Movies and Shit: Starz Film Fest Coverage
Holy awesome of all awesomes, getting hammered with Magic Cyclops? The best fucking time in the world! Only we didn’t exactly get hammered with him…in fact he expressed his wishes for “no paparazzi,” “especially Donnybrook,” and really only he let us capture him vomiting on film. But those three seconds felt magical, really.
I’d like to relive the moments of Wednesday night at the Starz Denver International 31st Film Festival Music Lounge (sponsored by Westword). And if you noticed I screwed up the name, that’s precisely the point – can’t we get a better name next year? Please? In what seems like a very anti-Donnybrook move, I vote that next year we call it: MOVIES AND SHIT. It will be much easier for our hilarious video coverage, the edited version premiering next week right here, and likely to include us convoluting the names of people, bands, friends, filmmakers, and yes – the festival itself. So without further adieu, I give you my thoughts on the Denver International Airport Starz Festival Film. 31st. Denver Music Lounge. Movies.
Wednesday at noon, Donnybrook Manor received a call from Fritz Godard: ‘We’ve secured a film crew and we’re going to the music lounge tonight. Would you like to come and host?’ He and his production company, Sorry Face Productions, have some good connections, apparently.
For someone as narcissistic as me, this was like piling a bunch of precious bunnies in my lap. I was just so happy; you have a professional film crew…and they will follow me around? Like they like me?
The music lounge this year took place at 3 Kings Tavern, and it’s in association with the Starz film fest. I gather it’s a place for the overflow of snooty directors and well-to-dos and ne’er-do-wells and Stephen Goldblatt to go check out local music; we have more info from an interview with a key member in all of it, Adam Lancaster (also of Morning After Records), but I was completely hammered when I interviewed him so you’ll have to wait to get the info on tape.
When go-time drew nearer, I realized I’d require the aid of two large sakes in order to get in front of a camera without debuting my famous sobbing/dry heaving/pissing myself-switchup-combo. Donnybrook DNC correspondent Timmy T. and I pounded them back in succession at my favorite thai place, Spicy Basil on South Broadway, and soon we were urgently ready to fuck up some lives.
At 3 Kings, Fritz Godard and his film crew were lingering by the stage, with a wide array of heavy-looking do-bobs and whosiwhats for which to record us on film. Fritz was wearing a fabulous alligator polo with black-rimmed glasses and his hair slicked gloriously to the side. The crowd was thin still so we recorded some intros and outros; using moves like the sudden neck-snapping turn: “Oh, hello friend.” Or the shooting pool intro, or my favorite, the pissing at the urinal outro. In fact, some poor fellow wandered into the men’s room only to find Angora Holly Polo and a film crew pointed at Fritz Godard taking a piss.
And then it was time for some interviews. We set up a nice little paparazzo booth nestled near the restroom so we could attack people on their way to take a pee and force them to answer questions on film. When that didn’t work, we started grabbing people at random, very luckily securing interviews with Joseph Pope III, Adam Lancaster, a super hot girl who worked in guest relations, and some fabulous woman who was on behalf of so many companies (a paper out of Five Points, Denver Open Media, Westword and the Pope) that I didn’t know who the fuck she was. She simply walked up and asked what was going on.
“Can I interview you for a sec on camera?” I asked her.
“Perhaps; what is this for?” she asked, a sly smile spreading over her lips. I proceeded to tell her about Donnybrook when I noticed her scrawling down important info, my name, etc, as she kept asking me questions. Five minutes later I found myself babbling about the trauma of the death of my hamster at age eight when I realized the clever woman had reverse-interviewed me. Cunning. Cunning.
Timmy T. got to interview the hot girl, and while I didn’t catch the whole thing, I did notice that every time she mentioned anything that could vaguely hint at innuendo Timmy turned to the camera, eyebrows raised, and repeated what she said slowly. “Ohhhh, NUDITY. Ohhhh, HOTEL ROOMS. You don’t say.”
Joseph Pope III was just an all-around great dude, which I’ve always heard from everyone. Just nice and cool and representing for his band Dust on the Breakers.
The whole time Magic Cyclops was wandering to and from backstage, occasionally walking in front of the camera and causing electrical shortages with his animal magnetism. He Emceed and DJed hot eighties aerobic music between sets, selling locks of his hair, “one of three hairs being pubic.”
Then iuengliss started up. The whole “there’s this kid who mixes shit on his laptop while someone else projects trippy images on a screen” thing seemed delightfully Rhinoceropolis in its DIY multimedia approach, but like something I’ve probably seen before; but my expectations were pleasantly exceeded. The vocals seemed kinda shoegazey, which I love deep down in my depressed and emo soul, and the music was above the innocuous hot pink synth trash or peurile and random noise squelches that tend to vomit out of mac laptops in art schools worldwide; and there were some decent songs and good hooks. And as an interviewing blogger, I appreciated anyone trying to make a life out of a lap top and a microphone, especially someone who does it well.
So afterward we conducted an interview where I fucked up his band name repeatedly, even after he told me how it was pronounced, twice; yet he was still gracious and wonderful to chat with. Good man. For future reference check out his myspace, his quote being simply: “i-wen-gliss.” Good to know. That’s him below on the right. Lisa G’s in the picture too but we couldn’t fit her beautiful face into our mad croppin style.
This next phase of the night is what I’d like to call the PBR Tall Boy period, as Timmy T. and I had been supping from the red white and blue vine for a couple hours, and decided it was high time we were hanging out backstage. With no press credentials (although Fritz and his crew, who were actually working hard to capture all the amazing music on film this whole time, had applied for their credentials on time), Timmy T. and I wandered into the green room like we owned that shit and proceeded to kick it on the luxurious, cigarette-burn-pocked orange couch next to the free beers and rather curious gigantic hula hoop. I was tagging up the wall with a ballpoint pen, writing “the Donnybrook Writing Academy writes good,” when one Ian Cooke wandered in with a smile, wearing pantaloons. I like this man. That’s the green room below.
The meeting was pleasant but also unsatisfying for me, only because I’ve always wanted to tell Ian Cooke that I think he could be on Oprah, if he wanted to. If he was ever wondering. What I mean to say is his music and quirky and different and creative for all of us indie kids, but in such a way that I think the great masses of people, even Harry Connick Jr.-loving Oprah moms, could get behind it. He’s got mass appeal. He’s able to express so many gamuts of emotion and style, delightfully crooning and rocking your face off, with just him and a cello, transposing clever wordplay with phrases like “That’s such a load of bulllll shit!” I couldn’t find a way to tell him this, that soccer moms would dig him too, without it sounding like an insult – when I really mean it as a compliment.
He gave us a foldy arty contaption that was actually his CD, “The Fall I Fell” (which, on top of looking nice, sounds nice too). Neato. I proceeded to wave it around at jealous admirers in the crowd when they told me how great they thought he was. Isn’t he GREAT? He’s just so phenomenal. I’m just blown away. Isn’t he just so charming? Well, check out his CD, designed by a board from Pratt Institute and a team of rocket scientists. NEAT.O.
But I’m easily amused, I suppose.
The time was coming for the night to end, despite a tempting invitation from one Magic Cyclops for us to join him at the after party. Donnybrook is completely gay for the Starz after parties, as evidenced by our hobnobbing there for the past two years (one of those nights resulting in a 5 am bonfire at Donnybrook Manor, and our gaining a new stalker, true story). But I knew my Father Guido was waiting at home for me, and it just wouldn’t be the same without him.
But then we totally saw some friends on the street outside the Irish Rover, Jeff Shapiro and his gorgeous and great girlfriend Erin, and we attacked them, and then they invited us inside to have a drink. We ended the night playing pornographic video games with them and Johnny from Blue Million Miles, which we did with great flair.
I went home and drunkenly woke up Father Guido at 2:30 am, but he made up for it by ironing his clothes at 6:30 in the morning in our bedroom, with the lights on. It’s obvious that one of us is the more adult person in this relationship:
Me, of course. Because I stay up late and drink in bars!
Stay tuned for continued coverage of the Starz International House of Pancakes, and check us out sometime next week for disastrous video footage!