It can very get awfully tiring…depressing, really, to watch groups of credentialed, shaggy-haired, snow-booted Sundance journalists and filmmakers who are sitting near you in the lounge smiling and gleefully laughing with each other, one joke after another, chit-chat, chuckle-chuck, hah-hah, grins and mirth…no end to it, constantly, hour after hour. It’s cool for the first hour or so, but after the two-hour mark I could just scream.
A little part of me — okay, one that I don’t admire and probably shouldn’t acknowledge — wants to go up to one of these groups, bend over and say in a very quiet voice, “I’m sorry, guys, it’s obviously none of my business…but did you know that the stuff you say in conversation doesn’t always have to be funny? I mean, you don’t have to laugh uproariously all the time? You can just sit there and chill down and be heavy-cat Zen types. You could even be silent for a bit and read about the jet that splashed into the Hudson yesterday. Oh, I’m sorry — not funny enough, right?
“I’m mentioning this, no offense, because your constant smiling and chuckling and laughing are driving me up the wall.”