NYFF Dispatch 6: Party Crashing Out
A peek behind the curtain of New York Film Festival afterparties. Plus: brief impressions of Sentimental Value, It Was Just an Accident, and If I Had Legs I’d Kick You.
They tend not to be as extravagant as those at Sundance or Cannes, but soirées are plentiful during the New York Film Festival, at least for those prominent or important enough to warrant an invitation. I am not, but manifesting/pestering to be someone’s plus one to a movie party worked out! I went to a very cool party to celebrate the premiere of Sirāt and an intimate reception to celebrate Jafar Panahi’s first visit to the US in 25 years.
My buddy Byron got in on the fun as well, going to a star-studded reception for A House of Dynamite during the festival’s first weekend. As with his trip to Cannes, he was gracious enough to send me a report to kick off this very special edition of my NYFF dispatches.
Champagne Prosecco Problems
Written by Byron Lo. Edited by Andrew Truong.
From where I live in Greenpoint, it’s a 45 minute train ride to Lincoln Center. I climb the steps from the 66th Street station into the sea of cinephiles outside Alice Tully Hall, and that familiar New York alertness kicks in. My strategy to get through any crowd has always been to stare dead ahead and move forward at all costs.
Apparently, I share this tactic with Jeremy Allen White. As I began pushing through the crowd, I heard an exasperated “Excuse me!” and caught a blur of tousled hair as he dove into a tight window of open space. I blinked and he was gone, fresh off of doing a Q&A for Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere. Our favorite chef, late for lineup.
That star sighting was the first thing experienced at this year’s New York Film Festival, and the evening ahead promised even more. The marquee film of the night was A House of Dynamite, and as luck would have it, my friend K— had invited me to a pre-screening party thrown by Netflix. He promised tech-sponsored cocktails, loafers and high heels, and a healthy amount of celebrity mingling.
The event was at Lincoln Ristorante, right across the street from Alice Tully Hall. Sleek and dark, there are floor to ceiling windows, velvetted banquettes, and an open kitchen for all to gawk at. Servers floated through the room with champagne flutes, but after some light investigating, I discovered they were filled with prosecco. (Come on, Netflix!) Hors d’oeuvres danced through the crowd and a buffet station offered Hollywood favorites: sliced filet, rigatoni alla vodka, and—as every good party should—french fries.
Gathered around a white-tableclothed high-top with K— and his friends, I had the perfect vantage point for watching guests file in. It was the typical crowd for these events: producers, distributors, sponsors, critics, influencers. A camera flash heralded the VIP arrivals. In came Kathryn Bigelow, the film’s director, followed by her A-list cast: Tracy Letts (with his partner Carrie Coon), Anthony Ramos, Renée Elise Goldsberry. As a waiter appeared at my elbow asking if I’d like a refill (the answer was yes), I locked eyes with Idris Elba, who was chatting with a Netflix exec. It’s true: he really is that beautiful in person.
Despite the fanfare, the energy was easy-going and people were surprisingly open to chat. At the bar, I met one of the A House of Dynamite producers, loosened tie and all. He was genuinely warm and eager to talk. (Of course, he probably wanted me to like the movie.)
When the clock struck 9, our buzzed and bloated crew crossed the street and clambered into the theater. After the lights dimmed, Bigelow took the stage to introduce her film about an impending nuclear disaster. I should have drunk something stronger than prosecco.
Byron Lo is a devoted cinephile who works in hospitality consulting. He has plans to host a year-long screening series where each of Éric Rohmer’s Tales of the Four Seasons are paired with a sandwich. He lives in Brooklyn.
Where the Parties Were At
Thanks to some anonymous sources and publicly available knowledge, I got intel on some notable party locations.
It all began on Opening Night: after After the Hunt had its North American premiere, the cinema elite headed to the official afterparty hosted by Film at Lincoln Center. Affectionately known as Movie Prom, it’s always held at Tavern on the Green.
From there on out, it’s on the studios to host the parties for the films on their respective slates. During the first week of the festival, Wagner Moura took in a performance from traditional Brazilian percussionists after The Secret Agent premiered, while George Clooney charmed the pants off of everyone at Polo Bar (very much keeping with his Jay Kelly character). Richard Linklater’s two Spotlight titles had their fêtes at very appropriate venues: Café Luxembourg for Nouvelle Vague, Sardi’s for Blue Moon. Less lavish were wine bar receptions, held for some of the other titles across the festival’s Main Slate.
The good times continued to roll in the waning days of NYFF. At a pre-screening reception for No Other Choice, John Turturro was excited to meet Park Chan-wook for the first time while other attendees hobnobbed with Lee Byung-hun. Though his initial appearances were thwarted by visa delays, Jafar Panahi arrived one week later and some events were quickly put together. After a Q&A for his excellent new movie It Was Just an Accident, the Iranian filmmaker went to a nearby wine bar for a reception. I don’t want to be presumptuous but it seemed like an incongruous location; I can confirm that he did not touch any alcohol and skipped the charcuterie plate. After about an hour of gladhanding and eating a chicken skewer, he was whisked away into a Chevy Escalade, presumably off to another event. Finally, the Closing Night movie Is This Thing On? filmed many of its scenes at the Comedy Cellar, so it was no surprise the afterparty was held there.
But the award for buzziest party belongs to Marty Supreme, which had its world premiere at a secret screening. Despite rampant speculation, no one was confident that this would be the movie until just hours before, when Kylie Jenner’s private jet touched down at Teterboro1. Just being the first audience to see the completed film would have been exclusive enough, but as detailed in Abe Beame’s envious scene report for GQ, select guests were given a matchbook, with the location and time cryptically printed on the cover: “The Waverly Inn. 11 PM.” Those who ventured down to the West Village in the wee hours of a Monday night would have seen Timothée and Kylie lounging in one corner while Dennis Lim, the director of Film at Lincoln Center and newly minted style icon, was seated at a table across the way.
That night, someone gave me a heads up that the Marty Supreme party was at The Waverly Inn and I briefly considered trying to crash it. But unlike the titular character, I didn’t have enough chutzpah.
If I Had Accidental Value I’d Kick You
Because I’m keeping up with the diary format: brief impressions of three of the best movies I saw at NYFF, which coincidentally were next to each other on the press schedule, followed by my own party report from a delicious pre-premiere reception for Sirāt.
Tuesday September 30
Sentimental Value
Opens in theaters November 7 via Neon.
The Worst Person in the World is one of those movies that I hold with a lot of, ahem, sentimental value, so I had been eagerly awaiting whatever Joachim Trier would make next. Lucky for us, the breakout star from Worst Person also returns. Renate Reinsve is Nora from Oslo, a stage actor estranged from her father Gustav (Stellan Skarsgard), an acclaimed arthouse filmmaker who had abandoned his children to pursue his career. (Yes, this is the same dynamic as in Jay Kelly.) He comes bearing a new script, seemingly inspired by the suicide of his own mother, and wants Nora to play the part. After she turns it down, an A-list American (Elle Fanning) steps in. As preparations begin to shoot in the family’s ancestral home, histories are unearthed and new understandings are reached.
This trenchantly refined family drama of cross-generational connection is just as humanistic as Trier’s prior film, but it doesn’t quite reach the same peaks of exhilaration. Perhaps it’s because the story isn’t quite as relatable this time around. But this is a minor shortcoming: Sentimental Value still retains major emotional power.
That’s largely thanks to the stunning ensemble cast: Stellan is stellar, Renate reigns, and though it’s a relatively small role I’m stanning Fanning. The wonderful Anders Danielsen Lie makes an appearance as Nora’s married lover, and Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas is piercingly grounded as the sister who helps make amends between Nora and her father while still holding him to account for his past misdeeds. Trier, who wrote the script with usual partner Eskil Vogt, will have you tap into your wellspring of cathartic tears. If you’re on the verge of a menty b, try a bit of senti v.
Tasting Notes: I still want to visit Oslo and do a Worst Person in the World tourl. One of my relatives is getting married to someone who grew up there and I was really hoping that the wedding would be in Norway but instead I’ll have to settle for Hawaii.
There was roaring applause once this movie ended, so it continues the crowd friendly streak that began at Cannes back in May.
Afterwards I quickly dip out and head home. I would have liked to stick around and see Jodie Foster solve a mystery in Paris but need to catch up on work (of the day job and writing kind) and I am having friends over for dinner tonight. I made bucatini and Tuscan-style beans on toast.
Wednesday October 1
It Was Just An Accident
Opens in theaters October 15 via Neon.
The title is a bit of a misnomer because every single element in this film was carefully placed there by Jafar Panahi. The Iranian director has made multiple movies in defiance of an official ban, including two under house arrest. In 2022 he was imprisoned for seven months, only being released after a hunger strike; It Was Just An Accident is his first project since then. But even ignoring this compelling metatextual narrative, it is a pretty great movie.
Auto mechanic Vahid (Vahid Mobasseri) has a chance encounter with the man he believes tortured him during his imprisonment. He does the logical thing and kidnaps him. Not completely certain of his captive’s identity (Vahid was blindfolded whenever they were in the same room), he tracks down the men and women he met during his incarceration to get a second opinion before planning to bury the jailer alive. Despite the serious subject matter, the film is surprisingly farcical, finding humor in the absurdity of the situation. Exploring the morality of revenge and the assignation of guilt, it’s a dialectical thriller of the highest order.
Tasting Notes: No one really has time to eat in this movie, so I will shout out New York’s hottest Persian restaurants: Sofreh and Eyval very much earned their accolades. Every time I eat there I wonder why they aren’t the only restaurants I ever visit. If a brief appearance of a celebratory pastry box has you inspired, check out their sister bakery Sofreh Cafe. Surely there are other worthy places around the city for Persian cuisine; let me know where I should go:
If I Had Legs I’d Kick You
Now playing in theaters via A24.
The “Momcut Gems” jokes are accurate: it’s just as tense as the Safdie Brothers thriller and equally astounding in its craft. This two-hour panic attack is brought to you by Mary Bronstein, directing her first movie since 2008. Rose Byrne delivers a commanding performance as a woman who is way beyond the verge of a nervous breakdown. And who would blame her? Her daughter is contending with a long-term illness (unnamed but requires a feeding tube) while her husband is away for work, and then a giant hole opens up in the ceiling of her apartment and the landlord is slow to get it fixed. Living out of a putrid motel (with Ivy Wolk and A$AP Rocky as unsympathetic staffers), she copes with a lot of self-medicating.
What does such a put-upon woman do for work? Therapy. She spends her days listening to other people whine about their comparatively manageable problems. Her own psychoanalyst is Conan O’Brien, cast against type. Embalmed by a calculating professionalism, there’s no warmth in his eyes. He’s a highlight, but this is the Rose Byrne show. Her face tends to dominate the frame to the point of suffocation; meanwhile the unsettling sound design pushes the domestic sphere into the realm of horror.
Tasting Notes: To recreate the If I Had Legs experience, chug white wine and weed and get nightmarishly cross-faded.
After those two movies I head up to my friend Jen’s place to crash on her couch and do day job work. Then evening came and it was time to attend my first NYFF party, thanks to a friend who generously added me on as a plus one. It was a very fun night.
Cocktails and Lamb Cigars
The Moroccan decor and transportive atmosphere made Shalel the perfect location to celebrate the NYFF premiere of Sirāt, a pulse-pounding desert rave thriller. It was my first time at this Middle Eastern restaurant, so I wasn’t quite prepared for how different the vibe was from the sterility of 70th Street: the underground brick-lined space felt like an old world inn. There’s even a small waterfall in the back, with rose petals strewn atop the little pond at the bottom. Kangding Ray’s techno score was playing over the speakers, adding a further level of immersion.
I posted up at the bar with a couple critic friends, and we wondered whether the low ceiling would prove hazardous for director Oliver Laxe, who was rumored to be 6 feet 7 inches and very handsome. Once he arrived, I immediately confirmed both to be true. Fortunately he wasn’t in too much danger of bumping his head. Another filmmaker, who was sitting next to me, quizzed him about working with the non-professional actors who filled out the small cast of this film.
The lead actor, however, is a veteran of Spanish cinema. Those who know Sergi López as the fascist Captain Vidal from Pan’s Labyrinth may be surprised that in Sirāt, he’s a tender father searching for his lost daughter in a world gone mad. It was his first time ever visiting New York, but lamented that he wouldn’t get to see any of it: he flew in the night before and was going back the very next morning to his native Barcelona. Hopefully on his next trip, there’s a day off built into his awards campaign itinerary.
Normally, the food served at these parties are decent or just OK, but that wasn’t the case here. The olives and beet & orange salad, both skewered, were refreshingly healthy, and I couldn’t stop eating the Moroccan lamb cigars. And don’t get me started on the mariscos crudité! A dessert platter of baklava sealed the deal: I’ll come back to Shalel for a proper meal.
Both special cocktails were dangerously crushable. I don’t recall recognizing anyone famous at the event (besides Paul Schrader, who hung out in a corner booth, and is more infamous than famous at this point), but after the third tomato martini I wasn’t really on my game.
After a couple hours of mixing and mingling, the restaurant cleared out as most attendees were going to see the film but we had already caught it at the press screening the week before. Well sauced, we party hopped to Vin Sur Vingt, where a post-screening reception for Sound of Falling was underway. (We picked up Byron on the walk over, as he had just gotten out of seeing it.) My three glasses of wine were an ill-advised nightcap because I had quite the hangover the next morning. I was not alone in this feeling.
Postscript
This night was an excellent introduction to the world of NYFF parties. I got delicious food, too many drinks, and a bit of face time with the talent. I felt privileged even though I wasn’t actually invited. (Maybe next year?) But as Graydon Carter once said, “there’s always another room2.”
Even more exclusive are intimate dinners and brunches with filmmakers and cast, mostly aimed at voters in elite awards groups. You get more than five minutes with the stars in a crowded bar. You can trade Broadway recommendations with Richard Linklater, or listen to Elle Fanning explain Death Stranding to a befuddled Stellan Skarsgard.
I can’t even imagine what’s in the room after that. I’ve barely made it into the first.
In the next dispatch: The rest of the fest.
Remarkably, no one in the media spoiled the surprise even though a growing group of insiders, including yours truly, started getting secondhand confirmations the day before the big event.
Hat tip to this tweet from Matt Zeitlin that contained this quote.