There's a certain moment during B-Fest -- around five or six in the morning -- after you've survived whatever they've thrown at you so far, and it feels like you've been in that theater, like, forever, already, when you realize you're only half-way home ... Or we still gotta half to go, depending on how you look at these things. I guess where you fall over that particular fence kinda depends on whether you've got a film lurking in the wings like, I don't know, say, starring a well-known action-hero flexing his dormant comedic muscles, who is teamed up with an actress who could double as a human floatation device that tries to teach him how to sing. We should be fine, though. I mean: What are the odds? And then I picked up the schedule to see what's next...

Aw, crap.

And that sound you just heard was George Bernard Shaw's grave detonating when this Golan and Globus take on his play, Pygmalion -- probably more familiar to a lot of you in its musical version, My Fair Lady, cued up. Yeah, well, this is another musical version, just a lot less ... well, melodical. Here, Dolly Parton gets to play Henry Higgin's to Sly "it's been awhile since Rocky" Stallone's Eliza Doolittle. The twist is Dolly has to turn this New York City boy into a country and western star or be forever indentured to some lowlife promoter. Hell, doesn't sound to hard. I mean, Cletus T. Judd's got a career. How hard could it really be? But then we hear Stallone sing "Tutti Fruiti" (-- at least I think it was, but it was kinda hard to tell), and all hope should have been lost right there. However, Dolly's a gamer and takes him to the country to countrify him; and after plenty of fish-out-of-water and poop jokes, she slaps our boy in a sequined jumpsuit and gives him a microphone ... God help us all.

Aside from a certain shameful affinity for the Porky's franchise, I must admit that Bob Clark's reputation as a filmmaker is a bit over-inflated. A Christmas Story owes more to a fine cast and a script penned by someone else than it's direction. And who'd a thunk that maybe his early horror films owed more to Alan Ormsby than anything else. Repeat: ALAN. ORMSBY! The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Just look at the man's track record without them over on the IMDB. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Yeah. See what I mean? Now git the rope.

When some square-jawed stiff's fiancé gets kidnapped and hauled off to a south-seas island, he and his little buddy, Sabu -- and his littler buddy, a scene-stealing monkey, are soon hot on the trail. Treachery abounds as we find out the fiancé, Tollea, is native royalty; but the island is currently under the throes of her evil twin sister, Naja -- who sacrifices villagers to the Cobra god to appease Mt. Lydecker; a volcano that's about to erupt. (Either that or they've elected a new pope.) Can our hero, who swaps plenty o' spit with both sisters, deduce what the heck's going on before Naja tries to dance again?

I sure as heck hope so. Yeesh.

The name Siodmak may be familiar to a lot of you old school horror buffs. The same name scripted The Wolfman, The Magnetic Monster and Creature with the Atom Brain. Classics all, but that was Curt Siodmak. His brother, Robert, directed Cobra Woman, and one has to wonder if maybe the gene pool kinda dried up if you know what I mean. Now, that's not really fair. Robert actually has quite the reputation directing film noir, and The Phantom Lady and The Killers gives him plenty of street cred. So, one has to ask: What the hell happened here? Easy -- Maria Montez. The Caribbean Cyclone can't sing, can't dance, can't act. A triple threat. But, bless her, she's more than willing to try. And try she does as we get a double dose of her as she gets to play both the heroine and the villainess, which was two too much for this particular viewer to handle.

And a quick apology to the poor gal who tripped over Santo and myself in the dark and landed our laps. Sorry, we were sitting in the aisle, clogging traffic, stupefied by the alluring dance/hull-gully of the Cobra or something. All Animal House inspired jokes aside, hope you're okay.

I cringe and whimper as the next shorts spool up, unsure of how nerve-shattering this round would  be. Lo and behold, People Soup spools up nice and serene, with two brothers, alone, in the family kitchen, concocting and kit-bashing together different brews of whatever seems available in the fridge and cupboards. And then they dare each other to drink the potions, which, in turn, turns them into different fluffy critters. And then it ends as peacefully as it begins.

Well, that was nice ... People Soup was conceived and directed by Alan Arkin. I did not know this at the time, but that was me, upon recognizing one of the kids, screeching "That's Adam Arkin" at the top of my lungs. Punchy and sleep deprived, I kept screeching this mantra, like a crack-addicted howler monkey, and then kept babbling to anyone who'd listen that I had no doubt the children's parents were somewhere in that house, lying in a pool of their own blood.

As for the next short? Man, who doesn't like dinosaurs? Well, Fossils are Interesting does a bang-up job of proving that, no, they aren't. Boring and tedious, and a far cry from interesting, really. Dem' bones, dem' bones, dem' dry bones...

And it was at this point, when the walls of the theater started melting down like the polar ice caps, and the floor and seats started to undulate and rise in a torrent that threatens to drown me like a tidal surge ... OKAY! That's it. I really need to get out of this theater for a breather. Who's hungry?

What's this one about? Sorry, couldn't tell ya. Talking babies are just creepy, and anyone over the age of ten who wrings any kind of enjoyment out of watching this kinda stuff is even creepier if you ask me. This is one for the kids or the raincoat crowd; know what I mean? So, when the opening credits for this movie started, I bailed out of the fog of theater and into the light of the lobby, stomach rumbling for something a little more substantial than beef jerky and Little Debbie's snack cakes.

Alone, I wander down to the cafeteria and buy a couple of pieces of cardboard with cheese and meat on them, and take a table with a nice scenic view of Lake Michigan and defused for awhile ... Upon my return to the theater, things have turned right ugly. In example, when Jon Voight talks to his sock puppet, Marlowe said something I couldn't quite make out -- but Mike did, and soon an empty pop bottle whizzed past my nose, aimed at Marlowe's head. Then Sean launched a self-described "One man Bay of Pigs" assault on the screen armed only with his shoe, only to be thwarted by a discarded paper plate, which caused him to slip and fall into a heap. Ever helpful, Medic Skip does his best to drag the wounded solider back to his own lines.

I will not be drug into this madness, and do my best to ignore the proceedings on screen, concentrating, instead, on a steady stream of paper that Tim keeps handing me, converting the sheets into paper airplanes for a planned skit for the last film on the docket -- that can't get here soon enough. Alas, I ran out of paper too soon, and I am forced to watch the climax that consists of baby super-heroes kung-fu fighting. And as the audience is pushed well past its breaking point, begging the movie to "END!" I punctuate that request with a more and more desperate "PLEASE!" between each incantation.

And B-Fest comes full circle for its captive audience, still gasping, shell-shocked, and maybe even in a little state of denial over that last feature. But then comes the final reward: a true classic to wipe away the memory of all that came before. A synopsis of this film would be kinda of irrelevant, but for those of you who don't know: Boy meets girl. Boy and girl go to an island to make a movie. Boy loses girl to big monkey. Boy gets girl back and takes big monkey home. Big monkey breaks loose. Boy loses girl again. Big monkey gets shot off a building. Boy gets girl back. T'was beauty killed the beast (-- well, that, and an eighty story fall.)

The BMMB came well prepared for this film, lock, stock and paper airplanes; even I got in on the act, playing part of the brute squad that hauled out our own Ann Darrow to be be sacrificed to the big monkey. And a big thanks goes to whoever brought the gorilla costume. But the biggest thanks of all has to go to Mike, who volunteered to wear the thing. Regardless of the fact that he was the only who'd fit, Mike was a true sport, wrestling Ray's rubber chicken (-- and I understand he hurt himself during this stunt), putting on a musical number, being pelted by paper airplanes, before finally croaking in true Looney Tunes fashion. That's my boy!

Wait! Mike, that's not in the script!

The Nerd Funk-O-Meter Says:

T'was Beauty Killed the Nerd Funk-O-Meter.

Is this the End of our Hero?

Is this the End of B-Fest?

(Yup, and E'yup.)

First off, a shout of thanks to A&O Films for putting up with us all for another year. And an apology is probably in order, too, for all the bitching done about this year's line-up. Malice was never intended, but probably inferred, so I'd like to at least say I'm sorry for that. You guys manage to pull off a minor miracle every year, and you should be commended for it. And with that said, I've also come to this conclusion: the films are secondary. This is a social gathering with my people, who are afflicted with the same defective gene that I have. And I truly love all of you; those mentioned here, and those who were not  (Kodos, Raven, and the Junior BMMB brigade, Gaz and Darwin, and everyone else I've overlooked.) Also, big thanks to Mike and Matt. Gentlemen, a blast as always. (Mike, just be a little more careful when exiting Iowa City. I and my squashed cheeseburgers thank you.)

Every year I leave a sizeable chunk of myself behind in that theater when B-Fest comes to a close. This year, I left the biggest chunk of all. I managed to stay up for the whole thing again, but I'm getting way too old for this crap. I was broken by a film about talking babies for Ro-Man's sake. I have tasted my own mettle, and found it weak. I am tired, humbled, and in desperate need of a shower, a change of clothes, and some real food. And every year at this point I say, That's it. I've had my fun. I'm done. Let somebody else have the ticket. But as I pack up my junk and help clean up the theater, I'm already getting the itch. An itch I can't scratch for 365 days.

So mark it down. I'll be there.

See you all at B-Fest 2007.