The Projectionist
An Oscars Exchange.
By Lynda Obst & David Edelstein
New York Magazine , Feburary 19 - Feburary 25, 2008
The Oscars: Who Will Drink Whose Milkshake?
Obst Cuts Into �There Will Be Blood,� Sums Up the Poststrike Mood
Edelstein, Making Last-Minute Predictions, Hopes for an Oscars Like Mardi Gras
Obst�s Up-to-the-Minute, Party-Insider Predictions
Edelstein Reacts to the Oscars
Obst on Oscar Night�s Pleasant Surprises
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To: Lynda Obst
Sent: Tuesday, February 19, 2008 12:38 PM
From: David Edelstein
Subject: No Country for Good Cheer
Dear Lynda:
Well, well, well, we do get to talk about the Academy Awards this year. Despite the cancellation of the Golden Globes ceremony (quel agony!), there was no way that Hollywood could have gone without its annual orgy of self-congratulation — the best incentive from a public-relations standpoint to settle the strike. For moviegoers, a year without Oscar is unimaginable. So little in our culture has value on its own terms: Without the opening of the envelope, there is no climax, no catharsis.
Speaking of no climax, no catharsis, the front-runner for Best Picture is No Country for Old Men, a film that critics — this one included — cherished but has left audiences crying out in despair over the nominal hero’s resignation and the endurance of evil, however hobbled. The downbeat nonending is presented not so much as systemic failure, as in HBO’s The Wire, or the power of unbridled capitalism to poison human relations, as in There Will Be Blood. It is simply that God the Creator has left the field. We brood, we contemplate action, but we cultivate our own little gardens … It is not, I imagine, the sort of message Academy voters want to speak for them. And isn’t that the point of Best Picture? To choose something that will represent the industry’s best impulses and stir people’s souls?
Yet this is a year in which so much has gone to shit. There is a sense among the enlightened that our way of life is about to change radically, that our economic system will collapse, our suburbs will fall, our environment will exact its revenge. With all the downbeat Iraq movies DOA at the box office (what a lesson was there!), No Country might be the best way for Academy voters to signal that it’s not show business as usual.
Unless … unless … No Country and There Will Be Blood split the nihilist-horror vote and little old edgy feel-good smash hit Juno sneaks in. As one of the few critics to dislike Juno, I would be devastated — but weirder things have happened in these silly awards. Or is the Juno backlash too strong? Or is there, as my New York colleagues have suggested, a backlash against the backlash?
It’s a testament to how weak Atonement is that an absolute natural for Best Picture has no chance. It’s a difficult narrative, but in the novel, in the hands of Ian McEwan, it has an emotional wallop. The film, on the other hand, is at arm's length — reflected in the fact that its director, Joe Wright, wasn’t nominated. My guess is that Atonement will win the prize for Best Score because the composer, Dario Marianelli, weaves typewriter clacks into otherwise romantic music — the kind of gimmick that gets you noticed. It could also win for Best Cinematography for that impressive but ridiculous extended battlefield shot that stops the narrative cold. (What’s your guess on the Cinematography front? Robert Elswit’s work in Blood has mythic beauty and horror — but so does Roger Deakins’s in No Country, and Deakins is overdue. Or could Janusz Kaminski sneak in for the Schnabelific imagery in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly?)
For the record, my favorite movie of the year was Diving Bell, followed closely by There Will Be Blood. Neither will win much, with the obvious exception of Daniel Day-Lewis, who bestrides the Academy like a colossus. I loved Frank Langella in the indie drama Starting Out in the Evening and think that if he’d been nominated — forcing voters to see the film — he’d have had a dark-horse shot. Now Day-Lewis will drink the others’ milkshake.
Is Javier Bardem a lock as well? It would seem so. Complaints that he’s the lead are absurd — he’s not, although Casey Affleck unquestionably is the lead in The Assassination of Jessie James by the Coward Robert Ford. (I don’t think Affleck has a chance — the film is so painfully self-conscious that I doubt most Academy voters made it to the end of their DVD screeners.) Hal Holbrook? Never discount the fogey vote. But again, it’s a matter of making it to the end of the screener. Am I too cynical? No, I am not cynical enough.
Julie Christie is luminous in Away From Her and has won many of the critics’ prizes. But what if she and Marion Cotillard split the fogey vote and the scarily self-possessed Ellen Page walks off with the award? Any chance? Christie is high-strung on the awards and party circuit — no Ruby Dee. Laura Linney is too good and natural (you can’t see the acting), and Blanchett’s nomination for the catastrophic Elizabeth sequel is a joke — more a sign of voters’ loathing for Helena Bonham-Carter’s singing than anything else.
Blanchett in I’m Not There reminded me of Chuck Barris, but her Katharine Hepburn impersonation won her an Academy Award and maybe her Dylan one will, too. Is she the favorite? I thought Amy Ryan also overacted like mad, but she’s such a lovely presence (her work in The Wire was terrific) that I’m pulling for her. The Atonement girl is a long shot, and who can spell her name? And Ruby Dee? For one scene? Could happen, I guess. Sentimental favorite … long and honorable career despite the odds … Ossie beaming down from heaven …
Are the Coens a Best Director lock? It would seem so. They have managed to make difficult movies without selling out or sucking up or becoming players. (I said hello to them at the recent New York Film Critics ceremony, and Ethan could barely conceal his contempt … I didn’t take it too personally. I think they’re good guys who only give a shit about critics and awards insofar as it will ensure that no one bothers them.) They will probably win the adapted-screenwriting prize, although that would be a way of sending Paul Thomas Anderson home with something … I’ve resigned myself to the person–who–calls–herself–Diablo Cody’s inevitable win, although if Tamara Jenkins somehow beats her out, you’ll hear me whooping way out in L.A.
Ratatouille is a lock for the feature-animation prize, cementing Brad Bird's reputation as both our leading mainstream animator and our most influential Ayn Randian. Art direction and costumes belong to Sweeney Todd, but as these prizes tend to go to more conventional period pieces, I wouldn't be surprised if Atonement wins in at least one of those categories. I’ve seen only two of the foreign-language films, and the award is shamed by the absence of the Romanian 4 Weeks, 3 Months, 2 Days — so I have no opinion. In the documentary category, I’d hate to have to vote between No End in Sight and Taxi to the Dark Side, smart and disciplined films that do a stellar job demolishing the U.S. strategy in Iraq on both a macro and micro level. If they split the vote, Michael Moore could win for his excellent Sicko. Hollywood might relish the chance to see him say, “I told you so.” By the same token, perhaps the prizes for No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood will be seen as the final verdict on the reign of King George the Venal.
The above, of course, has nothing to do with artistic merit and is purely political punditry. (Let's hope we're less clueless than the actual political pundits this year.) I know you’re shooting a Ricky Gervais movie in Boston, Lynda, but trust you have a finger to the West Coast winds.
Now — can Obama take Wisconsin?
David
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To: David Edelstein
Sent: Tuesday, February 19, 2008 12:38 PM
From: Lynda Obst
Subject: RE: No Country for Good Cheer
Dear David,
To say it’s been the winter of our discontent doesn’t overstate the despair that has gripped Hollywood since late October — as you know, having shared in the Hollywood bummer that was the writers' strike. Now that it’s over — having suffered through a party-less, drama-less, impoverished Globes season, not to mention that eight-week strike, which cost the local economy some $3 billion — we have arrived at something to celebrate. And what this town needs is a good bash: Half the place seems in the mood to get gussied up and let bygones by bygones, while the other half probably still feels like throwing a few back in a crew bar and having it out with their local studio head/agent/ producer/writer. Still, even Graydon Carter canceled his big party in favor of Chinese food in bed. The only option is to start the betting pool and declare it Pajama Oscar year.
There are definitely Two Favorite Oscar Contenders — and you named them, There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men. (Interesting how quickly American Gangster, this year’s Aviator, lost its Oscar buzz.) They are both Big, Tough Men’s movies, difficult to watch at times, and difficult to market in Middle America — both are dependent on Academy wins to reach the purple states (one reason the studios have been so anxious for awards season). And as many have noted, they are classic division movies. Studio heads made comedies, made money, and attend the ceremony as parental figures to their classic divisions. Hollywood is not too far out of step with the critics, with broad swaths of (fanatical) allegiances going to No Country and Blood; your prognostication about Juno benefiting from a split vote may be prescient. Though, to paraphrase Lloyd Bentsen, “You are no Little Miss Sunshine, Juno” — nor do I sense a very big movement behind the movie for Best Picture. My guess is that it is Juno’s writer and little miss star who will shine.
For cinematography, I am prejudiced in favor of Roger Deakins, a genius whose craft is more subtle and technical than that represented by the huge, ejaculating oil wells in the anamorphic Blood. I would have voted for No Country’s simple, impeccable art direction — which, not being very flashy, was not nominated. Its brilliant, minimalist sound (almost un-sound) was noted, however, and I think it will win.
Yes, I think Javier is a lock. His is such a memorable and defining performance: It shows us the face of the existential other, the one that can neither be caught nor beaten. And for Cate Blanchett, the mere feat of having been nominated for two awards — a Kate Winslet–Forest Whitaker–like accomplishment — may in itself convince the Academy give her and the fascinating, actor-rich I’m Not There the supporting nod. Her competition as of now seems to be Marion Cotillard of La Vie en Rose, who is enjoying a healthy Academy campaign, for an “under-frog” film.
Daniel Day-Lewis and Julie Christie, of course, are also heavily favored, if not locks … who are we kidding? If there is such a thing, Daniel is a lock. Julie Christie made me weep, and despair for the vagaries of time and mind I am now living through in my own family. Daniel’s performance was so strong that he shattered the second half of the movie for me: Paul Dano strained to keep up and then cracked, harming the end of the epic. (It’s one of your faves, David, I know.)
Let’s pick up at the end of the week once I find an editor for the comedy we’re shooting in Boston. As for Wisconsin, my heart’s in my mouth.
Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,
Lynda
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To: Lynda Obst
Sent: Friday, February 22, 2008 9:08 AM
From: David Edelstein
Subject: RE: No Country for Good Cheer
Dear Lynda,
Your evocative post of Tuesday last — which suggested that you and your Hollywood colleagues have not recovered emotionally from the writers’ strike — bodes well for No Country for Old Men, which in another year might only have been the first choice of suicidal depressives. You also shamed me. Having had my critical say on the nominated films in this magazine, I was eager to talk Oscar politics and to snigger at Academy voters’ middlebrow taste, while you — the big-studio producer — insisted on addressing many of the nominees’ artistic merits and reminding me that there is, in fact, little difference this year between the critics’ favorites and the industry’s. Sure, I thought Atonement was weak tea and would have liked a little Best Picture love for The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. But even there the directing nod for Julian Schnabel suggests the votes were close. And Diving Bell is in French, and no one could tolerate a French picture (even with an American director and a Brit screenwriter) taking home the grand prize. (Has that ever happened?) I apologize for my condescension.
If I read you correctly, you think my scenario of No Country and There Will Be Blood splitting the nihilist-horror vote and the audaciously hopeful Juno slipping in is plausible but unlikely, because even with its grosses and almost universal critical acclaim, Juno doesn’t have the kind of following out there I thought it did. But what else has a consensus? Atonement is out of it and most voters seem to think Michael Clayton would make a good vice-Best Picture and too many people were bothered, as you were, by the final scene of There Will Be Blood (although I wouldn’t blame Paul Dano, who was trying so very hard to keep up with Daniel Day-Lewis, which is like trying to keep up with Keith Richards doing drugs). But it still rocks my world to think the Coens, whose pictures so many find cold and artsy and contemptuous, could win Best Picture anywhere but Cannes. (They’re practically honorary French). Even with Miley Cyrus presenting, the folks at home will surely think the Academy has lost touch with America. Perhaps Obama can bring us together.
We haven’t speculated about the show itself. My heart sank when I heard Gil Cates was back in the producer’s chair. Still, it’s possible that even under Cates’s iron grip, this year’s Oscars will have a Mardi Gras feel. My advice to people who plan to drink every time someone mentions the writers’ strike is stick to beer.
I trust you’ve had a chance to scope things out since your last post for your up-to-the-minute “I wouldn’t be surprised if…” predix. Mine are as follows and you’ll notice I’m playing it very safe. Picture: No Country. Actor: Day-Lewis. Actress: Christie. S. Actor: Bardem. S. Actress: Blanchett (too bad). Director: the Coens. Original screenplay: The Person Who Calls Herself Diablo. Adapted screenplay: PT Anderson (I think consolation prize). Cinematography: Deakins, No Country. Animation: Ratatouille. Documentary: No End in Sight. (I’m really not sure here, because Taxi to the Dark Side is so powerful and Michael Moore’s celebrity looms large.)
Whatever happens, let’s be thankful we have the Oscars this year to kick around. Have fun, pace yourself, talk to you Monday in the wee hours.
David
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To: David Edelstein
Sent: Saturday, February 23, 2008 5:08 PM
From: Lynda Obst
Subject: RE: No Country for Good Cheer
Dear David,
It is Oscar season after all: I saw George Clooney in the flesh and Harvey Weinstein in a suit that made him look like a villain in a Batman sequel, which was not pretty. George Clooney, though, was extraordinarily pretty. I don’t remember what he was wearing except for that smile, which should be patented. It dazzled more brightly than any lighting in Bryan Lourd’s packed atelier. George’s girlfriend patiently stood by as he complimented his admirers of each gender, as if he hadn’t had them at hello.
Hollywood’s partiers, still recovering from the writers’ strike and starved for love and connectedness, clung to one another as if they needed a hug. Lourd, the renowned but low-profile host of the most coveted Friday-night Oscar celebration who was also one of the strike’s heroes, relentlessly scurrying between guild and mogul negotiators early in the crisis (he’s one of CAA’s top three honchos), was beaming. Former Paramount chairman and beloved figure Tom Freston was back from Burma and Afghanistan — his hotel having been blown up on the day after he left, he was especially relieved to be back in a restored Hollywood. I also saw the man who replaced Freston, Brad Grey, and Jennifer Aniston, who I believe no longer speak since The Break Up. Long story.
But the partiers were carefree. Every one had Oscars to celebrate. People were of two minds, either thinking that the Night Is a Snooze Because Everything Is a Lock, or Everything Is Up for Grabs Because of Potentially Split Votes. And so, onto my up-to-the-minute guesses.
Best Picture
No one would be surprised if: No Country for Old Men won. The betting pools have this as a lock, owing to overall excellence in craft and message and pitch-perfect performances and execution.
Some people would be shocked but not completely stunned if: There Will Be Blood won. They work for, are related to, or are in the adulatory fan club of the still-growing auteur Paul Thomas Anderson. But most of this club expects him, if he wins anything, to capture Best Director.
Everyone would be shocked if: Atonement won. What’s up with the BAFTAs? You can’t find anyone in the Academy who admits to loving this movie. What they like is its art direction. It has all the attributes of an Academy movie except for emotion.
Best Director
No one would be surprised if: The Coens win. It is their year, and not an instance of a director deserving the prize in general but not for the particular picture. Last week on a location scout, the crew's highbrows (production designer and director) loved Barton Fink and Miller’s Crossing. The lowbrow (me) loves The Big Lebowski and Fargo. But everyone loved Raising Arizona — and No Country. (Friends of my parents in Palm Beach, meanwhile, ran from the theater in the first thirty minutes of No Country. This does not bode well for the hoped-for Oscar bump.)
People would be shocked but not stunned if: Paul Thomas Anderson, young adored auteur, won this award in a nod to the ambition and thrust of his epic Blood. Many would be angry, many would be cheering. This would be controversial and fun.
People would be stunned and yet think it was okay if: Julian Schnabel won for Diving Bell. Knowing Julian, the man himself might not be shocked. And why should he be? What does he know from the Academy? And the movie is so damn good.
Best Actress
People would be stunned and disappointed if: Julie Christie didn’t win. When you give a performance like hers (in Away From Her) and allow yourself look so damn old to boot, you win, damn it.
People would be disappointed but somehow charmed if: In an upset the prize went to Ellen Page. She is the girl of the year, Abigail Breslin as a teenage doppelganger. She has been lauded, has broken through to star roles, but the Academy tends to think in terms of ends of careers rather than beginnings.
People would be shocked though some would cheer (like a big gay contingent I heard from last night) if: Marie Cotillard won. It depends on the number of raving Francophiles in the Academy, a micro-trend that hasn’t been studied. (Send Marc Penn to Hollywood!)
Best Actor
No one, not even George Clooney, would be shocked if: Anyone but Daniel Day-Lewis won. This is the award to be won for Blood, and I think this is what Clooney meant when he compared himself to Hillary. (But he would look better and get more close-ups.)
Tommy Lee Jones would have had a shot if: Anyone had seen In the Valley of Elah.
Supporting Actress
A few would be more surprised than I figured if: Cate Blanchett won. I learned last night that not everyone in the Academy has seen the Dylan movie. (Dylan? Played by how many actors? Whaa?) But many would not be surprised: She’s getting great roles and doing unusual things with them. Two nominations are worthy of note.
Some would be surprised but not stunned if: Amy Ryan won. Her performance was loved by many and she is an up-and-comer much respected by her peers.
People would be stunned and thrilled if: Tilda Swinton won. She is a truly astonishing talent who is simply not in enough American movies. Bravo, Tony Gilroy, for casting her.
Best Supporting Actor
People would be stunned and befuddled if: Anyone but Javier took this, but we both already said this. When he walks through a room now, people get out of his way. Just in case.
Cinematography
No one would be surprised if: Roger Deakins won for No Country, which would probably be part of a sweep.
No one would be surprised if: Blood won for the gorgeous anamorphic work.
I also could see: Diving Bell or Atonement winning, and no one being surprised.
All of these movies looked great. It depends on if it’s sweep night or split-ticket night. Votes for Diving Bell or Atonement would be the Academy’s way of showing respect for the impeccable craftsmanship of these films (editing and art direction prizes can do that as well). I pick Deakins, having proudly worked with him on the Siege. And call sweep night.
Screenplays
Everyone would be stunned if: Anything but Juno won for Original Screenplay. The campaign has been on for months, and the walking, talking soundbite that is Diablo Cody will win. It is the screenplay that made the girl that made the movie that made the phenomenon. Like it or not.
Adapted Screenplay
No one would be that surprised if: No Country wins — sweeps the awards, the night, then turns into our very own national Ambien, giving the Coens’ parents a night to remember. In fact, I call it.
No one would be surprised if No Country wins, sweeps the awards, and gives the Coen brothers' parents, at least, a night to remember. In fact, I call it.
Some great screenplays that many would be happy if if utterly shocked to see win, if this deserved sweep does not happen: Ronald Harwood’s unadaptable Diving Bell or Sarah Polley’s magnificent and tender Away from Her.
As for the rest of the night, yes to Ratatouille and probably on Michael Moore, for both his celebrity and impeccable timing — health care is the issue of the year.
I think the big issue for the industry, David — aside, of course, from when we can declare this primary season over and start taking on McCain — is whether we can get anyone to stay excited through the evening’s telecast and then go to these cinephile movies once they’ve won.
Even though No Country was my favorite movie of the year, there’s nothing more boring than a sweep. That’s why I was thrilled last night when one of the smartest people in Hollywood, James Schamus (the president of Focus Films, screenwriter of The Ice Storm, and Ang Lee collaborator) confounded all my predictions. “So it’s a lock,” I said. “Oh, no. I think it’s wide open and any movie can win.” “Really?” “Yes. Even Michael Clayton.” So if Clayton wins, everyone will be shocked except James Schamus.
Oh, and overheard by my date, was the most astounding prediction: Owen Wilson was asked what he thought would win Best Picture. “Obama!” he answered. Obama? “Yeah,” he answered, “Obama.” “He’s FREAKIN’ HUGE!”
Here’s to a fun night, David — some upsets, but not the wrong ones, and none from superdelegates.
Hugs,
Lynda
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To: Lynda Obst
Sent: Monday, February 25, 2008 9:08 AM
From: David Edelstein
Subject: RE: No Country for Good Cheer
Hi Lynda,
Was that especially uneventful, Lynda, or will all Oscar ceremonies henceforth play as if they’d already happened once before in a galaxy far, far away? Not at all the Mardi Gras blowout I’d hoped for. Even Diablo Cody was simple, modest — everything her screenplay wasn’t. Is it that YouTube has made even exhibitionists more self-conscious in the knowledge that their gaffes will be replayed millions of times? I’m really reaching to say something of sociological interest … Maybe we should just blame producer Gil Cates, who makes the trains run on time at the expense of all spontaneity. It’s why I gave up on Saturday Night Live, the least “live” show imaginable, insofar as anyone who dares to depart from the script gets exiled to Siberia …
New York magazine had a lively party at the Spotted Pig and it was really hard to concentrate on the screen(s). For awhile, Eddie Izzard was shushing people — he said he came to watch the Oscars, of all the silly things — but most of the other media celebs were drinking There Will Be Bloody Marys (wish I’d thought of that) and posing for one another’s picture-phones. Probably the most animated discussion came early on in regards to Jennifer Hudson’s twin inflatable life rafts (a “uniboob,” according to former Gawker enchantress Emily Gould), which made many of us avert our eyes in sadness. Who let that happen? (I’m told the metallic bolero was the brainstorm of Andre Leon Talley.)
Jon Stewart had brilliant lines: the Vanity Fair writers’ joke, the bit about there being a black or female president whenever an asteroid is about to hit, “thank God for teen pregnancy” — keepers. Watching Lawrence of Arabia on an iPod — the future, indeed. There was something uptight about him, though. Maybe it was the baleful influence of the man whose name starts with “G” and rhymes with “pill.” One of the three best moments of the evening was when he escorted that nice Czech Once girl back out to give her thank-you speech. It was like the kids standing on their desks at the end of Dead Poets Society. (When she was cut off, the third floor of the Spotted Pig let out a collective wail.)
Some notes: Elizabethan movies always win Oscars for costumes … I am not looking forward to Get Smart … Brad Bird telling a story about a teacher undermining his dream of making movies and thereby affirming the message of his work: the struggle of the Ayn Randian genius whom society will do everything to muzzle … Amy Adams’s cute demure little head dip when she was exiting after her (simple, lovely) performance.
You see Javier Bardem and you know why he is so beloved. Even with those black eyes and hair and that deep, oily voice, there’s a sprightliness about him. After he thanked his mother so beautifully in Spanish, he half-danced off the stage a few inches off the ground.
I had to remind myself when Tilda Swinton’s name was called that hers was my favorite of the nominated performances in that category … Some women I know were upset by the role, though (or at least the role after Swinton was cast): the powerful woman who needs to harden herself (and order a hit) so as not to appear weak in the eyes of her (male) bosses. As a powerful woman working for other powerful women, Lynda, you might have some insight here … not that you’d ever order a hit … I don’t think … In any case, Swinton overacted throughout Michael Clayton but less than any of the other nominees. And her speech, oh my! She was so surprised when she won — and then she went up there and babbled about the Oscar’s butt and told Tony Gilroy he rocks and all I could think was that only someone brought up rich could have been so gracious and so above it all.
Phony-baloney line of the night: “Some people ask me, why do we give out Oscars?” Uh, who asks you that? That’s like a kid at the Passover table spontaneously coming out with one of the four questions. I don’t usually recline, dip once, or question the existence of the Oscars.
Second best moment of the night: Cate Blanchett overacting like mad in a clip from the bombastic Elizabeth: The Golden Age — and then watching in the audience and grimacing in horror. Perhaps the most authentic note she has hit in years.
So: Marion Cotillard? Why? I wondered if it had something to do with Julie Christie’s rather high-strung, not-so-insouciant demeanor on the Hollywood cocktail circuit … That and the incredibly smart move of sending Cotillard out there and keeping her there so that everyone could see that she’s a young, beautiful woman who transformed herself completely. That and perhaps the fact that it’s a great performance — albeit in a mess of a movie.
When I’m 98, may I be seen in public with two gorgeous Amazons supporting me, and may I die sandwiched between their bodies. And if I have to speak, may I keep it short enough that people watching don’t fear I’m going to expire before their eyes.
My man Alex Gibney won. I say “my man” because I interviewed him over on the Bloggingheads site for about 45 minutes the other day (the chat is still up) and now feel proprietary. Even so, Taxi to the Dark Side is the best of the docs — a scathing yet devastatingly lucid exploration of how we have become what we once feared. Anyone who hasn’t seen this movie must now, and that includes you, Barack.
Helen Mirren (maybe the most stunning presenter — take that, Jessica Alba) fluffed a very bad joke in a very bad intro but then ushered in the best moment of the night: Daniel Day-Lewis accepting his Oscar by kneeling before her. Yes, she’d played The Queen, but the gesture went deeper than that: It was the sincere tribute of one brave acting soul to another — and it had a nice symmetry, since at the New York Film Critics Circle dinner, Day-Lewis presented an award to Javier Bardem, who got down on his knees and genuflected. If that doesn’t make your heart leap … Then Day-Lewis said the script “sprang like a golden sapling out of the mad, beautiful head of Paul Thomas Anderson” — and this time it was the sincere tribute of one beautiful madman to another.
No surprises after that, but I liked Joel Coen thanking the Academy for “letting us continue to play in our corner of the sandbox” because that’s what he and his kid brother really seem to do … fully absorbed but able to crack each other up. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad evening, even if Julian Schnabel and P.T. Anderson and Tamara Jenkins went home empty-handed.
Did you feel the love, Lynda?
Love,
David
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To: David Edelstein
Sent: Monday, February 25, 2008 3:11 PM
From: Lynda Obst
Subject: RE: No Country for Good Cheer
Dear David,
There was some love and some surprises that kept the night from becoming an utter snooze-fest, with way too many clips threatening to become one long clip of Cary Grant morphing into Cuba Gooding Jr. There was no real evidence that the writers were back: Aside from Jon Stewart’s lines and Jonah Hill and Seth Rogen’s hilarious turn as Oscar perennials Halle Berry and Dame Judy Dench (next year Hillary Swank and Helen Mirren), the content was more spliced-together than it was written. At one point, the producer/chef/host of my party cried out, “These are the worst Oscars since I was born!”
But I love being wrong as much as I love being right (except where Roger Deakin’s cinematography is concerned). The actress awards were the big shockers. As for your theory about Julie Christie perhaps having suffered for her cocktail-party attitude: It’s fascinating and may be right, but there were very few parties on the Academy circuit this year, and most were for Marion Cotillard or No Country. This morning our very provincial newspaper seemed shocked that so many “foreigners” had won. What are they talking about? Between the Australians, the Brits, and last year’s Mexicans, the Academy is merely a microcosm of the industry, and the world. We receive the lion’s share of our profits from the international market; why not acknowledge that? And as for casting, that has represented various nationalities for years.
Tilda Swinton is the coolest, isn’t she? She was genuinely stunned, along with the crowd who shouldn’t have been stunned because they voted for her. Tough women in a man’s world are the hardest type to infuse with humanity (right, Howard Wolfson?) and are usually played as a cliché. Swinton, though, cannot play a cliché. She re-invents.
At our party we also groaned in agony when the young girl from "Falling Slowly" was hooked, and cheered when she resumed with her lovely speech. Do we think it was Jon Stewart who lobbied for her return?
One noteworthy thing was how many awards The Bourne Identity won. You couldn’t miss it at our party, where an old Oscar was pumped overhead by its exec producer, Pat Crowley, every time it beat No Country (in Editing, Sound editing, and Sound Mixing, for those of you who didn’t have those awards specially underscored). I remember wanting to vote for it as one of my five best pictures it was so damn good, but on an indie year like this one, that was one prize it would not take. There wasn’t enough of a theme, and even with great director elevating it to a sort of crackerjack perfection, it was still too potboiler. It was, in its own way, a contender.
But snooze-fest or not, I found a lot to celebrate in this damaged, much maligned industry’s victories last night. Let’s hear it for a night where a great producer won for a change — Scott Rudin, who uses his considerable power to protect the Coen brothers’ “little corner of the sandbox”; where the reclusive and iridescent Tilda Swinton, cast in a director’s debut and supported by a major studio (WB), upsets the Oscar race and thanks her agent above all others; where Marion Cotillard walks off the stage on the arm of Forest Whitaker; where Daniel Day-Lewis actually attends the awards and enjoys himself; where the movie everyone wanted to win, wins, and it isn’t a blockbuster. What’s there to be grumpy about? The grosses?
Here’s to the sandbox of life.
Love as always,
Lynda
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