The Melbourne International Film Festival (let's call her MIFF) came back with a vengeance this year. Not that MIFF '08 was bad, it was great... but it wasn't the inspiring, euphoric, Christmas-in-Julaugust that it normally is. Documentaries ruled the roost for me last year, which, I'll confess, is always a bit of a bummer for me. See, I'm in no way an aspiring documentary filmmaker. I'm all about fiction feature films, and MIFF is the Mecca to which I travel for annual inspiration to make my own movies. So, when the docus dominate and the feature films take a back seat, I have fun, but I don't come away with the electric charge of inspiration which I've happily come to associate with the event. For me, MIFF '09 was a return to all sorts of form: incredible guests, blazing controversy, and, crucially, a strong program of terrific fiction feature films.
MIFF 2009, for me, will always be remembered as The Year Quentin Came to Town. Sure, I never got to meet the big man, but I was insanely lucky enough to attend the Australian Premiere of INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS (whose five chapter titles -- or variations thereof -- you'll find subtitling this very blog), where he appeared in person to introduce the film in his own inimitably effusive fashion.
Okay. I'm gonna remove my "critical blogger" hat for a second and throw on my "stark raving fanboy acolyte of Quentin Tarantino" hat on. Got it? Good. (Don't worry, won't be long.)
I was going to be seeing Quentin Fucking Tarantino in the flesh. I won't lie to you: he's the guy whose films inspired me to be a writer/director. Before I saw DOGS and FICTION, I was deeply interested in films, but thought a schlub like me only had a shot at writing them, if I were lucky. Surely I wasn't qualified to be a filmmaker. I didn't go to film school, hadn't fought in WWII, wasn't cut out to be a general or a dictator... all those cliches I'd accumulated in my head about directors of yore. They weren't weedy little film buffs like me, they were decorated, educated and/or utterly insane men and women of bottomless gravitas and sweeping vision, informed by lives of love and loss. So, when I saw these incredibly alive, stylish, unpredictable pictures from an average (if extraordinarily clever & talented) guy who was inspired by the stuff that I was inspired by -- action films, horror flicks, gangster movies -- and then made specific references in his interviews to the obscure films that inspired his works, for buffs like me to seek out and devour, I felt an actual, vein-deep connection, the likes of which I've experienced about three or four times my entire life. So, to see the man who had indirectly helped to set my life on its current course, in my home city, in the flesh, was one of the most thrilling occasions in my life to date.
Okay, enough of the gross adulation... back to the show.
Turns out getting to the premiere screening was a mission in itself. Sadly, my lovely partner could not attend, and the long-standing backup had pulled out with mere hours to spare (both due to work commitments), so we were on the phone, in a mad rush on the way, to recruit ourselves a Basterd. We got our man -- my friend Steve, who, thankfully, had just gotten off crutches a few days earlier -- and he left immediately, hopefully able to meet us in line. Meanwhile, despite being an hour early, I was greeted by an enormous line... which was a meetup-free zone, as all new arrivals were directed to the back of the queue. This, coupled with overheard rumblings of all sorts of no-turning-back security measures inside, shook me a tad, as I had Steve's ticket and he was still en route. I hoped he'd get there in time to see us in line and grab it on the way past...
Then the line started to move. Fast.
Halfway up the line, a security guard was checking tickets, presumably to stop people fossicking through their pockets at the entrance, thus holding up red carpet snapper magnets seeking a photo op. I had the two tickets folded together, so I showed mine to the dude and put the other in my pocket.
Soon, the line was racing, and I was up to the red carpet. I've never trod a red carpet before, I have to say, and it was kinda cool. Well... it would've been cool, if I hadn't been eyeing off the entrance ten feet away and suddenly thought, "Now, where is Steve's ticket?" Soon, I became That Guy, fossicking through his pockets to find... nothing.
Here I am, standing on a red carpet, friends on one side, paparazzo on the other, pulling everything out of every pocket, looking for Steve's ticket. So much for my auspicious red carpet debut.
Another couple of steps. Now about seven feet away, still not found.
It was now my heart doing the racing, as the Forum Theatre entrance was bearing down on me fast. The doors were now so close I could touch them, as my hands dove in and out of pockets, fumbling through all sorts of wallets and coins and brochures and --
THE TICKET! Hurrah!!
I couldn't even tell you which pocket it was in, as if I'd conjured it out of thin air. But it wasn't over. With Phase 2 down, I instantly clicked into Phase 3: how do I get our Basterd his ticket? Being herded up the stairs, I searched for a lanyard-wearing MIFF door keeper and managed to snag one, to explain the situation. She suggested I write his name on the ticket and give it to her, and she would put it on a table out front for collection. Fair enough. So I began texting Steve to tell him this... when I discovered, a short flight of stairs away, that a table of MIFF people were sequestering everybody's mobile phones. I had less than 60 seconds to type the most clear, yet detailed, message possible on how to pick the tickets up, where they'll be, etc. Banged out the text, read it through, read it again, then sent it off, and turned in my phone in the nick of time. So it was all up to the fates now.
Once in, my friends who had lined up earlier secured brilliant seats, about six rows from the front on the side, which is thankfully on an incline, a nice distance up and away from the screen. And on the exact same side as Mr Tarantino would be standing. Dude would be directly in front of us, not 20 metres away.
But our Basterd hadn't joined us yet. Sure, there were still 20 minutes to go, but I -- in my suave, debonair, customary way -- was stressing. Had my text provided all the info he needed? Was it clear? Was he being stopped at the door, searching for a table not to be found and frantically dialing my mobile, now in the hands of the MIFF-appointed Stasi? All these questions ricocheted around my psyche as local celebrities filed past and sat around us: Mick Molloy, Chris Judd, Lucas from Neighbours, Vince Colosimo and, naturally, MIFF's #1 ticket holder Geoffrey Rush...
An Ennio Morricone style chorus of percussion and choirs, worthy of Sergio Leone, should've sounded as Basterd Steve entered the theatre, ticket in hand, with plenty of time to take his seat and share in the madness.
At last, I could breathe easily. Then, my friend Sarah spies the door and exclaims, "I can see the chin!" Yes, all you've heard is true: Quentin Tarantino's chin enters a room before he does. Awesome.
Chapter II to follow...
MIFF 2009, for me, will always be remembered as The Year Quentin Came to Town. Sure, I never got to meet the big man, but I was insanely lucky enough to attend the Australian Premiere of INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS (whose five chapter titles -- or variations thereof -- you'll find subtitling this very blog), where he appeared in person to introduce the film in his own inimitably effusive fashion.
Okay. I'm gonna remove my "critical blogger" hat for a second and throw on my "stark raving fanboy acolyte of Quentin Tarantino" hat on. Got it? Good. (Don't worry, won't be long.)
I was going to be seeing Quentin Fucking Tarantino in the flesh. I won't lie to you: he's the guy whose films inspired me to be a writer/director. Before I saw DOGS and FICTION, I was deeply interested in films, but thought a schlub like me only had a shot at writing them, if I were lucky. Surely I wasn't qualified to be a filmmaker. I didn't go to film school, hadn't fought in WWII, wasn't cut out to be a general or a dictator... all those cliches I'd accumulated in my head about directors of yore. They weren't weedy little film buffs like me, they were decorated, educated and/or utterly insane men and women of bottomless gravitas and sweeping vision, informed by lives of love and loss. So, when I saw these incredibly alive, stylish, unpredictable pictures from an average (if extraordinarily clever & talented) guy who was inspired by the stuff that I was inspired by -- action films, horror flicks, gangster movies -- and then made specific references in his interviews to the obscure films that inspired his works, for buffs like me to seek out and devour, I felt an actual, vein-deep connection, the likes of which I've experienced about three or four times my entire life. So, to see the man who had indirectly helped to set my life on its current course, in my home city, in the flesh, was one of the most thrilling occasions in my life to date.
Okay, enough of the gross adulation... back to the show.
Turns out getting to the premiere screening was a mission in itself. Sadly, my lovely partner could not attend, and the long-standing backup had pulled out with mere hours to spare (both due to work commitments), so we were on the phone, in a mad rush on the way, to recruit ourselves a Basterd. We got our man -- my friend Steve, who, thankfully, had just gotten off crutches a few days earlier -- and he left immediately, hopefully able to meet us in line. Meanwhile, despite being an hour early, I was greeted by an enormous line... which was a meetup-free zone, as all new arrivals were directed to the back of the queue. This, coupled with overheard rumblings of all sorts of no-turning-back security measures inside, shook me a tad, as I had Steve's ticket and he was still en route. I hoped he'd get there in time to see us in line and grab it on the way past...
Then the line started to move. Fast.
Halfway up the line, a security guard was checking tickets, presumably to stop people fossicking through their pockets at the entrance, thus holding up red carpet snapper magnets seeking a photo op. I had the two tickets folded together, so I showed mine to the dude and put the other in my pocket.
Soon, the line was racing, and I was up to the red carpet. I've never trod a red carpet before, I have to say, and it was kinda cool. Well... it would've been cool, if I hadn't been eyeing off the entrance ten feet away and suddenly thought, "Now, where is Steve's ticket?" Soon, I became That Guy, fossicking through his pockets to find... nothing.
Here I am, standing on a red carpet, friends on one side, paparazzo on the other, pulling everything out of every pocket, looking for Steve's ticket. So much for my auspicious red carpet debut.
Another couple of steps. Now about seven feet away, still not found.
It was now my heart doing the racing, as the Forum Theatre entrance was bearing down on me fast. The doors were now so close I could touch them, as my hands dove in and out of pockets, fumbling through all sorts of wallets and coins and brochures and --
THE TICKET! Hurrah!!
I couldn't even tell you which pocket it was in, as if I'd conjured it out of thin air. But it wasn't over. With Phase 2 down, I instantly clicked into Phase 3: how do I get our Basterd his ticket? Being herded up the stairs, I searched for a lanyard-wearing MIFF door keeper and managed to snag one, to explain the situation. She suggested I write his name on the ticket and give it to her, and she would put it on a table out front for collection. Fair enough. So I began texting Steve to tell him this... when I discovered, a short flight of stairs away, that a table of MIFF people were sequestering everybody's mobile phones. I had less than 60 seconds to type the most clear, yet detailed, message possible on how to pick the tickets up, where they'll be, etc. Banged out the text, read it through, read it again, then sent it off, and turned in my phone in the nick of time. So it was all up to the fates now.
Once in, my friends who had lined up earlier secured brilliant seats, about six rows from the front on the side, which is thankfully on an incline, a nice distance up and away from the screen. And on the exact same side as Mr Tarantino would be standing. Dude would be directly in front of us, not 20 metres away.
But our Basterd hadn't joined us yet. Sure, there were still 20 minutes to go, but I -- in my suave, debonair, customary way -- was stressing. Had my text provided all the info he needed? Was it clear? Was he being stopped at the door, searching for a table not to be found and frantically dialing my mobile, now in the hands of the MIFF-appointed Stasi? All these questions ricocheted around my psyche as local celebrities filed past and sat around us: Mick Molloy, Chris Judd, Lucas from Neighbours, Vince Colosimo and, naturally, MIFF's #1 ticket holder Geoffrey Rush...
An Ennio Morricone style chorus of percussion and choirs, worthy of Sergio Leone, should've sounded as Basterd Steve entered the theatre, ticket in hand, with plenty of time to take his seat and share in the madness.
At last, I could breathe easily. Then, my friend Sarah spies the door and exclaims, "I can see the chin!" Yes, all you've heard is true: Quentin Tarantino's chin enters a room before he does. Awesome.
Chapter II to follow...
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