Nick– Tall tees, SUV’s with 20 inch rims, and bandanas. In the mountain hermitage that is backcountry ski filmmaking, I guess we’ve missed a couple beats on style. The steeze was heavy this weekend at IF3: jumps with pitbull tow-ins, 80/20 ratios of ski jacket to ski pant length, and an 80/20 ratio of fake id’s to the government issued variety.
When your slinging folk-soul skiing to the young
adrenaline crowd, it’s easy to claw at your nails until
they bleed. Do kids even like vegetables? Is there room
in their stomachs for more than big macs and adirol?
The rest of the flicks in the fest had a near constant
130 BPM pace and bass that massaged the collective
underage hangover. Signatures stuck out from the
crowd, and our film felt like getting someone to try
raw fish for the first time. But in a theater of roughly
600 people, the applause rewarded our different approach.
A loud uproar indeed– the folks who got it got it good.
Still, at this point, I was so shook by the exposure to this new audience– so convinced that we had bored a crowd that was conditioned for fast cuts and jib-oriented content, I couldn’t accept that people loved Signatures. Mind games! An award seemed out of the question, and I bypassed the show in favor of some good ol’ fashioned Montreal get down.
When we landed at Vinyl, we were in the right place, where individuality was celebrated and hair cuts were arbitrary applications of clippers– the more asymmetrical the better. Lot of choppy shag, new wave mullets, and geometrical shapes beyond the most hip williamsburg hipster, and with half the pretention. The fashion paired George Washington overcoats with Parisian bell hop coif tops and Prince excess– spandex, fishnets, and one-piece jumpers. Local DJ up-and-comings Peer Pressure absolutely RAVISHED the bohemian dance floor, leaving us all in a state persperated nirvana, beaten and battered by liberated giration. Beautifully liberated, beautifully girated, beautifully Montreal. Oui, oui, and the proper urban tonic to my atrophied dance muscles and mountain-town rhythm of late. You just don’t see posters advertising shows for “DJ Mys the Masterbeater and a guy who met Gwen Stefani playing the 28th” in the mountains. A cultural and artistic yang to a life spent in pursuit of lonely ranges and deep snow. Peer Pressure– keep them on your radar, and I’ll let you know if I get a chance to peak Mys the Masterbeater.
Meanwhile, we woke up in a stupor, packed the hotel room up, and headed for the airport. By the time I made it to Chicago I discovered that while I was popping and locking on the dance floor, the kind folks at IF3 awarded us BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY, beating Matchstick Productions and Rage Films out for the honor. In short, it’s pretty damn cool to be able to compete with such established companies who fly helicopters, ride snowmobiles, and generally have a gazillion more dollars then we have to spend on production and camera gear. In more short, it’s really damn cool. We won it with our legs and our lungs, by 4am wakeups and 1am bedtimes. We just love what we do, plain and simple, and I thank the judges and the audience for recognizing that in our work. Would have been nice to actually accept the award in person, but the Montreal boogie down was well-needed, and, as they say, Ce la Vie.
Felix Rioux put together a great festival this year– the scope of his work is mind-blowing, and I’m amazed at how flawlessly it came together. Many thanks to him, the whole IF3 crowd, and a new audience for chowing our raw fish. The road continues this week in Carbondale, Vail, Frisco, and
Breckenridge– come catch us in the bus….