Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The next posts were semi-tributes to Heath citing his promising performance as Joker in the upcoming Batman sequel, and, as one of the actors (alongside Gere, Blanchett and Bale) playing Bob Dylan in Todd Haynes’ I’m Not There. Without a doubt, his Joker would resonate for years to come but his broken Dylan was quite a heartbreaking and memorable portrayal as well.
While most would definitely remember him as that rough guy singing “I love you baby” in the stadium to Julia Stiles in 10 Things I Hate About You, it was his Ennis del Mar that etched him as one of the most gifted thespians of his generation. His transformation and immersion as a forlorn gay cowboy in the conservative era in Brokeback Mountain will resonate forever as one of cinema’s tragic characters.
While awards-season backlash still looms with the ongoing writers’ strike, it will be as well difficult to applaud this year’s cinematic triumphs without being saddened by the loss of a true talent.
As I said the noms for the 80th Oscar were out yesterday. I started predicting last year. This time, I got all of the 5 BP nominees. You'd probably scoff at it, but something as remotely mathematical like predicting nominees has largely been influenced by statistics and probability. So aside from usual gut instinct, I have to rely on stats. If you'll look at the guilds and award-giving bodies, you'd basically come up with a statistically-based roster, but believe me, it pays to actually see them.
I saw all BP nominees except There Will be Blood, but the chances of hacking it off from the list, even though I haven't seen it yet, would be similar to trivializing the raves for No Country for Old Men, which is its co-contender as far as nominations are concerned. This year, I think, is tough to call. Juno, Michael Clayton and Atonement -- were also great.
As for directing, I think it is important to note that they're all first-time nominees, if you consider that the Coens are being nominated as a team. Jason Reitman, who helmed Thank You for Smoking in 2006, was a surprise nod for Juno. I hope to see too The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the vehicle which snagged director Julian Schnabel the Globe win.
I got 4 correct names each for acting nods, from lead to supporting. The challenge does not really lie on the number of correct names you predict, which will most likely come out strongly, but that one tricky surprise you won't know its coming.
This year’s rich in strong performances, the kind that wallops you and won’t let go. There’s Julie Christie as a wife drifting away with Alzheimers in Away From Her, Marion Cotillard’s deeply immersed Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose, and the splash of ice-cold water that is Ellen Page in Juno.
And I’d say hats off to Mr. George Clooney as a messed-up fixer in Michael Clayton. How did he ever get this good. Forget Tom Hanks, Philip Seymour Hoffman as an acerbic smart-ass sweeps off everybody, hell, even Julia Roberts, in Charlie Wilson’s War. But the king/queen of them all I’d say is the iconic Cate Blanchett, no, not for playing Queen Elizabeth but Bob Dylan in Todd Haynes' I'm Not There. Yes, Bob Dylan, and she nailed it. So creepily that it makes your skin crawl at how amazing this actress truly is.
Though from my standpoint, there have been some misses, still it was a tough year to call. And for chrissakes, this is the Oscars, you can’t really take it that seriously. So get back to work, you freaking slob.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Shit, it is 2008! This has got to be one of the most boring Saturdays in my entire life, not that I take note of all those gloomy Saturdays. Or maybe because I just feel like shit today and I wanted to do something else than stare at the crumbling ceiling of ours that I swear would crush us any moment all the people in the upstairs rooms stomp their feet all together. (Wait, it is really 2008, right?) I wasn't intending to write an entry and since the last time I wrote and kept on returning to my home page and seeing it like that, surprisingly, I didn't give a fuck whether I get back to writing. Which is seriously pathetic. And sick. Whatever happened to the therapeutic claims.
I was watching Season 1 episodes of Six Feet Under this morning, and fuck, what a slap of reality in my tiresome feeling-identification game. It was Nate who nailed it. After failing the funeral services licensure exam, Nate, the eldest of the Fishers, wails that he doesn't know what to do with his life anymore, that he isn't sure whether going back to take care of the business his father left them was really right. I am not 100 percent sure whether I'm in that uncertainty stage because I am not sure whether I don't really have the choices or that I am just trying to act stupid and chickenshit by not opening myself to these choices. Hell, they're even fucking impossible when I come to think of it. But what the heck, the choices aren't the problem, it's the chooser. Now, fucking choose or stay miserable and feel shitty as you always did.
This isn't a perfect world and we got to live with that and we got to live with the fact that we have to keep reminding ourselves of that, but like the short-time mortician of the Fishers who shortly replaced talented Federico, in describing the Fisher home, "this is depressing". Here's to 365 days of attempt at direction, fulfillment, patience, dedication, perseverance, persistence and happiness.
Jeez, Happy New Year to you.
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?