(Double Dare)
One feels the problem with the programme launch every year is that half an hour of mingling is not nearly enough minutes to consume all the free liquid on offer – despite the Paramount having doubled its foyer width-to-people ratio this time around. It’s fair to say, however, that the “stamina bags” distributed at the entrance – locker room carriers stuffed with tissues, energy bars and other assorted sustenance – were well received, if not somewhat ill-conceived; greeted by a large blue DVD flyer poking out of the thick-bound festival booklet, the last thing I know I’m going to be doing in July is renting movies.

Given this, if the festival’s juggernaut of world cinema isn’t enough to entice one’s ass from the couch, then its unprecedented list of attending guests should. David Gordon Green’s name sticks out in particular for those of us privy to the southern wonders of George Washington, as does the proliferation of many other intriguing filmmaking names bold-typed at certain points throughout the hardcopy programme. Thanks apparently to the principal sponsorship of Telecom, coercing such creative forces to jet to the bottom of the earth and speak on their film’s behalf has now become a slightly more obtainable affair. Zoë Bell – one half of Xena Warrior Princess, Beatrix Kiddo and the stuntwomen doco Double Dare – made one such after-match appearance on Thursday night, and if her foul-mouthed, bottle rocket Q&A gusto was anything to go by, then it’s suggested you book tickets now to those films lucky enough to have a visiting guest in tow.

While it doesn’t seem that Bell will be lending herself to any more screenings, it’s her obvious candour and matter-of-fact humour – evident both onscreen and off – that elevates what is a by-the-numbers documentary to something of an infectious pro-female rally for the girls-can-do-just-about-anything brigade. Zoë’s B-side and surrogate mother of the stunt world, Jeannie Epper, would have made a perfect double for Jane Fonda in her prime; in Double Dare, her formative legacy is tiara-crowned as the lasso-of-truth whipping right bosom to Lynda Carter. During Bell’s American roundtrip (in search of work after Xena shuts down), she’s maternally cradled by Epper until scoring the Kill Bill gig via a priceless phone call, and yet it’s her hardy fish-out-of-water New Zilindness in the face of many an inflated ego that provides the film’s most jubilant points of reference. Its most sobering moments come by way of the liposuctioned, use ‘em and abuse ‘em assembly line of Hollywood – a documentary subject all on its own, and something that director Amanda Micheli perhaps wisely avoids sinking her teeth into. Needless to say, that's one tirade best left to Michael Moore.—TW

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