 "Photo:")
The first item on my Sundance agenda this year? Punch Zac Efron in the face.
That's right. Forget movies. Forget independent film. There's no point in putting on airs anymore. Like 90 percent of everyone else swarming Park City, I've converted to the cult of celebrity (insert Scientology joke here). In my opinion, if you can't rid yourself of celebrities, join 'em.
Which is where Efron comes in.
The "High School Musical" star doesn't know it's coming. Nor do he or his glass jaw deserve the assault. But I refuse to spend another Sundance trolling among "everyday" people. I refuse to have the online editor of moviepoopshoot.com snub his nose at me, or the copy editor for IMDb ask what my name is. Unlike years past, this year I will not stand outside the doors of celebrity after-parties. I will no longer be escorted from the premises. I will not mingle with the photographers from People. And I will not endure another seditious restraining order. No upstart filmmakers will upstage me. I am important, and punching Efron's beautiful face in will prove so.
I don't know when or where the assault will occur, but if at all possible Efron's girlfriend and "HSM" co-star Vanessa Hudgens will be caught in the fray for added effect. Following the attack, I will scramble to collect my exposed bag of marijuana -- a prop intended to catch the eye of numerous B- to A-level celebrities -- and with any luck, I will be offering the bag to Mischa Barton by the end of day one.
The following day I will be spotted at several places in and around Park City's Main Street, allowing the proper amount of time for the celebrity spin machine to adequately stew in the combined coverage of Efron's hospital stay and Mischa's new beau. This should work for at least another day, and possibly carry into breakfast on day three, at which point some stupid filmmaker or industry jerk will have refocused everyone's attention on the festival -- see the overblown coverage of media-hog-filmmaker XXX's "Hounddog," which generated loads of press because of the alleged controversy of possible exploitation of child star Dakota Fanning, as an example.
To counter this, I will dump Mischa Barton for Dakota Fanning. Now, I realize your objections, fair readers, but fear not -- the association will be used only to secure my place as a member of 50's G-Unit, after which Fanning will have to be left. Bros before hoes.
Sure, certain revolutionary filmmakers will try their best to hoard attention, and the possibility that Crispin Glover might release another self-indulgent-cerebral-palsy-porn-disguised-as-art film online will always loom as a distant threat, but no worries. As a member of G-Unit, my Main Street cred will be sufficient to score photos alongside prominent members of the hip-hop community. With the infamy of the Efron assault still fresh in the "Access Hollywood" sphere, press members will question if I am, in fact, insane or just mad-crazy (in a dope way). (I assure you, readers, I am nothing if not the latter.)
Naturally, this level of infamy will peter out after another pair of days. Films will again take the spotlight, and after-parties will only go so far to secure my place in the gossip tabloids.
So I will have to up the ante.
Sundance bets one controversial, sex-fetish film, eh? Well, I'll see your sex-fetish film (see earlier encounter with Mischa Barton for details) and raise you two crotchless panty shots exiting my Escalade, one overdose (substance to be determined) and possible child endangerment (I will call Dakota Fanning after hitting rock bottom and lock her in a hotel bathroom).
This should be sufficient to carry me through the end of the festival and secure my place inside numerous iPhones and in several celeb's Fave 5s (sorry, Dwyane Wade).
Get it straight, Sundance: If you think this festival is going to be about films, think again. My celebrity entourage and I have other plans for this festival, and you will obey -- or else.
The media wouldn't have it otherwise.
d.letz@chronicle.utah.edu
