Things got worse before they got better. Book of Love premiered on the second night of the festival. That afternoon, my film’s stars, Simon Baker and Greg Smith, walked with me along Main Street’s publicity “gauntlet,” enduring hours of photo shoots and interviews. At each stop, a photographer dutifully took a few pictures of me with my actors, then nudged me aside to focus on Simon and Greg, both of whom had their own network TV shows, gorgeous hair, and dazzling smiles, not to mention an entourage of agents and gophers to fetch them lattes and sandwiches. My ego and my blood sugar began to plummet to dangerous levels. Then, to steel my nerves before the premiere, I downed shots of vodka. During the Q & A that followed the film, I embarrassed myself and my cast with rambling answers and inappropriate jokes I'd rather not remember.
But then things began to improve. Because producers and distributors weren’t clamoring for my company, I had lots of time for movies. I gorged myself every day from dawn until midnight, a non-stop banquet of cinematic fare. I joined that army of film fanatics who actually got up for 8 a.m. screenings, and who turned down coveted party invitations (Maggie Gyllenhaal. Free drinks. Mini-quiches.) so that they could attend sobering documentaries on the death penalty. And that trail mix I’d lugged in my suitcase? I divided it into plastic bags and filled my parka pockets. On shuttle buses between screenings, and in long ticket lines, I shared it with fellow film geeks. In return for my gorp, they shared movie tips and festival gossip—and the name of a wonderfully unpretentious restaurant hidden away in a shopping arcade off Main Street. At Taste of Saigon, my new friends (yearly pilgrims to Sundance, it turned out) and I huddled over plates of lemongrass chicken and bottles of beer and earnestly discussed aspect ratios, video formats, and the nuances of Patricia Clarkson’s performances (she seemed to be in every other film that year). The steamy, perfumed bowls of phô warmed my stomach and soothed my tender ego.
In the end, despite my agent’s predictions, my film didn’t do badly. A solid foreign sale, a DVD release, and long life on cable. And this past winter, I returned to Park City, not at festival time, but for spring skiing and to bury a particular ghost: I had to have dinner at 350 Main. The hostess welcomed me as if I were Robert Redford himself. My tasty martini, without the company of my now ex-agent, seemed merely chilled, not chilly. I began my meal with the sashimi tower, the one I’d once only been able to gaze at longingly through the restaurant window. Fatty and flecked with sesame oil, it tasted wonderfully, well, festive.
Then I ordered the black sesame scallops, which were so plump and luscious that I asked my laid-back, goggle-tanned snowboarder/server where they came from. “From a can,” he said cheerfully. “All scallops in Utah come in a can.” I smiled and kept eating. I was in Park City, after all, where I’d learned the hard way that, whether it comes to scallops or fame, I shouldn't believe everything I’m told, just enjoy what I’m given. (P.S. The wonderful scallops, it turned out, came from Georges Bank off the coast of New England. And they were not “canned” but “vacuum canned to preserve their freshness for shipping.”)
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