WTF?

WTF indeed! We stand for Films, Tunes, and Whatever else we feel like (not necessarily in order!) Professor Nonsense heads the 'Whatever' department, posting ramblings ranging from the decrepit, to the offbeat, to the just plain absurd! The mysterious Randor takes helm of the 'Tunes' front, detailing the various melodic messages he gets in earfuls. Weekly recommendations and various musings follow his shadows. Finally, our veteran movie critic, Lt Archie Hicox, commands the 'Film' battlefield, giving war-weathered reviews on flicks the way he sees them. Through the eyes of a well-versed renegade, he stands down for no man! Together we are (W)hatever(T)unes(F)ilms!

Feel free to comment with your ideas, qualms, and responses, or e-mail them to RandorWTF@Hotmail.com!

Jun 27, 2011

Retrospect: My 2011 SIFF Experience (Part I)

The last time I volunteered for the Seattle International Film Festival I helped lug a bunch of molded-plastic stack chairs to an office suite in Westlake. I got a pat on the back, some free coffee and two ticket vouchers for my trouble. I even got a free t-shirt. And while I’m usually not one complain about perks, it was very clear to me at the time that something just didn’t feel right.

June of 2007 was the first time I volunteered for the Festival and even then it was only a mixed bag affair, seeing as it was during the last three days of the Festival when things were dying down. I’d just gotten out of school and by the time I was all moved out of the dorms I only had time for two shifts at their Lincoln Square Cinemas venue just shy of the mall in Bellevue.

So, determined not to let another year go to waste I vowed to make the 2011 an occasion. In the past three and a half weeks I’ve seen a total of about twelve movies, just a small fraction of the total 462 features and shorts showcased this year from countries as big and bold as Germany to enclaves diminutive and scrappy as Ghana.

As dwarfed as I now feel, the impression I’ve been left with is still a sense of accomplishment, pride and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

As of a few nights ago, after driving from venue to venue, my eyes were starting to glaze over as the stories, words and languages began to meld.

At first, I just assumed it was exhaustion. And for those of you who don’t think watching movies can be exhausting I’ll simply extract a quote from an advert on the back of this year’s catalog:

“Three hours of subtitles? A Venti Espresso Macchiato doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it?”

That, of course, doesn’t even factor in issues of traffic, ticket purchases or parking (I spent one whole hour trying to find some place within a mile of Capital Hill’s Egyptian Theatre).

Still, these subtle pains often comprise my odd little relationship with the movies.

Location to location your experience may vary but the little things often remain the same. Say, the cold concrete floors—sometimes sticky, other times not---the squeaky seat cushions and the peeling paint. Mild imperfections flickering past us on-screen (at least where actual projectors are still in use). The poorly-subtitled films from Southeast Asia. Even the pimply teenagers working the lobby imbues the realm with a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.

Some people think it’s sad to go to a movie alone. I’ve had as many friends tell me such. But those same people will never understand that one is never alone in a theater.

For those of you who have never been to SIFF (or any film festival or movie palace for that matter) there is a distinct sense of community. And therein lies the beauty of it. Whoever you are with (or not with) the movies can be introspective or communal. Possibly even both.

Once you have your popcorn and drinks (at the Admiral they serve beer and wine to the balcony section!), you take your seat in anticipation for the trailers. You won’t find any of that hokey trivia from Coke or the Regal Twenty.

So you wait. A spotlight burns stage left. Out steps a staff member playfully quipping into the microphone while she steals glances at the note cards shaking in her hand. She might open with a joke. And when there’s no laughter she pushes into the film’s introduction.

In league (heh) with the Neptune’s aquatic theme the house lights shift from amber, dimming to chartreuse as the feature approaches. There’s a delicate warmth to the room, not enough to make you sweat but enough to notice. It’s not the benign hum of a multiplex rabble either but the electric chatter of love. The kind of love that allows you to join a room full of strangers and sit still for about two hours in the dark and not feel weird. And though it might seem esoteric, even snobby, the space lives with this sort of intoxicating passion. Whether the movie is good or bad seems hardly the point. Look around and you’ll see.

Series or platinum passholders are generally reserved and quiet—often by themselves—marked only by their red lanyards and backpacks. Sometimes you’ll see troupes of college kids, couples---spouses and short-term, divorcees, retirees, angry loners, hipsters, critics, journalists and families. The curious and the bored. The rabid and the reserved.

And as a volunteer, this effect is only compounded. To see what kind of people I met and movies I saw, catch Part II of the upcoming "Retrospect".

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