Five days of Fantastic Sex, Food, Wine, Cinema, more Wine, Gore and more

 

Fantastic Fest is the most fantastic, satisfying festival I have ever been to in 35 years of sporadic attendance at such events.

Located at the Alamo Drafthouse, a stylish new breed of multiplex in Austin, Texas, FF does not cater to cinema snobs or pretentious culture vultures, rather it provides the grass roots genre/fantasy fan with an eclectic selection of movie treats from around the world, some of which are just as intellectually and artistically grounded as anything that Cannes or Venice has to offer.

                                                                                                                 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shuttles are provided for regular pick up and deposit at the major hotels, but if you travel by car, there are acres of parking in front of the theatre. (Nothing worse than cutting it fine for a movie, then finding nowhere to park.) Lobby screens play trailers from the upcoming schedule; and posters old, new, and rare, decorate your passage to the theatre of choice. Then there is comfortable stadium seating (with leg room for us tall people. Woohoo!) in front of a bench that runs the length  of each row. On slips of paper provided, you write your food and drink order from an extensive three course menu, then stick it upright in the groove at the rim  of the bench. It doesn’t take long before your server returns, first with the booze, then the food, always staying low so as not to obscure the screen. Last orders are taken half way through the movie.

The standard of projection is excellent. Focus and light level is monitored constantly. Also there is no sound bleed thru from any other theatre. I remember, at one foreign festival, confronting the projectionist who had played reel 3 of DEAD END DRIVE IN ahead of reel 2. “Catastrophe…je suis désolée,” he said with studied indifference, a bent Gauloise hanging from his lip. No way was he going to stop and correct the mistake, the screening schedule was too tight. Hijo la chingaso!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bill Murray at the Lockhart Cavern Party.

No, the Alamo Drafthouse cares deeply about providing their patrons, be they Festival audiences or regular year round Austin moviegoers, with the best possible Cinema experience. This is the vision of Alamo Drafthouse founders Tim and Karrie League, and their hard working staff and volunteers carry out that mandate with enthusiasm. Because they all love movies. They are a splendid example of what exhibitors used to be before television - showmen.

In 5 days I saw SAUNA, ACOLYTES, DONKEY PUNCH, CHASER, CHOCOLATE, ZOMBIE GIRL: THE MOVIE,  THE BURROWERS, ALIEN RAIDERS, FEAR(S) IN THE NIGHT, THE SUBSTITUTE, DEAD GIRL, THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE WEIRD, FIGHTER, SPINE TINGLER!, in addition to hosting my MAN FROM HONG KONG and TURKEY SHOOT and joining Mark Hartley in Q & A for his NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD. There were many more titles I did not have time to see. More on these movies next blog. But for now, click on the wonderful shot from a personal favorite of mine, the 100 Best Kills Party:

 

 

 

 

 

FF’s great line-up is courtesy of founder and head programmer Tim League, co-founder Harry Knowles (Ain’t It Cool News - it was wonderful to finally meet the great Harry), with additional programming by Alamo Drafthouse Cinema executives Karrie League, Zack Carlson and Lars Nilsen. Also contributing was Todd Brown (Twitchfilm.net), and Blake Ethridge (Cinema is Dope). And a special word of praise for tireless Thomas Hanawa, the Robo-Warrior of problem solvers; also guest manager and Yellow Rose of Texas Jill Lewis, one of the sweetest girls on the planet.

A generous quote from Todd of twitchfilm.net: “Man From Hong Kong director Brian Trenchard-Smith is the guy you most want covering your back in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.” Thanks Todd. He runs a great site. Check it out.

“There was also skeet shooting, debates, boxing, swimming, 100 Best Kills, World Air Sex Championships, karaoke, cave dwelling and Texas BBQ. A fabulous and exhausting time I strongly recommend to anyone choosing a festival to attend. You will not be disappointed.

I sat so long and dined so well at the Alamo Drafthouse that I must ramp up my exercise schedule for the next couple of weeks, starting today with three hours of fencing, my particular hobby. I leave you with a short film sent to me by my Hawaiian fencing buddy Colin Chock, that in some way captures the exhilaration of this great combat sport:                                       

 

 

My Crimes Against Cinema on display at FANTASTIC FEST!

Must be brief, because my presence is required at another film festival. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it…

After a fantastic reception at the Toronto International Film Festival, Mark Hartley’s NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD will screen at the Alamo Drafthouse as part of Fantastic Fest! in Austin, Texas. I will be there to present two of my Guilty Pleasures that are featured in NQH. The high camp splatter movie TURKEY SHOOT - 1984 meets The Camp On Blood Island and they play The Most Dangerous Game - will have its first big screen uncut presentation in America since New World released an MPAA censored version in 1983.

So for educational purposes, here is a tasteful portrait of an ante-bellum turkey shoot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, by way of contrast, here is the original trailer I made for TURKEY SHOOT in 1981.

I will also be presenting my first narrative movie THE MAN FROM HONG KONG shot in 1974. (Click the poster for Fantastic Fest page.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It will be interesting to see these action pictures with a young American audience. Good quality action depends on the skill of the stuntman. Many of the films featured in NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD contain the work of Australia’s greatest stunt pioneer - Grant Page, whose career I managed for its first 5 years. I watched him do a full burn fire gag last month. He’s 69! Still going strong! He gets older; his girlfriends get younger. He is a truly amazing human being.
Here’s a taste of some of his early work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DANGERFREAKS is available for internet download.  More on Grant Page in another blog.

GUNS, TESTICLES, COKE: more adventures in Co-Production Hell

Dare I say - take a long, hard look at that picture, which brings a new dimension to the term woody? Dr. Freud, your slip is showing. As you can see, I am a sick puppy with a twisted sense of humor. Somehow, I want to believe that the decision by the relevant executive at the publishing house back in the early 60’s to use this particular still as the front cover was not a perversely funny accident; rather, it was the work of a subversive mind, devising a time bomb joke for a cynical future generation to unearth. For nearly 50 years his/her private irony has squeaked by without notice…till now.  But no. Those were more innocent times. How could it have occurred to anybody involved? But if it had…It would make a good episode of MAD MEN. (What a great show that is.) Another episode of MAD MEN could center around the Advertising agency that lured Glenn Ford into this cigarette ad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tobacco not withstanding, Mr. Ford lived to be 90.  And he was in good spirits on arrival for Day 2 of the Assassins shoot, his second and last scene in the picture. It also involved Taylor Lacher, the actor he had brought with him. They had become buddies on the set of CADE’S COUNTY, a high profile but short lived series in 1971. I had actually visited the set as promo exec of Sydney’s Channel 9, who had purchased the show, and watched Mr. Ford do a scene with Taylor Lacher (not the older man pictured on Mr. Ford’s left). Little did I know as I observed Mr. Lacher discreetly from the side that I was watching an actor who would, nine years later, spit on the ground in front of me as a gesture of his contempt for a creative decision I had made. My directing style does not normally produce this kind of response, by the way. But that encounter was a pleasure yet to come.  Day 2 was the business in hand, scheduled to finish early so trucks could take off for location in Ixtapa. Pressure was on to get through the betrayal and murder scene (only the climax to the whole story!) as fast as possible, with a Spanish DP who spoke no English. This movie was my personal LOST IN TRANSLATION. Mexican crews are great, incidentally. 10 years later I did 12 episodes of TARZAN in Palanque with a fantastic crew. They got the job done and made it fun.

So, fast forward to…Taylor has to pull a gun, harangue his Onassis type boss (Glenn Ford)  then shoot him. As I set up the first shot, an argument broke out between Mr. Ford and one of the producers. It degenerated into name calling, hissed loudly at each other while the crew worked around them as if nothing was going on. OI! But the first few set ups went smoothly enough, then came the actual gun firing moment. When he saw the armourer load the pistol, Mr. Ford’s mood changed. He came to me quite agitated, and stated that he had a mortal fear of firearms. Puzzling, I thought, given the number of westerns he had made. By reputation he had the fastest draw of any Hollywood actor, firing at 0.4 of a second, faster than John Wayne or Gunsmoke’s James Arness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was a Rear Admiral in the Naval Reserve. In 1967, he volunteered to serve three months in Vietnam, spending some of his time under bombardment, and accompanying five special forces missions. So what’s the problem with the quarter load blanks? He took up hang gliding at the age of 64, for God’s sake! OI!

As he was costumed in his own clothes, (another smart decision by the American producers to save money) he was not prepared to be squibbed. He begged me to allow him not to be in any shot in which the gun was fired. I had hoped to have him pumped full of lead Peckinpah-style. So much for that wild idea. I looked to a producer. He shrugged and walked off. Brave, brave, Sir Robin. Of course, actors have a right to be nervous around firearms. The tragic loss of Brandon Lee was a safety lesson to the whole industry. I knew: You pick your battles. This was not one of them. So, I set it up as: an insert of the gun firing/cut to Glenn Ford clutching his chest dropping out of frame/cut to a wide 2-shot. He completes the fall, etc. When I called “Cut” on that shot, he got up and approached me, beaming from ear to ear. He put one arm round my shoulder to hug me…

Then I felt his other hand cup my balls and give them a quick squeeze.  “Oh, thank you, thank you so much for doing that, I really appreciate it…” I recall him saying. It was over in a flash. I lurched forward, disguised my gasp as a big laugh, Whoa! Ho Ho! Just jocular locker room humor, nothing to see here, folks. Of course, I did not think Glenn Ford was gay. He had brought with him wife number 3 (out of a total of 4), actress Cynthia  Hayward, also a cast member from CADE’S COUNTY. (She treated my wife, another beautiful but younger blonde, with lofty disdain.) There was nothing sexual in Mr. Ford’s act, rather it was a demonstration of power, a direct metaphor for our relationship during his two days of work. He had me by the short and curlies the entire time. Perhaps it was a parting handshake for satisfactory service. So the only way to take it was as a compliment. How many directors have the privilege of getting their balls squeezed by a star from Hollywood’s Golden Age in front of the entire crew? I am deeply blessed. By way of comparison, perhaps this is a good time to remind everybody of how a director/star relationship can turn out.

 

That must have been quite a set to work on! So was mine, Once Upon A Time In Mexico… Not as spectacularly volatile as Huckabees of course (click the poster to see what I’m talking about), just a daily slog through ugly mud. This was a movie made without a completion guarantor, but with a plethora of producers, all of whom felt entitled to give the director conflicting notes. Their ranks expanded weekly, as the Americans sought to repair their cash flow crisis by offering potential investors executive producer credits, and a holiday trip to our Ixtapa hotel. Some took the trip at the company‘s expense, then reneged on the investment. All were given to me to look after, like lost dogs. “Hang out with the director. Ask him anything you like.” Which they would sometimes do in the middle of a take.  I have a motto with car crashes: if in doubt, blow it up, or at least set fire to it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was able to indulge this practice only once, as the budget see-sawed. Another time when money was short, the stock ratio was cut. I countered by saying in front of cast that I could no longer afford close-ups. The stock ratio was restored. Our passports however, which were taken from us for visa processing - “just a few days, nothing to be concerned about” - they showed no sign of returning. My wife and I developed a contingency plan should the movie collapse, freezing or losing our passports. We would take a bus to Juarez and phone Margaret’s brother Rick, a former detective, who would drive across the border and collect us. It helped that Chuck had a huge platonic crush on my wife. In my presence, he would occasionally pretend to be a vampire and try to bite her on the neck. (She has a lovely neck, by the way) It was as close as he would ever come, he said, to playing a vampire on the screen, which was, in fact, his heart’s desire. But a hit western series had typed him solely for gun carrying roles. Even though his politics was to the right of Attilla The Hun, we got on famously. He was a true Hollywood Character. A former Brooklyn Dodger, Chuck was often guest sports commentator on NBC till he accidentally dropped the ‘f’ word during a primetime live telecast, startling the nation, and endearing him further to his male fan base. Chuck told us not to worry. He was an honorary Treasury Department Agent, a rank awarded to him because of the Department’s affection for The Rifleman series.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Treasury Department windbreaker he wears in the movie was a gift from them. He would make a phone call if necessary, and we would be home. Matters finally came to a head in the sixth and last week. Still no passports, and the Spanish producer Carlos Vassallo wanted the hero (Chuck) to participate in an armed robbery of a security truck and shoot the innocent guards. I pointed out the damage to audience identification with the hero. So I was fired. Vassallo took over the last few days of the shoot, and gave himself co-director credit in the territories he had sales rights to. Chuck just gave me that it’s Chinatown look. Later he commiserated with me over wine and cocaine. In vino, veritas. In white powder, hubris. I prefer the vino. He did give me some good advice. Call people on their shit right away. If you see producers are weak, take control; do it diplomatically, but take it. You only have power during the shoot. Of course, it helps to have a bond company to appeal to, which we did not. The Day of the Assassin experience stiffened my backbone. Over the years since then, I have been sent in by completion bond companies to take over 4 films late in prep or early in shooting, and several more in post. Such assignments require juggling the age old contradiction: Make decisions. But be flexible.

Passports returned, and back in LA, we got a call from Chuck to see how we were. He did not drop us, as many might. We would meet occasionally for lunch before I returned to Australia 2 years later. Once he picked me up in his Mercedes, with a photo medallion of the Pope hanging from the rear view mirror, and a 357 Magnum in a cowboy holster mounted on the passenger side of the drive shaft, ready for a quick draw. Once a Rifleman, always a Rifleman. Vale, Chuck, you made your mark.

Glenn Ford squeezed my balls! Dispatches from the Dark Side of Co-Production, Part 1

Probably my fondest memory from a train wreck of a movie I shot in Mexico 28 years ago. That, and doing a line of coke with THE RIFLEMAN, the law and order TV icon of the 50’s, who decided to cheer me up one night near the end of the shoot. For the record, the temporary euphoria was not worth the headache and loss of sleep, so I never became a coke head. It is a pernicious drug, and I am surprised it still claims as many smart young people as it does, particularly in the video game industry.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, hopefully like the trailer that hooks you with that provocative scene/premise/stunt. I loved the trailer of THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA which shows just one scene reflecting all the promise the movie offers, rather than a bunch of snippets that give away character development and gag lines. In the combat sport between studios for top weekend dollars, today’s trailers give too much away. Sorry, I digress. Old trailer maker. Just had to get that peeve off my chest. So, back to the Movie From Hell. Here’s a little taste of the mood of the set.

EXT.    MEXICO CITY QUARRY    DAY

A film crew have set up a tall camera platform in a vast quarry to position an actress against the best background. The director’s insistence on this particular vista of production value has cost time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sound is being recorded, not always the case in Mexican movies at that time. The actress, SUSANAH DOSAMANTES steps forward and commences a key speech. Watching from the rear is her husband and co-producer of the movie CARLOS VASSALLO. He notices two crew members some distance away conversing in low tones.

VASSALLO
(Bellowing)
SILENCIO!  COÑOS!

(For non-Spanish speakers, the use of the letters C & N should give you a clue, as would my opinion of CNN‘s Glenn Beck.) At this evidently habitual behavior, his wife would flinch, and her performance flatline, and today is no exception. But the crew would be quiet till the next take

All directors, at some point in their career trajectory, find themselves hanging on to a runaway train; despite best efforts, things turn to custard on a daily basis. More often than not, The Movie from Hell is a co-production.

Foreign locale, fast money, giant egos, high pressure schedule - make a volatile witches’ brew, even before you factor in deep rooted national resentments. A co-production is a business model designed to diminish trust between nations.

Mexico, Spain, and the US were the partners, which meant that the Spaniards felt superior to their Mexican brothers, and the Americans felt superior to everybody. Each country gave undertakings to deliver certain elements of cast or crew. Disputes arose immediately. The American director bailed when his deposit failed to arrive. His agent, who was also mine, immediately slotted me in there, so within a day, the American producers, unbeknownst to me, offered their partners a replacement director: “the man who made  the last Bruce Lee movie.” I had in fact made a documentary about the late Bruce Lee, “The World of Kung Fu.” The Mexicans thought they were getting “Enter The Dragon” director Robert Clouse. Their disappointment was palpable when this misrepresentation became clear on the first day of prep in Mexico City. Must say, my sphincter tightened a little too. I had arrived in a war zone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next disappointment followed quickly. Jill St. John,  a charming lady whom the Americans had promised as the female lead, got tired of waiting for her deposit and took off for the ski slopes of Aspen. The Americans were in default. So the Spanish producer had the right to the next choice. He chose his wife, SUSANNAH DOSAMANTES, a local and talented soap opera queen, still popular in Latin television today, but whose name would not generate the same foreign sales interest as DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER Bond girl Jill St. John. The Americans ground their teeth.

Her first shot required her to run for her life to a parked car across cobblestones. She insisted, bless her, because of the way she would look in a subsequent scene, on wearing impossibly high heeled boots, against my advice. Naturally, she sprained her ankle in the first rehearsal. Her husband blamed me. Naturally. The shot, a nice dynamic convergence dolly, was abandoned.

During pre-production, as the bullets continued to fly around me, I had one thing to look forward to. On Day 1 of shooting, I would be working with one of my screen heroes Glenn Ford, already in the 40th year of his career, with so many memorable roles.

Gilda (1946), the original 3:10 to Yuma (1957) and Superman (1978)

 

 

He had been hired fresh off playing Superman’s father. Fee 100K for 2 day’s work. Chingaw! Pricey, but his name would elevate the picture. He had also been promised that an actor friend of his Taylor Lacher would play a key supporting role. Unfortunately the producers had also promised that role to the writer, who learned about it the day Mr. Ford arrived, and was summarily demoted to non-speaking villain number three.

The writer was a decent man, still in a lot of pain due to the death of his teenage son from leukemia. One night in a beachside bar in Ixtapa, he railed at the sky and challenged God to prove His Existence by striking him dead with a Thunderbolt. I shifted a little in my seat, but counted on God’s forbearance…or at least accuracy. A Smart Thunderbolt, perhaps. Does God do collateral damage? These were questions that ran through my mind, as the challenge was repeated with mounting anger. But no Thunderbolt came. God had a more lingering fate in store for both of us: Death by Co-Production.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These kind of pictures sometimes attracted name cast who felt they were slumming. They wanted in and out as fast as possible, would sleepwalk through their scenes, and were happy if the movie was too terrible to be released in English language markets. Then it would be off the radar of their Hollywood friends. It was a paycheck for being famous, like doing a commercial in Japan. Bill Murray’s quizzical disdain for the commercial he has agreed to in LOST IN TRANSLATION nails the attitude, at the co-operative end of the spectrum.

Glenn Ford arrived at the hotel. I was duly summoned to the suite and after cordial greeting was told that cue cards would be required for the big scene the next day. These cards would have lettering of a particular height and color; each of his lines must be preceded by the last three words of the other actor’s line in a different color. My wife and I made the cue cards ourselves that night.

Arriving on location for Day 1, I found Mr. Ford was not a happy camper. Probably because a tall campervan had been provided to him, instead of the promised trailer.  Furthermore, it was parked at the side of a six lane highway beside the gate to the mansion location. The low arch over the gate prevented any vehicle above a certain height from entering. As I stepped inside, trucks thundered past, and the campervan shuddered. For some reason the American producers had vanished for the morning.

In addition to his unhappiness, Mr. Ford was also wearing dark glasses, which he announced he would be wearing throughout the scene.

“But, Sir, it’s seven pages long, you are only in one other when you are killed at the end of the film. The audience needs to see your eyes.”

“I can’t let my public sees these eyes,” he replied, taking off the dark glasses momentarily, revealing somewhat bloodshot pupils.

“What happened?”

“I was up all night in the bathroom. I’m a little better now. But I can‘t let them see these eyes. ”

I said we would get eye drops immediately. How did he get Montezuma’s revenge? He had drunk the hotel tap water instead of the bottled water provided. In 1980 foreigners drank the local tap water at their peril, or to achieve rapid weight loss. Everybody knew this. Glenn Ford had done five pictures in Mexico during his career. “But I like hot water…” was his explanation.

Make the star happy was the priority. I tried to get him a room in the mansion instead of the camper, but the company had hired only the large glass atrium to the building. The rest of the place was off limits and the owners were away. It took till lunchtime to get him the room. Meanwhile I started shooting everything I could without actually showing whether he was wearing dark glasses or not, in the hope I could persuade him that his eyes were back to normal. I cited several points in the dialogue where he could shed them for dramatic reasons. The eye drops made the redness recede but not sufficiently for Mr. Ford. Crew looked at their watches. The sun would go behind a building at 4 pm, making our totally glass walled Atrium hard to light. We might not make the day if I did not get on with the meat of the day’s work. Eventually I committed to the dark glasses.

The “stay away…it will blow over” American producers returned. They did not care about the audience seeing Glenn Ford’s eyes. They only cared about his name on the poster. I was just another director who’d spent the morning jerking off.  Now both sets of producers hated me.

I was determined to get those glasses off. I went to see Mr. Ford in the room we had procured for him. He had eaten his lunch, and was lying on a sofa looking very depressed. Sitting down in a chair beside him, I started by apologizing for the campervan. This induced a sad litany of woe about his conditions, rate of pay, etc. - “I have never been treated like this,”  still feeling ill - and more seriously, lack of confidence in his ability to play the scene, whereupon tears trickled down his cheeks.

Something made me think of my own father. I would hate to see him so unhappy. Or any man of that age. So I sat down on the sofa, and put my arms around him. I remember I said soothing words but cannot recall what they were, while a Hollywood legend wept on my chest. Then in less than 15 seconds he was feeling better. I got up, assured him with confidence that the scene would be great. Knowing, of course, that it would be at best a boring scene, functionally shot due to time constraints, full of convoluted exposition. Lordy! You mean directors lie to their cast? Shocking. Finally, he agreed he would take his glasses off at the very end of the scene. As I hurried off, CHUCK CONNORS (TV’s stalwart hero THE RIFLEMAN : 1958 - 63) who was playing opposite Glenn Ford in the scene, came in to see how he was.

Chuck was my guardian angel several times on the movie. This was the first. A couple of minutes later, both men emerged from the room, Chuck his usual breezy self, but Glenn Ford noticeably brighter. No mention of sickness. Keen to work. Even jocular. We raced through the coverage facing the windows just in time to beat the sun. The eagle eyed can see Mr. Ford reading his lines from the cue cards at times, despite the dark glasses. We could then light Glenn Ford’s coverage against a windowless background. And the glasses finally did come off at the end of the scene. The eyes had lost their redness. Glenn Ford’s fan base was saved from trauma.

“Well done, you beat the set,” said Chuck, as we wrapped. Blank look from me, reeling from the most horrible first day I have ever had before or since.

“Every day the set tries to beat you,” the veteran of countless TV episodes continued, “sometimes it does, sometimes it don’t. I saw the shit you were dealing with. You beat the set. Well done kid.”

Later I heard that after lunch Chuck had offered Mr. Ford one of his amazing stomach settling pills he always brought to Mexico.
“Is it natural?” Glenn Ford asked.
“Totally” said Chuck, handing him an upper.
It always fixed a sick or insecure actor.

The next day - the scene of the betrayal and murder of the Glenn Ford character - would be the day of the testicular encounter referred to earlier

More dispatches from Co-Production Hell next blog…

Rock Me Sexy Jesus! Steve Coogan is not only a gifted comedian, he’s a great actor!

HAMLET 2 is my kind of out-there comedy, not perfect, but well worth the price of admission for Coogan’s totally committed performance. Those were real tears! That scene was a masterful combination of self pity, self loathing, and comedy ticks that endear you even more to this flawed, delusional but basically decent character. It was the only film I had time to see this weekend. Recommended for the wacky at heart.

I am traveling and particularly busy at the moment, so in lieu of blog, here is a link to a TV interview I did for Australia’s great in-depth movie show hosted by David Stratton and Margaret Pomeranz.

 http://www.abc.net.au/atthemovies/txt/s2347040.htm

It was part of the publicity for Mark Hartley’s NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD, the feature documentary about Australia’s early genre film makers. The film manages to be both erudite and raucous fun at the same time. I urge you to see it when it comes your way. You can access the trailer and clips from this link. Next weekend I will be at the Toronto Film Festival for the NQH screening there, and I’ll be hosting a couple of my early guilty pleasures.

Till next time…