And just that fast, we’re back at the Salt Lake City Airport, waiting on our flight back to Spokane. We squeezed in three final films, beginning at 9 a.m. with “Dear Wendy,” a Thomas Vinterberg adaptation of a Lars Von Trier script about a group of young kids living in an alternative universe – one in which the gun is king. The movie is, it’s easy to presume, a damning indictment of America and its attitude toward gun ownership.

Second up was “Wall” – not “The Wall” but just “Wall” (or “Mur”) – a documentary by Simone Bitton. It involves the concrete wall being constructed along the border of Israel and the West Bank that, once complete, will stretch over 700 kilometers (about 435 miles). If Bitton’s film is any indication, the wall will be about as effective as the border between California and Mexico.

And, finally, we had “Frozen,” the mystery of a woman (Shirley Henderson) on the trail of her sister, who disappeared two years before. It’s a Slamdance feature that we saw on video, watching it up to the moment that the shuttle appeared at our condo door at 3:55 p.m. If nothing else, it proves once again that at its best, this year’s Slamdance was as good as its bigger and more illustrious neighbor. Slamdance director Kathleen McKnnis, a former longtime programmer for the Seattle International Film Festival, oversaw a festival that has developed into one of the best in the country.

Final film count: 30. That’s a record.

And as we pound down lunch in Renee’s, I think back on last night and remember feeling at home. I felt as if I were watching a movie in Spokane because the two women sitting off to our immediate left talked ALL THROUGH THE MOVIE! The strange thing was that no one told them to shut up.

Today we went to the only venue that we’ve never seen: the Racquetball Court. We saw a film titled “The Dying Gaul,” which stars Campbell Scott, Patricia Clarkson and Peter Sarsgaard. It was a bit confusing, but it was extremely well acted. And, as writer-director Craig Lucas said, it’s a fairly dark trip.

Final word: My editor Ken Sands wanted to know whether the film “Inside Deep Throat” was any good. Put it this way: It didn’t leave me speechless. Heh-heh.

And “Nine Lives” is a fascinating experiment in cinema, rather than being “experimental” cinema – which is what “9 Songs” is – and as such is just the kind of film that Sundance should be about. That’s exactly what Jeff Gilmore, the festival director, says before the film starts. But Gilmore, who is still wearing the same black-leather jacket that I’ve seen on him for the past eight years, has said exactly this before. And many of the films that he has bragged about ended up sucking.

Not this time. “Nine Lives” is nine stories of about a dozen minutes or so, each of which is filmed in a single take. Director Rodrigo Garcia gives us a slice of life, and it’s an effective look. We see two former lovers meeting in a grocery store (Robin Wright Penn, Jason Isaacs), a woman and her parents attending the funeral of the wife of her former husband (Amy Brenneman, William Fichtner), two couples meeting for drinks (Stephen Dillane, Holly Hunter and Jason Isaacs, Molly Parker) and so on.

Afterward, it’s an all-star list of stars in attendance: Wright Penn, Isaacs, Brenneman, Fichtner, Hunter, Dillane, Parker, Glenn Close, Aidan Quinn and more. It’s our first full night of celebrity watching, and it ends up being a good one.

By the way, “Abel Raises Cain” is, like “La Sierra,” a video from the Slamdance press office. And it turns out to be the hilarious story of Alan Abel, a comedy writer/social commentator whose personal mission has been to pull a hoax on the media. Scary. As someone who has been in the media for 27 years, I hate to think that someone is putting me on. But, of course, when Abel takes on someone like Morton Downey, it’s hard not to be in his corner.

This the second Slamdance film in a row that I’ve loved. Maybe next year I should come to Park City and do nothing but see movies at THIS festival.

A word about Slamdance. It’s supposed to be the alternative to Sundance, which would seem to mean that it’s lesser than Sundance. And years ago, when we first took in screenings at the Treasure Mountain Inn, sitting on the floor with a bunch of other hard-core movie fans, that might have been so. But if “La Sierra” is any indication, Slamdance has arrived.

Co-directed and produced by Scott Dalton and Margarita Martinez, and filmed by Dalton, it’s a courageous exploration of the killing fields around Medellin, Colombia. We get to know several of the kids, including 22-year-old Edison. We watch them fight and, in one case, we watch them die. This film would be a welcome addition to any festival worth attending.

Here is a posting that I would have made earlier in the day if my laptop hadn’t run out of juice:

Just got out of a movie titled “Hustle & Flow.” It’s a movie that my friend Leslie Kelly told me that I had to see, since it was filmed in Memphis, where she is the food writer and restaurant reviewer. And I’m glad that she recommended it because it features a stunning lead performance by Terrence Howard, with support by the likes of Anthony Anderson and Taryn Manning.

The only problem? The film reaches for a “big” moment instead of just letting the story play out realistically. Which is too bad, because it was on the way to being one of the best films of the festival so far.

I better not tell Leslie. She might get disappointed.

My wife, Mary Pat Treuthart, asks a brilliant question about the difference between narrative films such as “Hotel Rwanda” and whether such films will help in the marketing of documentaries such as, “Shake Hands With the Devil.” Dallaire responds: “Anything that speak of the Rwandan genocide and keeps it alive is achieveing the aim.”

As the questions go, some questioners not asking questions but making speeches, the overall complex nature of the issue becomes clear. What do you do when genocide is happening but neither a “great” power nor the U.N. doesn’t want to get involved?

Dallaire is asked by a man from the Congo why the world isn’t talking about the Congo there. He says, “Because the black African doesn’t count.” Not, at least, by countries that don’t see something for them in the conflict.

And then we go to questions: A woman talks about going on the Web to look for trailers and saw one for ‘The Corporation.’ Wants to know if documentaries are being made more available for “the masses.”

Answer: Not “the masses” but to people who believe in what the filmmaker does. The questions is reposed: Do films have the right break-out material that will reach a larger audience.

Peter Raymont stands up for Michael Moore: “I think a high tide raises all ships.” Says that Moore’s movies ARE helping the other films reach a larger audience.

We see a clip from Jarecki’s film “Why We Fight,” and we hear from a woman who makes bombs. She says she isn’t happy about what she does. “What I’d rather be doing is be making toys for Santa.”

They talk about Michael Moore and his use of humor, and the topic spreads to why humor is needed at all. Dallaire says, “I look at your Secretary of Defense and I see somebody who is screaming for a sense of humor.”

And so what is truth? The official word from on high, the authorities who will lie and lie and lie to get what they want? Or the documentary filmmaker who admits to his or her subjectivity up front, which allows the viewer to accept or reject the film’s point of view?

Dallaire says, “I get the impression that there is a problme defining the nature of the exercise.” Talks about being interviewed by CNN. The reporter asks him, “What is CNN so important to me, which was quite pretentious on his part.”
The Fox reporter, on the other hand, admitted up front that she hadn’t seen the movie, read the book and had no idea what the issue was about.

Dallaire says that “the documentary is the archival side” of telling the story. “The documentary can go into the entrails of the issue before it becomes a catastrophe.” It gives people more of an understanding the issues, and can help in prevention instead of being a part of the “superficial excitement” of mainstream journalism.

The point they’re addressing is, How do you get people to watch your film? Especially someone who isn’t inclined to agree with you to begin with? They take the anti-Michael Moore route: The try to key in on people that viewers can empathize with. As Moore tried to do with the mother of the dead American soldier. Trouble is, Moore couldn’t resist inserting himself into virtually every scene - either physically or philosophically.

Raymont says, “My mother doesn’t like to watch my films. But she’ll watch this one because of Romeo Dallaire.” Then we watch a clip of the horror, a massacre in a church. Dallaire says, “Paradise was assaulted by the devil.”

Moderator says, ” ‘Welcome to The World is Watching’ or ‘Is the World Watching’? Or ‘If Michael Moore is So Smart, Why is George Bush President?’ ”

This place is filling up quickly. There isn’t a seat empty, which is uncommon for a panel discussion/press conference in which a big Hollywood name isn’t attached. But, then, it’s Sunday morning, and not much else is going on. Then again, maybe they’re all here to pay their respects to the man who tried - who failed, but who tried - to save those many thousands of people in Rwanda more than 10 years ago.

When you walk down Park City’s Main Street on the first Saturday night of the Sundance Film Festival, you’re likely to see pretty much anything. Cowboy wannabes, for example. Or suburban gangstas, white boys with their oversize jackets and hoodies. Movie-exec types with their diamond pinky rings and black overcoats and omnipresent cell phone. Pretty people, whether they be tall GQ hunks or the ubiquitous wispy blonds in need of a PB sandwich or two.

The thing is, you can’t help but see these people. And they likely see you, though maybe only for as long as they can figure out whether you’re someone worth their spending time on. Because everyone is looking for someone famous, some celebrity who just happens to be walking down the street trying to be inconspicuous. But it seems as if that happens less and less. The celebs are usually at one of the dozens of private parties that are held all over PC, similar to the one that we were at last night for “The Education of Shelby Knox.” Shelby and some of the other kids from the film were in the crowd, but they weren’t real celebs. They were just kids who happen to be in a movie.

No, the real celebs, such as the ones I have seen in the past – Jennifer Aniston, Holly Hunter, Guy Pearce, Christian Bale and the like – come in for their films and then leave. The rest of us stick around, watching the movies and then spending the rest of our time looking at each other, hoping to find the elusive glow of celebrity that we think will give us our own piece of fame.

We’ll head out here, soon, for a press conference concerning the documentary film “Shake Hands With the Devil.” Maybe the star of the film, retired Major-General Romeo Dallaire will be there. One can always hope.

We just got back to the condo after attending our first party of the year. Instead of heading to the Eccles, where we had planned to hook up with friends and try to get into one of the festival premieres - “Game 6,” which stars Michael Keaton and Robert Downey Jr. - we had stuck around at the Holiday Village Cinemas to see a documentary titled “New York Doll.” It told the story of Arthur “Killer” Kane, the former bassist for the New York Dolls, one of the original New York punk bands. And it told his story well.

But back to the party: It was for the cast and crew (and anyone on the invitation list) of the film “The Education of Shelby Knox.” Scroll down and you’ll see the film that I mean: It’s the documentary about the young Texas high-school student who tries to get a sex-education program going in her conservative hometown of Lubbock. It was made by the filmmakers, Marion Lipschutz and Rose Rosenblatt, who were in the shuttle that we took in from the Salt Lake City Airport.

It was fortunate that we met Lipschutz out in the lobby of the Queer Lounge, where the party was being held, because we weren’t on the official invite list. But she told the people checking names off names at the door to let us in. Once inside, though, the novelty wore off pretty quickly. The room was crowded, hot and noisy. And we couldn’t even get to the bar.

But we were able to find Shelby herself, introduce ourselves and tell her how much we appreciated her and the film she was such a big part of. She seemed as nice in person as she did on screen, which is always gratifying to know.

Now we’re back, eating fudge from Park City’s Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory franchise, drinking a bit of shiraz to mellow out (we really don’t drink all that much) and preparing to watch our fifth film of the day, an Argentine film titled “Cama Adentro.” Enough, don’t you know, is never enough.

Before “The Education of Shelby Knox,” a short titled “Bullets in the Hood: A Bed-Stuy Story” is the story told by a young filmmaker named Terrence Fisher about guns his neighborhood, the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of New York City. Part of a program to help young filmmakers, in both training and the use of equipment, the film – which is just 22 minutes long – shows what someone can do with an idea, a digital camera and some basic storytelling talent. A film such as this is just what wannabe filmmakers all over should be studying. Imagine the stories that could be told by, and about, Spokane teens.

Getting another leisurely start. Too much zinfandel and pinot noir made for a difficult night, one in which I tossed and turned and dreamed about … eating omelets on the run? Wonder what Freud would say about that. Sundance can do some strange things to you.

Today we try to connect with Slamdance, the alternative to the alternative (that, really, is no longer that much of an alternative, not when a film such as “The Jacket” being picked up for mainstream distribution). Robert Redford calls this a “festival of dissent,” and that may be so. But it’s a whole lot different than it was when we started coming here just eight years ago. After all, last year’s opening-night film was the surfing movie “Riding Giants.”

Anyway, I’ll arm myself with a Starbucks, my credentials, my laptop, and then we’ll head out in about 15 minutes. The day, the festival beckon. Film count so far: 7.

Blue laws from state to state are, in a word, strange. For example, in Utah you can buy beer in a grocery store. But not wine. No, vino you have to get in a liquor store, where bottles of Syrah, Chardonnay and – for “Sideways” fans – Pinot Noir sit next to whiskeys, scotches and vodkas. And don’t even get me started on what you have to do to drink in a restaurant (think “club”).

When you buy beer from a liquor store, conversely, you buy merchandise priced by the bottle. That’s why when a young woman standing in front of me in line a few minutes ago blanched when the clerk told her that the cost of a six-pack of Pacifico was $11.90. She put it back.

Then, when I was leaving, a group of young guys was attempting to buy a couple of cases of Stella Artois. Their eyes got big when the clerk pulled out his box cutter and ripped open the case.

“I have to tag each one,” he said. I didn’t wait around to see how big their eyes were likely going to get when they heard the price.

Oh, and by the way, when I left I had two bottles of Australian Shiraz in my arms.

The name Romeo Dallaire isn’t one that shows up on many current-events quizzes. It wouldn’t have even in 1994, when Dallaire – then Major Gen. Dallaire – was the head of the United Nations peacekeeping mission in Rwanda. It was Dallaire who, abandoned by the international community, had to stand by and watch as one group of Rwandans (extremist Hutus) murdered more than 800,000 of their neighbors (moderate Hutus and the country’s other main tribe, the Tutsis).

Dallaire, a French Canadian now retired from the Canadian army, wrote a book about his experiences titled “Shake Hands With the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda.” And now Peter Raymont has taken that book and, on the occasion of Dallaire visiting the country on the 10th anniversary of the genocide, made a film about the general and his failures. It is a powerful story, one that has been told in documentary form at least twice before. And as such, it doesn’t need any dramatic format to capture what happened – and how badly Dallaire felt, and 10 years later still feels, about it.

It would have been nice had Raymont taken a more objective viewpoint. There’s a moment in the film when, during a panel discussion about the genocide, a Belgian politician criticizes Dallaire for not doing enough to save 10 Belgian soldiers under his command, all of whom were killed. It would have been nice to hear the politician’s specific complaints, to hold him responsible for proving them and then have Dallaire respond. It never happens.

Still, the tragedy in Rwanda – every bit as murderous and tragic as that which occurred in the former Yugoslavia – deserves to be remembered. And so does Dallaire, a noble man undermined by the bureaucracy of the political entity, the U.N., that presumes to keep rule in the world.

And so we head out, looking forward to seeing something “experimental” by Michael Winterbottom titled “9 Songs,” which is supposed to have “explicit” sex. Just what we need - to see a sex film with a bunch of uptight critics. Maybe Ebert will be there. He did write Russ Meyers’ “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.”

But then the real night, the real festival begins. First, we see Roger Ebert in Albertson’s, leisurely shopping by himself. Then we head back to the condo to watch a video of Werner Herzog’s film “Grizzly Man.” It’s a documentary about the self-styled naturalist Timothy Treadwell, the guy who spent time with bears on the Alaska peninsula for a dozen years but who was killed – and then eaten – by the very bears that he professed to love.

This film is almost too strange to believe. Herzog shows us Treadwell as a strange, narcissistic, committed, emotionally disturbed, courageous protector of animals. The best part is Herzog’s interviews with people who either hated, or loved, him. Overall, it’s an amazing film – hilariously ridiculous, penetratingly observant and, ultimately, utterly watchable. Everything, in short, that a documentary should be.

After picking up our press credentials, we discover that Mary Pat’s doesn’t have a photo. So we have to wait for her to be photographed. The press room, and the adjoining area reserved for filmmakers, is packed. People walking around wearing their sandwich-board-size passes, talking, posing, schmoozing, interacting. Then we head for the bus, which takes us to the Holiday Cinemas, where the first night’s movie, “Happy Endings,” is playing to the press. Across the city, the same movie is playing at the 1,300-seat Eccles theater to a public audience. There are celebs there, only critics here. Damn.

I need to enter, finally, the 21st century. Here I am, entering my first blog entry from Park City, Utah – during the first day of the Sundance Film Festival – and it’s four hours after I arrived at the Salt Lake City airport. Why? It’s a question. I have all the equipment – the phone, the laptop, etc. – but I forgot to bring all of it to my first screening. I’ll have to do better tomorrow. Maybe become a “Star Trek” crew member. I’ve always wanted to be a Vulcan.