I’m sick of awards season. Sick of it. The same people win every time. EVERY SINGLE TIME! Come on! Where’s the suspense? Where’s the upset? The long shot? The dreamer? Strange picks that keep us talking for decades?
The Golden Globes, with the exception of Merly Streep’s acceptance speech, was down right boring. A snooze fest. There’s a reason that crap is on cable. There’s also a reason the particpants booze it up during the show.
But I watched the whole damn thing. I didn’t quit. Nope. Followed all the awards talk from the damn Sundance film festival to the guilds. I even watched the New York Film Critics announcements online. Read all those websites. Even watch the E! channel. I was a fan. But the Golden Globes about sucked the life out of me. So predictable.
Then the Oscar nominations were announced. Woo-hoo! “Dreamgirls” shut out, “Letters from Iwo Jima” in. Marky Mark got a nod so did the little girl from the “Sunshine” movie. I love when someone gets something that is absolutely undeserved. Poor Pedro Almodovar was blocked. Rumors of a “Pan’s Labyrinth” conspiracy were everwhere. And Almodovar is gay, even “swishy” as it was described. You know Hollywood and its gay issues.
Then came the Screen Actor’s Guild. Finally an opportunity for actors to step up and say “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Shit, throw”Dreamgirls” for best ensemble or Leo for best supporting at me. Dare to be different or bold or whatever the saying is. But no, just the same group of winners: Whitaker, Mirren, Murphy, Hudson.
Look, they all did great in the roles that were written for them. But seriously. If I’m going to have to listen to that odd bloak Jeremy Irons drone on and on, please give me something to smile about.
So here were are back to Oscar talk and the odds are that the same folks will walk away with Oscar gold.
No seriously, is the Academy really going to skip Peter O’Toole? That has to be a joke. After all, Timothy Hutton, Louis Gossett, Jr., Cher, Kevin Costner, Mercedes Ruehl, Mel Gibson, Cuba Gooding, Jr., Helen Hunt, and Roberto freaking Benigni have more gold than that guy.
Don’t get me wrong, I like Whitaker’s performance, I do. He was solid. I’d give it to him if history wasn’t nipping at my behind. Same with Mirren (although I’d really give it to her without equivocation. I don’t care if there’s only one American in the race).
I’d give the supporting oscars to (of those nominated) Alan Arkin and Cate Blanchett. Arkin was funny, but I realize he didn’t have “Thunder” in his name. Fair strike. Yet he did wear a fanny pack loaded with heroin and he sported some blue jean cut-offs. Rock out. I’d say that’s at least worth a tie.
Blanchett’s character was boinking a 15-year-old. That’s like playing a psycho or a boy, isn’t it? (those two roles seem to get folks Oscars every time). But it seems that the bourgeois Academy considers such acting an Oscar no-no when compared to a chubby character with pipes. Oddly, they seem to forget that Roman Polanski was convicted of the same bad act. Yet, they loaded his hide-away-in-France ass with Oscar gold for “The Pianist.” Where’s the fundamental fairness?
Seriously, come February are we all going to sit there once again with this same group of “winners” and have to listen to the same sorry acceptance speeches? I simply don’t care about the guy who chauferred you around on the set. Yes more torture on top of the traditional torture of having to deal with reality: “yeah, that chick is way too hot for me” or “yeah, if I dropped 45 I’d look like that guy.” Or having to sit quietly when your girl says, “that fella can really wear a suit” knowing that you haven’t been able to fit into a decent suit in half a decade.
Shouldn’t we settle for a bucket of delicious delicious from Popeye’s and a ballgame instead?
Armchair Critic just reminded me in a cranky e-mail about all sorts of nonsense related to film that the Academy Award ballots were just mailed out. So there’s time for people to liven up and do something outrageous.
NOTE TO MY 5 READERS (Family included): Don’t send me an e-mail saying “I think an outrageous selection for Best Picture would be ‘Little Miss Sunshine.'” You won’t get a response. Ok, you probably will. At 2:00 a.m. It will be unpleasant and full of typos.
Watch the Oscars. Seriously. Watch Scorsese win. It will be cool. He’ll talk fast. But don’t bitch. It’s going to be the same old song. You’re on notice. Get a tall glass of gin or vodka or scotch. Drink liberally.
Yep, I’m sick of it.