B-Fest Blues...

One Fish. Two Fish. Three Fish...Where the Heck are We?!?

Alas, the Über Map of Doom was completely worthless as the Shedd was in the opposite direction of the Tiki Bar. So I consulted with the nice hotel clerk who provided a convenient tourist map showing the easiest way to get there. As I looked it over, the route seemed simple enough, but then the clerk warned me there was a ton of construction going on around that area, and with a pen, marked the alternate route that we had to take. Being the history buff that I am, I recognize the new scratches as the same route Custer took at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, so, yeah, we're totally screwed.

As per usual, Mike took the wheel, I've got the chicken-scratched map, and Matt keeps an eye out for any Transit-Authority buses that might try to plaster us into the asphalt. Lake Shore Drive is as pretty as ever, and we can see the Shedd to our left, and the simple turn-off we need is blocked by three -- THREE! -- freakin' traffic cones. Lost in the chicken scratches, I see an access road between the freeway and the lake that looks like what we need. To get to that however... We finally find an exit that'll get us near it, but suddenly, there's a building blocking our way. Seriously. A building. We sorta follow another car into a long, narrow tunnel that led underneath said building. Technically, I think we were trespassing at this point as we crept along in the dark toward the light at the other end. And at that point I crumpled up the map, waiting to be arrested, when a man materialized, directing the traffic ahead of us. We admit we're lost, and his smile says we weren't the only idiots to wind up in here, and he waves us on through. Back into the light, we make a few illegal turns, jump a few concrete islands, making a bee-line for the aquarium's parking lot. *Whew*

Well, while getting there was half the fun, the other half was spent perusing all kinds of aquatic life -- and an impressive display it was. Sharks, turtles, lobsters, crabs, hallucinogenic frogs, odd-looking fish, glow-in-the-dark fish, what-in-the-hell-is-that fish, whales, dolphins, eels and Bears fans. Being a creature of the Great Plains, this stuff is truly fascinating. Although I was a little disappointed when I heard the sounds of water splashing around a certain corner, then rushed around to see, only to find out it was just a wave/reef-display instead of penguins doing belly-flops. I still got soaked, though. Is that what that yellow line is for? And is there anything more serene than sitting around and watching as whales do what they do? And yes, there were dragons there. Komodos. Big ones. Though not quite that fuzzy...($300 dollar digital camera + one chuckle-head pointing and clicking = one metric ton of blur.)

Duly impressed, however, time is starting to crunch a little so we head back into the Belly of the Beast to do battle with the Chicago roadways. Recovering and smoothing out the hotel tourist map as best I could, I managed to navigate us back to Evanston without incident and we headed straight for the campus. Parking is always tricky at Northwestern U. Even though I've been assured every year that after four o'clock on Fridays you can park on campus without a permit, I believe the past two years we've found warning stickers placed on our transport when we stumble out Saturday evening. And we were lucky to just get a warning. Believe me, there are horrible tales of fellow out-of-town B-Festers who got nailed with not one, but two, parking violations that carry an obscene fine, and that tends to royally scuttle your happy-factor; know what I mean? It's not like the thing is packed tight, bumper to bumper. So, what I'm saying is, since I drove 700 miles, sponsored a film, paid $40 per ticket, maybe, just maybe, you can let campus security know on B-Fest weekend that there might be some out-of-towners parked in your near empty parking garage? And maybe you could cut them a little slack? Cool? Cool. Thanks.

Inside the Norris center, we reunite with several BMMBers who made a pilgrimage to Ahlgrim's Funeral Parlor for a round of miniature golf. Sounded awesome, a little disappointed to have missed out, sure, but there's always next year. After staking out some seats, we headed back to the cafeteria for some solid food before tackling the overnight since all we'll be consuming for the next 24 hours, basically, will be sugar and caffeine; trust me, a little protein will go a long, long way. Then it was back to the auditorium, only to be herded back out for a ticket check, where a very pleasant surprise awaited. Along with the commemorative Stomp Tokyo B-Fest cup, someone had a genius-attack and incorporated the B-Fest poster and the program into one entity. They also provided a nice, squishy little brain squeeze-toy. Man, this is better than Christmas.

Back into the theater, then, where everyone started settling in for the long haul and stashing their gear. I did a quick check of my supplies: a six-pack of Diet Dew, a box of Zingers, two boxes of granola bars, two cans of Pringles, a can of Slim-Jims, and a foot-long turkey sub. That oughta get me through 'til lunch tomorrow. I hope. Sitting right ahead of us, Tim Lehnerer, who provided another classic B-Fest mix-disc, was doing his damndest to fight off some kind of malady, and warns us not to get too close. Sitting next to him was some guy whose name I didn't catch, but I'll call him the 'Each It And I" guy, 'cuz that's what his t-shirt said. And I'm embarrassed as all hell that it took me well into Sunday before I finally got the joke. And I only bring this up as a shout out to "Each It And I" guy because he disappeared about half-way through the films and I wanted to let him know that he was freakin' hilarious.

H-Hour is fast approaching, and our emcee for the evening appears and quiets the crowd, welcoming us all to B-Fest 2007. After the applause subsided, we were warned before hand that a lot of the prints for this year's fest were very brittle, so patience was gonna be a virtue to get us through all the very probable technical glitches. He also stated that as of right now, and for the next 24-hours, the heater for the theater was shut off and the air-conditioner would be turned on, bringing another round of loud, thunderous applause. Being a B-Fest veteran, knowing full well that the air tends to coagulate and congeal in your nasal cavity like curdled milk by hour ten, this was a much welcomed relief; so hopefully, the Nerd-Funk-O-Meter can be retired for good. With that, the lights dimmed, I bogarted a vanilla Zinger and cracked open a pop, waiting to see if I could manage to stay awake for the full 24-hours for the third year in a row.

Bring it on!

The Brain that Wouldn't Die

a/k/a The Brain that Wouldn't Start

As the first film wheezed and warbled to life, the opening credits got as far as The Brain that Wouldn't...before the print snapped like a dried-out twig. As the film gargled to a very abrupt stop, the audience roars and clapped off this ominous omen when the film recovers and resumed in increasing fits and starts. Between the glitches, we witness the tale of a mad surgeon whose hideous experiments with cadaver parts comes in real handy when an auto-accident dismembers his wife's head. And while that detached appendage percolates in a pan of juices, it torments the husband as he searches out a new replacement body. And you can almost hear the creep saying I'm doing this for you, Honey! as he lecherously ogles an array of models and strippers, looking for the right boob to butt ratio. Oh yeah...All for you, Honey! Wanting no part of this abomination of science gone awry, Jan in the Pan sends out a psychic S.O.S. to the surgeon's earlier, diabolical experiment locked in a nearby closet. Oh, yeah, this is gonna end in fire. And as we barrel toward the climactic head-swapping, the print starts to sputter, first losing the soundtrack, and then terminally disintegrates before we get to see the monster come out of the closet and tear the surgeon's throat out with his teeth. 

When the lights came up -- never a good sign -- it soon became apparent that the ending was lost to us. Never fear, the dynamic duo of Tim and Osco Sean (Of Web of the Big Damn Spider fame) take to the stage and reenact the final battle, much to the audiences delight.

The Beastmaster

a/k/a Is that a Ferret in Your Loin Cloth, or are You just Happy to See Me?

After one of the most convoluted origins in cinema history -- I mean, you're a royal heir, stolen from your mother's womb and inserted into a cow, only to be cut out as a sacrifice, then saved by the timely intervention of a local peasant, who then, along with all his neighbors, gets slaughtered by a horde of savages led by some dude with elk antlers coming out of his head -- Marc Singer and his oiled up abs and pecs becomes the Beastmaster. Then, leading his animal army of one displaced tiger, two thieving ferrets, and an eagle, he does battle with evil warlock Rip Torn and his coven of witches. They're the ones who slaughtered his parents and usurped his kingdom, and who keeps everyone in line by holding human sacrifices on top of a giant pyramid. But, with the help of the buxom Tanya Roberts and a barely dressed John Amos, Singer manages to overthrow this evil regime, mostly due to the heroic action of the ferrets, not the so-called Beastmaster -- he was busy getting his ass kicked, if memory serves. And the timely intervention of some giant, bat-like creatures whose acidic-wing bear hugs can reduce you to bones in a matter of seconds came in kind of handy, too. The final battle won, we're then rewarded with an extra reel of combat footage when the director realized that after the climax, they forgot about the guy with the elk antlers coming out of his head.

You know, I take that back about the origin being convoluted because, really, this whole dang movie is just one big convoluted mess. Doesn't matter, though. The film is still one metric-ton of fun to be had between the scenes of Singer and his band meandering around. And around. And around. And around...

Mystery Short: Flip the Frog in The New Car

a/k/a Why Anthropomorphic Cars Shouldn't Get Drunk

Okey-dokey, then. I do believe I now know where the Fleischer brothers got all their drugs.

Revenge of the Creature in 3-D

a/k/a John Agar Goes on a Date

You'll notice the Creature is not featured in the screen-cap. That's okay; he really wasn't featured in the movie, either.

Well, he was sorta there, in the beginning, when they re-hashed the first film for awhile. (Yay! Nestor's back!) Only this time they catch him and bring him back to civilization -- civilization being the newest attraction at an aquatic theme-park. Enter John Agar, who wants to study the gill-man, but then seems more interested in hooking up with fellow marine-biologist, Lori Nelson. As Agar commits to slobber-knocking the leading lady, as only the Agar can, the Creature, also smitten with the girl, makes another cameo appearance when he breaks loose and runs amok, escaping into the Everglades -- and then promptly disappears from the movie again! Never fear, the film soldiers on without him, focusing on the native mating habits of the common American Agar. That is, until the Creature realizes this was his movie, dammit, and takes his frustrations out on a couple of teens -- and fastballs one of them into a palm tree! (And boy, did he get some great movement on that pitch.) He also makes one last pass at the girl, which leads to his eventual doom.

Just like last year, when they screened the original Creature from the Black Lagoon, Revenge was shown in 3-D. And also like last year, it only worked about 50% of the time when the prints were properly synched up. When it did work, the effect was truly incredible; more in the depth of scene composition then when something is chucked at you -- like John Bromfield's...well, package. Oh yeah, that jutting bulge of manliness in his tightie-whitie swim trunks was, hands down, the most terrifying 3-D effect ever. (I know the gal in front of me agreed, screaming "Pan up! Pan up!")

Now, I know a lot of people don't like it when they show 3-D films at B-Fest, but I kinda do. Yes, those glasses are a pain in the ass. Yes, it works less often then not. I don't care, and will express my thanks to A&O just for the opportunity to sort-of-see a film in 3-D. That's the whole point of a film-festival, right? You can't do this kind of stuff when you rent things, know what I mean?

The Raffle Break

a/k/a Skunked Again VI: Skunked Harder

Find it I did -- my number was 308 -- and then waited anxiously as they rattled off numbers and gave things away. Then, things got a little insidious. As the pile of swag dwindled, the numbers called stayed within a one to 140 parameter; not even within sniffing distance of 200, let alone three. Smelling a rat, the small knot of us that were stuck with the high numbers started a constant, droning chant as the last few numbers were called: 300 and...300 and...300 and...

It didn't help. Ah, well. Maybe next year?

The Wizard of Speed and Time

a/k/a emiT dna deepS fo draziW ehT

Nos venit. Nos vigilo. Nos Venter. Quod illic eram ultum tripudium. Gauisus.

Loosely translated from the Latin: We came. We Saw. We stomped. And there was much rejoicing. Yay.

As we approached the midnight hour, it meant it was time for this much beloved short to spool up. It took awhile to get it firing on all cylinders, but soon enough, the supersonic Wizard's acolytes were on stage running and stomping and singing in unison. And once again, for everyone's safety, I declined to drag my fat-butt up there to add to the property damage. A few more delays and, as is customary, the short was shown in reverse. Wheeeeeee!

I honestly fear for the shelf-life of this print. Every year, they seem to have more and more trouble feeding it through the projector. And I hope they have a Plan-B for when it finally does give up the ghost. I mean, we've already lost What is Communism?

Plan 9 from Outer Space

a/k/a Solarmanite and You

Midnight. Plan 9. Nuff said.

...Fine. 

Bela! Not Bela! Flying Saucers! Over Hollywood! Tor! Idiot! Hot! Day! Night! Murdered! Dead! Somebody's Responsible! Wicker! Rattan! Up There! Out There! In There! Bela! Not Bela! Your lights! Spook detail! Solarmanite! Earth! Idiots! You see! Stupid! Stupid! All must be destroyed!

Beware of future events in your future! (And watch out for all those flying paper plates.)

Mystery Short: Gavotte

a/k/a 1:00AM Mind-#@%*

As the audience and the auditorium recovered from the Plan 9 simulated UFO/paper-plate onslaught, the reprieve was short-lived as the next short spooled up, and then I almost spit up the last few Slim Jims I'd snarfed when a familiar tune tinkles from an unseen clavichord. Oh no, they're showing Gavotte again. What's a Gavotte? you ask. Well, you remember Jay Sherman from The Critic? And how he used to sing that haughty little ditty, "I like French films; pretentious foreign French Films. I like French films; three tickets s'il vous plait." Yeah, well Gavotte is basically Jay Sherman's wet dream. Not a single smidgen of dialogue is spoken as two midgets decked out in full Renaissance gear wrassle and beat the crap out of each other over a comfy chair. This goes on for like six hours. Or at least it feels like six hours before this greasy turd-burger mercifully grinds toward the finis. That's French for "End, please."

Man, at this point my stomach had twisted itself into a knot, but I don't think it had anything to do with Gavotte and a lot to do with those Jerky treats that I've been burping up for the last ten minutes. Note to self: Don't eat anymore of those. Ah, what's a little trichinosis among friends, right? Gut it out son, gut it out.

What's next?

Savage Sisters

a/k/a Isn't Anybody Gonna Get Naked? Apparently Not...

On this week's episode of Charlie's Angels, Charlie sends the Angels to the Philippines to infiltrate a band of terrorists. All part of a plan to get them arrested and inside a Filipino jail where one of the Angels has already been planted deep undercover as an assistant to the warden. And all of that is part of a plan to recover a cache of cash stolen by another band of terrorists, led by this week's special guest-star, Sidney Haig as Pancho Villa's great, great grandson, Philbert; and don't miss extra-special guest-star John Ashley as Bosley's treacherous, turncoat nephew/sling-shot thong model, Dinkley. Will Kris, Sabrina and Kelly survive this jungle hell? and approximately 27,000 rounds of ammo fired at them? and will they do it all again next week where no matter what happens, we never get the sense that any of them are in any real danger? and all the bad guys are buffoons that my 99 year-old grandmother could outwit and beat down withOUT the benefit of a wet-noodle?

...What?

Bitter? You bet your sweet bippy. In the long and lurid world of exploitation movies you'll be hard pressed to stumble across a film less exploitative than Savage Sisters. Long on promise, short on delivery doesn't even begin to come close to this travesty. Which is odd when you figure that producer Ashley -- here already in full A-Team mode, and who made The Big Doll House for cripesakes! -- and director Eddie Romero are basically remaking Black Mama White Mama -- by no means a great film, but better than this thing. I mean, Who the hell wants to see a G-Rated Women In Prison movie? Anyone? Anyone..? Bueller? Somewhere along the way, these guys lost their nerve or something, as the film doesn't have the courage of its convictions to follow through on anything, really, which leaves us with a lot of insipidness and the total waste of a great cast; though Haig and Vic Diaz -- a/k/a Buttcrack -- tried real hard to salvage something, but not even sleaze queen Cheri Caffaro can save this patient -- and when I say sleaze, I say it most reverently.

Sorry for the rant; just had high hopes for this film is all. So yeah, expectations be a harsh mistress seldom satisfied. The only glimmer of happy-happy, joy-joy came when I hit upon a notion of a Charlie's Angels spin-off featuring Gloria Hendry, Pam Grier and Tamara Dobson. Or maybe Caffaro, Dyanne Thorne and Audrey Campbell?

That would have so rawked.