night I snorted meth off the back of the boyfriend of the screenwriter of Six Girls, Seven Bullets. Have you seen it yet? It’s an audience favorite for sure.” Ha! Those morons are guppies in the shit-pipe of cinema! But fear not, reader. Let me be your Virgil and I will lead you through these sewers.
Real cinema cannot be squelched between the ass cheeks of egomaniacal juvenile mercenaries shuffling along with a $ dangling in front of their noses. This year, instead of following the subliminal mind control of the Sundance Catalog, follow my suggestions. With all the savoir faire and connaître qui a kultur critique I can muster, I’ve prescreened 99% of this year’s Sundance films and will be your very own liver, filtering out the poison so the mind can bloom.
The best films at Sundance this year no matter what anyone says are undoubtedly:
Kakka Zulu: 170 minute post-Freudian epic about shit slinging midgets from Swaziland and their heroic slaughter at the Siege of Abercrombie & Fitch. Shot in a hodge-podge of Super-8, Kodichrome, Vanilla-chrome, Maple, Marmalade, and the sensational über-Durchfall 5000. *****
WHERE IS DEITER?: Neo-noir, retro-blanc thriller about a missing German pop star who turns out to be a National-Socialist social worker. The “Chamber” scene, a 30-minute continuous tracking shot filmed on roller skates, changes the face of contemporary cinematography.****
Rien Rien Rien: Apocalyptic exposure of human emptiness filmed in the ghettos of Nancy, France. The closest I’ve felt to the numbness at the heart of this meaningless pit of an existence since the tragic drowning of my pet ferret in Chris Isherwood’s Roman bath.****
The Bus to Grantsville: Autobiographical documentary about a driven film student who traveled ceaselessly to attend last year’s opening gala only to find that sometimes the long road home can be more meaningful than hobnobbing with beautiful, successful rich people at fabulous parties. ****
