Encounters at the End of the World (2008, dir. Werner Herzog)

Herzog treats the subjects of his latest documentary in a peculiar fashion. One eccentric man is left to stand in front of the camera long after he's finished his diatribe about having descended from an Aztec King. Another man is cut off in his ramblings by a narration that interjects "to cut a long story short..." When these moments occurred, the audience around me laughed. I chuckled too. They were peculiar folk, after all; I imagine Herzog was being playful in his emphasis on their odd personalities. Then again, images do speak for themselves - what to think of a woman who traps herself in a luggage bag every night on stage?

Who are these people, exactly? They're just a handful of individuals who, as one interviewee puts it, "have each fallen down into the end of the world", that being Antarctica. A philosopher is now driving a forklift, a filmmaker is now serving up ice cream in the cafeteria, and an intelligent young man with a PHD in Linguistics is now keeping his eye on some plants. They're talented in their own field, yet they've somehow found themselves in this place, aiding a great scientific discovery. They've formed a new society, away from society itself. I'd say they deserve their segments.

But shining the spotlight on these individuals, operating within the confines of their immense scientifc compound, is just part of the bigger picture that Herzog is painting. We're in Antarctica to view nature at its most underestimated and unpredictable. It's not long after we've seen the stuffiness of the complex, and the unpleasant sea of mud that surrounds it, that we're thrust into the great white open.

When explorers first came across Antarctica, they assumed for the most part that the icebergs were one big static monster. They aren't, of course - they're constantly moving, at an alarming rate. We know this now - science has aided us in discovering much about the past and present, but the future is unwritten. What will happen to these icebergs can only be assumed, and the speed in which they change is on our hands.

So, is this a film about climate change? No, I wouldn't say so. To assume this would be awfully reductive, ignoring some of the larger considerations at hand. Herzog has always been fascinated with nature, be it his confusion over man's lust for fire or the disinterested stare of a grizzly bear. Nature presents itself in simpler ways here; we look at many beautiful creatures crawling along the seabed, discover new species after a day's worth of diving, celebrate said discovery with a jamming session on a barn roof.

These underwater excursions are shot with swooping (tracking, floating?) shots that glide across oysters, jellyfish and other such wonders of nature, joined with searing opera scores that would lift these sequences to the heights of Herzog's own Lessons of Darkness, if it wasn't for the shakiness of the camera disturbing the flow only slightly. This is but a minor quibble, and the images on show are nonetheless remarkable in their purity.

What sets this apart from other documentaries of its kind are the worries it raises; rather than simply observe the goings-on at the facility, Herzog ponders over the power of nature. Through his encounters at the end of the world - man, creature and iceberg alike - he considers our place in the grand scheme of things, of time. A collection of flowers and cards have been framed in the ice, bordered by popcorn. They are intended for future visitors: alien, perhaps?

The concept of global warming can be discussed and rejected time and again by the men in suits, but it's the problem of every living human on Earth. One thing is for sure: nature is bigger than us. We are not in control. We know very little and we underestimate even more. What could each of us say about the mental states of penguins? Or the calls of the sea lion under the icebergs? Or why a woman chooses to lock herself in a luggage bag?

On the face of it, Encounters is about the kinds of people that yearn further knowledge of the Earth they inhabit. They want to understand more. Unusual characters they may be, but that is what fascinates Herzog and his audience; we were okay to laugh. The nature of man is as intriguing and amusing as that of the penguin and the sirens beneath the icecap.

If I were to talk with these scientists, they would tell me that it's only a matter of time before nature wipes out mankind, and we go the way of the dinosaurs, lost in time. If I was to speak to a Creationist, I would be told that Armageddon is coming, complete with locusts and four horsemen.

Either way, I'm left feeling fairly insignificant.


8

Time of the Wolf (2003, dir. Michael Haneke)

"For everyone in the West, the end of the world is something that they witness from afar, on their television screens, in the safety of their living rooms. I wanted to bring the end of the world to those people."

Michael Haneke says this in a special feature found on the Time of the Wolf DVD, sat smugly, stroking his wispy white beard. The man is smug, it has to be said. Who else would direct a film like Funny Games not once but twice, displaying such contempt for their audience? Haneke does like to test us, to make us ask questions of the film and our own predicaments. Don't most good filmmakers? Looking through his various works, each has a rather humanistic element, be it Cache with its examination of guilt, or the study of communication throughout Time of the Wolf. Haneke is fascinated by the ways in which we speak with each other and ourselves. I delve into Le Temps du Loup, engaged and ready to ask questions as I go; communication is essential...




The boy has been found. What was he doing, out here in the dark? If you witnessed the murder of a loved one, there's no place you'd rather be. Humanity does have a habit of finding itself within the darkness; how we could even begin to search for ourselves in the daylight, no one knows. He's silent, he will remain so for a while. His companion is taller, hesitant, dressed for the cold of winter. He stands at a distance from the rest, fearing their touch. Change isn't preferable.

Onwards they go, heading nowhere fast. They go through trees and fields and train tracks, all empty. They might find a train, might even be on a train at some point. But where will that train lead? What hope can you place on a destination unknown?

And people... more people, arguing over water. Arguing over everything and nothing. Horses are shot, goats have their throats slit. This is life, only smaller; we're in a microcosm. I'm different, and everyone else has remained the same. They're all here with me. Do I know you? He looks different, she is anxious. I saw them earlier, committing a mortal sin, but there is nothing to be done about it here. Evil walks the earth, what little precipice we huddle together on... and it's crumbling. Helpless and waiting for the end.

The screams are agony, the lights in the distance tell me of something sinister. I choose to talk to he who is no longer with us, who will not respond, who can not help any of us. But still he watches.

Kids are the future, aren't they? The small one lights a fire. Could he be one of thirty-six? A Just? A man stops him just in time, cradles him. The camera delicately pulls itself back, leaving them alone together; this is either good or bad. There was almost a martyr for the cause, now a memory of near salvation. Smells like Tark. Has any of it gone to waste? After all, it's the thought that counts.

I'm going to show you something:

Movement - alright, we're going somewhere.

Where?

You tell me.

Why?

You tell me.

You're looking at a black mirror; clean if you wish.

8.5

X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009, dir. Gavin Hood)

I must admit, I've been looking forward to writing up this little number, if only to clear away a few misconceptions about myself. Yes, that's right: this review is all about me. Forget the efforts of Hugh Jackman, Liev Schrieber and Gavin Hood, because Wolverine is now the launching pad with which I can put a few things straight about myself, in the context of comic book movies.

I guess the first thing to make clear is this movie sucks hard. I am better than this film. Why? Because I am a human being, made up of many complex organs that work together tirelessly to keep me alive. I have a brain with which to think and make logical decisions. I can feel emotion, such as the anger and pity I feel towards the producers of Wolverine. I listen to a wide variety of musical genres, and I'd like to think I've reached the point where my film taste is refined enough to filter out anything with the buzzwords 'Michael Bay', 'Eddie Murphy' and 'Paul Haggis'. Ok, I'll flatter myself - that moment came long, long ago.

And yet, I don't love myself. In fact, there is as much self-loathing inherent in me as there is self-admiration. I am as flawed as the next man. Still, as worthless as I could possibly be, that would still not bring me down to the utterly useless levels of Wolverine.

People say to me, "Ed, you read comic books, so surely Wolverine is your thing?" WRONG.

I read comic books, yes, but over the years I have learnt to cut down my subscription into the most essential list of books you could ever need (If anyone's interested, Green Lantern, Batman and New Avengers are rockin' right now). I do this because of two words that I've always stood by in my brief tenure as a human being: QUALITY CONTROL.

I won't stand for mediocrity, and I demand that my music be brimming with passion, creativity and originality; my films must challenge, speak to me or at the very least entertain me; my comic books must be well-written. Good artwork without good narrative? I don't think so.

You see, in the same way that a good director is behind every good film, a good comic book is written by a great writer. If Wonder Woman was written by Geoff Johns, you're damn right I'm gonna give it a look-see. Quality control, people. There is so much content out there, and so little time to take it all in.

Now I'm a fan of Wolverine and the X-Men in general (I even wear Wolverine socks), but I'm not willing to go lightly on director Gavin Hood because of this fact. To slap a brand on any piece of turd and assume that it will appeal to me is absurd. Just look at Quantum of Solace. Let us judge the film for what it is. how it is.

Onto the next misconception: "But Ed, you watch wrestling. That's just angry men fighting each other, what's so different about this?"

Wrong again, friendo. Firstly, I'd like to say that it's usually the people who have no hobbies or interests other than football that tend to call me out on my appreciation of pro wrestling. Ironic. Secondly, wrestling can be interesting when it wants to be. Put the right people in the ring, give them enough time, and they can put on a great show. They can tell a story if they want to. The bottom line is that the fixed, choreographed nature of wrestling is what makes it so great. Because these guys have their moves planned out, everything can run a lot smoother and entertainment through soft violence is achieved.

Translate this to film language, and what we're asking for are well-made sequences of plausible, enjoyable action. I'm talking about the original Die Hard, which didn't need plane-surfing, or dudes leaping from tanks onto choppers, to grab people's attention. I'm talking about the Bourne series, where the action is well edited, as opposed to Quantum of Solace, which aims to ape Bourne's style whilst forgetting to let the audience know what exactly is going on.

Does Wolverine have its merits, taking into account all these preconceptions about my judgement on what makes a good comic book film? Let's compare it to last year's offerings. Iron Man had humour and a charismatic lead in Robert Downey Jr., in addition to the chemistry he shared with the rest of the cast. With Hugh Jackman, all the man seems to feel is great anger towards everyone alive, allowing his character no development over the course of the film. He learns nothing new, forgets an awful lot, and gains more enemies than friends.

The Dark Knight gave us plenty to chew on, what with its nifty subtext about terrorism, neo-conservatism and political leaders. Does Wolverine give us equal insight, or at least some sort of theme? This is a Fox production, so you can answer that one yourself. Maybe the pleas of "you must fight the animal inside you, be good" constantly screeched towards Logan could count as a wider moral, only the very idea is counteracted by every single character in the film bashing the living shit out of each other with canes, claws and playing cards.

Hellboy II was much funnier than Iron Man, but for this one I'll draw on the set design. Big Red's playground was lusciously imagined, filled with the sort of creatures you'd expect to find in the Mos Eisley Cantina, the colourful backdrops you'd expect any other director than del Toro to lazily render with CGI. Wolverine decides to do things the Marvel way, having its production design imitate last year's Incredible Hulk by way of surrounding Wolvy with tanks and other such militaristic backdrops. Such a colourless movie.

Wolverine's girlfriend is slain in the first act - that isn't a spoiler, it's shown in the trailer - and this is supposedly the motivation for him to unleash holy hell on absolutely everyone. As he holds her limp body in the snow, we fail to care. Apparently we should, judging by the heights the score's volume reaches. Once Wolvy's journey begins, we're taken on a humourless romp through a who's who of Marvel mutants.

(Ok, I have to pause here. There is one really, really funny moment in this film. Wolverine finds shelter in the barn of an elderly couple, who out of the kindness of their hearts allow him to stay and recuperate. One bright spring morning they decide to bring him tea and biscuits - when suddenly they are both riddled with bullets and their barn is blown to smithereens by helipcopter missiles. I laughed, but I'm not as sadistic as you'd think, I just thought it was really, really bad luck!)

Gambit, Deadpool, Blob... they're all here, mismanaged in one way or another. It's almost like Epic Movie; they show up to satisfy whichever kid in the audience finds solace in a small cameo by someone who represents not an iota of their favourite character, and then they're gone. They serve no purpose, unless it involves brawling for no reason.

By the end of Wolverine, you almost feel cheated that you've spent so long following these characters jump in and out of frame, slashing each other ferociously, all the while learning nothing about themselves or each other, and neither have you learnt anything about them. Each character in this film is a vessel for presposterous action sequences that bore rather than fascinate. I can think of good few action scenes in X-Men 2 that were a damn sight better than even the best Wolverine set-piece.

So there you have it. My opinions on Wolverine, one of the worst films of the year so far. This is an article about Wolverine, but it's still my article. It's about me. I won't let Wolverine win this fight.

2

Beau Travail (1998, dir. Claire Denis)

A few months ago I watched a Russian film called Alexandra, directed by the immensely talented Alexander Sokurov. Its ostensibly simple plot of an elderly woman visiting her son at a military camp ruminated on much weightier themes of masculinity and social detachment. Fast forward to the present day (or back 11 years, if you will), and after the recent viewing of Claire Denis' masterful Beau Travail, it's clear to see how Sokurov was influenced; or to put it another way, I'm now aware which is the better, more insightful film of the two.

Beau Travail follows a group of men as part of the French Foreign Legion stationed in Djibouti, spending their day practicing routine military training exercises. These involve unusually long periods of stretching, as well as strange dance moves under the beating heat of the sun. There is almost a mechanical, detached element to the practices of the soliders, as if this is all they know. A failed attempt to dance in a nightclub signifies the shortcomings of these young men in applying what they have learnt to the expectations of modern society. These men seem almost removed from any semblance of outward expression, only waking each day at the crack of dawn to carry out what would, to any neutral observer, seem rather odd. Their way of life is defined by its mascunlinity, yet they perform such feminine tasks as ironing their clothes, and not just occasionally, but as part of a strict daily schedule.

Whereas Alexandra had the concerns of the director channeled through the wearied, watchful eyes of its leading woman, Beau Travail finds its recitation of events in the hands of Galoup, a sergeant with the legion and one whose viewpoint is to be taken with a grain of salt. Denis Lavant plays Galoup with such intensity, emitting hard, cold stares that conceal a greater inner pain. Galoup must have his reasons for being grouchy; the arrival of 'heroic' Sentain (Gregoire Colin) into the legion causes quite the stir, not least because the youthful Sentain, with his social skills and vibrant presence, embodies everything Galoup wishes he could be.

It's worth remembering that we are still under the guidance of Galoup's narration, still seeing everything through his eyes. What we know of Sentain, we have taken from the word of Galoup. His eyes are the lens of the camera and we are living through his version of events. Sentain's only real act of offence comes when he delivers a crushing left hook to Galoup after a moment of deliberate provocation from the sergeant, but until that point we are led to believe, by our narrator, that the boy definitely has something up his sleeve.

Interestingly, Galoup's resentment towards Sentain could stem from two main things. He could either be angry at Sentain for injecting some humanity into the sterile unit, and in turn be repressing some of his own emotions, possibly homosexual. It is his refusal to acknowledge any emotion on either Sentain's part or his own that leads him to take action against the young man.

Or, Galoup could simply be envious of Sentain's popularity, fearing that with the acension of the new personality among the ranks of the unit, that Galoup himself is being further cemented as an outsider. Bruno Forestier (Michael Subor) is the commanding officer, and a man Galoup professes great admiration for. With Sentain attracting the attention of most of the troop, especially Bruno, Galoup must feel further alienated and have his dislike towards Sentain increase tenfold.

Both these scenarios occurred to me and are equally plausible, however, I find the former to be the most fitting in the context of the film's themes. The idea of Galoup suppressing emotion in both himself and another further reinforces Denis' indictment of the sterile, emotionless mechanics of the military, and lends an extra poignancy to events.

The vast desert is the canvas for much of the proceedings, and it's all shot with aplomb by Agnes Godard, but I must give special mention to one of my favourite aspects of the film. The score by Charles Henri de Pierrefeu is sublime; understated when it needs to be, at other times full-blown, without ever ruining the moment. Even some of the diegetic songs such as Rhythm of the Night are well-placed, adding to a scene rather than subtracting from it.

The final ten minutes of Beau Travail are the icing on the cake, feeling almost inevitable and yet so sudden and affecting. Needless to say, Galoup's downward spiral does not lead him to an ideal existence. And yet, he still feels compelled to dance...

10

Snow Angels (2008, dir. David Gordon Green)

You may or may not remember David Gordon Green as the man behind last year's stoner comedy Pineapple Express, depending on how attentive you were during its opening credits. Were you looking? Such a question isn't put forward to highlight the passiveness of the average cinemagoer - I bang on about that topic quite enough - rather it is a remark on how surprising it would be to find such an intimate filmmaker as Gordon Green crafting such a loud, boorish film of this caliber. After all, the attachment of Gordon Green to such a project as Pineapple Express came as a surprise to many; the filmmaker has long stayed on the fringes of the independent scene for much of his career, crafting small underrated films such as All the Real Girls and George Washington, the latter of which cost just $42,000 to make. Coming into 2008, David Gordon Green wasn't exactly the man you'd tip to be directing a Seth Rogen stoner comedy.

Frustration and boredom were my two main feelings toward Pineapple Express, so much that I found myself seeing what the out-of-focus extras were up to as opposed to watching Rogen's char-grilled face. But enough of that. David Gordon Green's move into the mainstream was not as big as sacrifice as first thought, as his second feature of 2008, Snow Angels, was a typical Gordon Green outing as any you'd find, yet entirely of its own qualities. With Pineapple Express satisfying the mainstream crowd and introducing the wider world to his name (though not necessarily his style), along with Snow Angels bringing back the faithful for another round of small-town poetic cinema, David Gordon Green was evidently keen to have it both ways in 2008.

Snow Angels features Sam Rockwell and Kate Beckinsale as just two of many players in an interconnected tragedy. They play Glenn and Annie, a separated couple that can't quite keep the spectre of the past behind them. Glenn is an alcoholic, or was, and it is assumed that this addiction is what drew the wedge between himself and Annie in the first place. He's now found God, or so he believes. He asks questions of God one second, praising him the next. Co-workers have to put him straight on the scripture, knowing that he is more lost than he could ever know.

Annie, meanwhile, spends her days doing one of three things: looking after her daughter Tara, working in the restaurant, or having it off with a married moustached man in an out-of-the-way motel. After years of putting up with Glenn's nonsense, she's finally thinking about herself. Maybe in all the wrong ways. And Glenn, he may not even be thinking straight at all.

These aren't the best role models for Arthur (Michael Angarano), a young student who is on the brink of finding first love within the innocent confines of high school. Not only does Arthur have to contend with the overbearing conflict escalating between his parents, but he also has to stand by and watch Annie, his ex-babysitter with whom he once had a crush on, become even more embroiled in the mess she and Glenn created and are currently drowning in.

The landscape of the town in which these characters exist is, as the title would suggest, coated in snow. The whites of the woods are finely captured, the individuals stranded alone in their surroundings, intimating that even in a peopled settlement, one person can feel so isolated spiritually and emotionally. Perhaps some of them, possibly the selfish ones, do exist by themselves.

This is a tale of innocence lost, of the sins of the fathers being put on display for those burgeoning into life to discover and learn from. It is a haunting sequence of events with no implication or reasoning for an uplifting finish. Life isn't always about happy endings. Even when we don't experience our own personal tragedies, the pains of others are eternally present in every passing day. Snow Angels doesn't have anything particularly insightful to say about such instances, but its presentation of such moments is at once elegaic and emotionally resonant.

7

More Bad - Average '07 Films

...but they get better as they go along, honest!

American Gangster (Ridley Scott)
Scott continues to dig himself further into a pit of mediocrity with this unoriginal MTV movie. If anything, 'American Badass' is a more apt title, due to the majority of the 3 hours runtime spent following the apparently 'charismatic' Denzel Washington cruise around blowing shit up.

Eagle vs. Shark (Taika Waititi)
If it wasn't for the fact that this starred the naturally brilliant comic Jemaine Clement from Flight of the Conchords, I'd be pouring a lot more scorn into the gaping mouth of what is essentially a Napoleon Dynamite clone.

The Kite Runner (Marc Forster)
Before he could get his hands on, and ultimately ruin the Bond franchise for the time being, Marc Forster had a little gushiness to serve up in the form of this book adaptation. Annoying kids become annoying adults, take their problems with them and make some dozy bitch in the first row cry by the end credits.

Mr. Brooks (Bruce A. Evans)
This could have been an alright character study were it not for the intrusion of a boring subplot about Demi Moore. Perhaps this was inserted to give the film some more depth, maaaan. Who gives a shit about Demi Moore, anyway? Not me. Probably Ashton Kutcher. Hopefully I need say no more, as the mention of his name no doubt brought forth giggles of pity and disgust within your mind. Here's another one: Dane Cook is in this film. Dane Cook.

Stardust (Matthew Vaughn)
Featuring the most anticlimatic final battle in all of fantasy lore. Robert De Niro's lulzy (yet for him, quite possibly soul-destroying) transvestite cameo aside, there's not enough originality or flair for this to fully charm your pants off. Unless you enjoy watching Michelle Pfieffer walking across many, many fields.

Spider-Man 3 (Sam Raimi)
'Nuff said.

The Namesake (Mira Nair)
So so average, that I just want to claw my eyes out with a rusty fork for even contemplating its existence. On the plus side, it is good to see Kal Penn play a role that doesn't render him a complete joke.

In The Valley of Elah (Paul Haggis)
Aaaaah, no! Mum! Get him away! Shit, Paul Haggis is here. What's that in his hand? It looks like a... oh fuck, it's a script for Quantum of Solace. Well, that explains absolutely everything. On closer inspection, I realise that Haggis does in fact have more than one hand; goshdarnit, he has eleven hands. Some of them are holding Oscars for Crash, the others are copping a feel of Thandie Newton's breasts. Paul, you don't know what you're doing. I feel like I don't know you anymore. Did I ever know you? No, I didn't... but I know your didactic directorial style, and it smacks of proselytising cack. Don't touch me, Paul. I think you should leave.

The Counterfeiters (Stefan Ruzowitzky)
Wow, the fact that I honestly can't remember anything about this film really does speak wonders for its case. Actually quite disappointed, as I'm convinced it isn't as bad as the films it shares company with in this list. What a shame!

Charlie Wilson's War (Mike Nichols)
It's also quite a shame to see Mike Nichols here, but this one is so far off the mark. Everyone tries their hardest, including Philip Seymour Hoffman, who once again steals the show from under the main cast with a storming supporting role. Sadly, his input is not enough to save this tonally confused disappointment.

Away From Her (Sarah Polley)
Felt like a Lifetime Movie, looked like a Lifetime Movie, sounded like a Lifetime Movie - but brother, it ain't a Lifetime Movie! Except, it really is.

Beowulf (Robert Zemeckis)
Entertaining routine, I'd say. We have here a great advertisement for motion-capture, though probably not for 3D; the extra dimension is wasted on typical instances of items being thrown at the audience. Ray Winstone bellows his name constantly to recall the spirit of 300, but at least the hero he plays is aware of his own existence, and isn't just behaving like a violent robot that's only just discovered sentient life a la King Leonidas. Fuckin' 300...

Enchanted (Kevin Lima)
Amy Adams is so beautiful I just want to bash my head against a cobblestone wall. She sings, she dances, she gasps in amazement at absolutely everything. This. Is. Disney.

He Was a Quiet Man (Frank Cappello)
Another one I can't quite remember. Elisha Cuthbert did get her nipples out, though. Or were they the nipples of a double? It's certainly worth pondering. I wonder if this is what the director wanted me to take away from the experience.

The Mist (Frank Darabont)
Annoying Christian woman shouts at everyone. Giant bugs eat everyone. Sounds just like real life LOL. Nah but seriously, this is probably only worth watching for the hilariously bleak ending.

Walk Hard (Jake Kasdan)
Too long, too back and forth but still filled with plenty of punchlines per scene. Memo to the guys behind Epic Movie: this is how you spoof.

Youth Without Youth (Francis Ford Coppola)
Coppola hasn't entirely got his mojo back, though I can't help but admire the man for doing what he was born to do: make art films. Yes, the big dog is shunning mainstream Hollywood for a more personal approach to his filmmaking. Perhaps others should take note, and I won't name names. George Fucking Lucas.

The Nines (John August)
Ryan Reynolds is back in my good books after a competent performance in this Lynch-lite trio of mindfucks. The inclusion of a misplaced musical number did however reek of pretensiousness.

Lars and the Real Girl (Craig Gillespie)
If you love Capra, you should dig this. Myself, I've always believed there's a time and a place for Capra. So if I ever watch this particular film at the wrong time, and in the wrong place, I might just break a table.

Knocked Up (Judd Apatow)
Back when the Judd Apatow troupe was a little more consistent with its output, and Seth Rogen hadn't yet completely saturated our silver screens with his grating f(r)atboy misadventures. This one isn't quite up to the standard set by 40-Year Old Virgin, nor does it pack in as much belly laughs as the superior 2007 Apatow flick Superbad. Given this, it's a damn sight better than most of the year's comedies.


Tonight's blog entry has obviously been a little rushed and poorly written. So I don't enjoy writing extensively on films I don't care about. Sue me.

I'll get to the good'uns in due time!

AwrScawr

The Oscars are almost here! Yeeeeees! YEEEeEEEsesesesslfmgfdgmdfg;m!!!!!


Truth be told, I wish I was that excited.

In fact, I wish I cared.

No wait, I don't care that I don't care. Yes, that sounds about right.

After sitting through the interminable ceremonies for the Golden Globes and BAFTAs, I shall be hard pressed to find any strong motivation to sit through yet another Kate Winslet awards speech. Watching 30 Rock sweep up the television awards was quite the ghastly sight. And don't even get me started on Slumdog Millionaire. *vomits*

So this is the part where I complain about the nominations for the 81st Academy Awards, knowing full well that my opinion is fruitless, has no bearing on the results and will ultimately be respected by noone. Sick.

The Best Picture category is always a topic of hot debate. Last year, the competition featured some astounding cinematic gems in the shape of No Country For Old Men and There Will Be Blood, alongside Brit hit Atonement and surprise (albeit quality) nominee Michael Clayton. Juno was thrown in to lighten the mood, and what we had was a collection of films that the Academy, critics and film buffs could see eye to eye on, for the most part. When No Country picked up the award in late February, there was little complaint. Actually, a few asswipes whinged incessantly, on the grounds that the ending "made no sense". Hey, I hear 10,000 BC is out on DVD.

This year's nominees include The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Frost/Nixon, Milk, The Reader and Slumdog Millionaire. I have seen three of these films, yet I am more than inclined to make presumptious sweeping statements concerning the quality of those I have still to view. Bear with me here.

Benjamin Button seemed like a shoe-in, and I'm happy it was included. I will see it later in the week, my anticipation currently at high levels. Am I excited? Not in the conventional sense; this is a film so divided between those whose film opinion I trust, whereas such favourites of mine from last year like There Will Be Blood and No Country were universally praised. Heading into a film and knowing it has a mixed reception is an invigorating feeling - you have no idea on which side of the fence you will fall, and for what reasons. The entire aesthetic of Benjamin Button appears to suggest that it will no doubt be an emotional experience, and I just hope that the emotion is honest and not superficial. The cinematography I have witnessed so far from trailers and clips tells me that this could either be a rather ill-disciplined fable of high pretensions, or an honest, good-natured journey aided by a delectable visual style. Either way, it's good news that Fincher got some awards recognition this year, after the shameful Zodiac snub of 2007.

Frost/Nixon and Milk were enjoyable films, although stating how much I appreciated them, and which I find to be superior, would surely spoil my forthcoming Top Films of 2008 list. More on these films to come.

The Reader? Really?? If you're going to honour Kate Winslet at all this year, let it be for the strikingly devastating adapation of Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road. That film screams relevancy, and doesn't make it so apparent that the awards season is in its crosshair.

Rumour has it that Harvey Weinstein bullied the Academy into nominating The Reader. Fair enough, pander to this man, but you're only validating the claim made by Ricky Gervais in his comedy series Extras, that shooting a film about the Holocaust will guarantee you an Oscar. Now, I haven't actually seen The Reader, but it is painfully obvious that the whole thing is your typical Oscar-bait, so-called "imporant film". Everyone I have spoken to has told me that they wanted to turn it off after 30 minutes, and I fear I will wish to do the same. However, for the sake of fair judgement, I will force myself to watch every single melodramatic, maniuplatively cliched moment from start to finish. Hey, this is the guy that was watching The Bank Job with a friend, and requested it be kept on, despite protestations, so that he could give a proper opinion in regards to its quality. It's shit, by the way.

Gervais' prescient potshot in Extras is only further proof that the Academy are essentially still a collection of irrelevant old farts, out of step with public opinion, and even critical opinion (The Reader currently sits at around 60% on Rotten Tomatoes' Tomatometer). The nomination is truly an insult to superior films released in 2008, although outside of a win for Winslet, there isn't any need to worry about The Reader scooping up Best Picture. Not when you consider our final nominee...

Slumdog Millionaire. I'm going to save my extensive thoughts for my Top Films of 2008 post (it's coming!), but I will say this much: Slumdog Millionaire is over-stylized, shallow, meaningless garbage. It is packed to the brim with flashy techniques and heart-attack pacing that don't so much highlight the dangers of Mumbai's streets as turn them into a playground for endless swarms of running children gallavanting to the sound of M.I.A.'s entire album. Sure, this film has a pulse, and it has a nice look, but in all seriousness, it is two hours of having your head bashed around repeatedly with so many hackneyed plot devices and manipulations that require no audience response, leaving the nearest braindead cinemagoer ready to stand in applause at the sight of the end credits - which are equally horrific as the film that preceeded them!

There is nothing to take away from Slumdog Millionaire, and it's a shame it has become so well-received, because Danny Boyle has made far superior films in Trainspotting, 28 Days Later and Sunshine. What do these films have in common? They make you feel something, they have a little more to say about humanity. Slumdog Millionaire has nothing to say. It is a shallow fable, and it will sweep an Oscar in addition to its Golden Globe and BAFTA awards because it is, above all, feel-good.

Yes, there's all a perfectly good explanation for this. You see, last year's aforementioned Best Picture nominees weren't exactly uplifting examples of US cinema. Hell, even the token quirky indie Juno dealt with the weighty issue of abortion and adolescent uncertainty. There Will Be Blood told us the story of an oil man who despised himself and others. Michael Clayton was a man on the brink of self-destruction. The romance of Atonement wasn't so much unrequited as it was decimated. The gold medal went to No Country, the final scene of which depicted Tommy Lee Jones' aged sheriff pour his heart out over the despair and helplessness he felt when faced with the darkness of the modern world. Holy fucking shit, bleak or what?

Then things changed, in the USA at least. Obama rose and rose, embedded himself in the hearts and minds of the American citizens, until he finally became the first black President of the United States, inaugarated in January 2009. George W. Bush was out for good, and the spectre of the Iraq war could at least take momentary backseat to the hope for change promised by the charismatic Barack Obama.

Look at the Best Picture nominees. We're back to reflecting upon wars of the past with The Reader, a good few decades from our current turmoil. With Milk, the inspiration borne out of the martyr of Harvey Milk provides hope that more than overshadows his tragic assassination so close to the end credits. Most importantly, Slumdog Millionaire is sweeping the board and will continue to do so because it has the classic fairytale ending. We don't want bleak anymore - we want a ray of happiness.

Well this is all well and good, but I'd prefer an actual good film to be recognised as Best Picture of the year.

So what missed out? I could go for hours on the many wrong decisions that the Academy have made this year... Bruce Springsteen not securing a nomination for his song 'The Wrestler'...Sally Hawkins ignored for her role in 'Happy-Go-Lucky'...no love for 'Vicky Cristina Barcelona'...

However, what peeves me the most is the lack of nomation for Aranofsky's The Wrestler. Yes, Rourke may be getting a lot of attention, but a lot of credit has to go to Aranofsky's direction in this extraordinary tale of a fighter unable to exist within reality.

This is the kind of film that the Academy should be honouring. Utilising 16mm handheld, and refusing to resort to the cue-card tricks of the Oscar-bait melodramas, what results is a painfully honest portrayal of not just Rourke's character, but the experience of a wrestler and the wrestling industry as a whole. This one hit me pretty hard, no pun intended.

You're probably wondering how I got this far without mentioning The Dark Knight. Heh. Fanboys have been bitching about its Oscar snub ever since the nominations were announced, so in a sense I feel my work has been done for me. Interestingly enough, I don't feel The Dark Knight should be given Best Picture. "But Ed, you said it was Film of the Year!" Oh, I know, but that was a week after having seen it, and I sure was excited. Don't get me wrong, me opinion hasn't been lowered significantly, but various rewatches have allowed me get a little perspective long after the dust has settled, and ultimately acknowledge that The Dark Knight is a deeply flawed film in many areas. Haters and hypers be equally damned!

It's still great, though.

Alluding to what I said about the feel-good factor, The Dark Knight may have been a bit too bleak in its subtextual focus on terrorism. A more plausible explanation would be that the Academy are consistently retaining their snobbery in regards to summer blockbusters. Although, it would perhaps have been beneficial for the Academy to hand The Dark Knight its Best Picture nom, for the sake of their own popularity. They really were stupid to ignore it so easily. It's no secret that the ratings for the awards ceremony have been dropping with each passing year, and the inclusion of The Dark Knight amongst the Best Picture nominees, along with its immense popularity ensuring that it had a significant chance of taking the prize, would have had millions tuning in to see the result.

We'll all now be looking for better things to do with our time on February 22nd, instead of biting our nails over the prospects of The Reader.




















Except for me. I'll probably still be watching.