Put your pants on, Spartacus

Boy, have I seen a lot of movies lately! Over the weekend I got to two film festivals; saw a bunch of things at Perv, the queer erotic film festival at the Red Rattler, and then got along to catch the very end of the German Film Festival at the Chauvel. Then, last night, I stormed out of a movie I was really enjoying, only to write an angry email first thing this morning. Oh, cinema – you give me so much!

So here’s what I saw:

Tour De Pants – Mindblowing – pardon the cliche – queer pansexual bike fetish porno comedy. This was legitimately hilarious and really hot, with a rich and generous diversity of genders, sexuality and body types, and a cast that seemed really enthusiastic about what they were doing. This movie made me want to hump get a bike, and to start making queer genderfuck porno comedies, not necessarily in that order. It also made me change my mind about going to that night’s play party – which I hadn’t planned on doing, but after seeing this, well… It was easily the best film I saw in Perv, and I totally expect this to be one of my top ten for the year. It’s exceptional, and you should go out of your way to see it.

It’s hard – pardon the pun – to remember all the Perv stuff I went to. What’s the collective noun for porn? Because that’s what I saw. Lots of smart, funny, hot stuff. Actually, the whole thing brought to mind a great high school era phrase I hadn’t thought of in years – the spank bank. This weekend really topped up my account, and I look forward to a long run of withdrawals. I also look forward to next year’s festival, assuming – hoping – there is one.

Sadly, though, I missed the festival’s short comp, because I had to go to the aforementioned German Film Fest. Yes, festivals everywhere – the Spanish one is looming and has the most exciting (at least on paper) program I’ve seen in a long time, by the way. They were showing One, Two, Three, Billy Wilder’s incredible Cold War comedy. A Coke executive in West Berlin plans to crack the Communist market in East Berlin, but his plans go awry when the boss’s daughter secretly marries a card-carrying Bolshevik. Can this Coca-colonialist crush the covert Commie courtship, or is it the dustbin of history for the imperialist stooge? Fucking love this movie; I am ordering it from Amazon now because I need to watch it over and over again. Billy Wilder rules ultimate.

Then last night I went to see Day Of The Locust – very excited, because I’d never seen the movie, and it’s a book I love. And it was indeed very good, telling its own story in a way that drew on the strengths of the novel without really trying to ‘adapt’ it. But for the second week running, whoever was doing projection at the Cinematheque fucked up every single reel change. Four unscheduled intermissions, with leader reels and the house lights coming up for a couple of minutes a go. What, are they trying to drum up concession stand business? At the fourth such break, I jumped up and angrily walked out; the second or third time I’ve ever stormed out of a movie, and in many ways, the most satisfying. Straight-up bullshit; they really should hire back Brett, the old curator they sacked to try and draw a hipster audience with more crowd-pleasing arthouse fare. Afterwards I texted my friend to apologise for leaving so abruptly. They replied that I missed the best ending ever. I texted back, “No, I missed an ending being fucked up by an incompetent fucking projectionist.” (Note: The Chauvel are blaming their 16mm projector, which I don’t buy for one second.) Shitty conclusion to great weekend of movies.

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