Renamed: Party City

At 6,900 feet above sea level, common sense is the first thing to go. All notions of time and space soon disappear. Eventually, only those who are leaving or retrieving an e-mail or voicemail are truly real. This syndrome is known as Sundance Film Festival fever and it usually dissipates after the first 48 hours. Which means the event’s inaugural weekend is often the most entertaining.

Such was the case when on the festival’s first Friday, an amplifier on Brian Grazer’s jet caught fire just hours before his film “Inside Deep Throat” premiered. Fortunately, the pixie-like producer and everyone else escaped injury and Grazer arrived in time for a clothing-optional soiree to celebrate the documentary with co-producers Randy Barbato and Fenton Bailey.

A short time later, during the wee hours of last Saturday morning, “Rize” director and uber-fabulous celebrity photographer David LaChapelle kicked things off with a little after-party shock-and-awe. A Summit County sheriff’s deputy apparently did not use appropriate deference when asking him to make way for two actresses battling their way out of Marquee at the Shutterfly/Panasonic lounge (a Manhattan nightclub transported to Main Street for the week). LaChapelle punched the deputy and was promptly hauled off to jail. (He posted bail soon after.)

But this bit of violence betrays the real mood. For some reason, the Angelenos and New Yorkers who commandeer this tiny town for 10 days cast off (most of) their brusque demeanor and actually try to enjoy themselves. The locals seem willing to endure the overcrowding if it means an up-close glimpse of Pierce Brosnan or Carmen Electra or Pam Anderson as they make their way around town, collecting swag at every stop.

Everyone comes together after sundown, and between the altitude and the free booze, there’s no shortage of bonhomie. Or maybe it was not having to navigate Laurel Canyon Boulevard for a few days that motivated everyone to smile more.

After midnight Saturday, everyone headed to the Motorola Late Night Lounge up in Deer Valley, where hundreds of people packed into the basement of what is normally the Red Stag Lodge. It was 29 degrees outside and well over 80 inside. So Paris Hilton got away with wearing a sequined minidress, and when the photographers showed up, she and Bijou Phillips posed like their lives depended on it. “I came here for business,” said one film buyer. “But it’s so loud you can’t even have a conversation.”

The DJ was playing Biggie Smalls and people were drinking and dancing and checking their e-mail on BlackBerrys. John Kerry’s daughter Alexandra was there and Adrien Brody and Jared Leto and Naomi Watts. At 2:45 a.m. the fire alarm sounded, sending hundreds of inebriated Hollywood types into the cold. The party was over.

By last Sunday, the East Coast was so immobilized by snow that even Harvey Weinstein barely made it to Park City. The Blender magazine folks sponsoring Ludacris’ show had to charter a jet to get him and his entourage to Harry O’s. He went on about midnight to an amply stimulated crowd. (The energy drink Crunk!!! and Zig Zag sponsored.) Dozens of women showed up in miniskirts and halter tops, apparently immune to the cold. As Ludacris took the stage, several jumped on the bar to writhe and shimmy, and somebody tossed a handful of dollar bills in the air.