This blog should be back to its regular self next week or so. In the meantime, a round-up of what's been happening on the rest of IFC.com:

      + Review: "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist" - Matt Singer wonder why, for a movie that supposedly revolves around music, no one in this teen rom-com seems to like it all that much.

      + Video: "The Wrestler" at the New York Film Festival - Mickey Rourke, Darren Aronofsky and Marisa Tomei face the press to share stories about the making of this tale of a faded pro wrestler.

      + Video: "Che" at the New York Film Festival - At his press conference, Steven Soderbergh talks about his motivations in making a four-hour bio-epic about Che Guevara.

      + Video: "Happy-Go-Lucky" at the New York Film Festival - Director Mike Leigh and star Sally Hawkins at the press conference, discussing why to simply write off the main character as cheery is to misunderstand her.

      + Video: "Hunger" at the New York Film Festival - Director Steve McQueen at the press conference for his film about the 1981 Irish hunger strike.

      + Interview: Neil Burger on "The Lucky Ones" - The director of last year's surprise hit "The Illusionist" on stepping up to the present day and the Iraq War with his new road trip drama.

      + On DVD: "Jellyfish," "Snow Angels" - Michael Atkinson on Etgar Keret and Shira Geffen's everyone's-connected social-weave film, like "Crash" by way of Wong Kar-Wai, but in Israel, and David Gordon Green's own take on the same microgenre.

      + IFC News Podcast #96: Soundtracks That Overshadow Their Movies - Matt Singer and I talk about movies we think are more memorable for their song selection.

      + Opening This Week: Comedy in the Muslim world, infinite playlists and Jonathan Demme - Neil Pedley rounds up what's new in theaters.

Want these updates to be sent to you each week? Email us and we'll add you to our list.

[Photo: Mickey Rourke at the 2008 New York Film Festival press conference for "The Wrestler"]

By Alison Willmore in In the works | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (1)

"The Class," Laurent Cantet's very fine film about an academic year in a life of a teacher and his students at an inner city Parisian middle school, gets its structure and its strength from limitations. The camera doesn't wander outside of the walls of the school; it seldom leaves the classroom, the only meaningful place of intersection between the worlds of François Marin, imperfect instructor, and his boisterously mixed bag of multicultural pupils. When a student departs for the day, or summer, or forever, he or she might as well be oceans away, news of homelife trickling back in through schoolmates or other teachers or, just as obtusely, from the parents in their rare pilgrimages to the building for state-of-things meetings. Marin isn't going to make house calls or bail kids out of jail in the middle of the night or wrest crack pipes from their blackened fingers on street corners and haul them off for a stint of DIY rehab in his guest room. Teaching is his calling, but it's also his job, and, like anyone else, he gets frustrated, tired, has off days and needs to sneak a secret cigarette in the emptied cafeteria.

"The Class" is shot in a loose, multi-camera, doc-inspired style, using improvisation and a cast of mainly non-professional actors, including François Bégaudeau, the screenwriter and former teacher who wrote the semi-autobiographical novel on which the film is based, as Marin. All these things make the film sound awfully austere, but it's not at all -- "The Class" is funny and confrontational and has a swing to its step, and sometimes seems more than the cameras can keep up with as they wander over the faces of the students or linger on Marin as he struggles to answer a particularly tough question. Those students -- Chinese, Moroccan, Malian, Arabic, white, sullen or outspoken, aggressive or withdrawn -- are more than just a conveniently rainbowed collection. They're an open representation of New France, and a vivid challenge to Marin, calling out his tendency to use only Caucasian names when writing example sentences on the chalkboard ("Aïssata," one insists, would be a better choice), and questioning why they have to learn an archaically formal tense that's all but useless. Marin, instead of resting on his authority, actually turns these remonstrations into dialogues, and yields when he should. Less laudably, his technique of engaging with the class sometimes finds him baiting the students or talking down to them, and, in the slip of judgment that leads to the mini-crisis that's the closest the film has to a plot, referring to the behavior of two girls as that of "skanks."

If "The Class" were just meant as an antidote to the long course of ridiculous inspirational classroom movies, the shape it takes would be enough. But Cantet's film is also resolutely evenhanded with the way its school's determinedly democratic processes can fail. Having student representatives at a staff-wide evaluation of the class members backfires, and a disciplinary hearing about a possible expulsion leaves a boy too angry and distant to defend himself. And at the very end of the year, a quiet girl comes up and confesses that she hasn't learned anything at all, and that she's afraid she's going to be tracked for the vocational school and a lifetime in a lower economic bracket, and Marin has nothing more encouraging to offer her than that she has one more year left. The film doesn't close off with updates of the fates of the students -- it's not "based on a true story." In the best way, it doesn't feel like a story at all.

"The Class" will open in New York and L.A. December 12th. For more coverage of the New York Film Festival, click here.

[Photo: "The Class," Sony Pictures Classics, 2008]

+ "The Class" (NYFF)
+ "The Class" (Sony Pictures Classics)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (1)

Tags: Laurent Cantet, NYFF 2008, The Class

I hope someone out there is proclaiming Jaime Rosales' "Bullet in the Head" a masterpiece of experimental filmmaking that forces you to reconsider narrative's place and importance in film and such and such. There is something likable about its daring, and it's exactly the kind of film that needs a vocal contrarian champion to stubbornly insist it's the best thing ever. But that person is not me. "Bullet in the Head" is an 85-minute film shot in stalker-cam via long range lens. There's no audible dialogue save a moment when the characters yell loud enough to reach even the theoretical onlooker with whom we share a POV: "Fucking cops!" -- which is also when the film delivers on the violence promised in its title. Before that point, for a crawling almost-hour, we watch from afar as our main man (played by Ion Arretxe, the production designer on Rosales' last feature, "Solitary Fragments") chats in cafes, samples music in a store, buys a paper, goes to a party, picks up a woman with whom he spends the night, and goes on a drive to France with some friends.

Rosales has described his film as being shot "like a wildlife documentary," except that wildlife documentaries cut to the exciting bits, while "Bullet in the Head" sets out deliberately to bore you with the mundane details of the life of what at first seems to be a normal guy. You wouldn't know it from the film, but the events are based on an actual incident in which three ETA members shot two policemen in an unplanned encounter. The stoically observatory nature of the first two thirds wards off any judgments -- we struggle to make the scenes add up to a story, to pin down who the man we're watching is and why he's the focus of attention, but could never foresee what eventually happens. I guess even the most normal of people are capable of violence, and that Basque separatists get their cash from ATMs just like everyone else, but those aren't enough to hang a film on, particularly not one as consciously confounding as this.

"Bullet in the Head" currently has no U.S. distribution. For more coverage of the New York Film Festival, click here.

[Photo: "Bullet in the Head," Fresdeval Films, 2008]

+ "Bullet in the Head" (NYFF)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 1 Comments | Recommended (1)

Tags: Bullet in the Head, Jaime Rosales, NYFF 2008

A round-up of what's been happening on the rest of IFC.com:

      + Interview: Wayne Coyne on "Christmas on Mars" - The Flaming Lips frontman on his first feature, the Large Hadron Collider, "90210" and space ovens.

      + Interview: Chuck Palahniuk on "Choke" - The "Fight Club" author on the latest adaptation of his work, making people faint and coded security announcements.

      + On DVD: Aki Kaurismäki's Proletariat Trilogy, "Shadow" - Michael Atkinson on Criterion's new set of three films from the Finnish master of deadpan and a "mysterious and rarely discussed work" from the Polish New Wave.

      + IFC News Podcast #95: From Fantastic Fest - Matt Singer and I report, a little worse for the wear, from the country's largest genre festival in Austin, TX.

      + Opening This Week: Ladyboys, sex addicts, Spike Lee - Neil Pedley rounds up what's new in theaters.

Want these updates to be sent to you each week? Email us and we'll add you to our list.

[Photo: "Christmas on Mars," Cinema Purgatorio/Warner Bros., 2008]

By Alison Willmore in The week on IFC.com | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (1)

Interesting that at a festival that celebrates visceral cinematic shocks -- the over-the-top splatter of "Tokyo Gore Police" and the "we dare you to walk out" boundary pushing of "Martyrs" and "Deadgirl" -- the two most disturbing films I saw weren't horror at all. The first is "I Think We're Alone Now," and the second Koen Mortier's feature debut "Ex Drummer," which wins the prize for moral decay. It's been compared to "Trainspotting," and, like that film "Ex Drummer" has visual style to burn and threads of seedy surrealism, but in terms of content it makes Danny Boyle's work look like something from the Disney vaults. "Ex Drummer" would kick you in the teeth if it had a pair of steel toe boots and feet to wear them on, a whirlwind of nihilism in which every character is either an impulsive animal, a destructive misanthrope or a willing and deserving victim.

Adapted from Herman Brusselmans' Flemish-language novel of the same name and set in Ostend, on the Belgian coast, "Ex Drummer" is the story of how three brutish men -- a singer with a lisp, a bassist with a paralyzed arm and a half-deaf guitarist -- approach a successful author with the idea that he'd be a good drummer. They want to form a punk band with only disabled members, but they're undeterred by the fact that Dries, the writer, neither knows how to play drums nor has a handicap. He, on the other hand, sees them as ideal sources for material, and, on impulse ("I think I want to step outside my happy world"), joins them in rehearsing for what they've all decided will be a lone gig.

"Ex Drummer"'s sense of overwhelming dread initially comes from the presumption that Dries is out of his league, and that his adventures in slumming amongst those whose day-to-day includes assault, domestic abuse, child neglect, monstrous sex, drug use and general living in their own filth will quickly prove his downfall. That dread later comes from the realization that Dries is the most horrific asshole of them all, an idle sadist who'll annihilate the miserable lives of his bandmates and their friends and families just for sport, and then retreat to his beautiful waterfront condo and waiting girlfriend. After a while, the onslaught of unredeeming behavior becomes numbing -- no one who's not an angry goth teenager can buy into a world that's so top-to-bottom grim. But Mortier's box of visual tricks is inexhaustible, and most of the ones he tosses on screen stick: A character's slippery sanity is represented by his only being able to walk on the ceiling of his bloodstained flat; a massacre pauses to allow its victims to offer a final rueful, bloodstained confession; a character walks away smoking and the world falls down; bike rides through town are shown in reverse, from ringing doorbells to a random beating; and every interior space outside of Dries' immaculate apartment is a claustrophobic hellhole of peeling wallpaper, crumbling plaster and strained mattresses on the floor. Bleak, bleak, ludicrously, inchoately bleak -- but exhilaratingly made even so.

[Photo: "Ex-Drummer," Mercurio Cinematografica/Quad Productions, 2007]

+ "Ex-Drummer" (Fantastic Fest)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (3)

Tags: Ex Drummer, Fantastic Fest 2008, Herman Brusselmans, Koen Mortier

Like "American Movie" and "Billy the Kid," Sean Donnelly's "I Think We're Alone Now" makes you squirm at its relationships with its subjects and its audience. I wouldn't say that, as a documentary, it's unethical, but it does focus on two people who suffer from unknown degrees of mental illness and, watching it, you have to wonder why they ever agreed to be filmed in the first place.

Jeffery Deane Turner and Kelly McCormick are obsessed with, and in the case of the former, have also stalked former '80s star Tiffany. Tiffany is the faded pop center of their troubled lives -- Turner, who suffers from Asperger syndrome, claims to be in a loving relationship with her and able to communicate with her via radionics, while McCormick, who's intersex and transitioning to female, believes she's fated to be with the singer after having a vision of her while in a 16-day coma following a severe bike accident.

Donnelly rarely plays up his pair for laughs. The further the film goes, the less that even seems possible. Turner, who at first looks like merely a moon-faced, talky Santa Cruz eccentric, unveils whole realms of crazy as he expounds on showing up at Tiffany's emancipation hearing with a sword and chrysanthemums, straps on a helmet to commune with her "nonphysical essence," explains that her Playboy spread is a declaration of her love for him, and reveals his beloved's ability to travel through time and to negotiate with aliens. And McCormick, whose physical appearance alone has marked her a social outcast, comes across as less stable still, living in a house with walls bare of anything other than shots of the pop star, drinking heavily, talking of drug use and howling "My destiny is that I'm supposed to be with Tiffany! I have the right to love and be happy!"

Tiffany's never interviewed in the film, and there's no real need. For both Turner and McCormick, she's an ideal, a blank on which to fixate and to project their frustrated longings for someone to adore and understand them. The fact that her heyday was two decades ago, that she's now performing at free outdoor concerts and in Las Vegas gay bars and signing autographs at pin-up conventions, is never the issue. Their love is eternal, at least until Turner moves on to Alyssa Milano.

Donnelly gives the pair a fair enough shake, but there's no way around the fact that they come across as grotesques. There is one moment, however, in which he does them a documentary injustice, and that's when the two are put in contact and end up rooming together and squabbling in Vegas. Both Turner and McCormick are incredibly disturbing and compelling figures already; no extra prodding was needed for that.

[Photo: "I Think We're Alone Now," Awesome and Modest/Greener Media, 2008]

+ "I Think We're Alone Now" (Fantastic Fest)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (4)

Tags: Fantastic Fest 2008, I Think We're Alone Now, Sean Donnelly, Tiffany

Centering your film on the tragedy of being famous is a iffy proposition -- it's not a topic to which the majority of the world will relate, and from any normal and honest perspective, the benefits of celebrity far outweigh any downsides. But director Mabrouk El Mechri has as his star the Muscles From Brussels himself, Belgian action icon Jean-Claude Van Damme, a man whose legitimate claims to fame were staked decades back, and who's now a figure of ridicule with a history of cocaine problems, four divorces, a tendency to spout ludicrous things in televised interviews and a recent track record confined to direct-to-DVD foreign productions. He's also a pretty good sport, since all of these things factor it into "JCVD," a film in which Van Damme plays a somewhat more pathetic variation on himself, headed back to Brussels after losing both custody of his child and a role in another throwaway action film he didn't really want (to Steven Seagal, even, who promised to cut off his ponytail for the part), broke and broken and hoping to rest and to spend time with his parents. Instead, he ends up in Van Damme Day Afternoon, when a trio of incompetent robbers hold up the bank at which he's awaiting a wire transfer to pay his L.A.-based attorneys and a tussle leads to a stand-off with hostages in which the police mistakenly think the star is the one in charge.

"JCVD" sounds like a one-joke meta movie industry clusterfuck, but El Mechri isn't interested in too much self-congratulation for getting Van Damme to play "Van Damme." He's also not so interested in jokes -- while there are intermittent moments of humor, "JCVD" is actually wildly unhappy. Van Damme's daughter doesn't want to live with him because her schoolmates make fun of her. Directors mock him for wanting to make anything more than bargain bin-fodder that knocks off his earlier work. He has huge legal fees and no way to pay them except by continuing to act in films he thinks are ruining his already crumbling career. He hasn't slept for 48 hours and the fact that the police think he's the culprit is compounded by the waves of fans who come out to observe the stand-off, motivated by its novelty value.

It's these absurd lengths and this desire for legitimate drama that take "JCVD" beyond novelty itself -- all Van Damme wants is to retreat from the world, and all the world wants is to take a picture with him, tell him he's shorter than he looks on screen and ask him why John Woo never used him in another film after "Hard Target." In the end, the only place he can turn is to the camera, where, in an extended and teary monologue he weeps that it's not his fault, that he's only chased the dreams he's had when he was scrawny and 13 and spoke no English, and that he looks back at his life and feels he's accomplished nothing. It's an impressive feat of acting, even if it's more awash in self-pity and a lack of self-awareness than intended -- Jean-Claude Van Damme as a martyr to entertainment. Self-awareness would ruin "JCVD," anyway -- as is, it's outlandish, half nonsensical and half wonderful.

[Photo: "JCVD," Peace Arch, 2008]

+ "JCVD" (Fantastic Fest)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (2)

Tags: Fantastic Fest 2008, JCVD, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Mabrouk El Mechri

Paprika Steen, the Danish actress best known for her roles in Dogme films like "Festen," "The Idiots" and "Mifune," is to die for in Ole Bornedal's horror-comedy "The Substitute." Like, she eats someone whole. She plays the forbiddingly named Ulla Harms, a substitute teacher who takes over sixth grade class 6B and whose hair-raisingly cruel instruction technique is augmented by what seem to be the abilities to read minds, balance pencils on their sharpened tips and force people to say nice things about her. In short, Ulla is an alien, a fact 6B, led by moody protagonist Carl (Jonas Wandschneider), gets wise to early on but the verity of which they can't convince their well-meaning, oblivious parents, even as it becomes clear she means to abduct the kids and abscond to her brutal home planet in order to use them as specimens in an attempt to understand the human capacities for empathy and love.

"The Substitute" is a family film, but one that's Roald Dahl-dark. Ulla torments her tween charges by deriding their buckteeth and academic prowess, revealing their hidden crushes to the crowd and, in the case of Carl, mocking his sorrow of his recently dead mother. In one of the most wickedly funny scenes, their parents convinced video games have given their children wild delusions of imagination, the students are dragged, shrieking and swearing they'll never be seen again, to a bus for a field trip and dropped off by waving moms and dads who sunnily ignore the tears of their terrified offspring. Steen strides through "The Substitute" heels, curled hair and fitted dresses like a Scandinavian take on a certain Van Helen video, but with a disturbing tendency to have all emotion drop off her face until she realizes someone's watching. The face she turns to other adults is sweet, smiling and competent; the one she turns to the children might have tentacles protruding from it or be dripping with blood from the live chicken she just devoured The denouement's disappointing, but it was bound to be, because Ulla had to get her comeuppance. I was still pulling for her -- it seemed like she'd earned the win.

Columbia recently picked up the remake rights for "The Substitute" and "Just Another Love Story," the other film Bornedal completed last year (my review from Sundance is here).

[Photo: "The Substitute," Ghosthouse Underground, 2008]

+ "The Substitute" (Fantastic Fest)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 1 Comments | Recommended (2)

Tags: Fantastic Fest 2008, Ole Bornedal, Paprika Steen, The Substitute

There was an episode of "The Maury Povich Show" in which people confessed to serious but laughable phobias -- birds, pickles, balloons -- after which, for scientific purposes, you understand, a PA would come out and confront them with their object of terror. As I watched a housewife be chased around a sound stage, shrieking, by an intern wielding a balloon, it occurred to me that the segment was one of the most awesome things I'd ever seen on TV, and also that, in a far-off way, I could relate to the woman. I can't stand the low-grade torture of seeing a balloon in the hands of someone with the intent to ultimately pop it -- the pop itself is nothing, but the anticipation of it, the not knowing when it's coming, is agony.

"Seventh Moon" is a horror flick based almost completely on that squirmy frisson, which is really the cheapest and most irritating ploy of the genre. The film's a series of set-pieces in which you know, eventually, someone will leap out and yell "Boo!" Alas, that someone is always one or several of a pack of chalky, asthmatic monsters ("moon demons") who look like shabby knock-offs of the cave dwellers in "The Descent" and the ogre in "Pan's Labyrinth." "Seventh Moon" is third feature from Eduardo Sánchez, who, almost a decade ago, teamed up with Daniel Myrick to make the most financially successful indie film ever -- "The Blair Witch Project." Neither of the two co-directors has managed to make a blip on the radar since. Myrick's dreadful "The Objective," which premiered at Tribeca earlier this year and vanished, tried to recreate the "Blair Witch" scenario of people being menaced by supernatural forces in the wilderness in rural Afghanistan. "Seventh Moon" tries the same in China, where the American-born Yul (Tim Chiou) has taken his blond bride Melissa (Amy Smart) on a honeymoon trip to meet his extended family. The tour guide they've hired to drive them ditches them in an boarded-up village in the dark, where the locals have planned to offer the pair as sacrifices to the menacing creatures who return annually to add to their number. There's much running through the trees, and then hiding in a house, and then running through the trees, and then hiding in a car, but precious little to make you care about the fate of the couple, who get scant moments of development: "You hate that I'm Chinese!" "I love that you're Chinese."

The film is roughly inspired by the Chinese belief that in the seventh month of the lunar year the dead return to the land of the living to partake in offerings, but the monsters are the filmmaker's own creation, and a borderline insulting upping of a major cultural event into something including human sacrifice. "Seventh Moon" is, in a way, like "Hostel" or "Turistas," a fantastia about the hostilities the rest of the world has to offer Americans abroad. Unfortunately, it doesn't have the broad but stinging subtext of either of those titles. It does have a lot of pale things leaping out of the dark. Boo!

[Photo: "Seventh Moon," Haxan Films, 2008]

+ "Seventh Moon" (Fantastic Fest)

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 1 Comments | Recommended (3)

Tags: Amy Smart, Eduardo Sánchez, Fantastic Fest 2008, Seventh Moon, The Blair Witch Project, Tim Chiou

There's incredible (and welcome) cultural whiplash in sneaking away from the middle of the determinedly highbrow New York Film Festival to head to Austin for Fantastic Fest, an event that's most certainly not. Dedicated to horror, sci-fi, fantasy, cult and general genre fare, Fantastic Fest is the brainchild of Alamo Drafthouse founder Tim League with support from Ain't It Cool News' Harry Knowles, with a line-up of international fanboy sprawl that this year includes everything from Icelandic LARPing comedy "Astropia" to Korean Leone homage "The Good, The Bad and The Weird" to a documentary about William Castle and sidebars focused on Ozsploitation and Japan's softcore pinku films.

Fantastic Fest has become famous for TBD secret screenings that have turned out to be some kickass gets for such a young event -- an unfinished version of "Apocalypto" with Mel Gibson in tow as well as the world premieres of "There Will Be Blood" and the final version of "Southland Tales." But its standout quality remains that it's such a rowdy, jovial and mind-blowingly unceremonious good time, with filmmakers, talent and fans milling around the strip mall-centered headquarters, sipping pints of Shiner Bock during the screenings and taking off for excursions to eat BBQ and shoot skeet.

The opening night film, the U.S. premiere of Kevin Smith's "Zack and Miri Make a Porno," kicked off with an Alamo Drafthouse standard vintage trailer for the ridiculous 1987 Hong Kong film "Thunder Cops," followed by festival director League, in a monk robe, gonging in the "spokesperson for the disenfranchised, genre-loving generation" to introduce his flick. It's not as true as it used to be -- Smith, with his lingering "Star Wars" devotion and his (yeah, really funny) stories about cracking a video store toilet with his ever-expanding girth, isn't so exemplary of a crowd that's getting to be geeky-hip, pierced and tattooed and possessed of a smattering of self-taught Japanese. Still, the film went over like gangbusters, as it's probably going to go over with any crowd, an on-the-surface raunchy romantic comedy with a marshmallow-soft heart that brings Smith's career into the Judd Apatow era. Apatow muse Seth Rogen plays a Pittsburgh coffee shop slacker who's lived for the past post-high school decade with his childhood gal pal (Elizabeth Banks), who's equally charming, underachieving and underemployed. Of course, there's never been a hint of sexual tension until the two, in tough financial straits, decide to recruit friends to make an amateur porno and discover that neither actually wants to see the other have sex with anyone else. nderneath the cartoonish sex, scatological humor and no-inner-censor dialogue, "Zack and Miri"'s a traditionally arced love story in which a man and a woman who are obviously meant to be together are kept apart for a while by plot devices and lousy communication. But Rogen and Banks are luminously likable and alchemical together, convincingly comfortable and closer than family even before they start to see each other in a different light.

The DIY porn shoot scenes themselves have a kind of delighted dirty innocence that makes "Zack and Miri" a not-quite-NC-17 cousin to "Son of Rambow," with Traci Lords, Craig Robinson and Smith's beloved Jason Mewes and Jeff Anderson among the ragtag group that gathers to fuck and film it all while wrestling with booms made from microphones taped to hockey sticks and an in-scene soundtrack playing on a tape deck next to the camera. Smith's earliest films may have been made in similar conditions, but he's come a long way since then, both in production value and in sentiment. "Zack and Miri" may be, like many recent rom-coms, a film with characters who've seemed to have avoided self-examination all of their lives, but it's also guiltily, endearingly sweet despite all of the attempts to cut the syrup with anal sex jokes. Smith, you big softy.

Immediately post "Zack and Miri" were the Air Sex World Championships. Air sex is air guitar except, you know, with sex. No description could do it justice, but below are three blurry photos to give you a hint

By Alison Willmore in Festivals, Reviews | Link | 0 Comments | Recommended (9)

Tags: Elizabeth Banks, Fantastic Fest 2008, Kevin Smith, Seth Rogen, Zack and Miri Make a Porno