The New, Simplified Shadowplay Impossible Film Quiz: Year Zero

Posted in FILM with tags on February 27, 2015 by dcairns

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All you have to do is find the connections.

But remember, just because it’s simpler (twenty questions) doesn’t mean it’s easier!

1) Patrick Stewart, Anthony Newley, Humphrey Bogart

2) Andre Cayatte, Jean Epstein, Barbra Streisand

3) LONDON FIELDS, CITY OF LOST CHILDREN, INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS

4) 1941, BRAZIL, PSYCHO

5) Arthur Lowe, Margaret Whiting, Michelle Pfeiffer

6) Vincent Price, Anjanette Comer, Elizabeth Moody

7) Harpo Marx, Oscar Werner, Essie Davis

8) Jack Hawkins, David Niven, Raymond Griffith

9) George Raft, Bert Lahr, Ving Rhames

10) I’m going to my friend Bernie’s place to watch a late sixties Godard movie. Which one should I choose?

To make things more fun, I realize I have forgotten the answers to most of these questions. But I’m sure I’ll recognize the correct ones if you find them.

Special

Posted in FILM, Politics, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 26, 2015 by dcairns

oscar

Managed to largely ignore the Oscars again this year. My overall take on the awards is that they can pretty much be guaranteed to go to the wrong people for the wrong films. If an award-worthy actor gets a little golden swordsman, it will be for the wrong film, probably in the wrong year. I have to be careful here because I have a great good friend who has three of the metallic minions, and he totally earned them. Maybe I can make my rule work by saying he should have won his 2001 award in 2003, his 2002 award in 2001, and his 2003 award in 2002. Yeah, that makes sense. Good.

I have a sort of perverse respect for the tradition of the Honorary or Special Oscar. Why should the year’s great accomplishments be forced to fit into a set of more or less random categories? Traditionally, these went either to children, black people and the disabled, or, by some special dispensation, to Walt Disney, who got three. Maybe because he made children’s films, and although he was neither black nor disabled, he was a racist, which is a kind of disability which relates to people of colour.

 
Prepare to cringe: at 3:14 Clooney utters the most disappointing words of his life (apart from, I guess, for some, the words “I do”). Disappointing since he’s supposed to be smart.

If you’re an able-bodied actor pretending to be disabled, obviously you can get a normal Oscar. Confusingly, Harold Russell got a Special Oscar AND a Best Supporting Actor Oscar. Although they don’t actually manufacture a special Oscar with hooks for hands, or a child-sized Oscar struggling to see around the bloody great broadsword. So it’s sort-of special, but not THAT special.

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Still, though there’s a certain amount of confusion about how Honorary Oscars work (James Baskett got one for playing Uncle Remus, but Hattie McDaniel got a regular award for playing Mammy in GONE WITH THE WIND: she just had to sit at a segregated table away from her colleagues on the production), I think the tradition should be expanded upon. Anything that makes the Academy more ridiculous and self-parodic is to be encouraged, so that the awards can be enjoyed but not taken too seriously.

There should, upon occasion, be an award for Best False Nose, and this should be presented not to the actor or to the makeup artist but to the actual nose. The acceptance speech would be gratifyingly short. To avoid any sensation of anti-climax maybe Rick Baker could rig up some kind of air pump so the nose could sneeze its gratitude.

There should be an award for Best Dead Person Left Out of the Obituary Montage. This might have to be annual and there might have to be multiple winners.

Rather than giving honorary gongs to people who have never won fair and square and who are now approaching death, they should randomly pick a young up-and-comer each year and give it to them, on the understanding that the Academy can henceforth ignore this person’s work without feeling guilty about it. A sort of pre-emptive Lifetime Achievement Award. If we’d given that to Michael Keaton for NIGHT SHIFT, imagine how much better we’d be feeling now. Or MR. MOM, or JOHNNY DANGEROUSLY!

Look at how well it’s worked for Roberto Benigni.

The honest thing to do, now that we recognize that going “Awww” in the form of an Oscar isn’t an appropriate response to children, ethnic minorities and the disabled (although, given the Academy’s reluctance to hand out awards to any of those groups, why not give ‘em a chance at a patronizing consolation prize at least?), might be to give Special Oscars to people who have been humiliatingly dumped by their celebrity partners. Jennifer Aniston is overdue for this. The poor woman STILL seems to evoke sad-face sympathy reactions ten years post-Brad, despite her wealth and success and constant visibility. It’s as if she had invisible hooks for hands. She deserves a medal — or an Oscar. Hmm, who could present it, to drive the point home?

There could be award for people who have contributed greatly to the cinematic culture by stopping making films. If he just took a short sabbatical, Michael Bay could qualify, and let’s face it, what other chance does he have?

xmunchkin

Imagine this guy in gold!

No person of diminutive stature has ever won the Oscar for anything — clearly an insulting mini-Oscar should be gilded in preparation for the moment when Time has whittled the surviving Munchkins down to one. Treat it as a tontine — the Oscar goes to Last Dwarf Standing. The Academy — nay, the industry as a whole — has a proud history of insensitivity and bogus good intentions — there’s so much to live up to.

Your suggestions are welcome.

Oo-oo-oo-dunnit

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , on February 25, 2015 by dcairns

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THE SECRET WITNESS is a 1931 pre-code with Una Merkel as a crime-solving society dame (I know! Una Merkel?), Zasu Pitts as a hapless switchboard operator (I feel your eyebrows, raised to stratospheric astonishment by the previous bit of casting, burn up on re-entry as they hasten to resume their customary position on your face), and, most excitingly of all, a pistol-packing chimpanzee known only as “the monk.”

We open on a miniature skyscraper somewhere in a sound stage New York, its snowglobe dinkiness so perfect that it’s no surprise to find Clarence Muse as doorman. The movieness of this movie is well-established before a room has even been entered.

Funniest bit is Zasu describing the book she’s reading to her offscreen beau, Elmer, over the phone. “Oh, it’s a book about a… well.”

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When a well-heeled heel played by Hooper Atchley (that NAME!) gets plugged in the gut, a bevy os suspects is drawn into the web of the bumbling loudmouth police inspector played by Purnell Pratt (!), but it will be Merkel who uncovers the culprit. Among the mugs lining up to off Atchley are perennial yegg Nat Pendleton and his intellectual superior the aforementioned primate, a pet of the deceased who is discovered grieving over his slain master (about the only display of emotion in the film (Philip K Dick wrote a space whodunnit where one of the characters suddenly realizes the entire cast is composed of psychiatric patients, this explaining their terrifying lack of emotional response to the slaying — something that would never have struck the reader, who is inured to the calm way supposedly everyday characters in thrillers react to slaughter in their midst).

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Anyhow, later it turns out that “Monk” is more than capable of firing a pistol himself, so he takes his place among the possible assassins. Of course, Fiona and I were rooting for him to be proved innocent. And to get more closeups. We get endless footage of Merkel’s Play-Doh pan, while the versatile and emotive ape is relegated to a couple of reaction shots. I love Merkel’s sullen quack of a voice, but she’s no hairy ape.

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