Luck Be a (Leading) Lady Tonight

Best Actress. Eight contenders still unseen by me: Naomi Watts in King Kong, Felicity Huffman in TransAmerica, Vera Farmiga in Down to the Bone (to my surprise this is playing in NYC right now and I wasn't aware), Q'Orianka Kilcher in The New World, Natasha Richardson in The White Countess, Sarah Jessica Parker in The Family Stone, Claire Danes in Shopgirl, and Juliette Binoche in Caché. If they're very good to great they'll shake up my ever rotating top 15 (presented here in random order) from which 5 lucky ladies will emerge victorious.


Who will take the Film Bitch Best Actress Prize this year?

Top Tens --Tis the Season

Don't worry. I'm not going to make a post for every exciting reveal from the nation's top critics. But I get giddy at the beginning when these start popping up. Check out David Ansen's (of Newsweek) list. That German film topping the list is a goodie so rent it. That's the other thing about the early top 10 lists. You suddenly realize there's things you still need to see before you can do your own. Kings and Queen sits atop my TV right now and I'm reminded due to his list.

There are 21 days left in the year and I have 12 December releases left to see and 9 rentals (give or take) of films I missed. This is where I start getting exhausted just contemplating screening time hours, writing hours, Oscar page updating hours --all before the FB Awards are announced. Exhausted and elated.

Los Angeles Loves Wyoming and Kansas

So, I'll put up an actual critics award page on the website once we have more than one but for now... check out the LAFCA prizes for 2005 movies. The Los Angeles based critics have given big Oscar boosts to the Wyoming lovers in Brokeback Mountain and that celebrated Kansas murder chronicler Capote. Their announcement was also good news in the below the line Oscar category hopes of Wong Kar Wai's rapturous looking 2046 and George Clooney's elegant Good Night and Good Luck. All in all there are solid calls all around from the other coast.

in short (because I am so sleepy)
PICTURE & DIRECTOR Brokeback Mountain Ang Lee
I just saw this again tonight so I'm smiling at its wins.
ACTRESS Vera Farmiga Down to the Bone
ACTOR Phillip Seymour Hoffman Capote
SUPP ACTOR William Hurt A History of Violence
I knew he had an awards future and people called me silly...
SUPP ACTRESS Catherine Keener Capote, 40 Year Old Virgin, The Ballad of Jack and Rose, The Interpreter (this is a really good call body of work wise but it hadn't occurred to me as a possibility)

as for my stab-in-the-dark predictions? I got Picture and Supporting Actor correct. The Los Angeles Critics obviously liked A History of Violence more than its showing here indicates. One wonders if the New York Critics will give it a more significant push on Monday? Stay tuned.

Mrs Henderson Presents Oscar Bait

All throughout pre-season, you'll hear tales of screening buzz. Oscar voters love this. love that. love this AND that. "They clapped!" Etc... The hilarious thing about this is you hear almost the same thing for each movie. They love Geisha! They love Cinderella Man! They love The Producers! In other years it's been the same -- They love Phantom of the Opera! They love Cold Mountain! etc... It means nothing.

Or if it does then "consider this." They love Mrs. Henderson Presents...!

I just got back from seeing Mrs Henderson Presents w/ an upper west side audience (wealthy cultured blue hairs = same demo as AMPAS voters). Much hearty laughing right from Judi Dench's first comic lob on through till the end of the film. Sniffles in the right place. Applause at the end. No fidgeting. A seemingly very pleased enthusiastic crowd. So is Mrs. Henderson Presents a contender?

It's about the theater = Oscar bait. It stars a clear Academy favorite (Dame Dench)= Good Luck Charm. It's from a previously nominated director =Always good to have respected names involved. It's a period piece with WW II as backdrop =Oscar bait. It's from Harvey Weinstein = Oscar chain puller supreme. We need a comic nominee = Right time? Right place?

Why exactly did it get written off in the first place? Someone remind me.

She's So Unusual

One of the great mysteries of pop culture during my lifetime is this:

Why has Cyndi Lauper never had a major comeback? It's not for lack of trying. It's not for lack of good material. It's not for not having anything special to offer. When I think of the amount of pop stars who've had late in life comebacks (Boy George had a top 10 in 1992 years after his messy downfall, Cher had two major comebacks, Prince was reborn post name-change) or popstars who never faded (Elton John, Madonna) I can always picture Cyndi comfortably with them occupying that same stratosphere and...yet... she does not occupy that territory with the public. I'll never figure it out.

I just saw Cyndi again in concert (last week's vacation) and, true to form, she is still a fireball on stage at 52 years of age. Her voice is still singular. On a stage she's intimately connected to the audience, spontaneous, musically gifted, etc... Unlike many pop stars her concerts are not elaborately staged and do not have rigid playlists. She'll take a request, she'll guide her band through something they don't know, she'll run out into the crowd. She is just über special live. She's on tour now (with special guests Sandra Bernhard and Jill Sobule) so check it out.

If you've read this far, consider this fandom starter kit especially prepared by moi for all of you.

My Favorite Quandry

Go see all the movies that just came out? Like Narnia, Aeon Flux, Mrs Henderson Presents, Worlds Fastest Indian) Or pick one? pick two? Or see something I loved a lot again (Brokeback Mountain)? Or stay home and see a bunch of movies on DVD?

Wide Open Races? Not For Long

Let us all pause for a moment to consider the death of the wide-open spaces in these here Oscar races. It's kinda like this every year (give or take a few films/performances). Until the precursors begin anything seems possible. Then suddenly, like a thunderclap, possibilities are snuffed out as things get homogenized. With the LAFCA, BFCA, NBR, and NYFCC all announcing in the next 3 days the sometimes maddening narrow-down process commences at warp speed.

[sigh] Oh for wide open races when we can still dream (or at least Amy Taubin and I can) that A History of Violence might survive the great and terrible funneling of contenders.

That Big Ape. The Other Coast.

What to make of all this King Kong excitement? Sasha Stone went nuts for it. Tim R @ mainly movies says it's the movie of the year. Still and all. It has so many strikes against it with Oscar: Remake of classic. Big apes. Dinosaurs. Jackson already amply rewarded just 2 years ago. But regardless of Oscar chances isn't it nice that December is so exciting after a very rough year? ...cinematically speaking. (Kong moves up on my Oscar charts)

Tomorrow the first major awards are announced. This time it's not the NBR but the Los Angeles Film Critics Association who are kicking it off. So without further ado my predictive stabs in the dark...
PIC Brokeback (alt: Capote, Munich)
DIR Spielberg (alt: Lee, Cronenberg)
ACTRESS Witherspoon (alt: Huffman, Allen)
ACTOR Ledger (alt: Hoffman, Fiennes)
SUPP ACTOR Hurt (alt: Dillon, Pepper)
SUPP ACTRESS Keaton (alt: Williams, Li)

Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree...

it's been one whole week [sic]...do you still miss me?

I'm ba-ack. Detroit is still Detroit. I am still Nathaniel. Big juicy wet kisses to my guest bloggers for filling in. I swear to God that Nick is psychic what w/ that HDH reveal. How ever could he have known? The Boyfriend still keeps dragging me toward the higherbrow, even as I scream in protest and struggle to break free so I can catch the matinee of something I know will be atrocious, just cuz 'so & so' is in it. And Joe Reid, my news columnist extraordinaire at TFE, is also my twin in the unique category of eyeing films suspiciously while simultaneously geeking out over them. For the record: The Beast. No Likey.

And props to me too because this horn needs plenty of tootin'. Somehow while I went missing from my own blog, I musically guest-starred on another (in case you missed it) And I showed an impeccable sense of timing --cuz once the NBR announcement hits on Monday, we go full tilt boogie into Oscar's lengthy pre-season and you know I won't be getting anything like a real break from then on.

So welcome back to me! I did miss you all when I was away.

Pixar gets the crown

Okay, you-know-who returns soon, so I'm taking one more shot at this.

Today's installment of art museums for film fans is all about gigantic, blockbuster, crowd-pleasing slick corporate goodness. Starting next week MoMA, the mother of all modern art museums, bestows it's imprimatur on that scrappy, avant-garde, artsy animation studio, Pixar. Pixar: 20 Years of Animation will include paintings, sculptures, models, digital installations and, yes, a complete retrospective of all the films.

Now, I have to be honest, I'm really not so sure about this one. MoMA has always been devoted to film - they established a film archive early in their history, rightly recognizing that cinema was to be one of the 20th century's most dominant mediums. And Pixar certainly deserves props for consistently putting out quality product. But somehow this whole thing just strikes me as a bit of a corporate make-out session: MoMA packs in the family crowd (at $20 a ticket, don't forget), Pixar gets lots of respectful praise, fluffing up the box-office for their next release, and just for good measure everyone gets to move some merchandise. Or hey, maybe I'm just cynical. But do me a favor: after you're wowed by all the digital cuteness on the first floor, take the escalator upstairs and take a look at some art (like this, and if you are at MoMA I definitely recommend checking out this - one of the best contemporary installations MoMA's managed in recent memory).

When worlds collide

Okay - I admit that the Whitney Biennial is a bit much to take for the uninitiated. But today I was sitting in my office flipping through a new exhibition catalogue and it hit me: this is the exhibit that will bring us all together. Moving Pictures, currently at Williams College Museum of Art, explores the parallels and interactions between 19th century American painting and the emerging art of cinema. They've got great examples of early movies by pioneers such as the Lumière brothers and Edison hanging side-by-side with paintings by American masters like Eakins and Bellows. For those of you in the Massachusetts area, you've got just a few more days - the exhibit closes at Williams on the 11th. But then it travels to NYU's Grey Art Gallery, the Phillips Collection in DC and Reynolda House in North Carolina. And if you don't find yourself along the Eastern seabord in the upcoming year, check out the catalogue, which comes with an accompanying DVD. (If that doesn't work for you, the website has a few examples streaming online.) It's a great chance to see the ancestors of today's blockbusters. And, even better, an excellent chance to see some gorgeous paintings. Seriously, I'm not going to rest until I get you all into an art museum. I'm a man with a mission.

FYI

The NBR has postponed their awards announcement until Monday. So commence de-freaking out procedures ... now.

(Once again, Oscarwatch has all the best scoops. Props, y'all.)

Hump Day Hottie: Sean Penn

Of course this is who Nathaniel would have picked if he were available for this week's feature. As substitute guest-blogger, I am but the vessel of his will and word. In fact I resent the implication that I am operating from any other motive but th....

Holy gosh, that man looks so good in a suit. Not to mention in a tux. Oh, mama. Just seeing someone that legitimately talented with an Oscar in his hand, at the point in his career when he truly deserves one and for a genuinely strong performance—that alone is sexy. And the whole dark-hair, blue-eye thing! And such thick, gorgeous hair it is!

Sean even managed to hit all new levels of debonair handsomeness in this year's The Interpreter, a film that by no means belongs in his pantheon of bests (though, as usual, he's quite good in it). But let's focus on some real accomplishments. Despite the heavy threat of being upstaged by Nicole Kidman, by exploding buses, by the ungainly character name "Tobin Keller," and by Nic's completely ridiculous flute, Sean's hotness still saves the day, calming the ruffled feathers at the UN and making the world safe once more for white African liberal-radicals with bathetic personal histories. I mean, Ralph Fiennes is hot, too, but even he couldn't finish this job.

Another milestone of that Sean Penn fiyah: laid out on his 21 Grams hospital gurney, tubes in his nose, a surgical scar down his chest, marble-mouthed monologues about chocolate bars and stacks of nickels assigned to him as penance (for what, for what?), barely alive, badly in need of a shave, in no real shape for a camera and frankly looking like morning breath personified... Sean is still sexy. Just watch Denis O'Hare as Sean's cardiologist and tell me he isn't a little turned on.

And yeah, maybe Laura Linney's decidedly peripheral character in Mystic River seemed to find her inner Lady Macbeth a little suddenly, but really, can you blame her? (Funny, I don't hear her saying anything about "Unsex me here...")



Hot in and of itself: Sean does not hit hotel clerks in the face with phones, unlike my previous Movie Star BoyFriend (MSBF™). There was, admittedly, the whole pugilistic bad-boy married-to-Madonna phase of Sean's life, but this actually precedes his hotness. More than any actor in Hollywood, except maybe Viggo, Sean has revealed his scorching hotness only gradually. (Again, the simultaneous revelation that he was an even greater actor than we previously realized has played no small part in turning his Sexy Dial up to 11.)

Does Sean sometimes grow out the hair a little too long 'n' crazy? Maybe. Does he occasionally slide, particularly from the wrong photographic angle, a little too far into Razzo Rizzo terrain? Well, yes. Do you sometimes step back from his hotness and go, "The pointy brows, the hooded lids, the laser gaze—is Sean Penn a poisonous snake?" You might. But be cool. It is better when people don't look like just anyone else, right? And the moments of creepy/broody/seedy Sean only serve to reflect the glory of hot Sean.

Now, Nathaniel didn't leave very specific instructions, but I hope that he feels I have adequately explained his choice of Sean Penn as Hump Day Hottie. On a related note, there is still time to rent Dead Man Walking, Hurlyburly, The Thin Red Line, and The Assassination of Richard Nixon and Do the Right Thing in the Modern Actor poll. Just a friendly suggestion, a philanthropic tip from me to you.

and now for something different

Hello kids! I [the infamous boyfriend] have finally made it back (I'm the sort of boy who gets twitchy if left outside of Manhattan for too long - and when the lovely airport folk tell me all flights returning to NYC have been cancelled, well, it's not pretty. But that's another story).
So now as I'm sitting here at my desk trying to catch up with excitement I missed during my foray into the arctic midwest, I stumble across this gem: The line-up for the 2006 Whitney Biennial has been announced!! I know you're all as excited as I am to see what kind of an exciting, chaotic mess they fill the Beuer Bunker on Madison with this year. You've probably already analyzed it and processed it into handy lists and charts. Right? Hmm.. I sense I'm losing you. Okay. How about this - there are movies! Yep, movies! Including Francesco Vezzoli's Trailer for a Remake of Gore Vidal's 'Caligula', which was shown earlier this year at the Venice Biennale and stars Benicio del Toro, Helen Mirren, Milla Jololavich, Mr. Vidal himself (narrating), and finally, none other than America's most beloved crack-whore train wreck, Courtney Love.
Now come on, just try and tell me this doesn't make you want to forsake yet another trek to the cineplex for a nice stimulating afternoon at the art museum!

Setting Myself Up For Disappointment

The X-Men 3 trailer is here.

And God help me, I did enjoy it. Maybe the story is good enough to make up for the directorial shortcomings of El Diablo Ratner? Maybe the sheer spectable of So! Many! Mutants! will be enough to make it work? Maybe the combined ass-kickery of Phoenix and Angel (the wingspan visual on Ben Foster is choice) will be enough.

Also, it looks like Storm is getting a major storyline upgrade this time around, thanks to Halle Berry's incessant kvetching. I'm of two minds on this, one being that Storm having an increaded presence is good, because Storm as dead weight in the first two was annoying. But, honestly, they've gone through two entire films with her in the back seat. I'm just hoping the shift of focus won't feel jarring or too contractually-required. Oh, and her hair looks a bit too Catwoman for me to feel truly comfortable.

Also, Just Jared has about a bajillion stills from the trailer and promo shots of most of the principals. Check them out and join the roiling internet debate over Beast: Likey or No Likey.

In Cold Blood (1967)

This week's honoree as Classic Film of the Week is the 1967 Richard Brooks adaptation of In Cold Blood, which Bennett Miller's Oscar hopeful Capote has suddenly coaxed back into the public limelight. I had never read Truman Capote's original book until this fall, when I checked it out from the library in somewhat noncommittal hopes of reading it before I saw Capote. Thank goodness I made the time. I was thunderstruck by how taut and evocative the prose was, and by how craftily Capote absents his own probing, projecting, and narrating voice and presence from the book's compellingly "objective" account. Stunning, too, is the range of ground Capote covers: Perry Smith and Dick Hickock's psychopathic brotherhood in arms, their murder of the Clutter family of Holcomb, Kansas (excepting those older siblings who had the grim good fortune to have moved away), their erratic flights both away from and back to the scene of their crimes, and their eventual arrest by the tired, demoralized, but determined Kansan authorities.

As Capote's book wends its way toward the executions of both men, you can feel how it affords an extra if ambivalent measure of sympathy toward Perry Smith, but more than that you feel the lacerating irony between what seems like the implacable resolution of this case and the Pandora's box of morbid nightmares and repressions that erupted out of this story and into the entire national imaginary. For me, one of the most poignant moments in the book, though almost a throwaway, is when Sheriff Alvin Dewey initially resists the idea of multiple perpetrators, because he simply can't believe that the requisite level of murderous, misanthropic rage could possibly be shared by two people, could possibly be so contagious. Reading In Cold Blood now, of course, backward through the now-insatiable American obsession with mass murder—with even the idea or the fantasy of mass murder—Dewey's naïveté on this point seems both precious and pitiable.

How writer-director Brooks hoped to evoke the wealth of this material on screen, so very soon after the book's publication, is hard to gauge. I forget who first said this, but Brooks seemed to make a career of trying to adapt salacious and confrontational material that was almost doomed to be neutered on mid-century Hollywood screens. His Tennessee Williams adaptations, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Sweet Bird of Youth, are diverting and seedily glamorous until you read the plays and discover what hopeless eviscerations the films have performed. Elmer Gantry, for which Brooks won a writing Oscar, is such an overtly schizophrenic parable of showmanship and concealment, religious zealotry and cynical agendas, that the film's own peepshow of candor and censorship with its own themes actually works rather well—better than it should, in any event. For In Cold Blood, though, Brooks shunned the celebrity exploitation and voluptuous color of these popular hits and opted for much less recognizable stars: the mealy and peculiar Robert Blake, now associated in his own terrible way with the killing psyche, and the handsome Scott Wilson, so astutely cast as Aileen Wuornos' final, pleading victim in Monster and, even more against type, as the recessive, kindly paterfamilias in this year's Junebug. Blake and Wilson both obviously relish their parts, approaching their characters' sociopathy with almost athletic energy, but also drawing out the self-loathing of Perry and the graduated narcissism of Dick, such that we understand these two as both equal and opposite kinds of killer. It's a stirring duet, though In Cold Blood cannily refuses to trot them out too blatantly for our review: shots of their faces are quick, off-kilter, and frequently obstructed, so that like the monster in a sci-fi thriller, they keep flirting with our gaze, and our wish to understand them, without really gratifying either one.

This last is just one of many ace conceits of Conrad L. Hall's exquisite cinematography, which risks a mannered aestheticism in some scenes that is wholly earned by its tough, muscular power and hauntingly glossy tones in others. There's the famous shot, of course, where Blake's face, as he looks out the window of his cell on death row, is covered by the shadows of rivulets of rain, so that his maudlin nostalgia for a wasted youth is shot through with real, almost uncanny feeling. But just as harrowing are the grittier shots of both men's fathers, interviewed by police at different times, and pinned into their humble surroundings by Hall's static but insistent camera. The dynamics inside the car are never tedious, despite the copious driving scenes, and—just like Capote—In Cold Blood actually improves measurably as it continues, its editing and photography almost stunned to attention by the gravity of what they are forced to depict: slaughter, guilt, expiation, execution.

In Cold Blood is far from perfect, and a few too many scenes bespeak that Brooks-style laundering familiar from other films. The serial match-cuts in the first half-hour between Perry and Dick's motions on the road and the Clutter family's domestic routines don't make any obvious point besides the filmmakers' sometimes empty enthusiasm for high style; in a similar way, Quincy Jones' syncopated jazz score is admirable on its own terms but perhaps not exactly what the movie needs, or even wants. Still, the demerits of In Cold Blood are awfully hard to remember after its long, skin-freezing conclusion, and an exposure to either the book or the film is bound to deepen one's appreciation for Capote.

The Satellites! Try to Contain Yourselves.

Some thoughts on the Golden Satellite nominations (thanks to Oscarwatch for the link):

In terms of Oscar predicting, these don't matter much. Usually I just tend to enjoy the instances where they nominate someone awesome who doesn't have a chance anywhere else. Last year, they nommed Mark Wahlberg for I Heart Huckabees, and that's all I needed. This year, they win my heart over with a Kristen Bell nomination for Veronica Mars. Love!

But, really, these are hardly influential precursors. They're generally the awards you go to after the entire season is over and go "Oh, look, they nominated so-and-so. Glad to see they got something."

The beauty of the Satellites is that they nominate roughly seven hundred thousand actors and actresses – separate drama and comedy designations; six-plus noms per category -- so the law of averages says you can find more than half of your eventual Oscar nominees contained therein, if you're just patient enough to sift through all the names. It's like the $7 DVD bin at Wal-Mart, except way fewer copies of The Italian Job.

So, in the Oscarwatching equivalent of getting blood from a stone, I will try and glean some predictive insights from this year's crop of Satellite noms. First some tendencies: Going by the wholly unscientific data of the past three years, the Satellites average 3/5 (that is, 3 out of the 5 eventual Oscar nominees get a Satellite nom first) in every acting category, except for Best Actress, in which they average close to 5/5 (understandable given the usual dearth of baity actress performances).

So, if the averages were to hold, which names are the most likely to hold up?

Best Actor: Phillip Seymour Hoffman, David Strathairn, Heath Ledger, and Joaquin Phoenix look like the best bets. Viggo Mortenson, Terrence Howard, Tommy Lee Jones, and Jake Gyllenhaal are the dark horses. If we had to pick three, you'd figure: Hoffman, Ledger, and Phoenix. But right now I'll bet Strathairn gets in, too.

Best Actress: Again, this category usually rounds up all five, so: Charlize Theron, Felicity Huffman, Ziyi Zhang, Judi Dench, Joan Allen, Reese Witherspoon, and Kiera Knightley could be called our finalists. To paraphrase Heidi Klum, five will be in, and two are out. (Right now, I'll wager Zhang and Allen are out. As is Daniel Franco … again.)

Best Supporting Actor: Here's where it gets odd, because among the Satellites' twelve nominees, I only see Jake Gyllenhaal, Craig T. Nelson, and Peter Sarsgaard as remotely nominatable. And Nelson and Sarsgaard would be pushing it, I think. This is the weirdest category I've seen in a long time. [Side note: how cool is it that Edward Norton got a nod for Kingdom of Heaven here? He was the best part of the movie, and you never saw his face.]

Best Supporting Actress: This category is looking fuller by the minute: Frances McDormand, Maria Bello, Laura Linney, Gong Li, Amy Adams, Diane Keaton, Rosario Dawson. [Loved the Rosario Dawson nod. I just saw Rent and she was stunning. They also nommed Rachel McAdams for The Family Stone, which I approve of, sight unseen.] Out of those seven, you'd figure Keaton, Bello, McDormand, and Li would be the heavy hitters. But Amy Adams' name keeps popping up, which is very, very good for her. If I have to pick only three: Keaton, Bello, and Li.

I won't get into Best Picture, though suffice it to say that Satellite noms for Brokeback Mountain, Walk the Line, Capote, Memoirs of a Geisha, and (*sigh*) Cinderella Man all bode well. Also: A History of Violence. Don't give up on that until the critics have had their say.

God's Birthday

If Julianne Moore Is God, and today is Julianne Moore's 45th birthday, then, by the transitive property, today is God's birthday. December is nothing if not replete with holy births.

The next moment of divine revelation will probably be Freedomland, if Revolution ever agrees on a release date. I finally saw the trailer for the first time yesterday, attached to Rent, so perhaps that's a good sign. Edie Falco's moments in said trailer were also a good sign, though hope runs high for all the actors involved—even if, as in Rent, they are heavenly bodies contending with a decidedly earthbound director. And I have to admit, the general atmosphere was giving off this semi-pedestrian Meryl-in-Before and After vibe.

But let us not talk of such things on Her birthday. Let us talk of Short Cuts, of Vanya, of her exquisite anger in The Myth of Fingerprints, of her perfectly calibrated voice and body in Boogie Nights, of her spookily zipped-up mouth in Cookie's Fortune and her frighteningly gabby one in Not I, of her savvy improvements on Vera Miles in Psycho and her game departures from Jodie Foster in Hannibal, of her uproarious performance art in The Big Lebowski, of doing the nasty on a divan in The End of the Affair, of losing her shit completely in the Magnolia drugstore, of her line reading of "What kind of car do you drive?" in World Traveler, of her frank uneasiness around her own child in The Hours, of her empyrean, purposefully mannered, emotionally telepathic Cathy in Far from Heaven.

And since I'm the guest-blogger, and I get to pick my own favorites, of her matchless work in Safe, rightly voted by the Village Voice as the best American performance of the 1990s, and anchoring almost every shot of that masterpiece film.

Happy birthday, Julie Ann Smith! You know what birthday present we would most like to give you, but it just isn't up to us—and frankly, it ain't up to The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio, either. (Good try, though.) Geraldine Page didn't win till she was 61, Jessica Tandy till she was 79. It won't be that long for you. Just hang in there, girl.

Poster? (I Hardly Even Knew Her!)

Ooohs and ahhs, y'all: the official Oscar posters have been unveiled.

And, yes, in the male one it certainly does look like Oscar is standing in for a big, golden phallus. Not like he hasn't always been viewed as such. I'm choosing to view that poster as an avant garde statement against the dearth of Best Actress contenders this year. Of course, it would have made for better symmetry if the female poster were holding a pair of Golden Globes. I'm saying!

Anyway, crudeness aside, here's what I'm wondering: The posters are supposedly culled from "vintage photos of Oscar winners from the past." So why hasn't the Internet already sussed out which headless torsos are being featured? Don't tell me everyone has had something better to do today. There has to be some Oscar obsessive out there who knows those poses by heart. Hop to it, fanatics!

[pseudo-editor's note: I feel kind of like a deadbeat dad this week, blogging with my secret family across town while my own blog goes negelected and hungry. I'm a polyblogamist, and I don't think I'm too proud of it. Anyhoo, I hope to entertain you while Nathaniel's gone.]

Be My Guest

Just a heads up kids: I will be offline this next week so I've invited a few guest bloggers to fill in. Consider it a reward for your daily visitations. You don't even have to go without while I'm on vacation. How sweet am I? I'll be back in a week but until then enjoy these Very Special Guest Stars: Joe Reid (Low Resolution) Nick Davis (Nicks Flick Picks) Jensen (my best buddy), and 'The Boyfriend' (who you've heard from before)

Meanwhile LOTS of new stuff at the site: Vote on the new poll, read the new overdue capsule reviews, see the For Your Consideration plea (Jan through Sept films for forgetful voters). There's also my Brokeback Mountain review and a new Joe Reid column.

Stay out of trouble while I'm gone y'all.