CFP: The Legacy of Radiohead's 'The Bends' 20 Years On [Deadlines: 29 Jan / 12 Feb]

 
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Sunday, Jan 13, 2008


Has there ever been a case where such a seismic cinematic shift has occurred in such a surreal, almost otherworldly setting? Who could have imagined that the very fabric of film could be disassembled and stitched back together within the retired/repatriated citizenry of a trailer park? Is it at all conceivable that an actor, best noted for his work in genre films like Independence Day and Cabin Fever, would end up being the Neo-No-New Wave genius of his generation, the voice of the so-called bridesmaid, never the bride, digital revolution? The answer to these and a myriad of similar motion picture predicaments arrives in the form of musician/madman/monarch Giuseppe Andrews. Long an icon for those who appreciate his outsider oeuvre, the 28 year old auteur has amassed a creative catalog so important that it’s only a matter of time before he’s declared the most important filmmaker of the last decade.


For this novel real-realist, this Godard a go-go, the whole world is a soundstage. No subject is too scatological or scandalous, no actor to amateurish or aged. His is a universe where septuagenarian sex is as prevalent as vacationing cows, where silly songs about love and bananas become the perfect panacea for individual aches and pains. Initially supported by Troma (who continues to promise a bountiful box set of the man’s work), but now forging a aesthetic path all his own (via the website giuseppeandrews.net), Andrews is angling to prove that art can be found - and better yet, formed - out of the most unusual, mundane, and downright degrading elements of society. At the same time, he is restoring dignity to a marginalized group of people who’ve long since lost touch with the rest of the communal countenance. 


By now, the background is legendary. Drafting insanely intricate scripts filled with curse words and outrageously erotic innuendo, Andrews would seek out willing participants in his local trailer park (where he himself lived) and videotape them reading his words. Sans much action and very little conversational context, these specifically designed dialogues became treatises on disenfranchisement and depression. Highlighted initially by the amazing cantankerousness of Bill Nolan, these first films were part of something that should be subtitled “the last angry old man” movement. Blue, brave, and undeniably ballsy, Andrews’ cinematic statements avoided the stock elements we’ve come to expect from depictions of the public periphery. Instead, he simply made his characters back into what they originally were - real men and women.



Like the famed filmmakers of the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, Andrews ignored the standards of regular motion pictures to find a new means of expression. He concocted elaborate scores filled with his own amazing music, tunes that took the inert dramatics they supplemented and turned them into a sublime symphony of the human spirit. He used nudity as an equalizing, offered racism and the reactionary as part of both the problem and the solution. In Andrews’ view, white could play black, old could act young, and the most down and out of his complex company could become pure poetic pop stars. Nolan was the first of these found icons. The remarkable Vietnam Ron, the always evocative Tyree, and new sensation Elaine Bongos soon followed. They never come across as pawns, however. While part of Andrews’ plan, he keeps them real, and recognizable, no matter the dreamlike scenarios involved.


That’s part of the joy in an Andrews’ film - and its part of the reason to champion his continued output. As he’s aged, as his work has gone from straightforward script reading to more character-based interaction, the writer/director has elevated his game. He’s moved beyond the walls of those junked double-wides and RVs to hotel rooms and sunny backyards. His heart remains locked in the marginalized and underappreciated, but he’s willing to experiment with his unfathomable formula, instead trying to connect his cast in ways both weird and world-weary. Some may see the senior citizen nakedness, the hints at old folk’s homosexuality, the implied misuse of personal problems and borderline dementia and start screaming for social services. But there is no exploitation in Andrews. Instead, there is only admiration - even reverence - for what these noble exiles stand for.



More importantly, he’s shaking up cinema. He’s taking the tired blockbuster high concept crap that gets hurled out of Hollywood faster than a fame whore on TMZ and removes its over-processed shell. Even better, he’s triumphantly outed the self-indulgent dung that purports to be independent film by showing the shoe-gazing novices what real free thinking cinema is all about. He is literally rewriting the rules, doing what predecessors like Godard, Truffaut, and Cabrol did, and yet he’s found a decidedly American bent to the debunking. By using the trailer park, the last bastion of post-colonial wanderlust, he’s merged the symbolic with the substandard, the non-redneck version of liberated living combined with the typical tawdriness one would find in the slicker suburbs.


He is a true social commentator, a man making the most of what celebrity and found artistry can contain. While continuing to maintain his status as a Tinsel Town talent (he was recently seen in the excellent experimental film from pal/supporter Adam Rifkin, Look), he maintains a staunch personal work ethic. Over the last year or so, he’s release several sensational homemade CDs (all are recommended, as Andrews is a very, very talented songwriter and musician) and he’s used newfound friends Miles Dougal, Wally Lavern, Sir George Bigfoot, and Ed to further flesh out his freakiness. Perhaps most importantly, gal pal/significant other Marybeth Spychalski provides a kind of simpatico muse to make the madness go down soft and easy. Her work in the Americano Trilogy alone makes her the Bardot to Andrews’ jaunty Jean -Luc.



Over the next three days, Short Ends and Leader will be celebrating the unique vision of this equally idiosyncratic artist by getting fans and the unfamiliar up to date with the latest Andrews offerings. We will dissect the Short Cuts like Americano, explain the ‘Meat is Murder’ slant of the sensational Garbanzo Gas, uncover the filmmakers most heartfelt examination of the trailer park ever (the 17 minute masterwork Cat Piss), and revisit as much of the man’s canon as possible, including a countdown of past opuses and a look at what is waiting in the wings. Along the way, we will ascertain hidden gems, joke about the filmmaker’s fashion sense, and wonder what lycanthropy, icantthankyouenough.com, and a wind up sex novelty have to do with this awkward American life.



Still, talking about the work of Giuseppe Andrews does not do this masterful moviemaker justice. Instead, his films need to be experienced and savored, studied like an archeological find from the past and positioned as the powerful new voice of a raw, futuristic, and subversive cinema. When established filmmakers like Coppola and Tarantino argued that technology would traverse a new creative manner, it is Andrews who they were obviously referring to. While others are trying to tame the digital realm, making it mimic the very establishment stance they should be avoiding, efforts like Trailer Town and Touch Me in the Morning are raging against the machine - and winning. When the wave has finally crested and broken, a lot of time wasting wannabes will be washed away. But Andrews will remain standing. It’s how any true innovator usually winds up.


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Saturday, Jan 12, 2008

For many it remains a defining moment for the once inventive Music Television channel. Desperate to replicate the success of original programming like The Real World, the former cable location of rock videos took a pitch from a local NYU sketch comedy troupe and crafted an overnight spoof sensation that seemed to speak directly to its increasingly disaffected demographic. Entitled The State, it went on to become a well received (and remembered) cult creation. Now, over a decade later, the members of the formidable act have made their way into the mainstream. From writing screenplays for major Hollywood hits (Night at the Museum) to producing more TV treats (Reno: 911), the imprint on the industry remains strong. Now comes The Ten, the work of writer/director David Wain and writer/star Ken Marino. This indie comedy takes on those ever-present Commandments, using an anthology approach to bring a Decalogue of delirium to the silver screen.


We are first introduced to Jeff Reigert, a married man whose wife is cold and calculated. He sets up the stories, beginning with the tale of a skydiving accident victim who becomes a media God. Then we see a doctor inadvertently kill a patient, witness a young woman fall in love with the second coming of Christ, and marvel as two men engage in an all out war to see who can own the most Computerized Axial Tomography devices. Along the way, a mother must tell her teen boys about their biological father, a young woman becomes sexually obsessed with a puppet, a group of heroin addicts discuss a legendary lying animal, and prison sex gets the retro rom-com treatment. In the end, a group of naked non-church going men redefine the Sabbath, all in the name of highlighting the pros and cons of obeying and keeping said dogmatic laws.


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Friday, Jan 11, 2008


Well, at least they ended the suspense before any real curiosity could be created. The Writers Guild of America, currently picketing the pleasantry out of the awards season, announced the nominees for their 2007 accolades. Divided into categories for Best Original Screenplay, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Documentary (which, apparently, is considered an indirect form of writing), the organization at the center of current industry chaos took a moment off to praise their own people. With the recently truncated Critic’s Choice Awards, the all but called off Golden Globes, and threatened Oscars giving the industry pause for concern, many wondered how the striking organization would handle their own stab at trophy time. Of course, they cut out all the speculation by simultaneously announcing that their own banquet for recognizing the winners would be cancelled as well.


It wasn’t the only intriguing thing about the WGA’s nods. Since they follow the Academy mandate and recognize both original and adapted work, the writers decided to do what Oscar doesn’t and give comedy a little love. Humor was the basis for 80% of the screenwriter-created category, while drama took 20% (seriousness is the only thing featured in the book/play to film translation category). Rumors also circulating that the WGA posted its list of choices in order of winner and runners up. Even after a similar slip up was reported last year, and a supposed randomization was used to re-identify the contenders, it appears the same thing has happened again. So in the name of all that’s fair, SE&L will scramble the names in that good old statistical standby - alphabetical order. That way, a small amount of surprise is left come disclosure. Let’s begin with:


Best Original Screenplay



Diablo Cody Juno


The Oscar for Best Screenplay (Original or Adapted) is often referred to as the ‘Runner Up’ award. It is usually given to the artist or newcomer who, while outside the studio system or movie mainstream, deserves recognition for what they accomplished. It’s where the Coens, and Quentin Tarantino earned their only Academy acknowledgment. Cody should be prepared to have her name listed among this illustrious number as well.



Judd Apatow Knocked Up


In a perfect world, Apatow would be handed the keys to the cinematic kingdom. After single-handedly saving big screen comedy this year, and inspiring many to once again take up the cause of motion picture wit, some peer recognition would be nice. While Superbad got all the gross out geek love, this is the better movie - from both a performance and screenplay position.



Nancy Oliver Lars and the Real Girl


Here’s a pleasant surprise, the recognition of a truly quirky movie that seemingly got lost among Juno‘s growing grrrrl power. Critics who had problems with this film often listed Ryan Gosling’s oddball performance as the main problem. Others argued with director Craig Gillespie. No one had a bad word to say about Oliver’s solid script, however. While it probably won’t win, it’s nice to know someone was paying attention.



Tony Gilroy Michael Clayton


Of the two Guild awards earned by this film, this is the one that makes the most sense. Gilroy is not a solid director (some of his pro-actor histrionic choices mar this movie), but you can’t deny the power in his writing. In a clear case of giving some respect to an effort that might otherwise go unnoticed, this nod feels like the final payoff.



Tamara Jenkins The Savages


Here’s the nomination that really throws us. The Savages is a strange film. It’s either undermined by its performances (mainly the mannered work of Laura Linney), or it’s a victim of a poorly conceived and sloppy script. One imagines that Guild members, wary of having to take care of their own aging parents, gave Jenkins a handout. There are definitely better efforts out there.


Best Adapted Screenplay



Ronald Harwood The Diving Bell and the Butterfly


This one’s as confusing as The Savages, but for decidedly different reasons. Without a doubt, Julian Schnabel’s work is far more satisfying than Jenkins’ dour jokefest. But with so much of the material lifted directly from Jean-Dominique Bauby’s book, and the reliance on visual vs. verbal cues to tell the tale, it seems like a stretch to award the otherwise fine film for its writing.



Sean Penn Into the Wild


In one of those ‘hard to mess up’ situations, Penn’s persistence with the devastated McCandless family (and their desire to keep their son’s story sacred) guaranteed that Wild would work on some level. But matched with the actor’s newfound visual flare, and the undeniable emotion inherent in the story, this could be a case of the sum being greater than any one part - including the screenplay.



Joel and Ethan Coen No Country for Old Men


It’s interesting that the Coens are the only team of writers nominated in the screenplay category (documentary does have a trio). Of course, when they make a movie jointly, they are always listed together, even if directing is more Joel’s area of expertise. As adaptations go, this is a first rate reconfiguration of Cormac McCarthy’s dark and very dense novel. The presumptive favorite, one guesses.



Paul Thomas Anderson There Will Be Blood


Whether or not Anderson can win this award has a lot to do with what the Guild considers a successful book to screen translation. Upton Sinclair’s Oil! is definitely part of the narrative strategy, but the auteur also goes off on enough flights of personal fancy to make much of this movie his own. If strength of direction and acting were factored in, he’d definitely win.



James Vanderbilt Zodiac


Talk about your dark horse picks. When people discuss the unforgettable work done in this ‘70s throwback police procedural, few are focused on Vanderbilt. In fact, director David Fincher and his commendable cast usually get first kudos, followed quickly by anyone involved in the look and feel of the film. That someone actually recognized the difficulty in condensing this complex story into a sound, suspenseful thriller is remarkable.


Naturally, SE&L thinks there are a few overlooked or unconsidered scripts that deserved credit as well. Somehow, the WGA decided to neglect these wonderful examples of the written narrative, and choose the 10 efforts above. Any one of these would easily replace at least one (if not two) of the wonky choices provided, beginning with:



Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg Hot Fuzz


The insane minds behind Shaun of the Dead deliver the definitive lampoon of big budget action cop buddy action movies while systematically satirizing the concept of ‘being British’. It’s a work of undeniable genius from beginning to shoot ‘em up end.



Ben Affleck and Aaron Stockard Gone Baby Gone


We know Affleck can write - he has his own little gold man for cranking out Good Will Hunting. This stellar thriller proves that said statuette was no fluke. While earning some cred, this film will probably end up 2007’s most unappreciated - and that’s a shame.



Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola, and Jason Schwartzman The Darjeeling Limited


Like watching a novel unfold on screen, the work of these terrific storytellers lifted what could have been mannered and manipulative into something quite magical. This is the most human and heartfelt movie Anderson has ever made - and the scripts the reason why.



Aaron Sorkin Charlie Wilson’s War


Apparently, burning one’s bridges among the Tinsel Town talent pool means that, even when you do something substantially right, you get little recognition in response. Sorkin may be a sourpuss, but his biting work on this non-fiction adaptation deserves more than mere pat pleasantries.



Kelly Masterson Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead


The twisted turns and tricks of a complex crime story are hard enough to navigate. Now imagine being a first timer creating a Rashomon like narrative for directorial legend Sidney Lumet. But that’s what Masterson did, and the results were stellar. Her efforts deserved to be recognized.


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Thursday, Jan 10, 2008


It will be interesting to see what the press conference scheduled for 13 January brings. For the first time in many, many years, the Golden Globes, the more party/perfunctory wrap up of the annual awards season is unable to shower the deserving and the questionable (Pia Zadora?) with their tiny trophies. Thanks to the writer’s strike, and the complementary decision by the Screen Actors Guild to honor same, there will be no soirées, no foreign press corps preening, no bifurcated categories, and perhaps most importantly, no early gauge as to who and what might walk away with an Oscar come 24 February.


Film fans have had a love/loathe relationship with the blatant schmooze/shill fest since it dropped the outsider pose (with all its easily bribed and/or bought rewards) and became an Academy bookie. It used to be that the Globes played also-ran to the more formidable, formal cinematic BMOC. But by trying to legitimize itself as more critical and less comical, performers and studios have seen the event as a excellent catalyst. It’s a way of building momentum for an underdog. They’ve also used is as a way of gaining recognition for an unheralded project/person or plugging the gaps in a failing publicity campaign.


But thanks to a unionized effort to get already well paid insiders a few cents more for their services, the Golden Globes are forced to cancel this year’s ceremony. Even a proposed plan to have presenters travel to the different industry parties and hand out trophies to the winners was nixed. With Oscar nervous, and sponsor ABC jockeying to prevent a similar situation, we could be facing an awards season without the very thing that makes it attractive/aggravating - the self-serving spectacle of an overproduced, overlong, self-serving ceremony. Unlike the year where a walk out by baseball players caused the cancellation of the World Series, however, few will probably bemoan the loss of the famed black-tie blight.


The sports analogy is viable since, for many outside the Hollywood wire, the strike appears like two groups of unfathomably wealthy individuals arguing over who gets the last serving of caviar. Of course, that’s unfair and untrue, but we’re talking about the all important concept of perception here, not the clauses and subsections of a collective bargaining agreement. There is much more on the table than the money derived from the medium’s rapid digitization, but tell that to the family unable to afford a night at the movies, or the triple digit cable bill, and you’ll find little sympathy. This is not meant as a slam against workers demanding their rights. It’s just a reminder that not everyone sees this as a selfless stand.

Cancelling shows that most outside the business already dismiss may not be the best strategy. It will win a few fans - on a recent podcast, Clerks king Kevin Smith said he’d LOVE to see awards season reduced to a series of brief, by the book announcements - while others have lamented the fact that artists who’ve worked, sometimes for years, are not being allowed that additional moment in the limelight that a nomination (and potential win) provides. It’s an intriguing concept, since a statuette and a gift bag are nice. But in a realm where everything is ego, is that five minutes of mega-fame, followed by a network mandated musical cue play-off, the ultimate validation?


Think of it this way - you spend years working at crap jobs and minimal corporate positions, all in pursuit of a single, always elusive goal. You try, are turned back, and try again. You make inroads only to have the pathway ripped up and placed along some other topography. Somehow, through persistence, place, and a good deal of personal sacrifice, you make it in. You’re talent is rewarded, you never again have to sling hash or wonder if someone would like fries with that. Your friends and family finally stop thinking of you as a slightly insane pipe dreamer, and your every career wish is now just a mere pitch/contract/greenlight away.


Now, let’s go a step further. Let’s say that the fruit of your intense, lifelong labors have finally come to fruition. Success - measured in money or mentions - is here, and it feels oh so good. Then, something wonderful happens. Said triumph turns back at you, and your peers are demanding to recognize and reward you. It begins with those typically critical of your career, and then begins to bubble up from those who you directly compete with. Before long, certificates and other swag are shoved in your direction, with promises of the big party just around the corner. That’s right, the ultimate goal, the final fulfillment of all you’ve worked for…and then the door is closed. No one is invited, no one is allowed to attend.


No matter how nominal, actors and actresses, writers and directors, tech people and other production crew work damn hard for something like the Globes. For every person recognized, thousands would kill just for the off chance at replacing them. Receiving an award, like recent Emmy recipient Kathy Griffin noted, means that every time someone mentions your name, they have to preface it with “X Winner…” such and such. So forget all the George C. Scott/Marlon Brando machinations about rejecting competition among fellow artists - in a biz that will spit you out quicker than it will ever embrace you (especially in the talent interchangeable ‘00s) - reducing any award, by definition, lessens its significance.


Someone like Diablo Cody must be shifting uncomfortably in her ex-stripper pants right about now. As the out of nowhere flavor du jour in this awards season (she wrote the pop culture reference heavy script for Juno), she’s that highly touted talent who, on a yearly basis, gets both sides of the issue enflamed. Some see her as a new, novel voice in a realm where everything is predictable and pat. Others view her as Quentin Tarantino after one too many estrogen laced pixie sticks. Whatever the case, Cody has enough steam to plow through the next few months with many trophies, a fashion faux pax or two, and a three picture deal from some suckered studio.


But instead of getting to gloat over all this ‘sudden’ success, Ms. Cody gets to protect the picket lines. As numerous critics groups hand out their plaudits, she gets to sit at home and enjoy an indirect moment of satisfaction. If the Oscars should be cancelled, or truncated somehow, the biggest moment in what could be a very short career as a screenwriter will be traded for some far off monetary equilibrium. And let’s say the writers fail to win their position. Will someone like Cody appreciate the fact that her one chance at universal acknowledgement came at the expense of a losing cause? For an actor like Daniel Day-Lewis or Johnny Depp, the Golden Globes and The Academy will probably be everpresent concerns. But many first timers will feel the pinch come the time to rip open the envelope.

Of course, no one will miss the bad speeches, the political grandstanding, the numerous mentions of God, Jesus, the little people, “everyone I’m forgetting”, the bad presenter banter or horrendous ‘live’ versions of the Best Song. The spectacle of seeing your favorite film star bathed in the glory of his celebrity constituency will be lost, but so will a great deal of needless pomp and backslapping circumstance. Besides, Oscar tends to get it wrong more times than not. Do we really need to see another Shakespeare in Love/Saving Private Ryan moment, or the long lapsed recognition of someone (Spielberg, Scorsese) who should have been acknowledged decades before? Being out of touch is one thing. Having such a stance forced upon you by disgruntled employees just may be the remedy the entire system needs.


Shake up or not, it will be interesting to see what happens come Sunday. How will the media treat the marginalized moment? How much play will the Writer’s Guild get, and will their message be mired in the appearance of arrogant impropriety? Frankly, will anyone outside the obsessive really care that there’s no glitzy show biz-y banquet, that their favorite faces aren’t gussied up in red carpet accoutrement waiting for an entertainment talking head to ask them who designed their duds?


As with any ongoing issue, the strike will harm more everyday elements (favorite TV shows, upcoming movie releases) than a once a year entity of entitlement. Yet when a labor disagreement can adversely effect the most superficial of spectacle (cue Golden Globes theme song), it may be time to reconsider the structure all together. Maybe it’s time to revamp the entire awards season strategy once and for all. It’s been a long time coming. A passive approach only guarantees that someone - or something - else will end up doing it for you…and you see how that’s worked out so far.


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Wednesday, Jan 9, 2008


They’ve been known to predict the eventual Oscar winner close to 95% of the time. They also seem to have a handle on which films will get nominated, and which movies will be overlooked come the actual Academy Awards. The Director’s Guild of America announced its choices for 2007’s best filmmaking, and it’s an eclectic group at best. Aside from a pair of previous nominees (the Coens caught one for Fargo in 1997), everyone else on this list are first timers. Even more interesting, three aren’t necessarily known for their work behind the camera. We have an artist, an actor, and a writer who made his first foray into the world of direction. Of course, this means that none of the nominees have ever won before, which makes the accomplishment twice as rewarding.


Without actually handicapping the outcome, SE&L will step in and offer its thoughts on the choices, as well as highlighting a few names that could have been substituted for at least one individual on the list. While many feared 2007 would be a slack year, cinematically speaking, the last four months have offered up such astonishing fare that, in the end, it turned out to be one of the best ever for the artform…and the names found below are a big part of the reason why. Without their good, good work, we’d be stuck with an endless outpouring of Michael Bay megabusters. One shudders to think.


The Nominees:



Joel and Ethan Coen No Country for Old Men


It’s hard to say if the brothers really deserve an Oscar for what they do as directors. Certainly, their films are stunning realizations of pragmatic and artistic ambitions, and there are times when their technique seems in sync with the very gods themselves. But how much of this is direction, and how much is pure production acumen. They know how to write (and how!). They cast flawlessly. Their editing is always superb, and they combine music, theme, and subtext in a way few craftsman can. But it seems so, well, SMALL to call them mere ‘directors’. That’s why they probably won’t win. What they did with Cormac McCarthy’s novel was much more than mere behind the lens guidance.



Paul Thomas Anderson There Will Be Blood


Like Barack Obama in the last few weeks, praise and plaudits for this mostly unseen masterwork by the Boogie Nights auteur has been growing by leaps and bounds. Critics groups have been frothing to foist as many accolades on the film as possible, and Anderson has gone from retro-revisionist to a full blown motion picture master. Everything about Blood is a direct reflection of his vision and attention to detail. Sure, Daniel Day-Lewis’ striking turn as Daniel Plainview seals the deal, but without the barren old West backdrop to play against, the performance would be nothing but Method mannerism. Thanks to Anderson, it becomes the fodder for a true epic.



Sean Penn Into the Wild


Breaking away from the no nonsense neo-realism pose his last few films have taken, Penn has lightened up as a director, and as a result, discovered a lyrical soul beneath his hardened show biz shell. Instantly recalling the more experimental end of the post-modern movement circa the ‘70s, there are moments of great joy mixed in with the inevitable sadness of Christopher McCandless’ self-imposed exile from society. With solid support from his cast, and an evocative score courtesy of pal Eddie Vedder (of Pearl Jam), this may be the first time Penn’s skill in front of the lens translates successfully behind it.



Tony Gilroy Michael Clayton


This remains the one odd choice out of the five. SE&L is still trying to figure out what everyone sees in this otherwise routine corrupt corporation thriller. Could be that lingering (man) crush everyone has on Clooney, who is very good in the film. Perhaps it’s Gilroy’s compensation for making Matt Damon into a believable action hero (he’s responsible for the Bourne trilogy scripts). It could be that scene where co-star Tilda Swinton is locked in a bathroom stall, fear and flop sweat staining her power suit. In a year where there were other deserving nominees (see below), this appears like a very odd, very insider choice.



Julian Schnabel The Diving Bell and the Butterfly


Here’s the reason why this former painter turned filmmaker is here - he used a gimmicky, borderline obnoxious approach to the first half of his movie (we see everything from the point of view of a paralyzed magazine editor) and it didn’t drive critics crazy. Instead of being overly ambitious and smugly self conscious, it allowed audiences into the mind of a man “locked in” place. Just like an artist, Schnabel understands the value in sketching out his designs before attempting the big picture canvas. In this case, the small moments that open the film lead to some major revelations later on.


Missing, Deserving a Mention


Again, there were several sensational masterworks this year that deserve some manner of recognition. Yet, regrettably, it looks like both the Guilds and the AMPAS will be ignoring in the next two months. As a service to all cinephiles, SE&L then offers the following selection of alternate choices. Any or all deserve a place with the personalities noted before, beginning with:



Tim Burton Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street


One guesses that everyone’s favorite Goth guy was left off the list because, when it comes right down to it, this artistic anarchist could direct this film in his sleep. He’s had casual daydreams scarier than the bloody and brooding masterpiece he forged out of Sondheim’s equally magnificent musical. Still, for its Victorian vomitorium vogue, Burton deserved a nod.



Danny Boyle Sunshine


If he had spent the last few years remaking Trainspotting over and over again, delivering film after film of British quirk, Boyle would probably be on the list this year. His amazing bookend to Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 is the first serious science fiction film not clouded by the shroud of Star Wars. That, in and of itself, deserves recognition.



David Fincher Zodiac


You gotta love the revisionist history on this title. Back in January 2006, critics were more or less lukewarm on this fabulous police procedural throwback. Eleven months later, it’s cropping up on ‘Best of’ lists everywhere, with Fincher equally feeling the love. Perhaps if journalists had owned up to how amazing this movie was beforehand, the mind behind Se7en would be part of the process, not a noted also-ran. 



Ben Affleck Gone Baby Gone


If Tony Gilroy can get a nod for his Verdict homage, why can’t the actor formerly known as ‘Bennifer’ get one for his far superior Mystic River riff. Without a doubt, this was one of the strongest, most centered thrillers of the entire year, and made the hindering histrionics of Clayton seem downright showboaty by comparison. Affleck and his artistry, deserved better.


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