Folks, Harry here... I tell ya, I love ol Junior to death, but the way she pawed over the burly chest of Quint, and then there was the ribald night where she threw back 10 too many Roy Rogers with extra cherries... whew... till you've seen Ms Mintz on a grenadine high... you have not seen a gal's engine on overload. Luckily Kitten and I were able to restrain her and keep her underwraps... No matter what her wild side may be though... I adore the way she looks at films, she's picked 3 of my fave films of SXSW to tell you about, so I guess I'll step out of the way and let er go... Oh, West Coast studs! Junior needs help getting her apartment back from D-Skank... apply in talk back....
Hola, Harry!
Nice to catch up with you and a bunch of other fine folks at SXSW this week.
I wasn't planning on coming at all except I'm still fighting with my folks back in Leonia, NJ and my ex-best pal in LA, D-Girl (skank!) changed the locks on our Fairfax St. apartment. (I know you're reading this, D-skank, so just remember, it's still my name on the lease! Skank!) With both ends of the country off-limits, I decided to take a time-out in the middle. So off went the pillbox hat and on came the Stetson and before you can say "Don't mess with Texas!" there I was riding the 'hound into Austin.
Once in town I put the mighty Mintz magic to work securing accomodations
at
the
Hotel Driskill -- "Yes, the name is Scorsese. Sherri Scorsese.
I'm sure my
uncle Marvin...MARTIN called in the reservation." Once ensconced
in my
suite, I conned a Platinum Pass off some goof ("But I am a reporter,
honest!
See? Here's the cartoon of me on the AICN tee shirt.") and soon
I was good
to go. What
follows are some quick reviews written on the
fly of a couple of the more
promising SXSW film entries this year:
DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN
The redoubtable Monki has already left a detailed review of this flick elsewhere on the site, so all I can add is my enthusiasm for D. A. Pennebaker's great documentary about great folksingers. My favorites were the Peasall Sisters, three little girls who looked frankly terrified to be out there singing with the likes of Emmylou Harris, Alison Krause and Buck White. Still, the girls pulled off their rendition of an old bible hymn beautifully, as did all the other performers with their respective numbers.
And speaking of Emmylou Harris,
isn't it
weird how
she and Michael Jackson have begun to resemble each other? Of
course,
Emmy Lou's a gracefully aging natural beauty and Michael's
a...hmmm....well,
it's
sort of hard to tell these days.
MUTANT ALIENS
Animation fans rejoice! Independant animation visionary Bill Plympton has labored (largely by himself) for another two years at his drawing table and has brought forth his latest masterpiece, MUTANT ALIENS! A deft satire on everything from 50's sci-fi epics to the Pokemon craze.
MUTANT ALIENS tells the story of how heroic astronaut Earl is betrayed by his one-time best friend in the Department of Space, Dr. Fubar. The evil Fubar seeks to turn Earl into a national martyr and so increase the budget for his ad ship project, an insideous form of space-cast advertising which can be seen from Earth and is probably closer to being a reality than any of us would care to think.
Anyway, twenty years after Earl is lost in space, he miraculously returns with a cadre of bizarre er, Mutant Alien creatures in tow. Reunited with his now grown daughter Josie (quite the eyeful as far as cartoon girls go, almost as cute as me) Earl embarks on a course of revenge, leading his alien pets against Fubar and his troops.
What we have here is an astronomical body count, a delicious number of unapologetically black-hearted gags and some of the most hysterical sexual imagery ever put on film. One scene in particular involving Josie's lustful boyfriend (getting way excited at the prospect of laying the ol' meat marauder on his sweetie) is a wicked tribute to Popeye by way of Tex Avery with a liberal portion of the Mitchell Bros. thrown in.
Most important, the
film is the joyful product of an
animator drawing whatever the hell he thinks is funny. And in this era
of
corporate controlled cartoons, that's something to treasure.
OKIE
NOODLING
Okay, the best for last! This was the film that was not only at the top of my must see list but was also apparently topping the lists of all the disappointed folks being turned away from Wednesday's final screening.
Fortunately Movie God Knowles magically appeared at theatre seconds before showtime and managed come through with an extra seat for yers truly. I plopped myself down just as the film began and for the next hour sat entranced by the strange, brilliant and bizarre experience that is noodling, which oddly enough has nothing to do with pasta. Nope, noodling is a time-honored tradition in parts of the south (Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi and Tennessee, to be exact) and it is, quite simply, fishing for catfish by hand. Really. Experienced noodlers will spend hours wading in rivers and lakes, feeling into small underwater caves where spawning catfish wait, horny, pissed-off and ready to snap at anything. Using their fingers as bait, the noodlers provoke the catfish to strike, then haul the sucker out by their gills. Some of the catfish are upwards of a hundred pounds and over four feet long. The fish bite hard (as witnessed by the bites and scrapped skin up and down each noodler's arms) and look uglier than a hatful of assholes. Still, the locals claim they taste pretty good, which, along with the thrill of the hunt, are reasons enough to do it.
The 57 minute documentary is the brainchild of director Bradley Beesley, who neither ridicules nor over-romanticizes the noodlers. To the folks of rural Oklahoma noodling is a hobby, a strange one even by their standards, but one which is looked upon with a certain amount of good natured fun. Beesley's movie deftly captures that same sense of fun as well. The kick-ass score by The Flaming Lips only adds to the merriment. There's a good chance this film will be making the rounds on public TV this year and I highly suggest you stick your arm in and snag it.
Well, that's it for me. That prairie moon is shinin' and I'm off to the Broken Spoke for some good ol' Texas blues. Later, y'all.
Junior Mintz
