film / tv / politics / social media / lists / web / celeb / pajiba love / misc / about / cbr
film / tv / politics / web / celeb


I F**ked A Mannequin For Nothing!

By Brian Prisco | Industry | March 14, 2009 |

By Brian Prisco | Industry | March 14, 2009 |

Austin opened up her legs and pissed all over us for our first day in the sweet south. The boys badged it up, because they are professional and shit, whereas I opted for the bargain basement film pass. It’s the second tier, so it might limit what I get to see, but otherwise it’s turned out to be a pretty knockout deal. It’s that extra little Atlantic City gamble that makes the movie that much more exciting. I’m not just waiting in line to see a movie, I fucking hunted that bitch down and OWNED it. Plus, most passholders are local Austin folks. I picked mine up at Waterloo Video, from a lovely young hipster lass. I had to check in my bag of groceries, so I offered her a banana in exchange. She wanted the $70 dollars instead. I offered her raisins. She was flattered, but declined.

There wasn’t really anything playing that morning that anyone was interested in, so we went and decided to find Tex-Mex. Success was had at the Rio Grande, where we proceeded to scarf down burritos the size of a fucking baby’s leg. If our Twittering was lax, it’s because there’s really only so much you can say when you sit around bullshitting about movies, riffing on each other, and drinking beer and margaritas. Still drinking 1:40 PM. Still still drinking 3:14 PM. Still fucking still drinking from a still 5:45 PM. During the course of our five hour chugathon, Dan actually had time to drive to the airport, pick up his fabulous sister and fellow Pajiban contributor Sarah, and then return to the Rio for more consumption.

Smokin was our first meet and greet, and my friends, a time was had. There’s always a bit of trepidation when meeting one of y’all, because frankly, we don’t know what sort of mouthbreathing social retards might saunter out from the protection of their mother’s basement. I mean, fuck, we’re still running odds on whether Pookie will have the stones to show his face. Or TMax might hunt us down with an assault rifle, shooting out bottles from behind the bar with his scope. (HE HATES THESE CANS! STAY AWAY FROM THESE CANS!) So far, however, our Pajiban gatherings have meritted quality occasions. Tomorrow, we’re supposed to get together with Eep.

I was anxious to check out the 2 Bobs, so I staggered off, mildly inebriated to squat in line at the convention center, while the rest of the troupes maintained their buzz for I Love You, Man. Our own Dan Carlson interviewed Jason Segal and Paul Rudd. First words out of Rudd’s mouth, “You look just like Seth [Rogen], man.”

The 2 Bobs was the wacky hijinky adventure of two video game designing uber-nerds who get their program stolen by their Christian business partners. Essentially, it’s a really fat guy who consequently we were drinking with at Rio unbeknownst to us (fucker in the Elvis glasses, my manskis) and his gawky counterpart gooning around for an hour and a half. It hailed the city of Austin, looked like it was shot for about $50 bucks, and felt like what I thought most of the indie fare was going to be for the film. It had a couple of great laughs, including Jay Chandresekar (I’m too tired to care how to spell his fucking name, and he wasn’t great anyway) as the Spam King, but really it was a pretty fucking terrible film. The fat guy was the saving grace, as he simultaneously dredged the film through shit and buoyed it to glory alternating scene for scene. At least there were ridiculous amount of boobs.

I hopped a shuttle to go to the Alamo Drafthouse, which is an independent theatre in a shopping center. The Drafthouse is the greatest fucking theatre in the history of the world according to Garp, Jim, and Hoyle. You sit in widely space rows, with a little bar in front of you. Servers come around and take your orders. For beer on tap, a full gourmet menu, and desserts. Then, you can leave little order slips on the bar where they will secretly serve you during the film like little house elves — albeit house elves with full sleeve tats and nose rings. I got to watch my next film with a steak sandwich and a pint of frosty Dos Equis. That’s how you watch a film, son.

I don’t think it’s going to be possible to watch a better film than The Snake. A few years ago, Patton Oswalt was promoting The Foot Fist Way in Los Angeles, when two guys came up to him with a DVD and said, “Hey, man, you wanna watch our movie?” He said “Shit”, figured he’d scan like 10 minutes and crack it over his knee. Instead, he loved it, and has been promoting The Snake at private screenings and to his Hollywood network. The Snake is the story of Ken, a reprehensible douchebag who shamelessly scams on women while being an all around dick. Ken looks like he should be playing bass in a bar mitzvah cover band. He takes interest in a super skinny girl he spies in a coffee shop. Ken then stalks her back to a Women’s Center, where he finds out young Talia — who may or may not be over 18 — is part of a body image support group because she’s bulimic. Ken proceeds to lie his way into the group — pretending he works summers at a burn ward and claiming he’s got height issues — so that he can get into Talia’s size 000 pants. It’s a viciously dark comedy and probably one the best character pieces I’ve seen. Ken is a fucking revolting motherfucker, so much so that Oswalt (who introed the film) introduced the actor beforehand so we wouldn’t loathe him during the Q&A. Get your hands on it as soon as humanly possible, whenever it may escape. And always buy whatever Patton Oswalt tells you to, even if it’s black tar heroin.

I’d been running into folks from some of our fellow blogs: the chaps from Film School Rejects, one of Harry Knowles’ henchmonkeys. (In fact, I saw Harry Knowles at the Alamo. He was in a wheelchair, but I saw no viable injury other than morbid obesity. I can punch a crapple. I did want to sit on his lap and tell him what I want for Christmas.) Some of the other sites know Pajiba, and have a begrudging respect for us. Of course, as I sat there in my “I Do All My Own Nude Scenes” shirt, reeking of alcohol, I’m sure I cemented their opinion of us. Meanwhile, my confreres were busy disliking I Love You, Man (well, Dan kinda liked it; the Boozehound booed the screen) and then departing to RETURN to the Rio Grande to do what they do best — DRUNKS! — I got in line to see Ong Bak 2. There’s no catchy “In My Pants” or “Electric Boogaloo”. And it doesn’t fucking need one. Tony Jaa is a fucking fireworks pinwheel from hell. I have no idea what the fuck the movie was about. Something about aboriginal Thai tribes and warring clans maybe and he might have been some kind of displaced prince. It doesn’t matter! Ong Bak basically kicks the living fuck out of everyone for hours. And it’s not these I will fight four bad guys battles. Jaa fucking fights like two hundred goddamn people at once. At one point, the audience actually laughed out loud because yet more ninjas swarmed him for the fourth time during a fight. But when you fight with an elephant, nobody best fuck with you. And I mean, he actually has an elephant in his posse. There was a fight sequence choreographed while fighting around an ELEPHANT. He runs up the elephant’s trunk, DOES A FUCKING BACKFLIP OFF DUMBO’S FUCKING HEAD, and then kicks a guy on the skull. And then it was over. And the fight sequences typically ran about 20 or 30 minutes. Are you paying attention Hollywood action cocks? Talk to the Jaa.

Because I’m an idiot, I figured it would be about a 20 minute walk to the house we’re all crashing at. Instead, it was about an hour and a half, uphill. I didn’t get in until 3 PM, and the Pajiban Overlords greeted me with loud cheers, pizza, and beers. Because technology fears me, my iPhone runs out of juice all the time. So I had no phone for them to reach me. And they figured I was dead. Actually, Frylock convinced them that I was eaten by a bear. It doesn’t help when you realize most horror movies take place in Texas. I kept waiting for Leatherface to chase me down the highway, or Matthew McConaughey to use his electric foot to remote control my skull in.

And so, I go to bed, to wake up in six hours so that I can go back into the fray. More drinking, more movies. Now that’s a vacation, bitches. Steal a car, and get your asses to Austin. You will not regret it. Pookie! C’mon out and plaaaaaaay.