Whenever meeting a friend at a restaurant in New York that offers streetside, al fresco dining, I demur, explaining, “It ain’t Paris.” Which means, bien sur, that what is charming and cosmopolitan on their vast boulevards under gaping awnings translates into noisy and trafficky in Manhattan.
It’s been a decade since I last sampled the Hamptons International Film Festival, and I am pleased to report that Cannes it ain’t. While the festival has grown dramatically in scope—to 122 screenings this year—it still retains the quiet country feeling that I remembered. This is truly a film festival that is mostly about going to movies.
There are events and seminars, sure, but what this festival is mostly about is screenings, screenings, screenings. Part of the reason, I think, is that the festival is so spread out: It now encompasses Montauk’s tiny theater and the massive Gurney’s Inn (where opening night is held), all the way to Southampton Regal Cinema on the outskirts of that town. (I guess Hampton Bays is out of the question.) I used a whole tank of gas getting around, now that we pay attention to how much gas we use.
This being my third festival in as many weeks—check out my coverage of the New Yorker Festival and the Wine & Food Festival—I'm starting to feel like a pro. First you check in at the headquarters to get your laminated pass on a lanyard and learn all the rules. In East Hampton this is done for consumers in Guild Hall, where you walk through a gallery featuring a series of nudes that makes one feel quite intellectual, if slightly unsettled. Press people were funneled through historic Hunting Inn, where the parking and management was all very easy and low key.
Next there were all sorts of evening events. This columnist chose a rather lackluster affair celebrating “Breakthrough Performers,” sponsored by OK! magazine at Prime 103 in East Hampton. Who were these attractive young people getting their pictures taken in front of the step-and-repeat? Nobody seemed to know.
The festival movie that everyone was talking about is Flash of Genius. The nonfiction account of inventor Bob Kearns and his never-ending battle against patent infringers Ford and GM over his design for the intermittent windshield wiper is quirky and thoughtful—even if after seeing the movie, reading the story, and attending a panel with New Yorker author John Seabrook, from whose article this work emanated, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you how the hell he did it. Something about only using three moving parts and a capacitator.
After having recently been spoiled by the production values of the New Yorker Festival, I missed that professionalism during Mr. Seabrook’s hard-to-hear talk, but it was captivating nonetheless.
The festival had two lounges, which were like a tale of two cities. For V.I.P.s, the second floor of a massive Elie Tahari boutique was all white couches and swag bags. For poor, hungry filmmakers, Turtle Crossing served up a hearty, if un-fancy, buffet of chicken, ribs, chips, and dip. The restaurant and catering service, which has hosted Bill Clinton twice, is helmed by Nancy Singer. She has been hosting the filmmaker’s lounge for five years, and when I asked her if she had seen business grow as a result of her sponsorship, she leveled with me. “Not really,” she said. “But I’ve had more than one young filmmaker come up to me and say, ‘When my film was showing at the festival, I had spent so much money getting here that I couldn’t even afford to eat, and your lounge saved me.’ Besides, I love movies.” Her recommendation this year was Troubled Water. Neither lounge was particularly crowded when I stopped by.
The highest moment of drama that I can report is when the film/projector broke during the screening of Gospel Hill, directed by Giancarlo Esposito. He gamely got up on stage and vamped while viewers slowly trickled out during the 40-minute repair. He won the audience's sympathy (if not their patience) by saying that "This is a director's worst nightmare." As I said, it ain't Cannes. And aren't you relieved?
