5
Feb 2010

Festival Corner

My First Sundance: How I Inadvertently Became a Swag-Whore

Carissa Tedesco is a writer/director and actress and a proud and true New Yorker.

“Hi. Carissa Tedesco: Filmmaker.” True.

Nyet! Not good enough.

“Hi. Carissa Tedesco, Programmer for the Delray Beach Film Festival.” Also true, also not good enough.

“Hi. Carissa Tedesco: Indiewire Magazine.”

Not true, but good enough to get me past the gatekeeper with the laptop and air of superiority; an ill-choice however, as I was under-prepared to speak further on the bullshit I’d just randomly pulled out of my own ass. They immediately assigned me a PR person to set up interviews for the mag.

Cue phantom cell phone ring. “Will you excuse me for one moment? I MUST take this.”

Note to self: polish singular lie.

“Hello. Carissa Tedesco: ABC-Good Morning America.”

“Oh hiiiiiiiiiiii! Will you be here with a camera crew?”

“No, just scouting. I’m a segment producer checking out possible locations to submit to our booker.”

Home run! A press pass for the lady, if you please.

I’m a great actress but a terrible liar. At least I was until Sundance. Lying is work. Investing energy to impress strangers is not part of my DNA. But if you’re not in, you’re out and I certainly wasn’t about to let some lemming with a list tell me I wasn’t important enough to be “in.” And so Carissa Tedesco – Producer for Good Morning America was born. Gaining access became this ridiculously fun, adrenaline-infused infiltration game; a challenge appealing to both my competitive spirit and “fuck-with-all-elitists-as-sport” sensibility. It’s inherently wrong that only the very rich, very famous, and very successful are bestowed upon glamorously with all-access, free everything, and an ass kissing just short of a rim job. Let it be known that every day girls like me love a good rim job too.

Oh, I started out humble. I was eternally grateful that I had a free place to stay (big ups to the lovely and exceedingly generous Dr. Michael Posner) and hoped against hope merely to get a filmmaker pass so that I could saturate my days with my compatriots and favorite people in all the land: the Filmmakers. That is, until I met…dummmm-da-dum-dum…“The Condo-mates”. Didn’t know each other prior-Doc Posner was the mutual connection. All were from low-A to high-B festivals, there hunting for films to program, sponsorship, etc. We arrived on the same day, made nice-nice, then headed out to tackle the beast at hand: ACCESS. Later that afternoon I stopped home and was feeling pretty triumphant that I had bullshitted my way into a Sundance press pass my first two hours out, and extra-thrilled that it came with a free bag, water and pen.

But not for long…

Re-enter the condo mates: Sundance veterans who (I later found out) bring empty duffle bags to carry home all their newly acquired riches. Not only did they return flush with several lanyards, but bragging rights to a TON, I repeat, TON of loot: ipods, Timberland mukluks, jewelry, VIP invitations, and more.
I was green-eyed jealous. More than that, I loathed having the moniker of a newbie-not-in-the-know. The silent air of superiority they maintained as well as the subtle conversational ways they kept information hush-hush for fear I’d try to glom on to them, drove me and my pride freaking bananas.

That lasted a New York minute.

I thought to myself, “I’m Carissa-fucking-Tedesco. I’ve been turning brick walls into red carpets my entire life. No way, no how is there a film, lounge, party, performance or gifting room that I cannot glide myself into with stealth-like proficiency; and without any help from anyone, thank you very much.

Game on!

Over the course of the next six days, with a Starbucks IV slung over my shoulder, I garnered eight passes (four of them press), nineteen wristbands, and all the sushi, Patron Silver, and Redbull I could swish around in my ever-burgeoning belly. And the “free everything and anything” didn’t stop there. On any given day I could be spotted carrying a bag full of Fred Segal ware, sex toys, Guitar Hero Three, and cosmetics promising to turn me back into a fetus. I saw John Legend, 50 Cent, and Acon perform live. I sat front row in the VIP section at Harry O’s and watched Quentin Tarantino receive the Kodak Award from Dennis Hopper. I ate at one of the most coveted tickets in town: Chef Dance (from the second course on anyway). I had a pass to The Yard, a restaurant daily serving breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snacks, where I could order anything I desired with no check at the end. (God? Is that you?) On my way out, I’d make two pit stops at Drugstore.com where I’d pick up Advil and condoms (my current ones, as usual, had expired) and then at Romance.com where I’d grab the largest vibrator they had (see above condom quote), perfume, candles and whatever else I could get my fat little fingers on. Later, after a full day of swag-snagging and creative storytelling, upon my sixtieth wind, I’d sit down for an early dinner at The Lift (another Yard-like restaurant), check my email at Hype Lounge while sipping Grey Goose, and sure, I’ll take some Frye Boots and Oakley Sunglasses while there. On and on it went; the lovely pink flush of excitement in my cheeks telling the tale. Or maybe it was the skipping and singing that gave me away? No matter. Nobody missed the girl floating three feet above ground through the snowy streets of Park City.

People who were actual press (not the majors but the C-listers and such) told me they’d tried for years to get just one press pass and here I was, on day two, with four. The condo-mates were impressed (read: baffled and jealous), simply shaking their heads after awhile, tired of asking, “How the hell did you manage that?!” Ah, what a sweet na-na-na-na-poo-poo victory it was. In the end it was I who won the unspoken swag-grab contest, with Guitar Hero Three putting me over the top for the win.

But then a funny thing started to happen…

After a few days I began to feel hollow and depressed. The oppressive thought that I’d been wasting all my time and utilizing the best of my abilities: charm, humor, wit and intellect, all for naught, started to creep in.

“Shut up Carissa. Weren’t you just elbow to elbow with Cash Warren and Jessica Alba in Fred Segal getting free $450.00 Love From Australia boots? And you’re freakin’ depressed?”

No. Screw that. Everybody was doing it, after all. Have you forgotten wandering into the Entertainment Tonight Lounge (more sushi and a free cashmere scarf) when Sarah Jessica Parker, Dennis Quaid, and Thomas Haden Church (who has an unusually large head by the way) were being interviewed? A mere hour after that there they were in Chez Fred getting their rim jobs so to hell with feeling shame and guilt about my marginally ok one!

Alas, the denial dam broke. Truth, for me, has always been inescapable.

Two weeks prior to Sundance I’d donated 30% of my possessions to charity and here I was squandering a goldmine of opportunity only to hoard more useless shit I didn’t need. Had I really utilized all that finesse for a jar of cream and a game? Who had I become? I don’t even own an Xbox 360. What the hell am I going to do with Guitar Hero Three and why did I want it so badly? Why didn’t I choose instead to take all that God-given opportunity and ability to actually do something? Create something?

Well, I’ll tell you why. Who gives a shit if they don’t let me in to a gifting lounge or party? What do I lose? Nothing. Nada. Stugotz. But a director I worship, a producer I ache to work with, or a theatrical agency I long to be a part of telling me “No”? Oh, no. Too much risk. The rejection, far too paralyzing. That danger, when it means something…when it means everything to me, feels like another small death upon a lifetime of them. Dramatic, I know. Trust me; it rings equally pathetic to my own ears. The best way I can elucidate the feeling is with this Bible verse: Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life. Twenty years of deferred hope, with a bank account reflecting as much, will break the backbone of even the strongest-willed. For once, I just wanted to play a game on an even playing field; a game where I knew I’d win and to the victor goes the spoils. It was nice to feel rich and important for six days: to succeed, to win. Yea, that’s it. It was really nice to win.

After a couple of weeks being back home in LA, I smacked myself in the back of my own head. I mean really… Boo-freaking-hoo. Like I didn’t have THE most amazing time at my first Sundance. Reflecting upon my trip, I realized that coming home with a couple of thousand dollars worth of merchandise I could never afford to buy on my own was nothing to feel guilty about. My first Sundance really was the experience of a lifetime. After all, I met fabulously interesting and creative filmmakers who could soon be my colleagues, listened in on conversations with people in the biz whom I most respect, and witnessed some amazing talent in the most intimate of settings. Beyond the swag, it was a truly inspiring trip. But more importantly? It woke my ass up.

Ironically, less than one year later, I am officially invited as press to cover the Delray Beach Film Festival. My assignment is to produce and host an Entertainment Tonight-style video show in which I’ll be interviewing the filmmakers and celebrities, covering parties, workshops, and all other events. I reflect upon my Sundance experience as I’m about to board the plane to Florida and I am grateful to have the opportunity to utilize my talents in a way that makes me proud. It may take me a minute (or 15) to get a grip, but I actually do live, learn, and change accordingly.

I’ll be at Sundance again next year and yes, I’ll still swag-whore-it a bit. Who am I kidding? Free shit rocks! This time however, I really will be press. So if you see a crazy brunette Italian girl running around with a microphone and a divide and conquer look in her eyes, say hello and yell out,“Hey Tedesco! It’s about time you got your shit together!”

By the way…

I’m selling Guitar Hero Three dirt cheap if you know anybody.