Do It Again

This morning, our Rotterdam run came to an end at the Cinerama. After the giant screenings Thursday and Saturday, it was hard not to feel a bit deflated knowing we would have just a 103-seater at our disposal. There was also the fear that nobody would want to come to a 9:45 a.m. screening.

Not so. We sold out and the audience seemed to laugh more and to laugh earlier. (Except for the lady sitting next to Carlene, who gave the film only a “2.” Carlene made sure to give her a dirty look.)

The Q & A felt particularly strong, almost the vibe of a good standup routine. Rob and Brad even crooned a few bars of “Waterloo Sunset” in an attempt to get me to join in. And then we were done, bidding the Rotterdam screens goodbye. Actually, Carlene, Brad and I did take in a film Sunday night about a one-eyed Viking who couldn’t speak but liked to kill people with an ax or rip out their entrails. (Wish I had remembered to bring the nachos.) Afterwards, we skipped off for a celebratory beer and some fried cheese balls.

If I were to think of regrets, I’d say not spending enough time at industry parties to network. It was such an inside crowd, though, that I felt like I was always intruding on a reunion of obscure, eastern European directors. I also found myself feeling rundown today and anticipating some quality time with a pillow.

We leave without making a deal to show the film on tv or in theaters. But we have developed a bunch of wonderful, new relationships with smart and passionate film programmers – Erwin, Madeleine Molyneaux – and a sense that we’ve likely scored slots in a handful of other festivals. I am also out 1,000 buttons, 50 cards and 10 posters. It was particularly sweet going to buy a Rotterdam fest t-shirt and finding all three of the ladies working the counter wearing our pin.

I’m eager to get more acceptances – London, in particular, needs a screening – because Rotterdam taught me that this film will find an audience and, as importantly, remind the people sitting there why the Kinks are so fantastic. I spent a chunk of this morning’s screening spying on a guy a few rows up from us. Whenever a song began to play, I could see him come to life and start thumping his foot. Clearly, this was about rediscovery and realizing how much he wanted to get home and throw “Arthur” on his record player.