Sonoma's Movieble Feast

The Cinema Epicuria has a film for every taste.

We first enountered Brenda opposite the Plaza, in front of the Sebastiani Theater, where began the first round of check-ins for the Sonoma Valley Film Festival. She fielded phone calls concerning myriad desperate situations, while a line of supplicants accrued to present their own critical issues; Brenda, dressed as if for a workout, doused one fire after another, each conflagration attacked with a smile. Then it was our turn. As usual, we were negligent in making any arrangements, yet we proceeded to ask for everything we could get in terms of credentials and access. Shockingly, rather than indicating the obvious--that we were rather late in making these broad requests--she said she'd do what she could, and then did so. No snippy exasperation, no condescending attitude for the disorganized; just gracious accommodation.

By then, however, we were not really surprised. While waiting, we heard endless buzz in praise of Brenda Lhormer, and her husband Marc.

Ever since they took over as event directors, it goes, the festival has really taken off.

Our previous experiences there had been limited to brief interactions some years ago, when we ran an E! Channel web site devoted to film; we most remember a bemused Delroy Lindo signing in at a nondescript table on the sidewalk. It didn't seem very glamorous at the time, and, indeed, it was so low-key as to be almost invisible. Now the filmfest is very visible, and despite what must have been great organizational change, it seems to have resulted in little administrative uptightness.

The prevailing theme is "Cinema Epicuria, a unique varietal of film, food and wine," and it's charming to note how hard they work to maintain the philosophy across many venues of every category.

The first event took us to Saddles, a light, airy restaurant at MacArthur Place, where the proprietors of the Charles Creek Vineyards kept bottomless glasses full, a jazz trio provided compatible sounds, and waiters circulated with bites of food. Restored by the comestibles, we re-acquainted ourselves with the ubiquitous realtor who may have a client for our land; she revealed that her own estate is headed for the market.

After 20 years in Lovall Valley, she said, she's had enough. Ready for a life closer to town, more travel, less responsibility.

Meanwhile, she'll host some of the filmmakers at the guest house; her immersion in this weekend happening will be total.

Then we met Chris, who takes some credit for the South African films shown at the festival. He told of his trip there a few years ago, and the odd mix of feelings a negro of his age and time felt on setting foot in a country that for so much of his life epitomized a certain form of evil. He commented on the natural beauty of the land and animals, of course, but he was most impressed by the class divisions, rather than those of race, and the ability to drive in minutes from the squalor of a Soweto to a luxury rivalling that of Beverly Hills.

With Chris, we marveled at the changes undergone in the last decade or so, and thought back to an acquaintance in Los Angeles in the mid-80s. Our dabbling in matters concerning international security brought us into contact with the South African Consulate, and one of its propagandists, also named Chris. It was incredible then to hear of his predictions that in five or 10 years everything would change in South Africa, and that apartheid was destined for obsolescence. As good as his word, it happened. Remarkably, the regime metamorphosed with little violence, considering the potential. The government, after all, not only developed chemical and biological weapons, but nukes, too. And that generally odious government gave it all up. It is amazing, and my new acquaitance liberally shared his enthusiasm for the place and what it's become.

I know the festival organizers, said Chris, and I kept telling them about what a fascinating place it was.

And since then, there have been movies from South Africa.

All too soon, it was time to leave, and we strolled back toward the Plaza to see Modigliani, the opening night film starring Andy Garcia as the troubled artist. Our habitual lateness precluded immediate entry, but we managed to sample some of the film throughout the evening. We later heard many speak of it with great satisfaction. The man who bought a Modigliani print as a teenager because he loved the artist's style. The woman who talked of the rich atmospheres and great sound track.

Our opinion is suspect, given that we missed most of the film. However, what we did see impressed us mightily with the director's willingness to wallow in every imaginable stereotype of the tormented artiste.

We know a little of Paris and art history, and we've spent a fair amount of time around artists, some successful, some not. As in the life of any sort of people, there are highs and lows, happy endings and sad ones. Why filmmakers persist in highlighting only the most wretchedly damaged creative types, as if that's the norm, only they can answer. The obvious response is that such lives provide the most dramatic tension, and lots of melodrama. But is that what they really want? Mere melodrama?

It's such a tiresome, old story.

Consider some of the artists who've merited biopics in the last 50 years, and the story lines: Van Gogh, Basquiat, Pollack, for instance. The theme is the same. Troubled, out-of-control artist self destructs. The recent Picasso movie, with Anthony Hopkins, differs only in that he makes everyone else self-destruct instead.

We would like to see a movie that captures more of the fun rather than all of the misery.

To have lived in Paris in the '20s, in that milieu--in Modigliani's milieu--was one of the great pleasures of all history. The city drew intellects from the world over, expatriate writers and artists of every ilk, who gathered in cafes and salons and night clubs to converse, carouse and create. Art renewed itself as Dada, Cubism and Surrealism, and Hemingway and Fitzgerald retooled the American novel. Dhiagalev's Ballet Russe reworked the dance and its presentation, while Josephine Baker tittilated audiences with bared breasts and a skirt of bananas. The colonies on the Riviera fostered by Gerald Murphy and Somerset Maugham brought Paris to the beach, and Gertrude Stein, with her brother Leo, brought Paris to Paris.

But we digress. Most of the audience liked that movie, and we're just thankful that Brenda and Marc brought a little Paris to Sonoma.

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