Literally Virtually

Webster's now accepts that "literally" is synonymous with "virtually." So the statement "his head literally exploded," even outside of the film Scanners, is acceptable: "literally" has come to mean its antonym. Lovers of proper usage, join me in mourning.

No Thanks, Sir, I've Had Enough

What's your policy about not finishing movies? Are you a walker-outer, a sit-and-sufferer, a go-to-sleeper? Back when I started my Oscar quest, my (and my friend Shane's) rule was that halfway was good enough if the movie was bad enough. Later, when I started my site, I reviewed two films that I thought were so awful that I turned them off.

But I had a change of heart several years ago. Someone pointed out, in a nicely written email, that I shouldn't dismiss a movie until I had seen all of it (even though one of my favorite critics, Jonathan Rosenbaum, apparently does this). I started to feel bad about it, and I deleted one of those reviews (for Palmetto) and rewatched the other (Gates of Heaven). And I actually ended up liking the latter, although the great second half didn't exactly excuse the difficult first half.

It's now my policy to stick it out, no matter what. Once I sit my butt in the theater, I'm not getting up unless I have to pee, and even then it's a toss-up. At home, I might only half- (or three-quarter-) watch, but I finish the damn thing.

But now I find myself in a fix. The movie in question is Hollywood Revue of 1929, one of those early talky Best Picture nominees that are sometimes painful. This one is different, though, because it's not really a movie. Yeah, it played in theaters and was shot on film, but it's basically a filmed variety show in which MGM shows off that its stable of stars can, indeed, talk and sing. Well, some of them can sing; Joan Crawford, who does a pretty awful song-and-dance number, sums up why she's known as a dramatic actress. It's such a drag. I got halfway through it, not even fast-forwarding through some of the awful musical numbers—in which forgotten or never remembered crooners sing treacly songs in very, very, very long takes—although my finger kept twitching toward that button.

But then I got tired, and I turned it off, intending to finish it later. That was over a week ago. It sits atop my television, mocking me, reminding me that if only I were to finish it, I could send it back to Classicflix.com and get a movie I might actually enjoy—the next films on my queue are William Dieterle's The Last Flight, Tod Browning's The Unholy Three, and Alfred E. Green's Parachute Jumper. Sure, I could just copy it and return it (not that I would do such a thing, no sir), but then it would sit around unnoticed; at least now it's sitting around reminding me of itself.

Writing this has energized me. I'm going to sign off and put that darned movie in. Oh, but I just got another Battlestar Galactica disc... and Netflix just brought me Point Blank...

They Even Had a Panel on Porn Music

But I didn't go.

When the publishing company Routledge is in town for an academic conference, I work at their book exhibit. Last week was the Society of American Music/National Conference on Black Music Research joint conference. Other disciplines sleep in; their conferences don't expect me to be there until 9 or even 10. But the musicologists are early birds, and I had to be downtown and ready to work by 8, which meant that I had to get up at 6:30. As many of you probably know, I don't do 6:30, or even 8, for that matter. Throw in some insomnia, and I was a zombie all week.

One morning as I was staggering toward the entrance, I had to wind my way through a big crowd of people gathered at the door. I bumped into someone, apologized, and let him go through the revolving door first. Then I realized it was Michael Imperioli, who, in addition to playing Christopher (my favorite character) on The Sopranos, cowrote the screenplay to one of Spike Lee's best and most underrated films, Summer of Sam. However, in my addled state, the first thing that I thought was "You were great in My Baby's Daddy," which I have, in fact, never seen. Good thing I didn't say it out loud.

It's Hard Out Here for an Oscar Fan

Crash. It's not the worst Best Picture ever; that would be The Broadway Melody or maybe Tom Jones. It's not the worst Best Picture of the last 10 years; that would be Titanic. Hell, it's barely the worst Best Picture of the 2000s; Gladiator is close, although I'd certainly rather rewatch that film instead of Crash. But it's one of the biggest disappointments in Oscar history. Not since Forrest Gump defeated Pulp Fiction have I been as upset about the Oscars. It's even worse, because aside from the big letdown at the end, the 2005 Oscars were among the best I've seen.

A lot of that had to do with Jon Stewart, who brushed aside any doubts that he could handle the Hollywood crowd by being the best host in my memory. I never watched when Johnny Carson was host, and although I liked Billy Crystal at first, his shtick got old quick. Steve Martin was better; David Letterman even better still (and yes, I did think his "Uma... Oprah" thing was funny). I was disappointed with Chris Rock last year, and I was afraid that the Oscars would kill Stewart's particular brand of humor. Thank god that didn't happen.

He was great almost the entire night: except for a little nervousness at the beginning, he was flawless. He brought the Daily Show feel to the Oscars, and the blend was perfect. I loved the "attack ads," especially the one about the sound mixer. I have three favorite moments: first, after the self-important "social problem picture" montage, when he said "and none of these issues were ever a problem again." Second, when he said "A lot of people say this town is too liberal. Out of touch with mainstream America. A modern day beachfront Sodom and Gomorrah. A black hole where innocence is obliterated. An endless orgy of sexual gratification and greed," and then broke into laughter, saying that he didn't have a joke: he just wanted them to know what people were saying. But the funniest was an ad-libbed one (at least it seemed ad-libbed): after the Three 6 Mafia won Best Original Song for "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp," he said, "I think it just got a little bit easier out here for a pimp... That's how you accept an Oscar." It appeared that most of the people in the audience didn't really get a lot of his jokes, but that's fine with me. Of course, it probably means he won't be back.

Although I didn't particularly like the song, I love the idea of "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" winning Best Original Song, joining such songs as "Swingin' on a Star," "White Christmas," "The Way You Look Tonight," and "Never on Sunday." But the glee I feel in saying "Oscar-winning song 'It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp'" doesn't come close to the glee I feel in imagining various Academy members checking the song off on their ballot. I can't help but smile when I think of Jack Nicholson dragging his hung-over ass out from behind the couch, pushing back his sunglasses, and growling "You're God damned right!" before checking the box. Or, even better, Ian McKellan, in full Gandalf mode, murmuring, "Indeed. It is hard out here for a pimp."

I won't write about all of the categories; either you watched the show and you already know about them, or you didn't and you don't care. George Clooney was great throughout. He had marvelous expressions when Stewart made jokes about him, and he was a picture of self-deprecating class when he accepted his Supporting Actor award. He reminded me a lot of Cary Grant, and if George Clooney is the closest we have to Grant's level of charm, wit, intelligence, and looks, well, we're not doing that bad. I did feel a little... uncomfortable? when he spent too much time praising Hollywood for its forward thinking; yeah, it was great that they gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar for Gone with the Wind, but it was for playing a mammy, which was one of the few parts open to a black woman for decades after McDaniel's win. Hollywood isn't so progressive as it would like you to believe.

The three awards for Memoirs of a Geisha bothered me. I haven't seen the film, but I've seen enough from trailers and various clips that I know it didn't have anything new to offer in the categories it won: Art Direction, Costume Design, or Cinemetography. That last one is the biggest insult to good taste, as anyone with eyes should know that Emmanuel Lubezki's work in The New World deserved this award—hell, it deserved all three of these awards and more, but nobody saw it and it didn't get nominated for the others. (Campaspe over at Self-Styled Siren speaks eloquently about why Memoirs didn't deserve its awards.)

I have to admit a certain glee that King Kong trumped War of the Worlds in all three of the categories in which they shared nominations. I didn't like Spielberg's film, and I've liked it less in retrospect, while King Kong was one of the best of the year. It was likely a combination of factors that kept it from getting more nominations: a feeling that Peter Jackson and co. had gotten enough Oscar attention for a while, and the belief that it underperformed at the box office.

Lots of people were too skinny and too tan. Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves looked like victims of Arnold Schwarzenegger's tanning salon, and they were both even stiffer than usual (a real achievement for Reeves). Charlize Theron's dress looked like a giant crow had landed on her shoulder; I'd have hated to sit behind it in the audience. Ben Stiller's costume and delivery were a hoot. Um, that's about it. I don't pay much attention to what people are wearing.

And then there were the musical numbers. Dolly Parton was interesting: she's a good performer, and I liked how she just went out there and sang her song instead of having her number weighed down by a fancy set or extra dancers. But when the Oscars decided to do something awful, they tend to achieve a special level, a Valhalla of awfulness, and that came during the incredibly boring song that apparently ran over Crash's closing credits. My favorite part was the mute Asian man who stood by the burning car. It seemed fitting that to celebrate a sham of a movie that pretended to be really provocative about race, Hollywood found an Asian actor or dancer to serve as little more than a set dressing. Ah, Hollywood.

(There's an interesting discussion going on over at Cinemarati about whether homophobia had something to do with Brokeback Mountain's loss.)

(The always-great Nick parses various reasons behind Crash's win over at Nick's Flick Picks: The Blog.)

My Theater

For those of you who haven't seen it, here are some photos of my theater.