Failed Sundance Pariah
the further adventures in my quest for cancellation
I’m on the phone with my roommate, standing at the corner of the sound stage while Joel McHale acts in the set adjacent to me. My roommate is helping me order a handful of Sundance tickets because their mobile website won’t let me input my credit card information. I buy a ticket for the uncut restoration of The Doom Generation because I anticipate that there will be additional shots of the castration scene and I think that I’m interested in seeing that. That’s my brand now, I guess, so I should be there. I receive a DM on Instagram from Betsey Brown. She’s returning my message from the night before.
The previous evening I was working on set and noticed a handful of people in my trans film Twitter circle posting about the Actors screening in Chicago. I made a joke in my last article that now that Actors is screening again it’s not really as transgressive as I made it out to be. I think I’ll be forever chasing that high. After Jane Schoenbrun implies that the Chicago screening is an act of violence, I send messages to Betsey and my friend at the Music Box letting them know to expect discourse to rear its ugly head at them shortly.
I make sure my roommate buys me tickets to the movies made by trans directors. Then I get back to Betsey.
I’m leaving for Sundance in a few days. I weigh my options and consider how things might go down based on how much I engage with this controversy that I am 33% responsible for. I decide that it’s safest to err on the side of silence. I call Betsey to apologize for this whole ridiculous spectacle and give her a public relations strategy.
I wonder about what would have happened if I went on the defence of the screening. I know it would have been cancelled regardless of what I said, the details of which I am privileged to know because I had the idea for the screening and granted Betsey the tranny pass as justification that the movie was an interesting work of art, actually. By the time I wrote my article I’d already missed the memo that we were supposed to ignore Actors. But nobody talks to me so I just do my little outsider artist act. I put the Q&A questions I had planned in a drawer and take out my passport that still has my deadname and old face on it.
I didn’t want to go to Sundance. I had this stupid rule for the first nine years of my film career that I wouldn’t go to any event that I wasn’t invited to. This was stupid and I would encourage any aspiring filmmaker to do the opposite. But I was a pretentious closeted transsexual so any excuse not to be perceived had a wondrous appeal to me, so long as I could intellectually justify it. I produce movies with my friend Heather Buckley and our agent said we both have to go to Sundance, so I guess I’m going to Sundance.
Don’t fuck tranny chasers. It will make you feel bad about yourself. I have a lot of reasons to feel bad about myself already and I probably didn’t need to add that one onto the pile. Your body and mind can be at war but your mind is all you have when you’re sitting on an airplane.
During my layover I am on a Zoom call with my filmmaking partner/ex-wife Dionne Copland and we approve the artwork for the new VHS release of Computer Hearts. I think about how I have the Lunchmeat VHS of World’s Fair on my shelf and how I should probably apologize to Jane if I see them. Right? Did I do something wrong there… I think about how I’m using film drama to distract myself from my personal life and then I’m in a guilt ouroboros.
In a suburb outside of Park City I am in a tiny room with a bunk bed. I volunteer to sleep on the top bunk and for a moment I consider that this privilege cost me what I make in two weeks. I go out to a party and quickly realize I am the only person in this room with a day job. I’m also the only transsexual. We try to go to a bar and the bouncer won’t let me in because I’m trans. I return to the Airbnb and discover that I forgot my razor at home. Why am I at Sundance.
In 2019 I was working on a space drama that starred Hilary Swank. I introduced myself to the director by telling him a story about how he ruined film school for me. When I was pitching my thesis film I was trying to make comparisons to other movies so that my class would understand the type of movie I was trying to make. I started listing movies from the 90s and all I received were blank stares, “You have to know The Lawnmower Man. Come on, it stars Pierce Brosnan and Jeff Fahey.” “Who?” “Jeff Fahey, you have to know Jeff Fahey. Planet Terror, Wyatt Earp, Body Parts? Come on! Virtual Seduction? The Serpent’s Lair! You’re telling me none of you have seen The Serpent’s Lair?” Everyone in my class chose not to work on mine and Dionne’s film.
However, telling this story to Jeffrey Reiner made him laugh and from then on I sat with him at lunch and we talked about Bresson and the new Joker movie at length. It was during one of these days that I got the call from Sundance that our film Cold Wind Blowing had been shortlisted for the Midnight section. That period was the best I ever felt at my day job. People took me seriously and I got to hang out with the director and actors at lunch. I remember a producer coming up to ask Jeff if this production assistant was bothering him and he said “No, he’s a director.” I quit the show the day I got our rejection letter. It was fun in the moment, but like did we even stand a chance? I looked over the selections and it was movies like Possessor. No fucking way mine and Dionne’s self-financed horror drama was getting in.
It’s four years later and I’m talking to Brandon Cronenberg at the premiere party for Infinity Pool. I wonder how many of the people here remember me from before I transitioned. I met Brandon ten years ago and his film’s producer and DP used to give me film advice when I was a plucky young filmmaker. I’m telling Brandon that Ryan Nicholson gave both of us our first job in film and we reminisce before I have to break the news that Ryan passed away a few years ago. Brandon’s movie premieres in an hour and I feel absolutely horrible for breaking this news to him. I retreat from that conversation and Heather and I end up talking at Mia Goth. I feel like a crazy person because not only am I an intense transsexual, but as a bit I decided to dress in knee highs and cat ears because of a Tweet I saw. Ari Aster is standing next to me but I don’t know what I’d say to him, so I find my friends who run a different film festival and we decide to find some pocket beers before the Infinity Pool screening.
I tell them about the Actors controversy and it’s treated like typical Louise. I realize in this moment that no matter how hard I try to be transgressive the establishment is likely still going to embrace me. I will have to push further beyond my limits. I see other trannies get in trouble all the time and yet I’m being invited to exclusive Sundance parties. I wonder if I would still be invited to these parties if I hadn’t transitioned. Did taking the ladypills give me clout or do people suddenly like having me around? A coincidence that brings to the surface a disgusting feeling I can’t shake. When I was most active on 4chan in 2013 I almost became a girl but I didn’t see a path forward in which I wouldn’t end up touching boy parts for money, so I made Computer Hearts instead. I loved it when my tripfag friends called me a tranny because it meant I was understood without saying it. After the festival I see one of the girls I met and spent a not insignificant amount of time hanging out with posting about how trans women shouldn’t be in women’s spaces. Is there enough clout to shield one from transphobia? I wonder if that’s why some people who the internet has labelled as transphobes are my friends. Even my film mentor made one of the most despicably transphobic movies I’ve ever seen and when I showed the clip of it at Fantastic Fest I coddled the horrified audience by whispering into the mic “My friend made this.” I have enough clout that at Sundance I can use the women’s bathroom but last week a woman harassed me for using the washroom at Cineplex after I saw Tár. Would my clout evaporate if I detransition? I still browse /tttt/ every night before bed.
That morning I went to the Outfest event and a bunch of filmmakers are talking about what good representation is. Who’s allowed to tell what stories. That we need nice affirming stories where good things happen to us pathetic transsexuals. I wonder how many people in this room have had to touch boy parts for money. How many of these people have a day job, let alone a working class one. I’m thinking about Actors again. It’s freezing out and I’m wearing knee high socks and cat ears and a shear dress.
I escape outside for a cigarette and I’m asked for a light by Joey Soloway. I bitch about the vibe and they say it was way cooler back in the day, and after deciding I can hang I get invited to their party. The next night I’m dressed really slutty at Joey’s party and I am overjoyed to be in a room with so many other transsexuals. So many of the other trans women are also ex-punks and we all have blonde hair. This was my favourite night at Sundance. I have a conversation with Rebecca, a Vulture reporter covering the fest and she asks if she can say she was “talking about castration with Louise Weard” in her piece. That would be funny, sure. I get offered a bump of k by a beautiful girl but I have to run off to see our friends’ movie so I duck out.
I feel really weird because all of my trans film Twitter friends have a fucking opinion about everyone and I realize that they probably have one about me too. The first conversation I have with Joey is about how our community seems to go out of its way to target art made within and for the community, holding it to impossibly high standards just so they can get outraged when it inevitably fails to hold up. I think about how I am guilty of doing this. I think about the trans artists I seem to associate most closely with now and who their friends are and what their reputations are, and I realize this entire game is bullshit. I am going to be friends with and work with the people I like, and I don’t give a fuck. Ideally, I want to be friends with everyone. If anyone can do it, it’s probably me because I’ve already made it pretty clear who I am and nobody seems to care. Trans film twitter is so fucking stupid (except for my friends, of course). I’m reminded of my near miss yet again when I talk with Jane’s cinematographer for Nevada. I joke that I probably owe Jane an apology, but don’t elaborate.
I want to write about an emerging trans film language from the three trans-directed movies I see at the festival. But there isn’t anything to say. All three movies are quite good, but there is no common expression. There probably shouldn’t be. Each is more derivative of other non-trans filmmakers. I consider whether I should make some case that trans cinema at this time is inherently assimilationist in its aesthetic and narrative qualities, or that of course the movies at Sundance would be. But who cares, trannies can making movies like normal people now too. Is that such a statement? Everyone I meet at Sundance tells me I’m gorgeous and I assume they’re lying. Or that there’s an asterisk. Two locals sitting in front of a restaurant assume Heather is also trans and tell us how brave we are.
It’s another day — all the days here blur together and all the booze is free for me — and Heather tells me to meet her at a party. I almost freeze to death walking there and end up with frostbite. When I get to the party I enter by falling down an entire flight of stairs. The people I sort of recognize at the bottom tell me that I fell gracefully, cool even. I’m sitting on the couch after my grand entrance and two kids come up to me, film school students here on some Adobe scholarship or whatever. I give my canned advice and then one of them comes in close to whisper to me that they just realized they’re a trans woman. Well, my canned response for that is usually “You’re probably not. You don’t want this,” but I’m feeling good so instead I say “Welcome to the club.” I tell someone about this exchange later and they get mad on my behalf, saying that it’s basically someone telling me how I’m the clockiest transsexual here and then projecting onto me. It happens to me so often, especially at film events, that I never really gave it that much energy before. But yeah, probably don’t do that? I’m pulled into another conversation and I’m told how great I’d probably get along with Jane Schoenbrun. “You must know them!” Are all transsexual filmmakers supposed to know each other? I guess I missed that memo too.
The next day I have to run between screenings to catch The Doom Generation so I text Zachary Drucker how much I loved her movie and that it made me cry. I can’t think of anything better than supporting my trans filmmaking sisters. Instead of doing anything for my own career I use whatever clout I have — that industry embracement I’ve so far been trying to reject — to land my trans women director friends distribution deals. It mostly works. I consider it funny that my work supporting other trans filmmakers could be turned on me as the equivalent of carbon offsets for my problematic qualities. I guess that would be fine. I ask Heather why I can get away with being like this. She tells me that we’re punks and that means we present ourselves honestly, that everyone already knows I’m a shitty person so nothing I do can surprise them. The uncut version of Doom Generation does have more castration in it.
I spend most of Sundance hanging out with my friends and realizing I’m in the industry now. All of my friends express a lot of concern for me and ask if I’m okay. The Vulture piece praises my penis mutilation brand and talks about Computer Hearts and I’ve never felt further away from reality. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do something transgressive in my art again. I wonder if Jane will like me when we inevitably cross paths. I listen to music on the airplane home and I weep for the friends I lost the last few years. I know that when I get off the airplane my body will win the war. How else am I going to retain this Sundance high, the rare feeling of people actually wanting me around? For now I’m going to have to keep my dick. But maybe I can at least shake this castration brand soon. Otherwise I’ll probably have to cut my dick off at Sundance next year just to feel something.
