Is it frivolous to celebrate film when the world is, in ways literal and figurative, burning? Is it somehow inappropriate to don one’s party wear for a sojourn along the red carpet when the doors have been slammed shut on the spirit of openhearted refuge that for so long defined our country? To worry over how to maneuver beyond the velvet rope when there is talk of building walls? Is it silly to escape into stories when “alternative facts” are paraded as real? And is it a poor allocation of one’s energetic resources to stay out late schmoozing when women’s rights, environmental protections, and funding for the arts and education are all on the chopping block?
Yes, I totally went there. And you know what? I totally went to the film festival, too. And I’d argue that not only is film festival-ing at this juncture not frivolous; it is, in fact, the opposite. Seriously. Just because the festival is one of the city’s splashiest soirees doesn’t mean it’s not important.
Consider the case of festival director Roger Durling — an out, gay immigrant who runs an arts organization; under the new rules, that’s basically three strikes. Yet on opening night, the Durls opted to hold up his own story as a quintessential example of the American Dream gone right: “This is a place you come to after you die, a place of second chances,” he said. “I am a foreigner, and I am an American.”