It’s 5 a.m. and we are bundled up like Sherpas in our boots and sheepskins, boarding the plane to Utah with a contingent of young New Yorkers with pony tails talking into cellphones and carrying skis. They are buyers, development executives, actors, journalists, publicists, directors and producers, heading for the Sundance Film Festival, where they will wheel and deal. We are not here for the snowboarding or the schmoozing: our son has co-written, co-produced, and acted in a movie to be screened at the festival, and we are going to cheer him on. It’s called Wet Hot American Summer, and it’s a comedy set on the last day of summer camp in 1981.
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