I’ve avoided the Film Festival this year. I’ve gone faithfully for the last several years running, and frankly, I just don’t think I can take it this year. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for the genre – yes, genre – experimental is not an adjective and has nothing to do with the concept of using new techniques when you’re using the word in conjunction with the word film; it’s a genre descriptor like Modern Art (which has a specific meaning: art created in the period from 1890-1970 or so). So I’ve restricted myself to snarking from the sidelines this year. I figure, if they can put up the films that look exactly the same every year, I can put up snark that sounds the same, too.

Keith has snagged an invite and is going to the judge’s brunch this morning. I’m a little concerned about the dishes they might be serving. Here are my imaginings:

The Killing Lens

This dish explores the appropriation and exploitation of art by corporate and commercial interests. Raw eggs are gathered by force from wild Chilean chickens and served by dropping each egg into a modified 16mm projector and shooting it out through the missing lens. Guests must hold their plates up like screens and allow the eggs to splatter onto them, signifying the destruction of art at the hands of profiteers. Not rated. 90 seconds.

Pirate Rain, Sculpture God

This joyful dish celebrates the experimental filmmaker’s freedom from the tyranny of the constraints of editing, content, structure and intellectual rigor. Slices of raw bacon are attached to a large cinematic screen, and while guests intently watch for hours, or perhaps even days, the bacon is cooked to perfection by the warmth of the light from a single 16mm projector lamp. Not rated. Time is irrelevant.

…

There are likely to be others, including toast created by burning the intestinal gas of oppressed coffee farmers who are starting a civil war with the aid of sex workers from Philadelphia, but all in all, I think it’s best I stay home.