We all have our limits, and we can usually see the brick wall a-coming as we physically and mentally push ourselves closer and closer to this make or break threshold. And at that point, you usually have a few options. One, you can be smart and shut it down before you hurt yourself. Secondly, you can surge over or around the obstacle and leave it in your wake. Or, you could do what I do, and put your head down and plow right into it, and then bang away until you either break through it like the Kool-Aid man on Crack or bludgeon yourself unconscious. Which brings us to the B-Fest overnight. Time means nothing inside that theater once the doors close, and as the seconds turn into minutes, minutes into days, and hours into weeks, some folks wisely shut it down for awhile; the crowd thins out, people start dropping like flies, bivouacking in the lobby, or sleeping where they sit or collapsing into the aisles. Others press on, fully aware that we're barely over half done tampering in God's domain yet. 

Foolish? Probably. Crazy? You bet. Worth it? Oh hell yeah.

Thinking Krull was up next, I decided to give my knees and rear-end a slight reprieve and vacated the theater to stretch my legs for a bit. (No offense to Krull, it's just takes a full half-hour before it really gets going.) After a quick circuit of the lobby, and then stretching out on one of the benches, I suddenly overheard the familiar bombastic chords of Herman Stein coming from the auditorium. The hell? Fearing I might have blacked out, or been abducted by aliens, and missed the entirety of Krull all together, I checked my watch. Nope, no lost time; turns out they just switched the schedule. Again. Ack.

Back to my theater seat I went, post-haste, to catch up on the native dating rituals of the Great American Desert Agar. Not much different than your average Coastal Agar, really, but if you pay close attention there are some subtle differences in the wooing process before the eventual lip-locking and slobber-knockering. Meanwhile, a Professor Deemer's vision of a future Thanksgiving Dinner with eight drum-sticks instead of the customary two goes awry, when one of his irradiated experiments escapes and skitters off into the desert where it continues to grow, and grow, and then picks the country-side clean of livestock and stock country-bumpkins. But the Agar tears himself away from Mara Corday long enough to investigate several large pools of bone-riddled spider-poop, and then manages to piece it all together and calls in a napalm-packing Clint Eastwood before the whole world becomes giant spider-kibble.

I giggled as the film played out because it was the exact same ravaged print that they showed a few years back -- I know because the exact same noticeable chunks were still missing. Didn't matter. Great, great flick. And the B-Fest Prop of the Year award goes to Sean for engineering that Spider-XING sign. That, my friend, was nothing short of brilliant.

This time, I waited until the opening credits of Krull actually started up before I vacated the theater. Still feeling the ill-effects of my rancid snackage, I went in search of some fresh-air. Since it was after nine, the Norris Center was unlocked so I took advantage with a leisurely stroll outside and aired out for awhile. After which, refreshed and recharged, I returned to theater ready to close this thing out. To catch everyone up on what we missed, a mythical kingdom is plagued by some demon-thingie, who sends his Stormtrooper knock-offs to kidnap the bride to be of our wooden hero, hoping for some nuptials of his own. To get her back, the hero must first go on a quest to retrieve some magical doohickey -- a high-tech throwing star, basically -- that's the only thing that can put a dent in the bad guy. Along the way, he collects an entourage of high-rent British character actors who probably don't list this film on their résumé any more. Together, they have to go on several more mini-quests as they battle a swamp witch, a giant-spider, and then have to round up a bunch of "Fire Mares" to even reach the bad guy's castle for the climactic showdown -- where we realize that almost everybody we've met who we liked has died most horribly, while those who were annoying as all hell get to move on and live happily ever after.

Man, there's a lot of questing in this movie. And when I say questing, I mean moving -- no, make that trudging from point A to get to point B to get to point C -- and none of those stops are all that interesting, but we get to watch their progress. Every. Step. Of. The. Way. In all fairness, I think Krull's heart is in the right place; the set-pieces are nifty, the effects are more than passable, but it's ultimately sunk by it's plodding pace. Although that pace did get a significant boost during our screening when three of the last four reels were shown out of order. First we jumped ahead, skipping the whole spider-cave sequence, and wound up smack dab in the middle of the Fire Mare charge -- this was about the time I came back in. And then we almost reached the ultimate climactic point of the film, when the cosmic doohickey was buzz-sawing through the monster's defenses, only to jump back for the reel we missed to find out how they got there, you could almost feel the audiences' apprehension ooze and crackle as that missed reel played out, fearing we'd have to re-watch a reel of questing again. To all of our relief, the film ducked into another wormhole, and when the next reel popped up, zapping us back to the climax, the audience absolutely roared their approval.

The only thing I really remember clearly about the lunch break this year was stumbling out of the theater with my fellow nerd-funkified brethren into the light of the lobby where we were confronted by a steady stream of women in power suits marching past the entrance. Turns out the Society of Women Engineers were congregating at the Norris Center as well for their own shindig. Warily eye-balling each other as our streams of humanity merged and surged toward the restrooms and cafeteria -- pajamas and pumps, skirts and sweats, portfolios and empty Pringles cans -- it was truly one surreal moment.

Did you know Chuck Norris' tears can cure cancer? Too bad he's never cried. And it's a good thing Chuck's a good guy, because if he broke the law, the law would never heal. Yeah, Chuck's on our side, and a good thing, too, 'cuz a bunch of a-hole terrorists have infiltrated the United States and are bound and determined to ruin Christmas by using RPG's and C-4 plastique as stocking stuffers. Of course, Chuck returns these gifts with much prejudice -- lethal prejudice. Then, armed only with a couple of uzis and his chest hair, he declares a one man war on the Richard Lynch led bad guys. Man, those terrorists don't stand a @#%*ing chance.

Final score: Chuck: 973 :: The Terrorists: 0

U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

Ah, another gonzoidal entry of mucho-macho-mayhem and carnage from producers Golan and Globus -- in whose cinematic universe dwells the likes of Paul Kersey, Joe Armstrong, and James Braddock doing their best to clean up the gene pool -- and this one ends with a Mexican stand-off between two men armed with bazookas. Are you kidding!? What's not to love? And the Best Joke of B-Fest Award goes to Tim, whose return to the festivities after a little sick-leave was like getting a giant B-12 booster shot, who led us all in a rousing chorus of "Silent Night. HooOhly Sh*t!" when the terrorists took out a bunch of Christmas bedecked houses on Norman Rockwell Lane. Well played, my friend.

Seriously, they just don't make them like this anymore. And whether that's a good thing or a bad thing is a decision we all must make on our own. But choose wisely. Remember, Chuck is watching. Always...

At last, we come to the film I helped sponsor through the fledgling Black Hole of Des Moines Appreciation Society. E'yup, this one's all our fault. Sorry, everybody. Still, I did feel a quick, dry-fart of pride when our transparency made its quick flash on screen. And then the film started, which had a pretty steep hill to climb with this crowd, anyway, when it opened with the following disclaimer:

A warning to vandals and hoodlums! This theatre is reserved for people who came to watch and enjoy the show. If you engage in any destructive acts or noisy conduct, we don't want you here! You'll not only be asked to leave, if your actions justify it, you will be prosecuted. Remember this warning and guide yourselves accordingly.

The Management.

Okay, at this point, thoroughly saturated with caffeine, sugar, and a terminal lack of sleep, I wasn't really in the right frame of mind for this tale of an all girl gang called the Tarantulas, who turn on one of their own. Thinking member Bonnie has killed her second in command, the head arachnid, Helen, plots with the others for a little biblical payback. And it was at this point, thanks to my highly unstable condition, while we're given brief glimpses into the home-life of these street urchins, I'm reduced to a blithering idiot when shown a mewling three-year-old, abandoned, half-naked, and starving in filthy flop-house. Brain-buzzing, dazed, confused, mumbling "Give the kid a cracker, dammit" I never recovered after that. Neither did the film -- even the startling appearance and shrill antics of odd-duck Estelle could snap me out of my funk. Crass, bleak, dark -- as in I can't see anything, what the heck is going on? -- and a major bummer, Roger Corman and Charles Griffith lather the morality molasses on a pretty thick as the girls chase Bonnie around town, and then top it off with a group-hug ending that was shooting for profound but missed the mark by, oh, seven or eight miles.

Bleaugh! And I don't think I was alone in my opinion. Why? Well, as several audience members came to give us a group, forgiving hug for the film, we also received several knees to the groin.

Wohoo! Just what the doctor ordered, something to remove the mildew-stains and soap-scum of the last film by showing us a compilation of classic monster clips while Frank Sinatra croons "Stranger in the Night." Lock-n-load, baby! Initiate Brain-Scrubbers! Engage!

"Doobie-doobie doo. HmmmMmmMM. Strangers in the night..."

...Aaaahhhhhh!

Okey-dokey, then, I think it's time we did a recap of the reoccurring themes and motifs of B-Fest 2007. Let's see. We've had a double-dose of the Agar on a date. (How much Agar could an Agar Agar if an Agar could Agar?) A lot of baiting and switching. (A sleazless sleaze movie, and an anti-comedy.) Then there's all the relentless meandering -- sorry, noble and valorous questing. And, of course, a lot of people going the J-ELLO pudding route by dissolving and popping like overripe blackheads right before our very eyes. Luckily -- and I use the term loosely, they saved the biggest zit for last.

As the latest manned space probe tours the rings of Saturn, a radiation burst from the sun refracts of those rings, killing the entire crew -- save one; but he ain't doing so hot. Somehow, they manage to get the survivor back to Earth in, more or less, one piece (-- and I assume record time -- unless we've already invented warp-drive). The problem is he's, very messily, melting away, and apparently the only thing that will slow this process down is terrorizing girthy nurses and amorous old couples, and then killing and eating them. Hot on the Melting Man's trail is the smarmy General Perry and the even smarmier Dr. Ted Nelson, who do their best to cover-up their clandestine space-man shenanigans. Tracking the trail of gooey body parts to some factory, the Melting Man attacks and takes out Perry, and the cops are not all that impressed with Nelson's credentials; and despite his vehement protests that I'm Dr Ted Nelson!, said cop shoots him in the head -- much to the audience's delight! Hooray! Shoot him again! As for our monster? Well, his metamorphosis complete, what's left of him is scooped up into a bucket by a janitor and deposited in a waste disposal unit. Fine. A trash can; rendering about 9/10ths of the plot null and void. 

I believe it was a wise old B-movie philosopher who warned us that Strolling Monsters was a genre best avoided. Sage advice, unless you're stuck in the room with one. Well, at least none of us were alone. Plenty to heckle here -- oh, lord, the avocado earth-tones, and the slow-motion charge of the screaming nurse WHEN NOTHING'S CHASING HER!, and a few technical difficulties when the audio went wonky helps us limp through it. And yes, I can't stress this enough, the entire film was justified not by the gelatinous F/X work of Rick Baker, but by the actions of that heroic police officer who took out "I'm Dr. Ted Nelson." That guy deserves the medal of valor.

It's inevitable in this digital age that film-stock will go the way of the Do-Do, and that technological shift is already scratching at B-Fest's door. Yes, there were a ton of technical difficulties to sit through this year as many of the films ground themselves into bit-size chunks, and going digital would probably solve about 99% of those glitches, and open up a lot more possibilities for the line-up. But speaking honestly, I have no problem with those glitches. Seriously, one of the best parts of B-Fest is the communal spirit, of pulling together to make it through to the very end of this thing, and none of this is more apparent than when a film breaks down, the audio goes out of synch, or the reels get all futched-up. The cheering, stomping, and singing and applauding when things go awry and the eventual recovery is all part of the charm that keeps luring me back. So, beware the wheels of progress and all that, but I did find it kind of ironic that when they debuted the first digitally projected feature this year, it was delayed by about ten to fifteen minutes to work out a few bugs. Yeah! Score one for the Luddites.

Still, thanks to the new format we got to see King Kong vs. Godzilla. (And I soooo want that model pictured above.) While searching for a steady supply of some kind of narcotic berries, an expedition stumbles upon a really big piece of fauna on the coveted flora's native island -- King Kong! After making a grand entrance, Kong beats the snot out of a giant octopus and then celebrates the victory by getting snockered on berry juice, and then promptly passes out. While he snoozes, a plan is hatched to raft him over to Tokyo as the brand new mascot for the company marketing the new medicinal berry juice. Meanwhile, Godzilla manages to defrost himself outta the iceberg he was trapped in, takes out a UN sub, and makes a B-line for Japan. The Japanese defense force goes into action, and after Operation Dig a Big Hole fails to stop the beast, they prepare to initiate Operation Drop Big Rock (-- I'm just logically assuming here), but everything's put on hold when Kong escapes the raft and swims ashore near Hokkaido, directly in the path of the rampaging Godzilla. The first round goes to the big lizard and his atomic halitosis, which drives off Kong long enough to find himself a Fay Wray -- until he's recaptured and air-lifted to Mt. Fuji for the rematch. The rumble renewed, the playing field is evened out when Kong is charged by lightning, and when amplified by his shag-carpet pelt, the resulting static-shocks nullifies Godzilla's advantage. The smack-down continues until both monsters, asses over elbows, plunge into the ocean. Only Kong surfaces to swim away.

Man, there's nothing like watching two guys in rubber suits beating the holy hell out of each other. Keep you damn CGI, I'll take this kind of rubber-suited mayhem any day of the week. That was awesome!

Alas, as Ifukube's score faded and the lights came up for the last time, the realization sinks in that B-Fest 2007 has, sadly, come to an end. I made it -- the full 24-hours -- relatively intact. Yeah, I cheated a little, but even I'm not stupid enough to stay chained to the theater seat for the whole thing. Even with the few breaks, my brain was mush at this point. I vaguely recall cleaning up, the BMMB group photo, and saying goodbye. I seemed to blink, and suddenly we were back at the hotel. I blinked again, and a bunch of us were congregating across the street at a pub, having a beer, waiting on a burger. And as those blinks got longer and darker, I bid all a fond goodbye and excused myself before I nose-planted into what was left of my fries. Once outside, I stumbled across the street, nearly getting clipped by a cab that was breaking the posted speed limit and ignoring te stop sign on the street where I crossed. He skidded and honked ahnd cursed at me; I pointed at the stop sign and shot him the bird before ducking into the hotel. Asshole. Elevator ... room key ... bed ... AhhhhhhzzZZZzzz; I believe I was out before I hit the pillow.

The next morning as we packed up an prepared to depart, the TV settles on one of the Superstations showing Total Recall -- just in time to see Arnold the Barbarian grunt and pull that brain-ball out of his nose. Watching Arnie being Arnie in this turd-burger, somehow, triggers all three of us to spontaneously imitate and regurgitate anything said or seen over the past 24 hours in Schwarzennegerese the whole way home. As for B-Fest 2008? Well...

"Ah'll be bahck."