B-Fest Ho -- Whoa! Hold on?

Wait. What are they showing again?!

Ah, B-Fest, A&O Films 24-hour long dosing of cinematic cheese. And not just any kinda cheese: Government cheese, cheese from a test tube with no natural occurring products in it at all, that’s the kinda cheese we’re talking about, here.

Yup, it’s late January again, which means that it’s time for the annual pilgrimage to the Chicago suburbs of Evanston and Northwestern University, to rub elbows with the fellow B-Movie Brethren, and endure about fourteen cinematically challenged films and a half-dozen shorts, with no preconceived notions except a hope to see the sun rise come Sunday morning when it’s all over.

It did, we all survived -- barely.

However, there was some controversy -- as in a full metric ton of controversy -- when the line-up for this year’s B-Fest was announced because it skewed a little too modern for some, too classical for others, and included not one, not two, but three musicals back to back to back in the morning hours that threatened to kill us all.

So there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but it did little to hamper ticket sales as B-Fest sold out in an hour and half. AN HOUR AND HALF! Hats off to A&O who did some tinkering with the line-up, rearranging the order, making it all go down smoother, but then they killed the only movie I truly was looking forward to seeing, Queen of Outer Space, with another film, only adding to my misery.

As I tried to drum up some enthusiasm, and seeing some classics on the big screen helped, I’ll admit I was pretty disappointed in the line-up. Nothing was really tripping my trigger, at all, sadly; but armed with a lot of caffeine and other legal, over the counter stimulants, and a huge can of deodorant, I loined my girds and apologized to my ass and sucked it up, taking another one for the team.

This was my fifth B-Fest in a row, and I can honestly say it's usually about a fifty-fifty split between seeing the festival and congregating with the BMMB irregulars as the main reasons for going. This year it was about ninety-ten split.

Joining me for his fourth trek was Mike (a/k/a Captain Wow), and Matt (a/k/a Hiro Protagonist) going to his third. Alas, the Caddy died (hats off gents), but Mike got us a replacement vehicle, and in it we snuck out of Grand Island under the cover of darkness really really early Thursday morning and headed east, trying to find an unoccupied station to tune in the Satellite Radio (a technical glitch that the ads for the service tend to mysteriously overlook.)

We snag Matt on the way through Omaha and cross the border into Iowa, where things always tend to get a little surreal due to a lack of sleep and the local geography. We didn't help matters by trying to watch Chesty Morgan in Double Agent '73. My God, when Chesty whips her enormous hooter around with both hands like club and bludgeons that guy to death...Words absolutely fail me.

Mike also brought along a digital recorder this year, and what he captured about the trip, including an absolutely Ed Woodian like explanation of The Black Hole of Des Moines from yours truly can be found on his podcast right here. And nothing I can type can capture the essence of what is recorded therein, so I'm not even gonna try. (You can even hear me sing.)

And man, I love Iowa City; it's like Twin Peaks meets Felini by way of David Cronenberg -- back when he had people with mouths in their armpits, where things like this can be found...

About an even dozen denizens of the fabled BMMB convened in the lobby of the Best Western Hotel Thursday evening. Man, it was good to see all of you guys again. Both Tims, Sean, Loren, Jessica, both Joshes, Adam, Ray, Zack, Scott, and Skip (and I have a horrible feeling I'm forgetting someone.) And there was another guy there, a bearded sasquatch by way of Fidel Castro. After a little closer inspection, and when el presidente hands me a B-Fest mix CD, do I realize it might be Tim -- the de-facto ringleader of this motley collection of headed knuckle.

Alas, I found out the tentative plans for doing a little miniature golf at Ahlgrim's Funeral Parlor the next morning were scrapped due to them holding an actual funeral. That was disappointing, but I can totally respect them for not wanting or allowing a bunch of yahoos running loose in the basement if the rest of the building is, well, occupied.

But the evening of drinking at the Hali Kahiki (pictured above), a tropical refuge in the frozen wastelands, was still on, followed by a room party with shots of the dreaded Osco Scotch -- the official drink of the BMMB -- and a double dose of Larry Buchanan flicks. Oh, god. Just shoot me now.

Since this is Chicago, and I was in a car in Chicago, getting lost was not only probably but inevitable. But we piggy-backed and road the bumper of Tim's car, running several red lights in the process, while getting there without incident (and I believe that qualifies as ominous foreshadowing.) In our car, me, Mike, Jessica (Juniper) and Adam (Preacher Quint) pass the time by adding the phrase "In My Pants" to any movie title we could think of. As in Idle Hands in my pants, or Hard Times in my pants, or Pretty in Pink in my pants. And the euphemisms only got worse from there.

I started laughing when we all barged into the bar, the group now nearing twenty as we hooked up with Chris and Chris and Amy, and the waitress says "18 of you and you don't have a reservation?" But they quickly multiplied 18 x $7 a drink, though, and then quickly found us all a place to sit. While I lost the fight against the demon rum again, I talked with Tim, Scott (El Santo) and Mortis about the literary genius of Graham Masterson, and why every Russ Meyer movie, except the ones written by Roger Ebert, were ghostwritten by Martian.

Now I told Mike we had to make sure of one thing before heading back to the hotel. And that one thing was we had to make sure we followed somebody back because I had no clue as to where we were. Mike, more responsible then I, was sober and took the wheel. We were told to take the nearest road and turn right on Dempster. Find and dandy if there was a Dempster to turn right on. Mike took off. No one was ahead of us. I think you can see where this is going...

Mortis and Jessica had the misfortune of getting the true B-Fest experience by getting lost with the Nebraska contingent in the suburbs. We make it as far as Skokie before I finally decided to check the map. And my stomach sunk into my testicles as I traced my finger further and further away from Evanston, trying to determine just where in the hell we were. After I brain Mike with the map a few times for not following orders, we stop at a gas station. There I talked to an attendant who I believe used English as a third language. Despite the language barrier, she graciously helps me locate where we are on the map and the quickest route back to Evanston. I would have kissed her, but I think she had a can of mace under the counter.

We make it back to the hotel in pretty good time, and I'm relieved to find out that we weren't the only ones who got lost. So maybe it isn't just me. We borrow Mike's laptop because we forgot one vital piece of equipment for the Buchanan movies, namely a DVD player. The more technically savvy BMMBer's hook the machine up while I enjoy my first taste of Osco store brand scotch. Now imagine, if you will, sucking on a busted Duracell battery for about an hour -- and that'll give you an inkling as to what Osco Scotch tastes like.

After another shot of paint thinner, and about ten minutes of It's Alive, the long day sneaks up on me in a hurry and I bail out. Sorry, everybody.

G'night, folks.

With no golf and no other real plans, I took the opportunity to sleep in Friday morning. I finally got my butt moving around 11am, clicked on the TV and was intrigued by the differences between American and Spanish daytime game shows. Matt and I flipped back and forth between The Price is Right and some game show on Telemundo where husbands were asked questions by the host. If they answered wrong, the glass tanks their wives were trapped in slowly filled up with water. There was no comparison. (And don't worry, they gave them snorkels -- and I believe one of them wound up needing it.)

We hit The Pottbelly deli for some much needed grub, and then wander around the comic shops and used CD stores of Evanston for a couple of hours. We bump into Tim (now sans hair -- long and strange story), Sean and Loren while wondering the Barnes and Noble. And then run into Hugazombie out in the street and found out she missed at the bar last night by only ten minutes or so. Drat, maybe next year?

Eventually migrating back to the hotel, our clan marshaled our forces to invade McCormick Auditorium. We got there early and staked out some seats for mutual riffing and self-protection. And my ass is hurting already. As H-Hour approaches, they herd us back outside and we get in line to go right back in. And I take the last opportunity to breath in some fresh and unencumbered air for the next 24-hours.

Soon enough, we settled into our seats, the lights went down, and the amazing and colossal film festival wheezed to life. Rested and ready, armed with plenty of Mountain Dew, beef jerky and Pringles, I was ready to do battle with the line-up, determined to stay up for the full 24-hours no matter what.

AND WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!

...Courage, young viewer. Courage.

So when the familiar Superman theme warbled to life, off pitch and not quite in synch, officially kicking off B-Fest, the crowd erupted in cheers. And then we proceeded to throw up while viewing Superman's obnoxious and amoral dating "techniques."

When Superman isn't doing repeated Kryptonian mind-wipes on his girlfriend (seriously, I'll bet poor Lois can't remember her piano lessons anymore), he's promoting world peace by jettisoning Earth's entire stockpile of nuclear weapons into the sun (and I don't even want to fathom the resulting sunspot activity of that little exercise.)

Well, Lex Luthor -- sadly minus trusty sidekick Otis, launches a piece of chicken fat and a lock of Superman's hair into the sun, resulting in the formation of a big-haired and beefy heavy-metal reject called Nuclear Man.

They talk and they talk, and they eventually fight. But Supes is knocked for a loop by a pair of deadly Lee press-on nails, but he's saved by a green glow-stick and kicks Nuclear man's ass, leaving the audience stupefied as we wonder why Muriel Hemingway didn't suffocate in outer space, and two, why she didn't explosively decompress once she left atmosphere (or burn up on entry if we're gonna get technical.)

Rumor has it that Chris Reeve signed on to wear the jammies for this one only if Golan-n-Globus would finance another project he was working on. Rumor also has it that this thing was heavily edited down to 85 minutes, but believe me, it was long enough. And also the leftover footage was proposed for a Superman V, but the film tanked so bad it was scrapped.

Truly awful, the most cheers were during the opening credits. All hail the Hack-man. I mean, how bad does a movie have to be if Ned Beatty says "No thanks."

And, yes, Superman really is a dick!

From Superman and Lois Lane, to Kong and Fay, to Dolly Parton and Sylvester Stallone, to this film, inter-species romance was a main theme at this year's B-Fest. Hell, you can't blame the Creature; who wouldn't lust after Julie Adams -- hubba-hubba, bubba. By gosh, she sure is purty. (Please pardon my tongue wagging.) But the affair just wasn't meant to be; he has gills, she needs air, and the monster is sent to a watery grave due to some non-comic code approved biological urges.

When the line-up for this year's B-Fest was announced, I tried to drum up some enthusiasm about seeing this film on the big screen, commenting on the BMMB that the only thing that could make it better would be to see it in 3-D. Then, bingo-bongo, came the announcement that it was. I had nothing to do with that decision, I'm sure, but I'll still take the credit for it.

You're welcome everybody.

And it was with much excitement that I dawned the tinted glasses when the film started. I was doing better than most of the folks around me, because I was the only one not wearing regular glasses. During the film, a steady stream of people were seen groping out of the theater, cross-eyed, and grasping at the bridges of their noses. When the 3-D effect worked, the results were spectacular and incredible to behold. (It worked the best during shots of the scientists lounging around the boat.) When it didn't, which was about fifty-percent of the time, the result was a really bad headache -- compounded by the volume levels of Herman Stein's ear-shattering score that had us ducking for other reasons.

Still worth every second, though.

Our titular hero, Sir Worthless, lounges on a fallen tree while a damsel in distress is kidnapped by a couple of Snidely Whiplash enthusiasts and carry her off in a wheelchair. (Don't ask.) The hero draws his sword and tries to mount his bike to give chase -- only he can't manage to mount it, no matter how hard he tries. And he tries. A lot. The villains get away and the hero sulks.

The end.

What the -- What the hell?

Was it just me, or were the shorts this year a little more messed up than usual; you know, in a Kryptonian mind-wipe kinda way? I remember very little about them, and what I do scares the shit out of me. The best part of this one was the lingering 3-D effect when the BMMB's very own Hecubus rolled across the stage to simulate the bad guy. (A similar trick he pulled doing Superman IV -- only he was the good guy then. Great job, Hec.)

Batten the hatches on the shorts, folks, 'cuz they only get odder from here. 

...And bad French Coffee joke in 5...4...3...2...1...Vive le Crap!

A giant, and sometimes not so giant, lizard who may or may not breathe fire takes a bite out of the Big Apple. And only the combined forces of the most incompetent band of schlubs, with a helpful assist from Jean Reno, manage to take the lizard down by borrowing heavily from other films like Carnosaur (and how low and desperate is that?) with the maximum amount of property damage.

Man, 1998 was a bad year for the Chrysler Building.

I've only walked out on one movie in my life, and this one is it. I didn't even demand my money back, I just wanted to get out of the theater when I first saw it. It was that bad. Well, my cinematic manhood was called into question, so I went back, dragging the accuser along with me in a headlock -- if I had to suffer, he had to suffer -- and sat through the whole thing. It didn't get any better then, and it didn't get any better at B-Fest despite the crowd's unmerciful heckling (I especially appreciated Santo's military hardware explanations on the difference between laser-guided missiles and heat-seeking missiles.) And that's why I gladly joined in the chant of "Eat them!" in reference to the entire cast.

Oy! I hate this movie. And the sad thing is, up until the aftermath of Deanzilla's initial rampage on New York, this was shaping up to be not half-bad as far as giant monsters on the loose go, and then the film proceeded to piss all over itself with a bad cast, insipid characters, bad dialogue, bad French jokes, bad jokes period, and an overall sense of general ineptness that had me pining for the days of the Calico, Captain Majors, Dr. Quinn and Godzuki.

The point has been beaten to death that this is more of a remake of The Beast from 20000 Fathoms than any Godzilla movie, but I honestly don't know if Disastrous Dean Deviln and Roland "It's the End of the World" Emmerich were that dumb to know the difference or too arrogant to think we'd notice.

Nothing. Not even close this year. And I was really pulling for one of the autographed copies of the B-Fest promotional posters. Tip of the mug to B-Fest regular and artist Mitch O'Connell. This year's design was the best one yet, my friend.

And now that I'm thinking about it, where the hell is Slide-Whistle-Guy?

He is the Wizard of Speed and Time, and he's got magic to make you shine. Wise to the wonders blah, blah, blah...whatever, I don't care, this guy is starting to really creep me out. Sure he's cute, with the stomping and the running, with his darling little acolytes that storm the stage to do his bidding and all, but look a little closer -- at the cold eyes, and that lifeless, demonic grin. Oh, yeah, he's plotting to kill us all while we sleep. 

So keep your eyes open; don't make me say "I told you so."

Alright, for the last damn time, we're the gas can and you're the ball! Can't your stupid, stupid minds grasp a simple, basic concept like Solarmanite?

Yeah, me neither.

When the clock strikes twelve, it's time for Criswell and the Ed Wood irregulars in a strange tale of longing for acceptance of the Angora freak inside of all of us, hidden and thinly disguised as a supernatural thriller about grave-robbers from outer space.

It's at the midnight hour when the audience participation at B-Fest reaches its zenith with this film. And I honestly think the highlight of the marathon this year was getting brained in the eye by a brick of six plates stuck together. Congrats, B-Fest, you finally drew blood.

I really, really wish I knew what kept me in the theater for this thing. I am truly sick of this film, but I'm hooked on the chaos. I have fond memories of B-Fest 2002, my first Fest, and all the skits that went on during the screening of this movie. The fire-arm safety lecture, the piggy-back Bela/Not Bela, the wicker/rattan wars, and the Idiot's Guide to Solarmanite. Most of those skits are gone, but still I remain. Why? 

No, I'm asking you.