You hear it so much that it begins to lose its meaning, at least until the lights go down. “Storytelling” is a word that gets a lot of play at Sundance, whether it’s in the prescreening intros from programmers or the preshow sizzle reels that remind you of the festival’s rich history. We still arrive in town with a tinge of cynicism about the state of the art form we love not wisely but too well, and still leave having witnessed films that have blown our minds, busted down our defenses and lifted our souls. Attendees still congregate in cafes and bars, trading tips about what under-the-radar gem to check out. Journalists and film lovers still schlep through the snow and bitch about the chaos on the city’s clogged Main Street. The 40th anniversary edition of the Park City-based film festival marked my 20th year attending The House Party That Robert Redford Built, and while so much has changed in that relatively small period of time - not to mention since the fest changed its name and turned “independent film” into a brand - it’s remarkable what’s remained steadfast and constant. Sundance 2024 was, in a lot of ways, the same as the festival ever was: We came, we saw, we nearly broke our necks slipping on ice while on the way to see a documentary on how American foreign policy in the 20th century was tres fucked up.
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