| If you're just joining us, you're not going to have a damn clue what's going on. Go read Part 1.
Forty Three Minutes, 39 Seconds Later…
The bulk of the screenings for this year’s film fest were being held at the Fox. The Fox is owned and operated by one of the big three theater chains, and the level of comfort is magnificent. The Fox shows only foreign and independent flicks, but with the modern conveniences and apparatus of a Megaplex; Comfortable reclining seats, digital sound system, modern architecture, cup holders, nachos, hot-dogs -- the whole bit. (And though I loathe to admit, I am a Megaplex child at heart.) But, at the core of the International Film Fest was it’s inherent ability to bring nearly a million dollars of revenue to the city of Portland, every year, most of which was spent at area restaurants, hotels, tourist sites, and of course, for local advertising. Aside from the Rose Fest, The Wine Fest, and Fall Fest, only the Film Fest stood alone as the top moneymaker in the region.
I had three screenings that day, and I was not looking forward to any of them. All of the other area critics were there; Fred McManus of The Mercury, Walton Deeds of The Journal, David Skywalker of Willamette Week, and Anna Gordy of The Oregonian. Of all these people, I despised Anna the most. She was snide, unfriendly, on point with her reviews, and sexy as hell. They were all clumped together down in the middle of the theater, chatting like banshees, so I steered clear and sat in the last row, at the very top.
The red wine had sufficiently swirled my head. I hadn’t really slept in a few days, either. And I couldn’t stop thinking of her on the floor next to the bed, reduced to a pile of slobbering, broken waste. This nearly brought me to tears, but luckily the reels started, and all my troubles were lost in the dimming of the houselights. What follows are my notes from those screenings:
- Lo Tengo El Tenedor Tu Pantalones (Spain - 138 Minutes)
A wacky Spanish comedy from start to finish, Tu Pantalones concerns the struggle of Juan Guitierrez Malone, who tries to convince his best friend Esteban Juarez, that he does, in fact, have a fork stuck in his pants. The action takes place on the AL-CAN Highway, as these two guys are delivering a load of Spanish Salmon to Anchorage for the annual Running of The Grizzlies. As you can imagine, Esteban’s dick gets stabbed from time to time, causing him to crash the truck in various small, backward Canadian villages, during which our two heroes find themselves in the midst of wacky adventures. Naturally, there are a pair of Cambodian Coke Smugglers traveling the AL-CAN Highway at the same time, trying to deliver a load of Cocaine, hidden in their own shipment of Salmon. Confusion in sues. It’s a fish out of water story, one that sounds ridiculous in Spanish, or any language for that matter. But the sex scenes were great. They always are. From the director of Tres Muchachos Y Pequeno Gato.
- Je Taime Cset La Vie (Who Cares For The River? (France - 314 Minutes)
Set during World War II, the story follows two friends, both fighter pilots for the Parisian Air Force, who fight for honor, country, and the love of one woman. Sounds strangely familiar to Pearl Harbor, only without the benefit of multi-million dollar effects sequences and the terrible acting of Ben Affleck. This has its own terrible French actors, who spend most of the 314 minutes running time not actually flying in planes, fighting the war, or running around Paris, but having three-ways in the beautiful French country side, by some unnamed river. Not bad, on the whole. But the actual sounds of sex seem much more silly in French. And though I had an erection, I didn’t find it terribly sexy. Also, too many lingering shots of naked dude ass. Co-Stars Jean Reno as an evil German Commander.
- Barry (America - 129 Minutes)
From Portland’s own Ronny Van-Zant, comes an “experimental” film of ambitious, yet completely flawed appeal. The film follows two actors as they get lost in the woods, wander around slowly, don’t speak, and don’t even look at the camera. The camera lingers on them for what seem like an eternity, these scene running sometimes fifteen minutes in length, before cutting to another elongated sequence where nothing happens. A total of eight words are spoken. Here they are: “I have to go pee.” And, “Yeah, me too.” I think maybe that’s the tag-line, but I’m not certain. The whole pointless mess ends when one of the guys (the one who has to pee), strangles the other guy in a hunger induced bit of insanity. Finally, he wanders into a McDonald’s, takes a piss, eats three Quarter Pounders, two Filet O’ Fish, and a Diet Coke, after which he realizes he killed his friend, and hangs himself in the kiddie playground.
After the final screening, I waited for the crowd to clear completely so I could sneak out. The last thing I wanted was to talk to that bitch from The Oregonian. She had a knack for memorizing my reviews word for word, than repeating them to me backwards just to prove her superiority. And besides, I had a shit ton of work to do, not to mention a fading wine buzz that needed to kicked back into gear. It had been a few days since I made an appearance at the office, which is a few days too long by my editor’s standards. And, as you can imagine, my relationship with my editor had been strained as of late.
The coast looked clear so I made my down the carpeted steps. I looked down the auditorium ramp and everything was good. No bitch, no fellow critics, just an empty, clear hallway for me to make my escape. I began thinking that I might be able to catch her at the airport, if I hustled back to the office. I didn’t know her flight number, but I knew she had to be flying out late, and there were only so many flights to DC. But, who the hell was helping her with her stuff? A friend? Who the fuck was the friend? There was a lot of heavy shit in that stack; things so heavy I can taste the still bitter hint of carrying them from her father’s house. I bet it’s that one motherf…
“So, just going to sneak in and sneak out and not say hello? That’s typical. No wonder your girlfriend dumped you.”
Well, almost made it. I should’ve known she’d be waiting.
“I’ve got one thing to say, and you’re going to listen,” she continued, her hand stuck defiantly onto her right hip. “Quality for substitute no is flash that again once proves Age Ice. Bounds technical or artistic no has that format cinematic a hampers screenplay written poorly the but. Entertained be should children and, laughter trigger will that sequences inspired several are…”
“Please, just stop,” I said. “I’m not in the mood, Anna.”
She smiled like a devil. And looked incredible doing so. “She left today, didn’t she?”
“As we speak.”
“Still going to DC?”
I nodded.
“You still getting fired?”
I shrugged.
“We still on for tonight?”
I hesitated.
“Come on,” she said, playfully touching my arm. “You don’t want to go home to that big, lonely apartment, all by yourself do you?”
“I’ve got a shit load of work. Plus some new intern I’ve got to set on the right track.” She ran her hand up my arm then back down again, taking my fingertips into hers and placing them on her waist. She wasn’t wearing any panties. She tried pulling me toward the empty theater, but I stood firm in my tracks. I really wasn’t in the mood. “Not tonight, okay.”
Still smiling she said. “We always see each other on Tuesday. Why stop now? She’s gone.”
“Not tonight, okay?”
“Fine,” she said. “But I make no promises for next week.”
“That’s cool. I’m not good at promises anyway.”
“I’ll be at the eight o’clock, if you change your mind. And you better be there.” |
