I really don't remember waking up the Friday morning before B-Fest. Obviously, I did. I do remember drinking about two-gallons of water before crashing the night before to help with the inevitable hangover after all that rum and booze, so I'm sure my bladder had something to do with it ... Anyways, get up I did and with my compatriots did our usual Evanston tour, hitting the comic shops and used CD stores, and spending an obscene amount of money at the Barnes & Nobles, picking up a couple of Criterion Edition DVDs: Seijun Suzuki's Gates of Flesh

Well, while getting there was half the fun, the other half was spent perusing all kinds of aquatic life -- and an impressive display it was. Sharks, turtles, lobsters, crabs, hallucinogenic frogs, odd-looking fish, glow-in-the-dark fish, what-in-the-hell-is-that fish, whales, dolphins, eels and Bears fans. Being a creature of the Great Plains, this stuff is truly fascinating, although I was a little disappointed when I heard the sounds of water splashing around a certain corner, then rushed around to see, only to find out it was just a wave/reef-display instead of penguins doing belly-flops. I still got soaked, though. Is that what that yellow line is for? And is there anything more serene than sitting around and watching as whales do what they do? And yes, there were dragons there. Komodos. Big ones. Though not quite as fuzzy as all my photos of them turned out (...$300 dollar digital camera + one chuckle-head pointing and clicking = one metric ton of blur.)

Duly impressed, however, time was starting to crunch a little so we waved goodbye to the otters and headed back into the Belly of the Beast to do battle with the Chicago roadways again. Recovering and smoothing out the hotel tourist map as best I could, I managed to navigate us back to Evanston without incident and we headed straight for the campus. Parking is always tricky at Northwestern U. Even though I've been assured every year that after four o'clock on Fridays you can park on campus without a permit, I believe the past two years we've found warning stickers placed on our transport when we stumble out Saturday evening. And we were lucky to just get a warning. Believe me, there are horrible tales of fellow out-of-town B-Festers who got nailed with not one, but two, parking violations that carry an obscene fine, and that tends to royally scuttle your happy-factor; know what I mean? It's not like the thing is packed tight, bumper to bumper. So, what I'm saying is, since I drove 700 miles, sponsored a film, paid $40 per ticket, maybe, just maybe, you can let campus security know on B-Fest weekend that there might be some out-of-towners parked in your near empty parking garage? And maybe you could cut them a little slack? Cool? Cool. Thanks.

Inside the Norris center, we reunite with several BMMBers who made a pilgrimage to Ahlgrim's Funeral Parlor for another round of miniature golf. Sounded awesome, a little disappointed to have missed out, sure, but there's always next year. After staking out some seats, we headed back to the cafeteria for some solid food before tackling the overnight, since all we'll be consuming for the next 24 hours, basically, will be sugar and caffeine; trust me, a little protein will go a long, long way. Then it was back to the auditorium, only to be herded back out for a ticket check, where a very pleasant surprise awaited. Along with the commemorative Stomp Tokyo B-Fest cup, someone had a genius-attack and incorporated the B-Fest poster and the program into one entity. They also provided a nice, squishy little brain squeeze-toy. Man, this is better than Christmas.

Back into the theater, then, where everyone started settling in for the long haul and stashing their gear. I did a quick check of my supplies: a six-pack of Diet Dew, a box of Zingers, two boxes of granola bars, two cans of Pringles, a can of Slim-Jims, and a foot-long turkey sub. That oughta get me through 'til lunch tomorrow. I hope. Sitting right ahead of us, Tim Lehnerer, who provided another classic B-Fest mix-disc, was doing his damndest to fight off some kind of malady, and warns us not to get too close. Sitting next to him was some guy whose name I didn't catch, but I'll call him the 'Each It And I" guy, 'cuz that's what his t-shirt said. And I'm embarrassed as all hell that it took me well into Sunday before I finally got the joke. And I only bring this up as a shout out to "Each It And I" guy because he disappeared about half-way through the films and I wanted to let him know that he was freakin' hilarious.

H-Hour was fast approaching, and then our emcee for the evening appeared and quiets the crowd, welcoming us all to B-Fest 2007. After the applause subsided, we were warned before hand that a lot of the prints for this year's fest were very brittle, so patience was gonna be a virtue to get us through all the very probable technical glitches. He also stated that as of right now, and for the next 24-hours, the heater for the theater was shut off and the air-conditioner would be turned on, bringing another round of loud, thunderous applause. Being a B-Fest veteran, knowing full well that the air tends to coagulate and congeal in your nasal cavity like curdled milk by hour ten, this was a much welcomed relief; so hopefully, the Nerd-Funk-O-Meter can be retired for good. With that, the lights dimmed, I bogarted a vanilla Zinger and cracked open a pop, waiting to see if I could manage to stay awake for the full 24-hours for the third year in a row.

Bring it on!

As the first film wheezed and warbled to life, the opening credits got as far as The Brain that Wouldn't ... before the print snapped like a dried-out twig. And as the film gargled to a very abrupt stop, the audience roars and clapped off this ominous omen when the film recovers and resumed in increasing fits and starts. Between the glitches, we witness the tale of a mad surgeon, whose hideous experiments with cadaver parts comes in real handy when an auto-accident dismembers his wife's head. And while that detached appendage percolates in a pan of juices, it torments the husband as he searches out a new replacement body. And you can almost hear the creep saying I'm doing this for you, Honey! as he lecherously ogles an array of models and strippers, looking for the right boob to butt ratio. Oh yeah ... All for you, Honey! Wanting no part of this abomination of science gone awry, Jan in the Pan sends out a psychic S.O.S. to the surgeon's earlier, diabolical experiment locked in a nearby closet. Oh, yeah, this is gonna end in fire. And as we barrel toward the climactic head-swapping, the print starts to sputter, first losing the soundtrack, and then terminally disintegrates before we get to see the monster come out of the closet and tear the surgeon's throat out with his teeth. 

When the lights came up -- never a good sign -- it soon became apparent that the ending was lost to us. Never fear, the dynamic duo of Tim and "Each It and I" guy take to the stage and reenact the final battle, much to the audiences delight.

After one of the most convoluted origins in cinema history -- I mean, you're a royal heir, stolen from your mother's womb and inserted into a cow, only to be cut out as a sacrifice, then saved by the timely intervention of a local peasant, who then, along with all his neighbors, gets slaughtered by a horde of savages led by some dude with elk antlers coming out of his head -- Marc Singer and his oiled-up abs and pecs becomes Dar Beastmaster. Then, leading his animal army of one displaced tiger, two thieving ferrets, and an eagle, he does battle with evil warlock Rip Torn and his coven of witches. They're the ones who slaughtered his parents and usurped his kingdom, and who keeps everyone in line by holding human sacrifices on top of a giant pyramid. But, with the help of the buxom Tanya Roberts and a barely dressed John Amos, Dar Singer manages to overthrow this evil regime, mostly due to the heroic action of the ferrets, not the so-called Beastmaster -- he was busy getting his ass kicked, if memory serves. And the timely intervention of some giant, bat-like creatures whose acidic-wing bear hugs can reduce you to bones in a matter of seconds came in kind of handy, too. The final battle won, we're then rewarded with an extra reel of combat footage when the director realized that after the climax, they forgot about the guy with the elk antlers coming out of his head.

You know, I take that back about the origin being convoluted because, really, this whole dang movie is just one big convoluted mess. Doesn't matter, though. The film is still one metric-ton of fun to be had between the scenes of Singer and his band meandering around. And around. And around. And around...

Ub Iwerks Flip the Frog cartoons started up shortly after he flipped Walt Disney the finger and started doing animated shorts on his own for MGM. Made in the '30s during the Depression, Flip's cartoons were a little risqué -- one of them even had Flip toking up and tripping out in an opium den. Here, however, Flip is just trying to buy a new car. Simple enough -- until the car gets drunk, and puts on lipstick, and then starts flirting with the driver, and after that, the wheels really started to come off. And as the audience watched in stupefied silence, a lone, terrified voice pierced the vale, saying "This is getting really weird."

Okey-dokey, then. This is why anthropomorphic cars shouldn't get drunk. Also of note, I do believe I now know where the Fleischer brothers got all their drugs.

You'll notice the Creature is not featured in the screen-cap. That's okay; he really wasn't featured in the movie, either. Well, he was sorta there, in the beginning, when they re-hashed the first film for awhile. (Yay! Nestor's back!) Only this time they catch him and bring him back to civilization -- civilization being the newest attraction at an aquatic theme-park. Enter John Agar, who wants to study the gill-man, but then seems more interested in hooking up with fellow marine-biologist, Lori Nelson. As Agar commits to slobber-knocking the leading lady, as only the Agar can, the Creature, also smitten with the girl, makes another cameo appearance when he breaks loose and runs amok, escaping into the Everglades -- and then promptly disappears from the movie again! Never fear, the film soldiers on without him, focusing on the native mating habits of the common American Agar. That is, until the Creature realizes this was his movie, dammit, and takes his frustrations out on a couple of teens -- and fastballs one of them into a palm tree! (And boy, did he get some great, late movement on that pitch.) He also makes one last pass at the girl, which leads to his eventual doom.

Just like last year, when they screened the original Creature from the Black Lagoon, Revenge was shown in 3-D. And also like last year, it only worked about 50% of the time when the prints were properly synched up. When it did work, the effect was truly incredible; more in the depth of scene composition then when something was chucked at you -- like John Bromfield's ... well, package. Oh yeah, that jutting bulge of manliness in his tightie-whitie swim trunks was, hands down, the most terrifying 3-D effect ever. (I know the gal in front of me agreed, screaming "Pan up! Pan up!")

Ah, yes, the raffle break and the conspiracy portion of our program. Five years running now my number has never come up. Close, but that cigar has always eluded me. Disappointing, but not earth-shattering. And as the rafflers took the stage for the sixth go-around, I didn't even bother to check my ticket number. However, when they showed the prizes -- including several copies of the recently yanked Volume 10 of Mystery Science Theater episodes, two of which I had never seen -- I immediately went on a search and destroy to find my stub.

Find it I did -- my number was 308 -- and then waited anxiously as they rattled off numbers and gave things away. Then, things got a little insidious ... As the pile of swag dwindled, the numbers called stayed within a one to 140 parameter; not even within sniffing distance of 200, let alone three. Smelling a rat, the small knot of us that were stuck with the high numbers started a constant, droning chant as the last few numbers were called: 300 and ... 300 and ... 300 and...

It didn't help. Ah, well. Maybe next year?

Nos venit. Nos vigilo. Nos Venter. Quod illic eram ultum tripudium. Gauisus.

Loosely translated from the Latin: We came. We Saw. We stomped. And there was much rejoicing. Yay.

As we approached the midnight hour, it meant it was time for this much beloved short to spool up. It took awhile to get it firing on all cylinders, but soon enough, the supersonic Wizard's acolytes were on stage running and stomping and singing in unison. And once again, for everyone's safety, I declined to drag my fat-butt up there to add to the property damage. A few more delays and, as is customary, the short was shown in reverse. Wheeeeeee!

I honestly fear for the shelf-life of this print. Every year, they seem to have more and more trouble feeding it through the projector. And I hope they have a Plan-B for when it finally does give up the ghost. I mean, we've already lost What is Communism?