My second day at the Vancouver International Film Festival brought white lines of thin girls, silent film shadows, a Unabomber web, and American telemarketing Mubai-style. But before all that, it might be best to begin with life outside the movie theater. It does exist, after all, even if film festival obsessiveness sometimes make it easy to forget.

Documentaries are taking over my life. Lately, everything I wanna watch is either true or the next best thing. So it was only a matter of time before I'd cross paths with Docurama, a DVD label that handles documentaries exclusively. Good ones, too, including The Staircase, about a high-profile murder trial in my home state of North Carolina. My big plans for the near future are to sit down and watch The Staircase in its entirety (all six hours of it -- seriously, y'all, this is the shit that curls my toes). I caught a few grisly, gripping segments during its Sundance Channel airings. Good times.

Docurama's most inspired venture is its Docurama Film Festival -- the idea is, they "program" a film fest in the form of a DVD collection available for purchase. Then you and your housemates and the family dog can hole up and watch 'em at your leisure. The fest's second go-round is out now, and the line-up includes some real keepers.

The weekend is a time for perversion and penance, so what better way to begin mine at the Vancouver International Film Festival than with The Pervert's Guide to Cinema, a Slavoj Zizek-guided psychoanalytic tour through the works of Alfred Hitchcock, David Lynch, and others? And what could be a more monastic way to end the weekend than with the devotional cinema of Jacques Rivette's 12-plus hour long Out 1: Noli me tangere? In between, I caught Shortbus and witnessed the full frenzy of a Beatlemania-like response to Bong Joon-ho and his totally awesome monster flick The Host.

Well, this comes as absolutely no surprise. As the Hollywood Reporter noted today, Newmarket Films is running into difficulties with the distribution of Death of a President. The Toronto International Film Festival hit -- which imagines the assassination of President George W. Bush, and all the Cheney-led chaos and freedom-crackdowns that follow -- will not be playing at the nation's largest theater chain, Regal Cinemas. Nor will it be opening at any theaters operated by Cinemark USA, the company that just took over the Century chain (including the brand-new SF Centre, so nope, you won't be slidin' on their swanky faux-leather seats while you watch the Prez eat a lead sandwich).

Fortunately, the made-for-British-TV faux-doc will be coming to the Bay Area no matter what -- look for Death of a President at one of San Francisco's Landmark Theatres starting Oct 27. Though I had mixed feelings about the film (loved its shocking concept, ehh on its second-act slowdown) I'm glad to see it's getting attention (although, come on -- like this movie is just gonna casually saunter into theaters?) Too bad this smaller release means it might well end up preaching to the choir -- as so many politically-themed docs (or faux-docs, as the case may be) do, tending to open only in cities already rollin' in art-houses and progressive audiences.

That's my motto. I'm gonna get it tattooed in Olde English letters across my stomach, "Thug Life"-style. With the two question marks and everything. Here's a couple of new recommendations for my doc-loving homies.

Tonight on IFC: the premiere of Rank, director John Hyams' look at the elite ranks of the professional bull-riding circuit. (Hyams previously made a film for HBO about mixed martial arts fighting called The Smashing Machine. What's scarier, an extreme brawler or a hulking, pissed-off bull named Crossfire Hurricane?)

By Mirissa Neff

Better late than never right? Way back on September 21st I checked out the opening of Keegan McHargue's show The Control Group at Metro Pictures Gallery in Chelsea. The hugely successful opening followed on the heels of Keegan being featured on the cover of the Guardian's Fall Arts Preview. Here's the artist with his mom and dad:

It was impossible not to feel SF pride and I think Keegan was happy to see some homefolk in the Big Apple. The entire block was choked with hipsters as several neighboring galleries had openings. Rubbed elbows with Michael Stipe who seemed genuinely interested in the art as opposed to the free wine and cheese.

*The following is an (extremely) expanded version of an interview that appears in this week’s San Francisco Bay Guardian.

Director Paul Rachman and writer Steven Blush collaborated on every aspect of their new music doc, American Hardcore. “This is a two-person operation,” Blush explained as we settled into a booth at a not-very-punk-but-hey-we-were-hungry downtown San Francisco restaurant. The pair shared their thoughts on the cultural significance of hardcore music and their DIY filmmaking approach; they also meandered onto a Bay Area tangent, overlapping each other on topics like the charms of Flipper: “They were the ultimate San Francisco band in many ways. They were trashy. They were punk. They were nasty. They were arty.”

American Hardcore director Paul Rachman and writer Steven Blush. Courtesy Sony Pictures Classics Inc. Copyright 2006.

It's Friday the 13th -- just the very day I like to dust off my hockey mask, hustle to the nearest lake, and start spearin' feckless teenagers with every sharp object my mitts can grab.

Hooray for carnage! Tonight on Starz, the made-for-TV doc Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film machetes its way through the genre.

By Sarah Phelan
Former Biosphere 2 crew member Jane Poynter speaks with a endearing British accent, says “bloody” when she gets excited and believes the two-year-and twenty-minute-long project of which she was part, is “one of the most publicly misunderstood and undervalued projects” of the 20th century.”

Or 21st century, given that the impact of the project—a mini-version of Biosphere 1, or Planet Earth, involving four men and four women isolated in a three-acre glass and steel structure near Tucson—continues to elude people to this very day.

It would be physically impossible to find a cooler film subject than the late Ed “Big Daddy” Roth, the hugely influential and wildly creative artist beloved for his customized cars and monster cartoons (including Rat Fink, born of the SoCal resident’s rejection of Mickey Mouse and all the cookie-cutter mainstreamness represented by the then-brand-new Disneyland).

Ed Roth and car (and model car).
© Sphinx Productions 2005/ Rat Fink name and device are trademarks of Ed “Big Daddy” Roth, Inc.

Canadian director Ron Mann (Grass, Comic Book Confidential) puts a suitably offbeat spin on his doc, Tales of the Rat Fink, integrating Rat Fink vignettes, quirkily animated still photos, a jaunty surf rock soundtrack, and vintage footage into his exploration of Roth’s life, which dovetails with an enjoyable lesson on American hot rod history.

I recently phoned Mann at his Toronto office for a roundabout chat about hot-rodders, rodents, and Roth’s still-potent legacy. And what about those talking cars, anyway?

Back in the late ‘90s I lived in Portland for a brief spell. At the time, Old Joy writer Jon Raymond was editing the magazine Plazm, and I contributed some articles on subjects such as a band with a robotic drummer. Occasionally, he and I would have lunch or go to a party or a movie, sometimes with Miranda July, who was just beginning to make short films. Intelligent and easygoing, Raymond was thinking about art and writing in ways that contributed something new to the local culture.

Probably the number one question I get asked in life (besides "Yo, Eddy, what the hell is on that sandwich?") is "What's your favorite horror film?" My knee-jerk response is, of course, Halloween -- I'm obsessed with John Carpenter, Donald Pleasence is nothing but fun to watch, and though I have the entire movie memorized, I never, ever get bored of it.

"The evil is gone from here!"

But every once in awhile -- even at this time of year, when all's I wanna do is mainline candy corn and park my ass at every dang midnite-movie spook show in town, and god bless San Francisco, there's a living-dead army of 'em -- I get the urge to raid my bookshelf for some supplementary reading. Bios of horror filmmakers have always been a favorite. Read one with a gruesome enough cover and you just might discourage that fellow Muni rider from leering at you from across the aisle (no promises, though).

Miniature candy bars before breakfast, random spashes of fake blood on my Converse, death threats, Misfits on the iPod, Freddy Krueger watch on my wrist ... could be any other Tuesday in my life, really. But hot damn, y'all, it's Halloween!! BOO-ya!

So, I was up late last night chattin' with Captain Howdy about some of the reasons for the season. The good Cap'n suggested I post some Oct 31-friendly links for your enjoyment. In the interest of keeping my soul out of Pazuzu's clutches, for the time being anyway, I thought I'd better comply.