When you commit to the Telluride Film Festival you do so not knowing what films will play here. That’s sort of like marrying someone without sleeping with them first. You commit and that is all. This is my second year covering the fest, and the thing that pulls me back here isn’t really the films at all. There is some kind of magic in the place that can’t really be upstaged; no matter how magnetic the stars are on the ground they can’t equal the stars in the black-clear sky. Even when it rains, as it’s been doing on and off for a couple of days, Telluride’s beauty is all.
That said, I almost gave up this time after having missed the only flight out of LA to Durango on Thursday morning. (This year’s lineup was announced that afternoon). A whole day later of waiting to get on standby convinced me that if I wanted to get to Telluride, I’d have to buy a whole other plane ticket because the one I had wasn’t going to get me there. I took a loss on one ticket, purchased another one after the airline assured me they’d sent my bag to Denver. I trusted them. I flew to Denver but I was told that my bag had actually been sent to Durango. So not only was I going to have to drive six hours to Durango (they couldn’t send my bag to Telluride until late the next day) but then two more hours to Telluride.
I did it, though. I did it because I knew sooner or later I was going to be here. Yeah, I had to read the tweetgasms on the first who saw Argo, and then miss the outdoor screening of Hyde Park on Hudson. I was rushing in the faint hope that I could still squeeze out something from that first night. A word of advice: if you are going to drive six hours through the entire state of Colorado and you’re in a rush? You’re doing it wrong.