Dear James,
So you don’t think much of the Academy. That’s okay. A lot of us don’t. And after the outcome of last night’s awards — in which capping an inevitable Best Picture Oscar for the safe, stolid stylings of “The King’s Speech” with that extraneous Best Director win for a worried-looking Tom Hooper was roughly akin to dipping Wonderbread in milk for maximum squishiness — I suspect even a lot of movie buffs who don’t make a year-round sport of henpecking the Academy’s choices are on your side.
Your antipathy towards the Academy may be rooted in different disappointments than those of the blogging majority. We know for starters that you don’t much rate “The Social Network,” the 2010 title most clearly destined to fill the blank in many a “How did _______ lose?” whine-fest between awards geeks in years hence.
But Lord knows your own pony was even more cruelly treated by voters: when the film’s artsy death-rattle of a theme song couldn’t even beat a rushed Randy Newman Xerox of a Pixar jingle that everybody forgot he already won for in 2001, it was clear the once-so-buzzy “127 Hours” had been reduced to a phantom presence in this year’s race.
Steven Spielberg couldn’t have put it more concisely during his presentation of the Best Picture category last night. To paraphrase, he noted that whichever films did not happen to win Best Picture this year would join the ranks of numerous classics of the medium.
“Oh Sister, I have such doubts!”
With a little over 48 hours until the big night, I find myself in an uncommon state of disarray — my crammed Oscar weekend “To Do” list includes viewing all 15 short nominees in order to make an informed dart-throw of a prediction (stickler that I am, I held out for a theatrical screening), preparing copious supplies of food and alcohol for my second annual hotel-suite Oscar party (sorry, the guest list is full) and somehow finding time to write a final predictions piece.

Amy Adams. You know the girl. Sweet, bright-eyed, purveyor of naive, fresh-faced screen creations. You certainly wouldn’t peg her as an expected fit for Charlene Fleming, boxer Micky Ward’s tough-as-nails bartender girlfriend in David O. Russell’s 
Catch up with the idea behind these weekend posts
Well, if you didn’t get the message after last night’s DGA result, SAG’s Best Ensemble award just underlined it for you — the Best Picture race is over. In the 16 years that the three Guilds have co-existed, only one film has taken the big prize from the DGA, PGA and SAG and not won the Best Picture Oscar — and
This weekend completes the trio of Guild awards with the most bearing on the Best Picture race, as the Directors’ Guild of America and the Screen Actors’ Guild dish out their prizes on Saturday and Sunday, respectively.
Like last year, this year’s Best Supporting Actress race was a free-for-all when it came to the last spot. Potential category confusion almost had two spots up for grabs. And there was absolutely no shortage of possible spoilers once the BAFTA had spoken up with a slate of formidable possibilities.
One of the interesting things about this morning’s
Appropriately enough for the occasion, I watched last night’s Golden Globe awards in a celebratory alcoholic fog (the night having coincided with a friend’s birthday) so thick it took most of today to sleep it off — hence the apologetically late posting.
Zzzzz…huh?, wha? Oh…
It was a good time. The evening started off with a bit of a surprise as