Everything But the Films

“WELCOME PIBS,” READS THE WINDOW SIGN of an art gallery on Main Street in Park City, Utah. That stands for “People in Black,” the nickname townies have long given the monochromatic masses of wireless-chattering players and players-to-be who every January descend (well, ascend really) on this resort suburb in the mountains above Salt Lake City. Ostensibly the Sundance Film Festival was begun to celebrate the creative sprit of independent filmmaking. Now it’s hey, hey, hey, there goes Mick Jagger sauntering down Main Street! That’s Matt LeBlanc hitting the slopes! Ozzy Osbourne! Lance Bass! Even Roger Ebert sightings seem to overshadow the stuff he’s come to observe.

And what are all these corporations doing here, sponsoring events, passing out products and hosting parties? “It’s a natural course of action,” says Michael Stipe, a 10-time Sundance attendee who watched alternative music follow a similar trajectory. So bloated has Robert Redford’s vision become that alternatives to the alternative film festival--including Slamdance, Nodance and the rowdy TromaDance--have sprung up.

“We’re the only truly independent film festival in Park City,” boasts TromaDance’s Sgt. Kabukiman, NYPD, stopping downtown traffic with his costumed cohorts as he defiantly fires a staple gun in the air. “Sundance has turned into a showcase for next year’s big-budget Hollywood blockbuster.” (As in 1999’s Sundance showing of “The Blair Witch Project.”)

Indeed, with Redford “very sorry not to be sharing the next 10 days with you,” as Sundance Vice President Nicole Guillemet informs everyone, it’s easy to forget why film folk started coming here in the first place (the Tromaphiles, however, carry a cardboard cutout of the Sundance founder everywhere they go). Then again, after your second free cosmopolitan during night upon night of nonstop partying, well, it’s easy to stop caring.

The Hype: “You girls aren’t even naked!” one shock jock yells toward a line of PETA protesters. Rather than attracting sensitive PIBs, the protest against the use of leather (this, while the mink-clad blue-hairs are massing for the Inauguration in Washington?) instead brings out hordes of PWCs (Pervs With Cameras) as the animal welfare group--clad only in pasties and panties at the town’s busiest intersection--passes out literature. Few other events here live up to their hype. A much- touted celebrity ice-skating event nets only the cast of the film “Lost and Delirious” on skates, chased by an MTV crew, while a conventionally shod Julia Stiles stands on the ice nearby.

Often the general public is invited to share in the disappointment, such as the time everyone waits in the cold to get into Harry O’s because they believe Radiohead is to perform, then find, once they get inside, something akin to a Radiohead appreciation concert, with video monitors showing footage of the year’s hottest English band in concert. Other times, the non-event is for press only, such as the morning at The Canyons ski resort, where top female snowboarder Greta Gaines gives Courtney Love lessons for an upcoming VH-1 special. After much herding of photographers, everyone is finally allowed to observe Love (exposing cleavage and tattoo in a Playboy camisole) sliding down the slope two times, with a requisite number of pratfalls and comments such as “I’m a retard.” Then a flack brays, “OK, that’s enough, everybody. Clear out!” How very Love.

The Parties: At the Thursday night kickoff party in Salt Lake City, one aspiring filmmaker refers to the premiering film’s lead as Mel Brooks. (“She corrected herself. She was nervous,” says the forgiving Albert Brooks.) When the celebrations hit Park City the following day, things get really complicated.

Cell-phone-enhanced party-hoppers frenetically fan out to find the hot venues. Early arrivals Patrick Swayze, Billy Zane and Forest Whitaker make the scene at the Hugo Boss house--a giant chalet hosting a different party every night--before most of the posse moves onto the more gargantuan Synergy house for the Stuff Magazine/Super Troopers party on a mountain above Deer Valley. The following day, the Riverhorse Cafe turns out to be a good bet, since the shindig delivers on its promise with Denis Leary and Elizabeth Hurley.

“You can have my coat, you’re welcome to it,” says Hurley, engaged in a tug of war with Seymour Cassel, while the veteran actor jokes, “She may want to have sex but I’m not in the mood. I’m going to go smoke a cigar and watch these other dudes hit on her.”

“We’ve dubbed a new word, ‘skimming,’ ” says Donovan Leitch, looking for a bigger, better party after finding the AmfAR party for AIDS research more tepid than its hoopla would lead one to believe. “Yeah, we keep hearing there’s a Macy Gray party,” says Leitch’s sister, Ione Skye. (There isn’t.) “And then there’s a party that Mick Jagger is having.” (There is.) Despite a no-host bar, the “Scratch” (a docu on turntablists) party at Harry O’s, featuring Mixmaster Mike, also turns out to be a hot ticket, but the fire marshals keep the crowd outside. Members of Radiohead are briefly turned away at the door, and the bouncer promises Motley Crue’s Tommy Lee, “I’ll do what I can to get you in, but some of your group [of 14!] will have to wait.”

The festival’s most elegant soiree comes late in the week at a dinner for 70 at the Synergy house for the movie “Perfume,” where stars Jeff Goldblum, Rita Wilson, Mariel Hemingway, Carmen Electra and about 65 others sit around a dinner table oohing and ahhing at all the etched crystal. “We had no idea,” says Wilson. “We were completely thrilled and honored.” An hour after being seated, though, Electra finds the elegant impression to be wearing off. “We’re still waiting for dinner,” she gripes. “I’m starving.”

The Swag: From little peanut butter cups emblazoned with a green “G”--giveaways to promote a film called “greendiggitydog”--to the ubiquitous promo ski caps to the giant parkas, cell phones and what-have-you, the festival is nothing if not a chance to stock up on free stuff. Woe to anyone who purchases their own Altoids, Balance Bars or even winter gear. The goodie bags are enviable (organizers of the Diesel and AmfAR parties send celebrants away with a shopping bag full of clothes and cosmetics), and the pickings are especially choice for celebrities. “Yeah, that’s the best part,” gushes Molly Shannon, here to promote “Wet Hot American Summer.” “I got a free coat from Hugo Boss, a free down coat and a free fleece sweatshirt from the Gap, and a free phone from Motorola. I just got gift certificates from Banana Republic, and I’m looking for more free things tonight.”

Indeed, corporations set up entire houses for the distribution of goodwill giveaways, which of late has come to be called swag or schwag (probably derived from the old pirate’s term “swag,” meaning booty). “Oh, yeah, I’m hooked up,” says James LeGros, lacing up a pair of shimmering new silvery Reeboks. He and his “Scotland, PA” director and co-stars are working the Motorola/Reebok/Ray-Ban house, each room offering them irresistible zero-down, zero-later, zero-ever shopping. “I got real lucky,” says co-star Amy Smart. “I got some walkie-talkies, some great shoes and a nice pair of glasses. This is great. I might have to go to the Tommy Hilfiger house next.”

Only indie actress Brooke Smith, who plays the lead in the buzzworthy “Series 7: The Contenders,” professes disdain. “I rejected it all,” she says. But when her footwear gives out, she relents and accept a pair of sneaks.

Within 45 minutes of arriving in town, Rain Phoenix complains, “I missed the schwag party. Could you give me an address?” Asked if she thought too much might damage her indie cred, the actress/rocker replies: “No, I think buying expensive, glamorous, corporate things will destroy my indie cred, but receiving them free? That’s punk rock.”