There's something about the magic of movies. Day six started out terrible, with what seemed to be an unending series of frustrations. The rain was still softening up the city and making traffic downtown loads of fun. And with the advent of music festival, the parasitic parking lots went into full gouging mode. If there's one thing, and only one thing, that I despise about my hometown, it's that long ago the city gave up many of its lots and allowed businesses to rent out their own lots to guys with a lawn chair and a sign who want to charge you for the right to go downtown. Yesterday when I arrived at the lot adjacent to the Drafthouse, a man approached me and said "Ten bucks." "Wait," I said "it was seven yesterday." "Yeah, that was yesterday."

I'd arrived early to get a good seat only to be told, when they finally let us in, that the director had invited everyone he'd ever met in his life to the screening. They were allowed in beforehand. Entire rows were roped off and every seat I tried to sit in turned out to be in a row that one guy was saving for his entire family. "See that girl over there? She was a researcher on the film. This row is hers." Apparently, the director had never heard of a cast and crew screening. So finally ending up with a lousy seat after being redirected by a number of rude people, I felt bad for the people who were turned away after waiting in line in the rain and hoped that this film was worth the frustrations of the day.

It wasn't. Ya Basta! turned out to be a poorly constructed and shot documentary that took an incredibly interesting topic (Mexico's vast kidnapping problem) and gave it all the production value, visual appeal and complex storytelling of bad television. I've seen "fire and forget" news programs on unknown cable channels that had more spit and polish than this. And to compound things, I'd made the mistake of ordering food, so I couldn't just slip out and catch another movie. The day was rapidly going downhill and I was trapped in a theatre with a mind-numbing documentary. This was not going to be a good day.

And that's what's so great about the magic of the movies. By this point in the day, I was in a mood most foul. I needed something to change course quickly. And that's when I saw Dirty Country. Easily the funniest thing I've seen at SXSW, Dirty Country is a documentary about Larry Pierce, a 53 year-old auto worker who performs naughty country and western songs in his garage – which he later records and are sold in truck stops nationwide. And when I say naughty, I mean downright filthy, foul and dirty. In the best way. Replete with love songs about sex, songs about hygiene, and well, references to every single body part you have – there are few verbal taboos this film doesn't completely obliterate. And while it certainly isn't as over the top and offensive as The Aristocrats, what it has in its place is a very human story about this guy who doesn't realize that in some communities he's a legend. He's just Larry.

When a touring band that has long been fans of Larry finally tracks him down in hopes of performing with him, they discover he's never actually played a concert in his life that wasn't hosted in his garage. So the band, -itis, then put into motion the means of making Larry the star he deserves to be. It's impossible to watch this movie and not laugh your John Brown hind parts off or fall in love with Larry and the –itis gang.

Hell, when I was in the bathroom a couple of Larry's new fans saw him in one of the stalls (he was there for the world premiere), gave each other a look that instantly revealed what they were thinking and then they pulled out a camera. When the flash went off Larry bellowed "Aw, hell! Was that of me?" "Yup." Someone called out. "Aw, Expletive deleted it." And the bathroom erupted into laughter. Juvenile? Puerile? Adolescent? Yup, every last bit of it. It's also the funniest hour and a half I've spent this week. The movie made me feel so good I'd forgotten all the crud that had soiled the day beforehand. I prepped myself for my last movie of the day after spending some time in the lobby joking around with Larry and the –itis boys.

Black Sheep. Oh yes. Talk about a way to cap off your day. My wife had shown up for this masterpiece as the buzz on it had told us it was a film we had to see together. You see, it's about zombie sheep in New Zealand that go nuts and try to kill everyone. Except that those they don't kill turn into Were-sheep. An no, it isn't serious. Just serious enough to make you laugh the whole way through. With visual effects by WETA (LotR, King Kong), the film has a remarkably high level of production value and is probably the reigning king of midnight movies here at SXSW. I mean, killer sheep. Come on. Who can top that? By the last frame the day had become an absolute success and I drove home hungry for day seven.

The Buzz. Apparently I wasn't the only one who loved Inside the Circle. I've been approached a couple times by friends asking if I'd seen it so they could glow about it. Only one person thought it was a bit long, but still good. When that's the worst I hear, it's a great thing. Also I wasn't the only one to be mixed on The Signal. When this releases later this year, I hope they accentuate the blood and horror elements of the film, as that seems to be the biggest complaint. People thought it was a sci-fi film, not a bloody horror film, and that certainly affected their opinion. But no one's hated it - just had some weird or lackluster reactions and offset those who loved it (which admittedly are many.)

C. Robert Cargill - - - Email Me
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Austin-based Cargill, who "... not only loves, but owns, The Cutting Edge," writes on Movies and DVD two times a week.

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