When it comes to discussing documentaries, ditto politics and the most important issues of the day, I refuse to get trapped. I always choose to deploy that time-worn, battle-tested acronym: OOH! OOH!

On One Hand, I find it difficult to give a hoot for the plight of the Three-legged Ecuadorean Wood Duck in Its Struggle Against the Famished Proletariat. It doesn’t make me a bad person. Like you, I have enough problems of my own, with more pulling into the dooryard every day. Who has the time? Or storage space?

On the Other Hand, I never, ever begrudge a filmmaker his or her rice bowl. Sometimes, this is hard. Harder than a Jesuit heart. Harder even, than the water in Owls Head; a fluid so rigid, that one showers to dry off there, and water balloons are lethal weapons.

I’ve pulled an oar on a few documentaries over the years. As far as jobs go, one or two merely sucked. The others really, most sincerely sucked. The last one featured an ex-president, the world’s mouthiest lawyer and the man who brought Hannibal Lecter to life. I remember this gig well. In fact, this particular director’s unsolicited advice to me has resonated so deeply within me over the years since, that it’s ingrained in my increasingly shaky DNA.

“Easy on the brake,” he said from the deepest, darkest depths of the minivan. And so I was, and have thus remained.

All kidding aside, Ben Fowlie’s done Camden and her many far-flung suburbs a solid with his International Film Festival. He really has.

Here’s another thing: Once done, I make every effort to never criticize another person’s creative work. Criticism is a mongrel nipping at the heels of craftsmanship in my book, and whether the finished product is sublime or simply horrid, it takes a lot of gumption to get it done and put it out there — and in the Church of Big Pete, gumption is a Sacrament.

(The process now, that’s wicked different. I never hesitated to blat. Indeed, it has been widely reported that I always drove the truck because I needed it to carry my Cross.)

And besides — with apologies to the lovely Dagney Ernest — I don’t speak the film/theatre critic’s language. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anybody does. It’s like Esperanto without the widespread acceptance and popularity.

“It’s a naïve but charming little piece of Cinema’ D’oh! which pulls tentatively on the thematic teat much like Fassbinder’s dark and prophetic “Achtung Schmucktung,” but without the foppishingly amusing and presumptive sophisticatory flabbergasiosity.”

Am I right? Of course I am. We’ve all read movie reviews. The Dead Sea Scrolls are easier to understand. They remind me of Mr. Sheehan’s Latin class, without the tear gas and bloody carnage. Stuck that in your pluperfect subjunctive.

What I’m saying is, if it looks like an Ecuadorean Wood Duck and quacks like an Ecuadorean Wood Duck, don’t blame me if it ends up on some Commie’s dinner table.

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All kidding aside, Ben Fowlie’s done Camden and her many far-flung suburbs a solid with his International Film Festival. He really has. Beyond the economic uptick, there’s the cultural uplift and in times like these, we need all we can get. With all the political yabba-dabba-do — and its concurrent bitterness and intolerance disguising itself as passion — it’ll nice to see and feel and hear the real thing for a change.

Not to get all gooey over it, but filmmaking is passion at 24 frames per second, unless of course you’re shooting video, you cheap bastard.

By the way Ben, I’m still waiting for my complimentary VIP pass, fruit basket and limo tickets. This is no way to treat a legend. Don’t make me call the Teamsters.

Then we’ll see us some bleepin’ passion. Document that…

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When someone says, “My name is Mudd,” it’s understandable to conjure up all sorts of things, mostly along a negative vein. If you have a natural bent towards sympathy, for example, it strikes a certain chord. Likewise if your favorite German word happens to be Schadenfreude.

Me? I smile.

One of the things I like about Documentaries? I have friends who make them.

Kris “Mudd” Meyer is the executive producer of Plimpton! Starring George Plimpton as Himself, which is scheduled for screening at the Bayview Cinema on Saturday the 29th at 7.

I’m a big fan of Mudd’s. He’s a throwback, like I imagine producers in the Golden Age of Hollywood to have been. He knows every bartender, concierge, waitress, athlete, cop, priest and fireman in Boston, and L.A., and Atlanta, everywhere. He’s a handshaker and name-asker who means it, and is generous beyond measure. And if you know his folks, you understand why he turned out the way he did. Anybody who names their kid Mudd, can’t be all bad.

We’ve had an adventure or two, Mudd and meself. As a matter of fact, I had my first stunt-driving gig with Mudd. True, we were a mile from the set, and yes, technically the police were supposed to pull us over instead of the actual vice-versa, but in the end, Rex Trailer didn’t care, no matter how hard I banged on his window.

Now, he might hate me for it, but I figured the best way to introduce Luke Poling, Plimpton!’s co-writer, director and producer to you is to direct you to a charming little piece of film that I particularly enjoy. Luke is the fellow with the magic suitcase.

Personally, I think that handsome bartender is going places…

Enjoy the Festival everyone. Despite what you’ve just read, I really, truly admire the hell out of everyone involved. Congratulations all!

Pete McDonald lives in Camden.