Day 5: Tuesday, March 13

The biggest problem I have at SXSW is finding time to write these updates. At Sundance, I’m usually doing coverage for Salt Lake City Weekly’s special daily issues and thus have a deadline of 11:30 or so each night. At SXSW, I have no such deadlines, and there’s a lot more fun stuff to do late at night, and so I wind up not getting back to Maison de la Casa del Greg until 2:30 or 3 a.m., at which point I’m too exhausted to do anything other than undress and fall into bed, and sometimes I can’t even manage that. Sometimes I remain fully clothed and just pass out in the doorway.

It was a festival of documentaries for me today, five of ‘em, and not a bad one in the lot. It’s funny that just yesterday, I was commenting to someone that I hadn’t been in the mood for the docs this year, and then today I see five in a row. That’s what we in the writing profession call “dramatic irony,” especially if we are not very good writers.

I started at the South Lamar Alamo Drafthouse at 11 a.m. with “Steal a Pencil for Me.” The description in the film guide mentioned the word “Holocaust,” which is one of the reasons I hadn’t been that keen on seeing it at what has otherwise been a fun, upbeat festival. But then I overheard two different strangers in two different places say it was one of the best documentaries they’d ever seen in their lives, and I became intrigued. You gotta follow the buzz at film festivals. It’s how you find the hidden gems.

“Steal a Pencil for Me” is a love story, really, about a Dutch couple who survived the war together and have now been married for 60 years. At the time, however, the man was married to a bitter shrew, even as he was falling in love with this other woman, thus creating a romantic triangle in the Nazi concentration camps.

I concur with the strangers: This is one of the most extraordinarily lovely documentaries I’ve ever seen. It has the Holocaust stuff that will make you cry, and then the sweet, gentle love story on top of that. Is there anything dearer than two 90-year-olds who are still as much in love now as they were 60 years ago? It almost makes you not hate old people anymore, just for a few minutes. On top of that, the film has gorgeous cinematography and a beautiful musical score. It makes you cry big, happy tears over and over again, or at least it did me.

I had planned to go downtown for my next film, a documentary called “Helvetica” — yes, a documentary about fonts, and yes, I was nerdy enough to be excited about it. But I would have to come BACK to South Lamar after that, so rather than hassle with all that traveling, I elected to just stay at South Lamar. Besides, the next South Lamar film was a doc about Darfur, and I thought that between that and “Steal a Pencil for Me,” I’d have myself a nice genocide double feature.

“The Devil Came on Horseback” is the film, and it’s about an ex-Marine who went to Sudan in 2004 to help oversee the recently declared ceasefire that was supposed to end that country’s lengthy civil war. While there, a new problem emerged, as the country’s super-poor western region known as Darfur became the target of systematic torture, rape, and murder by squads backed by the central government. The mission then is to let the world know what’s going on, because the Geneva Convention says that if there’s genocide a-happenin’, everyone’s supposed to butt in and do something about it. We’re all for sovereign nations handling their own affairs, but you’re not allowed to slaughter your own people by the thousands, sorry.

It’s a horrific story and a harrowing film, and no one was more horrified and harrowed by it than the well-dressed, Upper West Side-style 50-year-old woman sitting next to me. She was an audible reactor: Whenever some particularly awful bit of information was presented in the film, she would say, out loud, “Oh my G–!” At one point, the Marine is talking about how all he could do was take pictures and send reports. This prompted the woman to say, loudly, “TO WHO?!” It was apparent that she was sickened and frustrated by what was going on, and that she wanted to make sure we all knew how sickened and frustrated she was. No sense in being socially conscious unless your neighbors all know about it.

This was two movies in a row that I’d watched by myself (that is to say, with no friends next to me; I wasn’t alone in the theater), which I think is the first time I’d been alone all week. Fortunately, I was joined for the next one by Eugene, who had just come from watching movies by himself downtown. Apparently it was the day for that.

Documentary No. 3 was “Manufacturing Dissent,” in which a Canadian TV journalist stalks Michael Moore throughout 2004, attempting to get an interview with him. In the process, she tells us about Moore’s background, his life, and some of the shady ways he has manipulated facts in his films.

It’s not an anti-Moore film, really; it’s more of a “let’s pay closer attention to the way our messengers present their messages” thing. I got the feeling the woman feels the same way about Moore that most liberals do: She agrees with a lot of his positions, but she disagrees with his methods.

Of course, if you’re supposed to take Moore’s documentaries with a grain of salt, what are we supposed to do with “Manufacturing Dissent”? I guess next someone has to make a documentary exposing all the things “Manufacturing Dissent” got wrong, and so on and so forth. And the circle of life continues!

Next up: “Lost in Woonsocket,” a pretty solid doc about a good-deed-doing reality TV show that got much more involved with a particular case than they usually do. The case had two men who had lost their jobs and homes to alcoholism and were now living in a tent in Woonsocket, R.I. The do-gooders helped them get sober, then found they kept being drawn back into their lives as things progressed.

Elements of the film are stirring and inspiring, though there is just a bit too much self-congratulatory “look how much good we’re doing!” for my tastes. But only a bit. Mostly I really liked the film, and I was delighted that one of the alcoholics (now sober) was on hand to take questions afterward, as were some other people who appeared in the movie. And it’s only a little ironic that the screening was at the Alamo Drafthouse, where beer and wine are served in abundance and the drinking of them encouraged.

(A friend reported later seeing some of the people involved with the film’s production — but not the alcoholics — at a bar, buying drink after drink. In fact, they tried to use drinks to ply a good review from my friend. I guess it makes sense that after their experiences with the Woonsocket guys, the filmmakers would truly know the power of alcohol. Although I guess they were probably joking about the beer-for-review thing.)
I finally left the South Lamar Alamo Drafthouse and went to the other one, the original, downtown. Movie No. 5 was “Confessions of a Superhero,” which tells the stories of four of the would-be actors who make their living dressing as superheroes on Hollywood Boulevard and posing for pictures with tourists. A Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and Hulk were featured, but there are plenty of Spider-Men, SpongeBobs, Ghost Riders, Elvises, and Marilyn Monroes out there, too. Clearly they filmed more characters than they needed and chose the four most interesting ones for the film, and the ones that made the cut are hilarious and fascinating. They all want to be movie stars, the Batman guy has serious anger-management issues and claims to have committed murders in his past, and Superman is straight-up crazy. He also looks remarkably similar to Christopher Reeve and is the same height. His name is even Christopher. He’s not as buff and muscular as Superman was, but I guess he’s probably about as buff and muscular as Christopher Reeve is now.

I had a couple options for the midnight slot, neither of which particularly appealed to me. Besides, seeing one would have made this a six-movie day, and that sort of marathon should not be taken lightly. There was a party at Maggie Mae’s celebrating the end of the film conference and the beginning of the music part of SXSW, and Maggie Mae’s is usually a good time, so I headed over there. Found Erik Childress, talked to him for a while.

Also ran into Spencer Berger, writer and star of “Skills Like This,” which won the audience award for best film in competition. That surprised me — I thought the film was really funny, but not all-time-favorite funny — and then I looked at the other movies in the category and thought, “Yeah, I guess that’s about right.” Anyway, Berger was cool, excited to have won the audience prize, optimistic about the film’s future. Nice guy, good to see him having success at the festival.

Then I saw Ryan Jones, director of “Fall from Grace,” the Fred Phelps documentary. I told him I’d enjoyed the film and asked if I could ask him a question that had occurred to me later. In the movie, Phelps never talks about love and heaven; he talks exclusively about what God hates (fags, and anyone who isn’t actively persecuting fags) and who’s going to hell (pretty much everyone). I asked Jones, “In the time you spent with him, did he EVER talk about God’s love, or who’s going to heaven, or was it only hate and hell?”

Jones said that was pretty much right. In Phelps’ view, his Westboro Baptist Church is the only one doing God’s will, and thus only they are going to heaven. They’re the only ones God loves. I was glad to have it confirmed that Phelps, consumed with hate, anger, and obsession, is probably the least Christ-like Christian I know of. Jones and I agreed that if heaven will be pretty much just the Phelps family, we probably don’t want to go there anyway. Hell’s where all the cool people are.

Day 4: Monday, March 12

Today began too early, just like yesterday, and once again I began it at the Starbucks on Congress Avenue. I’ve noticed some people hanging around the entrance, hipster college student types carrying three-ring binders. I don’t know what their agenda is, but my experience with 20-year-olds carrying binders on busy street corners is that they want you to donate money to something, and that they don’t take no for an answer. Thus far I have avoided any engagement with them, not because I don’t wish to sponsor starving orphans in far-off lands, but because I can barely afford to sponsor myself in this land, especially when I’ve apparently decided to eat at the Alamo Drafthouse twice a day.

My first film was at 1:30 at the Paramount, and it was a comedy called “Skills Like This.” It deals with an aimless 20-something who wants to be a writer, realizes he sucks at it, and robs a bank instead, on a whim. This gives his two friends, a corporate drone and an idiot, the confidence to take control of their own lives, and yada yada. It’s very funny, highly improbable, and so lightweight that I will probably have forgotten its existence before I’m even done writing this.

Jason, Gene, and Erik were with me, and apparently Will and Laura were there, too, though we hadn’t seen them. (Were they up in the balcony, necking????? No one knows for sure!) We all met up afterward to plan our next course of action. The decision we reached? To stand in line for several hours.

At 6:45 was to be a special screening of “Knocked Up,” the new comedy from the people who brought you “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” due out June 1. This was the film everyone at SXSW wanted to see, and we knew we needed to stake out a place in line early to guarantee we’d get in. With nothing terribly interesting on the schedule for the 4 p.m. slot anyway, we figured we might as well start waiting outside the Paramount now.

Gene, Laura, and I got in line (actually, we started the line), grateful that last night’s rain-predicting cab driver had turned out to be a false prophet and that today’s skies were sunny, warm, and beautiful. After a while Weinberg showed up, along with some other friends, and we began to take turns wandering off in various directions while someone stayed behind to keep our place at the head of the line.

Eventually, the entire eFilmCritic crew was there, the first time since we picked up our badges on Friday that all seven of us had been in the same place at the same time. Photos were taken to preserve the occasion, though I’m pretty sure that, since we were facing the sun, all seven of us look squinty.

Speaking of the sun, Congress Avenue runs north and south, with the Paramount on the east side, which means as the sun started setting, it began to shine directly at us as we lined up against the wall outside the theater. It didn’t help that as more of our acquaintances joined us (soon our volunteer friends Greg and Christina had arrived, along with a husband-and-wife publicist team we know), our cluster grew larger — but since we were at the front of the line, we didn’t have much room for growth, which means we basically just had to stand really close to each other and sweat.

At last we were admitted to the theater, which was eventually as packed as we thought it would be. I’m certain it was full; how many were turned away, I don’t know. The movie began at 7:00, and friends, let me tell you: “Knocked Up” is hysterically funny.

It’s the story of a woman who gets pregnant after a one-night stand with a guy who’s cuddly and lovable enough, but perfectly worthless as a provider, or even as a responsible adult. (He lives with three of his stoner buddies, and none of them have jobs.) The two are tied together now thanks to the pregnancy, but they have little in common. What’s a girl and her slacker baby daddy to do?

The woman is played by Katherine Heigl, with Seth Rogen as the guy. Leslie Mann (the hilarious drunk driver in “40-Year-Old Virgin,” and writer/director Judd Apatow’s wife) plays the woman’s sister, with Paul Rudd as her brother-in-law. The film’s humor is similar to that of “40-Year-Old Virgin,” particularly in the realistically vulgar way that adult male camaraderie is portrayed. Surprisingly, there is a lot of depth and truth in the battle-of-the-sexes angle, too, and it’s a movie that is not only wet-your-pants funny, but also effortlessly sweet. It will deservedly be a huge hit when it opens June 1.

Now, a slightly longer cut of the movie played at a private screening in Austin last December, and the one we saw tonight was 134 minutes — incredibly long for a comedy. We figured SURELY the studio will make them trim it down before it’s actually released. As we all left the theater and headed for the big party several blocks away, we raved about the greatness of the movie, admired its multi-layered characters, and wondered what they could cut without doing damage to the story.

The party, at a music venue called La Zona Rosa, was sponsored by the Austin Chronicle and was to include live performances by Loudon Wainwright III (who did some songs for “Knocked Up” and appears briefly in it) and bands called We Made Milwaukee Famous and Voxtrot. I know nothing about the former, but Greg and Eugene had both raved about Voxtrot and were eager to see them play.

A few hundred people were at the party, but it’s a big venue, with a large outdoor patio area away from the bandstand, so it didn’t feel crowded. Will is under 21 and couldn’t attend, and Jason went to a screening, but the other five of us from eFilmCritic were there, as were Greg and Christina and many of our other festival pals. There was ample free food and drink.

And there were celebrities! One of the things that makes SXSW infinitely cooler and more fun than Sundance (as much as it pains me, a longtime Sundance lover, to say that) is that in Austin, the people in the films actually go to the official festival parties. In Park City, the stars go to secret, special parties that only they know about, while the official Sundance parties are populated only by nobodies and posers.

Several “Knocked Up” cast members were there, including Paul Rudd and Jonah Hill. David Wain (from “Stella,” and one of my comedy idols) was around. I spoke to all of them, at least long enough to express affection and take pictures and make sure they didn’t kiss Greg. Various directors of various SXSW entries were on hand. It was a true party, with everyone mingling and chatting and drinking and smoking, and without a lot of pretension.

It wasn’t long before Weinberg had located Brent White, the editor on “Knocked Up” and thus a definitive source to answer our question regarding the film’s length. And Brent told us that what we saw was the theatrical cut that will appear in theaters June 1, all two hours and 14 minutes of it. He said the version that screened a couple months ago in Austin was about five or 10 minutes longer and didn’t really have any extra scenes; it was more a matter of the scenes being longer due to extra dialogue or alternate dialogue that occupies more time. They like to improvise a lot and shoot multiple takes and multiple punchlines, and some punchlines are wordier than others, you know?

If Brent hadn’t won us over already with his friendliness and good humor, he would have when we heard what other films he’s worked on: “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Talladega Nights,” and “Anchorman,” to name a few. Now, consider the work of an editor on “Anchorman,” a movie with SO MANY deleted scenes that they constructed a straight-to-DVD sequel (of sorts) made entirely from them. Imagine the nightmare of taking hundreds of hours of footage and boiling it down to the best, funniest version you can come up with. How do you decide which of the 10 punchlines Will Ferrell tried will be most effective?

On that point, Brent said that for “Knocked Up,” they’d do test screenings of different versions of the film and record the audience laughter. Then, back in the editing room, he’d compare them: “This joke got this laugh, but when we used this other joke, it got THIS laugh,” and so forth. The science of comedy!

We had a million more questions for him about the process of film editing, and he seemed genuinely happy to talk to us. (It’s probably not very often that a film editor is greeted so enthusiastically.) At one point he excused himself because his cell phone was ringing. He held it up to me so I could see: Judd Apatow was calling, presumably to find out how the screening had gone. He took the call and came back several minutes later to report that Apatow was thrilled that the SXSW audience had loved “Knocked Up” so much.

There had been some talk of leaving the party in time for a midnight screening, but since Voxtrot wasn’t going on until 11:45 — and since we were having such a good time anyway — everyone wound up staying.

Voxtrot is one of those bands populated by really skinny, shaggy-haired 22-year-old guys. They look kind of emo, but their sound is upbeat and catchy, sort of pop-punk-retro, I think. I’m not very good at describing music. That’s why I don’t review CDs. You kids and your rock ‘n’ roll! Anyway, I liked them.

Day 3: Sunday, March 11

Eight-thirty came much too early this morning, even earlier than it usually does. It usually arrives at about 8:30. But today, due to daylight-saving time having begun, 8:30 arrived at 7:30. We’d had only five hours of sleep, and Greg was somewhat worse for the wear.

In discussing the events of last night, Greg was still giddy about the two things he should have been embarrassed about, i.e., being kissed by Alan Cumming and doing his James Blunt impression for James Blunt. On the latter topic, he enthused, “Can you believe it?! I said I did an impression of him, and he was like, ‘Cool! Let’s hear it!’”

“Um, I was there,” I said. “And that is not quite the way it happened.”

Downtown Austin was pretty deserted at 9:30 on a Sunday morning. Only the Starbucks at 6th and Congress was hoppin’, and that is where I had a steamy chocolate beverage and did some writing before heading over to the Alamo Drafthouse for an 11 a.m. screening. Eugene and Jason met me there. We were in line by 10:30, which is the advisable amount of earliness to arrive for a screening, and we were just about the only ones. I suspect many festival-goers were partying last night (it being Saturday and all) and now suffered from the loss of an hour’s sleep.

That, or maybe they just didn’t want to see “Frownland.” Had I known then what I know now, I would have joined them in that.

“Frownland” has several things going for it, actually, not the least of which are the charmingly crappy 16 mm. film stock it was shot on and the general ’70s vibe that it has going on. After that, though, you have to look pretty hard to find anything likable about the movie, which is the story of a spastic, incommunicative, stammering wimp of a man named Keith. It’s been a while since I’ve been as actively annoyed by a character as I was by this one. When he was called upon to communicate with someone, he would open and close his mouth a lot, grimace, look worried, and bob his head back and forth for about 30 seconds, and then finally sort of spit out something indecipherable. His roommate summed up my feelings toward the movie: “I don’t have the energy to meet you four-fifths of the way, just to decipher what you’re trying to say.”

Or as the great satirist Tom Lehrer once said: “If you can’t communicate, then the very least you can do is to shut up.”

But there was no time to dwell, for next up Jason and I were seeing “The Prisoner, Or: How I Planned to Kill Tony Blair” over at the convention center. Erik joined us. It is a documentary about an Iraqi journalist who was held with his brothers in Abu Ghraib for nine months for allegedly masterminding a plot to kill Tony Blair — a plot that, if it ever even existed, had nothing whatsoever to do with these guys. It’s a well-made doc, but it would be better if its scope were wider. An examination of the Iraqi prisons in general would be more compelling, I think, than the story of just one man.

But there was no time to dwell, for immediately after this film, all the eFilmCritic gang convened in an upstairs conference room for a panel discussion about the current state of horror movies. (That topic isn’t as depressing as it sounds. You might think current horror is nothing but crappy PG-13-rated remakes of old horror films, but there are some bright spots, too.) Our colleague Scott Weinberg was on the panel, which is the only reason most of us were going. Personally, I’m not interested in panels at film festivals. I’m here to do two things, to watch movies and to prevent my friends from embarrassing themselves in the company of celebrities. And the more I fail at the latter, the more I need to work on the former.

The panel was supposed to include Eli Roth, director of “Cabin Fever,” “Hostel,” and the upcoming “Hostel II,” but he had taken ill (flesh-eating virus that turns you into a zombie, we assume) and couldn’t attend. They replaced him with two people (it takes two people to replace Eli Roth): Zev Berman, director of “Borderland,” playing at the festival; and Rider Strong, the porn-star-named star of “Cabin Fever” and “Borderland.” Also on the panel were a film producer and Scott Glosserman, director of last year’s SXSW hit “Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon” (opening in select cities this week!).

The moderator of the panel was Harry Knowles, the Jabba-esque fanboy behind the Ain’t It Cool News Web site. He’s based in Austin — I believe the city was actually constructed around him — and his breathless early reviews of incomplete films, junket-whore excursions to film sets, and grotesquely under-edited, over exclamation-pointed writings have helped give online film critics a bad name.

Knowles was the moderator of the panel, but something we discovered is that it is difficult to be a good moderator when the thing you are most interested in is hearing yourself talk. Knowles is infuriating because, his embarrassing writing skills and garish Web site design aside, he makes some good points and has some interesting things to say now and then. The problem with him in a public setting such as this panel was that while he had a couple of worthwhile insights, they were lost in his constant name-dropping and self-promotion. In a 50-minute panel — which had five other people on it, mind you — he managed to mention that he’s friends with Bryan Singer, and that he (Knowles) had been offered a lucrative job helping remake old horror films but he turned it down for reasons of artistic integrity. He also related an anecdote about what happened when he watched “Behind the Mask,” in case you were curious. He was the moderator, not the star, yet we heard his voice more than anyone else’s.

But there was no time to dwell, for most of us had to scurry off immediately to the Paramount for “He Was a Quiet Man,” starring Christian Slater and Elisha Cuthbert (Kim Bauer on “24″). The line to get in was already very long when we arrived, and the screening was packed. Slater was there, and in fact he was being led into the theater just as I was coming out of the bathroom. We were standing right next to each for a couple seconds, and he said “Hey” in a friendly manner. I think he thought I was part of the festival staff that was going to take him to his seat, when in fact I was part of the jabbering crowd that the festival staff was there to protect him from.

Wanting to seize the opportunity, I quickly scanned my mind for something useful to say to Christian Slater. I have things already planned for certain celebrities, should I ever meet them — for example, if I’m ever that close to Jim Carrey, I’ll just slap him in the face — but I had never taken the time to prepare anything for Christian Slater. As Jack Bauer would say, I had no protocols for this scenario, and there was no one back at headquarters to download the schematics to my PDA. I only had about two seconds to think anyway, and literally the only thing my brain came up with was, “Hey! You sound like Jack Nicholson when you talk!” Thank goodness the part of my brain that prevents me from saying inappropriate and/or stupid things was working today. (Its functionality is intermittent.)

Anyway, the movie. The first half is absolutely fantastic. It’s a satirical, unpredictable comedy-thriller-love story about a lowly office worker (Slater, looking like Milton in “Office Space”) who constantly yearns for the day when he’ll finally get the courage to go on a shooting spree and kill the co-workers who plague him. Then there’s a certain sequence of events, he winds up a hero, and he starts taking care of a pretty co-worker who has recently become paralyzed.

The second half of the movie isn’t as stellar, and I’m not sure the convoluted ending works, but I really liked the thing overall. It was the directorial debut of a screenwriter named Frank Cappello, and he mentioned beforehand that this was the world premiere of the film, the very first time it had ever been shown on a big screen for anyone. I can’t even imagine the terror that must go through a director’s mind in a situation like that; as you know, we can be brutal when a movie is no good. It must be very gratifying, then, when the movie is a success. Imagine sitting there in a packed theater, hearing the audience roar with appreciative laughter at the gags you weren’t even sure were funny anymore, all these months after writing, filming, and editing them. That must be very rewarding. And, again, it must really suck when the gags fail and the audience hates your movie. I am confident that the only way I could ever succeed as a filmmaker, emotionally speaking, would be if were a hardcore drug user.

We didn’t really have time for the Q-and-A, and as we left the theater after the film, we saw that Christian Slater apparently didn’t have time, either, because he exited just after we did. He smiled at us as he hurried past, and I wondered, if I figured out a way to get him to kiss me, would that be a better or worse story than Alan Cumming kissing Greg? Probably worse, I figured. So I didn’t bother.

I went to Starbucks next, mostly to recharge my laptop battery in one of their many electrical outlets. Gene and Jason went to the Alamo Drafthouse to get in line for the 7:15 showing of a lesbian comedy called “Itty Bitty Titty Committee.” You don’t usually think of lesbians and comedy going together, but there you go. This was another packed show, and by the time I got there (6:45), Gene and Jason were inside and it was questionable whether I’d make it in.

While I was waiting, I learned via the cellular telephone that Erik and Weinberg were both at a party at Maggie Mae’s, our favorite local club. It would make a good Plan B if I couldn’t get in to the film.

Well, I got in (barely), but while waiting for the movie to start, I made an executive decision: I didn’t feel compelled to see this film, but I did feel compelled to eat. Now, I could order food here, because it was the Alamo Drafthouse, but food at the Alamo Drafthouse, while reasonably priced, is not as reasonably priced as the free food at the party would be, as the free food at the party would be free. So I gave up my seat to someone and headed for Maggie Mae’s instead.

Erik had left by the time I got there, but Weinberg was on the upstairs patio with our friend James Rocchi, a Cinematical writer, a fine critic, and one of the politest men you will ever meet. (He’s Canadian.) We ate and were merry for a while, and then it started to rain, which did not please us.

Weinberg and I killed some time after that, then went to the Alamo for “Exiled,” a Hong Kong action flick about which we had heard mixed things: James Rocchi loved it, while Erik Childress hated it. Whom to believe? They are both so right about so many things, yet they are both also so wrong about so many things. (For example, James is Canadian.)

There were shenanigans aplenty as the film began. First, during the opening credits, I saw the name “Maylie Ho” and giggled inappropriately. “Maylie Ho!” I whispered to Gene and Weinberg, like the third-grader I am. Then more credits appeared for people with the same last name, and Weinberg said, “There sure are a lot of Hos in this movie.” That’s when I completely lost it. But the credit sequence was really quiet, so I couldn’t really laugh out loud the way I wanted to. I had to stifle myself, which only made it worse.

Once the movie got going, we realized they had the wrong lens on the projector. The image was elongated, with people looking really tall and skinny, and the subtitles were cut off. The projectionist was alerted to the error within a few moments and they turned the movie off while they changed lenses. (Modern multiplexes have projectors on which lenses can be changed in two seconds without stopping the show, but the Drafthouse does not.)

While we waited for things to get going again, Jason (who knows a lot about the technical side of exhibiting movies) said if he could, he would just kick in the door to the projection booth and fix the problem himself. This led to two very geeky jokes, and I am not going to explain them for non-geeks. First, I made reference to a superhero called Aspect Ratio Man (a mediocre joke at best), and then Gene topped it with that superhero’s tagline: “2.35 times the action!” Trust me, it’s hilarious. We laughed like the geeks we are.

(Sigh. OK, fine. The aspect ratio of a movie is the measurement of its width versus height. A basic TV set has an aspect ratio of 1.33:1, meaning it’s 1.33 inches wide for every 1 inch tall. Most movies [especially comedies and other films where the size isn't particularly important] are 1.75:1, and most action flicks and other spectacle-oriented pictures are 2.35:1, meaning the picture is 2.35 times as wide as it is tall. Hence, “2.35 times the action” for Aspect Ratio Man. Get it?)

Weinberg, Gene, and I did not particularly care for “Exiled.” I had no idea what was going on most of the time, with these gangsters shooting each other one minute, decorating an apartment and cooking dinner the next. The action scenes were few and far between (though admittedly very cool when they did occur), and frequently featured people doing odd things for no apparent reason. At one point, in the middle of a shoot-out, they rolled a guy up in a sheet and slid him out an upper-story window. When that happened, Gene sat bolt upright and said out loud, “What?! Why?!” The movie did not answer him, however.

The film had begun late and was going to end at about 11:30. However, we all wanted to see “Borderland” in the same venue at midnight, and we worried that not getting in line for it until 11:30 would put us at risk of not getting in. Bored with the film anyway, Weinberg and I left “Exiled” at 11:15 and got in line.

It was pouring rain, and no one had an umbrella. Weinberg asked a passerby if these squalls usually end quickly, and the guy said, “I don’t know. It never rains here.” We were able to wait under an awning, though, and it wasn’t cold, so it wasn’t too bad. The others joined us when “Exiled” ended (with everyone shooting everyone else, came the report).

While we waited for “Borderland,” the director of it, whom Weinberg knew from the panel earlier, came by and thanked everyone for braving the elements to see the world premiere of his movie. He handed out coupons good for a free drink at the Drafthouse, and most of us readily accepted his token of gratitude, eager to be bribed in any way possible.

“Borderland” is based on the true story of some Texas teens who went to Mexico for a weekend of debauchery, only to fall into the hands of a satanic cult that practices human sacrifices, which is exactly the kind of satanic cult you do not want to fall into the hands of. A satanic cult that practices random acts of kindness, or aromatherapy, would be OK. The basic set-up is reminiscent of “Hostel” and “Turistas,” though possibly better than the former and definitely better than the latter. I didn’t love it, but it’s OK. Lionsgate is releasing it later this year.

When we got out at 2 a.m., the rain had become a torrential downpour, narrowing the already-narrow list of ways that Portland and Austin are different. Weinberg no longer had his van, Jason and Eugene never had transportation to begin with, and my ride, Greg, had left me a voice mail to say he’d gone home early to avoid passing out from lack of sleep and collapsing in a heap in the middle of 6th Street. He said I could call him if I needed a ride, but I didn’t think that would be very cool of me, and I’m usually pretty cool.

While huddled under an awning, we called a cab company and told them to send two cars, as among the four of us, there were two general parts of town we needed to get to. Ten minutes later, a car arrived and Weinberg and Jason snagged it. Twenty minutes after that, another cab finally came by, and Gene and I were saved from a wet, shivery death. He went to his hotel, I to International House of Greg, and Day 3 ended with me falling comatose onto my air mattress at 3 a.m.

Day 2: Saturday, March 10

My slumber at International House of Greg was blissful, and Greg reported not being awoken by my superhuman snoring, even though his bedroom is in a loft that is not really separated from the downstairs area in any significant way. The apartment’s only bathroom is upstairs, too, which means if you have to tinkle in the middle of the night, you have to creep silently up the steps and tiptoe past Greg and then try to hit the back of the porcelain rather than shooting the stream directly into the water, as a urine stream shot straight into the middle of a toilet bowl at 4 a.m. is the loudest sound known to man. You guys know what I’m talking about.

But enough about my urine! The weather was sunny and beautiful today as Greg and I headed to the convention center. He went off to volunteer headquarters while I sought out the press suite. I had the option of seeing a movie at 11 a.m., but I had a dilemma: There were four choices, and they were all documentaries, and the only one that interested me even mildly — the one about a guy who set a “Donkey Kong” record — was at the least convenient venue, the South Lamar Alamo Drafthouse. So I solved the problem by not seeing any of them.

Instead, I camped out in the press suite and got some writing done, though I first stopped at the booth on the main floor of the convention center where Starbucks products are sold. I acquired a cream cheese muffin and a hot chocolate beverage, all for the low, low price of only $7.25!

The press suite is on the second floor of the convention center and is a comfortable lounge for journalist types to work, relax, doze, and/or drink coffee. It is also, unfortunately, a place for publicists to scatter fliers and posters, and for people to promote their films. Front and center today was a kilt-clad Scotsman making balloon animals. This was in conjunction with the documentary “Twisted: A Balloonamentary,” playing at the festival and apparently addressing the controversial hot-button issue of balloon-animal-making. The Scotsman was behaving in a very jovial and Scottish fashion, to the alleged amusement of bystanders, which included the festival volunteers who had to sit at the front desk the whole time and were thus a captive audience.

The kilt wearing I have no problem with, since he was legitimately Scottish. That is the only good reason to wear a kilt, of course. The guys who wear kilts as a fashion choice are the same types of guys who rode unicycles across campus when they were in college: They want to play it cool like they’re just being themselves and they don’t care what anyone thinks, but really what they want is for people to notice them and say, “Wow! That guy’s different! Awesome!”

But that is an unnecessary tangent, and I will probably delete it before I publish this. The point is, there was a balloon-twister in the press suite, and his merry jokes and corny patter as he worked the crowd were like daggers on the chalkboard of my heart.

Within the first 10 minutes I was sitting there, writing, Weinberg, Erik, and Jason each separately stopped by, said hello, and asked if I was going to the Bill Paxton panel. Apparently Bill Paxton was sitting on a panel across the hall. The topic: How to tell the difference between Bill Paxton and Bill Pullman. I kind of wish I’d gone, as that sort of information would be useful.

But no! There was work to do. No panels for me! Then a bit later, without warning, a press conference broke out. It was for the film “The Lookout,” which opens theatrically March 30 and played last night opposite “Them.” I have heard nothing but good things about it, so I’m eager to see it when it’s released, but for now I was eager not to accidentally overhear spoilers while the journalists asked the cast members questions. A question like, “Did you enjoy filming the scene where we find out Bruce Willis was dead the whole time?” can ruin your day.

I needn’t have worried. From what I did hear, the questions were on the order of, “What was the hardest scene to film?” and “How did you prepare for your role?” and generic crap like that.

Actors Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Isla Fisher, and Matthew Goode were there, along with writer/director Scott Frank. I remained in my spot on the couch across the room, but from my vantage point the press conference seemed to be successful enough, especially when measured in terms of how many pictures the photographers took.

Also, Joseph Gordon-Levitt (he was the kid on “3rd Rock from the Sun”) is approximately 4’8″ and weighs no more than 75 pounds.

On the way over to the Paramount for my first screening of the day, I saw an amusing publicity spectacle happening. A red-robed gospel choir led by a white-suited preacher was dancing down the street singing about limiting our consumption and boycotting worker-unfriendly places like Starbucks. (The lyric/chant was catchier than that, but that was the idea.) They even had a live keyboard player, drummer, and horn section. They’re connected with “What Would Jesus Buy?,” a documentary playing here at the festival that I hope to see later in the week. I don’t always care for blatant attention-whoring (see prior comments), but what can I say, I’m a sucker for gospel music.

The first film was “When a Man Falls in the Forest.” Just before it began, Erik Childress said, “Is this movie about a family coming to terms with stuff?” He said it in a manner indicating weariness, which I share, though to feel that way on Day 2 of a film festival does not bode well. It’s like declaring you’re tired of childlike whimsy only five minutes after beginning a week-long stay at Disneyland.

I predicted, meanwhile, that the film would involve a car accident. This prophecy was based on experience: So far, “Disturbia,” “The Lookout,” and “Them” all had car wrecks, so it stood to reason.

“When a Man Falls in the Forest” is not about a family coming to terms with stuff; it is about three middle-aged men coming to terms with stuff. One of them is in a failing marriage, one has severe social anxiety, and one has never been the same since being involved in — yes! — a fatal car accident some years earlier.

Pretty good movie, really, with particularly good central performances by Dylan Baker as the socially messed-up guy and Timothy Hutton as the guy with the bad marriage (to Sharon Stone, so you can imagine the various ways it might be bad). The film is funny and melancholy simultaneously, and it’s a nice combination.

After that, Eugene and I headed south to the non-downtown Alamo Drafthouse. We had heard fanciful rumors of a city bus that goes past the original Drafthouse and takes you straight to the other one, and we had a few minutes to spare, so we thought we’d give it a try. Perhaps owing to our lack of scientific adventurousness, however, we gave up waiting after 15 minutes and took a cab instead.

The film was “Fall from Grace,” a documentary about Fred Phelps, that horrible Kansas preacher who goes around protesting at gay people’s and soldiers’ funerals with the “God hates fags” signs and so forth. He’s a fascinating figure insofar as EVERYONE, conservative and liberal, religious and atheist, thinks he’s repulsive. Even people who believe homosexuality is sinful think it’s awful to march around saying “Matthew Shepard is in hell” AT Matthew Shepard’s funeral. (Dude, at least wait until the luncheon.) And Phelps’ logic with regard to soldiers’ funerals — America has embraced homosexuality; thus God hates America; thus killing soldiers and sending them to hell is God’s way of punishing us — is so twisted that it would be hilarious, if it weren’t so outrageously inhuman.

The filmmaker, a University of Kansas student named K. Ryan Jones, got a surprising level of access to Phelps and his 80-member congregation, which consists almost entirely of his numerous children and grandchildren. (In the post-film Q-and-A, Jones revealed that there are two non-Phelps families at Westboro Baptist Church: one has been associated with the Phelpses for decades; the other is headed by a documentary filmmaker who began researching the Phelps movement in 2000, decided Phelps was right, moved his family up from Florida, and joined them [!!!!!].) The Phelpses believe all publicity is good publicity, that the more they’re opposed the more it proves they’re right, and that even if the film were nothing but an anti-Phelps screed, if it contained just one shot of a “God hates fags” sign, then at least the message would be getting out there.

There are a couple clips in the film of Phelps’ daughter and main supporter, Shirley, appearing on Fox News. In one, a female anchor whose name I didn’t catch is seen introducing Shirley; we cut away to some other clip of something else; and then we cut back to mid-interview, where the anchor is SCREAMING at Shirley Phelps, just completely losing her mind. It’s hilarious and unprofessional how out-of-control she is, and yet at the same time, the audience applauded what she was saying: that the Phelps movement is evil and hateful.

The other Fox News clip is Shirley Phelps on the Sean Hannity show, and it ends with a similar (though more reined-in) smackdown. Folks, when SEAN HANNITY tells you that your particular brand of self-righteous moral crusading is evil and hateful, then you know you’ve really accomplished something.

The movie itself isn’t particularly brilliant; it’s a case where the subject matter is shocking enough that all you have to do is set up a few cameras and let the people speak for themselves. But we liked it enough — and we had enough spare time — that we stayed for the Q-and-A afterward. It was enlightening if only for this reason: I had thought Jones might have been interested in the subject because he was gay, but it turns out he was interested because he’s a Christian and even considered going into the ministry before becoming a filmmaker instead.

We had an hour to kill before the next film, also at the South Lamar Alamo, but that part of town is sadly lacking in places to hang out or even sit down. Lots of tire shops, Jiffy Lubes, and brake-pad stores, but no coffeeshops. So Gene and I thought, what the heck, might as well be first in line for the next film.

And it’s a good thing we were! The next film, “All the Boys Love Mandy Lane,” proved to be a sellout, my first completely full, we’re-turning-people-away screening of the festival. It’s a teen horror film with a distinctly ’70s look to it and a very cool visual style, which helps it overcome its rather pedestrian story of good-looking teens being murdered while staying in an isolated ranch house.

There’s a scene very early on in which a guy attempts to dive into a backyard swimming pool and cracks his head on the cement instead. The impact happens off-camera, but the sound effect they used is genuinely brutal. It felt like the whole audience recoiled in horror; I know Gene and I did. I really think that to get that sound, they’d have to have actually cracked someone’s head against a sidewalk.

We stayed for that Q-and-A, too, but nothing interesting happened, so I’m not going to mention that we even stayed for it.

It was back downtown for us next, and this time we managed to catch the mythical bus, which proved to be quite real indeed, and convenient besides. I was heading for a 9:30 screening of something at the Downtown Alamo, but I wasn’t completely sold on it. I was itching to do something non-movie-related, and I knew Greg the Volunteer and Christina, another pal from last year, were party-hopping. So I went to my 9:30 film with the provision that if I wasn’t loving it, I could leave early without feeling guilty.

It was “Everything’s Gone Green,” a Canadian comedy about a slacker 29-year-old who gets a job working at the lottery office. It was mildly amusing, but it was also yet another movie in which slacker 29-year-olds whine about how all their friends got steady jobs and got married after college while they somehow got left behind, and while I sympathize with that position, and while I can even relate to some of the sentiments behind it, I’M TIRED OF MOVIES ABOUT IT. You’re not profound anymore, Generation Y. Go smoke some weed and play Xbox and quit your belly-aching.

Anyway. I left at about 10:15 and found Greg and Christina at a nearby dance club, chosen because it was going to be home to Alan Cumming’s party. Now, I disliked Alan Cumming’s movie (“Suffering Man’s Charity,” from yesterday), but disliking someone’s movie does not preclude me from enjoying someone’s free hors d’oeuvres and beverages. Alas, there were neither, at least not free, but what can you do?

I found Greg in a state of inebriation and Christina in a state of perky cuteness — exactly the way they were when I first met them last year, in other words. Before long, we met a couple of ladies named Jackie and Jen, a lawyer and law student, respectively, from Philadelphia, in Texas for Spring Break. There was chatting and laughing and carrying on, and then Greg discovered that Alan Cumming had arrived.

Before I knew what was happening, Greg had bounced over to him, introduced himself, professed his fondness for the actor’s work — and been kissed full on the lips by Alan Cumming. Evidently the part I didn’t hear was where Greg said his girlfriend would be really jealous that he was meeting Alan Cumming, and Alan Cumming replied that Greg was very cute and that his girlfriend would be even more jealous if he kissed him. And Greg either did not protest or did not protest quickly enough — or, as Eugene later put it, perhaps Alan Cumming exercised the Alan Cumming Provision, wherein Alan Cumming is allowed to kiss anyone he chooses, period. It’s in the Geneva Convention.

Greg, intoxicated with giddiness and vodka, was both delighted and horrified at what had transpired: delighted that he had a great story to tell, and horrified that he had kissed a guy. I hustled him out of there shortly afterward, and we went in search of another party, hopefully one where celebrities would not be snogging random strangers. As we left, Alan Cumming was beginning his Q-and-A with the rowdy crowd, and while I didn’t hear the question, his answer was that circumcision is a cruel and barbaric practice. So there you go. Straight from the mouth of Alan Cumming.

We had a place in mind for our next stop, but we ran in to Weinberg on the way, and he led us to the James Blunt party instead. Yes, James Blunt the singer. People kept saying, “Who’s James Blunt?,” and I would sing, “You’re BEAUtiful! You’re BEAUtiful,” really shrieking the “BEAU” part, and they would go, “Oh, that guy? Meh.” But again, a free party is a free party, and Weinberg is pals with the publicists who were putting this one on.

James Blunt is here because he has a documentary in the festival called “James Blunt: Return to Kosovo,” in which he, I don’t know, fights terrorism through song or something. We all got into the party, held at a club with patios in the front and back, with a dance floor in the middle. A live band was playing out back, while inside the song the DJ was spinning was, I kid you not, “Whoomp, There It Is,” because apparently it was 1993 there.

Partitioned off from the main dance floor was a little VIP area where only certain color wristbands could enter and thus be granted an audience with James Blunt and his buddies. We did not have that color of wristband, but they weren’t being diligent in checking them, either, so before I knew what was happening, Drunk Greg was in the VIP area, chatting up James Blunt.

When I arrived at his side two seconds later, Greg was telling James Blunt how he, Greg, does a great impression of him, James Blunt. Now, I had heard this impression earlier, and it was no great shakes. I think James Blunt, due to his distinct singing style, is like John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart: Anyone can do a half-decent impression of him without even trying very hard.

But Greg, bless his vodka-soaked heart, was saying, “My friends are always telling me I do a great impression of you!”

“Oh, really? I’ll have to hear it sometime,” James Blunt said, being very, very gracious.

“I’ll do it for you now!” Greg said.

“Well, it’s very loud in here, so I don’t know….”

“OK, here goes!” And then he did his James Blunt impression while I did my best to be embarrassed on his behalf. I was pretty sure Greg was not the first drunk guy ever to corner James Blunt somewhere and sing a James Blunt song for him, so I said, “I’m sure no one ever does that for you.” He said, “Well, not so beautifully, they don’t!” Very nice guy, that James Blunt.

I asked him what he thought of “Weird Al” Yankovic’s parody of his song (“You’re Pitiful”), and he said it was funny but there’s an even better one, by some Australian guy, in which the song is sung from the point of view of the girl’s new boyfriend. Sounds funny, and it’s James Blunt-approved, so I’ll have to look for it.

Greg and I left not long after that, as it was very late, we were losing an hour of sleep due to daylight-saving time, and Greg had to be at volunteer duty at 9:30 the next morning. After some stumbling around, we finally found where Greg had parked his car, and I drove us home, where Greg was sawing logs in a matter of seconds. The li’l guy had had a big night, and he was all tuckered out.

Day 1: Friday, March 9

Yee-haw! Throw a saddle on your cousin and paint a fence post! It’s time for Austin’s South by Southwest, the rootin’-est, tootin’-est film festival this side of the Mississippi!

Actually, as I discovered last year — and as the locals are quick to remind you — Austin is the least Texas-y city in Texas. It’s home to hipsters, musicians, college kids, and normal people, as opposed to cowboys, rednecks, and oil tycoons. In fact, apart from the heat and humidity and the unfortunate plight of being surrounded on all sides by Texas, Austin is very much like Portland, where I live.

I arrived late last night and was collected at the airport by Greg the Festival Volunteer, a local guy whom several of us made friends with last year and with whom we’ve kept in touch since then. He is volunteering again this year, and he was awesome enough to offer his apartment to me as a place to stay, complete with an air mattress laid out on the living-room floor. I readily accepted because, as you know if you know me, I’ll sleep anywhere, with anyone.

* * *

Today began in an unfortunate manner, with botched transportation arrangements, a bus ride, an aborted cab ride, a different cab ride brought to full term, and an almost-missed 11 a.m. screening. The details of this story would bore and frustrate you, so they are omitted.

The important thing is, I did not miss the screening. It was a press screening of “Disturbia,” which opens nationwide in April. As a general rule, and unlike most major film festivals, SXSW doesn’t do press screenings. It’s public screenings only, to which your press pass will grant you admittance. But an interview session with the cast of “Disturbia” was planned, and thus a press screening was set up for the press who were to be involved. And then the interviews were canceled for some reason, but the screening remained, and apparently any member of the press who happened to know about it was allowed to attend.

Anyway, it’s a not-very-good “Rear Window” rip-off (and I mean close enough to where royalties should be paid) starring Shia LeBeouf as a kid on house arrest who comes to believe his neighbor is a murderer. The finale is fairly suspenseful, but the whole thing’s just so derivative. Bleh.

At the screening with me was Scott Weinberg, longtime eFilmCritic.com friend and now a proud resident of Austin after living his entire life in Philadelphia. Jason Whyte, an eFilmCritic writer from Canada making his first trip to SXSW, was also on hand. Weinberg had a van for some reason — Weinberg is the type of person who might occasionally have a van for some reason — and he used it to take us to the airport to pick up fellow EFC’er Will Goss of Florida. Why Jason and I had to go wit him to do that, and thereafter to pick up Laura Kyle, another Austin-resident EFC writer, was not sufficiently explained to me.

But the important thing was, we were all together! Well, almost. We went to the convention center, where SXSW headquarters are, and there met up with Chicago’s Erik Childress (a SXSW veteran) and Eugene Novikov, a buddy of Scott’s from Philadelphia who has recently joined the EFC team and is making his first trip to Austin. And NOW we were all together!

In case you weren’t counting: eFilmCritic.com (and its sister site, HollywoodB****slap.com) has seven writers covering SXSW. That is more than any other outlet, print or online, period. I’M JUST SAYIN’.

We all stood in a very long line to pick up our press badges, a line so long that when we finally reached the front, it was actually the 2008 film festival. Badges in hand, we then moved to a different, much shorter line to pick up our festival bags. These are nifty tote bags filled to the brim with festival-related paraphernalia: fliers, postcards, notices, magazines, advertisements, and the thick film guide. What you do is, you pick up your bag, then you stop at the nearest garbage can and throw away everything except the film guide. Maybe you keep a couple of the magazines, too, as they can be useful for browsing during downtime.

It was about 4 p.m. now, with the first official SXSW screening beginning at 6. We all congregated at a coffeeshop for a few minutes before Weinberg, Jason, Gene and I headed to the Paramount Theatre for “Suffering Man’s Charity.”

The Paramount is a beautiful old movie house on Congress Avenue, which runs down the center of Austin and is the dividing line between west and east street addresses. The theater has a friendly staff of old-style ushers, complete with tuxedo shirts and red bow ties, and they very smilingly tell you that you cannot bring the slice of pizza and Diet Coke that you bought at the place across the street into the theater with you, which helps you remember that next time, you need to hide those things in your bag. And by you, I mean me.

“Suffering Man’s Charity” was directed by and stars Alan Cumming, the flamboyant Scottish actor who played Nightcrawler in the second “X-Men” movie. He was present to introduce the film, and actress Karen Black was in the audience. Co-star David Boreanaz (TV’s “Angel”) was supposed to be there in time for the Q-and-A afterward but was not there for the film.

Cumming earned appreciative laughs from the crowd in his introduction, and then he found the perfect way to make the laughter cease: He showed the movie. It’s a dark comedy about a gay cello teacher (Cumming) who’s been taken advantage of by a street hustler (Boreanaz), leading him to finally put his foot down and get rid of the guy. The idea has potential, and I think the script might actually be OK — but Cumming’s over-the-top campy performance doesn’t quite work, especially when he’s the only one in the film playing it that way.

As often happens at premiere screenings, the crowd applauded during the first couple of opening credits. Some of the producers and other behind-the-scenes crew were there, so they applauded at “a film by” and “written by,” as well as at the first few cast credits (Alan Cumming, David Boreanaz, Anne Heche, Karen Black, etc.) The amusing thing was that it became clear after a handful of credits that the audience was regretting its decision to applaud. How do you decide when to stop? If you clap for guy who did the music, can you just NOT clap when the costume designer’s name comes up next? How will that make the costume designer feel?! And so the applause grew weaker and less enthusiastic, until it was obvious that we were simply going through the motions out of politeness. It was some of the best awkwardness I’ve seen in a while.

So the movie blew, and we hightailed it out of there as soon as it was over, skipping the supposedly Angel-attended Q-and-A. (General rule: Stay for Q-and-A if you liked the movie; skip it if you didn’t, or if you don’t have time, or if you have to go to the bathroom.)

Jason and Gene got in line immediately for the Paramount’s next film, while Weinberg and I met up with Laura and killed a few minutes before heading to the Alamo Drafthouse on South Lamar for a 9:30 screening.

The original Alamo Drafthouse in downtown Austin has been called America’s best movie theater in various polls, and I have no argument with that. It’s a bar and restaurant, too, with service directly to your seat; each row of seats has a long counter in front of it for food and beverage purposes. (That means plenty of legroom, too.) The waitstaff is careful to avoid disrupting the movie, quickly and quietly moving in with your food and to bring the check later.

The Drafthouse is especially prized by us festival-goers because we often don’t have time to eat between screenings. And the food is good! Salads, sandwiches, pizzas, appetizers, the whole works. If it sounds like I’m pimping the Drafthouse, that is because I am pimping the Drafthouse. If it were possible, physically or legally, to marry the Alamo Drafthouse, I would have proposed such a union a year ago.

The downtown Drafthouse has spawned a child (apparently without benefit of clergy), and that’s where we were actually headed at this point. It’s a couple miles south of downtown, and it’s a six-screen multiplex — still with the full Drafthouse food and drink service.

We were joined by Erik and Will for “Them,” a French thriller in which evil forces besiege a country house and terrorize the inhabitants. The movie appealed to us for these reasons:

- It is a horror movie, and we like horror movies.
- It is 77 minutes, and we like short movies.

It’s a pretty solid one-act movie with a very, very basic story: A married couple lives in this house; one night bad guys show up and cause mayhem. The idea of having your house invaded is scary, and the film does a nice job creating the tension and dread necessary.

Though the film is French, it is set in Bucharest. This was problematic for us, as we could not quite remember what country Bucharest is in. We settled on Hungary, but this proved to be wrong; it’s Romania. (We were thinking of Budapest. Come on, Europeans, enough with the confusingly similar capital cities! Am I right, folks?!)

Next we headed downtown to the original Drafthouse for a midnight screening of “Mulberry Street.” It’s another horror flick, this time about New York City rats that carry a virus that makes it so when they bite you, you start acting like a big ol’ rat, up to and including attacking and devouring other people (or, in one instance, a cat: How the tables have turned, kitty!).

While we stood in line outside the theater beforehand, a publicist came around and gave everybody little rubber rats, about two inches in length. I asked if they were edible, and she said no, don’t eat it. That made me want to eat it, but it turns out she was right, and they were not edible. So instead Gene and I re-created the final shot of “The Departed,” where the rat runs across the balcony railing and there’s a church in the background; Gene was the church. It was a pretty realistic re-creation.

It was 1:30 a.m. when the movie let out. The other six EFC’ers headed to their various hotels and lodgings, driven by Weinberg and his questionably acquired van, while I waited outside the Drafthouse for Greg the Volunteer to pick me up after finishing his official duties (which evidently included bathing in beer, by the smell of him). Unfortunately, Greg thought I was at the OTHER Drafthouse and went there first, thus bringing a certain symmetry of miscommunication to my day. I like symmetry.

Day 6: Wednesday, March 15

This was it, folks. My last day at SXSW (or South By, as the kids abbreviate it in conversation). The films continue through Saturday, but Erik and Scott were leaving today, and thus my hotel gravy train was ending. (Note: The hotel contained no actual gravy. Or Internet access, for that matter, unless you paid $10 a day.)

After checking out of the hotel, I ran into Will and we went to the Alamo Drafthouse for an 11 a.m. showing of “The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael.” The people who made “The Lost” should be grateful for this movie: Because of it, “The Lost” is no longer the worst thing I saw at SXSW.

“The Great Ecstasy” has a large cast of characters in a series of plot-less fly-on-the-wall scenes. It seems to be going in no particular direction, with no point whatsoever, but only for 80 minutes. In the last 10 minutes, it suddenly becomes shockingly violent and exploitative, moving from the realm of the merely boring to the genuinely deplorable. I suspect filmmaker Thomas Clay would say that if he provoked a strong response, then he considers himself to have succeeded. But I say it’s easy to do something shocking or taboo. What’s hard is to do it in a way that is thematically, artistically and cinematically justified — in a way that doesn’t seem to be doing it just for the sake of doing it, in other words.

Will and I both hated this movie, and we raged about our hatred for it as we walked back to Congress Avenue to a cafe called the Hideout, which had caught my attention earlier with its promise of free wi-fi and gigantic cookies. (It delivered on both promises in splendid fashion.) Will eventually left me to my writing as he went to stand in line at the Paramount for the 4 p.m. “surprise” screening of “A Scanner Darkly.” If there was ever an official announcement of the title, like a press release or an e-mail, I didn’t see it. Yet somehow everyone knew about it, and we anticipated that the lines to see it would be lengthy.

We were right. Everyone with a SXSW pass congregated in that line, but before any of us were let in, the 400 people on the “guest list” (i.e., Austin film industry types, their friends and families, and people tangentially connected with the film) were admitted. Thanks to Will staking out a spot early, we were at the front of the pass-holder line — and still, by the time we got inside, the theater’s main level was two-thirds full, with only the back rows and the balcony still open.

Nearly all of our crew was there. Erik had flown back to Chicago and Laura was goodness-knows-where, but Scott, Oz, Will and I snagged a row, and our new best friends Greg, Amber and Kristina joined us, as did a girl I didn’t know. We made her sit on the end, next to Oz.

The movie is the latest from Richard Linklater, whose previous films include such diverse fare as “Dazed and Confused,” “Waking Life,” “School of Rock” and “The Newton Boys.” “A Scanner Darkly,” based on a Philip K. Dick novel, is animated the same way “Waking Life” was: Scenes were shot in the usual fashion, and then artists colored over the frames. There’s no particular reason for this except that it looks cool, and therein lies the rub. Without the rotoscoping (as it’s called), the film would be completely undistinguished. The story, a futuristic thing about surveillance and identity, is nothing special, and neither is the acting (though it’s always fun to see Robert Downey Jr. play a crazy person).

My friend Michael arrived from Houston not long after “A Scanner Darkly” ended. After checking in at the Motel 6 where we’re staying tonight, we searched downtown for a place to park so we could eat dinner. We found a spot, and at the very moment we saw it, a homeless man pointed it out to us. I was unfamiliar with this scenario, but Michael was experienced. Apparently you have to tip the homeless man for his unnecessary service or else run the risk of having your car vandalized. Michael forked over a dollar and thanked the gentleman for his keen work in gesturing at a huge empty parking space, and I counted myself grateful to live in Portland, where our gigantic homeless population has not yet become so industrious.

Michael and I ate at 6th Street’s Iron Cactus, a decent restaurant that was ridiculously busy and probably understaffed. The music part of SXSW was now in full swing, and the streets, pubs, tattoo parlors and restrooms of Austin were thronged with people. At 31, I was older than almost all of them. Every time we walked past a bar from which loud live music was emanating, Michael worried whether he should have brought earplugs. No, he’s not an old man; he’s just a wuss.

It had been my hope that we would see the 9:30 screening of “V for Vendetta,” but the more I examined the situation, the more I realized the idea was futile. I would have no problem getting in with my pass, but Michael would have to stand in the regular-people line, and those losers only get in if there are still seats left once the pass-holders are in. At 8:30, the pass-holder line was already lengthy, and the regular-people queue was stretching around the block, too. So we said goodbye to Scott (who was already in line), abandoned the “V for Vendetta” plan, and joined Greg, Kristina and the new girl at a watering hole several blocks away. Amber had ditched us for a party to which she was invited but we were not. (Is Amber a snob???????? You decide.)

At around 11, Michael, Greg, Kristina and I, now joined by a different new girl — Greg has lived in Austin long enough to have acquaintances everywhere he goes, and I’ve started making a conscious effort not to bother learning their names — went to the ATX Magazine party, being held in a gravel parking lot on the southeast edge of downtown. Bands were doing their sound checks when we arrived, and about 30 people were milling around waiting for something to happen.

After a few minutes, the event’s organizer approached a group of would-be revelers and said we all had to go out the gate, have our IDs checked, and then be re-admitted before they could begin the festivities (and by “festivities,” as with most SXSW-related things, I mean the serving of complimentary alcohol). For some reason, he was looking directly at me when he made this announcement, like somehow hit was my fault the party hadn’t started yet, or my fault that they had left the gates open and let people wander in before they were ready for them. Accepting my apparent position as ringleader, I led us out of the gate, where our IDs were checked and we walked back in.

Unfortunately, we five were the only people to do this. So 10 minutes later, the organizer made the announcement AGAIN, and about 20 people — us included — exited, got carded, and re-entered. That still wasn’t everyone, but at this point the organizer gave up and returned his attention to getting the kegs tapped, a process with which I confess utter unfamiliarity. (It’s a big barrel of beer. Can’t you just drill a hole in it and let it pour out?)

It was a tragically lame party, probably the lamest party in America after Ralph Nader’s Green Party. The gravel parking lot didn’t exactly exude elegance, there were no restrooms, and the only beverage available was beer. Don’t drink beer? Too bad. They didn’t even have water. The weather turned drizzly, too, which I guess wasn’t ATX Magazine’s fault, but they didn’t really do anything to stop it, either.

I realized it was time to say goodbye to SXSW. Michael and I are heading to Houston tomorrow, where I’ll spend a couple post-film-festival days before returning to Portland. With heavy heart I bade farewell to my new best friends, and Michael and I found our way back to his car, pleased to see his payment of $1 had been enough to prevent the bum/extortionist from keying it.

Sundance is legendary for its parties, but my experience has shown that reputation to be undeserved. There are raging parties, no doubt — but they are exclusive and secretive. The official, Sundance-sponsored ones are always worthless, poorly attended and mostly ignored by the regular festival-goers. At SXSW, the official parties were great — in fact, the only bad one I went to was an off-the-record one — and everyone from filmmakers to actors to film critics to regular pass-holders attends.

This turned out to be an important distinction between Sundance and SXSW. At Sundance, if the movies are mediocre, you really feel it. At SXSW, the films were occasionally sub-par, yet I didn’t notice. Why? Because I was having fun anyway. Eating at the Drafthouse, going to SXSW parties, watching “Washington” back in the hotel room, getting caught up in one another’s personal dramas, making fun of Harry Knowles — these six days were outrageously entertaining whether the movies were any good or not. And several of them were very good, of course.

My thanks to Matt Dentler, the suave “conference and festival producer” who is the de facto face of the fest. He introduces almost every screening, using some kind of time-space portal to travel all over Austin, and has been good to the HBS.com crew. Elizabeth Derczo is the festival’s publicist, and she was instrumental in getting me credentialed and making sure members of the press had what they needed. My friends and colleagues Scott and Erik were lovely to let me occupy space in their hotel room, and it was good to see them again so soon after Sundance. Nice to see Oz again, too, and to meet Will and Laura in person for the first time. The Internet makes it possible for us to be friends, but I’m glad we have occasional chances to hang out in real life, too, if only to see what one another smell like.

I don’t think I could live in Austin. It’s too sprawled out for my tastes, and I’m not sure how much fun it is without the festival. I know I don’t want to be here in July, when it’s 110 degrees and there are armies of scorpions patrolling the streets. But I’ll definitely be back next March for SXSW, even if I have to sleep in the street and disturb all of downtown with my snoring.

Day 5: Tuesday, March 14

None of us went to bed until 4 a.m., so we slept in until 11. Then there was a lot of lingering and loitering and farting (mostly Oz), and finally Oz and I headed to the convention center so that he could pick up his credentials and so that I could finally get some serious writing done. And by “serious writing,” I mean blog entries with juvenile shmeckler-related jokes.

There was a massage therapist on hand in the press lounge again, a cool young gal named Jennifer. I forced myself to get some work done and then allowed myself the treat of a complimentary 15-minute massage. It was heavenly. Jennifer said she’s moving to Portland soon, and that’s where I live, so we’re totally best friends now. Later, after I left the press lounge, I realized I should have tipped her, and I cursed my stupidity.

My first film of the day wasn’t until 4:30, and it was “Patriot Act,” by comedian Jeffrey Ross. He joined Drew Carey’s USO tour to Iraq in 2003 — just after the fall of Baghdad and before Saddam was found — and videotaped the trip with his camcorder. Afterward, he thought the footage might make for an entertaining and/or informative movie.

Turns out he was right. There’s a few minutes of footage of him and the other comics performing for crowds of enthusiastic soldiers, the way Bob Hope used to do. But like the Ray Romano film, this one focuses on the behind-the-scenes experiences, not on the gigs themselves. Ross and his buddies are funny, awestruck, frightened and humbled as they meet soldiers, hear harrowing stories, and crack jokes about the war-torn areas they visit. Humor is how people deal with tragedy, after all, and it’s genuinely touching to see how delighted the troops are to have some entertainment.

I was very impressed with the film. Ross is a scathingly funny comedian, known as one of the most hilarious contributors at the Friars Club celebrity roasts. (“Drew Carey is to comedy what Mariah Carey is to comedy,” he once said. He is also fond of making references to Bea Arthur’s penis.) But the film shows him and his compatriots as regular Americans who, whatever their attitude toward Bush’s Iraq policies, are grateful for the dedicated men and women in the military who are doing the tough jobs over there.

Ross was on hand to introduce the film and to take questions afterward. He was in fine form. I’ve never seen his act live, but apparently one of his skills is making quick-witted, off-hand references to audience members, particularly those coming in late or leaving early. During his intro, he interrupted himself several times to acknowledge people just coming in, often noticing them before we did. “Are you a natural two-tone?” he said to a woman with multi-colored hair. “Good, my pot dealer, Joe-Joe, is here,” he said of a guy who looked the part. “You got some good s*** for me? We’re seeing the Strokes tonight.” When a very heavyset woman with a butch haircut entered, he said she was his high school gym teacher.

He was funny in the Q-and-A, too, but given the serious undertones of the film (which is also uproariously funny, I should add), some of the Q’s led to more somber A’s. Still, I like what he said when someone asked him whether he’d seen the other Iraq documentaries playing at the festival, including one called “My Country, My Country”: “I thought that one was about Garth Brooks, so I didn’t go.” He explained that since he’s been over there (and has since returned on another USO tour), it’s difficult for him emotionally to watch movies about the crisis. “I couldn’t (even) watch Lauren Bacall make her Oscar speech,” he said.

I had to skip out of his Q-and-A a little early, though I managed to escape being commented on as I did so. (When one woman got up, Ross instantly said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” So simple, but so funny.) I had to get to the other Alamo Drafthouse, the one down the road a couple miles, and that meant taking a taxi. I had hoped to share the cab with Scott, but I couldn’t find him at our designated meeting place, and he doesn’t have a cell phone (yes, he’s the one; you probably read about him), so I had to shell out the $10 myself.

The movie I was seeing was “The Lost,” and it was an atrocious piece of crap, without question the worst thing I’ve seen at the festival so far. It’s a horror film, sort of, about a young sociopath in the style of “American Psycho’s” Patrick Bateman who kills a couple women and then, four years later, flips out again. But in the meantime, there’s a whole lot of nothing. The film keeps introducing characters and spending scenes with them for no reason, and the lead psycho’s psyche is given only a cursory glance. (He hates his mother, obviously, and has to help her run a Bates-esque motel.) Also, with his cowboy boots, big belt buckle, sleeveless T-shirt, and slick black hair, he looks like k.d. lang, which you’ll probably agree is never a good thing for a lead actor.

I didn’t want to pay another 10 bucks for a cab, so I walked back downtown after the film, a distance of probably a mile and a half. I was good and exhausted by the time I reached the Paramount, where there was no one checking passes at the door, which means anyone could have walked in. Good to know: As the week goes on, security gets more lax. Maybe next time I’ll sneak some friends in.

The film: “The King,” starring Gael Garcia Bernal as a young man who shows up in Corpus Christi, Texas (though the film was actually filmed in Austin), to find the father he never knew. The father in question is a holy-roller minister played by William Hurt, and the tryst he had with the young man’s mother was before he became a Christian, so he wants nothing to do with the fruit of that relationship. Behind his back, the kid starts dating the minister’s teenage daughter — and yes, I mean the teenage daughter who is the guy’s half-sister. It gets even yuckier from there, but it’s an intriguing film. There comes a point where everyone has so many lies and secrets floating around that it’s only a matter of time before they’re all going to be revealed and the stuff’s gonna hit the fan. And hit the fan the stuff does!

It was nearly 11:30 when “The King” ended, and the SXSW closing party was already in full swing. Why have the closing party on Tuesday when the film festival runs through Saturday? I dunno. Beat the rush, I guess. No, it’s because the conference part of the festival (with a trade show, panel discussions, etc.) ended today, and the music part of the festival begins tomorrow. The party is a way to bid farewell to one group while welcoming the other.

For some reason, this party was held outside of a meat-packing plant on the east side of town, I guess because maybe the paper mill and the oil refinery were booked. Scott, Erik, Oz and our new best friends Greg, Amber and Kristina were already there when I arrived, and we had a joyful reunion. For some reason Oz has taken it upon himself to find a girlfriend for Erik, who is a decent enough fellow that he ought to have no trouble finding a girlfriend without the help of a flatulent Australian. But Oz got married recently, and getting married is like becoming a zombie: You stumble around in a daze, you’re sort of the same person you were before but not really, your looks go downhill, and all you ever do is try to get people to join you. Married people look at single people the way zombies do at the living: fresh meat waiting to be converted.

The band Sleater-Kinney was playing, very loudly, at the party. I text-messaged this fact to a friend who I thought would be impressed, and he responded, “kewl.”

I told Greg I’d been to the Jeffrey Ross movie, and he was jealous, because he loves the guy. Alas, Greg had been busy helping to run a panel that Charlize Theron (who produced a documentary) was involved with, so he was stuck looking at her porcelain beauty all afternoon.

A few minutes after learning of Greg’s fondness for Ross, whom should I see across the way but Ross himself! Greg was conversing with someone, so Amber and I scurried over to Ross to say hello and get a picture with my digital camera. I then showed that picture to Greg, who became enraged with jealousy, which was exactly my plan. Luckily, Ross was still around, and we were able to get a picture of Greg with him, too. All the celebrities here — the stars at night really ARE big and bright deep in the heart of Texas — and the one I get my picture with is Jeffrey Ross. But hey, you take what you can get. And sometimes what you get is a schlubby-looking Jew.

Speaking of schlubby-looking Jews, Scott got us all invited to an after-party with the “Darkon” guys back at their hotel, and if there’s anyone who knows how to party, it’s people who dress up like Renaissance Faire soldiers and roll 12-sided dice. With the SXSW party ending at 1 a.m. (it had begun at 9, right after the awards ceremony), we still had an hour before our customary bedtime, so we figured we’d go. Unfortunately, we got the location wrong, and by the time we found out the correct locale, we were back in our hotel room and it was 2:30. Scott still went, though, and returned at some unholy hour, just in time to throw things at me to make me stop snoring.

SXSW, like most major film festivals, has a jury to choose awards for best documentary and best narrative films, and there are audience-voted awards in the same areas. They hand out ballots at screenings of eligible films, and you can rate the film on a scale of 1 to 5. I never vote, though, because I feel like since I got in free, I shouldn’t be allowed to have the same input as people who paid for their tickets. Also, not voting takes less effort than voting, as my generation proved in the last presidential election.

For documentaries, “Maxed Out” won a Special Jury Prize (whatever that means), and “Jam,” about 1970s roller derby competitors, took the main prize. “Darkon,” predictably, won the audience award.

Among fiction films, the jury gave an award for Outstanding Ensemble Cast to “Americanese” (which I hope to see tomorrow), and another one for Outstanding Visual Achievement to “Inner Circle Line” (which I know nothing about). The main jury prize went to “Live Free or Die,” which astounds me, considering how average it was. The audience chose “Americanese.” Luckily, “Crash” didn’t win anything.

Day 4: Monday, March 13

In all my years at Sundance, I’ve never seen more than five movies in one day. Four is typical, and five is occasional. But six? Madness.

But today was it. Today I accomplished the elusive six-movie day.

It actually wasn’t that hard. Screenings were at 11 a.m., 1:30, 3:45, 6:15, 9:15 and midnight. There was enough time between them to get from one venue to the next, and occasionally enough time to eat food. And I didn’t have to force it, either: All six movies were ones I was actually interested in seeing.

Which isn’t to say they were all good. First was “Live Free or Die” at the Alamo Drafthouse, which is fast becoming my favorite place in the world. (Our new best friend Greg mentioned that Entertainment Weekly named it the best movie theater experience in America. I recall the feature where they listed their top 10, but I had forgotten that an Austin landmark was at the top.) The movie started late due to a press screening for “The Notorious Bettie Page” (which I’ve already seen) being held at 9:30. Why they didn’t foresee a 9:30 press screening interfering with an 11:00 public screening, I don’t know. Maybe they thought “Bettie Page” was only 60 minutes long.

Anyway, while we were outside (in beautiful weather, the first nice, pleasant day we’ve had in Austin), a festival volunteer came by to inform us that it would be an extra 20 minutes or so before we were allowed in. He said if we wanted to, we might mosey over to a nearby coffeehouse and grab a snack. That suggestion led to this conversation between a man and his female friend, in line behind me:

WOMAN: I want a cupcake, but I don’t want to walk three blocks to Starbucks.
MAN: Lady, if you won’t walk three blocks for a cupcake, you don’t deserve to eat.

Truer words were never spoken.

“Live Free or Die,” as it turns out, is a lukewarm comedy set in New Hampshire, where a cowardly wannabe nicknamed Rugged (played by Aaron Stanford) tries to maintain a reputation as a hardcore gangster criminal without actually committing any significant crimes. Paul Schneider is funny as Rugged’s dumb sidekick/goon, but the film never rises above average.

I exited the Drafthouse and got right back in line for “Darkon.” I wasn’t alone. Apparently the buzz had spread beyond the confines of that “Darkon”-sponsored party, because the line was already stretched around the corner. Erik joined me in line — no one has any compunction about letting one or two or 12 of their friends join them, regardless of where they are in line — and we got to see the much-discussed “Darkon.”

These live-action role-playing guys (and girls, though they are much less plentiful) are about the way you’d expect them to be. In the documentary interviews, several of them state plainly that the fantasy game is appealing because it gives them a chance to be something they never are in real life: powerful and successful and not living in their parents’ basement.

How does it work? It’s a cross between “Dungeons & Dragons” and those guys who re-enact Civil War battles in meticulous detail. The players make their own armor and weapons (soft, round-edged representations of swords, cudgels and maces), and there are color codes to determine what kind of injury you suffer if you are hit during a battle. There are a lot of off-battlefield negotiations between rulers, too. When the documentary was being shot, the imperialistic kingdom of Mordom was being challenged by the smaller, more peaceful Laconia, because the Laconians didn’t like how Mordom was always throwing its weight around, the big jerks.

The best line in “Darkon” comes when a man whose character is that of a dark elf is trying to buy potions from someone. He buys a couple — agony, paralysis, etc. — and then says, very seriously, with great intensity, “One thing I do need, and will pay greatly for, is a supernatural death poison.” Don’t we all, dark elf. Don’t we all.

“Darkon” turns out to be pretty fun, though by no means revolutionary or particularly insightful. The filmmakers don’t exactly make fun of the subjects, but they don’t exactly take them as seriously as they take themselves, either. I suppose you could either laugh at or laugh with the participants, depending on your opinion of fantasy role-playing games. I laughed at. But then, this is coming from someone who watches 350 movies a year, so maybe I’m not one to talk about moderation.

Erik headed up to the Dobie for something next, while I went to the Paramount to join Will, Scott and Laura for “95 Miles to Go,” a documentary that follows Ray Romano on a stand-up tour through Florida and Georgia. He hates to fly, so after his initial trip to Miami, he drove a minivan to all his destinations, accompanied by long-time friend and opening act Tom Caltabiano and an “Everybody Loves Raymond” intern named Roger. Roger’s in charge of filming their every move, and while the film has maybe 15 minutes of total footage of Ray’s shows, it’s mostly about everything else: the driving, Ray’s petty neuroses, and his pleasantly bickersome relationship with Tom. It’s a very funny movie, again serving no greater purpose or offering insight into anything, but providing many hearty laughs.

Ray and Tom were on hand for Q-and-A afterward, so we stuck around. They continued to be very funny, and they were soon joined by “surprise” guest Brad Garrett, Ray’s “Everybody Loves Raymond” co-star. He harassed Ray, made fun of his ego, and provided general merriment. It was a most enjoyable Q-and-A.

They don’t let you bring outside food into the Paramount, though they are more than happy to sell you candy bars for $2. Not the movie-theater-sized candy bars, either, but the regular ones you can get in a vending machine for 65 cents. You expect to pay a dollar for those at film festival venues, but TWO dollars? No sir. Because I don’t like The Man telling me what I can and can’t bring into theaters, I was more than happy to hide Scott’s leftover stromboli in my backpack, which the people at the door were going to make him discard. After the Ray Romano thing, he stood in line for the next film and ate his stromboli while I dashed across the street to a restaurant called Hickory Street, where our new best friends Amber, Greg and Kristina were dining. I ate Greg’s french fries and bought a cookie and called that dinner. I’m thinking of writing a book called “The Film Festival Diet,” if only because I’m reasonably sure it’s no less healthy than Atkins.

The next movie, for which we were joined by our new best friends, was “The Oh in Ohio,” starring Parker Posey as a woman who, despite all the efforts of her husband Paul Rudd, can’t seem to achieve the, um, ultimate, er, destination in their marital collaborations. (The “O” in Ohio is the Big O. Not Oprah, the other one.) The movie’s pretty dirty (“sexy” is the word the festival programmers used), and while it’s funny for a while, it takes an odd detour in its last act. This detour involves Danny DeVito, so I guess I don’t need to tell you that “sexy” is not the word people should be using to describe it.

It was then time for me and Scott to join Amber and Kristina in piling into Greg’s bird-crap-covered car and driving to the other Alamo Drafthouse. This one’s new, has two screens, and is on the south side of town. We were to see “Bickford Shmeckler’s Cool Ideas,” and maybe it was “The Oh in Ohio” influencing us, but we thought “Shmeckler” sounded like an obscene job description. (“What do you do?” “Oh, I’m a shmeckler. I’m in charge of all the shmeckling.”)

The movie is an up-and-down comedy about a brainy college student (Patrick Fugit) whose notebook of Stephen Hawking-style brilliance goes missing. I like certain elements of the film — it was shot in a very nice-looking high-definition digital video, for example, and Fugit is almost always a fun actor to watch — but it’s not as amusing or entertaining as it wants to be, nor are Bickford Shmeckler’s cool ideas actually all that cool.

That’s five, if you’re counting, and one to go. We drove back downtown to the original Alamo Drafthouse, and actually had an hour to kill before we needed to get in line. (We killed it by sitting in the sports bar next door and drinking Coke. Don’t let anyone tell you Austin isn’t a party town.) The midnight movie was “Population 436,” a washed-over “Twilight Zone” story about a weird little town where the population is always exactly 436. We realize within the first couple minutes that every time someone is born, someone else dies, so the question I have is why the filmmaker decided to drag it out for so long. How do you make a film like this and not realize how unoriginal the idea is? Have we forgotten Shirley Jackson’s classic short story “The Lottery”? Or any of the various TV episodes and movies about strange burgs with ancient superstitions that involve human sacrifice? I mean come on.

When Scott and I got back to the hotel, we found our HBS.com pall Chris “Oz” Parry had arrived from Vancouver. That’s four people sharing this hotel room, if you’re counting, and fortunately none to go. We called for another roll-away bed to be sent up, and we wondered how many times we could do that before they started asking questions.

We also showed Oz a DVD of our favorite short film, an animated music video called “Washington.” It’s a slow-grooved hip-hoppy song about the Father of Our Country, with his achievements exaggerated to Paul Bunyan proportions. “He ate opponents’ brains / he invented cocaine” is one couplet; “He has a wig for his wig and a brain for his heart” is another. We’ve watched it two or three times every night since getting it.

After the nightly “Washington” screenings, Erik wanted to sleep, Oz and I wanted to write, and Scott wanted to watch a screener of something. What we settled on was ordering room service. It was the first time I had ever had room service, actually. Every time I’ve stayed at a hotel, it’s always been the cheap kind that doesn’t have room service, or the expensive kind where I’m spending so much on the room that I can’t afford to spend $15 for chicken fingers. But it was 3 a.m., we were starving, and so I forked over $9 for a club sandwich. The sandwich wasn’t worth $9, of course — the only way a club sandwich would be worth $9 is if it came with fries and four dollars. But what could I do? You watch six movies in one day, you deserve a treat.

Day 3: Sunday, March 12

We were all late in arising this morning. Erik and Scott both reported that my snoring was better, which assuaged my guilt, though I confess my guilt is easily assuaged. (One good anagram of “assuaged” is “sausaged.”) My first order of business was to drop by the press office, which I hadn’t yet had occasion to visit.

Like the press lounges at Sundance and CineVegas, the SXSW one has computers for us to use, tables for lounging, and a few complimentary beverages. They don’t have much in the way of press kits, though, which are often invaluable for writing reviews because they include cast lists and plot summaries (handy for when you see 30 movies in one week and your memory needs a nudge weeks later). All the films have publicists on hand, but what most of them do instead of providing real press kits is to just print up glossy full-color one-sheets — advertisements, basically, which they strew around the press office in a reckless manner. I’m all for SXSW being cooler and less rigid than other fests, but sometimes it’s better to be a grownup, you know?

One thing the press lounge had that was unique to my experience was free massages. There was a guy there, a professional (I gathered), with a chair set up and everything. I saw him but didn’t pay attention to him nor realize what his purpose was until I heard someone approach him and say, “Are the massages complimentary?” (Even though everyone at film festivals wants free stuff, no one ever uses the word “free.” They say “complimentary” or “open,” as in, “Does the party have an open bar?” Which it does, by the way.) The massages were indeed complimentary, and you just have to plop down in the chair and let the guy go to town on your back, neck and shoulders.

Alas, he was soon occupied with the guy who said “complimentary,” and I had to leave. But I hope to enjoy a complimentary rubbing before the week is through.

I bought a slice of pizza again as I walked over to the Paramount for a 1:30 screening of a film called “Gretchen.” Erik joined me and fell asleep halfway through it; I stayed awake and loved it. I know I just compared something to “Napoleon Dynamite” yesterday, but it’s even more applicable here. In fact, about 15 minutes in, I thought: I’m watching this year’s “Napoleon Dynamite.” It has the same quirky vibe, the same small-town characters, quiet tone and semi-absurdist view of high school. The festival’s printed film guide, I later noticed, compares the title character to a cross between Dawn Wiener from “Welcome to the Dollhouse” and Deb from “Napoleon Dynamite,” and that’s exactly right. I look forward to seeing this one again.

Erik and I walked back to the convention center and festival headquarters, stopping on the way to eat at a restaurant we couldn’t find, which means we didn’t eat there after all. I had noticed a Jimmy John’s sandwich shop in my travels, and I have fond memories of that chain as a good cheap place to eat. But when Erik and I looked for it, it was nowhere to be found, gone like the city of Brigadoon. So we just went to headquarters, where I wrote for a while.

Scott was there, and he and I wound up at the Registrants Lounge, which is a completely useless place for all festival-goers to hang out. It’s outdoors under a tent, so it’s hot and humid, and the complimentary beverages consist of beer and water. Scott ran into a couple publicists and a filmmaker he loves and kindly invited me to join him as he chatted with them, but I was feeling hungry and anti-social, so I went in search of a place to eat. (One time I used the term “anti-social” in that context and I got an e-mail from someone pointing out that the way we use “anti-social” colloquially is highly inaccurate. He said what I mean to say is “non-social” or “unsocial.” So to make “anti-social” more apropos, I killed him.)

6th Street is crawling with eating establishments, so I chose one at random called BD Riley’s Irish Pub. The only available seating was at the bar, where I deposited myself and asked the bartender for a menu. The bartender, who looked just like Mike Novick on “24,” produced it cheerfully and asked what I’d like to drink. I ordered a Diet Coke, which he brought me and thereupon ceased to acknowledge my existence.

It was truly strange. He brought new drinks to the guys next to me, took the food order of two girls next to them, and refused to even make eye contact with me. The only thing I can figure is that since I wasn’t having big-boy drinks, he wasn’t going to waste his time with me. Finally I left $2 on the bar to cover the Diet Coke and left in search of an eatery that actually wanted my business. BD Riley’s Irish Pub: the first Austin restaurant to get on Snider’s List.

Next I tried the Jackalope, a pub that has menus on the tables yet requires you to walk to the kitchen to order food, and possibly to make it yourself. Maybe it’s only certain days it’s like that, but I wasn’t having any of it. I was going to sit somewhere, have someone ask me what I wanted, and then allow that person to bring it to me. None of these stipulations were negotiable.

At last I found what I was looking for in a 6th Street pub called, fittingly, Paradise. A cheerful girl told me to sit wherever I wanted, and then she brought me a menu and took my order. The food was decent, it was reasonably priced, and I was able to read my book (“Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close” by Jonathan Safron Foer) in comfort. Thus Paradise earned a spot on Snider’s List (the other one).

(Side note: You know what I keep seeing on menus in Austin? Fried pickles. Someone told me I really need to try them. I disagree with that position.)

I saw two movies at the Paramount next. First was “The Cassidy Kids,” an uneven blend of comedy and intrigue about the reunion of five people who, as children, solved a local murder. That event was the inspiration for a (fictional) kids’ sitcom that ran from 1982-86, but even now certain questions about the original mystery remain unanswered. The film stars Kadeem Hardison, who you may remember as Dwayne Wayne on “A Different World,” or possibly as the guy who asks for change outside of Hardee’s. It’s a great idea — the reunion of people who watched fictionalized versions of themselves on TV for four seasons — but the mystery element is ridiculously handled.

Will had joined us at some point, and next we watched “Even Money,” an Afterschool Special sort of melodrama that explains why Gambling Is Bad. Reason #1: It makes you lose money. Reason #2: It apparently makes you overact, too, though it’s possible you’re only susceptible to that if you’re Kim Basinger, who plays a casino-addicted wife. Kelsey Grammer wears a fake nose and plays a hard-boiled homicide detective. You should probably see the movie just for that, actually, and for no other reason.

The director, Mark Rydell, was sitting just across the aisle from us, which made it very awkward when we laughed at the unintentionally funny parts of his movie. It also makes it awkward when, as everyone’s leaving the theater, we’re walking past him saying, “HOLY CRAP WAS THAT BAD!!”

It was then time for, yes, another party. Three nights, three parties. This one was at Maggie Mae’s again, but on the ground floor. Apparently the upper level was reserved for some magical special party for special people only, and scum like SXSW passholders weren’t allowed. But on the plus side, we ran into our new best friends Amber and Greg, as well as their friend (and our third new best friend) Kristina. This time we took some pictures, in case you didn’t believe us that we have new best friends.

Rumors were spreading that Wednesday’s to-be-announced slot would be a screening of “A Scanner Darkly,” Richard Linklater’s new film based on a Philip K. Dick story. This makes the third time at SXSW that I have had to mention a celebrity with the last name Dick. The rumor couldn’t be confirmed, but it seemed reasonable, especially considering Linklater is a Texan.

This party was sponsored by the movie “Darkon,” which I have not seen but which Scott says is fantastic. The subject matter didn’t interest me: It’s a documentary about a group that engages in live-action role-playing games. In other words, rather than just sitting around playing “Dungeons & Dragons,” they actually put on homemade costumes and pretend to fight with homemade weapons.

I should choose my words carefully here, I think, but let me just say that I think role-playing games are stupid and the people who play them are losers. Wait, wait, that totally came out wrong. What I mean is, I hate those people. No. Shoot. I’m sorry. I don’t have a point. But I wasn’t planning to see the movie until I went to this party, which made the film seem fun and which was heavily attended by people who had already seen it and were raving about it. Does it count as “buzz” if the only place I’ve heard it is at a party sponsored by the film being buzzed about? Or is that more like propaganda? Eh, whatever. I decided I’ll see “Darkon” tomorrow. It’s playing during the slot where I was going to see “Summercamp,” a documentary about kids’ summer camps, but forget that. Those kids can all go to hell.

Day 2: Saturday, March 11

I snore. I’m registered in the National Snorer Database, and when I move into a new house, I have to inform the people in my neighborhood. Knowing this, I brought ear plugs to share with my roommates Scott and Erik, but they both declined last night when I offered them. They both said they were so tired, they’d be asleep before I was anyway.

This proved to be true, but they weren’t counting on being woken up by my snoring as soon as I fell asleep. I’ve never heard myself, obviously, but those who have describe it as a frightful experience. Erik compared it to the film “Grizzly Man,” in which a man is eaten by a bear. Previous roommates have likened it to a herd of giraffes galloping and snorting as they stampede across the Serengeti. (Never sleep with English majors.)

Whichever wild creatures you choose to compare it to, the point is, being in the vicinity is not conducive to a good night’s sleep. I was deeply sorry for having disturbed Scott and Erik, though in my defense, I did offer them earplugs. I imagine tonight they will take me up on the offer.

First order of business for me and Erik was to see an 11 a.m. film at the Alamo Drafthouse. This is one of those places where you can order food and booze to watch during the movie, where every row of seats has a long, narrow table in front of it to accommodate dining while watching. Being no great fan of popcorn or other typical movie fare, I salute whoever came up with this business model, the one where you can eat a turkey club sandwich and fries while you watch “Big Momma’s House 2.”

Salt Lake City has a place like this called Brewvies that I used to attend regularly, but the Drafthouse has them beat. Where at Brewvies one must go to the lobby to order one’s food and then return to pick it up when it’s ready, the Drafthouse sends a waitstaff around to the seats to collect your order, then to bring it to you, then to collect payment before the movie is over. They operate quietly and with minimal interruption to the film, which is nice, and you get to enjoy food and drink without ever getting up. It is probably the single greatest achievement in the food service industry since the invention of the chicken finger.

So the food was great; the movie, not so much. It was “Bondage,” a serio-comic tale of juvenile delinquency about a troublemaking Orange County teen trying to survive in juvenile hall. The kid is played by Michael Angarano, best known as Jack’s son on “Will & Grace,” and he’s an engaging character. Everyone else is flat and under-written, though, and the film meanders. We didn’t stay for the Q-and-A, but I suspect from the film’s opening title card — “This s*** really happened” — that the filmmaker was hoping the film’s basis in fact would sustain it.

Next I had to find the Dobie Theatre to catch another screening. Erik gave me directions, and I proceeded on foot, mostly uphill, about 16 blocks up Guadalupe Street. The Dobie is a three-screen arthouse theater in a sad little mall near the University of Texas campus, and I found it easily enough, though I was sweating like the proverbial whore in church when I arrived, what with the heat and humidity that are so powerful it is impossible not to complain about them constantly.

The movie: “Motorcycle,” a low-budget little comedy shot on grainy black-and-white film that tells the story of a motorcycle and the lives of three people who own it, one after another. The characters all have a “Napoleon Dynamite”-style low energy and slight dorkiness about them, and the film’s set in an unidentified medium-sized city with no distinguishing features. It’s not quite funny enough to sustain itself and its intentionally low-key demeanor, but it’s passable.

I had originally planned to catch a film at the Arbor Theatre next, but an examination of the map revealed that it is a 20-minute CAR ride uptown, and neither trusting the city buses nor wanting to hire a taxi, I decided to cancel all my Arbor-related screenings. (One way Sundance has SXSW beat is with its shuttle buses to take you from one venue to another. The attendance at “Motorcycle” was embarrassingly low, and I reckon it’s because the only people who want to bother with the Dobie are the locals, who have cars and can drive to the venues. All the out-of-towners are staying downtown.)

I found a city bus that would take me back to Congress Avenue and was soon at the Paramount, where a film called “Maxed Out” was to commence at 4 p.m. I found Scott and Will in line, along with David Poland of MovieCityNews.com and Tim Ryan of RottenTomatoes.com. (SXSW doesn’t do press screenings, but passholders do get let into the public screenings before everyone else.) There is a noticeable dearth of newspaper critics here. Except for Joe Leydon from Variety, I’ve seen only online guys — though without separate press screenings, and with everyone’s badges looking about the same, it could be that I’ve seen print journalists and just haven’t realized it. Like vampires, they walk among us.

The Paramount is a huge theater, seating something like 1,200 people, and so I was surprised to see it so full. Last night’s Robert Altman premiere, sure. But a documentary no one had ever heard of? Weird.

Let me be the eighth or ninth out of what will eventually be hundreds of writers to point out that “Maxed Out” does for credit card companies what “Super Size Me” did for fast food. (The filmmakers’ names are even similar. “Super Size Me” was made by Morgan Spurlock, while “Maxed Out” comes from James Scurlock.) “Maxed Out” uses humor, pathos and outrage to show how “obscenely profitable” the credit card business is (to use one expert’s terminology), how wicked screwed-up the FICO scores and credit-report system is (how do they determine your credit score? It’s a big fat secret!), and how the government has only made things worse for consumers. The revision of bankruptcy laws last year that makes it harder for middle-class people trapped under a mountain of debt to file for bankruptcy, even when there’s no other viable option for them? That bill was written by MBNA — the second-largest provider of credit in the country, not to mention George W. Bush’s greatest campaign contributor.

There are some flaws in the film, such as using extreme worst-case scenarios to engage our emotions (people so distraught over impossible debt that they commit suicide) and a complete failure to even bring up the subject of personal responsibility. But as to its major themes, of greedy credit card companies that will issue credit to anyone; that especially pursue people they KNOW are likely to go over their limits and fail to make payments; that sit there before congressional committees and say, with straight faces, that they have systems in place to make sure only good candidates are offered credit — well, anyone who’s ever tangled with a credit card company will come out of “Maxed Out” with boiling blood and a vow to get out from under their infernal thumbs once and for all.

I was to be back at the Paramount again an hour later, so after “Maxed Out” I ventured across the street to one of the 8,482 pizza-by-the-slice restaurants that populate downtown Austin for a little dinner. Upon my return to the theater, I watched a documentary that will make some people mad just by its very existence: “Al Franken: God Spoke.” It’s a rather unfocused account of the launch of Franken’s Air America Radio network, along with his campaigning for Kerry in the 2004 election. It’s entertaining in places, but it needs to have its scope narrowed.

Here’s my problem with political pundits in general: Everything they accuse the other side of usually applies to them, too. Franken makes fun of how he has so rankled Bill O’Reilly that O’Reilly now mentions Franken almost every day. (This was during the launch of Air America.) Yet Franken is easily just as obsessed with O’Reilly as O’Reilly is with him. Name-calling, baiting, a condescending tone — both sides dish it out. Yet somehow each side thinks it’s only the other side that does it. Grr.

It was amusing to watch the film with what was obviously a very liberal audience. Whenever someone in the film would make a point they agreed with, they would applaud, and people applauding a movie always makes me laugh. (If the filmmaker is in attendance, it makes sense to applaud at the end. But failing that, there’s no reason. And there’s NEVER any cause for clapping DURING a movie. I mean, what are you saying? “Yes, movie! I liked that! Show me more things like that!” The movie’s not being improvised, folks. It was shot and edited a long time ago.)

But scenes of Franken’s run-ins with Ann Coulter were especially enlightening. Everyone’s laughing at Franken’s quips and verbal jousting, and much of it is very funny. Then he counters the right’s claim that he and other lefties “hate America” by pointing out that he has done several USO tours. When it’s Coulter’s turn to talk, she says, “I did win the bet on whether it would take more or less than five minutes for Al to mention his USO tours,” the point being that he mentioned it immediately, which apparently was predictable.

That’s funny! She made a funny jab! And the only audible laughter at it in the entire theater was mine. I think Ann Coulter is infuriating, narrow-minded and an outrageous history revisionist — but come on, a funny line is a funny line, I don’t care who says it. If Hitler were to show up and tell the “Aristocrats” joke, I’d laugh, I’m sorry.

Next I dashed over to the convention center to get in line for an Andy Dick movie. (That’s how you know film festivals are a bizarro world: People dash places just to get in line for Andy Dick movies.) I heard several people expressing anticipation for the film; to each his own, I thought. I’ve always thought Andy Dick was amusing in small doses, but an entire film? With him as the writer, director and star? It makes one nervous.

Scott joined me in the audience, and we both had the same reaction: This movie is funny for 20 minutes, and then it goes on for another 65. It’s called “Danny Roane: First Time Director,” and it’s about a former sitcom star who sets out to make a film chronicling his battle with alcoholism. The movie we’re watching is supposedly the behind-the-scenes documentary about the making of the film, which of course is a disaster. It’s interesting how we get to watch two directors screw up their movies at the same time: Fictional Danny Roane ruins his by relapsing into alcoholism, and real Andy Dick ruins his with weak writing and an over-reliance on poop and puke jokes.

Scott and I fled as soon as it was over and figured, since it was 11:30, we might as well go to another SXSW-sponsored party. They have them almost every night, and while Sundance’s official parties are usually lame, SXSW’s tend to be much more “off the hook,” as the kids say (unless the kids do not say that). We were both tired, but hey, SXSW comes but once a year. So party on!

We ran into Erik as we were entering Maggie Mae’s, a large tavern on 6th Street. The SXSW party (again open to all passholders) was on the second level, which is completely outdoors — the roof of the building, essentially. The weather was perfect for it, still warm even at midnight (and humid, but no one listens anymore when I complain about that).

And it was packed! We saw actress Clea DuVall with what someone alleged was her date, a very pretty woman about her same age. If Clea DuVall is a lesbian, and if that’s common knowledge, I’m not going to be the one to mention it. Erik saw David Cross enter the party and later saw him leave, but we never saw him in the meantime. Xander Berkeley — best known as tragic figure George Mason on the first few seasons of “24″ — was there, as he had been at last night’s party (which I forgot to mention last night). And so was Kevin Corrigan, who everyone recognized from TV’s “Grounded for Life” and who has been in several movies I’ve seen but who didn’t look the least bit familiar to me.

Speaking of “Grounded for Life,” Scott and I wound up talking to a couple of SXSW volunteers, pixie-faced Amber and her guy friend Greg, and we learned that Amber works for a WB affiliate. Greg said with the upcoming merger between WB and UPN, merchandise with the WB logo is being clearance-saled off the shelves, which led to Amber buying six “Grounded for Life” mugs for a dollar. I don’t know why I thought that was so funny, but I did.

Greg also did an impression of Christopher Walken helping someone parallel park, and told me what the cool kids call Austin: ATX. So I was glad I ran into him.

We also met Tally Abecassis, director of the cute Canadian documentary “Lifelike,” about taxidermists. I screened the film before the festival and had already posted a review, and Scott had interviewed her for HBS.com. She remembered him, and I mentioned I had written a review, and she said, “Oh? Is it …?” She wanted to know if it was positive or negative. I panicked momentarily as I scanned my mental hard drive: What if I hated this movie?! But no, I liked it, and told her so. Whew.

After staying far too long at the party, we returned to the hotel, stopping yet again for a slice of pizza from one of the many vendors on 6th Street, which looked like Mardi Gras tonight. While Erik and I slept, Scott watched two screeners. And I tried to sleep on my side so I wouldn’t snore as much.