Half-Assed Oscar Thoughts - Best Picture
Despite the annual promise I won’t watch them and have long stopped caring about them, I still have opinions about the Academy Awards. Here are some now:
American Hustle: David O. Russell’s character-driven approach to the ABSCAM operations forgets to have real characters, Christian Bale’s wasted fatness notwithstanding
Captain Philips: Tom Hanks breaks your heart in the final five minutes, has his dialogue yelled over during the preceding two hours
Dallas Buyers Club: So you saw the trailer and thought you knew exactly how the story was going to go? Well, director Jean-Marc Vallée has a trick or two up his…oh, no, wait, it’s precisely the story you think it is. Solid performances, at least, even if LGBT (particularly transgendered) representation is a little suspect
Gravity: Whoa! Whoooa! Hold on! Whooooooaaaa, aaaaaaaaah! Don’t let go! This is a lot of anxiety for what is essentially 4/5ths of an animated feature
Her: If you think this film is indicative of our society’s trend towards self-involvement in our digital doodads and iWhatevers, sincerely go fuck yourself
Nebraska:I’ve personally never been there but I imagine it’s lovely this time of year
Philomena: Probably a decent film. Did it even play anywhere? This movie exists, right?
12 Years a Slave: The best film of 2013. No, really, this was a great and important movie without being an Important Movie, if you catch the distinction. Not enough Mississippi maids or the driving of Miss Daisy to sway the voters, though. It (rightfully) lacks a reassuring ‘White people are actually okay! We beat racism, guys!’ message at the end, so don’t expect the crotchety Academy to do much with this
The Wolf of Wall Street: Martin Scorcese is making better, more energetic films than his ’70s peers and filmmakers half his age. It’s no The Departed, but a great film all the same and please, I’d take this over American Hustle or Gravity as the Academy’s likely choice
(Although I cannot stress enough how far and away 12 Years a Slave compares to its competition. I will be shocked and impressed if its seals the deal come Sunday.)
I’ll be guest speaking on a friend’s radio segment later today, talking/overtalking on the topic of the Academy Awards, a subject I keep saying I don’t care about yet have a lot of opinions about. So if you want to hear my nasally whine lay into the hack-fraud John Williams, the institutional racism that will likely keep 12 Years a Slave from its deserved Best Picture win, how The Lone Ranger stole Man of Steel’s nom for Best Visual Effects, and other sniping comments, check out the show. My friend’s program starts around noon EST and I probably won’t be on until 1:00, so plan accordingly.
The streaming player is in the upper-right corner of that main page, btdubs.
Did she make your heart beat faster than I could?
Did she give you what you hoped for?
Still alive, who you love..
(Source: mindynovak, via loveyourchaos)
GPOY: Hello, I’m Dead Edition
Holy Shot Glass, Batman #$%$&^&!
I think I need this in my life
oh it’s on
My health consciousness has always gotten in the way of my desperate need to conform to the ‘alcoholic male writer’ trope.
Whoops, now I’m mentally writing a term paper. ‘Write Drunk, Edit Sober’: An Exploration of Substance Abuse and Gender in the English Literary Canon
A place on Earth - 2013
a place on earth
You thought there might be a place for me, somewhere you said that I could find a germ of solace, of calm, of peace. You heard the thunderstorms inside me when you pressed ear to chest, the seashell effect corrupted. You wanted that for me. You stressed it that last night together. Didn’t even finish your wine. Well I’ve held the oceans, all of them, in cupped palms and wrestled blind fish from polar seas and tasted the peat moss in the ancient forests where even my scantest thoughts clanged loud and echoing in the eaves. I thought about you and I thought about others, but mostly I thought about myself. Those thunderstorm thoughts, the ones that made you leave in the first place.
There was something else you said that night, the last night, when you whispered of some spot on this earth I could be kind again. I think that spot is here, in this highway motor court like a pier before the expanse of arroyos and salt flats, where hovering pairs of coyote eyes weave and wend between the scrublands. You don’t have to do this to yourself anymore, you said when I should have been listening. The water here tastes like alkali. Sharp, corrosive, coppery. I can’t stop drinking it, though. Cold enough to hurt my fillings and sit heavy in my stomach. Couldn’t have imagined this was the place. I couldn’t.
A – In 2010, he said, “she’s pregnant again,” and my heart was a water balloon in a scared child’s fist. I never was any good at target practice.
B – I seethed in her bed for two days straight, but the day she left I ran out into the February leaf mulch in my socks just to kiss her through a…
I don’t usually tell people what to do (because I’m not the cops, so whatever) but when I say read this, read it.