A month or two ago, after requesting a downtime summer at indieWIRE to finish a long gestating project, I got an offer to attend a festival I couldn’t really refuse: The 1st annual Aruba Film Festival. I wasn’t even sure where Aruba was (an hour or so north of Venezuela, it turns out), but I knew it would involve some sort of resort, a beach, and many a tropical alcohol drink. And it also immediately became clear this fest was the perfect opportunity to tend to someone else’s long gestating project: My mother’s long awaited invite to attend a film festival with me. Newly single and not as many years my senior as the average 26 year old (not to mention a dead ringer for Jane Fonda circa 1981, I might proudly add), Aruba seemed like the perfect place for my mother to be introduced to film festivalia, and perhaps even to the “official host” of the festival, Mr. Richard Gere (sorry Carey Lowell, but it’s on). Seeing as how it was also a week before a Mother’s Day I’d all but forgotten, I couldn’t think of one reason why this wasn’t the best idea ever. So we arranged the details, and here we are with a 6am flight only hours away. “It’ll be like ‘How Stella Got Her Groove Back,'” my mother exclaimed before I noted that the real Stella had actually been blackmailed by a gay man. Richard Gere jokes on both our parts ensued.
Anyway, expect a post or two from Aruba over the next few days, and as a fun or creepy (depending on your sense of humor) footnote to all this, here’s a note with a slight error from the itinerary the festival sent my way last week:
If your confused as to what’s of note, look again.