BEWITCHED BY THE BEST
Perils - 6
Jan 2—
By Lawrence O’Toole
Palm Springs, CA
Is there any value—any value at all?—in end-of-the-year best movie lists and awards?
The mania for bests, lists, and awards has reached a level of mass addiction that has rendered recognition of exceptional work both absurd and meaningless. In the last couple of decades, film-critics’ organizations have proliferated in nearly every major city and in nearly every publication. Nowadays, to give an award to any film or anyone in a film, given the ubiquity, has about as much value as a standing ovation at any ‘live’ performance. Remember when a standing ovation would have been reserved for something on the order of Maria Callas singing Lucia di Lammermoor, Rudolf Nureyev dancing La Bayadère or Ethel Merman belting out songs in Gypsy? Now, every half-baked theatrical effort in theaters big and small across the country has people rising to their feet like a pack of Pavlov’s dogs.
And it is pretty much an American phenomenon, this business of touting the biggest, the best, and the most. With an almost evangelical zeal, this naming of the best becomes about ownership and power—an 'I'm-here-to-tell-you-what’s-worthwhile,' a 'what-you-should-pay-attention-to'—because I know best. How often do we read a movie review, or purportedly a serious piece of criticism, that says something to the effect that So-and-So is very likely to be nominated for an Oscar or be rewarded during awards season? This year Da’Vine Joy Randolph handily won nearly every best supporting actress–excuse me, actor–award for The Holdovers and, while it might have been deserved, how many critics talked about what actually made the performance special? Was it what Randolph did, or was it that people loved her character so much? The same goes for Lily Gladstone for Killers of the Flower Moon, except for the Los Angeles Film Critics who thought her performance was a “supporting” one. Well, I guess she isn’t Robert De Niro or Leonardo Di Caprio, is she?
The LA Critics, in a dizzying display of political rectitude, now give a single award for a ‘leading’ performance, whether male or female. (Now there will be no issue with awarding a transgender performer; so glad we got that out of the way.) Which brings us to the core of making lists and conferring bests: power, ownership, control. The New York Film Critics, which has been at this game for many decades, gave their two top awards to two big prestige films—Killers of the Flower Moon and Oppenheimer—lest anyone forget their importance. And in the words of National Board of Review’s spokesperson, Annie Schulhof, Killers of the Flower Moon is ‘a stunning masterpiece’—you know, as opposed to an okay masterpiece or a very good masterpiece. The NBR Icon Award went to Bradley Cooper for Maestro, which she deemed “beautifully sublime,” rather than, you know, so-so sublime or stunningly sublime. Then Ms. Schulhof went home and likely saw the face of God. What was left after stunning masterpiece and beautifully sublime?
The NBR also instituted a new category: Outstanding Achievement in Stunt Artistry. Where will it all end? Can Outstanding Achievement in Craft Services or Best Beard (no, I mean the facial hair, not the lovely woman on the arm of a Hollywood male of possibly dubious sexual declension) be far behind? It also lists the Top Ten Independent Films—and the qualifications are?—as opposed to the Top Ten Dependent Films.
Pretty much all the critics associations named Celine Song’s Past Lives as Best First Film/Directorial Debut. But isn’t that a bit of an insult, assuming that a first film cannot/should not compete with the big boys (and girls)? How would Orson Welles have felt about that with Citizen Kane, Truffaut with The 400 Blows, Godard with Breathless, Tarkovsky with Ivan’s Childhood, Victor Erice with The Spirit of the Beehive, George Romero with Night of the Living Dead, John Huston with The Maltese Falcon … and the list goes on. How about Best Second Film?
Good, bad, best, indifferent, or awful, it’s all very subjective. But the point is that critics and reviewers have become enslaved by the need to pronounce, bestow, and confer, rooting around vigorously in their arsenals of ‘superbs,’ and ‘brilliants,’ and ‘fabulouses’ that will outdo the other guy (or gal). It has left film criticism stranded in that sea of superlatives, becalmed and bewitched.
A BAKER’S DOZEN OF MOSTS, BESTS, AND ABSOLUTE WORSTS
FROM THIS PAST YEAR’S MOVIES:
Best response by someone to the query of how she can be such a terrible person: “Practice.” Delivered by high-end grifter Julianne Moore in the outrageously underrated, little-seen, and poorly titled Sharper, a rare modern noir.
Easily the best portrait of a good, decent human being that is neither cloying nor sentimentalized: Zac Efron as one of three sons from the dysfunctional family from hell of The Iron Claw. Who knew a film about wrestling could summon up the spirit of Eugene O’Neill?
The directing style that came closest to dribbling and shooting hoops: Ben Affleck’s in Air. Who knew that a movie about basketball would hold such appeal for someone who can’t stand the game?
Possibly the world’s worst, most frightening mother ever to show up onscreen: Mommie Patti LuPone Dearest in Beau Is Afraid. He had every right to be.
The year’s most astounding sexual agenda: Barry Keoghan’s trifecta in Saltburn.
The year’s most unusual food delivery/escort service/S & M session: Zachary Wigon’s Sanctuary. Who can go back to Tinder or Grindr after this?
Best ending dance of vengeance/release since Electra’s in Richard Strauss’s opera, Electra, or Michel Subor’s in Claire Denis’ Beau Travail: Barry Keoghan’s in Saltburn.
The most useless and throwaway performances by actors of note in big movies that could have been played by some starving actors: Rami Malek in Oppenheimer, Matt Bomer in Maestro and Antonio Banderas in Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. Why, why, and why?
One of the worst things you can do after winning a Best Actress Oscar: Michelle Yeoh in A Haunting In Venice.
Assassin Michael Fassbender’s aliases in David Fincher’s The Killer: Lou Grant, Felix Unger, George Jefferson, Oscar Madison, et al.
The best rediscovered shaggy-ghost story (yes, a rare genre): Pete Ohs’ Jethica from 2022.
The best and most unrelentingly gorgeous steampunk movie ever made – how do you like them superlatives?—(yes, another rare genre): Poor Things.
The most shameless, manipulative thing to show up on the screen this year: The Miracle Club, about four women who go to Lourdes in search of various miracles and epiphanies. Maggie Smith, Laura Linney, and Kathy Bates. Wonderful actresses. May God forgive them.
After going to all that trouble to get Leonard Bernstein’s nose right, the prosthesis now already having passed into legend, turns out Lenny’s eyes were brown, not Bradley Cooper’s baby blues. A few pairs of disposable contact lenses would have been a drop in the bucket of its $80 million budget.
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