On the Quality of Things, #1

by Wade Stuckwisch, Illustrated by Jacob Chabot

You may be asking yourself, at this very moment, why you would wish to read the opinions of yet another know-nothing media commentator. Honestly, I asked myself that same question before I took on the task of writing a film commentary column for this fine publication, and the answer I came up with is two-fold. First, after four years of film school and many years of watching movies and reading reviews, my professional opinion is that the vast majority of critics are talking out of their asses - usually to make themselves look smart and important, sometimes to enjoy the sound of their own voice. To that, I say: why not myself, as well? Second, is it not the right - nay, the duty - of every woman and man in a truly democratic society to express their opinion, however uninformed, about whatever they wish, preferably in a loud voice at a public forum, and if possible after a few beers? If you would argue the opposite to be true, then I kindly ask that you remove yourself from our fair country, and go elsewhere to conspire with the UN to overthrow our God-fearing government and install a multi-national peacekeeping force in its place! (Ya pinko freak.)

It is in that spirit (well, not exactly that spirit) that I present this column - to place myself somewhere between the critics who consider themselves a cultural elite, and the critics who give good reviews to awful movies just so they can see their names in the ads. After all, if you are anything like me, sometimes you want to see a movie that lets you escape from your everyday reality, and sometimes you want to see a movie that brings you back and makes you look differently at our world. And rarely, you may encounter a movie that does both, like Spice World.

Before I launch into ripping apart the current state of affairs in cinema, I thought it might be useful to take a look back to the preceding year of 2001. So, how about them Oscars? I know the timing is a little off, but I started this column in the doldrums between Oscar qualifying releases and the first summer blockbusters, and I surmised that no one would want to read a long, involved treatise about The Time Machine or Resident Evil. Besides, second-guessing the Academy has become an activity along the lines of fantasy football for critics and film geeks everywhere. The challenge is never to have the impeccable taste to know who was actually the best in their field, but to prove that one has the innate "insider" knowledge to predict who will make it through the meat grinder of industry politics intact.

I really shouldn't complain too much about this year's Oscars. Almost every Oscar ceremony ends with some window of hope for the industry remaining, such as the statues taken home by Steven Soderbergh and Cameron Crowe at last year's awards. This year's silver lining, politics or no politics, was obviously the wins by Halle Berry and Denzel Washington for Best Actress and Best Actor respectively - the first time an African-American woman has taken home top honors, and only the second time for an African-American male. It also marks only the fourth time award in Oscar history that the Best Actress actually went to an actress with one of the year's best performances. (I admit that statistic is pure hyperbole, but I believe my point remains intact.) However you may feel about Halle Berry, I say any decent actress who has to be in movies like BAPS in order to bring home a paycheck not only deserves an Oscar nod, but should probably get a Lifetime Achievement award right now.

Every year there is at least one film that I feel was the most grossly overlooked by the Academy, and this year's choice was simple. I can understand why the Academy turned up their collective noses at Mulholland Drive, despite the fact that it was David Lynch's best film in years (one of the best of his career, I'd say) and Naomi Watts's acting performance was downright awe-inspiring. (Did I already mention that Hollywood rarely recognizes a quality acting performance by a lead actress?) That said, I honestly cannot believe that The Royal Tennenbaums was denied all but a conciliatory nomination for Best Original Screenplay. The film could have easily produced nominees in all four acting categories, especially considering the performances by former winners Gene Hackman, Anjelica Huston, and Gwenyth Paltrow. The portrait-like intimacy of Wes Anderson's directing is a breath of fresh air in the increasingly stale language of American cinema, and achieves more in one film than Ron Howard could pray to achieve as a director in a lifetime. And does Hollywood have no heart? How could anyone not be moved by Tennenbaums' moving tale of betrayal, disappointment, and unrequited love, or the self-mocking honesty of its look at family relationships? Perhaps it was deemed "too sappy," much like Jean Pierre Jeunet's wonderfully imaginative romantic fantasy Amelie. Hollywood's cocaine-and-blowjobs elite wouldn't recognize real romance if it was orally attached to their genitals...

All right, I'm sorry, this has degenerated into a rant. But fucking hell! I mean, I give Ron Howard credit for seeming to actually give a shit about making movies with a slight shred of intellectual value, but A Beautiful Mind's screenplay was uneven at best, and appropriately matched by Russell Crowe's uncharacteristically uneven acting performance. Moulin Rouge is notable as one of the rare experiments that actually succeeds in entertaining and bringing in box office receipts. Lord of The Rings was a superb rendering of Tolkein's fantasy world, and a rare treat as one of Hollywood's few watchable blockbusters from 2001. And Hollywood was kind to acknowledge Robert Altman for Gosford Park, even though it was not at all his best film or even necessarily among the best films of its genre. That leaves In The Bedroom as the most worthy film nominated for top honors this year, and deservingly so, as the quiet power of Todd Field's directorial debut could shatter worlds with a whisper.

I think independent and foreign films like In The Bedroom and Amelie show that Hollywood is ill-equipped to recognize a truly innovative talent, or appreciate the subtlety necessary to render many themes and ideas more complex than "Let's fuck" or "I'm so gonna fucking kill that bastard guy." Creative films released by major studios like American Beauty and The Sixth Sense gave me hope two years ago, but as the independent market has flooded with second-rate material by people with more money than talent, and as Hollywood continues to depend on special effects and explosions rather than new ideas and sharp writing, I can't help but think that more people like me will become alienated, and start looking for something better to do on a Saturday night.

And so goes my first column. While the reading public prepares to tear me a new asshole for my oversights, biases, generalizations and factual errors, I will be kicking back with a budget-friendly domestic beer watching the copy of First Love, Last Rites I just got off eBay. Enjoy the summer, folks.