Halfway through the twentieth edition of the Sundance Film Festival, instead of buzz, the sound was more like a cool hum. That is, except for the newly anointed filmmakers whose wet-from-the-lab work was bought up in the becalmed non-frenzy of acquisitions. Shrugs accompany rumors—"Did you hear so-and-so got bought?"—as if the news were not thrilling, but merely confirmation that the indie industry persists, despite increasingly spare economic models that attempt to guarantee recoupment for all. The streets of Park City seemed slow, nearly deserted at times, with none of the usual Tokyo subway-style shoving matches at shuttle stops.

A fusillade of buys from the semi-studios was good for trade-paper headlines, with distributors' release schedules filling with already-finished, viable titles. A key killer of many small companies has historically been the too-quick or too-rash entry into development and production ventures. With Sundance treated as the ultimate trade fair—or candy store—all that's left after the signing of contracts is to plot publicity for a few months hence.

Even after Saturday night's awards ceremony, there was no critical consensus. Take Gus Van Sant's "Gerry," a gorgeous yet experimental Matt Damon-and-Casey Affleck-lost-in-the-desert headscratcher. Empty formalism or transcendent experience? Ask the people on either side of you, and you'll get two contrary opinions. Miramax picked up Gary Winick's witty novella of a romantic comedy, "Tadpole," for $5 million, some critics groused: too small, too direct. My response: too bad, it's sharp work. The hypnotic, near-wordless "Paradox Lake," working to depict the inner states of autism, impressed with its poetic knack for video-originated imagery.

Among the offerings, there were also sumptuous and thoughtful movies about loss, such Christine Jeff's tactile, lyrical "Rain," a girl's-own-story drenched in mood; Zhang Yang's powerful "Quitting," a portrait of a fallen Chinese matinee idol's recovery from years of depression and drug abuse; Jill Sprecher's quiet, confident "13 Conversations about One Thing," which investigates potential terrors and errors that lie in wait in the quest for happiness; Andre Turpin's jaunty yet unsettling Quebecois "Soft Shell Man," which suggests charm may be as self-destructive as angst. John Malkovich's dour, accomplished South American-set drama "The Dancer Upstairs" showed a political sophistication and a concern for the particulars of history that goes beyond one's own experience. In a festival like Sundance, a lack of narcissism or solipsism—in other words, mature work—can seem like a true revelation. The downbeat Philip Seymour Hoffman vehicle "Love Liza," which took an audience award and $4 million from Sony Pictures Classics' coffers, was probably the most grief-stricken of the usual run of sorrowful fictions. Still, "Design," a striking debut film by Chicago director Davidson Cole, takes a character to the end of his rope and beyond. There's no chance for him in this world. With a daringly dismal palette, "Design"'s ambitions suggest a working-class Kieslowski, a Kieslowski without God.

There were the occasional dogs like the inexplicably awful "Secretary," which distorts short-story writer Mary Gaitskill's work into an amateurish farrago of incoherent psychology. But there were also movies where the personal became political, or the most specific of experience suggested the universal, particularly with documentaries: from "Blue Vinyl," a comic investigation of the damage caused by petrochemical production; "Sister Helen," an eye-opening portrait of an acerbic nun who runs a tough-love private home for recovering alcoholics; Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering Kofman's sweet and playful one-man-show, "Derrida," a documentary in which the French philosopher illuminates his way of thinking by challenging the filmmakers as the film is being made; and my favorite feature-length film of the festival, John Walter's exquisite, "How to Draw a Bunny," the life of late collage artist Ray Johnson, a perennial recluse and "New York's most famous unknown artist," which offers another spirited take on postmodernist notions, boasting an original score by jazz master Max Roach.

Eavesdropping was productive. As a spy in the House of Docs, where documentarians assembled to share battle stories, I heard clear-headed elucidation of filmmaking philosophy and had impassioned discussions about the future of many of the formats being exhibited in Park City. Traditional format PBS-style production was still a major part of the mix, but digital video's still-undefined promise inflamed these filmmakers in the best possible way. At a gathering the day before the Sundance Channel announced plans to roll out an all-documentary channel later this year; Robert Redford talked about his great hopes after what he referred to as "the shock of the fall" sounding as hopeful, as young, and as idealistic as ever. At a later panel, spirited arguments were made about "salable" models of documentary making, versus more idiosyncratic ways of preserving individual experience and perspective. "We're already marginal," an audience member piped up. "Why shouldn't we be adventurous?"

After September 11 at the 2001 Toronto Film Festival, American attendees were mostly concerned with borders: How do we get back to the States? This session's Sundance, for me, was more about boundaries and what we can do to expand them: How can we get work seen? How can we be better filmmakers and better people? And can we be happy after all that has happened? Four months ago, William Goldman's notorious line "Nobody knows anything" seemed to best characterize the attitude of the film community. At Sundance 2002, the murky vision of what may come seemed to be as hopeful as the classic toast: "To more life, in a time without boundaries."

Also by Ray Pride

FIRE FROM ABOVE
Ridley Scott's unrelenting pitch into the confounding hell of contemporary urban warfare is an unlikely production from billions-grossing producer Jerry Bruckheimer. Encased in a dark blue suit with a natty tie, the 56-year-old mogul is a small, nut-tan man with spruce, precise four-day stubble.
(2002-01-17)

LISTING CRAFT
Year-end top ten lists are forgettable. Ask for my list from 2000 or 1999, I'll only shrug. I remember the pictures. I tend to recall moments of empathy and tenderness, movies that celebrate simple or extravagant beauty. But, for this moment: ten instances of ten instances of lyrical, even delirious beauty.
(2002-01-10)

FICTION REVIEW
One of the best of lesser-known European writers in translation, Cees Nooteboom excels at conveying a thoughtful, urbane European sensibility. The 68-year-old Dutchman's 1998 "All Souls Day," newly translated by Susan Massotty, boasts an even cleaner version of his plaintive prose than in earlier novels like "Rituals" and "The Following Story."
(2002-01-10)

VALET SPARKING
The sulky manner of the 36-year old veteran of British television, "Croupier" and short films produced by BMW for the Internet, has made enough of an impression that he's been rumored a candidate for the next James Bond. "There's been an awful lot of that in the British press," he laughs, tapping his cigarette ash, "but that's probably just a combination of 'Croupier' and spending a lot of time in a tuxedo. And racing around in BMWs!"
(2002-01-03)

GOOD GRIEF
(2002-01-03)

MANNERISM
(2001-12-27)

LOVED-IN SPACES
(2001-12-20)

MINDFUCK
(2001-12-13)

FRENCH TICKLER
(2001-11-01)

LOVE AS A FOREIGN LAND
(2001-10-25)

TOYING WITH BOYS
(2001-10-18)

TWENTIETH-CENTURY FIX
(2001-10-18)