It's been a long day, and I'm dropped off after four at the
place I've stayed at for many years, the House of Women as I think of it fondly
-- six of us will be there for the long weekend, but I'm the only one there at
the moment. It's lovely, returning, but
bittersweet -- the owner has put it on the market, so this is probably the last
time we'll all be together. I rush off
to the Press Office, but it's closed, so I walk towards the Telluride Town
Park, which I usually visit just once at the end of the festival for the Labor
Day picnic, but tonight is the site for a free concert featuring the Punch
Brothers, whose music, produced by T-Bone Burnett, is featured in "Inside
Llewyn Davis," the Coen brothers' film that was a big hit at Cannes,
nominated for the Palme d'Or and winning the Grand Prize of the Jury.
En route I run into Geoff Dyer, last year's Guest Director, and Gary Meyer, co-director of Telluride. "I was wishing you were one of the six Guest Directors coming back," I told Dyer. "Well," he said cheerfully, "here I am."
At the concert, I run into Variety's Scott Foundas, director Allan Arkush, and screenwriter Larry Lasker, Telluride regulars, all. I'm thrilled that Geoff Dyer joins me, and we have a nice chat -- he's here to interview Ralph Fiennes onstage, at screenings of "The Invisible Woman," which Fiennes directed and stars in as Charles Dickens. (And have a good time.) I'm less thrilled when he calls me by a name not my own, but, hey, it started with "M," so that's close enough for jazz.
We're both thrilled by the five Punch Brothers (unrelated) -- guitar, cello, violin, banjo, and (wait for it) mandolin -- are all dressed nicely, mostly in unironic retro suits and ties, and seemed as thrilled to be in Telluride, playing for us, as we are to be hearing their set of bluegrass, both contemporary (their own songs) and classic (Jimmie Rodgers' "The Brakeman's Blues," "I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow," familiar from the Coens' "O Brother, Where Art Thou?", and still vivid in my memory after more than a dozen years).
There's an extra bass present, in rumbling thunder that follows occasional flashes of lightning, which presage the heavens opening. Many leave, but stalwarts, me among them, stay for three last songs in ever-increasing, eventually torrential, rain.
I stagger home, drenched but happy. After a two-hour nap, it's time to seriously deconstruct the program book, cross-reference it against what's showing in Toronto, and weigh my options. And get some more sleep. It's going to be a long weekend.