The Losing Oscars

 

It’s been nearly 24 hours.  Thousands–nay, MILLIONS–have posted their thoughts on last night’s awards show.  The results are mixed to bad, with host Seth McFarlane accruing the most disparate reviews.  The Family Guy Generation Xers were more forgiving than the elder traditionalists.  Let’s just say those who loved Billy Crystal weren’t so kind.

I smelled something foul in the air the moment Seth McFarlane pounced onto the stage.  There was an aroma that can be interpreted as unabated confidence–or sheer arrogance.  He never stammered.  In fact, you can catch glimpses in his eyes in which McFarlane clearly foresaw and embraced a joke that was destined to fail.  (He has written 11 seasons of Family Guy after all.)  He even broke down a wall to comment whenever the teleprompter was feeding him garbage.  His half-baked Von Trapp bit ended with McFarlane attempting to replicate a look of astonishment and confusion; as if he couldn’t believe that the producers approved such a lame-duck bit (that ate away minutes, I should add).

McFarlane’s sheer un-likability was apparent as he walked on stage, unabashedly quipping about his ineptitude at hosting.  It wasn’t long before William Shatner (one of many who opted to work from home and present via monitor rather than make personal appearances) stole the spotlight.  Interestingly, the camera never panned to the audience, save for the first few minutes–and even displayed a bizarre twist: Tommy Lee Jones actually laughing.

Yet, as McFarlane hosted away 15 minutes of long and tired bit, his applause grew quiet.  Even Franco and Hathaway were able to garner a sympathy applause. The only real glimpses of the audience could seen in longshots as McFarlane stared at Shatner’s projected image.  One of the most amusing moments was the utter bemusement that can be read in front-row participant Helen Hunt’s face.  And the only feedback during his embarrassingly crass “We Saw Your Boobs” song-and-dance number were brief cuts to the most offended.  Naomi Watts’ appalled expression was so transparent, it could easily have have been mistaken as part of the act.  But it wasn’t.  She was freakin’ pissed.

In fact, if there is one word to describe last night’s ceremony: FAILURE.  Failure to decide which film was ultimately the best.  Argo won the big prize, but only squeezed out a tally of three statues.  Life of Pi was the bridesmaid in a big way; winning Ang Lee his second award of BEST DIRECTOR and garnered the most awards with just four.  There were awards aplenty with Django, Silver Linings Playbook, Lincoln, Amour, Les Miserables, Zero Dark Thirty all getting a piece of the pie (or Pi).  The only loser out of the BEST PICs, was Beasts of a Southern Wild, which appeared, at one point, to be a favorite.   

Despite the Oscar’s generosity to its nine nominees, the producers felt no urge to be so generous to the audiences.  First, they decided to sway viewers with a “theme” and offer distractions with all things Bond and musicals.  The perfect blend was resuscitating Shirley Bassey for Goldfinger.  It didn’t sound right, but given her age, she still made it pleasant.  There were other musical renditions.  There was Tony-inspired performance by the cast of Les Miserables and a reunion with the Chicago cast.  (When did Chicago become a classic?  After ten years, isn’t that film more in line with Around the World in 80 Days, The Greatest Show On Earth, and The English Patient as the “WTF was the Academy thinking?”)  There was also a tribute to Dreamgirls which won Jennifer Hudson an Oscar, so she could later chase bigger fish like having a cameo in Sex and the City and Jenny Craig ads.  Barbara did a fine rendition of “Memories.”  Adele received an unfair advantage for the BEST SONG category with a performance of Skyfall that’s only forgivable because she owned the stage in a way McFarlane never did and provided one of the most humble (and fast) acceptance speeches.

At this point, I should admit that I loath awards shows AND love em!  They represent all that’s wrong in America: Hypocrisy!  There’s grandstanding speeches made by the elite.  They comment over how unfair the world has become and how we must stand for civil rights and equality and pacifism, yet most of whom have dodged Hollywood because of the high tax rates.  Last night showed Anne Hathaway giving a lesser performance on the podium.  A simple “thank you” would have sufficed.  Adding in a message for abused women–no matter how noble–seemed artificial. Yet, she was allowed to speak much longer than the poor Life of Pi visual artists.

The biggest atrocity with awards shows is they have lost their way.  Originally conceived in 1927, the first Oscars was a quiet, gala dinner; long before television captured every last fucking freckle on the exposed artificial chests.  Janet Gaynor, who won the first Best Actress Academy Award (well before it earned the nickname “Oscar”) was more excited to meet Douglas Fairbanks than win the prize. Now, the Oscars are the second-largest television and media event, with most of the focus turned to the celebrities, the wardrobe, the drama, and a large betting circuit that nearly trumps the Final Four.  It’s time we reverted back to a humble dinner where we can see the bits in a nicely edited 10-minute clip show. 

If last night’s awards show proved anything, it’s that the Academy Awards are not longer in business to promote the artistry of cinema, no matter how many clips of James Bond they can piece together.  It’s become one long-winded media circus, where the most privileged are given even more accolades; the lesser folks (sound effect editors, short form documentarians, even the once coveted Life Time Achievement winners) have been supplanted by a severe case of celebrity envy. 

Every year, the Oscars tries (and fails) to rekindle its relevancy.  In a world filled with poverty and other hardships, it’s a sad state of affairs in which the most cherished individuals are given even more.  Despite it all, I can never resist the urge to watch.  The great late comedian Mitch Hedberg told a joke that encompasses my viewpoint toward the Oscars as well as most award shows.  “It’s like pancakes: All exciting at first, but by the end you’re fucking sick of em.” 

I’ve grown more and more tired of the Oscars.  This year, despite its best attempts to hold an awards show with some morsel of unpredictability (I honestly didn’t know which film would win BEST PICTURE until Jack spoke the word Argo), the show has grown stale, out-of touch.  It’s capricious too; trying to satisfy the palettes of two unique audiences.  In a sad F-You signal, the musical-inspired awards show only held musical tributes to recent films rather than cherished Best Picture winners like An American In Paris, My Fair Lady, or Oliver.  Instead, the awards show focused on appeasing the kids rather than respecting a tradition.

Therefore, the Oscars are the real losers.  Despite remaining a ratings winner, it will continue to die a slow death.  Next year, more harebrained ideas will be hatched to salute the technical awards while trying to scurry them off the stage with a long cane.  There will be other distractions and gimmicks, although nothing will compare to the one year in which the lesser awards were handed out to the winners from the theater seats.  This year, we witnessed McFarlane bomb; harebrained ideas like having Michelle Obama (via a television) announce the BEST PICTURE; a BEST DIRECTOR and BEST PICTURE awarded to two separate movies; and about an hour of musical interludes that made a long show feel like an eternity.

Last night, many of you saw some winners and losers.  Me?  I just saw some boobs. 

Countdown to Nevermore! (Feb 22-24th)

Nevermore Link    Facebook Link

“Found” This year’s winner for BEST FEATURE.

When Carolina Theatre Director Jim Carl asked me to a part of last year’s Nevermore Committee, I was delighted, even though I had no idea, at first, what it actually meant.  For example, did it require me to kill or mame?  Nope, unfortunately.  I did, however, spend  the Winter of 2011 critiquing a plethora of shorts and feature-length films from all parts of the globe; some rotten, some so-so, some utterly delightful.

The actual festival itself was an experience I won’t soon forget.  I remember walking onstage with a co-committee member, staring back at the horror-loving spectators, lavishing a moment of feeling important.  Perhaps my favorite moment was fraternizing with people who were as obsessed (if not more so) with films than I was.  I made some friends with people who had an professional attachment to the business.  Among them were local NC filmmakers and even a couple of cats from Hollywood who I now bid good marrow on Facebook from time to time.

“Headsome”  Made right here in our fair state.

So, when Jim asked me if I wanted to return, I had to say “yes”.  Despite the turmoils of a 40-hour-a-week job, school, and a few contributions to the site you see before you, I made the time to review 40-50 features and shorts. I was astounded by the quality of this year’s contributions.  Last year, I provided my reviews on a scale of 1 to 5, to which I gave a few 4.5s, but no perfect scores.  This year, I gave a ‘5’ to three.  (No, I’m not telling you what those are.)

This year, Nevermore means more to me than last year.  It is a refuge from all the personal and emotional anguish I’ve faced (again, fuck you 2013!  May I sleep for 300 days until you reach your vindictive end!).  Having only been to one “official” film festival before Nevermore, I can safely argue that there’s a level of intimacy involved in this one.  Last year, both the audiences (which were record-breaking) and the filmmakers were just joys from top-to-bottom.  The crowds came to enjoy a variety of horror cinema.   People walked in and exited with grins.  Everyone was relaxed and had a great time!

This year, Nevermore provides an even grander selection, which films scaling beyond what we conceive a “horror”.  For example, those who like tamer films will find refuge in “mind-benders” such as Found in Time.  Those who prefer ghost tales will be scared shitless by the “found footage” gem Leaving DC or the documentary-inspired Casebook of Eddie Brewer.  There’s also the inventive feature Headsome that was produced right here in NC!  Then, there’s the bizarre, disturbing and utterly brilliant Found, which won this year’s Nevermore Best Feature!

I haven’t even begun to mention the short features that come packaged in either the international fare, Boogeymen From Beyond The Sea, or the two English-speaking shorts programs Dead Men Tell No Tales or They’re Coming To Get You, Barbra!.  All of these contain plenty of gems.
 

One of the greatest horrors films finally makes its debut!!

Also, Jim has done the unthinkable and procured a one-night screening of George Romero’s 1978 horror classic Dawn of the Dead  as well as Don Coscarelli’s (The Phantasm series, Bubba Ho-Tep) most recent feature, John Dies in the End, starring Paul Giamatti and Clancy Brown.

I’m absolutely proud of the selection the committee has made.  I’m also delighted that there is a variety of films that serve each palette.  So, if you are near the Raleigh-Durham area, please come out and support local and/or independent cinema. I’ll be tall, uber-dork hounding all of the film makers.  See you there.

Please visit the Carolina Theatre website for information, including the film schedule

Good screening to you,

Chris

The moment Spielberg grew up (Part Two)

 

The best scene in Steven Spielberg’s Hook occurs early in the second act.  An adult Peter Pan reunites with the Lost Boys.  Because Peter (Robin Williams) has been absent for decades and resembles nothing like his younger persona–he’s middle-aged, overweight, is devoid of any confidence or spirit–no one believes it’s him.  The Lost Boys’ new leader, Rufio, draws a line to take sides.   Only one boy remains by Peter, staring curiously.  He reaches with his hands and begins to peel back Peter’s face like it were play dough.  Carefully, he presses his skin to remove the wrinkles and mold his expression into a bright smile.  Suddenly, the boy recognizes him. “Oh there you are, Peter!” the boy exclaims.  Soon, a few more boys flock to Peter’s side.  They believe again.     

I haven’t seen Steven Spielberg’s Hook is over a decade.  Back in 1991, I was excited to see it; even taken in by what actually worked in the film.  The $60 million summer adventure was guaranteed to break even based on the director’s reputation alone, even though Spielberg began to venture into more mature fare, swapping obligations to finishing George Lucas’ Indy opus with Oscar bait like The Color Purple (1985), Empire of the Sun (1987) and Always (1989).   But none of his adult-oriented fare could compete with Spielberg’s earlier successes.  At the start of the 90s, one could argue that Steven was done chasing dreams–that he had all but grown up.

In many ways, Hook is Spielberg’s second half to ET; the missing part in which the lovable alien circles back to Earth and witnesses Elliot slowly become disinterested in flowers that magically bloom back to life.  Instead, he starts eying girls and sports cars, leaving ET to search for sitting room next to the stuffed animals.  
Between 1982, when ET stormed all over pop culture, and 1991, when Hook did not, Spielberg became a father, divorced his first wife, Amy Irving, and got engaged to Kate Capshaw, who played Indiana Jones’ irritable love interest from Temple of Doom. In many ways, Spielberg went from Peter Pan to Peter Banning. 

Originally after ET, Spielberg originally wanted to make a faithful adaption to the original J.M. Barrie’s 1911 novel, Peter Pan.  In 1985, Spielberg explained “When I was eleven years old I actually directed the story during a school production. I have always felt like Peter Pan. I still feel like Peter Pan. It has been very hard for me to grow up, I’m a victim of the Peter Pan syndrome.”  That same year, Steven had his first child and conceded later “I didn’t want to go to London and have seven kids on wires in front of blue screens. I wanted to be home as a dad.”

Soon director Nick Castle (The Last Starfighter and also the actor behind the mask in the first Halloween) conjured the idea of telling a new story that asks “What if Peter Pan grew up?”  The story was sold to Tri Star with Castle also set to direct.  When Spielberg expressed interest, Castle was fired, but given his full directorial fee and a co-writer credit.  By the early 90s, Spielberg was no stranger to being the “hired gun”. He was essentially one for George Lucas’ Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Back in 1984, I believe Spielberg would have made a tremendous Peter Pan.  With Hook, however, there are moments that are suspiciously personal and others that are downright estranged.  There’s a beautiful score by John Williams that strives to inject an emotional nuance.  But the film stumbles, especially whenever kids are involved.  Close Encounters and ET taught us that Spielberg mastered the art of patience and understanding when working with child performers.  But Hook, which involves many child actors, remains fixated on the adult performances.  We’re presented an adult Peter, Captain Hook, a sexualized Tinker Bell.  When all of the players have made their grandiose entrances, it’s obvious that Spielberg was clearly infatuated by his cast and allows long-winded moments of Julia Roberts and Williams or Dustin Hoffman and Bob Hoskins to play longer than they should.  But the crucial elements are lost due to Steven’s utter disinterest in the children. 

Let’s examine Peter’s own kids.  The daughter is reserved to looking cute and screams a lot when she and her elder brother are captured by Hook, SME and company.  (How did Hook return to the normal world anyway?)  Peter’s son, Jack, hates his dad for being stuffy.  He sees Captain Hook as an ideal father because Hook can build him a baseball stadium (if you build it, he will come) and allows him to break clocks.  Inevitably, Jack only reinvigorates his love for his Dad after he sees him as Peter Pan and not as a father.  There are long moments when Jack (played by talented child star, Charlie Korsmo) merely stares with wide eyes while the Oscar winners chew the scenery. 

And then there are The Lost Boys.  When Peter first encounters them, they display no wonder or innocence.   They’re downright hateful street thugs complemented by Rufio, the newly invented leader whose hair looks even more outlandish than it did in 1991.  There’s never a moment when the fierce leader allows his guard to fall; when he becomes a genuine character and not a caricature.  Instead, the kids perform street basketball moves and other culturally-sound actions that can only come from long exposure periods to MTV.  Does Neverland get cable?

There’s also a confusing message that seems to come from Spielberg’s inner-child turmoils.  Peter inevitably rekindles his childhood memories and naivety by recalling his happy thoughts…of being a father.  His guide is Tinker Bell, who straddles a fine line between bubbly sweetness and a deep longing for romantic kinship with Peter.  The subplot has possibilities, but inevitably fizzles.   There’s a battle between childhood desires with adulthood contentment.  In many ways, it represents Spielberg’s own inability to toggle between his youthful and adult psyche.

This turmoil continued for Spielberg two years later.  He was handling  the B-movie action/adventure, Jurassic Park, but had has his heart set more on the extremely personal Schindler’s List.  Because of a conflicting schedule, Spielberg left the Jurassic post-production duties to his pal, George Lucas, while he invested his soul into his passion project.  Jurassic Park, despite its successes, is clearly Spielberg on cruise control.

For example, the film’s focuses on paleontogists Allen Grant and Ellie Salder, chaotician (and comic relief) Ian Malcolm, a lawyer and a billionaire.  Along for the ride are two kids.  But the children are merely fodder for the film’s thrills.  The focus is leaning toward the adults.  In 1982, Spielberg would have invested more interest in with the children.  And unlike extravaganzas like Jaws, Close Encounters and ET, the real star of the show was a special effect.   Of course, kids are disposable in Spielberg’s earlier works like Jaws and Close Encounters.  But star Richard Dreyfuss filled in as the Spielberg child persona; always chasing dreams and imagination, much to the chagrin of the adult contemporaries. He even presses his disengaged children to watch Pinocchio on the big screen, giddily excited when he sees the film is playing at the local cinema. 

After Jurassic Park reigned in the box office and Schindler captured Spielberg his long-coveted Oscar, he took a hiatus to be with his children (and help form his studio project, Dreamworks).  When Spielberg got behind the director’s chair again, he was lured into Jurassic Park’s sequel purely by a mountain of money (much to the dismay of his Dreamworks’ co-founders).  If Jurassic Park lacked some of Spielberg’s personal investment, it’s evident that his heart is completely absent here.  The second installment lacks the awe and wonder that peaked its head into the original.  There is one child this time: Ian’s adopted daughter.  She is, once again, merely functional as a passable victim for T-Rex’s and velociraptors, whose only characterization is her fondness for gymnastics, even during the most inopportune moments.

I lament about Spielberg’s loss of youth as if it were avoidable.  The fact is: it was inevitable.  What’s troubling is whenever Spielberg tries (and fails) to return to his younger form; embracing a franchise, or a genre, that was clearly the lovechild of his younger, naive self that no longer exists.  He routinely attempts to rekindle with the the types of films that made him an icon, rather than simply embrace the newer, mature course that lead him to two (possibly three) Oscars.

The most obvious is Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, which was machine-manufactured by Spielberg.  There’s no sense of the Spielberg of 1981.  For instance, the action (which is ridiculous, even for an Indiana Jones film) lacks any sense of tongue-in-cheek, nail-biting ferocity.  The first sequence has the aged Indiana scaling from wood block to wood block…from the point-of-view of the villains.  Seriously, if you re watch the film (on mute!) you may mistake the film as being about the protagonist Russians and that evil American.

It’s that kind of detachment that shows Spielberg’s utter loss of engagement with this kind of B-movie that made him a household name.  If you examine a film like Lincoln (faults and all), there’s a deeper, more connected approach.  Spielberg wants to make these films; whether its for more Oscar glory or some continued longing to make the world a better place.  Whatever.

When I think back on Hook, this is clearly the point when both Spielbergs come to a tumultuous impasse, with no final resolution between the two conflicting forces.  The film ends with Peter somehow re-establishing his sense of innocence and imagination, but leaves us wondering what fine line he’ll inevitably walk when the film ends.  “To live…to live will be an awfully big adventure”.  Bullshit!

Hook will never be remembered as a Spielberg classic.  It’s too capricious, too confused to establish any deeply rooted connection with its audience.  Since its release, Spielberg has all but denounced it.  It was clearly a product made by a man no longer in tune with awe and wonder.  For example, despite Steven’s reputation by getting through movie shoots unscathed and on schedule (a self-imposed discipline after the nightmarish Jaws production) he was unsuccessful with either on Hook. The sets look like areas that people stroll past at Disneyland before they get to the rides.  The actors all do a fine job taking turns stealing scenes.  But there’s something missing.  Something magical.  Yet, in a bizarre sense, it’s the most telling film of Spielberg’s career (other than ET).  He’s hoping the children will peel back the wrinkles behind the graying beard and find a giddy, young man ready for adventures.  But, as the boys noted in the film, Spielberg “you’ve grown up.  You promised never to grow up.”

Video Pick: Skyfall

To readers and fellow film snobs:

I apologize that I’ve been unable to contribute lately.  As a result of some difficult circumstances, I haven’t gathered the energy or state of mind to post more entries, including my promised second half of my ode (and reservations) to Steven Speilberg.  However, that will soon change and, as they say, I’ll “get back on the horn”.  In the interim, please enjoy my regurgitation of an earlier entry, which will be available on DVD and bluray tomorrow.  I appreciate your patience and kind words.  Thanks again for reading!

–Chris

“Sometimes the old ways are the best”.  Amen, 007.  After 50 years, Bond’s worse for wear, but still trucking.  We’ve had numerous “reboots” (or is it “reimagining’s”? I can’t tell.).  But Bond has returned to the basics: drinking martinis, driving Aston Martins, and exchanging puns with Q, albeit a younger, less tenured incarnation who resembles Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock more so than Desmond Llewelyn.  Yet, when Bond’s 23rd outing concluded, we’re pretty much guaranteed that 007 is here to stay–and true to form.  Surprisingly, I couldn’t have been more pleased.  

Things start off rocky for 007 with an outstanding series of action pieces that concludes on top of a train roaring through narrow tunnels and even involves a mounted land digger (Who knew Bond worked construction!) used to bridge the severed cars.  It’s at this point that Bond’s partner, Eve (Naomie Harris) tailing in pursuit, tells M (the always graceful Judi Dench) via radio, “Words cannot describe this.”  I can’t imagine how the screenwriters transcribed it either! 

The train ride ends with Bond apparently killed by friendly fire.  MI6 is compromised and attacked by a disgruntled ex-agent Silva (Javier Bardem).  Bond returns from the dead, reinstates, grabs a pair of Q’s handy gadgets and travels to exotic locales like Shanghai, which includes a surreal fight at the top of the neon-lit skyscrapers, photographed with beauty by Coen Bros. regular, Roger Deakens.   But the real joy comes when Bond circles back to London and engages his wits and brawn to protect M from Silva’s vengeance.  The two inevitably retreat to a final duel that leads to some rare intimate moments with 007 and a hint of a back story.  Hint: It involves the film title!

Directed by Sam Mendes (American Beauty, Road to Perdition), Skyfall finds its footing after the meandering second entry of the Daniel Craig era, restoring the character highlights that were so prominent in Casino Royale as well as retaining some suave action pieces that aren’t lost in an editing frenzy (credit veteran Stuart Baird).  The biggest joy is seeing Craig don the clean-cut tux and disheveled soot look with equal glee, parrying waves of attacks with a subtle wink to the audience.  There are also loving tributes to the Bonds of the past that are much more amusing than Die Another Day’s sad attempt to hearken back to 19 previous films.  Whether it’s Q’s acknowledgement of the ridiculous exploding pens or Bond’s infamous red button on his transmission, there are plenty of old-school splendor that reaches a crescendo in the final five minutes. 

Skyfall is one of the best Bonds ever made.  It walks a fine-line between 21st century villainy and menace with pure tongue-in-cheek extremism that has become its signature staple.  Bond chases women, but is more considerate, only bedding women while remaining hands-off (out of respect, honor, fear?  Who knows?) to some.  The villain continues to gloat, although his vendetta is purely personal; his grander scheme is whispered, as if to imply it’s of no consequence.  Bardem literally chews up the screen the moment his steps into it, strutting, bellowing and winking his way to a rare Oscar nomination for an action feature.  The dialog drips with innuendos, even between two characters you’d least expect, which shows the saga fully acknowledges the small modifications necessary for the turning tides of the 21st century.

 

Yet, Bond has relinquished its previous attempts to move away from the jokes.  Skyfall embraces them.  There are no hyperbolic villains.  No “Oddjob” or “Jaws”, but the cartoony antics remain in full form with Bardem’s slightly underutilized deformity and his ingenious schemes to undermine Bond and company.  Even with the Bond’s new love for Heineken (neither shaken or stirred) and the notable absence of a definable “Bond girl”, the formula remains without showing signs of going stale–even after 50 years.  So, with a non-Heineken beer in hand, here’s to many more Bond adventures, shaken or stirred.