"Oscars the Grouch"

Slate.com March 22, 2002 - March 24, 2002

From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: Truth and Consequences
Friday, March 22, 2002, at 9:14 AM PT

Hi from Brooklyn, Lynda. Here in the East, winter has arrived, just in time for spring. It's unnerving—but normalcy, what's that? I have a sense that, reflecting the national mood as well as recent show-biz controversies, the Academy Awards ceremony is going to be emotional this year, no matter what happens. Will it be ugly no matter what happens? Will it be productively (boldly, educationally, confrontationally) embarrassing, or just squirm-inducing? The odds on the latter are 100 to one—but gifted exhibitionists are full of surprises.

Awards are not godlike dispensations based on merit, they are elections. In some cases, the voting group is small and unimpeachable; in others, large and easily swayed by hype. And then there is the Academy Awards, a fascinating collision of art and politics and business, skewing liberal and middlebrow but on rare occasions following the rabble. (Gladiator comes to mind.) The challenge is in trying to understand the collective mind of its voters—how they hope to present their industry to the world, and how those hopes can translate into good movies down the line. There is also the matter of the ceremony itself, and whether its host, presenters, and winners will find the right balance between exhibitionism and showmanship. (The best Oscar performers display elements of both.)

As a voter, a resident of Los Angeles, and a producer of such films as the upcoming The V-Hot Zone (as well as a writer yourself), you are someone whose thoughts on these matters are bound to be more interesting than mine. So I'm mostly going to pepper you with questions, pick your brain—see how much I can get you to say without pissing off too many of your peers.

But first I'll get some stuff off my chest.

This is the rare year that my two favorite movies—In the Bedroom and Gosford Park—were nominated for Best Picture, yet neither has a chance, and you know what? I'm too old and calloused to waste any tears. I'm surprised—happily—that they were nominated. Robert Altman is my favorite living director, but he won't win and I won't be broken up by that, either. I think of it like this: Oscar voters are choosing between Opie and Grumpy, and, especially this year, I can't really blame them for going with the redhead from the (mythical) heartland. I also love Lord of the Rings, that rare super-fantasy-blockbuster with brilliant artistry and Wagnerian emotional heft, but it won't win—it was all concocted too far away. (For the record, I hated almost every second of Moulin Rouge and am mystified by its popularity; it is to musicals what mincemeat is to Châteaubriand.)

My gut says look for A Beautiful Mind to sweep, and I don't know how I feel about that. I was moved by the movie and liked it OK, and I can understand why it's the perfect Oscar bait. It surprises audiences, it has sensational performances, and it celebrates perseverance in the face of a lousy personality and mental imbalance—something that must really hit home in Hollywood. I like the central conceit, even if it's fiction: that Nash's delusions bubble out of the culture of Cold War paranoia. (And I now realize why I found Christopher Plummer such a riotous choice to play the is-he-or-isn't-he shrink: He was an obsessed CIA Cold Warrior attached to a sleep institute in that marvelous B-movie Dreamscape.) There is so much anger, craziness, and emotional daring in Russell Crowe's performance that the schlockification in the later scenes almost doesn't matter.

Almost.

I was asked by a radio interviewer the other day if I thought the academy looks down on movies that fictionalize reality. What a dumb question! A glance at the three-quarter-of-a-century history of the awards suggests that its voters look down on movies that don't fictionalize reality—that allow too many ambiguities and dissonances to creep in.

I live for teasing ambiguities and witty dissonances, and found the climactic, stand-by-your-troubled-genius thrust of A Beautiful Mind neither enlightening nor memorable. The movie is an uncomplicated monument to marriage, yet the real story is a complicated monument to marriage—full of break-ups and other loves and, finally, an inability to separate. How much more challenging, how much more entertaining the real story might have been! But Universal, DreamWorks, Ron Howard, Akiva Goldsman: They didn't think we could handle the truth. So a vote for A Beautiful Mind is a vote for that conviction.

On the other hand, it's also a vote against the alleged whisper campaign. When the movie first came out, A.O. Scott in the New York Times and Chris Suellentrop here in Slate detailed the ways in which the movie simplified the story. Others did, too. But no one in Hollywood especially cared until the explosive collision of anti-Semitism and Oscar ballots. The charge is nonsense, of course: Give the man a break—he was a delusional schizophrenic! And I can't exactly blame the writer, director, and studio(s) for not wanting Jew-bashing in the picture. How many studios vied to release The Believer?

Lots, lots more to talk about … Is there going to be another dreary attempt to cut short the acceptance speeches—the most interesting parts of the show? Who's spending the money out there? Has Miramax—with a slate full of December releases that's virtually built around the Academy Awards—dropped the ball on In the Bedroom?
Will Halle Berry win for Monster's Ball? Am I alone in thinking that, although she took a lot of risks, she mostly stank up the screen? I saw what looked like private, Method-y exercises that didn't make the leap into artistry. The greatest superexposed actors—say, Jessica Lange or Debra Winger—don't just simulate emotion, they illuminate it, whereas I didn't have a clue what was going on in Halle Berry's character. (That might also be the fault of the direction and the dreary, detached framing—I've heard from people I trust that the script itself is really good.)
In thinking over my own preferences and predictions—Crowe or Tom Wilkinson, Sissy Spacek, Ben Kingsley (but Ian McKellen will win), Helen Mirren (but Jennifer Connelly will win)—I find no African-Americans. And if that comes to pass, there will be a spate of articles decrying, once again, the academy's failure to recognize black actors. Yet it seems to me the height of racism to say that Denzel Washington should win over Crowe or Wilkinson because he's an African-American and African-Americans don't have enough Oscars. I know this is the line that conservatives take against affirmative action—and I largely support affirmative action. But should these kinds of issues color (so to speak) awards of merit?

Then again, Denzel Washington is magnificently funny in Training Day.

Then again, it is an election we're talking about.

Your turn.

David
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From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: The Hollywood Scene
Friday, March 22, 2002, at 12:51 PM PT

Dear David,

Hooray from Hollywood, where we have by now totally forgotten that this week is about movies and are all in a collective state of hair and make-up. Your letter arrived as if from Katmandu, startling with its pointed critiques on the nominated candidates and all the attendant social controversies du jour. For us, that was last week—punctuated by John Nash's appearance on 60 Minutes Sunday night—after which we voted on Monday and then proceeded directly to the wardrobe trailer. We're very "next" around here. Thanks for reminding me what this is all about, and more on the real stuff in a minute.

But the hoopla here, the commercialization of our stars, the cross-promotion of fashion, media, and movie celebrity have become so systemic, so overt, so managed and packaged and branded, that the Academy Awards are in jeopardy of becoming a wholly owned subsidiary of the global beauty business. The degree of it—the fever pitch of the Joan Rivers cry: "WHO ARE YOU WEARING!!??" of designers and famous hairdressers hawking their diamonds and gowns in hotel suites for free—threatens to drown out the actual point of all this until the very last second: Sunday night. The only good news about the vaunted red carpet is once they're all inside, it's over and it's about movies again. So first the hoopla:

As soon as our votes are in, the New Yorkers take over. In the past few years, since the demise of Swifty's Oscar Party and the rise of carpetbagger magazine editors anointing themselves as Hollywood's hosts, the arrival of the New Yorkers paradoxically means the onset of Hollywood's Oscar season. One first spots Elizabeth Salzman of Vanity Fair on the Monday American flight, Graydon Carter at Orso's, Julian Schnabel at Bob Evans' screening room on Wednesday (also hosted by Graydon Carter), where one hears Ingrid Sischy will show up at Schnabel's opening at Gagosian Thursday. Diane Von Furstenburg is jetting in for husband Barry Diller's Saturday-afternoon soiree, where one can count on more New Yorkers in attendance than natives. What does it mean? And why do I want to move back to NY when it seems to be coming here? It is slumming? Nostalgie de la boue? The old jet-set deeming our Academy Awards night the international black-and-white party of the moment? Or, a more horrifying thought—the Liza wedding? Perhaps our brass-ring night is the only thing we have worth co-opting! And what about those who toil here each and every day and don't get invited to their own company-town soiree? Or invited to the weeklong spa at L'Ermitage where Frederick Fekkai and Chanel are offering free makeovers and martinis? Deciding among free jewels from Van Cleef & Arpels? Or given free Esplanades from Cadillac, G4s from Apple—the beauty angle here, please?—with Grey Goose Vodka loosening everybody up as they receive Botox injections from the town's premier cosmetic dermatologist?
Schadenfreude is the prevailing wind in the atmospherics this year, and the New York media's appropriation of the event doesn't help. Everyone but everyone (except people who adored Moulin Rouge, herein referred to as Moulin Rougeies) hated—or purports to hate—all the movies this year. (Unless they are nominated or represent someone who is.) My votes this year were protest votes in a way—in many categories I voted for people I just root for, bereft of a real rooting interest. Many of my colleagues did the same, without an abiding passion for a particular film. Many are rooting for the very unlikely upsets, but we are divided on who they should be.

My theory is that, because this is the year we began to see the effects of last year's strike, only two movies were released that would have been nominated in any ordinary year, Lord of the Rings and A Beautiful Mind, the classic academy brand. I would suggest this is one of the reasons two of your favorite movies are surprisingly nominated this year. The dearth of excellent mainstream product, inhibited by the strike deadline for production, allowed more indie fare to get notice, giving critical darlings more room to breathe. Fox—the Lucky Rougies—and Universal are clearly the most interested parties, and I personally think that Miramax has gotten a bad rap on this one because they're such good copy, and likely high-profile Oscar hypers. Some say that In the Bedroom wasn't Harvey's pet and thus hasn't gotten his full throttle. The scuttlebutt says that The Shipping News was his big entry this year, and it didn't leave the port. But I am not a reporter, so who knows?
I think the controversy was generated not in the industry, but in the press for both legitimate (A.O. Scott and Suellentrop) and salacious (Matt Drudge) reasons. And I think the movie also got a bad rap for it, the hideous anti-Semitism swipe being the one clearly designed to irk and manipulate the academy. The academy may be oddly provincial, but it is not stupid, and all this can work in the frontrunner's favor, backlashwise. And the can of worms that results from making a mainstream movie out of a real life befuddles and constrains me consistently in my work, so I am very sympathetic to the filmmakers' dilemma on this subject. As Scott pointed out yesterday, it is a complex issue, one that comes up over and over again, highlighting a chasm between the journalist's world view and the filmmaker's, with respect to "biography." There is the journalist's master: the truth, and what movie-makers like call the film's "emotional truth," often rationalized by the term "higher truth." We don't and can't make documentaries, so we must find the emotional metaphor that can connect a theme with the audience, our master. It works, it seems, when simplifying the narrative lines of the life don't betray it—or trivialize it. Herein is the legitimate debate. Does the ending represent a genuine higher truth, the point to the life, the point the filmmaker was reaching for? It was the simple cure for schizophrenia that infuriated many about the adaptation of A Beautiful Mind, but the pathos of Crowe's performance, the exquisite rendering of disorientation, hit its own emotional truth. It could easily be enough for Best Actor, but for Best Picture? We will see.

Boy, have you changed my mood. I better return to my hair and make-up mode: Tonight is the big industry party I plan to attend this weekend, as it is the last non-corporate, traditional Hollywood hosted bash in town: Ed Limato's yearly "casual but chic" do. This year I almost didn't get invited because I couldn't close a deal with his client, but all's well that ends well, in love and war and hair and make-up and all that.

Talk to you tomorrow, with an incisive report on the meaning of casual chic,

Lynda
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From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: Highbrow Cinema Talk
Friday, March 22, 2002, at 2:26 PM PT

Dear Lynda:

My head is swimming. I don't go to a lot of big-deal parties (or even little-deal parties), so tell me—tell us—are they wicked fun? Do they consist of overcoiffed snobs striking poses, or does the general giddiness and sense of occasion result in actual meaningful contact between human beings? Do people act out like crazy? (Examples, please.) Do the New Yorkers really stand out—and, if so, why? Tell us about the Oscar nominees you've spoken to and their frank (or lying) assessments of their chances. They won't mind you saying. Really. The votes are all in.

I guess I'm not surprised by your contention that my favorite movies could only only only be nominated in a year that LA people think was terrible. I thought it was pretty good! But … but … Do they really think it was terrible, or is it just that so many of the nominees came from outside the studio system? What do you think will be the upsets? Moulin Rouge? Will the passionate "Rougies" and the disaffected others combine to propel this monument to Attention Deficit Disorder over the finish line? Will this be the most absurd/nihilistic Academy Awards ceremony ever? Why doesn't anyone seem to love Gosford Park?

Anyway, In the Bedroom certainly wasn't Harvey's pet. I don't even think it was allowed to play with Harvey's pet. He bought it at Sundance as a favor to a VP who loved it, and I'd bet money he still thinks it's half an hour too long. I think the Judi Dench/Juliette Binoche pictures are always closest to his heart. (Amélie qualifies as a quasi-Juliette Binoche picture—the apotheosis of the gamine.) (By the way, is that going to win the foreign-film Oscar? I was drowning in my boredom in the last half hour—but Jeunet is a talented director.) (Any support whatsoever for No Man's Land?)

Do you think voters are likely to hold Russell Crowe's bad behavior against him? What would it say to give him an Oscar for Gladiator (my colleague Sarah Kerr described it as a hangover performance) and pass him over for A Beautiful Mind? I know you think he's a very decent human being, but he's wound tightly even for an actor. I wonder if we'll see some fisticuffs this year …

Well, so much for the highbrow cinema talk. Don't drink too much tonight; you need your short-term memory to TELL ALL.

David
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From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: Party Poop
Saturday, March 23, 2002, at 3:23 PM PT

Dear David,

If last night's party at Ed Limato's house—the bash that traditionally commences the Oscar Ronde—was any indication, I am afraid this year will disappoint you in terms of grand acting-out and high drama. My first hint that this was going to be a tame affair was spotting the former mogul renowned by insiders for passing out in the foyer of Ed's two years ago standing like an Indian cigar statue at the entrance of Ed's old-style mansion, a picture of health and rectitude. His dramatic collapse two years ago (which I remember most by frantic party planners shooing away onlookers and hiding the unattractive ambulance) sprang that year's bacchanal into high gear, peaking with the notorious pass Russell Crowe made at the then-unindicted Winona Ryder, prompting a punch, some say, from then-boyfriend Matt Damon. I am sad to report that by midnight, which is when this adult felt compelled to leave, otherwise having to repeat the same two-sentence conversation five more times with the same five hundred people, nothing juicy of the sort occurred. In fact, everyone was horribly well-behaved.
Even Russell Crowe, who must have had several secret-keepers watching his alcohol intake. He sat surrounded by protective father figures—his former directors Ridley Scott and Michael Mann, the only women being their beautiful ladies Summer and Giannini. He was nursing a drink of some sort, barely looking up to catch any random eye contact that might have made the tabloids. As far as post-midnight is concerned, when the late night crowd goes into action and Denzel shows up—who knows. It didn't seem likely though. It was, given the degree of generalized hostility in the air, quite friendly and low-key, almost an instance of strange post-9/11 survival relief.

People bussed cheeks and claimed to be happy to see one another, as if first emerging from behind bunkers. The dressing was varied—casual chic being interpretive. Ed himself wore a neon blue Versace shirt with black paisley sequins (it was too cold for his usual bare feet), and Gwyneth wore jeans and Luke Wilson. Nick Dunne chatted with Sharon Stone, who was discussing her brain hemorrhage, and Brian Grazer was beaming nervously, kind of running for office, though all the votes are already in. As producer of A Beautiful Mind, it was his night, and his terrific wife Gigi Levangie looked ready for the stratosphere in her D&G black jacket with rhinestone (they couldn't have been diamonds, could they?) buttons. Tom and Rita Wilson Hanks were surrounded by well-wishers who didn't get to vote for him this year, and when I pointed the rarity of that out to Tom, he noted that no one voted for him last year either.
As for the New Yorkers, you could tell them from the natives because they were the ones who only know the famous people. Julian Schnabel (again) held court over the hot table of the night: Ridley Scott and Giannini, Michael and Summer Mann, and Russell Crowe, utterly dateless. Jennifer Connelly was whispering in Julian's ear, no doubt discussing Abstract Expressionism, but those of us who thought there was something cooking between the co-stars of A Beautiful Mind would have been disappointed to see the lady nominee slip away solo, eyeing the dessert table. (It would have endeared her to me permanently had she grabbed the chocolate dessert, as I did, but, alas, nada.) Even Jennifer Lopez sat quietly with her handsome husband. There were no fabulous coifs, hair being stick straight this year, and posing was at a minimum. People mostly sat at their tables of six, eyeing other tables and discussing possible upsets. The "Rougie" contingent was in high gear, though I spotted none of its actors but all its studio heads. The brave straight men who risked their masculinity being impugned by loving the film were appalled that Baz Luhrmann wasn't nominated and were collectively sure that Nicole will win. I say: art direction.

A lot of rooting for Denzel was discerned, though given that the host is his agent, and his arrival was the most anticipated, perhaps this was no surprise. I am signing off now, as I will otherwise miss my Saturday gymnastics and will not be able to regain my balance. I may file later, if I get my back handspring, with a report from the affirmative-action front.

Exhausted, but with no short term memory loss, your feeble party reporter,

Lynda
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From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: Cocktail Chatter
Saturday, March 23, 2002, at 10:48 PM PT

Hey now, that's more like it! My only regret is that all those celebrities weren't boldfaced. Let's rectify the situation, shall we?

I'm glad to hear that Russell Crowe is being beautifully minded. Do you think Brian Grazer is keeping him sedated? That isn't wholly facetious—as a producer, you've thought about pumping actors full of barbiturates, right? I mean, there's no way you let a guy like that loose when there's zillions at stake. He seems to me very vulnerable. Part of it is that's he's taking blows both as Russell Crowe and as a surrogate for John Nash, on whom it's open season. It's sweet that his former directors Ridley Scott and Michael Mann still treat him fondly and even let him around their women. Was Julian Schnabel displaying his wife?

Let's get substantive for just a New York minute. Who did the people you really, really, really trust think will win? Jennifer Connelly—everybody must have been saying, "It's in the bag." (She's really a sweetie, isn't she?) Does anyone outside Fox think Nicole has a chance? (She's very deserving—for The Others.) Who do the lovely Tom and Rita like? Was anyone fulminating about some picture or performance that got unjustly passed over? Gene Hackman? Steve Buscemi? Tom Green? What's the most popular conjecture re: an upset? Anyone think that, against all odds, it's going to be a hobbity kinda night?
Finally: You tantalize me with your line about "having to repeat the same two-sentence conversation five more times with the same five hundred people." What, I sit here thinking, are those two sentences?

"Darling! So terrible you weren't nominated."
"Well, Russell has slept with half the academy."
"Sweetie! Breathtaking! Badgely Mischka?"
"He wouldn't leave my house until I put it on."
"Hey! Love the lips!"
"Thanks. Did you get tickets?"
"I voted for you!"
"I voted for you! Are you nominated?"
"You are so brilliant!"
"Thank you. Marvelous quote in last week's New York Times. We really do need a comedy Oscar."

David
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From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: What Would Surprise No One
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 2:31 PM PT

Dear David,

Though I like your versions far better—in fact I liked them more than the party—here goes my recollection of the dread two all-purpose Hollywood party sentences. I only wish we were as funny as you imagine, but here goes the banal reality:

EXEC No. 1: (looking over producer's shoulder for boldface reality nearby) "You look great." (Pause, glance). "What are you working on?"

PRODUCER No. 1: (returning his non-attention)
"You look great too. What are you working on?"

Then no one listens to the answers.

When one captures the attention of an instance of nominated Boldface, the eyes finally settle:
"You look great." (This is optional for women nominees only.)

"I adored your performance in X. Of course, I voted for you."

STAR No.1: (murmurs graciously, looking elsewhere)

"Thank you." (And bolts, looking for her yogi/boyfriend, or otherwise appointed keeper.)

I effected this pathetic conversation Friday night with Jim Broadbent, who looked puzzled and said, "In which movie?" For a moment I was in a panic wondering if he could have possibly been nominated twice, but then I told his wife that she looked great and grabbed my drink and headed down the broad lawn to the big tent under the (and over the) stars.

If I answered half of your questions, the Academy Taliban would descend, and my oath of secrecy, sworn with blood, would be broken. But I'll happily play a game called "What Would Surprise No One." It lists what upsets would surprise no one and which would surprise everyone, though no one is really expecting a surprise, except maybe Dick Clark.

It Would Surprise No One if Russell (how about first names instead of boldface, because I am not sure how it works) won and either did or didn't get into fisticuffs. It Would Surprise No One if, in victory, he ran off with his Oscar presenter, no matter who, except maybe Roberto Benigni.

It Would Surprise Many if Denzel wins, though many are rooting for him anyway because of last year (and every year), and others still are ready to pounce with ideology if that turns out to be the upset of the night. They would be wrong. If Denzel should win in an upset, it would be for the astonishing range of his talent and scope of his performances over the past few years and finally as a protest against Russell's naughtiness. But this won't happen, because the industry doesn't care about naughtiness (look at its enabling embrace of Robert Downey Jr.) unless a hate crime is involved. We have a historic soft spot for rebel enfants terribles.

It Would Surprise No One if Jennifer Connelly (who is said to be a sweetie, yes) won, and she is surely the big winner of the season, regardless.

Everyone is very aware also of the eminence this year of the Divine Singleton Miss Zellweger—who I looked for but never spotted Friday night. But Everyone Would Be Surprised if she won, as you pointed out last week in the NYT. Even Oscar-less, this will be remembered as her year, too.

Sissy Spacek—whom I did see sitting alone—is an academy favorite, and those who believe the Motion Picture Old Folks Home is the central voting block of the academy believe (rightly) that the academy will always reward one of its own, and therefore Sissy is a shoo-in. There are so few great parts for women of Sissy's (don't start me) age, so It Would Surprise No One if she won, and in an "Up With People" kind of way, Everyone Will Be Glad when Sissy wins.
There is a strong sense that some of the other nominees are the new junior Oscar perennials, who'll be offered an Oscar part every season, so therefore don't present a voting emergency: Kate Winslet, for example, is a future Oscar regular if there ever was one; Denzel, certainly, is taken for granted in this way every year; and to a certain extent, this could apply to Jennifer Connelly as well, though her chances are mitigated by the fact that this is her career-defining part, and that is a strong positive factor in her favor. Her performance itself was a surprise. If Halle Berry wins an upset, it would be in part because of the inverse of this thinking, that there won't be this kind of dazzling Oscar part for her every year, but oddly, this would be false, as the industry is becoming increasingly colorblind thanks to the colorblind younger generation and these Afro-American mega-talents. I have noted with glee that Halle is up for every role Nicole and Julia are up for this coming year. So Some, but not All, Would Be Surprised by this much-discussed possible upset.
I Wouldn't Be Totally Surprised if Robert Altman won, though many others would be, and Everybody Would Be Surprised if David Lynch won, though he was there, too, Friday night, politicking ironically. (An upset here is inhibited by the fact that not enough voters understood the movie, and the academy is proudly NOT the Independent Spirit Awards.) I wasn't sitting with New Zealanders, so for all I know Lord of the Rings could be a favorite upset, but I, for one, Would Be Truly Surprised, as I haven't met a woman under 30 who liked it, and the academy is certainly too old to appreciate its video game authenticity. It dazzled in technicals and will likely sweep them. It is a commonplace belief that Lord of the Rings got so many nominations for a fantasy piece that it is considered to be (and is) an honor in itself. If it wins, the whisper/shouting campaign against A Beautiful Mind, no matter its author, will have been a success. This would threaten to turn our Oscars into an all-out, down-and-dirty South Carolina primary every year. Soft money and all.
No One Would Be Really Surprised if Ron Howard wins or even if he doesn't win. On the one hand, this is his year—who are we kidding. On the other, this is one way a Beautiful Mind backlash could play out. The academy is notoriously odd about youngish (under 60) upstart extremely commercial directors—it took them a while to embrace Spielberg and then they embraced him ad nauseam. They have a tendency to not take anyone seriously they don't fear soon losing to grave illness. No one fears for Altman's mortality. He appears, in fact, indomitable, and this is part of his appeal. There is an enormous respect for the persistence of his individuality, for the range of his entries, for his never-say-die attitude toward the deadening movie-making machine, for not falling apart in mid-career like so many auteurs. The academy loves this, so No One Would Be Surprised if this upset occurred—or Sort of Surprised, but Happy in that "Up With the Industry" kind of way.

Ron Howard, though beloved, is still not taken completely seriously—or conclusively considered at the pinnacle of a long career—as Altman is. If Altman upsets Opie, that is why. No One Would Be Surprised, but Everyone (except a few people who work for Universal) Will Be Depressed, if (and when) A Beautiful Mind sweeps. Howard's is an academy kind of movie, directed to two nominated performances, a nominated screenplay; it's a lock, if anything is, to win.

I keep reading that this year, anything goes. But that seems to have been true in forecasting nominations more than in final balloting. Maybe, as you suggest, we in the industry don't like this year because so few of our big movies are in the running. But if that's true, we're likely to take it back to the mainstream tonight. Talk to you then ...

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From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: Back to the Mainstream
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 4:31 PM PT

Thank you, Lynda. Your post this day answers most of my important questions and, more than that, puts all the races into Hollywood perspective—the only one that matters, at this stage (or probably any stage). If nothing else, tonight, Hollywood will defeat the Independent Spirit awards.

A Beautiful Mind will win Best Picture and Russell Crowe Best Actor. Jennifer Connelly will win Best Supporting Actress. Akiva Goldsman will win for his screenplay, alas. The directing prize will probably go to Ron Howard—but it won't be a total surprise if Robert Altman takes it. Sissy Spacek will likely win—although I'm getting from you strong Halle Berry vibes. I loved Spacek and, as you know, disliked Berry; but now I'm thinking it's going to be a Berry-good year. We didn't discuss Supporting Actor, but based on your comments LOTR comments, I'm thinking not McKellen but Jim Broadbent. Gosford Park for original screenplay? Lots of technical prizes and maybe Howard Shore for LOTR (not Horner or Williams again!), but Art Direction to the ADD candidate, Moulin Rouge. Shrek, of course. No Man's Land for the social-conscience thing. Black Hawk Down for editing/sound editing and maybe cinematography.
Yeah, it's depressing.

What's saddest about this scenario: The ABM people (aren't those antiballistic-missile initials? So the title was code!) will feel vindicated not only for their artistry (which is considerable), but for ironing out many of the dissonances and, as you've suggested, making it look as if schizophrenia has extremely tidy borders. (I've never seen such well-demarcated delusions. If only it were that easy to separate the real from the unreal.) I'm not sure if I should be rooting for ABM because of the alleged dirty campaign, or rooting against ABM for milking the alleged dirty campaign so hard.

I'll be sad because I love Robert Festinger and Todd Field's In the Bedroom screenplay, but I'll probably handle the other losses OK. Except for one …

This morning, I went to see Iris, which is the only non-documentary feature in contention that I'd missed. It was one of those movies that Miramax played for a week to qualify for awards; and I resented that strategy so much (it's OK for one film, maybe, but when a studio does it with three, four, five … ) that I kept my distance.
Seeing it today was a useful thing to do, however. I went to the theater specifically to consider the performances with regard to the Oscar; and maybe because of all the brilliant, daring, edge-of-the-precipice acting, I found myself feeling slightly ashamed.

More than anyone, it was Kate Winslet who surprised me. Although I've loved almost everything I've ever seen her do (she was delightful last year in Quills, for instance), I think of her as a fragile creature, easily flushed. But there's an element of control in this performance that's just astounding. She's so vivacious and so brainy: The lines really seem to be coming out of her head, and they're not easy lines. More than even Dench (who is very fine), she anchors the movie's conceit, which is the terrifying notion that the loss of language equals the loss of self.
And tonight Kate Winslet will be a "loser." It's not that I think it's the "best" performance—if I'd seen Gosford Park this morning, I might have been consumed with thoughts of Helen Mirren or Maggie Smith (or, for that matter, Emily Watson). It's that in the face of such artistry, the notion of "winners" and "losers" is even more abhorrent than usual.

Can I just tell you, for the record, that I hate all this? I'm not being ironic. I fucking hate the Academy Awards, and if I had any guts I'd stop scribbling about them; I'd stop voting for critics' prizes; and I'd stop compiling absurd 10-best lists. I would write about the artists whose work either impressed or disappointed me and ignore the ranking thing and the prize thing.

So, what are you serving tonight? I usually entertain, but tonight it's just me, my computer, and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Thoughts as they come … as it happens …

David

--

From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: Pu-pu Surprises
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 5:06 PM PT

Dear David,

I'm sad that you are depressed in advance of the big event, and I feel responsible. Perhaps you are unused to the debilitating cynicism it takes to survive here. 9/11 only cramped it for a month, and now I fear it has
infected you. Perhaps our Oscars are our revenge for your (not personal, but critics in general) 10-best lists, for dismissing our product all year. For diminishing our best—constrained by the marketplace—offerings. But you love movies, and I know it, and hopefully Laura Ziskin, the evening's producer, will allow for sufficient histrionics to re-ignite your enthusiasm. Maybe someone will be rude. Sadly, unlike the Globes, they don't serve liquor—there is usually a wine bar somewhere in the Siberian outposts, but people are afraid to search for it, or they will lose their hard-fought seats.

I adored Kate Winslet's performance, as you know, and find her incandescent. She will never be a loser, her reign is only begun. Marisa was also great. This is traditionally the first award, and then we sit motionless for hours. I am serving Hawaiian BBQ. Pu-pu platter, as it were. With any luck, tonight will be full of pu-pu surprises, and not just the clothes or the platter. Take heart, too, that I am always the big loser in my family poll. But then again, I vote with my heart and the head always wins. Till then ...

--

From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: Sounds of Sweep
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 6:16 PM PT

Sounds of sweep, emanating from our TV room. And we think that Benecio Del Toro was funnier than Whoopi Goldberg. And we didn't understand the opening movie, either. Were they selling the idea of movies? Do they need selling to an audience willing to spend three hours in a bathos of self-celebration? And what was with the hideous outfit on Whoopie? We think also it wouldn't have been horrible if Jennifer Connelly had looked up as she read her speech. No surprises so far. We are all quite happy about Black Hawk Down (bad sign for the Rougies), in particular the cinematographer in the room, who also voted for it. This is also a good sign for a Ridley upset. There is a strong Lord of the Rings male bias just picked up in the room, a kind of testosterone pull. … Same contingent horrified by the feathered coat on the make-up winner. Later ...

--

From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: I Love the Feathered Coat
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 6:23 PM PT

I loved the feathered coat ... it's nice to see some variety in those damn tuxes. Men should put themselves more on the line; it shouldn't be just the women who put their images at risk. Speaking of which, I'm still wrestling with Joan Rivers telling Kirsten Dunst how fabulous she looked when she was, um, ill and slightly emaciated. Stop the madness.

But yeah, it would have been nice to have seen Jennifer Connelly's eyes ... instead of Tom Cruise's. (He was so moved by his own nobility.)

David

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From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: Keeping Hope Alive
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 6:28 PM PT

On the subject of feathered coats, the Rougies HAD to win costume. Good God, if they didn't win that, they'd be done for. ... Now they're still alive for ... Nicole?

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From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: Woody Shows
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 6:52 PM PT

Wow. Woody shows. He looks better than in his last movie—he looks as good as he did 20 years ago. His timing, on the other hand, is definitely Curse of the Jade Scorpion enfeebled. Too large proportion of dithering to good jokes. The only inspired thing in the montage is the sea of walkers—Travolta, Tootsie, etc. I wish they used more actors who actually LIVE here instead of in LA. Like, Woody is the only actual RESIDENT.

--

From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: In Need of Uplift?
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 7:03 PM PT

It was Nora's montage of NY that Woody introduced. And I know I am biased, but we ALL thought the NY piece was moving and magical. Is that because we're here? And in such need of uplifting?

--

From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: The Daze After
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 10:18 PM PT

Well, Lynda, you pretty much called it. The headline tomorrow won't be A Beautiful Mind wins big but that African-Americans took home the lead actor and actress prizes on the same night the Academy rose to honor its Jackie Robinson, Sidney Poitier. Sidney Poitier, possessed of superhuman grace, honored a lot of other people—Jews, actually, with a token Episcopalian (Norman Jewison). Two aging white liberals, Hiller and Redford, got a little lost in the shuffle. As for Halle Berry, I better hold my tongue for the moment. It is hard not to be moved by emotion so overflowing—but in all honesty I felt the same lack of control in the performance. Denzel Washington was blessedly emotional and eloquent, and he tied it all in a neat bow by gesturing back to Poitier.

It is a little peculiar, a little skewed, a little absurd that the man who put A Beautiful Mind over, Russell Crowe, was the night's big "loser." And he'd won for Gladiator…
Nathan Lane had the best lines of the evening—sticking it to Walt Disney and the Weinsteins. Why was his stuff so good and Whoopi's (apart from the Ashcroft joke) so awful? The schizophrenic gag was one of the all-time Oscar lows.
I liked Cirque du Soleil's number—which underlined the fact that Oscar has finally jettisoned the Vegas aesthetic. I loved when Randy Newman ordered the band not to play—it almost made up for the fact that it's one of his worst songs ever (and I love Randy Newman). I'm sorry Julia Roberts had to make the reading of the envelope about her reaction, but she made up for it by virtually riding Denzel off the stage: Her elation was true.

Yours?

David
--

From: Lynda Obst
To: David Edelstein
Subject: This Is What We Do at Our Best
Sunday, March 24, 2002, at 11:11 PM PT

What a whirl! From utter boredom and dissociation to feel-good, homegrown American melodrama. From the truly sublime to the utterly ridiculous: From Denzel and Sidney Poitier standing, their arms outstretched reaching towards one another, each holding their historic, respective Oscars; to Julia Roberts leaping into Denzel's big moment, blocking his shot. Halle Berry's speech alone displayed the enormous range of emotions, in the immortal words of Dorothy Parker, from A to B. From tears to cringing embarrassment, from awe to yawn. First: "This is not for me, for Dorothy Dandridge, for Lena Horne …" Then: "We've waited 74 years for this, [therefore I get to again] thank my lawyer ..."

The duality all night was amazing: As noted, Nora's wonderful NY montage, among many other filmed pieces whose meanings escaped me and my friends entirely. Moments of shock: Halle Berry over Sissy. Moments of controversy: Denzel over Russell. Utterly predictable moments: Ron Howard, Akiva Goldsman, Best Picture. There seemed to be an endless series of honorary awards, sucking all the air out of the room. We should edit these considerably.

Though I never would've guessed the top two awards and Many Will Be Surprised, Many Will Purport Not To Be Surprised that the Oscar-race glass ceiling came crashing down on Sidney Poiter's night. In retrospect, Halle Berry was dressed to win. I never saw anything so glamorous in my life. Sissy wouldn't have sold any clothes.

This historic night for Afro-Americans in American film wasn't coordinated. We had no way of knowing about the Poitier award when we voted. I sort of fear for how thought-out it seems, when it was really so random. Except that critical mass has clearly been reached, and the long arm of Sidney Poitier reached from history into the future of film tonight. My son and his friends were not nearly as moved as we grown-ups were; to them, the colorblind, this is all belaboring and celebrating the obvious. Duh. Black movie stars. Yeah, so what?

It's kind of great to see it from both sides now. During Poitier's speech, for a moment all my cynicism melted away. I thought, this is what we do at our best. We can actually change the way people see things. So someday our snotty little kids can tease us when our eyes tear when we hear Sidney Poitier say again, "They call me Mr. Tibbs."

Signing off till tomorrow. A reinvigorated,

Lynda

--

From: David Edelstein
To: Lynda Obst
Subject: A New Day?
Monday, March 25, 2002, at 9:23 AM PT

It did seem as if the audience, which was cheering for and crying with Halle Berry, began to laugh at her when the acceptance speech built to CAA, her managers, and her lawyers. (Another sort of bondage, I guess.) What a sad, spectacular, heart-rending, garishly awful meltdown … I thought her husband was going to have to carry her off the stage—images of Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. It's probably fortunate that the speech will never be seen again in its real-time entirety. Parts of it, of course, will be seen forever.

You are right: Denzel Washington metaphorically clinking Oscars with Sidney Poitier was the stuff dreams are made of. Hollywood couldn't have written it more splendidly, and it couldn't have been better performed. With a supernaturally brilliant combination of sardonicism and emotional transparency (a blend that as an actor has served him well), Denzel managed to turn his speech into a drama of fathers and sons: First, he made a fast, affectionate joke about competing with the old man; then he paid honest obeisance; then he referred, wryly, to the whereabouts of his own children; then he announced that he'd have been celebrating with his family whether he'd won or lost. More than anything, he put out the word that it all means nothing without a stable family life.

As I said, I loved Washington in Training Day. The performance was a bit of a stunt, but the control was breathtaking: He had the size of Pacino's Scarface, but 10 times the nuance and precision. It was a great comic performance. (Hooray.) The unfortunate thing is that this is a year when the academy's Best Picture would not have been its Best Picture without the towering, transcendent performance of an actor who was passed over. And so the debate about politics versus artistic merit will rage on.
Some final thoughts on the program, which was, as you've pointed out, of brontasaurean length. The more traffic managers they brought on and the more announcers they added (Donald Sutherland and Glenn Close injecting factoids as the winners made their way to the stage), the more inescapable the feeling of bloat. As usual, the plethora of montages (including the running Errol Morris what-movies-mean-to-me montage—pointless) did much to disguise the live-ness of the event. (The disguise disintegrated when Halle Berry took the stage.)

At least the presentations were noticeably wittier. Too bad that David Mamet and Joel and Ethan Coen couldn't have delivered their own amusing tributes. Prejudice against writers?

It seemed peculiar that Arthur Hiller and Robert Redford would be honored the same evening, but there was an agenda. Hiller stood for liberal Jewish philanthropy, especially toward blacks (it was pointed out that he'd hired African-Americans very early on), Redford for liberal movie-star philanthropy toward all young artists. Sidney Poitier was anointed in his own lifetime. Foreigners thanked the Academy (and America) for opening its arms. The voters picked up on all this (there was something in the air) and voted the biggest prizes to two African-Americans. And everyone thanked their agents.

What have we missed?

David

by Lynda Obst, Slate.com March 22, 2002 - March 24, 2002