..Gary Dretzka
..Noah Forrest
..Leonard Klady
..R.J. Matson
..David Poland
..Douglas Pratt
..Ray Pride
..Michael Wilmington

May 12, 2003

T-T-T-T-Touch Me: I Wanna Be Dirty
Tribeca Film Festival, Part One

They came. They saw. They left. And Tribeca breathed a sigh of relief at it all. The tired, sooty post World Trade Center disaster buildings, many of whose windows still sit sealed with wooden boards, languished in the shadows of New York City's redevelopment efforts. Bright, shiny new loft spaces, galleries, restaurants and cheerful tulip patches felt happy and loved for a week. The cobble-stoned streets, too, heretofore left largely empty since 9/11 by frightened tourists and residents alike, found their age-old walkways retread by film fans and curious New Yorkers. Sticky with children's ice cream, beer and street fair face paint, yes, Tribeca finally got some love, and it has Robert De Niro and his long time partner Jane Rosenthal to thank for it.

Who else could bring in the stars, fill the bars (and oh, fill up they did - some nights too much, and too weird, when everyone came downtown), and charm the pants off this grumpy gal of an island? Susan Sarandon and her legendary assets sure did their part. The Film Society of Lincoln Center's annual tribute benefit at Alice Tully Hall on Monday night preceded Tribeca's Tuesday opening with a two-hour, star-filled ceremony where Sarandon's low-cut black gown revealed a five inch split shot - begging zoom lenses everywhere to go fish.

Good humor prevailed: David Bowie called her bossy - but "sharp, sassy and seriously sexy." He also remembered some thespian advice she had given him. "Susan told me to stop acting: I thought of the legal ramifications of walking out on my contract, but then realized what she meant was, "just say the lines," he joked. Every clip had a boob, to be sure. There was Rocky Horror, of course, and The Hunger, Atlantic City and Joe. Who could forget Pretty Baby, or Bull Durham? Sarandon and Jack's blazing Eastwick cello scene, and her Palace in White? Tim Curry remembered her in '70s spandex; Harry Belafonte lauded her skills; even crusty Gore Vidal was full of wry love.

Tim Robbins tried to think of what he could tell the crowd that wouldn't leave him on the defensive at home (though he said Sarandon is a terrible hockey player, she's apparently always on her game otherwise). So he sang her praises as an actress, wife, mother and political activist. "I'll never forget the two lesbian vampires who told me I was unworthy of her," he demurred. And oh, he added, "She is extremely photogenic while being arrested."

For her part, given recent events what with women's groups canceling her and worse, Sarandon was just happy that she got not just a standing ovation from the crowd but a standing invitation now and forever. "I'm very happy that you didn't cancel," she said.

Afterwards, at the iconic but foul Tavern on the Green restaurant, where you can smell the can 20 feet down the hall, Geena Davis fixed her makeup and smiled as women paid her compliments in the toilet for her touching speech. Dank, claustrophobic and more mirrored than Enter the Dragon (even Bruce Lee, after a couple of cocktails, wouldn't know who the REAL Tim Curry was) the place absorbed hundreds of guests in finery, and in turn, their clothes absorbed the smells of buffet-style steak, potatoes, and seared tuna.

Far downtown, there was plenty of air. On the waterfront, films played in an airy AMC behemoth that also houses the Embassy Suites, where many of the filmmakers and staff were shacked up. Besides the gilded giant premieres, which you'll soon catch at your neighborhood mall just the same, the real gems of any big festival are often things you can't pronounce, with subtitles that make you doubt your prescription. Baltazar Kormakur's The Sea is one: comedic but far more serious than his surprise hit 101 Reykjavik, it tells the story of Icelandic fishing quotas and the dark and troubled past of a family whose domestic problems threaten to finish them all. You'll leave squinting, but intrigued by the winner of eight Icelandic-equivalent Oscars. Another pick of the week is Salma Hayek's directorial debut, her fine forthcoming family film, The Maldonado Miracle.

Other good foreign fare will make you laugh and recall every badly dubbed Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan movie you ever saw - that is, Shaolin Soccer, a kicking hit in China and soon sure to be scoring goals with kids and adults alike here in the States. Then there are the films that have no sound at all, like the fine and sympathetic 1929 Library of Congress print of Redskin - a Victor Schertzinger silent film about the plight of Native Americans struggling with the conflict between tradition and progress. It positively stuns in two-color Technicolor (alternating between sepia and more vibrant tones, apparently a budgetary concession at the time), and if the gorgeous, sweeping vistas of the American Southwest look familiar, it's probably because they informed all of old Coach's fine Arizona and Utah work. This is a true feat for any director, any time, thanks in no small part to the nuanced writings of one Elizabeth Pickett, a little-known documentarian who got Paramount to front the money for this then-controversial film.

And the best of the week was yet to come…

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