A sh*tshow of nominees - Paul Bellini - MyGaytoronto
A sh*tshow of nominees 23 January 2018.
Having survived the endless scold that was the Golden Globe Awards, I took to watching some Oscar hopefuls. As usual, biopics are huge at Oscar time, and I, Tonya is great. The biggest scandal on ice skates, Tonya Harding was trailer trash, constantly beaten by her mother and husband, and often sabotaged by snobby judges. She likely had nothing to do with the attack on rival Nancy Kerrigan, yet she received an inordinately scathing lifetime ban from the figure skating association. After watching the movie, you will feel that we all owe Tonya Harding a collective apology.
Call Me By Your Name is this year's gay movie for straight girls. It depicts a sun-dappled world where there seems to be no resistance to an intergenerational relationship. There is also no sex. The squeamish director actually pans away from the sex scene and rests the camera on an open window, surely the dumbest visual cliche in moviemaking. Lots of great acting, but no boner here.
The Disaster Artist, about a weird guy who makes a terrible movie that goes on to become a cult hit, is a career-best for writer/director James Franco. Poor James couldn't enjoy his Best Actor win at the Golden Globes because girls he had flirted with ganged up on him. Franco has played gay roles several times in his past. I'll bet now he wishes he actually was gay.
I don't quite get the foaming-at-the-mouth enthusiasm for genre movies like Get Out and The Shape of Water. Sure, they're well made, but 'Best Picture' material? At least Get Out had a unique point of view, that rich white people would want healthy black male bodies in which to plant their brains after their saggy white bodies expire. The problem with The Shape of Water is that the creature is more believable than the villain.
I was bored out of my mind by Dunkirk, which is mostly two hours of young guys drowning. But thank God there was one movie this year that genuinely took me by surprise, the clunkily-titled Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri, in which the great Frances McDormand plays the testicle-kicking mother of a murder victim. (The moron from The Guardian took it to task for not depicting racism, but it's not really about racism. That's like criticizing Gone with the Wind for not depicting women's rights.) Every scene in Three Billboards had me on the edge of my seat, or provided a shock or surprise. The ambiguous ending aside, I enjoyed this one the most.
But come Oscar time, the only thing that people will care about is whether there will be enough black gowns for all those sanctimonious actresses to wear on the red carpet. I'm still furious with Natalie Portman's cunty remark about the "all-male nominees" in the Best Director category. Sure, she has a point, that Lady Bird's director, Greta Gerwig, did not make the cut even though her film won. But still, did she have to ruin the moment for those five men? Expect the Oscars to be an even bigger shit show than the Globes. I can't wait.