So the annual Award Ceremony of the Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Science (it always seems so impressive written out in full
like that), better known as Oscar Night, looms before us, haunted by the ghosts
of stars and movies past.
After weeks
of the usual hype, assisted by the usual learned speculation among the media,
the ceremony will once again provide a grand occasion for the display and
advertising of designer clothes, the garbled reading of cue cards, bland and
boring acceptance speeches, and the inevitable sour disappointment of yet
another empty celebration of fraudulence and sham.
And yet,
and yet, every film critic feels the compulsion to comment on the proceedings
and, above all, to mention the chasm between what should win and what probably
will win and, as always, hope for the best.
Although
they now and then stumble upon an appropriate selection, the members of the
Academy, many of whom never see the movies they vote for, have earned a
reputation over the years for making the incompetent, the fashionable, or the
politically correct candidate their choice. The nominees for the various awards
for many years reflect some of those traditional criteria, above all in that
vast and populous category that might be called the Undeserving, a well that
never seems to run dry — think of the sappy and passive Jude Law in Cold Mountain or Diane Keaton’s
overrated performance in Something’s
Gotta Give.
In some
relatively minor areas, those nominees display the trends and fashions of the
past year in motion pictures. It was, for example, a good year for costume
pictures. So Girl With a Pearl Earring,
also deservedly nominated for art direction and cinematography — in a really
outstanding movie, perhaps all those arts belong together anyway — shares
space with The Last Samurai, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the
King, and Master and Commander.
The lavish
spectacle that recalls the golden age of Hollywood generally beats out the rest
of the competition — remember the grand horror of Gladiator? — and since neither Samurai nor Master performed well at the box office, I would imagine that The Lord of the Rings will win.
Since The Lord of the Rings has also received
nominations in no less than 11 categories, surely no one would be surprised if
it turned out to enjoy a grand night on the order of James Cameron’s awful Titanic of a few years ago. It has been
nominated for sound editing and original song (quick, can anyone out there hum
a few bars?), though curiously, not for cinematography, and already ranks among
the most profitable pictures in history (not a wholly irrelevant point).
One tip: if
it wins for best editing, one of the early awards, then it will probably win
everything else. That prize, often bestowed on large, uncontrolled movies like Lord of the Rings, which for all its
splendor runs at least 20 minutes too long and uses three or four different
endings, serves as a good indicator of general success, and thus may launch the
sort of steamroller that flattens the competition on Oscar night.
On the
other hand, The Lord of the Rings also
ranks among the great achievements in the cinema of fantasy, and certainly
deserves both the nominations and several of those precious statuettes. It’s
hard to believe that any other picture could win for visual effects, or makeup,
or original score, or even, yes, sound editing. In some of the more familiar
and, let=s face
it, more interesting categories, however, a number of surprisingly good movies
in a reasonably good year for the cinema could provide at least some serious
competition.
Despite the
possible dominance of Middle Earth over the rest of the field, some fine films
deserve recognition.
The best
movie of the year, in this critic’s judgment, is Mystic River, which should but probably won’t win in a few other
categories, including Clint Eastwood for best director, Sean Penn for best
actor, Tim Robbins and Marcia Gay Harden for their brilliance in supporting
roles. The virtually seamless unity of the cast, the remarkable directorial
control, the bleak and terrifying emotional power of the whole production
accounted for a work of rare and moving integrity.
Although
the script of Dennis Lehane’s novel also contributed a good deal to Mystic River, the Oscar for best adapted
screenplay should by rights go to American
Splendor. The movie not only exhibited an unusual creativity in translating
a series of comic books to the screen, it also accomplished something important
and most uncommon in film, an achievement that the Academy seldom notices. The
mingling of the comic book drawings of Harvey Pekar, the actor who plays him,
along with the real Harvey, and the complicated narrative strategy suggest a
high degree of experimentation with film itself, a successful attempt at moving
the art of cinema a frame or two in a new direction.
Whatever
the glories and triumphs of a gilded, if not a golden, night, the Academy
seldom notices or cares about such an achievement, especially in a small
independent movie without any major stars.
That
neglect remains one of the greatest problems of Oscar night, a failure to
acknowledge and celebrate the grand possibilities of motion picture art, the
miracle of film itself. Prepare yourself for the blockbusters and steamrollers,
the endless stream of presentations, the stale song-and-dance numbers, the
fatuous appreciations, but also prepare yourself for the disappointment that
always accompanies neglected merit and obscure beauty, the hangover of the
Academy Awards.
Now enjoy
the show.
This article appears in Feb 25 – Mar 2, 2004.
