Before Sunset party

Well, it’s getting to be too much…what with SIFF, a day job, writing, and oh yeah, occasionally I do like to talk to a friend, my time is no longer my own, my apartment is buried under paper and clothes, I haven’t done the dishes, I have no clean underwear, and it’s the last week of the festival! I have no time to write up all the interviews! Yet…check back even after SIFF, I’ll put something here, and stuff will appear in the “hard copy” mag as well.

But I know how keen you all are to keep up with the party scene, so here’s another one for ya…6/5, the par-tay for “Before Sunset” (nope, didn’t see it), at the Moore Theatre. The Moore was SIFF’s original home, though it was called the “Moore-Egyptian” then. I never saw a SIFF film there, but I believe that was where I first saw Picnic at Hanging Rock which totally knocked me out. So I thought this evening called for very festive attire, namely my white tailcoat, embellished with a rose corsage, bit too big for my liking, but there we are. Phantom of the Opera earrings and mardi gras beads embellished the ensemble, and I felt just like tap-dancing down the street in that get up I tell ya, probably why I whistled “Anything Goes” on my way to the bus stop.

Arrived just in time to see Helen Loveridge getting out of her car. We run into photog Steve Smith in the entry way and I demand that he take my picture (I’m good at that). He takes it one step further and gets his friend to snap shots of Helen and I on either side of his good self, “Because I’ll probably never see you two together in the same room again.” Well, as there are a few parties left, that doesn’t seem very likely, Steve…

There weren’t an awful lot of folks at first, they drifted in over the next two and a half-three hours. All the usual suspects were there. I thought Stephen Fry might drop in (he arrived in Seattle that night) but no. Didn’t know if Darryl MacD was still in town, and wondered if former SIFF raconteur Gary Tucker might drop in, as this party was at SIFF’s original home, but no, alas. Saw the Pottingers (of course). Richard Peterson was pleased at the way the screening of Big City Dick went, as well he should be!

No one I spoke with had actually seen the evening’s film. Talked to a woman who only had a “Limited Guest Pass,” not a full-fledged “Guest Past.” “It fucking sucks!” she told me, as she can’t just waltz into different events, the way full-fledged guests can. I’d been offered the opportunity to interview Christopher Doyle (ace cinephotog) the previous day, which I’d declined due to 1) my day job, which took up enough time on what was 2) my birthday, presents and good wishes still gratefully accepted and 3) I rather hoped I’d be able to spend the evening at my friend Kay Ray’s instead (she’s also a filmmaker, tell all your rich friends to check out http://home.att.net/‾kay.ray/ladybegood/ to make a hefty donation so she can finish this film!). From what I heard at the party it was a wise decision, as he sounds like a decided handful, and I already know enough folks like that. And if he did kiss the toes of a certain SIFF staffer during his stay, I got a homecooked meal and a nifty Snoqualmie Falls glass from Kay, so I clearly got the better deal…

Didn’t check out the food, there was the usual beer-wine-champagne, and that “Nutella” spread they’ve been pushing at all of these things. The downstairs bar was also open, where I heard more Doyle stories from various media types and talked to some series pass holders, one of whom had attended SIFF at the Moore. She recalled the year when a Robert Altman film was shown (she thought either Three Women or The Wedding) and how afterwards there was a torrent of verbal abuse from those who thought it was sexist. Yes, we used to have outbursts like that more often, and I kind of miss them actually; or having Darryl chide the audience for hissing, which of course prompted even more furious hissing. Someone wondered why, if Stella Artois was a sponsor, we never saw that beer at these parties. Guess people are getting tired of Pyramid. The champagne is generally Freixenet, by the way. When the barman commented on how much he liked it, I told him I prefer Gloria Ferrer, which he’d never heard of (it’s generally in the $20 range, but you can pick it up for around $16 when it’s regularly on sale at the QFC).

Karla finally arrived with her husband Diego; she was wrapped in red and white and her attire drew as many comments as mine had. “We have a standard to keep up,” I explained. But she came as things were winding down. It was only 11-ish, but the staff had already last called us, and were obviously hoping we’d think about moving on. So a crew of us dropped in at the (show us the way to the next) Whiskey Bar across the street, where the yakkety-yakking continued, and I belatedly realized I didn’t need the beer I had ordered, had maxed out on my chat, and had an interview with Stephen Fry the next day. So home I went, tra-la, tra-la.