13 Films Over Four Days
Sundance does not care about your sleep schedule.
It does not care if you’re hungry, late, confused, or standing outside Eccles, wondering whether the 100th spot on the waitlist will get you in.
This year, I watched thirteen films at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival, with thirteen different moods. Thirteen different definitions of what “independent film” is supposed to mean. Some were quiet and devastating. Some were loud and strange. Some felt deeply personal, like you had wandered into someone's mind and uncovered their memories without permission. And somewhere between public screenings, private press and industry showings, and a conversation with someone from Prime Video casually dropping that they were deciding whether a film might be purchased or not, my understanding of the business of film changed.
Sundance isn’t just a place where films are shown.
It’s a mark.
A signal that no matter where you’re from, who you are, or how little money you had, you made something that demanded to be seen. Even if only briefly. Even if only once. Even if in the room, someone is already calculating their future before the credits roll.
Having a press pass changes the way you experience Sundance, another layer of the business element of film seeping in. You start to notice the difference between public and private screenings almost immediately. Public screenings are filled with laughter rippling or silence landing heavily on an audience's reactions; they feel emotional, and the experience feels collective. Industry is showins are smaller, which you would think is more intimate. In reality, they are quieter. More contained. People don't gasp. They write. They lean back and check their watches. More phone lights are sometimes visible, even on computer screens and fingers typing away.
The same film can feel electric in one room and sterile in the other.
That contrast made Newman’s argument finally click for me. At Sundance, the boundaries of independent film collapse almost instantly. What defines indie film here is context. Who is watching? Why they’re watching. What they’re hoping to gain from it.
That became clearest in the films that stayed with me the most.
Burn was my favorite film of the festival.
The camera put you directly into the kids' perspective in the film; low angles, fast movements, always a little off balance. You weren’t watching them; you were with them.
The film moves fast and messily, the way real life does when you're young and trying to survive. One moment is funny, almost absurd, the next is sad. Then suddenly painfully real. The shifts don't feel planned.
What made Burn work is that it doesn't explain these kids or try to fix them. It lets them exist. The humor doesn't cancel out the pain, and the pain doesn't erase the humor. Both sit next to each other in the way they often do.
Filipiana, my second P&I film, at first glance almost feels playful. The framing is precise, the coloring and movement are carefully controlled, reminiscent of a Wes Anderson-style world where everything looks intentional and balanced. From the beginning its visually beautiful, drawing you into the story.
Only at the end of the film does the anger of our main character surface. There is no choice but to engage as an audience with the reality that children were relocated from their homes to maintain a golf course built for someon elses leisure. The film’s carefully ordered visuals stand in sharp contrast to the layer of reality. By the end of the film, the beauty is no longer a comfort. What looks calm and controlled is held together by labor meant to remain unnoticed.
As an honorable mention. Zi stood out for a completely different reason.
Shot in just three days in Hong Kong, Zi carries the energy and exhaustion in its bones. It was made by a small group of people with a clear vision and a director who worked tirelessly, barely sleeping or eating, pushing the project forward solely on momentum. Zi isn’t impressive because of its polish. It’s impressive because its collective belief from the cast and crew.
Between films, there were hours spent in lines, sometimes convinced I wouldn't get in, only to be the last person admitted in on the waitlist. There were sprints through Park city chasing a screening or nearly missing the bus. There was running after Ken Jeong after watching BURN. There was exhaustion stacked on exhaustion.
But there were also conversations that could only happen here.
Strangers brought together by forced proximity and the strange community that forms while waiting. A mother and son who live nearby and make it a tradition to watch at least one film together every year. A volunteer who has come 29 times simply to feel close to new stories. A journalist writing reviews while crashing on a friend’s couch, barely scraping together enough money to be here at all.
There’s a constant buzz at Sundance; not just from the films themselves, but from the people orbiting them. Conversations overlap, exchanging names, opinions, and recommendations, then disappear back into separate screenings, strangers again.
All of this unfolds against the backdrop of Utah’s vast, still landscape. The air escapes your lungs a little faster here. It reminds you of where you are. It reminds you that you’re alive.
Before every film, the same interview with Robert Redford plays. He says, "Storytelling keeps us alive; it's what sustains us."
Here, standing in the cold, moving from line to line, watching strangers gather in the dark, you feel that more than anywhere else.
Izzy Wild Merl