fine whine

Now that I’ve fully recovered from everything but Alice in Wonderland, I think I can offer up my own B-Fest 2004 wrapup.

First of all, I had an absolute blast. Having finally made good on my promise that “I’ll be back” and only a year later than I meant it, I am glad to have come and will definitely do it next year, though I can’t say yet that I am ready to introduce others to the ‘Fest phenomenon. After all, they only think I’m marginally strange.

Hats off to Andy Freeberg and the rest of the A&Oers for carrying on a fine tradition with such �lan and smoothness that I not once was called into the booth to play doctor. You see, I was once in A&O myself, having little to show for it but three years of film guides and the memory of holding a sixteen millimeter EIKI (or perhaps a more fragile projector) to show Wizard of speed and time sideways, back in 2002. Oddly enough, nobody else seems to remember this but for fellow former A&O queen Rebecca, who charitably sat with me in the auditorium and laughed with me. Props for putting up with me also go out to roommates Di and Amy and the guys behind me, even the one with the giant stuffed fish. Every beating I received with that I can now safely view as an honor of sorts and vindication of my sharp wit. And the bruises have faded finally.

No B-Fest wrapup is complete without mention of the journey before and after. Well, mine was pretty easy. I drove the six hours straight through on Friday morning, with only a couple incidents along the way. The first resulted in another chip in my windshield, and I lost a good twenty minutes by going slow to try and document as much of the truck that I was passing when it happened as possible. I managed to get his license plate number (if not state) and a blurry digital camera shot in my rear view mirror, but as was explained to me later only chips resulting from a truck’s load matter. So it goes.

Little more than an hour after passing the truck I suddenly was confronted with some random debris flying at me (and me toward it). Swerving I managed only to get mostly clear of it, and with a sickening crunch it went under my driver’s side tire. A grueling half an hour passed before I could exit the freeway and check the damage, and before that time an ominous knocking had developed in the front end. Fearing the worst, I pulled off the highway and into a parking lot to inspect the damage. Initially I saw none, and looked closer to find that the plastic inside the front fender was a little shredded up (it had been previously cracked) and some rubber molding flapping into the tire. Relieved, I resumed my journey without further incident. i made it to campus by four thirty.

I visited with my buddy Ray until about five thirty. Ray unfortunately could not attend B-Fest, but I doubt he would have been willing to go, though he would likely enjoy a good bit of it. I’ll try again next year, if he’s still in Chicagoland. Leaving my car parked by the School of Music (whoever’s name it bears now I cannot recall), I trekked in the chilly air to Norris to find out where I could more permanently park my car. I was reminded of the walk I made nearly every day when I had lived there on Clark Street above the shops.

I apologize now for what will likely be quite a bit of sentimental reminiscing. Please bear in mind that I was a five-year Northwestern student and Norris Housestaffer (I started there before Leslie, the woman who asked people to clear the aisles, did, though she was my boss for a number of years) and a four year A&O projectionist and film guide dude. So this trip was for me less of a pilgrimage just for B-Fest (to which I have been to all but one since 1996) but a weekend steeped in the glorious past. As such I spent the next hour chilling out with the current crop of house staffers in Sleepy Hollow, an enclave B-Fest veterans probably have noticed in the lobby but only I can enter, hahaha. After all, I left them a large dorm refrigerator when I left, which is part of my ticket to legend-hood. More on housestaff later.

I finagled my way into the theater and camped out in my (now) usual seat two rows down, two over in the aisle. I generally end up there by virtue of not getting in right away and also by having no large cadres of people to sit near. So it goes. It’s a good enough seat, with decent acoustics over the audience and enough distance from the speakers as to not be obnoxious at the worst extremes of the films’ sound tracks.

As the last bit of background, I had tried to go into this year’s as blindly as possible. My involvement in previous years (including several as a projectionist) had made such an endeavor difficult, but this year merely by staying away from the website’s listing I was just about okay (though somebody did mention Alice in Wonderland but without saying any more about it and I hadn’t checked into it or anything else that would have lessened the shock) and only asked Derek (another former A&Oer) about the lineup so as to know what I’d miss by making an appearance at a housestaff party.

Then the lights dimmed and I steeled myself for the most seat time I’d ever given a B-Fest (and almost every minute was worth it).

First up was The brain from planet Arous. Classic cheese all the way.

I got in a couple good jabs right off the bat when we first saw the laboratory, and I knew that the laughs were probably genuine as the others surely weren’t tired yet nor intimidated enough to laugh at something that wasn’t funny. This made me happy. The movie was ripe for such commentary, what with its inflatable brain (complete with unblinking, glowing eyes) and a hammy plot. Moreover, it set into motion thought processes that would only deepen my appreciation for these movies; namely, I began to notice that every one had, in some office set or lab, a map on the wall, this one fortuitously indicating the location of the Mystery Mountain. Wow. The aforementioned plot was silly but nevertheless well thought-out, with its alien brains seeking sensory satisfaction and only a couple missteps (bad overlays of the brains and their choice of the stomach region to enter their hosts) kept it from being utterly perfect. Nevertheless I’ll likely pick this one up if I ever encounter it on DVD, if for no other reason to know where, if need be, I can find the Fissure of Rolando.

Next up was the superlative Robot jox, which I also thoroughly enjoyed in and of itself. Though I don’t belong to the cults of *mechs, the Bandai/Power Rangers phenomenon or even Transformers, I can appreciate a good giant robot combat movie, especially one with such blatantly clich�d characters as the seasoned veteran with one last day/fight in him (who is subsequently called out of retirement), hard-assed newcomers, a gun-toting and ten-gallon hat-wearing cowboy and even a mad Russian. Said Russian gave me what was to be an overplayed and probably even misquoted catchphrase for the rest of the proceedings with his growled “I’ve already killed you… in here!” to Achilles as he points his finger to his head, oddly reminiscent in gesture to Russian Roulette. The significance of references and metaphors was not completely lost on me as I contemplated such a future, with wars fought by proxy and international disputes settled thusly with brutal robot fights. I was heartened to see the bleachers so routed by the fallen combatant, though, in that it represented a return to disregard for safety of the public at large and the wholesale willingness to see if not encourage mayhem and destruction. The gas masks on the audience was a nice touch, as well as the audience itself as it gave people for us to cheer with, not just for. Surrogate audiences don’t appear in enough bad films, in my opinion. Still, for what really is a martial arts movie sprinkled with feel-good politics and bleak futurism, Robot jox scores hits in all the right places. I have already bought this movie on DVD… up here!

Sorry about that. It was just such a great reference to keep using that I find myself occasionally throwing it into entirely inappropriate situations. And laughing, maniacally if possible. As an aside, I noticed a great amount of maniacal, throwing the head back and joining in laughter across the board, on screen and off. Good times.

The beatniks was something of an enigma. My knowledge of beatniks had nothing to do with crooks nor middle-agers trying to pass themselves as teens. My hopes were high as at first I watched what seemed to be a Point break-style heist with Skeletor subbing for the ex-presidents, but alas, the crime spree movie I was hoping for quickly devolved into some unconvincing menacing and a showpiece for possibly the most re-used set in a movie I’ve ever noticed. Showing more range than most of the actors combined, the set played a number of offices and motel rooms with only the simplest changes (mini blinds here, a titled painting there, and even a map if memory serves me well). Fisticuffs, gunplay and remarkable mediocre music accounted for the hijinks that were to ensue and I was all but happy to see this one finish, though I have to acknowledge it as a good choice for the ‘Fest. That said, I would’ve rather watched an encore presentation of Robot jox, but rarely will a film get any replay unless it is Wizard, of course. And somehow I missed the whole “I killed the fat barkeep” phenomenon from original quote to subsequent references, but I had been well aware of the prominent 7-Up placement in the first two thirds of the film (evidently they weren’t fans of the last bits or just couldn’t get a poster up on those walls).

Armed with the knowledge that I’d only be missing Alice The beast with five fingers as long as I made it back by quarter to twelve for Wizard, I bid newfound friends (or at least fellow victims) Di and Amy farewell and trekked over to a non-existent address for a previously mentioned housestaff party. Vowing then to check my sources before walking ten blocks each way in the future, I looked up the proper address and drove back over for a good hour of baby-kissing and hand shaking.

Actually I wasn’t there to play candidate but instead try to live up to the legend that surrounds me with housestaff, at least as it is spread by the few who worked with me firsthand. Most people there were very young and their only exposure to me being my “memorial” fridge, but all of them to a person were at least familiar with me. Which is really cool.

I returned just in time to scamper down the stairs and take up my place on stage to stamp along with The wizard of speed and time, Mike Jittlov’s stop-action opus. I am one of a lucky few people to have seen or heard of this film before ever knowing of B-Fest, having rented the full-length version several times as a child. I can only home someday to see it in all its glory at B-Fest, though apparently no film copies of it are available. I weep.

While I caught up on what I’d missed (the raffles and some great Lorre dialogue in an otherwise mediocre film) I got ready for Plan 9 from outer space, the linchpin of B-Fest and one experience that would likely make or break a newbie if ever I brought one. Forgetting once again to bring my own paper plates, I had to scrounge for the first batch, upon which I wrote veiled references to popular quotes and already infamous references from the first films. As usual, I misquoted the line about the bobcat and vowed again to check the actual dialogue so as to make future references correct. It’s not like I own my own copy of this on DVD, after all (oh wait, I do). Another staple thing I point out is the round slide rule on the airplane cockpit’s wall, and this year I noticed it making an appearance next to the inside door of the spacecraft, leading me to wonder if indeed they used that set for both craft. Moreover any airplane shots in this movie hearkened to the exploding jet liners of Brain from planet Arous, giving this movie some much-needed freshness. Which is not to say that I tire of “Day!/Night!” and “Bela!/Not Bela!” and the wicker/rattan debate, but anything new that can be brought to Plan 9 can only enhance the experience. My attempts to discern when the police cars changed from a ‘54 Ford to something else (”Ford!/Not Ford!” were largely lost on the rest of the people, I fear. Better luck for me next year, I guess.

Next up was the fantastic Monkey hustle, with Rudy Ray Moore and Yaphet Kotto as Daddy D or something like that, though he will always be G to me, and (as I discovered) to a couple other Homicide fans around me. Yaphet earned extra credit for many, many times uttering the movie’s title, and throughout the film’s rollicking proceedings a good time was had by all, even the kids onscreen with their wardrobe malfunctions (well, at least bad choices) and the most outrageous outfits ever worn by a blaxploitation pimp that I’ve seen, at least. Evidently this one’s out on DVD and I think I need to pick it up as well.

I was enjoying myself, four out of five of my jokes were getting a laugh in my not-so-humble estimation, I still had a good half of my rations left and my t-shirt didn’t yet smell, and then… disaster struck.

What is there to say about Alice in Wonderland? I can only regret missing the first couple minutes, as I do not relish the thought of re-watching the movie just to see them. My exposure to adult cinema is limited, but what little I knew I was able to recognize that what was before me was a rare beast indeed: a musical about losing not only one’s virginity but also one’s inhibitions. I’d bet it was pitched as some sort of positive statement about sex and consenting adults, but it turned out into an evil creation that will haunt me to my grave (well, at least the Humpty Dumpty song, “…his ding-a-ling up, his ding-a-ling up” will). For what it was, it was brilliant, but what it was had to have been some sort of bizarre torture the likes of which only Stanley Kubrick could only have dreamt to have used in Clockwork orange.

Next Spawn of the Slithis started, in fantastic Slithis-vision (which, nearest I could tell, was achieved by sticking a Bell jar in front of the lens) and degraded quickly into a show piece of living rooms of the seventies. I was awake the whole time but really remember little other than scenes on a pier and the schoolteacher/journalist/whatever and the hippie scientist. It was an ugly movie about an ugly monster created by ugly radiation and pollution and I was glad to see it end. Unfortunately during its runtime I discovered that I had packed considerably less food than was necessary and found little extra rations when I ventured out to my car for additional clothes, a pillow and my sandals. This little trip probably accounts for the buulk of my missed footage, but I’d've done it again just to stretch my legs and take off my socks.

The pillow came in handy for Devil girl from Mars, which was unremarkable other than for its cardboard box robot and dominatrix alien. I drowsed and dozed on and off such that only the beginning in the pub and some later robot and gunplay scenes stick in my memory. I saw it as lots of talk and no action, but wouldn’t dream of a movie to out-do it for sheer dullness. At least, not for several hours.

My dozing continued for the majority of Airport ‘77 which had the unfortunate timespot so as for me to be utterly unable to stay awake no matter how much I’d actually want to see it. From what I saw a plane was flying and all of a sudden it was underwater. Fortunately I have this on reserve at the library and will be able to give it the fair shake it might well deserve. If I were to suggest a disaster movie for upcoming fests it would be another one with a veterinarian-cum-doctor and b-star-studded cast, The big bus. I can always hope.

At least I was well rested for The forbidden dance, and I was joined again by an even-better rested Rebecca for what was yet another high point of the ‘Fest. I’ll join the crowd and agree that Laura Hanning is very, very hot and her witch doctor protector Sid Haig was very well-played. I enjoyed the movie, though it pales to 80s dance bonanzas of years past (Breakin’, anybody?). I will forever be grateful to have been too young in that decade to have ever worn clothes like that or have such elaborate hair. Nor did I ever encounter a dance contest in any form other than at elementary school dances, one of which I won the great trophy of a couple Ho-hos for “dancing” the longest. I was something of a spaz as a kid, I guess.

The forbidden dance also left me needing to watch it again, if for nothing else to find out Nisa’s explanation of Earth’s impending doom. I heard “The sun will EAT the Earth” but the seeds of doubt have been planted (thanks a million, Rebecca) that perhaps she said “HEAT the Earth”. Either way, the Ferngully overtones only enhanced an already over-the-top success. Another classic, though not one I’d need to buy except for the sake of frightening and terrorizing people.

Speaking of terrorizing people, Tor Johnson gave a second performance of the ‘Fest as The beast of Yucca flats, which was another high point of the proceedings. It wasn’t until I read Jabootu’s review that I discovered the film’s complete lack of recorded dialogue and subsequent replacement with high-concept narration. I’d picked up (more than a little bit) on the Wheels of Progress concept and made good use of it (and got hit more than once with the fish for doing so) for the rest of the ‘Fest. “Touch a button” indeed. This was not to be missed.

Fortress, on the other hand, could well be missed without, well, missing much. As a fan of the first Highlander movie (and only having seen that one, deliberately) I also relish the opportunity to see Chris Lambert if for nothing else than to hear him speak. Sadly the fidelity of sound was not such that I could discern any given accents or affectations. Fortress tried to be too many things at once, I think, to be social commentary about totalitarianism and the rest of a bleak future as well as birth control, genetic engineering, prison and criminal rehabilitation. The movie was, I think, meant to be “dark” but all they did was turn down the lighting. I didn’t know until well into the film that Chris’s wife was a criminal not for merely wearing a flak jacket but for being pregnant. The flak jacket connection is, alas, lost on me. So the two of them end up in a prison that appears to be a rehabbed parking garage, with Jinx the robot from Space camp (a reference nobody seemed to get, a rare flop as it were) rolling around on the ceiling spouting prison rules and “intestinating” miscreants. Now I think of Spider Robinson’s bowel disruptor guns from Transmetropolitan but it hadn’t occurred to me then. Oh well, that too would be a stretch. I have yet to mention the film’s main baddie, played by Kurtwood Smith, the dad from That 70s show which isn’t so much a stretch for him as his villainous turn in Robocop as his paternal side shows well in his character of the stock mean warden. Some cheesy special effects (and some good ones, like the improbable but cool-looking holo-crystal) and action sequences later and the couple is reunited and free, and being chased by an unmanned truck. I flashed briefly on Maximum overdrive and pondered briefly what this audience would do with Stephen King’s finest directorial effort.

Next up was five minutes of Toho’s The H-man, which I know nothing about and can only look forward to seeing another year. It broke and was replaced by Gavotte, a French midget short starring a diminutive Nathan Lane-lookalike and his chair, a bench, some fruit, a couple pillows and another (doomed) midget. I’d seen it before and was looking forward to seeing what it would do to the other, unsuspecting people around me.

Following that, as if anything could, was an industrial film vaguely about generational differences in courtesy and such and “photos” of interactions between kids, adults, and one randy old codger and a little girl to young to know better about a guy who “just loves to be a gentleman”.

I almost got out my pillow again for The magnetic monster which was more than likely well written and intelligent, but to have no monster (despite its title) and the majority of action taking place under microscopes put it on my shit list that afternoon. That, and the fact that I’d squished my banana and was left only with carrots on which to snack. Someday I’ll give it another shake. Maybe.

Speaking of bananas, somewhere along the line (twice even) was played some “Monkey Business” short with chimps doing pretty sophisticated stunts. They were jumping on horses, jumping on each other, dancing, and, through the magic of rotoscoping, singing. It was clever and well-made but probably a little long. And it wasn’t quite memorable for me to be able to place it, other than I watched some of it while cleaning up the A&O pizza. Thanks again, Andy & co. for keeping me alive through the morning hours. But back to The magnetic monster, which left a bad taste in my mouth: unlike pizza, it left a bad taste in my mouth. Not good for the penultimate selection.

Fortunately everything ended with The big brawl, starring Jackie Chan, Alice from the earlier porn (which I must say was a jarring transition, to go from eventually-oversexed ing�nue to chaste girlfriend though she did get down to some skivvies at one point) and lots of rollicking fun action. I particularly liked the no-holds-barred roller derby relay event, and was more than a little bit reminded of what little I’ve seen of Most extreme challenge. ‘Twas a fitting end to a fun ‘Fest, and after doing a bit of cleanup I sauntered off into the sunset to spend the rest of the weekend at Tim’s place. If need be I’ll write that up but I’m done typing for now.