(image via theage)
Cinematical's James Rocchi hips us to Annie Proulx's positively citric assessment of the Oscars. First ChiSun's Roger Ebert and LATimes' Nikki Finke got into a spot of "rough and tumble" over the big surprise at the end of the Oscars, which may or may not have suggested whiffs of homophobia from The Academy. (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment)
But that was all very civil.
Someone ought to have advised Proulx to cool down, smooth her head out, before sending this scorching letter in to the editor of TheGuardian. (Curious that no American paper ran with it; were they even approached?) Here's some of Proulx's vitriol:
"After a good deal of standing around admiring dresses and sucking up champagne, people obeyed the stentorian countdown commands to get in their seats as 'the show' was about to begin. There were orders to clap and the audience obediently clapped. From the first there was an atmosphere of insufferable self-importance emanating from 'the show' which, as the audience was reminded several times, was televised and being watched by billions of people all over the world. Those lucky watchers could get up any time they wished and do something worthwhile, like go to the bathroom."
Oh, wait: It get's bitchier:
"None of the acting awards came Brokeback's way, you betcha. The prize, as expected, went to Philip Seymour Hoff-man for his brilliant portrayal of Capote, but in the months preceding the awards thing, there has been little discussion of acting styles and various approaches to character development by this year's nominees. Hollywood loves mimicry, the conversion of a film actor into the spittin' image of a once-living celeb. But which takes more skill, acting a person who strolled the boulevard a few decades ago and who left behind tapes, film, photographs, voice recordings and friends with strong memories, or the construction of characters from imagination and a few cold words on the page? I don't know. The subject never comes up. Cheers to David Strathairn, Joaquin Phoenix and Hoffman, but what about actors who start in the dark?
"Everyone thanked their dear old mums, scout troop leaders, kids and consorts. More commercials, more quick wit, more clapping, beads of sweat, Stewart maybe wondering what evil star had lighted his way to this labour. Despite the technical expertise and flawlessly sleek set evocative of 1930s musicals, despite Dolly Parton whooping it up and Itzhak Perlman blending all the theme music into a single performance (he represented 'culchah'), there was a kind of provincial flavour to the proceedings reminiscent of a small-town talent-show night."
Oh, snap. (A considerable pause) Blogospheric reaction thus far has been pretty brutal against the writer. Slamming waif-like innocents such as Jon Stewart and Itzhak Perlman was, we believe, too angry by a half and -- worse -- harridan in tonality. (Averted Gaze)
Frankly, we also thought that "Brokeback" was a better film than "Crash." But the marketing campaign that Haggis assembled was formidable, and that's probably what happened; "Brokeback" -- no pun intended -- peaked too soon. Poland at TheHotBlog is particularly harsh, posting:
"There are many things in Ms Proulx's essay with which I agree. And if she had written this after winning the Best Picture Oscar, it would have been a fascinating perspective. Instead it is the capper to what has been, in many ways, an ugly awards season. But to date, never uglier than the place to which the author of a brilliant short story that launched a film loved by millions has taken us. Once again, she has taught us the overwhelming power of rage to destroy. She has made my worst feelings about what might happen after a Brokeback loss come true."
The excellent Michael Musto has a more even-toned response to the "Brokeback" loss:
"I was cocksure the Academy Awards were going to be even more of a gay Olympics than the actual gay Olympics�you know, the male figure skating competition. I blithely assumed they'd be such a glammed-up circuit party they'd have to have a back room instead of a greenroom and a fleet enema in the gift bag. But the show turned out to only be a moderate gropefest for the gays, tempered by the fact that Brokeback Mountain had peaked too soon and became abandoned by lily-livered trend pirates afraid to endorse out-of-wedlock buggering outside of their own. I'd probably be more pansy-purple with rage over this if Crash wasn't indeed the better movie.
"Maybe some people preferred Brokeback way back when it was called Midnight Cowboy. Happy Endings' director Don Roos certainly did. He just told the Sydney Star Observer, 'I was so irritated by those stupid, stupid cowboys . . . It's the perfect film for the BUSH years: 'Don't be gay, America!' It's the kind of movie that makes you glad to be straight. Is that the kind of movie we should be rewarding people for? It's an anti-gay film!"
"I guess Brokeback got it from both ends: The squeamish ran screaming from the lovin' on all fours while the Rooses (and Mustos) couldn't bear the fact that it wasn't fully consummated. (Roos directed Happy Endings, remember?) The telecast's shock ending culminated three-plus hours of abuse reminiscent of two classic '05 scenes: the chest waxing in The 40-Year-Old Virgin and the fingernail torture in Syriana. But as painful as it all was, I was still glued to the set, reveling in the timeless thrill of seeing four people lose in each category."
More Musto
More Proulx
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