…I fell asleep on a couch at the Yarrow whilst reading EW's Heath Ledger cover story. I somehow woke up in time for the press screening of Baghead, then Allison, Holly, Tully and I marched up the hill to Tom and Holly’s condo, where I was to spend the night. We drank wine. I sent goodbye texts to the four or five friends who are sticking around. I made an iTunes playlist, evangelizing Love as Laughter and A Place to Bury Strangers. I asked Tom if we could put mushrooms on the frozen pizza he was making. He suggested we saute them in butter first. It was decadent. I slept in the master bedroom, on a bed with a remote control that made it vibrate. That was decadent, too, but at that point I think I was too tired to enjoy it.
I saw three films worth recommending, and many more worth arguing about. I walked out of one. I don’t think anything made me happier over the course of the festival than watching Ronnie open his interview with George Romero by asking about Season of the Witch. I know nothing made me madder than watching Diablo Cody spoil There Will Be Blood.
After ten days here, I know I’m supposed to be ready to go back to New York. But increasingly with every festival, it seems like such a letdown to go home.