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

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.

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…

Rodeo Nights, Phoenix, Arizona
February 5th, 2003

Pro wrestling federations can break your heart. I’ve only been living in Arizona for 2 1/2 years, and we’re already on the fourth promotion in that time. Our first love was Western States, but they lost their venue. We had a one-night stand with Mountain Strength, down in Tucson, but they never called us back. Then, there was South Western Wrestling, but they’ve done nothing since October (though apparently, they’re not dead…just sleeping).

We went into all three looking for storylines we could follow from month to month, characters we could grow to love or hate, T-shirts we could wear with pride – something we could give our love to. All three let us down, but like innocent puppies, we still keep looking. Which brings us to Impact Zone Wrestling, the latest suitor for our affections. This wasn’t the first show of theirs which we’d attended, but we held off writing about them, for fear of bringing down the TC curse. However, after Invasion at Rodeo Nights – curiously, the same venue I first saw Rage in the Cage – we feel they deserve a token of appreciation and encouragement.

It may seem curious to have started up a new federation when the wrestling fad has clearly passed its peak. For me, the end of the WWE (we’re not allowed to use the F any more, for fear of a lawsuit from a bunch of pandas) came when Hulk Hogan was brought back. Never has a man with so little actual skill been so heavily hyped. But IZW consciously avoids the sub-soap nonsense into which the WWE has sunk (gay weddings?!?), prefering to concentrate on actual wrestling. For that alone, it deserves support.

This night’s action started with J-Rod versus The Hawaiian Lion – the former was touted as having 2% body fat, but guess that must have been entirely concentrated around his middle. The Lion had come up from South Western Wrestling. This one wasn’t quite terrible, but there were way too many air blows – as one audience wag shouted, “It’s supposed to be a contact sport!” Having seen the Lion before, we know he’s competent: we’ll leave you to decide where the blame for this one should lie.

Next up was a bout between The Little Red Machine and The Shaolin Punk – the former’s Mexican, all-red gear led to some merciless ribbing from the audience, including comparisons with a tampon. This one was also a little sloppy, but very energetic. Although it didn’t look like they’d worked often together, they worked with each other and adapted well, even when things didn’t perhaps quite go as planned.

The womens’ bout is always a highlight, and is another way in which IZW kicks WWE’s ass; their women can actually wrestle, and aren’t just a glorified T&A show. Morgan (formerly Jungle Girl – a wise move) was facing Erica D’Erico for the position of #1 contender and a shot at Lexie Fyfe’s belt. Morgan had a significant size advantage, and we initially thought Erico would get punted all over the ring. Wrong. With some impressively athletic moves, including a huracanrana for the final pin, Erico got the win, and we look forward to see her take on Fyfe at a future event.

Next up was the interval, but before then was the little matter of the tag-title. Currently held by Hollywood and the Hardcore Kid, however, the Hardcore Kid was nowhere to be seen. His partner agreed to defend the title against the Killer Klowns, but this (understandably) peeved the Ballard Brothers – a Canadian duo, who’ve been favourites of ours since we first saw them, thanks to their Slapshot hockey shirts! [And hey, it’s a Commonwealth thing!] They had fought for a title shot at the last show, and won, but commissioner C.C.Starr over-ruled them, giving their slot to the Klowns, which did not go down well.

Wandered around the venue for a bit. Very Country and Western – could tell because the male toilet was labelled “Cowboys”. Seemed to be problems with the PA system, which kept cutting out and switching on at inopportune moments. Also not quite sure why we paid $5 more for ringside seats, since all the tables there seemed to have “reserved” signs on them and no-one seemed to be checking anyway. We ended up sitting a few rows back, but the view was fine. Ceiling could do with being a little higher too; these are tall men, doing acrobatic stunts off the top rope of a ring that’s perhaps eight feet off the ground…

First up post-break was a Battle Royale – elimination required a wrestler to be thrown over the ropes. $5000 was supposedly at stake, but simple arithmetic makes that about double the door receipts for the evening. It seemed like every minor IZW wrestler was in the ring and, as is almost inevitable with this kind of bout, there was way too much going on. When things calmed down, and you could focus, it improved, but without much idea of who was who, or why, it remained cold. The winner was Rage, notable for his ability to clean and jerk his opponents clear above his head.

Before the next bout, we got the most amusing part of the evening, as Team Elite (Frankie Kazarian and Derek Neikirk) insulted their opponents, the audience, and the venue with equal venom, setting themselves up beautifully as the villains for their contest against Native Blood (The Navajo Warrior and Ghostwalker). This was classic tag-team action with the bad guys teaming up for all manner of foul deeds while the referee’s back was turned. Of course, they couldn’t win cleanly, relying on intervention in the shape of a chair-wielding Mike Nox – interestingly, this was about the only instance of “hardcore” wrestling in the entire night. No-one was driven through a table, nobody bled or was set on fire. And it was no less entertaining for that, WWE please note.

The tag-team title was on the line as the Killer Klowns got their shot at Hollywood and, er, Hollywood, in a handicap match. The clown gimmick has never appealed and these ones were neither funny nor scary, though did manage “creepy” on a couple of occasions. I kinda tuned out during this one, but the ending was superb. Jack Bull turned up half-way through to pinch-hit as partner for Hollywood, then stiffed him and let the Klowns take the win.

While we were still gobsmacked by that, the real Klowns – hogtied – hobbled their way out to the ring, and the impersonators in the ring revealed themselves as…The Ballard Brothers. They’d got their title shot, and won the belts; maybe not quite fair and square, but left as champions regardless. However, I think it’s safe to say that this one will run and run…

The final match pitted current IZW champion Mike Knox against wrestling icon, Jimmy ‘Superfly’ Snuka – the latter has been in the business since 1969, and was one of the pioneers in aerial moves, hence his nickname. He was ECW Heavyweight champion, WCW tag champion, fought in two Wrestlemanias for the WWF, and his leap from the top of a steel cage at Madison Square Garden in 1983 is a landmark moment, which directly inspired the likes of Mick Foley. Oh, and he’s also from the same Samoan family which gave us The Rock.

The guy may be in his late fifties now, and is obviously not quite at his peak, though I hope to be capable of half the physical stuff he did when I reach his age – he still wrestles barefoot! Nox treated Snuka with the huge respect he deserves, and in the end gained victory only through feigning injury (very convincingly – well, it fooled me totally, Chris wasn’t duped!). But in the post-match melee, Snuka still got to do his trademark Superfly Splash: see previous comments about “when I reach his age”…

The next bouts are at the start of March, and we’ll be there, though the prospect, touted by C.C.Starr, of a battle between MTV’s The Real World and Tough Enough leaves us totally stone-cold – or perhaps, Stone Cold 3:16. Still, we’ll be there regardless: having been hurt before, we’re now somewhat wary of opening up our hearts (and wallets!). But perhaps, this time, it will be true love.

A gruesome display of preserved bodies, thinly disguised as art? Sign us up – where do we get tickets? The Truman Brewery on Brick Lane, deep in the heart of London’s curry community, providing opportunity for a post-mortem poppadum or two, should you be capable of facing any kind of foodstuff. The exhibition had courted controversy since it opened, with protests from the usual quarters, and acts of vandalism including someone taking a hammer to one of the exhibits – always a good alternative to argument and debate – but this had not deterred the crowds from coming out in force, with several million served around Europe. Make that several million and two…

The procedures involved were pioneered by Prof. Gunther von Hagens, an creepy-looking dude who seems never to be without his black Homburg hat [The only photo of him without it I’ve seen is from his Stasi police record – he was arrested for trying to escape East Germany]. In the 1970’s, he invented the basic technique of infusing bodies with plastic, replacing the fluids. It’s a form of embalming that preserves the inside of a body as well as the outside, allowing both to be displayed for the education, and, let’s face it, gross-out entertainment, of the general public.

Criticism has come from many areas, labelling the exhibition as not much better than a sensationalistic freakshow which exploits the dead and degrades life. But much of it seems hypocritical, when mummies and other preserved corpses are part of the collection in most major museums. The medical profession too has a fondness for collecting dead bodies, and then there’s the whole business of religious relics. And in the Middle Ages, a business is exactly what it was – at one point, Christ’s foreskin was on display in 14 different churches.

The exhibition starts off tamely enough, with cross-sections of bones, etc. All very educational. Not particularly interesting. We joined the throng flocking past the cases, towards the main course…

The hardest things was having to keep reminding yourself that these were not wax dummies, and not latex. These were once living, walking people like you or I. As someone who views his body as a black box – feed one end, wipe the other – it was amazing to be reminded of how complex we all are. We can’t even build a computer that doesn’t crash at least once a month, yet possess an infinitely more intricate piece of machinery that runs for 70 years without a break.

Other things I learned from Body Worlds:

1. Smoking is bad. Early on, we stumbled across a comparison of the lungs of a smoker and a non-smoker – it was, literally, like black and white. Thereafter, every time we saw lungs, we’d go “Smoker…smoker…non-smoker…smoker…” If I had ever smoked, this exhibition would have cured me instantly.
2. Rethink that position on abortion. One of the galleries had a succession of preserved foetuses showing them at different stages of pregnancy. The legal limit for most abortions in the UK is 24 weeks. Looking at the 24 week specimen, it was largely indistinguishable from a newborn baby. Personally, however, I don’t have a problem with this, since I figure abortion should be entirely legal at any point up until the foetus gets off the couch, finds a job and moves out of the house.
3. You too can have an eight-inch penis. At first, I thought the specimens in the show were hung like Clydesdales. Hey, if I had equipment like that, I’d want my body preserved for posterity too. Then I realised where the testicles were. I always thought they were attached snugly to the body, but noooooo…there’s a long dangly cord. It also seems that much of the dick is tucked up inside too, so you just need to measure from the pelvis, and hey presto, a career in porn beckons.

Aesthetically, I confess that certain models did make us feel uneasy, though there was no consensus as to which ones. Chris was disturbed by the flayed guy with his skin draped over his arm like an overcoat. I got wobbly at the “exploded” specimens, where the body was split and separated, giving the appearance of, say, multiple heads. On the other hand, we were awestruck by the work on the circulatory systems. They replace the blood flowing through the veins and arteries with coloured plastic, then remove everything else. The result is a feathery shadow of the body that definitely enters the realms of art.

We bought the book. We bought the DVD. We bought the postcards. We bought the T-shirt. We even, heaven help us, bought the watch – though the strap fell off as soon as I opened the box. Cheap Oriental crap. We did, however, balk at the forms whereby you can donate your body to the exhibition. I can see why people do – it confers a kind of immortality, and means you don’t have to deal with the whole “getting eaten by worms” thing. But it’s not for me. The prospect of Japanese tourists poking my genitals and giggling is more than this mortal flesh can bear…

ATLANTIS GALLERY
THE OLD TRUMAN BREWERY
146 BRICK LANE
LONDON E1.
Open daily, 0900-2100, until Sept. 29th 2002: £10 adults.