Karina on SpoutBlog

After the de rigeur delay at JFK (during which I learned of Tim Russert’s death via a single muted TV in an airport bar otherwise given over to Holland vs. France madness), I arrived in Vegas around 9:30 and went straight to The Palms, homebase of CineVegas and the hotel at which, as a member of the Shorts jury, I have been graciously sequestered

This is only my second trip to the city, but it seems like The Palms is a bit of an anomaly. Of course, a casino is a casino is a casino––there’s no getting around the frosty air-conditioned air, the sense of time having stopped at permanent midnight, the carefully calibrated spectacle apparently meant to foster the illusion that all spending and gambling losses are imaginary (or, at least, less than earth-shatteringly consequential). But at The Palms there are no grandmother types pumping coins into slots, no middle American families crowded around a buffet, no foreign tourists spending obscene amounts of money on luxury kitsch. A spacious, multi-tower complex set several blocks off The Strip, it attracts an almost uniquely young crowd, more or less demographically synonymous with the Real World season that would seem to inspire their tourism. Here the film festival is hidden in plain site, planted in part of the casino’s multiplex and injected into the hotel’s culture; the average Palms guest, if not oblivious, then certainly at least blinded somewhat by the MTV-approved moral suicide mission for which they took the long weekend.

The idea that such an environment could play host to serious films playing to serious cineastes who take it all very seriously might seem incongruous, but so far––and I write this having not seen a single film other than the shorts I’m jurying, though I plan to hit two screenings tonight––this contradiction just seems really exciting. Last night, at the CineVegas 10th Anniversary party, I had conversations about Carlos Reygadas, the degree of wink to the horror element of Baghead, Los Angeles’ newish Silent Movie Theater, and Ronnie Bronstein. Variety’s Robert Koehler valiantly argued the case that CineVegas is the preeminent discovery festival for “semi-narrative and non-narrative” film in North America. Janet Pierson convinced me that I have to see a SXSW 2008 selection that I missed called The Wild Horse Redemption, which she described as “cowboy porn about these felons who become horse whisperers” (hot, right?)

And all of this took place about five paces away from a heavily-bodyguarded Britney Spears.

Ah, Britney. Though Dennis Hopper, certainly the more impressive figure cinematically speaking, was apparently floating around last night as well, the presence of Britney Spears in a poolside cabana at the CineVegas party was enought to turn all of us serious cinema people into gawking gossips. I counted four people in her cabana––and every time I looked in, no one was speaking, and at one point, Ms. Spears herself appeared to be texting––but this micro-entourage required a full wall of security detail, and attracted a nearly-unnavigable crowd of on-lookers. Everybody tried to get a picture, but every time anyone got anywhere near enough with a camera, at least one bodyguard would raise a finger in a terrifying point, a silent gesture of pure terror (hence the file photo). Why was she here? Did the festival invite her? Did The Palms pay her to show up? Did she come to see movies?

By the end of the night, there were no answers, beyond the obvious truth that we can talk about how Silent Light restores our faith in the big screen theatrical experience for days, but at the end of the day, that conversation will take place in a pocket within the What Britney’s Doing miasma that is the entertainment industry. But after less than a day here, I’m getting into the idea that there’s at least something subversive about putting that pocket in this place.