AMC Arizona Center, April 11th-13th, 2003

It seems that the Arizona Center and the Arizona Film Festival are going in opposite directions. While the latter goes from strength to strength, the entire second floor of the Center has now been cleared of retail, to make way for an upcoming change into office space – yeah, like that’s something which downtown Phoenix desperately lacks. [Readers outside Arizona, please ladle sarcasm onto that phrase with a bucket] It’s probably significant that the last time we were at the Center was…hey, for last year’s film festival. A change of venue might be required soon, given the mausoleum-like atmosphere generated by most of the place.

Or maybe the air of gloom and doom was caused by the films – for no readily apparent reason, this year’s selections seemed largely downbeat and depressing. Not that this was in any way a reflection on their quality – in only one case did we feel like we wasted our time, even if we frequently came out with a strong desire to slit our wrists.

This time round, we really don’t expect the TC Awards to match up with the festival ones. We only saw three of the ten films in competition, because most of the others just didn’t appeal. Here are a sample of the program descriptions that sank our interest, and sent us scurrying off to other movies:

* The Journey: “Eric Saperston set out in a VW bus with a couple of friends, on an odyssey that would take them across America, and into their own and each other’s souls”.
*Melvin Goes to Dinner: “A casual dinner…turns into an all-night confessional where secrets, skeletons and existential beliefs get passed around the table.”
*Shelter Dogs: [Documentary] “If you have a soul of any kind, bring tissue to this movie.”
*Totally Blonde: “In this comedic relationship film, Meg Peters can’t seem to find Mr. Right. That is, until she gets a bottle of blonde hair dye…”

I find it sad to see indie films getting inspiration from Reese Witherspoon studio pics. Maybe it’s just us. Going by the descriptions, entries also subscribed to the view that talk was cheap. While true (thus a significant saving on a low budget), it’s a philosophy uncomfortably close to that of daytime soap-opera. Resorting to talking heads is a disappointingly safe approach, when film-makers could use their independence to explore bleeding-edge cinema.

On the plus side, there was an greatly-increased quota of films from outside America. Although the official entries were all from the US or Canada, there were also movies from Spain, Australia, the UK, Japan, the Czech Republic, Mexico and China, giving a welcome global flavour. Unfortunately, the attendance at the ones we saw was disappointing, perhaps partly due to the brief coverage in the festival literature. The opposite was true of the short film programs: the two we checked out were both standing-room only, with people sitting on the floor for one of them.

Celebs in attendance included James Foley (Glengarry Glen Ross) and Edward Burns, director and star of Confidence, which opened the festival. John Waters was also in attendance to perform his one-man show, The World is Trash – nice title – and going by the queues waiting to get into that, it was a popular attraction. Brian O’Halloran also made a return appearance, to present the awards ceremony and present a late-night screening of Clerks. Our son saw Lindsey Crouse at Paradise Valley Mall over the weekend, but don’t think she was actually in attendance at the event. 🙂

Despite the disappointing selection of films in competition, the renegades outside made up for it, and The Hard Word is certainly an early contender for a top 10 slot come the year end. While the event may be getting bigger, kudos are still in order for the friendly, informal atmosphere, and nothing happened this year to change its position as our favourite film festival, even putting home-town bias aside – though I admit having such a fine event 30 minutes drive away is not exactly a deterrent! The queue begins here for Phoenix 2004…

Visit the Phoenix Film Festival website.

Festival Reviews

• Confidence
• The Happy Couple
• The Hard Word
• The Movie Hero
• Seafood
• Streeters
• The Sum of One

TC Awards

• Best Film: The Hard Word
• Best Actor: Kelly Harms, The Happy Couple
• Best Actress: Maya Zapata, Streeters
• Best Director: Zhu Wen, Seafood
• Best Supp. Actor: Peter Stormare, The Movie Hero
• Best Supp. Actress: Rachel Griffiths, The Hard Word
• Best Script: Scott Roberts, The Hard Word

Official Festival Awards

• Best Short Film:
• Best Feature Film: Melvin Goes to Dinner
• Best Director: John Carlos Frey, The Gatekeeper
• Best Screenplay: Chris Philpott, The Happy Couple
• Best Ensemble: Melvin Goes to Dinner
• Arizona Filmmaker Award: Wayne Dickmann, The Sum of One
• [Our reaction: You have got to be kidding…]
• Audience Ballot Award: The Gatekeeper
• Best Student Short

Jack Valenti is at it again. He reckons digital piracy is the biggest single threat faced by the film industry. The man never ceases to amaze me – if he’s not lobbying for an increase in copyright duration that is both entirely unjustifiable and unnecessary (except to the movie studios’ bottom lines), he’s railing against the terrors of the Internet. Has the man no clue at all? Let’s look at some facts here, shall we? Last year, in North America alone, the box-office take was a record $9.5 billion dollars. That was more than ten percent up on 2001, and marked the biggest increase since 1957. Hardly symptomatic of an industry at death’s door.

Valenti also invoked comparisons with the music industry, which are extremely wild of the mark. If you download a song off the Internet and listen to it on your computer, it’ll sound just the same as if you bought the CD – this is the major appeal. Does anyone really think that seeing, say, The Matrix Reloaded at the cinema will be identical to watching a grainy copy on your computer screen? Hardly. Figures show that half the cinema audience are between 12-29 – exactly the same people most likely to have broadband access and be engaging in all this supposed piracy.

Okay, but what about the impact on sales to the home market, which make up a sizable chunk of returns these days? True, except there are still a whole plethora of differences. In our house, we have three TVs and four computers – the biggest TV is roughly ten times the area of the biggest computer screen, and has a much better sound-system. Until computer downloads come with THX sound, commentaries, featurettes and so forth, there is simply no competition.

I will happily admit to having watched downloaded movies. I can also say, with a perfectly clear conscience, that not one less cinema ticket or DVD has been bought as a result. We regularly acquire films ahead of their Hollywood release too – Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon for one – and if anything, that simply made us more eager to go and see it at the cinema. We’ll certainly still be in line for Shaolin Soccer whenever it comes out, though no doubt Miramax will be raping it with a bad dub and funky rap soundtrack.

The Internet poses no more of a threat than television, or even borrowing someone else’s copy of a film – which Valenti would probably also like to ban, since it reduces the return. Taken to its logical conclusion, he would like to insist that we pay every time we watch a DVD, and the amount would be determined by how many people are in the room. Dammit, every single person should have to buy their own personal copy!

Ludicrous? Absolutely. But Valenti needs to realise that technological locks will not be the answer he hopes, since there are a lot of people out there who regard encryption as a personal challenge. The music industry has shown just how well lawsuits work i.e. not at all (I suspect lawyers’ fees are equally responsible for the drop in profits as Napster and its offspring!), and if the film industry wants to avoid going the same way, it should embrace technology.

Video could have meant the death-knell of cinema – instead, it proved to be its resurrection, providing a whole new stream of funding. If Valenti wants to look at the real biggest threat, he should look at the cost of making movies, which jumped by almost a quarter last year, to just shy of $59 million. That kind of inflation, in a relatively fixed market, simply cannot be sustained. Paying Adam Sandler $25 million per movie is far more dangerous than anything I could do with a cable modem.

The Bash on Ash, Tempe, Arizona
March 12th, 2003

This card was the second part of a double-header, following the previous day’s event at Rodeo Nights. We were unable to attend that, due to a prior engagement with a pineapple and a bottle of 151-proof rum, but we probably prefer The Bash on Ash as a venue anyway. This is not least because Tempe recently barred smoking in all clubs, pubs and restaurants; the libertarian part of me objects to this on principle, but it gets firmly over-ruled by the part which has to come home and take a shower because of the stale smoke in my hair and clothes. No such problems at the Bash.

First up was a tag-bout between J-Rod (who berated announcer Justin Roberts for calling him that – an excellent reason to continue doing it) with Shooting Star against Tony Stradlin and James Lukash. After J-Rod’s lukewarm performance last time, it came as a surprise to find that the bout was not awful. Indeed, it didn’t even make a stopover at Suck Airport, being fast-paced, well-executed and hard-hitting; Stradlin was a particular standout, but all four participants deserve credit.

A welcome couple of insights into last night’s action followed. Frankie Kazarian of Team Elite came out and mouthed off (brief summary: “wee-ooo-wee-ooo-wee-ooo”) a series of excuses about why he was pinned by Jimmy Snuka Jr. A rematch was scheduled. More interestingly, Ghostwalker announced the dissolution of Native Blood, his long-time tag partnership with Navajo Warrior; the latter getting a shot at the IZW title seems to have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Ghostwalker stayed around for the next bout, a solid, if not perhaps especially memorable bout against Lawrence Tyler. Think we were perhaps distracted, still mulling the ramifications of Ghostwalker’s declaration. He got the win, then continued his heel turn by declaring that henceforth, he would be known as GQ, provoking snickers from the audience, and indeed, the ring announcer. One wonders what Navajo Warrior was thinking, Ghostw…er, GQ having vowed to be in the corner for the title bout; it was unlikely to have been secure and comforting.

There were another score to be settled from yesterday, Jack Bull having done a number on Hollywood. Horshu was back (after some time away, apparently including a role in Daredevil as one of Michael Clarke Duncan’s bodyguards) to deliver retaliation, in what was always likely to be a nasty brawl. Not one for fans of technical wrestling, yet undeniably intense, this ended with Bull being DQ’d for refusing to stop using the ropes to choke Horshu. It took almost everyone in the building to separate the two participants afterward.

Ending the first half was the singles bout between Frankie ‘The Future’ Kazarian and Jimmy Snuka, Jr.. Anyone who pauses during a match to announce himself as ‘the coolest person in the world’ deserves to get punked. Hard. Every time he says it. Yet, we can’t argue with one fact: Kazarian can wrestle. As can Snuka, who is clearly his father’s son, yet with his own style and moves. This was probably our favourite contest of the evening, with a great mix of speed and athleticism – even Kazarian winning (albeit only by using the ropes) couldn’t spoil it.

After the intermission, it was Erica Porter vs. Lexie Fyfe for the women’s title. Porter – another silver-screen comic-book here, as one of Randy Savage’s entourage in Spiderman – got some cheap heat by revealing her Arizona State University connection (Tempe is the home of ASU), but also managed to wrest the crown from Fyfe, somewhat to our surprise. And that of IZW too, going by the lack of an actual belt with which to present her.

A very-subdued looking (and mullet-less!) commissioner C.C.Starr then led a ten-count tribute for the late Curt Henning, who passed away recently. Then it was back to happier business in the shape of the IZW Heavyweight title, between the Navajo Warrior and reigning holder, Mike Nox – for some reason, every photo we take of Nox seems to make him look more demonic (see right). Expect horns and a tail next time. GQ/Ghostwalker did turn up at ringside, mid-way through, but didn’t get a chance to interfere; Nox lost on his own, his attempt to use a chair backfiring in his own face (literally) and letting the Warrior get the pin. Regardless, GQ attacked the new #1 , ripping off his top to reveal a Team Elite shirt, aligning himself with Nox’s faction before almost falling off the ring in his fury.

Here at TC, we hate reality programs (except Jerry Springer) – a curse on Fox for replacing 24 with American Idol last Tuesday! We’ve never watched The Real World or Tough Enough, so the prospect of a battle between a player from each show was of little or no interest, smacking of a stunt. However, both Kenny King (Tough Enough 2) and, more surprisingly, The Miz (The Real World – New York) were competent enough. The latter provoked one fan into trying to hit him with a chair, though his attempted use of a marker pen (snigger!) as a weapon left a little to be desired. King got the win, which is probably just as it should be.

The final bout brought out the Ballard Brothers along with their manager, The Sheik, to defend their tag belts, at first, against an unannounced pair of ladies, before Starr turned up and insisted they face “proper” opponents. This seemed harsh on the women, who were giving a more than decent account of themselves, and we would have loved to have seen the Ballards lose this one. Enter Team Elite’s Derek Neikirk and, fighting his second bout, Mike Nox. Nox was in trouble from the start, his knee bothering him – showing any sign of weakness to the Ballards is like blood in a piranha tank. Most of the bout consisted of them pounding Nox’s leg, while he tried to tag his partner. However, the end was somewhat confusing; it looked like another member of Team Elite got involved outside the ring, leading to their disqualification. The final result was the Ballards retained their title, and they’ll be happy enough with that.

Curiously, we felt the first half was perhaps stronger than the main events, but regardless – ten bucks to see eight bouts, all of them entertaining, is quite remarkable value for money. It’s a shame the audience wasn’t bigger, as the wrestlers certainly deserve more appreciation. Publicity is an area IZW seriously needs to work on – you had to burrow around their own website to find details, and even if they can’t afford much advertising, there are plenty of publications that will list your event for free. The end of the show has absolutely no mention of any more scheduled events which is, frankly, worrying. We’ll keep our fingers crossed this isn’t the beginning of the end, just the end of the beginning.

And tonight on pay-per-view, $14.95 can get you The Spirit of Diana – a seance in which a “trans-channeler” will attempt to contact the dead princess and find out if she was really pregnant, whether she still loved Charles, that kind of thing. While Diana was the subject of our very first editorial, back in 1997, we suspect that the end-product, while being undeniably tacky, will likely fail to plumb the depths far enough to merit shelling out. But it is yet another example of the untrammelled rise of reality TV.

As long-time fans of Jerry Springer (and, if the truth be told, occasional viewers of Judge Judy), it perhaps doesn’t seem right for us to rip into shows which are their cousins. But to me, there is a large gulf between watching Klansmen use their dying breaths to curse a relation who had the temerity to go out with (gasp!) a black man, and American Idol. This really shouldn’t need any further clarification.

We watch television for much the same reason we go to the movies, to escape from normal life, and this includes normal people. If we wanted to listen to people sing (with an alarming tendency to slide up and down the scale – hey, people, pick a note and stick with it), we’d head out to the nearest karaoke bar. And there, as the evening wore on, we could also witness Joe Millionaire and The Batchelorette, as people desperately try to impress those of the opposite sex.

It is, obviously, a cheap alternative to quality – you know, anything involving scripts and actors. Put a few people through a microscopic version of hell, be it living in the Amazon jungle or suffering the sarcastic remarks of the judges, with a tempting (usually financial) prize at the end and film their reactions. Simple, inexpensive and, it seems, a better chance of success than a regular drama.

It is especially galling when a great show like 24, which is genuinely pushing the boundaries, is pre-empted in the schedules for three weeks – and just when a nuclear bomb has been set off, too – to make way for some poor excuse for pseudo-entertainment, featuring people whom you would actively avoid if you worked in the same office. However, no matter how Chris and I may look at each and roll our eyes, the success of these shows suggests (in addition to proving that we must be from a different species) that we’re going to see more of them in future.

It’s tempting to supply a conspiratorial theory here, and quote the Roman author Juvenal: “The people that once bestowed commands, consulships, legions, and all else, now concerns itself no more, and longs eagerly for just two things – bread and circuses!” Here we are, teetering on the edge of a war which will likely see another 100,000 Iraqi soldiers getting bulldozed into trenches, and people seem more concerned with the climax of American Idol. Coincidence? I think not. Perhaps that’s what Al-Qaeda needs – anyone up for Life with Osama? After all, it can hardly be any worse than The Anna Nicole Smith Show or The Osbournes, can it?

Monster Jam 2003
Bank One Ballpark, Phoenix, AZ,
25th Jan. 2003

Few things are more American than spending the night before the Superbowl at a monster truck rally. This is the kind of event which could only take place in a country where petrol is a quid a gallon, and whose approach to global warming may be summarised as, “You can have our SUV’s when you pry the keys from our cold, dead fingers.”

The audience for these events seems to have a similar demographic to professional wrestling: mostly white, and blue-collar to the extent that you feel out of place unless you have a baseball cap with the name of a tractor manafacturer on it. Yet there is something almost primal about the event which awakens long-stilled emotions, though where we’d once cower in our caves while mastodons made the ground thunder, now we down domestic beers and buy T-shirts. Or maybe it’s just cool to see things get destroyed.

It’s a relatively new “sport”, its origins dating back to the mid-70’s, when Bob Chandler’s Bigfoot, a converted Ford F-250 pickup, debuted in Michigan, crushing cars to the delight of crowds. Racing these beasts only began in the 1980’s, and that was one central point of the night’s entertainment. Eight trucks, with names like Black Smith, Gravedigger, Monster Patrol and Obsession 2, faced off in head-to-head sprints: a dash, a hairpin turn, then powering over four junkyard-cars to the finish. Maybe 100 yards, in about six seconds, not bad for machines weighing the best part of ten thousand pounds.

The scale of these things was hard to grasp, until you saw the drivers beside them – ten to twelve feet high, the tires alone almost six feet of that. Seeing these creatures flying maybe eighty or ninety feet long and twenty feet up, is like seeing a whale breach the ocean. The noise, too, was about what you’d expect from a 1,500-horsepower, 575 cubic inch, methanol-fuelled engine, which uses up several gallons per run.

With three hours to fill, a supporting cast was needed, in the shape of autocross and quad bikes. The former was the less interesting of the two, since the track for that was a simple oval with three speed bumps in – tactics will be familiar to anyone who has negotiated a road with sleeping policemen on it, i.e. fast as you can between the bumps, then crawl over them. Doesn’t exactly make for enthralling viewing, though it was an object lesson on what can happen if you try to take these bumps too fast – your wheel falls off.

More amusing were the quad bikes, not least because it pitted “Team Arizona” against “Team California”. The wrestling analogy was particularly valid here, since we strongly suspect that tomorrow, the same drivers might be “Team Texas” or “Team Colorado”, and the thrilling way in which the home side won smacked strongly of careful pre-arrangement. Still, it was nice to see the drivers showing personality, something otherwise lacking in an event where the vehicles are clearly the stars (bonus points to one autocross driver for thanking his foot doctor though!).

The finale of the evening was the freestyle, where each monster truck was given 90 seconds and a clear arena to do whatever they wanted. More piles of old cars, buses and vans were laid around to assist in the process, and if you though the prior carnage was excessive, this would have caused some kind of seizure. Seeing something the size of an African elephant pop a wheelie at 60 mph is impressive, even if you’re not sitting in the seats towards which it is directly heading on two wheels.

It’s not the sort of event I could get hooked on, but will happily confess to having enjoyed the occasion, and driven home making surreptitious “Vroom-vroom” noises under my breath. The idea of steering one of these monsters round town does appeal – especially if that town was London. After all, who needs a parking space when you can simply run over the top of any vehicle in your way? No BMW, no Volvo, no busload of tourists could cross your path. And if that prospect doesn’t bring a smile to your face, go check your pulse…