WRITER - Vancouver Lifestyles -
Bawling for Oscars
Friendships can be won or lost at the movies.
Terry and Anna loved “A History of Violence.” Terry said he thought it was David Cronenberg’s best film ever; then he bid 3 hearts and made a small slam – unbid, of course. Which gave their side a leg, as well as being vulnerable. Anna, wisely refused to double the hearts (Why give them a game for nothing, especially sitting with five points?), and offered no real take on “Violence,” except to add that she thought Viggo Mortensen was terrific. I played know-it-all (a comfortably familiar role) and said that while I didn’t think it was a great movie by any stretch, it was certainly fun. AND…I thought William Hurt stole the film in the last twenty minutes as the crazy brother.
“How did he do that, as an actor, I mean, empty himself of all recognizable human emotion, and just be such a sociopath? Even better than his little cameo in “Syriana,” a movie I left before it was over, by the way.”
That little outburst almost killed all table talk for the night. Even John stared at me as though I had come along with Michael Rennie and Gort (“Klatu barada nikto!”) on that seamless spaceship in “The Day the Earth Stood Still.” When Terry got up to get Anna some more cold water, did he surreptitiously check the back of my neck for the tell-tale implants (“Invasion from Mars”)?
Nobody at the table mentioned “The Aristocrats,” which was one of my favorites for the year, one comedian after another telling the same filthy joke in a hundred idiosyncratic ways, none of them the way I had learned the joke and told it over the past twenty years. Kevin Pollack channeling Christopher Walken and that peculiar little man channeling Liza Minnelli were the highlights for me, but what of it? It never even came up!
Just as it will not possibly come up at The Academy Awards ceremonies, unless as a throwaway by some amusing presenter. It is, after all, a documentary about the world’s dirtiest joke. How many statuettes could that bring home?
I tried to get something going with “Mrs. Henderson Presents,” (A home without argument is no home to me!) but all that raised was Terry and Anna agreeing almost sumptuously that Judi Dench was “the greatest.” Well, who doesn’t hold to that? John got Bob Hoskins confused momentarily with Danny Devito. I corrected him, of course, but the cat was out of the bag. John is my own theatrical agent, and if he can’t keep Bob and Danny straight, how many jobs have I lost over the years to other local actors who may look and sound like me? As if such even exist!
Suddenly, I was confronted with a hopelessly doomed seven clubs Grand Slam contract, doubled and vulnerable. Which meant, of course, that there was no way to even broach the injustices of last year’s Awards, when “Ladies in Lavender,” was completely ignored, as were Dame Judi and Dame Maggie Smith. Two Dames damned. The folly! The sheer unevenness!
The important thing about our evening of bridge is that everyone at the table had the good common sense to avoid The Big Question – Who gets the Oscar for Best Actor? Philip Seymour Hoffman for “Capote?” Or Heath Ledger for “Brokeback Mountain?” Sure, it’s two straight actors playing two gay characters. (And aren’t we just busting our buns thinking what Billy Crystal would have done with all that on The Big Night? But, hey, give Jon Stewart a chance; he’s funny too.) Or at least, one truly gay guy and one sort of, almost, struggling with his gayness gay character. And, sure, one guy never stops talking and the other guy almost never starts. And, yes, Heath was truly awful in “Casanova,” practically a black hole at the center of the picture, drained of all recognizable human energy and almost draining the silly fun out of the rest of the silly movie. Which is amazing because in “Brokeback” he was tremendous, seething energy without even moving.
But we held our fire, each of us knowing intuitively that the table could be kicked over, the desserts never eaten, feelings hurt. The elevator would take ages to come, and how long can you fume in a tiny, abandoned hallway?
None of us mentioned “Crash,” which Oprah thinks is the Most Important Movie Ever Made. But none of us is black and we don’t live in America and racism is not yet a daily concern for us and none of us has yet been stopped by a cop and lasciviously over-frisked.
One of the corporate shills for the Hollywood PR machine who presents himself to the world as a “film critic” has listed “King Kong,” in his Top Ten this year. With such a man, it is impossible to discuss movies like “Audition,” from Japan-Korea (scary beyond belief) or “The Closet,” from France (falling down funny.) Such a man doesn’t join us for cards on Wednesday nights.
Another friend has created his own awards this year, what he has called “The Sobbing Sentences.” This is not to be confused with “The Sobbin’ Women,” a modern and decidedly Western take on the biblical tale of the Sabine women, which was turned into the fabulous 1954 MGM musical, “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” Howard Keel and Jane Powell singing. Russ Tamblyn and Jacques d’Amboise dancing. Michael Kidd choreographing the “Raising the Barn” dance sequence, considered by many the greatest, most robust piece ever put on film!
No, “The Sobbing Sentences,” refer to Gordon Campbell, Svend Robinson, Todd Bertuzzi and June Matheson. June is the tree-poisoning lady from Beach Avenue. What she shares with the other three fellows is that they all shed tears and they all walked. The problem with these awards is no music, no dance and no penalties.
Maybe we’ll see them at The Oscars this year. “And the Award goes to…”
