Machete is back, and Fantastic Fest has got him!

It's official: Machete Kills, Robert Rodriguez's cult-ready sequel to his exuberantly over-the-top Machete (2010) -- will have its world premiere as the opening-night attraction Sept. 19 at Fantastic Fest in Austin.

And Tim League, creative director and co-founder of the world's wildest genre-movie extravaganza, wants you to know that this is a pretty damn big deal.

"Every year we compile our dream targets for opening night film," League says. This year, "Machete Kills was at the top of that list. We are going to pull out all the stops to ensure Robert's world premiere red carpet experience is literally blood red."

The lovely and talented Danny Trejo returns as Machete, a former Mexican Federale turned free-lance ass-kicker, and he's re-joined by Michelle Rodriguez and Jessica Alba, who also appeared in the original 2010 flick. Newcomers to the budding franchise include Antonio Banderas, Sofia Vergara, Amber Heard, Lady Gaga, Demián Bichir, Alexa Vega, Vanessa Hudgens, Cuba Gooding Jr., William Sadler, Mel Gibson -- yes, that Mel Gibson -- and promising newcomer Carlos Estevez as the President of the United States.

The plot has something to with... with... aw, hell, just take a look at the freakin' title, for crying out loud. And if that doesn't tell you enough, take a gander at this trailer.

Blast from the past: Antonio Banderas talks about Desperado

When I interviewed Antonio Banderas on the set of Desperado for the LA Times, back when the movie didn’t even have an official title, he was greatly amused as he described “killing the hell out of people” in Robert Rodriguez’s action-adventure. He’s equally enthusiastic about the film in this clip. 

What ever happened to Harvey Weinstein?

Patrick Goldstein misses Harvey Weinstein: "Not the Harvey Weinstein you see today, the slimmed-down mogul who's acquired the Halston fashion brand, invested in a MySpace-style website for the rich and famous and bought the Ovation arts channel. Not the Harvey Weinstein who told the Hollywood Reporter last year that 'we are focused on other areas outside of film.' The Harvey Weinstein I used to know — the Oscar impresario who collected gifted young filmmakers the way Tiger Woods accumulates golf titles — was truly, madly, deeply in love with movies...

"I feel like putting Harvey's picture on a milk carton. Has anyone seen the crazy, spittle-spewing, chain-smoking hustler who would bellow insults, twist arms and shamelessly hype whatever movie was due that week? I miss the old Harvey, the man who would've locked Grindhouse auteurs [Quentin] Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez in an editing room until they cut 40 minutes out of their movie. I miss the old Harvey, the cinema carnival barker whose passion for film was often indistinguishable from his paranoia, abusive behavior and vitriol."

'Grindhouse' post mortem

This is what I wrote about Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, the co-directors of Grindhouse: “Tarantino and Rodriguez are kindred spirits, Generation X film brats who view lurid B-movies of the past three decades with the same reverence that their immediate predecessors once reserved for the likes of Citizen Kane and The 400 Blows. It will be interesting to see if these determinedly hip but undeniably talented young filmmakers ever move beyond recycling the cheap thrills of yesteryear. (In movies as much as in fashion and pop music, hipness has a very short shelf life.) Right now, the sheer gusto that Rodriguez and Tarantino take in hot-wiring tired clichés and overly familiar archetypes is highly entertaining, if not downright addictive. But even while [their current collaboration] is most exciting, most deliriously kinetic, it is hard to shake the impression that, sooner or later, these filmmakers really should seek inspiration in something other than other people's films.”

When did I write this? Well, would you believe eleven years ago? When I reviewed From Dusk to Dawn, which Rodriguez directed from Tarantino’s script?

Please don’t misunderstand: I’m reluctant to join the blame game that has ensued ever since Grindhouse opened to mostly appreciative reviews but disappointingly low grosses last weekend. Because, truth to tell, I rather liked both halves of this faux double bill, each for different reasons. Rodriguez’s Planet Terror is an exuberant mash-up of dozens of sci-fi cheapie-creepies from the ‘60s and ‘70s; Tarantino’s Death Proof takes too long to get started, but gradually revs up to become the best damn car-chase flick this side of Vanishing Point and Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry – ‘70s guilty-pleasure cult-faves that, of course, Tarantino lovingly acknowledges.

But, then again, maybe part of my pleasure stems from the shock of recognition: At 54, I’m old enough to remember actually paying to see –- in first-run theaters as well as drive-ins – many, if not most, of the B-movies, action films and exploitation quickies that are referenced throughout the three-hour-plus magnum opus that Tarantino and Rodriguez concocted. If audiences did indeed stay away in droves this weekend -– well, could it be that they just didn’t get the references? That schlocky ‘70s cinema holds no allure for the overwhelming majority of contemporary ticketbuyers (i.e., people considerably younger than 54)?

I’ll go a few steps further: I doubt that even the most rabid B-movie fans in my demographic have seen some of the more obscure items that Tarantino and Rodriguez riff on in Grindhouse. (Exhibit A: The Crazies, a 1973 George Romero opus that clearly inspired bits and pieces of Planet Terror.) And while this may seem like a niggling point, some so-called B-movies actually are fondly remembered by Baby Boomers as respectably entertaining mainstream features. (It’s worth remembering: Vanishing Point and Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry were released by 20th Century Fox, not New World or American-International.) And some of my fellow geezers likely have no desire to see those movies mocked (even if the “mockery” is more like an affectionate homage).

What it all boils down to, I think, is this: The appetite for ‘70s recycling has greatly diminished during the past decade. (Unless, of course, you’re doing a straightforward rock-the-house action flick with a ‘70s flavor, ala Four Brothers or last year's Assault on Presinct 13 remake.) Audiences have moved on to other things. Maybe it’s time for Tarantino and Rodriguez to do likewise. Maybe long past time.

BTW: Maybe the intention was to evoke a newspaper ad for a '70s era grindhouse, but I'll be damned if that poster art doesn't look more like something for a mid-'60s drive-in double bill. Indeed, as I have posted elsewhere: Maybe the movie might have fared better if it had been called Drive-In instead of Grindhouse?

Before there was 'Grindhouse,' there was 'The Independent'

If you’re not familiar with the ‘60s and ‘70s exploitation flicks that inspired Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez to make Grindhouse, you might want to take a peek at Stephen Kessler’s The Independent to prepare yourself for the three-hours-plus epic opening Friday at theaters and drive-ins everywhere. And if you are a connoisseur of schlock cinema – that is, if you’re a guilty-pleasure-seeker who fondly recalls the low-budget, high-concept quickies of New World Pictures, American-International and other now-defunct manufacturers of full-tilt, down-and-dirty B-movies – well then you, too, likely will enjoy Kessler’s overlooked and under-rated pastiche.

As I wrote back in 2001: “A genially slapdash mix of sketch-comedy riffs, faux-documentary interviews and traditional sitcom-style narrative, The Independent surveys the life and career of Morty Fineman (Jerry Stiller), a notoriously prolific multi-hyphenate whose credits include Groovy Hippie Slumber Party, LSD-Day and Teenie Weenie Bikini Beach.

“Friends, admirers and former co-workers characterize the maverick moviemaker as an influential artist who somehow transcended tight budgets, marginal talent and an unfortunate tendency to put moves on his leading ladies…

“Not surprisingly, the funniest scenes in The Independent are the snippets and coming-attraction trailers used to illustrate the highlights of Morty's less-than-illustrious career: Brothers Divided (conjoined twins – one a pacifist, one a gung-ho warrior – are drafted for Vietnam duty), Christ for the Defense (a courtroom drama with a truly miraculous defense attorney), The Foxy Chocolate Robot (blaxploitation sci-fi with Fred Williamson and a mechanical co-star) and The Eco-Angels. The latter segment, a hilariously precise parody of 1968's The Miniskirt Mob, is a small gem of persuasive verisimilitude: The actors look, dress and sound just like regulars in mid-'60s B-movies, and the faded color appears to have degenerated for three or four decades.

“Working from a hit-and-miss script he co-wrote with producer Mike Wilkins, director Stephen Kessler strives for a similar kind of plausible fakery during the ‘interviews’ with Karen Black and other real-life notables. Maintaining a reasonably straight face, Peter Bogdanovich claims Morty ‘would try something, and two years later, somebody would copy it and win an Oscar.’ Ron Howard, Roger Corman and Nick Cassavetes also weigh in with testimonials.

“To link the inspired bits and pieces, Kessler and Wilkins spin a mildly amusing story about Morty's umpteenth comeback effort. Still doing what he does best (or, more precisely, worst) in the fifth decade of his filmmaking career, Morty is unable to complete his latest opus -- Ms. Kevorkian, the saga of a gun-wielding sexpot who supports assisted suicide -- because he is, once again, flat broke. Worse, his creditors want to claim his 427-film library, and sell off the individual titles – yes, even The Eco-Angels and Christ for the Defense -- for $8 a pound.

“Morty needs a miracle. What he gets is Paloma (Janeane Garofalo), his long-estranged daughter, who reluctantly takes command of her father's failing production company. Meanwhile, Ivan (Max Perlich), Morty's faithful assistant and tireless gofer, tries to elevate his mentor's profile by talking a film festival – any festival, anywhere – into honoring Morty with a retrospective tribute.

“Trouble is, few festivals are sufficiently desperate to even consider sponsoring such an event. The only encouraging response comes from a brand-new festival in a small Nevada town where, since the closing of a nearby military base, the only local industry of note is legal prostitution. Which, naturally, makes it the perfect spot for a tribute to Morty Fineman.

“The Independent doubtless would have worked better with a few more ersatz coming-attraction trailers and much less filler between the really funny bits. Even so, Stiller gives a robustly comical performance as the most enthusiastically self-deluded Hollywood fringe-dweller since Ed Wood. No obstacle, not even his own ineptitude, gets Morty down. Told that he's bankrupt, he cheerfully responds: ‘Then our creditors are screwed!’

“Garofalo shines as a dry-witted, common-sensible realist who can't help wanting to help her father, if only to repay him for producing Cheerleader Camp Massacre after she failed to make the grade as a high-school pom-pom girl. And Perlich brings a hangdog sweetness to scenes in which he dutifully recites words of wisdom he has received from Morty. On the subject of loyalty: ‘Milk the cow until it's dry. Then make hamburger and wallets.’”