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Another feature of... |
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B-Fest Diaries 2004
_____________ Ken HPoJ
Three people in particular, however, were especially missed. Fellow Cabal member Nathan Shumate of Cold Fusion Video was, sadly, unable to make things work out. Better luck next year, buddy. You were missed. (On the other hand, I was spared the embarrassment of getting you mixed you up with Tim Quandt this time around, whose extremely vague resemblance to Nathan made my faux pas even more pathetic.) The Cabal’s eminent pater familias, Freeman Williams, aka Dr. Freex of The Bad Movie Report, was also missing in action. He had a lucrative freelance job offer at the time, and apparently felt he had to ‘provide’ for this ‘wife’ and ‘son.’ Whatever, dude. One of the worst things about NOWFF going under is that the Cabal doesn’t have two events per year to congregate any longer. Thus a mixed B-Fest takes on even greater significance. Freeman was sorely missed by all. In fact, several folks approached me during the Fest to inquire as to whether he was attending. Only a few of them seemed visibly elated by the news that he wasn’t, and even fewer danced for joy at being so informed, although the one who did was actually quite talented. In any case, downcast reactions were more prevalent, including that of one rather imposing fellow with a prominently bent nose who said if Freeman didn’t ‘cough up the vig’ he owned ‘Big Lou’ (I think that’s right), he would soon have to use two canes to get around. I wasn’t really following any of this, but said I would pass the word on. Finally, for the second year running, Badmovies.org founder/proprietor Sgt. Andrew Borntreger, U.S. Marine Corps, had superior obligations to Uncle Sam that kept him from attending. Andy is an extraordinary guy, and again, several people I didn’t know inquired of me as to whether he was at the Fest this year. Andrew has saved my ass on several previous B-Fests via his hard work and general competency, although that was the least reason to regret his absence this time around. Moreover, he is presently scheduled to go to Iraq later this year, which also obviously nixes the 2005 show. (It’s also inconvenient in several other manners, I’d expect.) I’d ask all those of the praying variety to include him when you think of it, and to ask for his happy return for the 2006 Fest. God keep you, my friend, and Katie and Jenna as well. I hope they feel free to call upon me should the services of an inept fat-ass ever be required, which with any luck they will not.
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‘B-Fest,’ for my comrades and myself, at least, no longer solely refers to the actual program itself. It instead covers the entire period between people arriving for the Fest and them leaving Chicago to return home. As it turned out, this timeframe stretched out longer than had originally anticipated, but that’s a tale for later in the narrative. The months before B-Fest remain a busy time for yours truly. As the man on the ground, so to speak, it involves keeping in touch with potential attendees until I get a definitive yea or nay, figuring out how to get those who do attend from place to place once they arrive (and getting them back to the airport or whatever for their return trips), making sure housing and local transportation is covered for the entire gang, buying supplies and other sundry tasks. This isn’t an attempt to evoke pity, Gentle Reader. It’s merely an acknowledgement that even labors of love are, in the end, labors. However, the task would be immeasurably more unpleasant if it weren’t for the cheerful and adaptable personalities of those I’ve managed to scam into attending over the years. They prove willing to sleep on couches (albeit, one hopes, comfortable ones), forgive pick-up and drop-off miscues, and many other assorted indignities. Even so, if the job becomes less exciting as the years pass, the fact remains that this was the year when a real template seems to have snapped into place. From Thursday afternoon through Sunday, we have a general framework to offer. This makes it easier for those making their plans, as they have a pretty good idea of what is gained and/or lost by arriving at various points in time. Thursday afternoon seems to be gaining popularity as an arrival vector. It allows folks to settle in and shrug off jet, car and bus lag before the big day, provides plenty of time for the last minute acquisition of supplies, and, of course, permits them to attend our annual Fest Kick-Off dinner at Jameson’s Steakhouse. Sit-down meals have really become a valuable tool of the occasion as a whole. They provide the opportunities to sit down and engage in leisurely socializing, which again is what the weekend is increasingly about. Making this a great year for yours truly was that I was ‘responsible’ for only a few arrivees. By which I mean, most folks were either arriving by car or renting their own. I do not list, amongst my various pleasures, driving. I was therefore delighted that for the first time in some years, I was not personally required to drive to and from the actual Fest. This doesn’t sound like a big deal, perhaps, but it made me very happy. To this I primarily owe two people. As usual, my old friend Jeff Witham, veteran now of at least ten Fests, was a champ. He was infinitely patient and ever ready not only to do anything he was asked to do—which, I sheepishly admit, was quite a lot—but to volunteer to do more. Since he moved to Arizona some years ago, B-Fest has proved its worth alone in giving us a benchmark yearly venue for getting together. I can’t say too much about him, he’s simply one of the greatest people you could hope to meet. I seriously don’t know if I could run everything without him. Even if I could, it would be hellish. Of greatest help, Jeff rented a Grand Caravan, the impressive cargo capacity of which, although utilized to the last dram, was what ultimately allowed me to forgo driving a separate vehicle. It also allowed me further time to hang out with Jeff as we traveled together, which alone was a great thing. The other Most Valuable Player award this year goes to Stomp Tokyo’s Chris Holland. Arriving on Thursday afternoon with his ST compatriot Scott Hamilton, Chris rented his own van. What was really cool for me was that several people were due to arrive at Midway on Friday afternoon, and Chris made things work by driving all the way back out there to pick them up and ferry them directly to the Northwestern campus. Moreover, most of this contingent had return flights out of Midway on Sunday afternoon, meaning that again Chris had them covered. All this took an immense amount of weight off my shoulders, if not, sadly, from around my waist. In any case, perhaps now is the time to introduce some of our Dramatis Personae, in order of appearance on Thursday:
Jeff was due to arrive first, circa noon. However, he was planning to pick up the aforementioned Caravan, and thus I was free to meet Jessica. She was due to arrive on a Greyhound at the Cumberland CTA station drop-off, following a nineteen hour (!) drive, at 12:15. I arrived and after a fairly minimal wait the bus appeared. Sadly, this wasn’t a portent of things to come. We returned to my trailer. I warned Jessica on the way that it was even messier than usual. I am, I fear, a forty year-old packrat, and the place is bulging with toys, books, videos, DVDs, magazines and just junk. Making things worse was the fact that I decided to nip things in the bud before I was one of those guys who dies when he’s crushed by a towering bundled stack of old newspapers he’s hoarded. Sadly, I didn’t take into account Fibber McGee’s Closet Syndrome. When your place is literally stuffed with crap, trying to deal with the situation means making the clutter temporarily even worse, as you pull wads of stuff out of various crammed cubbyholes. While I managed after some amount of effort to clear out the two side rooms just enough to free up the guest futon and fold-up bed, the general clutter was actually worse than before. To the good side, I got a new shelving unit for much of my decaying VHS collection, allowing me to free up a larger unit for my ever-burgeoning DVD collection. These had radically over spilled my previous shelving. New arrivals, constantly arriving and numbering in the hundreds, were to be found in awkward stacks hither and yon. In the end, after nearly filling the above referenced second unit, I discovered that my roughly estimated collection of perhaps 800 DVDS had, in fact, ballooned to an even more ludicrous 1,200 discs (including box sets). Of those, I’m sure I’ve viewed at least several dozen. In any case, Jessica managed not to faint upon reaching my domicile. Meanwhile, we found that Jeff had not yet arrived. Thursday afternoon saw just enough snow to delay flights to some extent, making my even more glad that so many people were coming in on Thursday. I was, however, admittedly concerned a bit about Chris making the long drive in from Midway, given that Floridians are not especially experienced in driving through the white stuff. Having checked the Internet for info on Apostic’s flight, I left to pick him up. Jessica stayed behind to wait for Jeff, bless her soul. I arrived at the airport, and to my frustration couldn’t find Apostic. (I am, I should note, a cranky Luddite where phones are concerned. I refuse to get a carry-around one, and my house phone is a rotary job. This lead to flabbergasted reactions later from Chris, oft seen whipping out a cell phone that had more functions than the magical wrist computer Excalibrate from Dungeonmaster.) Eventually, wearying of driving around in circles for an hour, I returned home to see if Apostic had called in. Arriving at the trailer, I found Jeff, freshly arrived. He kindly volunteered (the phrase that most succinctly sums him up) to drive back out to the airport. I joined him, and this time around found Apostic quite quickly. It turned out that his flight was delayed more than originally advertised, and he had arrived only a short time earlier. Side note: I’m probably made this suggestion before, but I’ll make it again. O’Hare is pretty well designed for picking people up and dropping them off and then getting out of the airport cleanly. However, things would be immeasurably improved if they provided display screens for drivers arriving at the Arrival terminals. These would provide info on each airline’s flights, such as delays and estimated arrival times and such. There are at most twenty domestic carriers in the three main terminals, and I can’t imagine that it would be vastly difficult or expensive to do such a thing. If I remember correctly (sad; five days later and my memory is already spotty), Scott and Chris arrived soon after Jeff, Apostic and I returned to the trailer. Actually, I know that’s true. Apostic distributed tapes of a fantabulous home video he assembled, of giant monster scenes from various movies set to Peter Gabriel’s "Big Time." We all three felt really, really ancient, meanwhile, when Jessica inquired as to who sang the song. I knew she was about half my age, but I really didn’t need my nose rubbed in it. Damn kids with their hip hop music and Swatches and stuff. Anyhoo, Chris and Scott show up, bitching about how it was supposedly cold (although it wasn’t until Friday that we got really frigid weather) and stuff. On the other hand, Scott came wearing a ball cap rather than a regular hat (!), which I admit I found a bit amusing. I was at least able to provide him with a pair of warm gloves. I guess their drive from Midway wasn’t that great, but I’m sure they’ll talk about that in their wrap-up if it was memorably so. In any case, they arrived safe and sound. We had a 7:30 reservation at Jameson’s, a joint where you can get a good steak at a medium price, and with which even vegetarian Jessica seemed to like, getting some pasta deal or other. Due to the size of Jeff’s Grand Caravan, everyone went in one vehicle, which was fun and added an air of comradery. We stopped at Wal-Mart first, for a few extra snacks, and where, I was happy to note, Scott traded in the ball cap for a vastly warmer knit one. Jeff, meanwhile, picked up a nice cozy sleeping bag for the weekend. This was ultimately left at my house for next year’s show. (There, that should remind at least one of us.) Joining up at the restaurant were Paul Smith, Jabootu’s Loyal Lackey and Tech Guy, and his wife and my old chum Holly. Jeff’s locally based friend Rob showed up also, and in fact attended the Fest for the first time the next day. It was a pleasant affair, and afterward Jessica joined Paul and Holly at their condo to sleep in a tad more comfort than I could supply. Meanwhile, Jeff kindly volunteered—hmm, that sounds familiar—to sleep in a chair at my place, since we were at overcapacity, bed-wise. I knew we were all getting a bit older when I gave up and hit the sack at a bit after midnight, rather than the early hours of the morning as has been more usual. This allowed me nearly seven hours of sleep before heading over to the Smith abode to pick Jessica up. Returning to base, the assembled troops drove over to the fabtastic L & L Snack Shop for a breakfast fit for a trencherman. The place is a bit cozy, and two tables were available, so we ultimately elected on sitting at the counter. I think that worked out better anyway, and will suggest we keep doing so in the future. Following a gastronomic cornucopia of French toast, scrambled eggs, omelets, hash browns, coffee, milk, orange juice and lots and lots of absolutely delicious meats—ham, bacon, gyros, etc.—we blearily pushed ourselves from our stools. Sadly, our group then experienced a severe loss of face when Jeff, having consumed two rather massive side orders of gyros meats, proved unable to do more than peck at his typically gargantuan Denver omelet. Our waitress, who is also the wife of the guy who owns the place and does the cooking, chided him about this at some length. We shamefacedly shuffled off, staring at the floor. We did a bit more shopping, including getting a dozen bags of ice. Then it was back to the trailer, where we began loading the coolers up. It turned out that four large coolers wasn’t cutting it, whereupon I reflected that I should have prepped my other one. (Yes, I have five coolers that do nothing but sit around and take up space the rest of the year.) After a quick scouring in the bathtub, however, it was ready to go. Around this time, Chris and Scott headed off to pick up those arriving that afternoon at Midway. Meanwhile, the rest of us began to load up the Caravan. This entailed removing the rear seat, a task to which I proved pathetically inadequate, which thus required Jeff to do 87% of the grunt work. Then we loaded the coolers, the venerable Tower o’ Snacks, camp chairs, my fold-up cot and everything else. The Caravan proved big enough for all our gear, but only just.
And so, some time after 1:00, Jeff, Jeff’s buddy Rob, Apostic, Jessica and I headed off to the world famous Superdawg for a last, warm repast. Vegetarian Jessica, in case you were wondering, had what the order taker called a ‘dress bun.’ This is basically the Superdawg minus the, er, dawg, although you could make a decent meal of the Superfries alone. However, with all the other stuff they put in said bun; pickles, peppers, tomato slices, condiments (no ketchup, of course), she seemed relatively happy. She also proved quite happy to have learned a new piece of Superdawg vernacular. Meanwhile, I over estimated my food capacity and ordered two Superdawg. Partway through the first I realized I would be unable to finish the second. That was cool, however, because Chris had asked me to grab him a couple of Superdawgs anyway. He puts these away for late during the night, when he finds a massive protein boost to be invaluable. Sated once more, we left Superdawg and headed down to Northwestern. Like an idiot, I’d forgotten we’d had tentative plans to meet The Warden of Prison Flicks.com and his friends at the restaurant, and we missed them by apparently a couple of minutes. Luckily, he waved it off because of the ‘tentative’ part. A quick thirty-minute ride and we returned to the familiar edifice of the Norris University Center. We drove the van up the drive and unloaded all the gear, which was then laboriously hefted into the lobby and up the main stairs. (It was here, I confess, that Andy Borntreger’s absence was most piquantly apparent.) The fellow who programmed and ran this year’s Fest, Andy Freeberg (who I hereby designate Andy F., to differentiate him from Andy Borntreger), kindly allowed those of us with large amounts of crap to enter the theater and get everything stowed. Once this was done, everyone was told to head back into the lobby. Those who didn’t have tickets were then allowed to buy them. I myself had driven to Norris on Wednesday and bought seventeen advance tickets, which it turned out had been a very good idea. However, as I was sponsoring a film, I entered the line anyway. When I got to the desk, I handed in the signed contract Andy F. had sent me in the mail, along with my check. This seems a good time to mention the folks who joined us.
Meanwhile, Chris and Scott had arrived with:
[I realize the above paragraph is extremely sexist. First I go out of my way to mention the fact that Lodore was comely, then I imagine her wielding a kitchen utensil as a weapon. I plead guilty. I am, in fact, a product of my time, not to mention a childhood largely spent watching even older movies. Therefore I tend to visualize irate women as battering menfolk with either skillets or rolling pins. The latter implements, however, are more typically employed by the sort of robust, beefy women whose musculature can provide enough kinetic energy to make them formidable engines of destruction. Svelte women like Lodore, however, would tend more to the skillet, allowing that heavier instrument to do most of the work for them. Those who remain uncomfortable with the image, however, are invited to imagine Lodore instead high-kicking Chris M., repeatedly in the head, ala Jennifer Garner of TV’s Alias.] Further random confabs occurred in the lobby during this period. One of note involved my observing that the last scheduled film, Magnetic Monster, might not be the best selection to end the show with. (This was my actually first thought when I initially saw the program line-up.) Actually, Magnetic Monster is a neat little picture. However, it’s wordy and in black and white and not the sort of bombastic film used at the end of the program to wake up the audience for the drive home. Typically, in fact, the last film is a Godzilla movie. None proved available, however, probably because 2004 is the big G’s 50th anniversary and presumably his films are heavily booked throughout the rest of the year. Chris Holland concurred with my observation, and representatives of the sponsors of Magnetic Monster (Bad Movie Planet) and the Fest’s penultimate scheduled feature, Jackie Chan’s The Big Brawl (The B-Movie Message Board), were consulted. They also agreed, and went to Andy F., to suggest the films be flipped. Showing an admirable lack of ego for somebody who had, no doubt, slaved over the slate of movies, Andy agreed, and in the end I think things worked out much better. I should also mention being approached a very kind young gent, who noted that he had similarly engaged me in conversations over the last couple of years. I remembered him then, although once more I failed to get his name. Of all my mental deficiencies—and believe me, I’m not being modest—my worst is an almost complete inability to remember names and faces. It’s really quite frightening to know someone is about to tell you their name, steel yourself to remember it, and find it fading from your consciousness before the speaker even finishes giving it. Welcome to my world. In any case, I’ll try to remember to look out for this kind fellow next year, bearing in mind the reaction of Homer Simpson after the fittingly senile Mr. Burns likewise failed to mark him year after year after year. Meanwhile, things were getting wacky at the ticket desk. (Jeff, by the way, sneakily bought me my B-Fest T-Shirt his year. What a mensch.) Between pre-sold tickets, like the ones I had procured earlier that week, and the newly offered ability to have tickets put aside over the Internet, the event was sold out by about three in the afternoon. The actual venue, McCormick Auditorium, I was a little surprised to learn, only holds 325 seats. Moreover, Andy F. wisely knew that during a show like this, you can’t pack every one of them. Therefore, 250 tickets were offered, and they were at this point all taken. (Some of the people who ‘reserved’ tickets weren’t there by six, however, and these were then sold off.) This was, I believe, the first time in all my years at B-Fest that a show had sold out. However, folks attending Fests in the years to come might wish to keep this in mind. Among the folks left without were a woman I used to work with and her husband, Evanston natives who attended the last several years. All I could do was commiserate and remind them that by Saturday morning many people would have left, and that day tickets were then available for ten bucks. I didn’t see them again, so I don’t know if they returned to not. Tickets tendered and hands stamped, most everyone went down to our seats. However, I was waiting for Jabootu contributor Lianna Skywalker, this year attending her third show. Moreover, this year she blossomed into being a host herself, having driven down with six of her friends, all newbies. I had luckily bought tickets for them, as well as brought along the huge cache of Diet Coke that Lianna requires like Kharis the Mummy needs Tanna Leaf fluid—now that I think about it, she would have made a fine cast member in Mac & Me—and waited until the first movie started to head inside. Since they had yet to appear, Andy F., was kind enough to keep the bundle of tickets at the desk, under Lianna’s name. In the end, she and her gang appeared around the third movie. Since I’ve already thoroughly established myself as a pig, I’ll note that her coterie included several jaw-droppingly attractive young ladies, including, of course, Lianna herself. I’m sure the men that joined them were equally genetically blessed, but frankly I didn’t really notice. Techmaster Paul, meanwhile, made his appearance sometime during the second flick, I believe. Paul’s come to quite a few Fests over the years, and this time he stuck around for the entire thing. For most of the show I sat between Jessica and the manically punfull Apostic. Jessica was thus witness to several of my less admirable qualities. Sure enough, I managed to call her Jennifer at one point in the proceedings, again proving myself an utter lackwit. Jeff took some of the heat off by running with this as a bit, thereafter calling her a different feminine ‘J’ name each time he addressed her. Moreover, as noted in previously B-Fest and NOWFF diaries, my hearing quite frankly sucks. The auditorium’s new sound system, meanwhile, consisted of speaker stands placed on the extreme ends of the stage, meaning that Jessica and I were about ten feet away from one of them. At times the sound was excruciatingly loud, and there were several junctures where Jennifer addressed me and I couldn’t hear a darn thing she was saying. At this point she was probably wondering if I were 40 or 60. If the following is incorrect in any way, I apologize.
This year I decided to relax and thus did not take notes, so I may get a
movie out of order or something like that. As well, the stated times are
approximate.
Friday, 6:00 PM: The Brain From Planet Arous (1958) Ah, yes, the movie that brought the Cabal together, as Loki did the Avengers. This was a brilliant opener, complete with massively wacky dialog, a horny floating space brain who is quite obviously in reality a balloon, truly heroic scenery chewing by cinema schlock veteran John Agar in perhaps his signature roll, a truly cool big dog, laughably insane ‘science’ and much more. The audience ate it up. Seeing the film on a big screen was really great, as it enhanced moments like the plane that blows up in flight, leaving a wing dangling in mid-air on a string; Agar’s eyes painfully tearing up from the silver-painted heavy contact lenses he wore to indicate when he was possessed by Gor the Evil Space Brain; Agar staring through a water cooler, his head symbolically distorted; the really classic shot that triangulates Agar, Gor and an axe lying in the foreground of the shot (see my review for a still, although on the screen it was really a beautiful thing) and many other great moments. One groups of wags had a chirping sound effect they vocalized every time somebody in the film mentioned ‘Mystery Mountain,’ which was fairly often. The film ends on a classic note, with a freed Agar laughing off his girlfriend’s assertion that a second, good space brain was the one who provided the key bit of info that finally allowed Agar to kill off the pesky Gor. "Woman and their imaginations!" he chortles, moments after chopping up the giant floating space brain’s vulnerable Fissure of Rolando (a phrase heard periodically throughout the rest of the show) with the aforementioned axe.
7:15 PM: Robot Jox (1990) Directed by cult icon Stuart Gordon, Robot Jox is a giant battling robot film featuring actor Gary Graham—aka, the younger Scott Glenn—stars as Achilles, a warrior who from the inside manipulates a giant, ten-story tall robot, ala the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, to battle an evil Soviet (!!) counterpart in the late 21st century. Oh, well. The robot battles, refereed by UN judges, or some damn thing, determine which side makes political concessions to the other. Currently the US is in danger of losing Alaska (!). The battles also act as Bread and Circuses to amuse the now-destitute citizenry of the U.S. I think this was a belated satire/commentary on Reagan’s aggressive perusal of the Cold War, although if so, the joke’s on Gordon. (And thank God for that.) There’s some unconvincing but loveable stop animation on display, a horrible script; a couple of naked butts, both male and female; a murder disguised as a suicide that would have Gil Grissom crying tears of pure laughter; ‘futuristic’ computer screens and graphics which imply that only the TRS-80 will survive the apocalypse; several really bad performances; utterly clichéd characters (the stoic reluctant hero, the tough female love interest, the hothead, the traitor, the mad Russian, etc.); and lots more, including an insanely out of left field finale. Gordon vet Jeffrey "Re-Animator" Combs is listed prominently in the opening credits, then appears onscreen for a couple of minutes whilst wearing a mask. One of the funniest scenes at this year’s Fest sees a crowd of spectators tragically crushed by Achilles’ falling robot. Apparently no one stopped to think that building bleachers mere yards from where massive robots are engaged in firing missiles and laser beams at one another might be a bad idea. In fact, facility design apparently suffered quite a bit of decline following the inevitably referenced World War III. At one point, Achilles is knocked out and his robot is hijacked, all because the main control center lacks a switch to deactivate the damn thing! Gordon obviously meant the thing as a joke, and was smart enough to do exactly the right thing, which is to play it entirely straight.
8:40 PM: Beatniks (1960) Eddy Crane is a young punk who commits various felonies
with his crew, including His Girl, Iris (who looked a bit like Mara Corday);
Mooney, the Psycho; The Wimp Who Will Inevitably Get Killed and the Other
Guy. After a robbery, the gang visits a diner, where music producer or
agent or some damn thing Harry Bayliss is using the phone. Bayliss was
played by actor Charles Delaney, the first of several actors seen during
the Fest who kinda-sorta looked like Ian McKellen. Iris gets Eddy to sing
her a song, accompanied by a jukebox record that apparently prefigures the
karaoke thing, only several decades ahead of time. Despite the evidence of
our ears, Eddy is supposedly an able singer, and Bayliss is quick to get
him on a TV show. Eddy looks bound for immediate stardom, much to the
dismay of his old crew, especially Mooney. To keep Eddy tied to them, and
because he’s a nut, Mooney murders a bartender who tries to call the
cops. (Mooney’s taunt, "I killed the fat barkeep!", became
perhaps this year’s most prominent running gag.) Iris, meanwhile, is
equally concerned with Eddy’s instant attraction to Bayliss’ blond
secretary, a woman whose numerous severe close-ups, shall we say, do her—not
to mention us—few favors. In fact, bewildered yelps tended to emanate
from dozens of throats in response to each of these. One amusing aspect
was that the film completely lacks beatniks, a situation much commented on
by us assembled viewers. A later film, one I slept through, supposedly
contained a more laughable performance, but the funniest one I saw was
provided by Peter Breck as Mooney, who slices the ham as thick as his
hillbilly (?) accent. Amazingly, Breck nonetheless had a long and
moderately successful acting career, which included the lead role in
fellow Mystery Science Theater 3000 subject The
Crawling Hand. He also guest starred on a whole crapload of TV
shows spanning seven decades, ranging from The Sheriff of Cochise
in 1956 to the now-defunct John Doe in 1992. All in all, Beatniks
was exactly the sort of movie needed to break up the more normal horror
and sci-fi fare. Good call, Andy F., and let me suggest Hot Rods to
Hell to take this slot next year.
10:00 PM: The Beast With Five Fingers (1946) Stomp Tokyo sponsored this killer hand favorite, largely remembered for a typically hypnotic performance by Peter Lorre. A tyrannical, pianist in Italy, retired long ago after losing a hand in an accident, dies under mysterious circumstances. This occurs shortly after he had changed his will to leave his estate to his nurse, who he’d fallen madly in love with. Lorre is a scholar with a taste for mysticism who is obsessed with maintaining his access to the pianist’s extensive library, among which are tomes he needs to complete his life’s work. Robert Alda, Alan’s dad, is the romantic lead, opposite the nurse, and he basically just rips off Tyrone Power’s portrayal of Don Diego in The Mark of Zorro. Genre vet J. Carrol Naish is also on hand as an outwardly comical but actually canny police investigator, ala Columbo. Perhaps due to this aspect of his role, he’s the only one in the cast who sports a broad, comic opera Italian accent, despite the fact that most of the characters are supposedly Italian as well. This might also reflect the fact that Naish gained his greatest fame as the thickly-accented titular immigrant in the popular radio series Life With Luigi, a role he also later played on television. Truth be told, The Beast with Five Fingers is no classic. It’s a tepid affair, as manifested in its boring leads, and only comes to life when the fascinating Lorre in onscreen or the titular roving hand is scuttling about committing various acts of mischief. There are dashes of style by director Robert Flory—thank the cinema gods that James Whale took Frankenstein away from him—along the way, but he also hand-icaps (sorry) the proceedings by beating the audience over the head at several junctures at make sure we ‘get’ something. This was the first of two films at the Fest written by Curt Siodmak, and another script of his that hallmarks his trademark obsession with whether seeming impossible events are in fact supernatural in basis or instead the fevered imaginings of an insane mind. This interest was reflected in his original screenplay for The Wolf Man, although thankfully Universal opted instead for a straight-out werewolf tale. Siodmak also employed the trope, in a fashion much closer to his first Wolf Man script, in Bride of the Gorilla. The most telling aspect of the movie’s interminable first half is that, for one reason or other, the second or third reel was missing in action at the Fest. Few in the audience noticed, and of those who did, no one complained. Especially in its truncated form, this one proved an OK program filler—and hey, you’re going to have singles and doubles at B-Fest, not just homeruns—but next year I would suggest 1935’s Mad Love, a brilliant horror film with an even more compelling Lorre performance.
11:30 PM: Sweepstakes Stomp Tokyo and Chicago’s Psychotronic Film Ssociety coughed up numerous DVDs to be raffled off to the audience. After missing the From Justin to Kelly disc I was lusting after, I won the very next DVD for being the person who had attended the most Fests, at this point about fifteen or sixteen. I was surprised no other like vets were in evidence; perhaps a couple were and they just didn’t speak up. Sadly, I won the American Deanzilla film, and passed it off to Jessica as quickly as I could before scrubbing away at my hands like Lady MacBeth.
11:45 PM: The Wizard of Speed and Time The short that remains, perhaps, the beating heart of B-Fest. All the youngsters run up on stage, lay on their backs, and literally beat feet in accompaniment of one-man band Mike Jittlov’s brilliant short subject. After it wrapped up, per tradition, the short was run a second time, only backwards and upside down.
Saturday, 12:00 AM: Plan 9 from Outer Space Along with the Wizard, Plan 9 defines B-Fest. Even so, I’ve seen it a billion times, and like last year I took a nap during it. I think maybe next year I’ll give it a go again. Man, though, I still miss The Creeping Terror.
1:20 AM: Monkey Hustle No doubt about it, Monkey Hustle was this year’s masterstroke. A meandering Blaxploitation character piece, ala the more famous Car Wash, the film entirely lacks a plot and instead just follows the low-key adventures of several dozen characters. It was, in the end, a film composed of small moments, and thus a brilliant counterpoint to the more overtly bombastic fare that tends to define the Fest. The picture’s primary focus is a cheerful, extremely small-time grifter played by the great Yaphet Katto, who runs a sort of school on the art of the ‘monkey hustle.’ The exact defination of this term is never offered up—or if it was, most of us missed it—and many japesters kept yelling out, inquiring as to when the monkeys would show up. ("Still, it has more beatniks than The Beatniks did," one wag loudly noted.) The legendary Rudy Ray Moore, aka Dolemite, was also on hand, popping up in clothes garish even for this genre. I had never even heard of this film (although it’s available on DVD), but it was just great stuff, and nearly everyone’s choice for this year’s best film. Adding to its appeal, it was filmed in the streets of Chicago, and like most Blaxploitation films, really captured the city in a way that very few films have managed to do.
2:50 AM: Alice in Wonderland (1976) I’m not really a proponent of porn at B-Fest, but I’m clearly out of the mainstream, given the enthusiastic reaction of most of my fellow attendees to this extremely weird (and, fortuitously, somewhat bowdlerized) porn musical. Cutie-pie, girl-next-door Kristine DeBell is a repressed librarian who won’t let her boyfriend into her pants. She ends up in Wonderland and learns that sex isn’t bad, but is instead very nice. All the various Lewis Carroll characters are on hand, including The White Rabbit, Humpty Dumpty, The Mad Hatter, The Queen of Hearts, etc., only obviously their interests and hobbies are a tad different than in the novel. For instance, Tweedledum and Tweedledee are here a brother and sister who constantly engage in various activities only approved of in Arkansas. The hardcore stuff was cut out—Apostic had seen the full version the weekend earlier, when he pre-screened several of the B-Fest offerings, and he pointed out the changes until I, a bit green about the gills, pleaded with him to stop—but it was explicit enough to cause an irate Jessica to repeatedly punch me in the arm, as if the movie were my fault. (And she was really punching me, too.) While I was extremely glad that the various oral acts and such were not in evidence, I also felt their absence screwed up the pace of the film. With the long sex scenes clipped out, I personally thought, the musical numbers came along way too often. These were better than you might think, but not really good enough to hold my interest. Don’t get me wrong, I prefer the present to the days in which everything at the Fest was basically PG or softer—back when pre-18 year-olds were allowed in—not so much for my enjoyment of the actual content but because a bit of explicit violence and the occasional boobie or ass shot is part and parcel of what defines the B-movie over the last forty years. However, that doesn’t mean I want to see extreme gore movies, or outright porn. My idea of a ‘sex’ film is something like Invasion of the Bee Girls, i.e., a movie featuring a soupcon of nudity and perhaps some simulated sex, but which still isn’t completely defined by them. Again, though, the Fest is run for many people, and if they show another such film next year by popular demand, I’ll simply take a nap. (Especially if Jessica is around.) I remain fairly sanguine on this matter, in any case, because how many pornos were there that had the sort of bizarre, comic hook that would make them even marginally appropriate for B-Fest?
4:10 AM: Spawn of the Slithis (1978) An old-fashioned throwback to the monster flicks of ‘50s, Spawn of the Slithis features the quintessential muck-beast created by pollution. (The ‘70s surrogate for the ‘50s radiation-spawned creatures, although here the pollutants are radioactive, to boot.) While I started out planning to watch this one, its moribund pace quickly changed my mind. As well, I recognized from the first couple of attack scenes that I’d seen the movie before, presumably many, many years ago, so I hit the sack. This occurred right after a ‘scientist,’ looking like an even scruffier version of documentarian Ken Burns, explained how radioactive pollution could turn the silt and mud found at the bottom of waterways into a life form. Sadly, I apparently picked exactly the wrong minute to hit the hay. Even as I dozed, I heard the audience laughing uproariously at each utterance by a certain character. Once my head hit the pillow, though, there was no return. From what I have since heard, the actor in question gave one of the top worst performances of all time. I might hunt down a copy of the film at some point to check this guy out, but otherwise it was a dreadfully dull movie for this time slot.
5:40 AM: Devil Girl from Mars (1954) Rousing briefly to check out what was playing next, I decided to skip this one, an extremely talky alien invasion flick (the script was based on a stage play, and didn’t change very much) and featuring a chick in dominatrix leathers as the titular menace. Still, it does feature a goofy robot, as well as an early starring role for Hammer Films and Roger Corman mainstay Hazel Court. I’ll probably get around to reviewing this some day as a video cheese segment, but in this case I quickly went back to sleep.
7:00 AM: Airport ’77 (1977)
9:30 AM: The Forbidden Dance (1990) This Greydon Clark-directed Jabootu subject filled the now-traditional ‘80s dance movie slot, and it proved as ridiculous as ever. (Even so, it still lacks the insane charm of Clark’s greatest fiascos, like the sadly direct-to-video killer cat epic The Uninvited.) The admittedly quite hot Laura Harring is Nisa, a princess from a small Brazilian tribe who travels to the US to battle an Eeee-vil Oil Corporation that of course wants to destroy the environment. She comes to America, where everyone who’s rich is a gross racist, and has to take a job as a maid. She and Jason, her employers’ son, fall in love through their mutual love of dance, and he lightens up and wises up after she introduces him to the earthy delights of the Lambada, which, of course, was outlawed in Brazil for being too sexy. They decide to try to win a televised dance competition hosted by Kid Creole and the Coconuts, which they will use as a platform to raise awareness of the Eeee-vil Oil Company’s depravations. Really, that’s the plot. Main heavy Richard Lynch kidnaps Nisa to prevent the downfall of Eeee-vil Oil Corporations everywhere, but Jason rescues her, they make the competition at the last minute, win, and give their speech. This is an awful film, needless to say. Jason and all his friends look like they’re about forty. This is especially bizarre given that they all apparently live at home and sleep all day, rousing only at night to dance very poorly at a typical ‘80s dance club, the sort festooned with flashing neon streamers. Eventually Jason’s parents give her the boot, and she is forced to become a dancer and very nearly a prostitute, until Joa, her guardian village witch doctor (!!), comes to the rescue. Joa is played quite well by veteran screen villain Sid Haig, whose performance is easily the best thing in the movie. Because he’s all native Indian-y and stuff, Joa is allowed to exhibit authentically magical powers, although at other times his ‘magic’ is more believably mundane in nature. At the other extreme is Jeff James, the guy who plays Jason. His other credits are pretty much all in pornos, a fact I was none too surprised to learn after seeing him ‘act.’ After Forbidden Dance crashed and burned he returned to such fare. There are many, many delights in this film. I especially love how everyone is incredibly impressed when Nisa asserts that her father is a ‘king,’ despite the fact that he’s the king of about a dozen primitives who live in huts made of sticks and sackcloth.
11:10 AM: The Beast of Yucca Flats (1961) I immediately picked this film to sponsor when Andy Freeberg passed on the list of available titles. First, it’s been reviewed here. Second, Tor Johnson is a B-Fest demi-god. Third, it’s simply a craptacular motion picture. Renegade Soviet Scientist Johnson somehow gets his 400 hundred pound self out of Russia and defects to the US. Unfortunately, two of the USSR’s "most ruthless" agents intercept his oddly light protective detail. Johnson flees the scene, albeit at the rate of about ten yards an hour—mobile, the guy ain’t—when an atom bomb test occurs. His pursuers are killed, and Tor is transformed into a scarred, animalistic killer. Made by the infamous Coleman Francis, Beast is one of the most hilariously awful films ever made. Its most famous element is its lack of recorded dialogue. Instead, Francis himself narrates the film with uproariously portentous snippets addressing Various Grave Matters. "Touch a button," he barks, as Tor is A-Bombed. "Things happen. A scientist becomes a beast." One of the film’s lawman heroes—who spends five minutes trying to gun down a random guy he sees, since he might could be the killer—is described this way: "Jim Archer. Another man caught in the frantic race for the betterment of mankind. Progress." I was disappointed to see that the incredibly gratuitous nude scene—filmed later, sans Tor, it actually can not have occurred anywhere in the continuity of the film as presented—that kicks the movie off on the DVD was replaced, but hey, them’s the breaks. Classic stuff.
12:15 PM: Fortress (1993) I’m sure seeing a bad prison movie made The Warden happy. However, I’m not a big Christopher Lambert fan. The Norris cafeteria now being open, Jeff, Jessica and I went down to take a leisurely meal. Telstar man joined us, and it was a nice break.
1:50 PM: The H-Man (1959) I really wanted to see this respected Toho sci-fier, featuring a man who can turn to liquid and who uses his powers to commit a crime spree. I was especially excited because I’d somehow managed never to have seen it. Sadly, the film broke maybe five minutes in, and they couldn’t fix it. Instead, a series of shorts was played, including the popular B-Fest midget epic Gavotte, and a pretty amusing old industrial short from perhaps the ‘40s or ‘50s, wherein competing teams of reporters are sent out to find out whether young or old people are the more courteous. The most memorable moment involves an old man who grabs at a very young girl who bumps into him. The way the shot is filmed, he seems to be groping her chest! B-Fest audiences hadn’t seen anything like it since William Shatner seemed to grope an eight year-old in Kingdom of the Spiders. Readers' Respond: Correspondent Gavin R.R. Smith offers this clarification: "The H-Man should be called 'H-Men,' really. The story is essentially that victims of radiation turn into animate goo, which goes around happily dissolving normal people for food. The dissolving scenes are quite delightful, being done largely w/ collapsing rubber dummies and soap suds."
3:10 The Magnetic Monster (1953) A really intelligent, low-key sci-fier written by Curt Siodmak, and easily ahead of its time. A government investigative team of scientists looks into a seemingly benign magnetic anomaly before learning that it could ultimately destroy the planet. This was one of several interesting pictures from that period featuring non-sentient threats to the world, including Kronos and The Monolith Monsters. The end of the film was obviously stock footage from some previous film, as indicated by the way they cut away any time faces were about to come into view. Given the design of the scene, I pegged it was being from a German silent, and thus deduced, from the sheer scale of the stuff, that it might come from Gold. I proved right, so I get had a cookie. The cast is filled with great and familiar character actors, including Richard Carlson, King Donovan, Byron Foulger and many others. The investigative scientists act in a no-nonsense but naturalistic fashion, ala the then popular Dragnet, and they and the subject matter foreshadow such later shows as the original The Outer Limits and The X-Files. However, my fears that it was too quiet to hold the interest of the audience at this juncture were proven correct when people started to shout "END!!" up at the screen. Good stuff, though, I wish it were out on DVD.
4:25 PM: The Big Brawl (1980) This proved a much more satisfactory picture to end things with. While no classic, The Big Brawl was the most successful of Jackie Chan’s early attempts to conquer Hollywood, including his appearances in (blech) Cannonball Run II and The Protector. Directed by Robert Clouse, who made the Bruce Lee classic Enter the Dragon but never again matched it, keeps things going well enough, although the pace doesn’t nearly match Chan’s work in Hong Kong. I laughed when I saw Kristine DeBell’s name in the credits, and sure enough people gasped when they realized that Chan girlfriend in the film was played by the star of this year’s porn epic. Ms. DeBell, in fact, is one of the few actresses to go from porno to real movies, even if she never quite made it big. Set back in the ‘30s, or thereabouts, and again in Chicago, Chan plays a young man who pursues his studies in fighting skills with his uncle, despite the protestations of Chan’s father. (Conflict with a father over learning Kung Fu popped up as a device in several of Chan’s later works.) The uncle is played by Mako, who despite being Japanese (!), provides his typically elegant screen presence. Like Walter Hill’s Hard Times, the film revolves around fighting matches set up by rich gamblers. In this one, sleazy promoter José Ferrer kidnaps the freshly arrived from China bride-to-be of Chan’s brother (shades of John Carpenter’s Big Trouble in Little China), forcing him to enter the titular match. The elegant Ferrer has a comic relief vicious and foul-mouthed old mother, who at sneers at an incompetent underling in a Chicago-esque fashion by noting that he "couldn’t find a whore on Rush Street." This raised a big laugh from the locals in the audience. Once the film reaches the Texan town holding the titular match, it becomes your typical martial arts movie. Various pairs of contestants whomp on each other until only Chan and the Designated Dirtiest Fighter are left to face one another. Despite all the violence, and like most of Chan’s films, this one is essentially lighthearted. The fight scenes aren’t up to the Hong Kong stuff we now, but it’s all good fun. I especially want to tip my hat to composer Lalo Schifrin’s catchy score, which matches the tone of the film perfectly. In sum, it was a great year (although the weird bit where a representative of the facility came in and, amongst other, more sensible orders—clear the aisles, etc.—ordered me to strike my cot and camp chairs and not use them remained almost surreal), and Andy Freeberg put on an incredible show for his first effort. Luckily, he will be around next year, and even plans to apprentice somebody to follow him after he graduates. My hat’s off to you, sir. *******
The show done, the audience stretched, cleaned up after itself, and said whatever goodbyes were necessary. The Warden and his friends departed, as did most of Lianna’s crew. Lianna herself, happily, joined the rest of us at Paul and Holly’s house (God bless ‘em) for the traditional Saturday night hangout and pizza bash. She also brought her friend Charles along, and he seemed a nice chap. As occurred last year, Lianna and I had a great political and philosophical discussion, with Jessica joining in (taking Tim Quandt’s place from last year). It was the sort of conversation you only can have with people with whom you fundamentally disagree on many issues, yet at the same time utterly respect. She’s one smart cookie, that Lianna, and Jessica was no slouch either. If I get to yak with Lianna after each B-Fest in the years ahead, I’ll be a happy man. We wisely ordered a lot fewer deep-dish pizzas this year, and thus ended up with a quite nearly sane amount of leftovers, as opposed to the half a dozen entire pizzas that remained unconsumed last year. As usual, everyone milled about and ate pizza and drank beer and conversed and watched bad movies (The Brainiac, an old favorite) until it was time to crash. Again proving to be mentally incompetent, I didn’t realize that Liz and Charles needed a ride back to join their friends, and Paul stepped into the breach after I had left with Apostic, Jeff and Chris Holland to head home. That’s another one I owe him. We crashed around midnight, with Apostic being the only one who needed to be taken to the airport that morning. He and I got up about 6:30 to see this done, and I got that weird feeling I get when people start leaving to go home, as if the entire weekend had lasted ten minutes. Returning home, we eventually headed over to a Greek restaurant called Ritzy’s for our last group meal together. Following a satisfying breakfast, we returned to the Smith residence for some final hangout time. The highlight of this was us riffing on parody material making fun of slasher movies. Chris M., and Lodore seemed ready to take the material and actually film it, and it would be quite cool if they did. I was especially glad for this time because I got to talk at least a little with those I hadn’t spent much time with earlier, like Chris M., Lodore and Joltin’ Joe Bannerman. Chris will be in Australia next year, and no doubt Lodore will have better things to do, especially with The Cute One not in attendance. Joe, though, I hope will be there. After that, it was seeing people off. The two Chrises (Chrisi?) left with Scott, Lodore and Joe to return to Midway. That left only Jeff and Jessica, both due to head off soon. While I would happily have spent more time with any of the people who came in, I was looking forward to grabbing a good run of sleep for the first time in four days. We stopped at the Japanese mall Jeff likes to visit when here, and then drove Jessica to the bus station. Luckily, as it turned out, Jeff suggested I leave my phone number with her as we returned to my place. Jeff drove off to return the Caravan and catch his flight home. I stayed up, watching episodes of The Shield on DVD, figuring after a couple of hours it would be completely safe to go to bed. However, sure enough, just like last year Jessica’s Greyhound bus never arrived. After freezing her butt off in a non-enclosed waiting area that even lacked seating for well over an hour, she finally gave in and called me. I picked her up, and via phone and the Internet tried to derive satisfaction from the Greyhound company. Finally, we were instructed that another bus would arrive at the Cumberland stop at 7:00. We went there and waited until 8:23 before leaving in disgust. On the way back to my place, we stopped at Krispy Kreme for a little medicinal sugar fix. While there, we archly compared the differences to a well run company from that of one that had it’s head completely up its own ass. Dealing with Greyhound remained fairly nightmarish, and the people at the 800 line had little of utility to tell us. Ultimately, we were instructed to head to the downtown Chicago station. This proved difficult to reach by car, but I went to the Chicago Transit Authority website and learned that a simple ride on an El train would take us right there. If only they had told to go to the central station in the first place—although why put a station on the route if the scheduled buses never show up there?—we would have been spared a lot of grief. In the end, once we arrived there on Monday afternoon, everything went well. We went early, obviously at this point anticipating further problems, but everything went amazingly smooth. The good part was that I got to hang out with Jessica quite a bit more, but I have to admit, I was bone tired when I had eventually seen her on the bus and then took the El back to the Rosemont station. By now it had begun to snow pretty good, and it was traffic time and the trip was painfully slow. In the end, though, all’s well that ends well, I guess. In any case, I’m sure Jessica will go into more detail about this in her B-Fest report, but the end result will no doubt be advice to avoid Greyhound if at all possible, and to stick with main terminals if you can’t. By the way, next year she’s planning to fly. ******* It only takes one B-Fest to make you feel like a veteran. Arriving without too much incident I met up with Ken. I went to his trailer were I tried to contain my envy at his DVD collection. Several trips later the gang had assembled; the sweet Jeff and the learned Apostic. Apostic had brought a nifty mini movie set to Peter Gabriel’s "Big Time." When I inquired what the song was it was met with groans of disbelief. Hey fellas, I do know who Peter Gabriel is and I plan to pick up the CD. A CD by the way is a small silver disc that holds music and has rendered the phonograph obsolete. Apostic was kind enough to give me a copy of the movie as a souvenir. I made threats throughout the evening to wash Ken’s dishes. When I finally did I naturally made things worse by stopping up the sink. Chicago is a chowhound’s heaven. The traditional dinner at Jameson’s offered plenty of temptation to fall off the vegetarian wagon but the salad was delicious. After Paul and Holly kindly lent me a room for the night we went to the L&L Snack Shop for breakfast. That kind of wonderful dining experience is just something you don’t get down here. We did a little more shopping before going to Superdawg for lunch. I ordered a dressed bun and made plans for the guys to monkey hustle me a jar of pickled green tomatoes. We got to the auditorium where I met the gang from Stomp Tokyo and we milled around waiting for the show to begin. I got this year’s B-Fest CD from Telstar. The lights dimmed and the screen lit up with… Brain From Planet Arous- A veritable template for fifties science fiction. Responding to a strange signal, two scientists explore Mystery Mountain (cue incredibly irritating audience "siren" noise) and discover Gor, the orneriest party balloon in the ol’ west. Actually he’s a "giant space brain" and after microwaving the one that isn’t John Agar he quickly takes possession of the one that is. Gor is bent on world domination but hasn’t forgotten to take time for the simple pleasures such as frenching John’s girlfriend and making cheap model planes explode. A perfect beginning. Interestingly the film originates no official running joke though "the fissure of Rolando" makes a few appearances.
Robot Jox- Very eighties, very loud, very, very loud. A tip, if you plan to watch Giant Killer Robots fight and wish to sit no more than twenty feet away, make sure not to bring your towheaded son and above all make sure your child isn’t holding an adorable stuffed animal. Someone forgets this, of course, and Gary Graham, the lost Carridine brother, belly flops on a field of spectators. It’s all right as they all signed releases (moving the stands a few yards back apparently takes too much effort) but he decides to leave the show for good. This is the kind of movie where if you can’t predict the entire plot you shouldn’t be allowed to watch bad movies. The ending is positively Captain Planeterian.
The Beatniks- The Fest is great for filling in the gaps in my cinematic education. Though by the end it had dragged so that you wondered if you were watching Ken Burn’s The Beatniks it has enough goofy incident to entertain. A talent agent discovers a big beefy slab of meat that was allowed to be a film protagonist in the fifties. The middle aged hoodlum tries to give up the streets for fame and the love of his new girl, who is most kindly filmed in medium shots, wide angles, or behind a solid sheet of concrete. The straight and narrow is never easy and the group’s requisite psychopath commits murder leading to the most popular line of the evening "I killed that fat barkeep!" You sure did, son, you sure did.
Beast With Five Fingers- Peter Lorre never turned in a bad performance his movies. [Editor Ken: I wouldn’t go that far, but here he’s quite nearly at his best, which is saying something] This is more than could be said of anyone else here, however. Set in an Italian mansion where the one Italian accent belongs to the bumbling police chief, strange things are afoot (ahand?). After a cruel pianist dies, his heirs squabble over the will while Lorre is haunted by the apparition of the dead man’s hand. This is one to watch alone for Lorre’s performance but it was a pace killer at the fest. One reel went missing, nobody noticed. The ending lays the groundwork for every Scooby Doo episode to come. Sweepstakes- Ken was visibly disappointed at not winning From Justin to Kelly. He kindly gave his copy of Deanzilla to me, where I will actually do something useful with it, trade it in for store credit. Wizard of Speed and Time- I admit, I Just Don’t Get It. Like the crippled child in Pied Piper I don’t hear the music and am spared from getting kicked in the face on stage. And yes I know I have a cold, black heart. Plan 9 From Outer Space- I have now seen the worst movie ever made (Still better than You’ve Got Mail). You would think it couldn’t live up to the hype, you would be wrong. From cockpits hastily constructed out of shower curtains to hi-fis supposedly controlling the dead this is a garden of delights to be experienced each and every year.
Monkey Hustle- Awesome. Yaphet Kotto wears a newsboy’s cap and an infectious grin in this cheerful Blaxploitation piece. It has a few strings of plot to tie the whole thing together but it’s really just watching the characters interact and go about their daily lives. It’s impossible to describe how appealing this film is, suffice to say it’s like having a friend you haven’t seen in a while tell you all about their adventures. As to what a Monkey Hustle is, that’s never made clear. Though throughout the rest of the show any chicanery will be greeted with a chorus of "He got Monkey Hustled!" Alice in Wonderland- I am truly sorry, Ken, I really am. I am all ready to calmly debate whether porn is the patriarchal subjection of women as sexual objects; or, as the players are acting consensually, do the women in them in fact own their sexuality? But when you seen a pudding-faced nymphet being defiled by Humpty Dumpty and all reason goes out the window. Add to it that it’s peppered with bad jokes so that the whole thing plays like the longest, filthiest Saturday Night Live sketch ever and you want to hurt the filmmakers. But you can’t, so you do the next best thing. I am so sorry, Ken, it’s not you it’s the movie. Next year I will excuse myself to do something more productive, like hurl obscenities at Lake Michigan. [Editor Ken: Again, it was that fact that I found the film at least equally unpleasant that added to the indignity of being so thumped. If I had been acting like a leering jackanapes, I would at least have done something remotely worth getting smacked for.]
Spawn of the Slithis- I was all ready to keep awake through the entire thing but after Alice dealt a crippling blow to my will to live I settled in for a nap. I awoke to see a woman have her blouse torn off by a monster and the most naked rip off of Jaws in film history. It seems like this was the ‘deep hurting’ pick this year. Devil Girl From Mars- In a very threadbare English countryside a Salad Spinner lands. Those gathered at the local hotel look on in terror as a figure emerges. A woman in a wicked vinyl getup demands men to bring back to her dying planet. Naturally the dumpiest of the group volunteers first. Dull, lifeless, I’ll be damned if I can remember what happened to the characters. The Devil Girl’s ship blows up and if there’s a sequel please let it focus on her cool change machine/robot.
Airport ‘77- Dull as Devil Girl but in living ‘70s Rustochrome! An all-star (albeit aging) cast crashes in the Bermuda triangle. That’s it. Apparently they pitched the idea and figured someone else would fill it in. Though they did manage to avoid any possible entertainment by bumping off Christopher Lee at the thirty-minute mark. Notable for the flurry of imitations, good and bad, that accompanied Jimmy Stewart’s appearances. Confirms that George Kennedy should not be allowed near aircraft of any sort and that Kathleen Quinlan can’t act. The Forbidden Dance- Now we’re talking. The lovely Nisa and the very unlovely Jeff Lambada to save the rainforest. Sid Haig steals the show as the silent hulking medicine man. Richard Lynch, who I never will be convinced isn’t Rutger Hauer in a prosthetic nose, plays the heavy. Richard gives the most mind-bending moment in the show when his rips off his jacket and proceeds to shake his moneymaker. It lacks the charm of The Last Dragon but it makes it that much easier to mock. Watch for Kid Creole’s shape-shifting backup singers and here’s a piece of Lambada etiquette; though the lady may grind her crotch into yours please do not put your hand on her back. Personal space is personal space. The Beast of Yucca Flats- Another Coleman Francis plotless wonder. Stretching the limits of science fiction Tor Johnson plays a defecting Russian scientist. Correctly figuring how much good he’ll do we send only two agents as a guard. The equally blasé Ruskies send "two of their most ruthless agents" who must be trained in the art of "not hitting a large shambling object ten feet away from you." As fate would have it, this all transpires near an atom bomb test and Tor is turned into an even larger shambling object. It has no actual dialogue instead Coleman Francis ruminates on Man, God, and the Universe. Excellent choice, Ken.
Fortress- This was the most recent film shown, it’s easy to find on DVD, and as one critic aptly noted "Christopher Lambert acts with his forehead". It was time for a break and a change of clothes. The H-Man- Japanese confection that recognized its dullness and in an expression of politeness committed suicide on the projector. We were shown a series of shorts. A repeat of the monkey one I am trying to forget with every fiber of my being, along with an interesting piece of WWII propaganda. A very seventies affair dealt with stereotypes on TV. A group of garishly attired children learned that all Native Americans aren’t savage drunkards and that black people do another things besides pimping and committing crime. Interesting also for the tolerance the couple shows their flamingly gay son in the detergent ad. I also got to the see the talked about Gavotte. Very French, very long. My favorite was the short on courtesy where a brother and sister, who share an entirely unhealthy Flowers in the Attic vibe, go in search of good manners. One can only hope they called the police after witnessing the older gentleman being very ‘courteous’ to a little girl. The Magnetic Monster- I sponsored this as part of the Bad Movie Board but please don’t go repeating that. A film like this requires your full attention but in a festival atmosphere when important plot points and characterizations are drowned out you left with a meandering mess. I do want to rent Gold now. The Big Brawl- This was switched with Magnetic Monster and thank goodness. I’ve only seen Jackie Chan in the latter half of his American career, so seeing him at his prime is a real treat. There’s the usual fig leaf of plot about Jackie being forced into fighting to rescue his brother’s fiancée but that’s pretty much forgotten to make room for a riotous finale. Kristine DeBell who played Alice shows up as Jackie’s wholesome love interest. The perfect one to end on. As the lights came up people whistled Lalo Schifrin’s zingy score as they cleaned up the auditorium. ******** Afterwards we went to Paul and Holly’s for refreshment. Their generosity is truly remarkable and one year I am going to set the tale of their generosity to music in ballad form and give a recital accompanied by mimes and jugglers. I struggled to finish even one slice of Chicago deep dish. Holly’s face contorted in unspeakable disgust when I told her that Pizza Hut’s idea of Chicago-style was to pour the sauce on at the table. Exhausted I managed to brush my teeth before collapsing into unconsciousness. The next day we met at Ritzy’s for breakfast. It’s very difficult to find a bad place to eat in Chicago, so I enjoyed a laptop sized skillet breakfast. I went to Ken’s to wait until I had to leave for the bus. As for what happened next, well I think this memo a source forwarded to me will help explain. To: All Personnel Re: The Greyhound Experience
Well, the wonderful relationship between Greyhound and I has come to an end. I would like to thank The Little Krispy Kreme on the Prairie for restoring my faith in capitalism. Ken did an admirable job of pretending not to be sick of him as I stayed on an extra night. The next day we watched my favorite Hawks movie Hatari! We then frightened each other by asking how long it would be until Hollywood was ready to remake it with Ashton Kutcher. [Editor Ken: If you hold a flashlight under your chin and shine it up towards your face while doing this, it’s even spookier.] On Monday, we rode the L to the Chicago terminal and I got my one touristy picture of the Sears Tower*. Greyhound has yet to get rid of all its’ competent employees and a very helpful lady told me to just get on the next bus for home. Ken kindly stayed to see me off then left for a well-deserved nap. Seventeen hours later I arrived home where the temperature of forty felt like a tropical breeze. Despite the travel snafu it was a wonderful trip and next year is sure to be even better. [*Editor Ken: One scenic travelogue moment I forgot to mention in my B-Fest Diary was that, when I walked back to the El station after waiting with Jessica for a few hours to make sure Greyhound wasn’t pulling a last piece of tomfoolery on her, the Tower had become completely shrouded in clouds, pursuant to the snowfall referenced in the above Diary. It was kind of neat, despite what I knew it portended, and definitely summed up the sort of rapidly changing weather we get in this part of the world.] [Note: The Author wishes to inform the reader that a ‘Greyhound run by boobs/Janet Jackson’ joke was in the works but subsequently fell through. My apologies.] ******** Photoblogging hits B-Fest courtesy of the Stomp Tokyo Technobobs: -by Ken Begg & Jessica Ritchey |
