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I’m sure it’ll wear off one of these days, but as I ascended the steps to the upstairs of Brookville Restaurant in Charlottesville’s Downtown Mall to claim my press badge, I couldn’t help but feel like I was a credible journalist. I even wore a tasteful tie and a terry cloth blazer for the occasion, to dispel any doubts of my credentials. After a courteous exchange of information with the lady at the desk set up in the film-maker/press lounge, I had secured access to the 27th annual Virginia Film Festival.
To my dismay, the following three to four hours did not proceed as smoothly as parking and getting press access. The back of my press badge gave a detailed list of instructions for members of the press to get access to any of the weekend’s events. My first order of business was to get tickets to the screenings and panels I intended to cover. The hub of ticketing was located in the Main Street Arena, which as far as I could tell, consisted of a bar, a small ice rink, and some pinball machines that may or may not have actually been operational. I took out my incredibly professional, folded up sheet of notebook paper and began to rattle off everything I would need tickets for. Imagine my disappointment when about half of everything I intended to see was sold out. Not only was I deprived of seeing some highly anticipated films, I also had to find some creative ways to spend time in Charlottesville without spending money or compromising my parking spot. With my photographer/guide/accomplice out on a previous engagement, I was in for a great deal of walking and introspection, with a splash of journaling for good measure.
The Downtown Mall in Charlottesville is an interesting place. It mingles Bohemians and blue-bloods, with a healthy amount of locals caught in the middle. If you’ve got the cash, it is a decidedly classy place. For everyone else, there’s cheap food and free looks, both of which are actually quite good. It would be unkind of me to not warn out-of-towners that you will be accosted by Greenpeace early and often.
After enough wandering around and self-reflection to give Soren Kierkegaard a nosebleed, it was finally time for me to sit in on a panel discussion presented by the Virginia Production Alliance, a group of film-makers that advocate the Commonwealth of Virginia as a place to film, as well as provide resources to local film-makers [http://virginiaproductionalliance.org/]. The panelists, all veteran writers, producers, and directors, dealt mainly with the future of television and film, a future dominated mostly by online streaming and web series. There was some discussion about Virginia’s recent success in drawing clients to Virginia, and that if Virginia’s legislators could continue to offer tempting incentives to film in Virginia, we could see a the film industry take up a permanent residence here.
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It was at 6:45PM on the third day of the Film Festival that I saw my first movie, Animals, and I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect [https://www.facebook.com/AnimalsMovie]. The only information I had going in was that it had something to do with heroin addiction and the will to survive. Armed with this negligible amount of knowledge, I settled into my seat and let the movie work whatever magic it had to offer.
The easiest way to describe Animals would be Requiem for a Dream as imagined by the Hallmark Channel, but that would also be entirely unfair. Rather, it was an intense, affecting film, its ugliness matched only by its beauty. One cliché in film criticism is saying a movie was like, “a punch to the gut.” For me, Animals was punch to the gut, penetrating the abdominal wall and slowly drawing out the innards. Then right at the moment you think you haven’t any innards left to give, it sort of puts them back in and then plants a gentle kiss upon your brow, and gives you a knowing smile.
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I never would have imagined it, but it was this movie on heroin addiction that put me on a happy cloud, all the way back to Lynchburg College, my base of operations for the weekend. Lynchburg College is a lot like Brigadoon. It’s picturesque, isolated, fucking impossible to find, and flowing with whiskey, the only real difference being the lack of singing Scotsmen and surplus of drunk kids. It was a Saturday night, and after an appropriate amount of socializing and imbibing, I slipped into an exhaustion and Teeling induced coma.
I was up at the crack of noon the next morning, and after getting medieval with a flat tire and consuming lots of fruit and water, my photographer and I were on our merry way to Charlottesville for the final day of the Film Festival.
Our first unofficial order of business was wontons, followed immediately by our first official order of business, the viewing of a Richmond film, Goodish [https://www.facebook.com/pages/Goodish-The-Movie/275496132588384]. The writers were Richmonders, the actors were Theatre VCU veterans, it was filmed in Richmond, this was truly a Richmond film, and it was pretty good. It was devastatingly low budget, but it did not lack for laughs, and the awkward sex/relationship scenarios it portrayed were equal parts outrageous and relatable. The possibilities for some kind of BINGO/Never Have I Ever/drinking game are endless.
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It was nice having a bulwark of comedy in place, as I was not entirely prepared for the Film Festival’s finale, a showing of Dead Poets Society. I’m not going to say too terribly much about Dead Poets Society since so much has already been said, but suffice it to say it was phenomenal and I cried a little. Afterwards, there was a Q&A with the film’s screenwriter and producer. It was equal parts Robin Williams reflection and reminiscence about the film’s inspiration and legacy, all of which was enlightening.
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The weekend ended with a rousing toast and a glass of Ardbeg back in Lynchburg. I made my way back to Richmond, limping up RTE 29 and along I-64, every bit as beat as my 2001 Mustang. It had been a rewarding weekend, comprised of my three favorite things in the whole wide world: movies, alcohol, and good company. I was not surprised to hear later that attendance at the Virginia Film Festival had risen by 50% from last year. If they keep cramming Charlottesville with the best in film-making and film-makers, then I’ll keep showing up, come Hell or high water.
