"Two Critics and a Producer Chat About the Oscars"Slate.com March 20, 2003 From: David Edelstein Thursday, March 20, 2003, at 1:51 PM PT I hope that most people in the industry are fed up, and that Hollywood's annual ritual of Harvey-bashing will go beyond the level of griping and finally translate into healthy self-regulation. How many late-December releases should a studio have? This year, Miramax flooded the market with Chicago, Gangs of New York, and Confessions of a Dangerous Mind in the last two weeks of December and gave The Quiet American a quiet, two-week November platform before pulling it from circulation and then reopening it just as the ballots were mailed out. Obviously, other studios play the same game. (The Pianist and The Hours—co-produced by Miramax but distributed by Paramount—opened in New York and L.A. on Dec. 27.) But the sheer quantity of product from one studio of movies designed to get in under the wire for critics' awards and then be in wide, visible release in February and March is just staggering. (Miramax's Rabbit Proof Fence also opened in December but didn't go wide until 2003.) Why can't the academy say to every studio, "You can have three December releases eligible for awards—that's it"? (What are you, a Communist?—ed.) OK, here's another foolishly hopeful question. How many smear campaigns must there be before journalists decide to waive the idea of protecting the confidentiality of their sources? If someone comes up to you and says, "Pssssst, wanna copy of Roman Polanski's victim's deposition?" isn't the real story the agenda of the person passing it to you and not the information itself? If someone says, "Hey, I hear Nicole Kidman is trying to break up Jude Law's family—here's a shot where they look real cozy," isn't the real story the whispering creep with the photos and not whatever might or might not be passing between stars playing lovers on a movie set? When I reviewed The Pianist on the day that it opened in New York, I raised the issue of Polanski's crime. I felt that I had to: The rape of a minor is among the most despicable of all crimes, and Polanski has paid neither his debt to society nor to the young woman whom he violated. The Pianist, however, is not a movie that strives to be ennobling, or to remind you of its maker's bounteous soul. It is the story of a man separated from the world by things both heavenly (his music) and hellish (the Holocaust). It's about clinging to one's art—for better or worse—in the face of incomprehensible horror. It is not an excuse for immoral behavior, but it is clearly the work of a deeply traumatized man—an artist who lost two families to two different butchers in a single lifetime. I believe that The Pianist is the best movie of the year and that Polanski deserves to be recognized for his achievement. I'm proud that the National Society of Film Critics, of which I'm a member, recognized him accordingly. But the Oscars represent a different sort of election. It's not only about artistic achievement; it's about the way in which Hollywood wants to portray itself to the world—as a fount of ennobling (preferably liberal humanist) values. I'm not sure that, in the best of times, the members of the academy would have been able to put aside their feelings about Polanski's crime. But with someone making sure that the victim would be incessantly in voters' faces, the only serious obstacle to Chicago has been effectively demolished. And what luck—the incident happened in Jack Nicholson's house! Two birds with one stone! Why did Miramax commission a ghostwritten Robert Wise letter on the greatness of Martin Scorsese? In part, I'd guess, to counter the William Goldman screed in Variety, which suggested that the only reason to vote for a mess like Gangs of New York would be out of sympathy for what Scorsese had to endure. (Polanski might have survived the Holocaust, but Scorsese survived Harvey.) What would be Harvey's dream scenario? Easy: Chicago wins Best Film, since it's a homegrown Miramax product with a handpicked and relatively inexperienced director. Scorsese wins Best Director. (Sure, it would be great for Harvey if Rob Marshall cleaned up—and he's the odds-on favorite to do so. But if Scorsese wins then Harvey can say he delivered for Marty what Marty couldn't get on his own with such fringe efforts as Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas, etc.) If Scorsese and Daniel Day-Lewis take home Oscars, it's almost a second Best Picture. Catherine Zeta-Jones would be the icing on the cake. Renee Zellweger would be the cherry—although I think it's going to be Nicole Kidman, by a nose. Otherwise, it's Shock and Awe, Harvey-style. Is this too inside baseball? Well, what else is there to talk about? The year in movies? The war? I sympathize with the passionate view of the industry columnist David Poland that the awards should be postponed—but, until when? When wouldn't they look absurdly insensitive? And I confess to a certain morbid curiosity this year about the extent to which actors, informed by their publicists of the solemnity of the occasion, can keep their exhibitionism in check. Will they risk their careers and appear to undermine Americans in harm's way? Or will the specter of Jane Fonda's dead-and-buried career haunt their dreams? I look forward to watching Susan Sarandon, Richard Gere, Bono, etc. grapple with this question publicly. It will be as delicious as Jack Nicholson's climactic toast in About Schmidt. More relevant than Saddam (and even Harvey) is another tyrant: Gil Cates, the show's producer. Cates is the brain trust who once upon a time decided that the most tedious element of the Academy Awards is the winners' acceptance speeches—i.e., the only enjoyable part of the evening. The new wrinkle this year is that, in addition to having only 45 seconds before the orchestral hook, winners can thank only five people. This means the show will be full of the same endless montages and pointless production numbers, but the winners will be too nervous about the ticking clock to get the words out. What a terrible thing to do to people who've spent most of their lives dreaming about their Big Moment. The good news is that Steve Martin is the host, and Martin isn't a creature of showbiz like Billy Crystal or Whoopi Goldberg. Alone among the potential emcees, he has the ability to be serious and absurdist at the same time—which seems like the best way of getting through this no-win ceremony. My picks/choices? Given my druthers, of course, I'd like The Pianist to win. Adrien Brody's performance in the same movie is unlike any I've ever seen—I felt he was living the horror and that I was privileged to bear witness to it. (I love Day-Lewis, too, but after Brody my choice is Michael Caine, for his majestic portrait of anguish.) In Unfaithful, Diane Lane gives us a window into her erotic inner world unlike any I've ever seen (on-screen or, alas, off). But I wouldn't be unhappy if Julianne Moore won for Far From Heaven: The combination of 100 percent stylization and 100 percent soul made her the perfect mascot for that artificially genuine/genuinely artificial Sirk homage. I'm at a loss as to why Renée Zellweger won the Screen Actors Guild award: I loved her, but Roxie Hart just isn't that rich or interesting a part. I liked Salma Hayek, too, but agree with the person (I can't remember who) who suggested that the real Frida would have fucked her with pleasure and thrown her away. Nicole Kidman is excellent in The Hours, but the context is excruciating. I love Christopher Walken in Catch Me If You Can: It's the first time he has triumphed as an ordinary man, using his patented dissociated timing to generate an astounding amount of vulnerability. But Chris Cooper was a roaring delight in Adaptation—lewd and sexy and outrageous and able to bend with the spirit of that overrated movie. Ed Harris alone among this year's acting nominees was awful. But I don't blame the actor. I blame the screenwriter (and, alas, likely Oscar winner) David Hare for some of the most implausibly stilted dialogue ever written. In the Supporting Actress category, the most deserving is Julianne Moore—but not for The Hours, in which she bored me silly, but for her husband Bart Freundlich's little-seen World Traveler, in which she played a mentally-ill alcoholic in search of a lost child. The movie doesn't work at all, but once again her transformation is both miraculous and through-and-through. The shoo-in for the Oscar is Zeta-Jones for passing herself off so well as a hungry, musical-comedy animal. Seems to me I haven't mentioned that Lord of the Rings picture, which I liked very much but which doesn't have a hope in Hobbitland. Whew. What have I missed? And whom have I not offended? From: Lynda Obst Short dispatch from dyspeptic Hollywood where everyone is full of fear and loathing and our local xenophobia is focused on the foreign press—specifically, that the Golden Globes seemed to have run off with the perfect date in late January and hijacked the entire awards season. The showroom events have been canceled, the red carpet of 50 years running rolled back. Back when the world was young, you could indulge
in Oscar freebies and ball gowns and be properly corrupt without feeling
ridiculous. You can't get a talent agent on the phone here for the past
two days, and I fear they are all on the phone trying to keep their clients
from canceling their presenting gigs. You can bet the academy will be
pushing up its air date next year, for many reasons, not the least of
which is to keep the major studios from being able to manipulate the 40
or so odd ducks in the foreign press who are thought to be somewhat purchasable.
Also, there is just too much time between these minor awards shows and
the Big One. The one that used to count. Ours. -- From: Virginia Heffernan Hi David, Lynda, Saturday Night Live aired a suave parody of pre-Oscars smear campaigning last weekend. Salma Hayek did a series of spots alleging that Renée Zellweger was a man and that Chicago had terrorist connections. Hayek suggested her own movie, Frida, to the academy as a patriotic choice. Her gall was gorgeous, and the sketch managed to send up paranoia about Miramax while still sending up Miramax itself. Nice. E!—insistent that war can't stop their Oscar pre-show, though the presenters are dropping like flies—is now showing no less than a rerun of the red-carpet interviews from the 2000 Academy Awards. Winona Ryder is beaming. Haley Joel Osment looks 40. Lucy Liu is telling Joan Rivers that Donatella Versace made her dress "so I feel really blessed." No one has blurted out anything about blood or oil. Good old March 2000. The stars had a lot in store for them. We all did. At least it's been a good few years for Roman Polanski.
He's really back—pardoned by Samantha Geimer (now of age), lionized
again by the Easy Riders, Raging Bulls crowd, and now nominated for Best
Director and Best Picture for The Pianist. My friend Peter Gethers, who
worked on Frantic, telephoned Polanski—early Paris time—just
after he'd seen The Pianist to tell him that he really, truly loved the
movie. Polanski was delighted. He hadn't expected so much excitement in
America, where he hasn't had a hit in 15 years. (But he's still got his
strut. As Peter said today, "He liked his other movies, even if no
one else did.") In fact, apart from his nightclub skills at the piano and his talent as a flirt, I had a hard time finding qualities, to say nothing of virtues, in Spzilman. Is he just a hollow man who lucks out during the Holocaust? If so, I'd rather have seen a straight existential story of survival—Cast Away (2000), for example—or a movie that owned up to its historical context, having its hero confront, instead of shirk, the moral questions that were urgent in Poland at the time. The Pianist devolves into an action movie that gets its suspense only extrinsically—from what we already think about the Holocaust and, in some cases, from what we already think about Roman Polanski. Oh, no. I blew my space on serious stuff, and I'll
have to hold off before I ask how Renée Zellweger cornered the
movie-star market on being "easy" (I'll gain weight! I'll learn
the accent! I'll work late! I'll do anything!). And I'll have to hold
off on my picks, which I'll come up with, just as soon as Jane Fonda:
True Hollywood Story is over on E! ("Customs agents found pills in
Fonda's luggage.") From: David Edelstein As I write this, the bombs are raining down on Bahgdad. I am in awe of your formulation, Lynda, about the poor actors: If they do speak out, they are dumb. If they don't speak out, they are trivial. I feel the same way at the moment. Best to refrain from Harvey Weinstein jokes for a little bit. Virginia raises some issues about The Pianist that
are strangely pertinent, however. "So leery of giving the victory
to art—and risking ennobling anything—Polanski made sure that
Szpilman was only a nimble entertainer." I think that's a brilliant
characterization. But I can't fault Polanski, given the life he has lived,
for not triumphantly handing the victory to art. And I don't think Szpilman
was a hollow man—just not a hero. But who are we to judge him beyond
that? From: Virginia Heffernan "This is the event Armageddon wanted to be!" That line just came up on my TV screen—a rave for The Core, starring Aaron Eckhart and Hilary Swank, which is also said to be electrifying, jaw-dropping, and astonishing. Not unlike the broadcast over on CNN right now. In fact, check out the poster for The Core. (And then come back.) Does that book-of-Revelation fire look familiar? Baghdad is definitely burning. "Shock and awe," the curious pairing which you, David, invoked in your first entry is a very un-Washington phrase that I don't think we should pass over lightly (deciding "it's been used," as if we were writers panting to be original [which of course we are not]). Like both of you, I'm guessing, I've spent the day trying to make sense of moving pictures, while thinking about the war and the Oscars, and simultaneously trying to forget them both. One thing I've been thinking about is: What are the differences among shock, awe, and entertainment? The series of explosions on CNN is shocking. The
aerial images in Gangs of New York are awesome. Chicago and About a Boy
are entertaining. But what the hell is one's proper—or even one's
actual—posture toward the range of spectacles currently available
for contemplation? But who's supposed to be shocked, and who awed? Moreover, shock and awe are aesthetic effects, aren't they? In the context of movies, they are even virtues; any filmmaker with ambition wants to make a shocking, awesome movie. (Except maybe Charlie Kaufman.) If a friend told me she was in awe of Scorsese and shocked by The Road to Perdition, I would assume she was a fan of both. Isn't our military actually trying to promote "self-loathing and submission" among the Iraqis? And "shock and awe" here at home? I'm just trying to get my terms straight. I'm confused about terms, but at least I finally
have some Oscars picks. Without a gift for prophecy I'm going to vote
my heart: Adrien Brody (best actor), Julianne Moore (best actress), Chris
Cooper (best supporting actor), Meryl Streep (best supporting actress),
Pedro Almodóvar (best director), Chicago (best movie), Far From
Heaven (best screenplay), and Adaptation (best adapted screenplay). On a lighter note, David, I agree that Ed Harris
was especially pathetic at pathos in The Hours (though he was not alone).
And on a still lighter note, "roaring delight" is a perfect
characterization of Chris Cooper in Adaptation, which I finally managed
to see, and really liked. Roar! Delight! From: Lynda Obst So far it still seems like the show will go on, but not with a lot of élan, if last night's annual kickoff parties were any indication. The no-shows were not only noticeable; they were the news. Harvey and some of his minions (the favorites, I guess) were out in force—forced smiles—pressing flesh, looking tired and a bit timid, as if maybe they knew they'd gone a bit too far. (Ahem.) Of course the headline was that Nicole Kidman might not show, which if true, as I suspect, is a heartbreaker for all, industry and fans worldwide—old Europe and new alike. It was followed by the stunning rumor that her producer on The Hours, the remarkable Scott Rudin, was to hightail it to Hawaii in the morning, skipping the weekend's remaining festivities, a few of which were planned in his movie's honor. I really hope this is not true, but I fear that it is. This left the rest of us producers, who were sans nominations, with our jaws agape, unable to imagine a scenario in which we were nominated for a Best Picture Oscar and didn't show, war or no war, global or studio-wide, politics external or internal. Watching the surviving nominees stagger in Friday
night, I realized this must have been one exhausting campaign season.
Like a war of attrition, some stars had literally fled the melee. Harbinger
of Sunday's results, I fear. All I can say is, good work, Harvey and George
W. From: Lynda Obst So wrong on many fronts was this so-called insider,
and I couldn't be happier about it. The Oscars weren't dull, they weren't
predictable, the strangest things happened. There were upsets galore,
and all the heavy-handed campaigning backfired. So much for all the parties
at the Motion Picture home. Believe me, Eminem and Roman Polanski didn't
campaign there. These kinds of shockers actually kill the germs of cynicism
and freshen the air. We needed that. And when all the party favors hit the ground, the out-of-control spending suddenly seemed utterly ridiculous. Particularly for the director's award. I felt bad for Marty Scorsese when the camera popped on him jumping up for Roman's unexpected standing O. He must have been horrified by the campaigning process that seemed to attach after the fact to an unpleasant working experience and that endeavored to wash over it like anesthesia. It was a bad night, too, for Holocaust deniers and anyone who thought that Hollywood's policitical knee was jerking firmly in one direction or another. I found the Michael Moore Moment astonishing from start to finish, First, the standing ovation, usually reserved for the likes of O'Tooles and de Havillands. Then the full-on duct-tape speech, followed by cheering and booing in equal measures. (He didn't neglect to pick up the statuette, by he way, and he gave a near-identical speech earlier in the week at the Indie Spirit Awards.) The point is, I think, Michael Moore wasn't booed entirely because of his politics. (Although, it was because of that too—the Heston-Schwarzenegger-Stallone contingent was probably there.) He was booed also because he bummed out the Oscars just when they were getting interesting. Nicole had clearly struggled with showing up, and
there she was. She said she came despite the fact that the world was so
confused, she realized, because art matters, her work matters. Bus drivers
drive buses. Entertainers entertain. And the show must go on. As a Fray
observer noted, the Oscars went on in World War II. For a few little hours
we were diverted from the horror overseas and caught up in our own petty
little fun rituals again. Exercise your free speech all you want, Michael,
but BE FUNNY! (But he was wild, wasn't he? Where was Princess Littlefeather
when we needed her?) From: David Edelstein Like Lynda, I was thrilled to see Adrien Brody and The Pianist walk away with three of the top four awards for which it was nominated. And I loved it when Martin Scorsese jumped to his feet to honor Roman Polanski: He must have been relieved as hell that he didn't lose to Rob Marshall. The only thing more satisfying would have been for Harvey to be denied the final prize. Next year Miramax should open its doors to a team of inspectors—although not from the academy, which we know can be bought. I hereby volunteer for the job. Anyone want to lead a convoy into Tribeca with me? Last night's Academy Awards happened on the bloodiest
day of the war with Iraq, but the show did go on. Actors often speak of
"making a choice" and then "going with it." The producers
of this year's telecast made a choice, but I wouldn't say they went with
it. There was an air of gritted teeth about the whole thing. Everything
was halfway. The red carpet was famously rolled up—but wasn't that
a red carpet outside the Kodak Theater? Chris Connelly and company didn't
burble, "Who designed your gown?" to any of the strategically
frowning actresses. But ABC went ahead with a "Frock Around the Clock"
contest for the most-admired Oscar get-ups of years past. In lieu of tasteless
production numbers, the show featured another Chuck Workman-like montage
with snippets of 75 years of tasteless production numbers. It was the
same as it ever was, only verveless. From: Virginia Heffernan Dear David and Lynda, Whoa. Where am I? It's all a blur. I can't remember
anything after, "Virginia, Steve Martin's coming on. ..." Having won nothing—no pools—I didn't black out. I lucidly enjoyed the night in the company of friends who are wonderful hosts, not least because they know the difference between wit and low blows when it comes to hooting at the TV screen. I am trying to learn from them. I also liked the understated clothing in the honest daytime light of L.A. (the red carpet was for once not lit day-for-night for the benefit of those on the East Coast); the low silicone quotient (indeed, some women appear to have let their pectoral muscles overtake their breasts); and at least the opening lines of Steve Martin, who emphasized from the start how attenuated the presumed connection was between the ceremony and the war. "No fancy red carpet. That'll send them a message." I was grateful for victory of Chris Cooper, who,
having turned in such a big, happy performance as John Laroche in Adaptation,
gave an extremely straight-faced statement to the press after the show.
Cooper seems to be missing the enzyme that gives a man away as a professional
actor the moment he opens his mouth. Finally, it was pure pleasure to
see Adrien Brody, our young new heavyweight champ, take his prize to a
standing ovation from the alpha-actor duo of Jack Nicholson and Nicolas
Cage. Whatever their steroid banter really was (Mustang Ranch reminiscences?),
it seemed to be, for the moment, "The new kid's cool. Let him in." But wait a second. Did anyone but me catch David's aside in his last post, the one in which he said it was great to see shots of Adrien Brody's mother, David's former colleague at the Village Voice? Hmm. Brody "gave the best performance of the year." The Pianist is "the best movie of the year." And then ... our excellent movie critic wants to lead a convoy to Tribeca to audit the enemy Miramax. Is anyone putting this together—Edelstein's good old Greenwich Village versus bad new Harveytown? These are the real gangs of New York, folks. One thought about Michael Moore, whose gangsterism was, last night, far more in evidence than Harvey's. Yes, he said we have a fictitious president who was elected for fictitious reasons and now is conducting a fictitious war. But that's boilerplate rant. What he said that really smarted was that he—and his confreres on stage—uniquely maintain a preference for truth over lies because they make documentaries. They deal in fact and not fiction. Unlike Hollywood producers, directors, costume designers, animators, actors, or the rest of us romantics who live under paper moons and cardboard skies. Now, what kind of thing is that to say on Oscar
night? From: David Edelstein Thanks, Lynda and Virginia, for this weirdest of all Oscar discussions in this weirdest of all years. A reader, Jeff Grygny, writes to say that I wouldn't have been so sour if I'd smoked a bowl during the opening monologue. I'll have to remember that next year. It was great to see The Pianist and Eminem take home prizes (I wish that "Marshall" had shown up—the other songs were awful). And even if I found the The Hours fraudulent and Adaptation self-congratulatory, Nicole Kidman and Chris Cooper had their own integrity. (Too bad Kidman's portrait had so little to do with Virginia Woolf, physically or artistically.) Hey, that big gay teddy bear Pedro Almodóvar won an Oscar. Spirited Away, with nothing behind it, vanquished Disney's Lilo & Stitch. And in the end, all that Harvey Weinstein succeeded in doing for Martin Scorsese was embarrass the poor man. Maybe next year people won't be as quick to let him spend money on their behalf. OK, enough Harvey-bashing. He's a big and easy
target—so much so that I often forget that he has done more good
for movies than bad. But the Academy Awards would be a lot more fun if
he had some counterweights. James Schamus of Focus Features might step
into the breach—but it's too early to tell if Schamus, a legendary
egghead, is also a brawler. Obviously he and his team did enough for The
Pianist; just as obviously they dropped the ball on Far From Heaven. I gather some folks out there thought it was overall an exciting show and even liked Steve Martin. Maybe we'll miss the restive atmosphere next year. But probably everyone is relieved that the 75th Academy Awards are history. Time to get back to what matters. Peace, |
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