B-Fest Ho!-ly Cow!

One More Time - With Feeling!

So I got off work early Monday morning on January 17, got home, and checked out the BMMB to finally see what A&O Films was going to try and kill me with at this year's B-Fest: the 24-hour movie marathon where myself and about 250 other, self-proclaimed movie nerds cram into a theater, gorge ourselves on junk-food, caffeine, and other legal stimulants; then endure around 16 cinematically-challenged films and shorts all while stewing in our own juices. We're mad I tell you -- MAD!

The schedule was posted and I gave it a gander. Then I saw it, blinked several times, shook my head, and quickly turned the monitor off. Nah, it can't be. They wouldn't dare.

I waited several seconds and turned it back on. 

Aaarrgghhhhh! It's still there! 

They're gonna show The Apple. Aaaarrgh. The audience is going to erupt during that thing, the theater will be reduced to rubble. My god I've got to be there to see this...

Let's Roll...

Adventures with Captain Wow in the Black Hole of Des Moines...

I understand B-Fest sold out in less than two days this year. Luckily, we had an inside man who snagged some tickets for us. (Thanks, Skip!) So it was off to Chicago and the Evanston suburbs for my fourth go around at the amazing colossal film festival -- an endurance test of the mind, body and soul...And underarm deodorant, and intestinal fortitude, and the tensile strength of your gluteus maximus. 

Along for the ride was Mike, trekking to his third B-Fest, and one newbie, Mike's friend Matt. Together, we piled into the Caddy and headed east. Mike, as usual, took the wheel and his amazing driving prowess -- mostly involving jumping islands while trying to turn into gas stations, and finding rumble bars on the shoulders -- quickly earn him the nickname, Captain Wow. We listened to the mix CD I made to hand out this year, to check it for technical glitches. To my relief, it played OK; my burner was sounding very strange towards the fifteenth disc. And when we got to the "Rumor of Surf" track by Southern Culture on the Skids, and when Mary Huff hits that one note, and you'll know it when you hear it, I explain to Mike that that's the reason I want to bare her children.

We pick up Matt in Omaha, then it's across the river into Iowa where you know what awaits us. And I got to tell you, The Black Hole of Des Moines really screwed with us this year. What's The Black Hole of Des Moines? Well, it's kind of a space/time flux thing where you drive and drive but never seem to get anywhere. (For more info on this anomaly, check out the B-Fest 2002 recap.) 

Things got even more bizarre when we stopped for gas and food in Iowa City. After a gassing up at the Kum & Go (insert your own joke here), we headed to the McDonald's where we found something very, well, strange...

In front of the entrance was a dead tree that rose about ten feet into the air. And on top of that dead tree stump, carved into the wood, sprung Ronald McDonald. Well, not sprung; it looks more like he's trying to scrape and crawl his way out.

As we debated whether this was man made, or some kind of pagan fast food idol manifestation, I took several pictures of it -- when I head a voice ordering me to stop. We looked to the left and a woman in a McDonald's uniform told us that no pictures of the Great Wooden Ronald was allowed. Apologizing, I told her I'd delete them. (Which, of course, I didn't.) Then heading toward the entrance, suppressing incredulous laughter, I looked back -- but the woman had disappeared! From the empty lot I glanced up at the Wooden Ronald -- who glared right back at me. Yikes!

Over the greasiest cheeseburgers ever, even for McD's, we dubbed her the wood nymph protector of He Who Walks Between the Arches. I don't think it was a conscious decision, but we ate really fast and quickly put as much distance between us, Iowa City, and the cursed wooden idol as was humanly possible. Hell, I kept expecting to glance back and see the mad wooden Ronald, with those creepy, dead eyes and humorless grin, crawling up the trunk, ready to rip my spleen out for defiling him with my camera.

Shaking Iowa City off, we passed most of the trip watching clips of skater punks breaking bones that Matt downloaded from Mucho Sucko, and got about halfway through Something Weird Video's sampler DVD when we rolled into Chicago proper (and was it me, or have the toll charges doubled from last year?), and we make it all the way to the hotel without incident and get checked in a little before five.

Since Matt had forgotten some vital piece of equipment for the video game he brought along, he and Mike headed out to see if they could buy a replacement. I'd been up since noon the day before --e'yup, I'd already been up for over 24 hours -- so I stayed put and stretched out on the bed for awhile.

Aaaaahhhhhhh.....

The plan was to meet the collective heads of knuckle of the BMMB in the lobby around 7p.m., then trek over to the Prairie Moon for the traditional pre-fest meal and then hit the Hali Kahiki for some demon rum and tiki-inspired spirits. 

At the appropriate hour, we headed down to the lobby and I'm determined to call everyone by their real names this year. We find Tim (Telstar), Sean (Osco Sean), Josh (Bergerjaques) and Ray (Nameless Ray) waiting; Scott (El Santo), master and commander of 1000 Misspent Hours and Counting, and his companion, Elizabeth, hadn't arrived yet.

We head on over to the Prairie Moon, Scott and Elizabeth catch up, and we eat, loudly, and after several rounds of drinks, the nerd-off really got going. Skip made a brief cameo appearance and gives us our tickets; thanks again, buddy. And as we wait and wait for the check, and then wait some more, we finally got up and started putting our jackets on; only then do they get the hint. We settle up and group off into two cars to head to the famous Hali Kahiki to drink some rum through a straw. (Oh, yes, this will end in fire.)

Mike and Matt bowed out, so I bummed a ride with Tim and Sean. We make it to the bar indirectly, but, hell, we made it. We rejoin the group and the socializing commences over a round of zombies. I only order one more drink -- something called a Preacher Packing Punch -- and let it be known that they don't skimp on the alcohol at the Hali Kahiki because I really didn't want to be that hungover tomorrow. 

Things wrap up and we headed back to the hotel. On the way back, Tim explains to me his Unified Meek Theory, while I explain to him how at a Denny's you can get chili on a pancake, and then almost make Sean throw-up when we continue to add toppings...Well, it was a combination of that and the really noxious farts I was trying and failing to suppress in the back seat. Sorry, boys, it's been a really long day. (But "chili on pancakes" did become a successful running gag during the film fest, of which I am very proud.)

Then the long day got just a little longer as we proceeded to get lost in a fog bank and missed the critical turn. But we did finally make it back to Evanston -- by way of Winnetka -- and Tim makes the right choice by ignoring my suggestions on which way to turn. It's just a little after 1 a.m. when I stumble back into the hotel room.

G'night folks.

The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of Ewoks getting massacred by Mike and Matt playing Star Wars: Battlefront. And whoever invented drinking rum through a straw needs to be shot. And then shot again. My head was a little fuzzy, my tongue the consistency of dried toast, and the soft hotel bed didn't do my back any good either. Bleary-eyed, we stumble onto the streets of Evanston to kill some time and find some grub before heading to the Norris Center. We find a comic shop that should be open, according to the sign, but the door was locked; so we hit the Barnes and Nobles instead where I picked up a new Lansdale novel, and book on horror cinema from around the world that looks very promising -- for the interview with Takeshi Miike alone. 

We decide to hit the deli we ate at last year for lunch, but found it boarded up. We wandered around some more, stomachs rumbling, and run into the others at a used vinyl store. They've eaten already, so we move on and find a Subway. By now, my back is really killing me, so I excuse myself back to the hotel lobby. Taking up a chair, I cracked open Sunset and Sawdust but dozed off about ten pages in.

I'm awakened by a flashbulb. Thanks, Ray. Glancing at my watch, I see it's time to head to the Norris Center. We form a convoy and headed on over. We were in the lead, which I guess makes us the Rubber Duck. Everybody loaded up and made the long trek from the parking garage to the Norris Center, and I comment to Josh that I feel like we're storming the beaches at Normandy; to which Mike replies "I didn't realize there would be machine guns."

We head up to the second floor and found Chris and Scott from Stomp Tokyo, and Doc Freex from the BMR already there. We loiter, and while Doc autographed several copies of the new Forever Evil DVD, I win this nerd-off as I whip out my original release VHS version of the film.

When McCormick auditorium opened up, we head in to stake out our seats; about halfway up on the right hand side -- away from the speakers. We claim our four and half seats (one and half seats per person) right behind Doc, Ray and Josh; Stomp Tokyo is in the next row up, along with Amy Mo and Joe from Opposable Thumb Films; Skip, George and the rest of C.H.E.W. are a little further up; Scott and Elizabeth are up near them; while Tim and Sean are a row behind us on the opposite aisle.

Around 5p.m. they rousted everyone out to go through the ticket line to get stamped and branded for the evening. Outside, we run into more BMMBers, including Jessica (Juniper) Ritchey, and the mysterious pistol packing Megalemur. While waiting in line, I get in on a great conversation with the contingent from Jabootu Nation about Lifetime movies being a great untapped source of crap that ultimately led to the creation of the greatest Lifetime movie yet to be created: Mother May I Strangle Morgan Fairchild. (Maybe you had to be there.)

Making our way back into the theater, everyone seems to have learned their lesson from last year -- or at least the aisles seemed less clogged. A good rule of thumb: Bring all you want -- as long as it fits under your chair. And I don't think we'll be having any problems with Fire Marshall Sally this go 'round.

Incredibly, we wind up sitting in front of the exact same people we sat in front of last year. (And I think one of them was Hugazombie.) Which was great because they were funny without being obnoxious; which is very important by hour number ten of a 24-hour film festival.

The clock clicked ever closer to 6p.m: Zero hour. The auditorium filled up but for some reason didn't seem to be as full as it was last year. I handed out all my mix CDs; and if I missed you, e-mail me and I'll try and fix you up. Then a quick check of the program saw some massive changes from the original published line-up: Island of Terror was gone, replaced by IT! The Terror from Beyond Space, and Black Caesar was subbing in for Black Belt Jones. Dang it. I was kind of looking forward to that one. Ah, well. I see The Apple is still there, though, and the threat of showing Merkin again if we don't behave. 

Breaking out a soda and a couple of granola bars, I settled into my seat; and I promise Doc to keep it to a dull roar. He waves his cane at me, menacingly, and I already know this is going to be the best B-Fest ever!

It's 6p.m. Do you know where your Twinkies are? Because I think I just stepped on one. Oh yeah, in the famous words of Martin Landau channeling Bela Lugosi: "Let's shoot the @#%*er!"

Alleged, crusty, geniuses from outer space can't get the SP/SLP right on the voice messages they send, triggering an intergalactic incident where lots of stuff goes boom. And the Earth is nearly conquered by aliens with no elbows or knees -- therefore deduced no opposable thumbs, either -- who fly saucers with wobbly trajectories that are, judging by the racket they make, having some alternator-belt problems.

Luckily, Hugh Marlowe helps devise a weapon that really throws a rod into the saucers inner-workings, causing them to compulsively crash into famous historical landmarks, making the world once again safe for democracy. Hooray!

* * * *

This film is obviously highlighted by the effects wizardry of Ray Harryhausen. The blustery bravado of the military draws a lot of laughs from the audience for their Shoot First Ask Questions Later philosophy; as does the running tally/scoreboard as someone keeps track of the score between us and them. And according to it, I have no idea how we won. But who cares.

U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

Two young singers are tempted by fortune and fame by the friggin' obviously gay duo and a guy who was trying way too hard to be Marjoe Gortner. The boy refuses, but the girl gladly signs on the dotted line. Ah, but fame and fortune aren't all it's cracked up to be once the price is realized: Having to wear ridiculous outfits and spontaneously combust into spastic song as disco breathes its last gasp. All of this, of course, is a biblical allegory about conformity and temptation, and hippies, and grabbing elderly yentas by their boobies. Then God shows up in a flying, solid gold Bentley and takes the good people away -- I assume to wander around the desert for forty years.

* * * * 

Gah. This infamous Golan-n-Globus glamrock craptacular went over amazingly well. I tried to warn everyone before the film started what they were in for, but when it concluded, I was obviously in the minority -- especially when someone started passing out lyric sheets for the musical numbers. The only explanation I can give is that when I watched it by myself, after the 250th mental "You've got to be f&#@ing kidding me," my "You've got to be f@%*ing kidding me" gland broke.

Everyone assumed I hated the film. That's not quite true; it was just so friggin' incomprehensible and indescribable ya'll feared the worst when I couldn't explain it -- aside from banging my head on something (in this case, an empty Diet Dew bottle). This is not a film to watch alone. This film must be viewed with at least fifty people to truly appreciate the epic magnitude of its extreme wonkiness. 

Very earth-toned actors and actresses pose as VOX POPS about the stereotypical behavior of men and women, and the resistance against changing them.

Do you think someone should tell them that fighting stereotypes with stereotypes is counter-productive? Nah. The only thing this short teaches me is that come the nuclear apocalypse, the only thing that will survive are cockroaches, Twinkies, and those bee-hive hairdos.

And once again a precocious brat exponentially aggravates an already deadly situation into chaos, resulting in the deaths of thousands, but suffers no repercussions for his actions...

A swarm of angry killer bees lay waste to the mountain(?) regions of East Texas. With only Michael Caine, Katherine Ross, Henry Fonda and Richard "I don't need this crap" Widmark standing between them and Houston, I think we're doomed. And since there isn't a trash can big enough to cover the city, Widmark unleashes his scorched earth tactics. The results are, well, inconclusive.

Slow motion bee attacks, obligatory geriatric romantic triangles, and a steadily rising body count barrels us toward the climax where Irwin Allen not only rips off The Killer Shrews, but Beginning of the End. And if they were so worried about the environment, why did they dump all that napalm into the ocean? Wow. I'm still haunted by the tiny little killer bee that lives in Mr. Caine's left eye.

* * * * 

Hoo-kay...That was fantastic. Whether it was Hec's re-enactment of Henry Fonda's death scene; Josh's pantomime of the slow-motion train wreck by rolling down the stairs; or Mike and Matt's steady stream of really obnoxious "B" pun jokes that got Matt hit with Doc Freex's cane thrice by him and once by me; or Ray's rubber chicken roast during the final conflagration, convinces me that they really, really need to show Earthquake at B-Fest '06.

Skunked. Again. Off by one number. Again. Wait 'til next year. Again!

I dive back into my aisle to clear the steps, making way for the Hottentots as they stormed the stage to merrily stomp along with this merry short about a man who can run at supersonic speed, dancing camera tripods, and a ravenous clapboard that tries to devour everything in sight that grows more and more bizarre every time I see it.

I've debated whether to drag my fat-butt on stage to truly experience the Wizard, but I'd probably get someone killed. Nice to see the 'Lemur in costume again, too. There was a slight glitch with the sound that kind of diffused the shorts normal momentum, but it had fully recovered by the time they re-ran it upside down and backwards...

...Backwards and down upside it ran-re they time the by recovered fully had it but momentum normal shorts the diffused of kind that sound with glitch a was there. Too, again costume in 'Lemur the see to nice. Killed someone get probably I'd but Wizard the experience truly to stage on butt fat my drag to whether debated I've.

It see time every bizarre more grows that sight in everything devour to try that clapboard ravenous a and tripods camera dancing, speed supersonic at run can who man a: short merry this with along stomp merrily to stage the storm they as Hottentots the for way making, steps the clear to aisle my into back dive I.

Oh, like you don't know what this one is about.

* * * *

Time for the annual midnight showing of this Ed Wood anti-classic. I think we can all agree, though, that if there is a worst film ever made -- it isn't Plan 9.

I know everybody usually vacates the theater for a little socializing during this thing, and every year I try to join them, but something keeps sucking me back into the theater, like some kind of collapsing gravity well, to join in on the yelling and paper plate chucking. Matt, Mike and I even try to start a new tradition by yelling out "Idiot!" whenever Paul Marco is on screen.

And does anyone else notice that inside Eros and Tana's ship that it's daytime out one portal, and night time out the other two?

Wohoo! I've been up 52 of the last 60 hours of my life, but I, despite The Apple, am doing pretty good. It's amazing what a steady diet of Twinkies, Slim Jims, Pringles and assorted carbonated drinks can do to your mental state -- not to mention your digestive tract. Morgan Spurlock ain't got nothing on me!

Plus, with The Apple already in the rearview mirror, the rest of this ordeal is gonna be gravy. Sweet, sweet gravy. I just hope it's the white gravy, though. Because the brown gravy will give you a bad case of Montezuma's Revenge -- if you know what I mean.

Be scared. Be very a'scared.

Posted: 02/02/05. Copy and paste at your own legal risk.

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