2008 Hamptons International Film Festival Blows into East Hampton, NY. ATM Machines Run Dry. Alec Baldwin Sighted!
They poured down RT 27 East in cars, tumbled off the Hampton Jitney and Hampton Luxury Liner buses and disgorged from MTA Long Island Rail Road double-decker trains that ripped past crawling commuter traffic exiting New York City on the Long Island Expressway. Directors, actors, screenwriters, film critics, film lovers, all gaining momentum and numbers as the weekend approached. By Saturday they were everywhere, overrunning the luxury-store-studded sidewalks, cramming into the local Starbuck’s, and queuing up for the lip smackin’ good, international smorgasbord of films.
Luckily, I was able to be in East Hampton for opening night, Wednesday, October 15th, when the Hamptons International Film Festival actually began. My ticket in hand and press pass dangling from around my neck, I stood gamely in the suddenly bone chilling cold in the ticket holders’ line at 7 PM waiting to see the festival’s opening “Spotlight” film and grousing with other ticket holders about the low-slung, nearly-impossible-to-get-out-of Porsche sporting a handicapped sign and parked right in front of the movie theater.
Gentlemen, Start Your Movies!
Valentino: The Last Emperor. Not Rudolph, the Italian-American silent film star; not Urbani, the Italian castrato; not Rossi, the Italian MotoGP World Champion, but Valentino Garavani, whose fashion house is among the world’s most famous haute couture and ready-to-wear fashion empires, and whose clothes I have never, ever owned, but have certainly seen from afar heading up Madison Avenue on someone else. Valentino’s limited-edition book, Valentino Garavani, Una Grande Storia Italiana, sells for $821.41 to $4500 online. (Kid you not.) Directed by Matt Tyrnauer, Valentino: The Last Emperor is a jaw-dropper film about fabulous fashion for the flat of tummy as well as fat of pocketbook.
Watching the creative process of fashion-making (a small, intense group draping a bare-breasted, thong-wearing model while Valentino suggests ruches — pleats or tucks — here and there) and the planning of the most extraordinarily extravagant fashion shows imaginable, makes you wonder what fashion planet you’ve been on (or they’ve been on) and if you are the only one in the theater wearing the same pair of socks three days in a row. Watch this video.
Must Read After My Death. I haven’t recovered from this documentary yet. Morgan Dews was the director, editor, associate producer . . . and grandson of the woman who, upon her death, left behind a treasure trove, no, make that a Pandora’s garage full of family memorabilia in the form of home movies, recorded telephone conversations, Dictaphone recordings that were exchanged between husband and wife while he was working abroad, and recordings of excruciatingly personal conversations and escalating confrontations between family members who clearly had been recorded so consistently that they were oblivious to the open mic sitting on the kitchen table.
Must Read After My Death is not at all like the scathing, finger pointing autobiographies The Glass Castle or Mommy Dearest. Must Read After My Death is a documentary about a Cheeveresque and Mad Man marriage in which an unconventional woman obsessively records every twist and turn in her marriage. In her own voice early on in the film we’re told by her that she wanted this man and to have his children, whether he married her or not. On that daringly candid note — meant for her children to hear at a much later date — her cameras rolled and her recordings began. Watch this video.
Which Way to The Red Carpet?
Were there really 123 films to see? Is that possible? But then there is some enticing money to be made in winning an award at the HIFF, especially if you are a struggling filmmaker lacking a Valentino wardrobe. (Well, perhaps if you are the American artist and successful filmmaker Julian Schnabel, whom I swear I saw get out of a stretch limo and enter the movie theater on opening night, you’re above it all.) The Alfred P. Sloan Foundation Feature Film Prize in Science and Technology? $25,000. Caroline’s Comedy Emerging Talent Award? $7500.
And there’s good celebrity spotting, although sometimes it is hard to spot them because most people at the festival are dressed like they are going to the supermarket to pick up a quart of milk, except, of course, for the strange woman in the short, tight leopard patterned skirt, fishnet stockings, white mink stole, blond beehive hairdo, and glam glasses who seemed to be teetering everywhere on 6″ heels. Actor Francis McDormand was there and interviewed by “film critic and historian,” Elvis Mitchell, whoever he is. And Jacqueline Bisset and my good friend, the “inimitable actor,” Alec Baldwin, were holding court at The Bay Street Theater in Sag Harbor.
Film lovers from all over the world (Germans behind me, Swiss to the left, Italians to the right) flooded into town for the HIFF, watching movie after movie, attending parties and panels, draining ATM machines of all the $50 and $100 bills (What? You thought the ATMs gave out $20s in The Hamptons?) and digging deep, really deep, into their pockets for meals and accommodations.
Yep, tremendous fun. I do have one regret, however; I would have liked to have seen just who got back into that Porsche in the handicapped zone after Valentino: The Last Emperor let out, but the car was gone by the time I made it to the street.
Note from the Wicked Witch of Publishing (TM): Click over to my Web site to place a holiday 
order for The Cure for Jet Lag by Lynne W. Scanlon & Charles F. Ehret, Ph.D. It’s the perfect gift for your globetrotting, jet-setting friends who have everything but a cure for jet lag that works! ($19.95, plus shipping. Price increasing to $22.50 shortly. The pressure is on!)
October 26th, 2008 at 2:27 pm
I am even gladder now that I did not attend with all those offensive people and see those weird films. Particularly, not being exposed to Alec Baldwin is a source of infinite joy. What a delight it would be if they would move the entire HIFF and Alec to Spitzbergen. Me, give me a good Rory Calhoun or Rod Cameron western.
Note from the Wicked Witch of Publishing (TM): Spitzbergen, Norway? Brrrrrr.
October 26th, 2008 at 7:50 pm
I’m so sorry you had to suffer through this. That utterly moronic film clip tells me each minute must have been like getting a tooth pulled. A “jaw dropper film?” Oh, my Contrariness, you’re losing it. Did you get an autographed copy of Valentine Gravellani’s book?
Note from the Wicked Witch of Publishing (TM): Actually, Andy, the girl in me who cruised the sale racks in Bloomingdales, Bergdorf Goodman and Saks in New York City every Saturday for years, loved the documentary about Valentino. I’m not much of a fashion maven these days, but the dresses shown in the film are breathtakingly beautiful. His business and life partner of 50 years, Giancarlo Giammetti, is also a fascinating guy. Giancarlo is clearly proud of Valentino, but occasionally seems to feel a bit overlooked and underappreciated by Valentino as he struts around and preens. Interesting dynamic between two incredibly well dressed, stubborn and emotional men.
October 27th, 2008 at 10:27 am
I can think of few things more frightening than seeing Alec at the door on a moonless night, except for seeing Lawrence Talbot there on a full moon night.
October 27th, 2008 at 11:53 am
123 films at one festival? How many of them could be any good? It surely is a good thing we have you to report on these HIFFestivities, speaking for myself.
Note from the Wicked Witch of Publishing (TM): Well, thanks Bob A!
October 27th, 2008 at 1:58 pm
Thanks for another vivid glimpse of life in the Hamptons. It’s like a tonic, out here in the sunny, windy apple-pear-hops-growing Yakima Valley, on the dry side of the Cascades, in Washington State. Closest thing for us is B’way road shows at the historic Capitol Theatre, a recent revival of “Mr. Roberts” at our Warehouse (community) Theatre, rated R — warning us to keep under-13s away, due to salty 1947 language. When we see a stretch limo we know it must be prom night. We’re a world away from Valentinos, or even fishnet stockings and beehives — except at Halloween, coming right up — but I know who Elvis Mitchell is.
Note from the Wicked Witch of Publishing (TM): Dave has a new, very ambitious Web site called 3rdActs.com — The Search for Intelligent Life After 50. If you are over 50, check it out. Leave some comments. It is not the usual pap served up to baby boomers.
October 27th, 2008 at 7:02 pm
See, this is why I love your blog. You get to hang out at The Hamptons with all the beautiful, eccentric folk and
then report back to us commoners. I am so glad you enjoy this and are willing to share. But, you know, The Curmudgeon nailed it for me: Give me a Rory Calhoun western. I loved Rory. I miss Rory. Having a beer with Rory would have been wonderful. In fact, I raise my glass of happy red in his honor. Oh, and to you, Liz, darling. Salute.
Note from the Wicked Witch of Publishing (TM): Rory Calhoun? OK, I’ll Google him. Press 53 is a small independent publisher of literary fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. They have offices in Winston-Salem and Hamptonville, North Carolina, and publish full-length books by both new and established writers.
October 27th, 2008 at 7:53 pm
Hey Glenda Gone Wicked,
I’m still waiting for that follow-up on book covers. If you’ve got time to rub shoulders with Alec Baldwin in the Hamptons, you’ve got time to write that piece;)
The editor I told you about finally called and is recommending my novel for publication. As it turns out, the publisher allows input from their authors on book covers and I’m putting my two cents in for the formal proposal to the publisher. Turns out the publisher is on to the fact that covers sell and designs with selling success in mind.
Hope to hear from you. By the way that documentary To be Read After My Death, sounds absolutely fascinating. It immediately got my imagination stirring with novelistic possibilities. As usual interesting and worth reading.
John Caruso
October 28th, 2008 at 1:30 pm
MUST READ … that’s the kind of film that really gets my attention. Almost like a “found poem” in some respects. Words (or reels) sitting around, waiting to be assembled. It’s also a reminder of the endless paths to creativity. I hope this hits one of the remaining artsy theaters in New Orleans, although that’s doubtful. Do tell if you ever find out more about the Porsche. As for Alec, pretty cool. Carley Simon called me up one year to wish me happy birthday, but that’s about it.
October 29th, 2008 at 8:22 pm
I am sure that Baldwin was impressed by your sighting.
I am going to forward your links to an author that you may want to re-publish.
Where do you now hang your blow dryer? The Hamptons or downtown?
October 30th, 2008 at 8:53 pm
So witty and entertaining, as always. You can be tongue-in-cheek cynical, but your girlish enthusiasm overcomes any tendencies towards jadedness.
Having been peripherally involved in the fashion world for many years, I enjoyed the Valentino commentary and clips. Your best line, “flat of tummy and…. fat of wallet”. A silver-lining comment: perhaps the current leanness of wallets will lead to flatter tummies for many of us. On the other hand, perhaps not. Poverty leads to greater consumption of fattening junk food, and maybe the ATMS will all seize up and choke on undisgorged $100 bills.
November 8th, 2008 at 2:24 pm
Congratulations, Lynne and Dr. Ehret.
There is another lucky way to go.
Google is turning out to be a godsend for relatively unpublished writer.
Google Books by Ivan Prokopchuk.