He’s talking to someone who Richard knows (Richard, it’s becoming clear, knows virtually every human being in this portion of Nevada, as well as their place in the Las Vegas social structure); the name means nothing to me and promptly vanishes from my head to make room for more visual inputs of Dennis Hopper. Whoops, he’s gone, heading into one of the theaters here at the Palms to see whatever movie has caught his attention.

Shouldn't be surprised he didn't linger; as the Girl From Kansas observed, “people come and go so quickly here!” They really do; things happen in this festival, and in this city, at breakneck speed. I’m feeling a certain kinship with Miss Gale at this point; the parallels between CineVegas and Oz (the kingdom of, not the HBO series) are staggering. The landscape is painted in outlandishly garish colors, people in odd costumes (cocktail waitress outfits, evening gowns at 11 a.m., enormous augmented breasts) float by constantly, and the place seems to be run by not one but an entire coterie of awesomely powerful but rarely seen wizards.

I even have my own magical talisman: a laminated “A” pass hangs from a cheap black lanyard around my neck. Not as stylish as ruby slippers perhaps, but while it won't transport me instantly back to Boston, the pass does allow me unfettered access to every movie at this festival (at least for the period of Friday, June 9, through Tuesday, June 13), every major party, and even (hushed tones now) the CineVegas HQ room, which is off-limits to those without bejeweled footwear (or laminated passes). 

I wander into HQ once or twice; it’s apparently a place where Film Revelers (I guess I should say “we Film Revelers,” as I’m supposed to be part of this group) can find respite from the flashing machines and dim lighting of the casino proper. The furniture is nicer, certainly more places to sit, and the lighting is much better, making actual reading possible. There’s a table with a few publicly accessible computers, allowing people to check their email under a huge banner advertising a popular personal website. There are barrels filled with ice and beverage bottles around the room; I ignore the “energy drink” and try the “vitamin enriched” fruit water. It’s vaguely reminiscent of watered-down Kool-Aid. I feel no accompanying rush of vitamin-charged energy. 

I sit with my book for a while, feeling very out of place (partly because I haven't seen another book in this entire casino; makes me feel a bit pretentious, but I can't read another of these provided magazines again). I scan the small crowd for any recognizable celebrities. Zilch. There are probably some well-known journalists or even directors here...no, wait, they probably have their own room, away from the hoi polloi of the festival. Hang on...hey, that’s Bobcat Goldthwait! I just saw him on the “Outlaw Cinema” panel a few hours ago! In keeping with the “outlaw” theme, he’s wearing a cowboy hat and has used a Sharpie marker to draw a classic handlebar mustache on his face (I hope he realizes that stuff doesn't come off easily). He was easily the best thing at the panel, funny, irreverent, not too full of himself, interested in promoting his movie but not pushing it too shamelessly.

There were other directors of greater stature at the panel: the very prolific Abel Ferrara (jaded, rambling, but someone who has obviously been through the wars of making movies for a very long time), Gregg Araki (young, earnest, perhaps a bit intimidated the company he’s keeping), Nina Menkes (flat-voiced, a bit pedantic, tries to come across as a radical, doesn’t quite pull it off), and James Fotopoulos (the only one trying for the classic “indie” director look: black-on-black shirt and jacket, sunglasses worn indoors, slouching down in his chair trying to look insolent but coming off as sullen; he’s the only one on the panel with that “why-am-I-bothering-with-you-people” attitude you find at such events).

But the Bobcat was the most enjoyable and, oddly enough, the one who seemed the most real of the entire panel. While the others made speeches about how they loved their “outlaw” status and despised the Hollywood mainstream, Bobcat pointed out, quite reasonably, that “no one ever says ‘yeah, I hope my movie only plays in art houses and gets seen by only nine people.’” He’s also the only professional I’ve ever heard admit that he pays attention to his reviews: “good reviews feel amazing. Bad reviews hurt and suck.”

Maybe I should go talk to him, say hi or something; he’s right there, drawing a handlebar mustache on the face of some small child with another Sharpie (the parents seem to think this is hilarious; I find myself wondering what the phone number for social services is here in Vegas).

But what would I say? “Hi, Mr. Bobcat...um...you’re funny, right?” Nope, I have no idea how to strike up a conversation with a celebrity, even one I admire (“Meat Bob” is still one of my favorite comedy albums). No one else in the room seems to have that problem. Reminds me that I really am the outsider here. Oh well. Just about time for another movie. That’s what I’m here for after all. Better get my heels clicking. There’s no place like the movies, there’s no place like the movies...

(Photo: Ethan Miller / Getty Images)