Binoculars and a Big Ass: A Requiem for Sundance

I went to Sundance with a horror film, a book about brain trauma, and a backpack full of hope. Then a Bravo star body-checked me. Naturally. 

Note: This is a true story. The names are real. The bag was oversized. The American dream may still be flickering, but mine dimmed a bit that day in Park City. (BTW - I love Andy Cohen)

2016

You ever get hit by a reality star in furry boots while holding a book about concussions? I have.

Ever had a story so strange no one believes it? You tell it, and they tilt their heads. "That didn’t happen." Meanwhile, these are the same people who believe some guy died and came back as a podcaster.

So let’s see how much you believe.

The year was either 2015 or 2016. Personally, I’m leaning toward 2016—because that year felt like a cultural rupture. It was the year America, my beloved, cracked down the middle. It was also the year I realized my Sundance dream had died. Not just the dream of getting a film bought—but the whole damn myth of Sundance itself.

See, I used to be a kind-of-a-big-deal HR executive. A C-suite imposter by day, an indie filmmaker by night. While I was dodging corporate landmines and charming CFOs who hated my smile, I was also producing B-horror movies on company-owned property. (That’s another story—a book, actually.)

Anyway, I was a 40-something cutie with a backpack full of DVDs and dreams, heading to Park City with my film, Bloody Wedding. It had nothing to do with my divorce—well, almost nothing. I packed my red luggage (which got dented), bought some overpriced makeup from South Coast Plaza, and flew to Salt Lake City for what I hoped would be the beginning of my next chapter.

Now, my company threw me a lot of weird projects. One of them? Publishing a book by Anthony Davis, aka the Notre Dame Killer. So yes—in my extra-large, butter-yellow, black-and-white knapsack, I also had copies of Kick Off: Concussion, a book about football, brain trauma, and AD’s life. Because USC people run deep in OC real estate and were crawling all over Sundance, I figured I’d drop off a few copies. Plant seeds. Make moves.

After a neuro-specialist panel (which, ironically, I could actually follow thanks to that book), I spotted a tiny doorway with a USC sign. Upstairs, there was clearly a party. But I wasn’t trying to crash. I live by the Groucho Marx rule: I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me.

So I do the awkward dance—slip a few books onto their table, smile, nod, back out gracefully. And as I’m leaving, it happens.

Two women in furry boots come barreling down the stairs. One slams into me—hard—and says:

"Excuse you."

Now, I’m from Jersey. I offer etiquette lessons free of charge.

"Excuse you," I say, in my best HR tone.

Then all hell breaks loose. She spins on me, starts screaming—and suddenly I realize: this is GiGi from Shahs of Sunset.

At first, I only half-recognize her. Her features looked rearranged, like someone had mashed her face into a new mold. But when she starts attacking my backpack and my glasses? Oh, I know it’s her.

She goes, "Your big ass is taking up all the room."

I go, "That’s my backpack. Also… where are the cameras?"

She says, "Those binoculars you’re wearing make you look like a fat owl."

I say, "They’re glasses. I need them to see. But thanks for thinking I look wise. Now seriously—where are the cameras?"

She gets in my face. Her skin flushed, her expression collapsing in on itself. I couldn’t even tell where her nose began or ended.

I say, "I don’t know if you’re going to hit me or kiss me, but I don’t want either. Step back."

She spirals—figuratively—and I just keep asking, over and over:"Where are the cameras? Where are the cameras?"

Like a reflex. Like a prayer.

No one steps in. Not one person. Everyone just stares, waiting to see if it turns into a viral moment.

It doesn’t.

It’s just me, my backpack, and a wave of shock.

Eventually her friend—maybe MJ—drags her out. I’m left standing there, knees buckling, dignity unraveling. I head to a bar. I have a pint. I cry.

People come up to me: "Was that real?" "That was amazing." "Can I buy you a drink?"

There was no scene. No performance. No producer yelling Cut.

It was real. It hurt. A disgusting display.

And here’s the part I don’t usually say out loud: I followed up. I wrote letters. To Andy Cohen. To Bravo. To the production company. I didn’t rant—I laid it out like an HR report

I told them what I saw: that GiGi seemed unstable, and someone needed to intervene. I cited state labor laws. Explained that even 1099 talent has legal protections. I told them they had a duty of care.

I never heard back. Honestly, I didn’t expect to—IMDb only gets you so far. Not one reply. Not one call. No one cared. To them, we were background—extras in someone else’s reel.

And that’s when it hit me: maybe it was never ours. Not the festival. Not the myth. My American dream didn’t die. The credits just started rolling.

Even Redford looked tired that year.

Sundance—that shining star of possibility—had become nothing more than a busted string of Christmas lights from 1999. Still plugged in. Still flickering. But long past its prime.

If this piece made you laugh, wince, or rage quietly at the slow collapse of everything, consider subscribing. I’ve got more stories—some tragic, some ridiculous, all true.

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Sharkey is a former C-suite HR executive, horror filmmaker, and professional observer of American absurdity. She writes about collapse, capitalism, and the moments that make you say: “Where are the cameras?”