I have had this nagging suspicion for a while now. It seems to me
that the ACT Theatre (originally the Fraternal Order of the Eagles’
Aerie #1) was designed not by a human architect who attended human
architecture school, but by an antlike alien queen who attended the
Needlessly Intricate and Creepy Martian Insect Hive Academy.
Every time I go there it’s like, “Okay, to get to the theater just walk
20 paces down this hallway, take a left, go down the stairs, turn right
into the elevator, go up three floors, across the hall to the other
elevator, down two floors, and make a right. At the end of the hall,
you’ll come to a ladder extending down into a dark pit. You’re going to
want to climb down the ladder, and eventually you’ll see one of those
wheeled carts on a track—you know, that coal miners use? What are
those called? Anyway, I’m going to need you to hop in there, and head
down the track in a westerly direction. You’ll pass some flames and
experience some trials—you may find yourself submerged in a
bloodlike but not unpleasant-smelling liquid at some point—but
just sit tight, the ore car will tip you unceremoniously into the Ivar
Haglund Memorial Lobby. Pay the magician four copper coins, roll
down the Welcome Ramp, and sit anywhere you like. Enjoy the show, you
guys, okaaaaaay?”
Holy antlike alien queen, y’all, that was a long paragraph. It felt
for a minute there like that paragraph would never, ever end. And
speaking of things that need editors, I’ve been to a lot of
short-film programs lately! (Do you see what I did there!?) Nothing
feels quite so interminably long as a series of shorts. I guess
it’s partly because watching 10 or 20 small stories takes more energy
than one feature-length narrative: You have to reinvest and reorient
yourself every few minutes. But beyond that, every short-film program
I’ve ever attended has had curatorial problems. Edit that shit
down, people! Too long! Toooo loooong!!
I attended Rawstock at ACT Theatre last weekend (see, full circle!)
and, true to form, it was too long. Fortunately, there were only a few
excruciating grinders (The Toaster That Toasted the Golden
Toast, barf; Engagement, doublefuckbarf). And the standouts
made the whole thing worth it. Welcome to My Study might have
been my favorite—a quick piece of bizarre fluff from comedian
Mitch Magee: “I’m lonely and I collect things… What else is in my
study drawers?” (Answer: snails!) David Lowery’s A Catalog of
Anticipations is a macabre little marzipan fairy tale about
childhood and dead things. And The Rambler, the latest from
local filmmaker Calvin Reeder, offers this bit of dialogue: “It records
dreams to VHS.” “Does it work?” “It has before.” Also, vomit porn! (The
good kind.)
So kudos, Rawstock. I hope to see less of you next time, and love
you even more. 
