I Cried Buckets To Win An Oscar (But All I Got Was A Goddamn Golden Globe)
The news just in from Venice: Black Swan is a-fucking-mazing and Natalie Portman will win every award going.
“Oh no, you Cornetto-eating gondoliers,” retort Terence and Philip from the Toronto Film Festival PR Dept, “you know absolutely nothing aboot awards. We’ve got Never Let Me Go, and that’s based on a Kazuo Ishiguro novel and stars loads of actors who were in Doctor Who in 2007 and are now dead famous and that.”
Meanwhile, in Blighty, all hopes rest on stammerin’ Colin Firth as he stars in No Sleep ‘Til Bedtime, the film version of Morris Minor and The Majors’ novelty record, Stutter Rap.
We go through this every fucking year. Months and months of over-hyped, emotionally manipulative feature-length deadweights, most of which we’ll have forgotten about by this time next year. The occasional masterpiece, for sure (and, in fairness, I’m hoping Black Swan might be one of them) but you have to have the tenacity of a Gold Rush prospector to wade through all that shit to find the nuggets.
Claustrocore? Pah! That fledging movement has nothing on the gnawing existential dread of those endless hours spent in the lonely darkness being forced to watch take after take of Hollywood stars emoting beyond their range. They’re all doing it in the vain hope of winning one of the 10,754,612 awards being presented over the Summer, but deep down they know that Helen, Judi or Meryl has got the whole thing stitched up before the director yells ‘cut.’ That’s why they’re crying, really.
Well, this is one movie blog that isn’t having it! Just wake me up next March when the clocks go forward and we can get back to Hollywood blowing up shit.