I remember living like this, with less bologna. I remember wanting to live without judgment but craving validation for feeling that way--to be away but in the thick of something, chronicling everything on social media to keep that splinter of loneliness lodged deep in your heart. You can't half-disconnect like that. Marnie Ellen Hertzler knows this, introducing her documentary as an outsider: She showed up in the Colorado desert to make music videos with her high school friend and his community of Soundcloud rappers, made this instead. Crestone is explication of the ethos she’s come upon, and as we get to know the default guru, Champloo Sloppy, the film can’t help but judge him, this true blue unit. I remember having a friend like Sloppy, a guy who lived next door, wrote music like Sloppy writes, was a genuine disappointment on occasion, a guy effortless with talent but unable to functionally represent the feel-good vibes he espoused. I hope he’s OK. Sloppy just fucking wants to watch Avatar, and I hope he can, escaping reality even as the lives of everyone he loves barrel purposelessly into the obliterating wildfires peeking over the horizon. Judgment looms regardless of what he wants.