Two things about the Oscars

It's a dull show, a mighty dull show, but here are two things they might as well consider:

-If you're going to show the awards that the bulk of the populace considers "boring" (sound editing, special fx, shorts, docus) in the main telecast and not the tech-awards ceremony, give the winners the dignity of making a full minute/minute-and-a-half speech. The musical fanfare and disappearing mic business is obnoxious shit. This is the winners' one and only moment in the spotlight, and it's rather doubtful they could be as pointless and rambling as the "stars" who have wasted minute upon minute of my life (Mira Sorvino, Gwyneth Paltrow, Hallie Berry, Julia Roberts, shall I go on?). I was glad that Jon Stewart spotlighted how ridiculously obnoxious this rule is by letting the Song award winner return to make her tiny little speech. If we are supposed to watch their award, let's see their speech also.

-First let me say that I am perennially amused at how New York Times critic A.O. Scott tells us constantly how this is the Golden Age of Movies, cinema has never been better. Yes it has, A.O., there were indeed periods when even the B pictures had a crackle to them (and I'm not just talking '30s/'40s, '60s/'70s also fits the bill). This is the era when a good movie is an exception, not at all the rule. (Unless the formulaic mainstream is what you're constantly watching—then a halfway-decent indie would indeed appear to be extraordinary.) That said, let's acknowledge that the Oscar is about MOVIES, no matter the level of quality. So... let's watch some freaking clips, folks. It's been rather evident for a few decades now that these folks can't do a variety show properly, or showcase songs or sketches (like the Tonys or Grammys can...because those are PERFORMANCE awards, straight up). Thus, the only thing that makes sense would be to show longer clips, since that is, indeed, the only thing these symps can actually do. Take a look at the AFI ceremonies that were broadcast in the '70s — yes indeed, they were full of the same self-congratulatory nonsense, but the montages were healthy, chunky affairs that truly did introduce us to the work of the participants. The Oscars will always be a drag of a evening's TV watching (the Alan Carr days are long since gone, and Billy Crystal really did suck, man did he suck). Let's watch some fuckin' movies, can we?

Deceased Artiste Alain Robbe-Grillet: plenty of clues, no solutions

Those familiar with the work of novelist-filmmaker Alain Robbe-Grillet were not very surprised by the announcement of his death this past week at the age of 85. For, in fact, as those who’ve moved through any of his works know, he most likely didn’t die. He probably never really existed. Or if it was indeed true that Robbe-Grillet drew breath for a number of years, it was merely because someone saw him do it. Or thought they did. The breaking of a wine glass could’ve easily woken them out of their reverie, and they would’ve discovered that ARG had been in their salon with an uncommonly attractive woman (missing one shoe and hiding a pair handcuffs around her wrists). The things he was overheard saying actually happened several months earlier, at a different party, with a different woman listening. Or, far more likely, haven’t happened yet….

On the clip I’ve uploaded to salute Monsieur RG, I can merely comment that any person who singlehandedly created his own literary genre, le nouveau roman, deserves our attention and admiration. Of the many mysteries he created – I regard his tales as puzzles to be assembled, mysteries that are composed strictly of clues — the one that most recently got a mainstream release on these shores was his dream-piece of kink, La Belle Captive(1983), from Koch Lorber (the first and only release of his film work outside of the repeated renditions of Marienbadthat we’ve had over here). I have uploaded my review of the DVD release of the film as it appeared on the Funhouse some months back, including my reading of a single paragraph that was included in the U.S. version of the book, a précis of the book’s rather loose-limbed “plot,” as it were. The fact that any thorough study of ARG would have to plumb both the intricacies of 20th-century fiction and also make mention of the kinky streak possessed by both he and his wife, makes the man worthy of our very strict attention. His films and literature never, ever settled for the “it was all just a dream” cop-out finale, but it is true that after reading or viewing his work, it was hard to look at the world in the same way again. And, having attended a screening of his L’Immortelle at the Alliance Francaise this week, where pissed-off viewers were eagerly leaving the salle de projection, I can say (as we did when talking about Bergman and Antonioni), that his work has true resonance in this rather empty new century.


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