Hi Lynda, Once again, I'm delighted to be talking with you—a producer of $100 million movies and an accomplished writer and an A-list partygoer—about the year in film—at least, the year in film as viewed through the glamorously insular prism of the Academy Awards. First, a disclaimer: Nothing in the discussion that follows should imply that I endorse the collective taste of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences or believe that the Oscars are an objective measure of artistic achievement in the manner of, say, my own reviews. What we're talking about is an election, not so different from the primaries next Tuesday in which you and I will be casting votes, and in which candidates finish on top for all sorts of cockamamie reasons. I'm here, then, as a political pundit—not because I think that Titanic, Gladiator, American Beauty, A Beautiful Mind, etc. are great works of cinema. So let me grill you on the politics. Is The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King as popular in Hollywood as Las Vegas oddsmakers have proclaimed? The fanboys who constitute the most vocal segment of the multiplex audience have, for the last three years, been shooting off outraged e-mails over Peter Jackson's "snubbing"—when, in fact, the number of nominations that all the Rings films have garnered is unprecedented for any sort of trilogy, let alone a genre trilogy. But we know it takes more than that kind of grass-roots campaign to push a film over the top, Oscar-wise: It takes some confluence of box office, lefty-humanist-inspirational heft, and an "Ingredient X" based on voters' personal feelings about the filmmakers (and, of course, about their competition). What do you think is Ingredient X in this instance? Is it the existence of the two other Rings movies—and the notion that this will be an award for all three? Is it the absence of a real consensus on the other movies (apart from Lost in Translation, which everyone but multiplex audiences adores)? Is it the Miramax Factor? About the Miramax Factor: The story of the nominations was the lack of a best picture or actress nomination for Cold Mountain. Miramax and some news outlets suggested that this was because the movie had been released too late in a shortened campaign season, with awards scheduled for the end of February instead of the end of March. (The company traditionally releases a slew of movies in December—as late as Dec. 31—to make sure that its films are open and in voters' minds and VCRs in January and February.) Others argued that this was directly related to the January appearance of Peter Biskind's Down and Dirty Pictures, which presented Miramax in a none-too-flattering light. I made the admittedly odd suggestion that it might have had something to do with the film itself, which is choppy and in places seemed to me (when compared with the novel) artistically neutered. Is the fact that Miramax drove Peter Jackson so crazy and finally dumped the Rings trilogy the precious Ingredient X? Will Jackson be honored as much for escaping the clutches of Harvey & Co. as for his epic prowess? One way I think that you can measure a backlash against Miramax is in the absence of nominations for the lovely film The Station Agent and the astonishing technical work (and cinematography) of Kill Bill, Vol. 1. Great as Patricia Clarkson was in Pieces of April, she was better in The Station Agent, and the performances of Peter Dinklage and Bobby Cannavale were equally wonderful. Why not a single nod? It's Miramax that is crying foul about some recent Dreamworks ads, I gather, which have pitted House of Sand and Fog's Shohreh Aghdashloo head-to-head against the favorite, Renée Zellweger. Much as I enjoyed Zellweger's Young Granny Clampett in Cold Mountain, I smell an upset and think the Oscar goes to Aghdashloo this year. It's the Miramax Factor meets the Third World Supporting Actress Factor. There's a bit of an Asshole Factor in the actor and supporting actor nominations, no? Both Sean Penn and Bill Murray (both, incidently, magnificent in their respective films) are widely disliked yet are the favorites to win. (Johnny Depp's amazing SAG victory notwithstanding, he won't win the Oscar unless Penn and Murray take votes away from each another—he's thought of as even more of a weirdo than they are.) I think Penn will get it because he has been nominated before—what say you? Meanwhile, the favorites in the supporting actor category are Tim Robbins and Alec Baldwin, both mouthy liberals with a reputation for arrogance. I loved Baldwin's performance; a rebirth, I think—from ridiculous leading man to great comic character actor. But it looks like a lock for Robbins, who I thought was the weakest thing in Mystic River—you could really see him acting (as opposed to Kevin Bacon and, for that matter, Laurence Fishburne). On the other hand, the academy traditionally honors you-can-see-the-acting performances because, well, you can see the acting. Speaking of seeing the acting, Charlize is also a lock, right? A terrific performance in a heavy drama plus massive weight gain will be enough to counter the real affection for Diane Keaton's marvelous work and either nonexistent or impressively inconspicuous plastic surgery in a comedy. My only regret is that the woman who created Theron's makeup (she goes by the name Toni G.) won't be up there to collect the award with Theron. Makeup any less superlative would have made it seem too much like a stunt. Any rumblings for Eastwood or Peter Weir? Any clear favorite among the docs? I'm not allowed to ask you how you voted, but what have you heard? Will Mel Gibson be a presenter this year, and, if so, how will the crowd receive him? (Many will be watching for confirmation that Hollywood is indeed the headquarters of Satan.) Finally: Is everyone in L.A. as sick of awards as I am? There were the Golden Globes, SAG, and DGA prizes in addition to the upcoming Independent Spirit awards. Does it feel as much like overkill there, too, or is there simply no end to the pleasure Hollywood takes in paying tribute to itself? Enlighten me—
Dear David: It seems to have stopped pouring for a second, so maybe the Oscar party spirits, which felt wholly dampened yesterday, will reinvigorate. Everyone I spoke to claimed to want to stay home this weekend. Obviously none of them were among the nominees—they would all be in fittings or deciding between competing jewelers. It's been a pretty pathetic pre-Oscar season, what with the shortened—some would say hysterically so—schedule between the Golden Globes and the nominees rushing hither and thither between the BAFTAs, and the SAG awards, and the Independent Spirits, and the various critics awards. Seeing the same people everywhere, exhaustion sets in. This year began with our academy jerking away our screeners and taking away our big, juicy campaign events, pooping all our parties and perks. We whined and screamed until our DVDs returned as videotapes. A few measly parties were later given by "friends," but they were not at all what the pre-season parties used to be. The omnipresent "event planners" seemed entirely absent. People wondered if the academy's strategy was revenge against Miramax, after the overkill of Gangs of New York of last year. And, if so, was it a good idea? In any case, it made the season kind of a downer. Or was the academy trying to prevent the Golden Globes from upstaging the more glorious Oscars? If so, it seemed kind of overly defensive and much too enervating for the nominees themselves. I flew across country with the divine Anthony Minghella in the middle of it all, and after a terrific conversation of about an hour, he passed out on me. Now, on to your juicy questions about the politics of it all. The Oscars have become less political than you might think. Just like in the quiet of the voting booth, after a vociferous struggle, you tend to vote with your heart. That's why the outcome on Sunday night is often a surprise. But there is one thing I want to say about "glamorously insular Hollywood." To me, the biggest news about the nominations this year was how, well, non-insular they were. Two foreign-language films were nominated in non-foreign- language categories: City of God, a film I adored, received four nominations; and The Barbarian Invasions, a French-Canadian film that made me laugh and weep out loud, was nominated for best original screenplay*. This was a truly non-provincial moment for the academy. So, perhaps a small moment of appreciation (if not stunned silence) is in order. Now that my compulsory defense of Hollywood is over and done with, we can move on to our usual cockamamie reasoning. Yes, I do think it is the year of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, though as a card-carrying member of the upper female quadrant, I am not its natural constituency. I think a small aspect of its regard in Hollywood is the accomplishment of the trilogy. I began to hear about how spectacular it was long before it opened, and it wasn't just buzz. People—and, yes, usually they are of the male gender, though woman are among them—think that it is the greatest technical triumph of the film genre since 2001 and the first Star Wars, using every tool in the movie paint box. People also think Peter Jackson is a genuine genius who can do anything (his early movies count, too), and they don't just mean taking on Harvey. Plus, his popularity has nothing to do with politics. Nobody knows Jackson; he doesn't work the town from New Zealand. He is pure, he has invented his own FX and has his own FX house that other filmmakers now use. The idea that Peter Biskind's book had any effect on the race is absurd; not only does it wildly overestimate the book's influence, I believe (though I could be off by a week or so) that the nominations were in by the time the book came out. An Oscar winner's confluence of factors, as you say, does exist in many seasons—but there was no "lefty humanist factor" this time. This year, the X factor is just plain regard for Jackson's unique talent. If anything, it's akin to the regard for James Cameron's technical/box office achievement with Titanic. And throw in the fact that it's much harder to blow audiences away these days, post-Matrix, than it was in either Cameron's, Lucas', or Kubrick's day. The most beloved movie is, I agree, my favorite, Lost in Translation, which will walk away with some Oscars for certain. To me, it reinvented the romantic comedy, and I fear I will never be able to make one again without feeling desperately inadequate. As for the actors, I will hold my guesses for later. When I mingle with the well-dressed cocktail sippers, I can give you a sense of "No One Would Be Surprised If" factor: on the hot Charlize vs. Diane and Sean vs. Bill debates ... more fun than my mere opinion … and certainly more interesting than any potential John vs. John matchup. Until then … Yours, Correction, April 14, 2004: An earlier version of this dispatch referred to The Barbarian Invasions as a nominee for the Oscar for best adapted screenplay. It was nominated for best original screenplay. (Return to corrected paragraph.)
Lynda, I have to be honest with you and our readers. Revisiting my post from yesterday, I nearly fell asleep. I don't think I've ever written anything so profoundly boring in my life. Even people who have no use for the Oscars beyond an excuse to get together with friends and get drunk and make fun of stars (mostly women, I'm afraid) now get nonstop Oscar talk for six months out of the year. I don't have anything to add to it. I am much more interested in your thoughts as an insider—although I understand if, owing to your position in the industry, you must be more political than either of us would like. I mean, I wouldn't want to say anything not nice about Anthony Minghella if I'd sat next to him on a plane for hours. (Actually, I wouldn't want to say anything not nice about him anyway—except that I hope he someday makes another masterpiece on the order of Truly, Madly, Deeply, one of the most emotionally overwhelming romantic comedies I've ever seen and an Oscar non-nominee.) My favorite movie of last year was the documentary Spellbound, which was somehow nominated the year before and lost to Michael Moore. My second favorite, the Brazilian documentary Bus 174, has been little-seen. (I didn't even see it until way late, but it's more powerful than City of God by a factor of a hundred.) After that, I'm down with Lord of the Rings, Master and Commander, and Lost in Translation. I'll be pleased when Peter Jackson's passion and industry are rewarded, and I do hope that Sofia Coppola takes home something for her bravely Chekhovian Lost in Translation. There is another reason to rejoice in Coppola's success: Her casting in The Godfather Part III was the greatest act of parental sabotage in the history of cinema, and I am thrilled that she is now triumphantly free of it. (Of course I do not mean it was deliberate sabotage—it was the act of a father who loved not wisely but too well.) There are two potentially explosive issues, and they're connected. The first, of course, is The Passion of the Christ. Will there be Mel Gibson jokes? The people who love that film regard an attack on it as an attack on their faith and believe that to question Gibson's vision is by definition anti-Christian. (Especially when the questioners have Jewish surnames. Careful, Billy.) A segment of the American public will be watching and waiting to hear its savior's name taken in vain. It will also be waiting to hear one of sundry outspoken lefty nominees (Penn, Robbins, Baldwin, etc.) malign its president. I'm fine with political statements like that in a year like this, but I hope whoever makes it has better instincts than Michael Moore, or the moment will end up as a recruiting poster for the right wing. Party on.
Dear David, I totally disagree with your analysis of your posting yesterday—I thought it got us off and running. And it violates Rule No. 1 of e-mailogogy: Never reread after you press "Send." Publish and be damned. Anyway, leave the self-flagellation to the thousands in the multiplexes enjoying what you called "The Jesus Chainsaw Massacre." Insightful point about Anthony Minghella: Before he slipped on the earphones to his iPod on our recent flight, he noted that the epics he had made—and I'm a huge fan of The Talented Mr. Ripley—had made him long for the simplicity of Truly, Madly, Deeply, the movie that alerted me to his wonderfully fresh voice. I once overheard Stephen Frears make the same point: That making big, splashy American movies often estranged directors from the impulse that had brought them to filmmaking in the first place. That's why so many of the best Aussies stay home—Peter Weir, for example—and the Brits return as well. As far as Sofia the director vs. Sofia the first daughter goes, there is a great rumor going around, and I have no idea whether it is true, but I am going to write it anyway, so as not to be accused of pulling punches. When the great dad saw the movie, he gave her three pages of notes. She threw them away. He was said to have been very hurt. It feels true, anyway. I want it to be true. Lost in Translation has the honesty and freshness of something touched only by the filmmaker. Had it gone through dread studio notes and previews, it never would have survived intact, to say nothing of its precious whispered ending, into which we can each write our own dialogue. None of it would have been possible if Sofia had not been empowered. As for Mel, I am utterly exhausted by it all. It has already cost me one big party invite, and you can't go anywhere around here without feeling that half of the country is paralyzed by the fear that the other half might be gathering on the banks of the Mississippi with torches and pitchforks, driving the rest of us into the Pacific. As for humor, the only really funny person about all of this has been Jon Stewart—never has humor been more needed. If Mel is a presenter on Sunday—does he get Sundays off?—remember that he's a Movie Star and a Box Office Wizard, and so will be treated respectfully (even if it's muted respect). If there is a Michael Moore-like response, that would be hideous. Remember the First Amendment. Yours, thinking outfits, dreaming PJs, P.S.: Tonight is the big party night—two of them; it would have been three—so I will post tomorrow with the consensus balloting from the crush of schadenfreude. Should be fun, fun, fun. …
Dear David, We left the favela and headed for the hills. There was a lot of air kissing and socializing at triple-A movie star party at uber-agent Mr. Lourd's house—never teeming at the rafters, like some other parties that will go unmentioned this year. It always has the feeling, like its host, of something not full of effort, thrown together for his friends without any pretense whatsoever, no small feat among all the wattage. And what friends he has. In one take, I saw Clooney, Julia, Warren, Aniston, Tom and Rita, Renee, tons of significant New Yorkers who had jetted in, and up from the favela, God. The longest (and only) conversation I had was with Andrew Jarecki—the recipient of the closest thing to a smear campaign this Oscar season has going, against his Capturing the Friedmans. He was chatting with Sherry Lansing when we were introduced, and you could feel the intensity of the conversation rising above the general chit-chat. I was stunned, as were many, by Sharon Waxman's slam in the Times, just as voting was taking place. Jarecki said he knew he had to e-mail her, as she had misquoted him repeatedly. Who was driving these articles? The first prosecutor? If this were a feature, we would suspect a competing studio. But that's unlikely, in the case of a documentary, with the stakes too low. That Jesse Freidman's parole would be affected seemed to torment him. Was it the judge who had prejudged him? The victims? The prosecutor? The case seemed like it would never end. But my conversation had to end after 15 long minutes as I had to gather a consensus for my "No One Would Be Surprised If ..." dish. I had to find some partygoers talking about the Oscars! The lack of big campaign events made the Best Picture category less of a horse race, even though Seabiscuit is a contender. It was as though it were an election year where campaign finance reform had actually worked. Perhaps it's the absence of a vitriolic head-to-head contest between Miramax and someone—anyone. No gigantic rooting interest, no smear campaigns (other than the above, if it counts), no really ugly politics. It was more dramatic at the nominations, when Cold Mountain and Last Samurai were passed over. The fizzle is out of the coke this year. The big horse race is dominated by two actors who you'll never meet at any industry event, Sean Penn and Bill Murray, so no one roots that hard for either. There is a hint of a controversy in whether Sean Penn's or Tim Robbins' antiwar positions might have poisoned their respective chances. But this is lefty Hollywood, where great performances will always outweigh politics—especially left-wing politics proven right. Off to yoga—after all, Hollywood producers have their needs. When I'm back, the "No One Would Be Surprised If ..." list will be ready to post. Peace,
Lynda: I'm glad you're doing yoga this a.m.: It's important to get those toxins out of your system and to get centered. I'll be taking a long run and consuming a lot of water, in preparation for tonight's massive drinking. Are you hinting that Seabiscuit could win something? Lordy. I'm pretty happy with most of the nominations this year, but that one was a stunner. The book is a gripping look at the tortured underside of those old newsreels, but the adaptation was by someone whose principal love is for nostalgic period movie bric-a-brac. (That's why the best thing in it is William H. Macy's announcer.) I was stunned it beat out Cold Mountain for a nomination (and I'm not a big fan of Cold Mountain). Re: Capturing the Friedmans. There is a fascinating piece in Slate right now by Harvey Silverglate and Carl Takei that also criticizes Jarecki, but from the other side. It suggests that Jarecki withheld more damning evidence against the Friedmans' accusers in the name of a more commercial ambiguity. I know, it's hard to imagine anyone thinking Ambiguity Sells, but the Friedman saga lent itself to that kind of unsavory speculation, and Jarecki plainly didn't want to be seen as the author of an anti-prosecutorial tract. I noted this, too, in my original (extremely favorable) review, and added that I found parts of the movie coy and withholding. What's interesting about all this is that we're talking about it now. Many of these issues have been raised—by Debbie Nathan in The Village Voice, by me, by others. But when you put it in print in a national newspaper right before the Oscar ballots are due, it's a Big Story. One thing we haven't talked about are the musical nominees—which makes this a good time to mention one of my favorite things about the Oscar season: Andy Trudeau's tender analyses of the nominated scores on National Public Radio's Weekend Edition. It's wonderful stuff—and you can hear it all on line at http://www.npr.org/programs/wesun/. Among this year's nominations, I found Danny Elfman's Big Fish music egregiously bad in the context of the film, where it made Tim Burton's already heavy-handed style even more in-your-face. But Trudeau made me appreciate its internal beauties. He also gave me new respect for the work of Thomas Newman and even (choke) James Horner, my least favorite big-deal film composer after the dread Hans Zimmer. This year, he saves the finest scores for last: Newman's for Finding Nemo and Howard Shore's for LOTR: The Return of the King. Trudeau leaves no doubt that Shore's Lord of the Rings symphony deserves yet another Oscar. I'd like to see your predictions before I make mine, but I agree that the contest of the night is for Best Actor. What do you think? Will Bill Murray edge out Sean Penn? I'm beginning to think so, but I don't know what's in the Academy voters' hearts the way you do. Meanwhile, the New York Times two weeks ago ran a comic feature in which a bunch of writers were asked to put themselves in the nominees' heads and guess what they'd say if they won. I did an acceptance speech for Sean Penn that wasn't used: I think the editor thought it was too mean, or maybe insufficiently comic, but I liked it—mostly because it's about 75 percent Penn's own words, arranged to bring out all the conflicts that will surely be raging on inside him. He's such an anti-politician, after all. This is what I'd like him to say: SEAN PENN: I promised my wife I wouldn't say anything about not believing in these corrupt awards or about the decision of a subintelligent and mendacious political administration to invade the Middle East on false pretenses. So, I won't. No, I'm happy to get this award: My price will go up and I can move my kids out of the United States of Halliburton—Hey, kids, it's Daddy… Stay out of that cabinet… [Fumbles to light a cigarette]… I'm taking drugs to stop smoking… I don't believe in awards. I'm here for Clint. My captain. I can't believe I tore myself emotionally apart for a Republican. No, the script was a beast and I loved it! [Smokes] This is such an out-of-body experience. My right hand seems to be twitching. You know, if we put a tenth of the energy into worrying about the people of Iraq that we do about who gets this silly award, then we wouldn't have so much blood on our hands. Thank you. David
Dear David, I adored your Sean Penn acceptance speech. I can hear the music start
swelling in the hideous Kodak Theater as he starts to mumble the word
Halliburton (though we can still make it out), and it's quite a thrill
for one and all, except maybe for Mrs. Penn, who is like all wives is
waiting for those sweet words the camera loves as much as she does. She
deserves them, Lord knows. So let's start with the horserace, and I don't mean Seabiscuit. People Would Not Be That Surprised if … Bill Murray won. Because: 1) Everyone saw Lost in Translation and saw a Bill Murray they actually liked; 2) it was a muted, controlled performance that defined a moment in midlife; 3) it felt like the capper to his career, in which he was funny and heartbreaking. (I must stop—I'm showing my hand.) People Would Be Stunned but Thrilled If … Johnny Depp won. Because: 1) His virtuosic turn as swaggering, Keith Richards-like Capt. Jack Sparrow was by far the most fun performance of the year, and it transformed a Disney ride into a movie to adore; 2) the collective whoop when he won the SAG Award gave the actors hearts away, and actors are the largest block of the academy voters; 3) he looks great in heavy eyeliner; 4) everyone knows that Depp is a spectacular movie star waiting to break free, and they want to celebrate his first blockbuster. Best Actress: No One Would Be Surprised If … Charlize Theron won. At this point, she's almost a lock because: 1) She plays a freak; 2) in a biopic; 3) in a career transforming role; 4) with astonishing makeup which renders her unrecognizable; 5) and has gone from Charlize Theron the Babe to Charlize the Actress in one performance. It was a neck and neck for a while with Diane Keaton, who has Sony behind her, but it doesn't seem like a horserace anymore. If Keaton won, it would be because of 1) her extreme popularity, and the academy's older voters' fear that she won't have many more shots at such a great part; 2) the upper female and upper male quadrants found Monster too depressing; 3) never underestimate the Motion Picture Old Folks' Home crowd. Best Director: No One Would Be Surprised If … Peter Jackson won. Because: 1) It's the last of a trilogy, and the third time is the charm; 2) other than Tolkien, no one else could have made this stuff up; 3) he is lord of the world he created, and that defines the director category; 4) if it's an LOTR sweep (it may even win best adapted screenplay), how can he not win best director? The picture then has no other author—he is its genius. People Would Be Surprised but Not That Surprised If … Peter Weir won for Master & Commander. Because: 1) He is probably the most respected director in the business, a contender in every outing; 2) his BAFTA award proves that every entry is taken with great seriousness, and this film, though not a great commercial success, was loved by serious moviegoers; 3) Lord of the Rings was not a grown-up movie, and the academy is chock to the brim with grown-ups who didn't get Lord of the Rings or maybe didn't even see it—that might experience a vote split which could favor Weir. People Would Be Shocked If … Sofia Coppola won. Because: 1) She is considered a shoo-in for original screenplay, the respite for beloved directors who write wonderful movies that get four nominations; 2) she's hot hot hot, but I can't come up with any real way for her to pass Jackson or Weir. The schadenfreude would be worse for her career than Godfather 3. Best Supporting Actress: No One Would Not Be Surprised If … Renée Zellweger gave another of those speeches. But: 1) There's the question of the accent; 2) a lot of people I know thought the performance was over the top, but none of them seem to be voting at all the other awards; 3) the academy loves lively, and she sure was lively, wasn't she?; 4) Catherine won last year, so she's due. People Would Be Surprised, but Not Stunned If … Shohreh Aghdashloo won for her heartrending performance in House of Sand and Fog. Because: 1) I hear she's taken the nominees' luncheons by storm; 2) she's from Iran; 3) it's the gut-wrenching thing again. People Would Be Surprised, but Not That Surprised If … Marcia Gay Harden won for Mystic River. Because: 1) It's Mayor Eastwood's latest outing; 2) ditto on the gut-wrenching thing; 3) this movie has its fans in the academy—and so does she. I love Patricia Clarkson in Pieces of April and Holly Hunter in Thirteen, but my call is that this is a three-way race. Best Supporting Actor: No One Would Not Be Surprised If … Tim Robbins overcame almost single-handedly ruining the 2000 election and won for his low-key, gut-wrenching performance in Mystic River. Because: 1) Among the histrionic types it was the more contained performance; 2) he played a truly sympathetic character; 3) we are a forgiving nation. Also, No One Would Not Be Surprised If … Benicio Del Toro won for constantly dying in 21 Grams. Because: 1) He was bad and good and bad and good in equal measures and convincing all the way; 2) he was ugly and beautiful and ugly and beautiful and convincing all the way; 3) as ever, I could not take my eyes off him. People Would Be Surprised, but Not Stunned, If … Alec Baldwin won for The Cooler. Because: 1) In his redemptive phase, he has been given a part where he gets to be the bad guy, and we like our bad boys playing bad guys; 2) he finally plays it cool—suave and cool; 3) we're a forgiving nation. As with supporting actresses, I call this a three-way race. Best Picture: Lord of the Rings. Have to get ready. We're getting so close to watching the Red Carpet.
Talk to you by phone, next.
Thank you, Lynda. I haven't read a more cogent, sympathetic, or plausible group of predictions. When I saw Mystic River back in July, I thought it inconceivable that anyone could give a more wrenching performance this year than Sean Penn. Then I wondered how anyone could be more magically perfect than Bill Murray. Amazingly enough, Johnny Depp and Ben Kingsley strike me as equally deserving. But my bet now is Murray for the reasons you've articulated. Charlize Theron (and, by extension, Toni G.) will win, and Diane Keaton will get sustained applause when her nomination is announced. By the way, I've always thought that Theron was a terrific actress. And I can't wait to see her show off her new (old) bod. I think Shohreh Aghdashloo will sneak out a win over Renée Zellweger—I've also heard that she has been wowing them at those academy luncheons. (Yes, Marcia Gay Harden was stunningly good, but she has won it so recently.) We don't agree on the merits of Tim Robbins' performance, but my hunch is he takes it over Baldwin and Del Toro. (Will Robbins mention Halliburton? Susan Sarandon famously held her tongue last year; I wonder if Robbins will be able to resist.) Peter Jackson wins along with his film; Sofia Coppla takes it for original screenplay; and Brian Helgeland gets the nod for Mystic River. I would love to see Master & Commander win for cinematography, but my hunch is that Lord of the Rings will take all the tech awards. I haven't seen any of the foreign film nominees apart from Barbarian Invasions, which I think will win. (But who knows?) I don't have a clue about the documentary category: I've seen them all and think they're all extremely good, and I've never fully understood the academy's biases in this division. The Triplets of Belleville was one of my favorite films of the year—but so was Finding Nemo, and I doubt that the latter can be beaten in its own backyard by something so etrange. The most explosive issue this year isn't the war or the election; it's The Passion of the Christ. I don't envy Billy Crystal's joke writers. (And I dread the Gigli jokes—for God's sake, leave those people alone. And The Cat in the Hat and The Life of David Gale were much worse.) It will be fun to see Elvis Costello and T-Bone Burnett. I'm opening the wine. See you on the other side. David
Well, that was … predictable. I mean, I didn't predict it all, but you did. There was even a sense of expectation among some of the winners that took away from the momentousness of the occasion. Can you imagine how Charlize Theron would have reacted had she not heard her name? Biggest Embarrassment: the red-carpet show. Someone should be jailed for it. I remember when Chris Connelly was a fun guy, but asking Jude Law why Cold Mountain was so "nominatable" when the story of the year was how undernominated it was flustered even the star. Then Connelly used the word "competish." The brainless giggly gal with the cleavage was bearable, but Billy Bush needs to be hooked up with Mel Gibson for a private scourging party. It looked as if Angelina Jolie was ready to order a hit on him, and Naomi Watts never recovered from "Watts up?" Best Reason for the Unapologetically Crude Ogling of Giant Ta-Tas: La Sarandon. I mean, my God. In that dress, standing beside those two healthy-looking boys of hers. Mama mia. Most Insensitive Billy Crystal Moment: Early, in the technically impressive but unfunny opening montage, saying, "This isn't the way to the Oscars" as he's driven off in the Mystic River car. That's what the Oscars need—more child-molester jokes! Runner up: throwing the spotlight on Bill Murray after he'd lost. Crystal is rather punitive when it comes to fellow comedians getting nominations. Most Honorable Ducking of an Issue: Crystal defusing the Mel Gibson thing with a so-so joke about the movie having a "good Friday" and then leaving it alone. Mel didn't show up because, according to his spokesman, he had to be out promoting the film. And we all know that the last place you'd ever want to promote a film would be in front of a billion people at the Academy Awards. Best Crystal Joke: coming and going as he pleased, "kind of like being in the Texas National Guard." Runner-up: His excellent Robin Williams impersonation. Best Reason To Wish That Someone Else Had Hosted This Year: his excellent Robin Williams impersonation. Even Better Reason To Wish That Someone Else Had Hosted This Year: Jack Black. Best Syllable: Will Ferrell pronouncing "Sting" with an exquisite rasp of awe. Best Presenter Routine: Black and Ferrell singing the Boring Song and being anything but. Best Song: "A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow." A nice tonic to see Catherine O'Hara and Eugene Levy performing in character instead of working to pass themselves off as real, like everyone else. (Speaking of real, it was nice to see Annette O'Toole again, if only in two quick shots. She's missed. Smallest Shoulders: Blake Edwards. Best Iconic Image: The San Francisco Wedding Cake. Worst Iconic Image: Stiller and Wilson, the angry Jew and the golden pothead. Most Whorish Use of Irony: Wilson chiding Stiller for wanting to promote Starsky and Hutch. Most Insufferable Acceptance Speech: Erroll Morris. Not because of the rabbit-hole line—that's fair, given the subject of his movie. It was the peevishness with which he said, "Thank you for finally recognizing my films." At that moment, a few thousand voters probably regretted that they had. Most Tiny Touching Moment: Renée Zellweger slipping her folded-up speech out of her purse after she heard her name. Something very human about that. It was also sweet that she thanked both Nicole and Tom without acknowledging the awkwardness of that (while the camera vainly searched Kidman's frozen face for a flicker of emotion). Hillary Clinton Award for Most Inhumanly Disciplined On-Message Performer: Nicole Kidman. Most Prominent Fashion Trend: Mermaid gowns. Thank God the women were tall enough to pull them off. In fact, they were so much taller than all the hobbity men. Clearest Reason Why Brits Win Acting Awards: Ian McKellen introducing a Return of the King clip and breezing through the periods (or, as the English say, "full stops"), observing the meter over the punctuation. You never know what they're saying but it sounds lovely. Biggest Fashion Mistake: Liv Tyler, with four things going on above the neck—assymetrical hair, glasses, dangly earrings, choker. Most Uncomfortable Presence: Sofia Coppola. Fetching in her awkwardness, but as soon as she began to speak, the absurdity of her dad's casting her in Godfather III became even more apparent. I still think: What a thing to do to your kid. Still Unfunny: Bob Hope. Still Gorgeous: Katharine Hepburn. Still Clueless: Julia Roberts, adding her personal stamp to Hepburn's observation that "acting is the most minor of gifts." Julia seemed to think it was her job to make the thoughts the writers had handed her convincingly her own. It made her acting seem phonier in hindsight. Oh yeah, I haven't seen so much kiwi since California Cuisine in the mid '80s. Do you have any awards of your own? David
Dear David, This was a definitive night of the Sweep. Had Peter Weir's Master and Commander not received the two kisses for cinematography or sound editing, Lord of the Rings would have been the most Oscared movie of all time, beating both Ben-Hur and Titanic. There were no meltdowns (Charlize wouldn't even really cry), fashion disasters, embarrassing speeches, king-of-the-world moments, upsets, or even mild surprises. Hollywood has a new reigning king in Peter Jackson—Spielberg has his work cut out for him. Jackson was humble, happily married to his creative partner, and clearly beloved by his cast and crew, with whom he labored for six long years. No ill will could be felt dripping from the walls of the plastic theater. Many a potentate has lessons to learn from King Peter. The Bravest Little Spectator Award: Harvey Weinstein, for enduring the awards (given his story with LOTR), having to content himself with best supporting actress and best foreign film—a great one in the latter case, by the way. Most Repeated Joke: Billy Crytal's "there's nobody left in New Zealand to thank" bit. Most Discreet Political Joke: Sean Penn: "One thing every actor knows—aside from that there were no WMDs." And then dropping it, in an otherwise elegant acceptance speech. Most Hilarious and Memorable Moment by Far: Jack Black and Will Ferrell, who sang "You're Boring," the heretofore unknown lyrics to the speech-squelching orchestral score. Funniest Host Moment: Crystal for his ad-libs; they weren't quite Robin Williams-level, though, with one too many "Mrs. Billy Crystal" jokes. Most Embarrassing Moment Not Saved by Self-Reflexive Jokes: Ben "Starsky" Stiller and Owen "Hutch" Wilson plugging their film. Best Gown: Susan Sarandon, for showing that women over 50 are this year's dolls. Best Parental Whoop: Francis Ford Coppola, jumping out of his seat and defying gravity for the sake of his daughter—his body seemed infused with helium and joy. Most Genuine Political Moment Suffused With Self-Congratulations: Errol Morris. Happy the academy finally recognized his documentary-making (as well they should), then dropping that line to point out we are falling down the Vietnam "rabbit hole" in Iraq. Just thinking, David, it was only last year we were invading Iraq, and the swells were afraid to attend the awards—they thought they would look trivial trying to figure out what to wear while our troops were in danger. With our troops still in danger, now we're protesting … and wearing great gowns. What a difference a year makes. Warmest, David Edelstein is Slate's film critic. Lynda Obst is a producer at Paramount Pictures and author of Hello, He Lied. She can be reached through her Web site, LyndaObst.com. |
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