Like any good sequel, this one picks up with our hero (that would be me) who’s found herself in dire straits. That is to say, I was on the couch, pounding coffee like an 18-year-old pounds Natural Light, while desperately commanding my feet to suck it up and carry me through another several nights of fabulous Film Festival fun. My feet ignored my pleas, but a peeper’s job is never done, so I sucked down a double dose of Ibuprofen, and set off to get the scoop on Film Fest ’06, Part Deux. Some stars of the previous edition reappeared, some new characters were introduced, and all gathered, night after night, to drink in whatever the Festival was pourin’. We toasted Heath Ledger surrounded by Harleys, watched as dirt bikes sailed through the air, partied with Philip Seymour Hoffman, and laughed ’til we cried while watching Jason Reitman’s feature debut — an unfiltered hit — Thank You for Smoking. So many parties, so many peeps, and, alas — now for the cliffhanger — so little space.
Originally published 4:33 p.m., February 16, 2006
Updated 11:09 a.m., March 2, 2006
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