Crashing Sundance: The Time I Made Bruce Willis Mad
Jayson was there in the early days. The first ones, way back in 1978. When Sundance wasn’t Sundance but the Utah/US Film Festival. Back when it was in Salt Lake City in August, and a wholly “Made In America” affair. Chock-full of flag-waving jingoism and a rock ’em sock ‘em send-offs to America’s cinematic genius. An escapist fortnight to remind a shell-shocked nation that, yes, the gas station lines were long, stagflation reigned, and President Carter dithered, but we still made damn fine movies (Re: Deliverance, A Streetcar Named Desire, Mean Streets, The Sweet Smell of Success).
Jayson was there three years later when director Sydney Pollack moved Sundance to Park City in January. It’s Utah, Pollack reckoned. Might as well let the celebrities ski.
Jayson was there in the pre-Jurassic Park days of the early 1990s, his favorite time. Before movies looked like video games and when today’s well-fed studio directors were the hungry auteurs of yesteryear.
Back when Paul Thomas Anderson was another prickly NYU drop out and Steven Soderbergh had never heard of Ocean’s 11. When some motor-mouthed director with a predilection for blood and feet got his big break with Reservoir Dogs.
And Jayson was there again, fifteen years later, when the same director—a little heavier, a little more entitled—slapped a cameraman:
Jayson was there in 2006. The year, as he tells it, “TMZ ruined everything for everyone.” The year TMZ scooped Mel Gibson’s DUI rant, Britney’s divorce, and Paris Hilton’s jail term.
Nowadays TMZ means it’s not a story if it’s not a scandal. TMZ means every celebrity home is a stake-out-in-waiting. TMZ means breaking in the gates. Today’s reporters don’t need degrees from starchy journalism schools. Only a snarky headline and a digital camera from Best Buy.
And, perhaps, worst of all, TMZ means people like Patty. Or, as she is more commonly known, The Bitch With The Clipboard. A lord of her domain type. Patty’s word is law across her 100 square foot kingdom of polyester and glitter.
She’s a dolled-up safari leader, of sorts. Shepherding us behind the ropes. Warning photographers to keep the flash to a minimum. Lest we rile up these most irritable of creatures.
“Ok everyone listen up!” Patty shrieks. “The celebs are on their way from dinner now. Remember! Don’t ask Bruce Willis about Demi. And especially don’t ask Bruce about Ashton Kutcher.”
No problem.
“I didn’t cut off your cousin,” Bruce Willis glowered.
“Last week at Sun Valley. Friday afternoon,“ I explained. “You almost crashed into my cousin while she was skiing.”
My cousin described her would-be perpetrator as a bald, stocky guy. Athletic but a bit awkward on skis. Clearly self-taught. It had to be Bruce Willis.
Bruce is a regular up there, known for dubious real estate investments and shakier ski runs. My cousin wasn’t star struck; she didn’t want an autograph. All she wanted was to give Bruce Willis a ski lesson. Right then and there.
Bruce Willis was incensed. He took a step closer to me. His agent patted him on the back. Forget him, he seemed to say. Let’s go to the party.
“I’m a good skier,” Bruce Willis growled. “I don’t know what your cousin is talking about.”
With that, Bruce Willis stomped into the Sundance premiere for Lay The Favorite. I was asked to leave.
Update #1: The Weinstein Brothers “rolled the dice” on Lay The Favorite with a $2 million buy Sunday.
Update #2: My cousin’s ski lesson offer for Bruce Willis still stands.
