The Sundance Swarm

By AMY WALLACE

Jan. 23, 1998 12 AM PT

TIMES STAFF WRITER

PARK CITY, Utah — It’s another morning at the Sundance Film Festival, and the William Morris Agency’s daily strategy meeting is underway. Seven agents--two who represent actors, two who rep directors and three who arrange financing and distribution deals for independent films--circle a large table in an overheated condo and discuss who’s hot.

Of the scores of unknown actors in the festival’s 103 feature films, two--described by one agent as the next Kate Winslet and Antonio Banderas--are William Morris material, everyone agrees, and should be approached. Same with a foreign director who every agent at the table believes has a future making studio films--once he learns English, that is.

“He’s going to make money, this guy,” says Bobbi Thompson, the pint-sized agent who discovered directors James Cameron and Tim Burton long before “Terminator” and “Beetlejuice.” “Let me tell you how big he’s going to be.”

In any marketplace, a seller goes where the buyers are, and the rarefied realm of the nation’s preeminent independent film festival is no exception. Tiny Park City is swarming with agents. Some, who are seeking distribution deals for films they represent, are selling celluloid. The vast majority are selling themselves and their agencies, seeking to sign the biggest new talents of the festival.

“Agents come here trying to find tomorrow’s studio filmmakers today,” said Jon Karas, president of Infinity Management International, who is here for the same reason. “You’re looking for a voice and a vision that taps into universal emotions--something that will sell on a higher level.”

Between them, the three big agencies--Creative Artists Agency, International Creative Management and William Morris--are rotating nearly 60 agents through town during the 10-day festival. And there are at least that many more from smaller outfits prowling the snowy streets looking for what one festival-goer indelicately called “fresh meat.”

CAA’s John Ptak, who represents directors Peter Weir (“Fearless”) and Ridley and Tony Scott (“Blade Runner” and “Top Gun,” respectively), was in town for four days. So was ICM’s Robert Newman, whose client list (Robert Rodriguez, Danny Boyle) has prompted some to call him a divining rod for directorial talent.

It is in vogue at Sundance to deride agents as a troubling symbol of Hollywood hype, commercialism and all that is antithetical to the indie spirit. Actor Vincent Gallo, for example, who is making his directorial debut here with “Buffalo 66,” prefaced one of the screenings of his film this week with a lament about agents.

“Agents are creepy people. Creepy crawlers,” he said, adding that he dreaded coming to Park City because it is “the agent’s vacation Wonderland. They’re creeping here. They’re creeping there. They’re creeping everywhere.”

Other fledgling filmmakers are wary. Dan Rosen, the director and writer of a film called “Dead Man’s Curve,” said he was happy to meet with agents (preferably over food), but not without deep reservations.

“Filmmakers are all poor. I want to take advantage of as many free meals as I can,” he said. “But lots of times, agents spend a lot of time in the hunt. Then, once they bag their prey, they put the trophy on the wall and only dust it off every now and then to make sure it’s still there.”

And seemingly everybody here has a story about a particular agent habit: “They’re on the phone during screenings--and they’re not even talking about the films! They’re making party plans,” said Linda Brown, a publicist at Indie PR who swears she even saw one agent call another who was sitting in the same theater.

But industry veterans say agent-bashing is naive. At minimum, they say, agents can serve as a bridge between the major movie studios and young filmmakers who want to try their hands at bigger-budget pictures. Even more exciting for those who value independent films is the growing group of agents who specialize in arranging financing for indies.

Instead of stifling the independent spirit, said Jeff Dowd, a producer at Palisades Pictures, these agents can help ensure that a filmmaker’s first time at Sundance isn’t also his last.

“Let’s not kid ourselves,” said Dowd, who is here seeking a distribution deal for a Sundance film called “Wicked.” “The truth of the matter is that most filmmakers here want to continue to make films. That’s very difficult, and agents can make it easier for them.”

William Morris’ Sundance contingent proves Dowd’s point. The agency is the only one of the big three to have an independent film division, headed by former indie producer Cassian Elwes. Most of the year, Elwes and Neil Friedman, the former chief executive officer of the Edward R. Pressman Film Corp., serve as the agency’s in-house indie financing arm, setting up projects for William Morris clients.

Friedman, for example, is currently finalizing a deal for Bruce Willis to make a film version of Kurt Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions.” Financed independently, the film--which will also star Albert Finney--will be owned by Willis, who will also control domestic distribution rights.

But, at festival time, Elwes and Friedman usually work for people you’ve never heard of.

In 1996, it was Elwes who convinced Miramax to pay nearly $10 million for “Sling Blade,” by a then-unknown director named Billy Bob Thornton. Last year, Elwes sold “Hav Plenty,” a $50,000 film by first-time director Chris Cherot, to Miramax for more than $1 million. The film is in competition at Sundance, and earlier this week, Elwes secured Cherot, 30, a multipicture deal at Miramax.

“This is what Sundance is about,” Elwes said. “A guy who made a movie for no money is now an extremely rich young man.”

Friedman, meanwhile, is trying to do the same thing for Joe Carnahan, a 28-year-old Sacramento resident whose first feature, “Blood, Guts, Bullets & Octane,” was made for $7,300. Throughout the festival, Friedman has talked up Carnahan’s film--about two used car salesmen and the stolen 1963 Pontiac convertible that determines their fate--to distributors, trying to convince them to attend the midnight premiere.

The pitch--”This is the Quentin Tarantino you’re not in business with”--apparently worked. Early Thursday morning, in addition to Carnahan’s wife and two children, brother, mother, father and in-laws, six major distributors were in the standing-room-only audience of about 300. Just a few hours later, Friedman said three of those had expressed interest and a fourth, absent from the festival, wanted to take a look. Friedman was happy to oblige: He put his assistant on a plane with the only print of the film.

“I love this guy,” Carnahan, who quit his $30,000-a-year job as a television promo producer to finish his film, said of Friedman. “He never lets up.”