
(Updated predictions available here.)
I shan’t often find room for Gaspar Noé’s name in a space ostensibly dedicated to the Oscar race, so bear with me if this seems an unlikely opening gambit, but inspiration for this week’s column began with a conversation about his fluorescent, drug-addled ghost story “Enter the Void.”
A friend had recently caught up with it, and found herself disappointed: having been promised a psychotropic headfuck, she instead found something more sentimental and less questioning than his previous work. “At this rate,” she muttered aggrievedly, “he’s about 10 years away from a bloody Oscar nomination.”
That’s a flip exaggeration, of course, but there’s a kernel of truth in it: the Academy likes its enfants terribles most when they’ve passed the teething stage and begin to play nice — or at least safe. There’s a long and illustrious list of adventurous, iconoclastic directors who scored with AMPAS either by putting a leash on their wilder creative instincts or making sly concessions to the mainstream.
So much of my life is spent in the dark watching flickering images on a screen. Not that I am complaining; it is a life I wouldn’t trade for the world, but I do enjoy being outdoors. My wife, my two daughters and I live 50 miles outside of Toronto in a small country village called Seagrave in a century home. With about an acre of property, we have a large deck and a swimming pool for the girls. I hear friends talk about moving or buying a new home, but we will die here. Never will this house be sold as long as I am alive, and the plan is to allow the girls to have it, share it as a summer home when Sherri and I are gone.