It's that time again: Oscar Season! And the Best Picture is....

The Little Gold Guy is back...

Honestly, I don't care.

I've had a general antipathy toward the Academy Awards for decades, ever since Raging Bull was passed over for Best Picture for Ordinary People (which is, of course, a very good film; no flies on it, but Scorsese's masterwork was a leap forward in depth of narrative, use of film grammar, and is simply a towering masterpiece of cinema). 

I also have a dim view of most of the nominees in any given year. Last year was brilliant, with Everything Everywhere All at Once raising the bar for what can be honored by AMPAS. This year, I'm more intrigued; it's been a good while since every entry is a remarkable work and in half the cases, An Important Film. I think I'd be good with just about any of them winning.

I've already covered Past Lives, Poor Things, The Zone of Interest, The Holdovers, Killers of the Flower Moon, Barbie, and Oppenheimer; I'm remiss that I haven't given the rest their due, particularly since they're all wonderful works. What follows is essentially playing catch-up, but I might be short-changing all five with going over them all at once here. But I don't want to ignore these estimable works, at all. 

Tell you what, I'll review them in order of personal preference. At the end, I'll do what every other peanut gallerist does and submit what I think will win Best Picture and which I think should win. It's an idiotic game, but here we are.

Anatomy of a Fall

If Anatomy of a Fall takes pride of place here, if I were writing at another time, it could likely be American Fiction. Sorry, Maestro, the other two edge you out just a bit for being more intriguing and frankly, they require more work on my part that I found amply rewarded. Although, as I write that, I find myself slowly eating words. Aw, who cares? There is no best; just what strikes my fancy right now.

On the face of it, Anatomy of a Fall is certainly an accomplished thriller, a courtroom drama, and a portrait of a woman who may or may not be rightly besieged by allegations of murdering her husband. I'd argue that Justine Triet's film has even more going for it that puts on par with Hitchcock at his best (and ends with a more ambiguous finale than you'd find in the master's filmography).

Everything in the film feels like an unraveling; a couple that on the surface seemed like any other shows a history of fraying at the seams from strained finances to the fall-out from an affair to feelings of frustration and perceived emasculation to just the messy shit that sometimes characterizes marriages where too many issues have been left unmet. Sure, there's therapy, but we question just how invested in resolving matters either Sandra or Sam were. And here's where the film executes a stealth mission.

Triet and her co-writer Arthur Harari are digging deeply at what truth is. Not just the facts of the case; did Sandra push Sam to his death? That's often the least interesting element in the story. More to the point is how hard it is to see what's real or true under the best of circumstances. Given that we have only Sandra's side of the story, we're left to come to our own conclusions about not just what she may or may not have done, but just how well does she know herself? How does she see herself? 

Sandra Hüller knocks it out of the park and off the screen as Sandra. Simply put, in. a season of expert and profound and profoundly layered performances, Hüller gives us a woman full of contradictions, blind spots, immense strength of intellect and like all of us, varying degrees of self-awareness. It's a slow-burn performance that is every bit as riveting as the rest up for the gold man. 

She is also unsettling, owing to the degree of just how dysfunctional her marriage to Samuel was. Is ehe an unreliable narrator? Aren't we all? And that's the another element in script that we are called upon to actively engage with; what are our blindspots? How would we fare on the witness stand were we called to testify in our defense? 

And then, out of that arises yet another Russian doll; are or are we not being judged constantly? By others, by ourselves? The courtroom becomes an interiority here; Sandra's on trial as a murder suspect, but isn't it so that very often, we put ourselves on trial for failings or fuck-ups that dog us just under the surface? 

In the unfolding of the narrative, everything is presented as a tight procedural. Her and Sam's son Daniel (played by a guileless but sharp Milo Machado-Graner) found his dad's body coming back from a walk. Daniel is sight-impaired and his testimony comes under scrutiny when he botches how he remembers where he was in relationship to the sound of the extremely loud music his father was playing on the day he died; could he have heard his mother and father arguing? Or not?

Flashbacks to the marriage, to Samuel, reveal a man who feels he's lost control of his life, his direction, and blames Sandra for the straits he is in; but there is so much more that comes out, most damningly for all concerned is the blame cast upon Samuel for the accident that led to Daniel's blindness. 

Some would argue that the end isn't as ambiguous as I might make it out to be, and I agree; but Sandra's acquittal hinged on a statement from Daniel about something his father had told him shortly before his death. They were on their way to the veterinarian to have their dog Snoop examined and Samuel told Daniel to be prepared for the news that someone you love will die. Samuel could have been talking about Snoop, but the manner in which he told Daniel this read to Daniel (and frankly, to me) as being more self-referential. 

Did Samuel kill himself? This is the argument for the defense and for the movie, important, but not as interesting as recognizing again, that the only side we see is Sandra's. That Daniel offered his statement stemmed from something that makes him something of the audience surrogate; that if his mother killed his father it made no sense to him. Whereas if his father killed himself, that does. The court-appointed handler for Daniel - appointed to ensure he wouldn't be influenced by his mother or media - said that when we don't know what is really the truth of a matter, we decide what is true for us. 

Aside from Hüller's and Machado-Graner's performances, Swann Artaud as Sandra's lawyer Vincent and Samuel Theis as Samuel both bring nuance and depth to two very different men. Vincent is by turns warm and shrewd and even a bit tough when it comes to Sandra. They've known each other for years, and there is a genuine warmth. Daniel doesn't appear to be a hotshot; they joke about cases he's lost but the reality is that she likely can't afford anyone else.

Theis has a juicy role in Samuel; he's kind and loving and along the way, angry and resentful. There's very much a Bergmanesque sensibility in his scenes with Hüller; the accusations, the anger that verges on something more acidic is more uncomfortable than anything that happens in court. The internal bruising of resentment, frustration, betrayal, and failure can be more painful than the cross-examination from a prosecutor. 

Triet does something else with all this swirling around Sandra; she doesn't lose sight of, and astutely centers on Daniel at pivotal moments. Not just that he's a smart and articulate kid, but that his well-being is critical here, as well. This is as far from a Spielbergian adulation of childhood as you can get; Daniel is as determined as we are to see his mother get through this. He's no victim nor does the script only bring him in when it's convenient. He speaks for himself and you sense there's so much more going on behind those eyes.

When she's acquitted, Sandra says "when you win, you expect some kind of reward... and there isn't any." She returns home and both she and Daniel express that they were both apprehensive about her homecoming. They hug and she heads up to bed, looking at a picture of her and Samuel before going to sleep.

At the end of the day, Anatomy of a Fall is about as complete a film, in the sense of depths to the characters and thematically complexity, as you can get, while not neglecting to keep us gripped in wondering about what really happened and just how is the court going to rule. It is one of those rare works where suspense is both narrative and philosophical.

American Fiction

First, to get this out of the way; Geoffrey Wright finally being recognized by the Academy? About damned time. Second, how is that 2023 had not one, not two, but three films centered around somewhat rigid, somewhat sad-sack men in education? Paul Giamatti in The Holdovers, Nic Cage in Dream Scenario, and the title at hand. Third, this year's awards recognize not just one but two, feature debuts that are almost frighteningly accomplished. Cord Jefferson here and Celine Song with Past Lives come out of the gate with filmmaking strong enough to be set alongside Scorsese, Lanthimos, and Gerwig (and the rest, of course). 

The previews for American Fiction prepared no one for what a heartfelt tale this is. I was expecting pretty broad, if on the nose, satire. I got a stunning portrait of a man dealing with his place in the world in middle age, family relationships, and an examination of not merely race in general, but what does being Black in America mean? How is it expressed, how is it used - both as social currency and in the marketplace of ideas and, well, in the marketplace often determined by the dominant white culture?

And yeah, there are laughs to be had. The premise still stands; an academic, whose novels are well-reviewed and well-regarded but just don't sell has his latest manuscript turned down for "not being Black enough." At a symposium, his seminar is, putting it politely, sparsely attended; most people are in another hall listening to Sintara Golden (Issa Rae is a national treasure, and don't forget it), whose novel of life on the streets is a bestseller but the authenticity of which isn't questioned despite her being an Ivy League educated intellectual. Oh, the title of Golden's opus? Glad you asked: We's Lives in Da Ghetto. 

Monk - named for Thelonius, naturally (and thankfully - I'll support any reference anywhere to the man) sets out to write his own novel, partly as rebuttal, partly as satire, and his agen loves it (Arthur, the ever delightful John Ortiz). My Patology throws in stereotype upon stereotype of Black deadbeat dads, drug dealers, gangbangers, and all the melodrama you want to add into the mix. In one scene, as Monk is writing, a Black man with a doo rag and a gun shows up to confront his father, right in front of Monk. The character questions Monk about his motivation, plot structure and what-not before shooting his dad to the sound of police sirens growing louder in the background. 

Of course, Monk uses a pseudonym for the book and my lips continued to contort into a rictus grin that opened to a guffaw at this point. My Patology is written by Sagg R. Leigh. That everyone is playing this straight just makes it better. 

All of this said, another aspect of real life encroaches on Monk. Going back to Boston for the symposium, he reconnects with his sister Lisa (Tracy Ellis Ross, onscreen for too little) and bonds with his mom (Leslie Uggams, what are you going to say? This film is an embarrassment of riches) who is showing signs of Alzheimer's disease. Lisa suffers a fatal heart attack and Monk steps up to assume paying for his mother's care. At this point, given that the manuscript for My Patology is becoming a hot property, and a six-figure film deal is already being proffered, Monk has little choice but to publish.

When asked for a phone interview, Monk assumes the voice of a hardened gangbanger for the publisher and continues the facade for an  in-person meet. The restaurant is n proximity to the facility where his mother lives and he bolts when he sees an ambulance pull up. To the publisher's rep, this reads as genuinely "street" since Monk is allegedly a wanted felon. 

To say that the film handles farce and domestic drama equally well is an understatement. And romance. While not a rom-com by any traditional interpretation of the term, after Monk's sister dies, he meets Coraline, a neighbor near their property on the cape and they begin a tryst. It's one of those rare, genuinely grounded relationships between two adults often missing from films. Erika Alexander meets Wright note for note. 

So, too, does Sterling K. Brown as Cliff, Monk's plastic surgeon brother whose wife left him after finding him with another man. Let that sentence marinate; there is a delicate balance where the characters are self-aware enough to know how strange, if not funny, that sounds (to some ears; not necessarily those who have had friends discover later in life who they are), but Brown plays Cliff, uh, '"straight"; very much not a caricature, though his partying verges into very broad territory. 

Cliff is reluctant to offer to help out with mounting costs in the wake of Lisa's death or with their mother's healthcare. But there's a naturalness that both Wright and Brown bring to their roles and the relationship that feels altogether true. American Fiction does not want for remarkable performances.

As mentioned earlier, Monk realizes he's going to have to press on with the book, given the movie deal, and along the way, Agnes alienates Cliff by calling him a homophobic slur, and Monk's relationship with Coraline is strained when he refuses to let her in on his double life as Stagg. Indeed, no one knows that they're the same person and it's another example of how well Jefferson is able to not fall into one extreme of melodrama or the other of broad comedy. 

Without pnadering or sentiment, I think it can be said there's a lot of love in the film. When Lorraine, the Ellison's housekeeper at the beach house gets married, Monk discovers Cliff had been living there since Lisa passed. Lorraine welcomes Cliff to the wedding (and his friends) and there's this throughline of acceptance that Monk seems unable to understand. 

Not that he's a misanthrope, but Monk tends to be prickly, guarded, and introverted, if not pathologically. In yet another remarkable scene, he and Cliff acknowledge the trauma that their father's suicide brought and Cliff suggests that Monk let other people "love all of him". This is not a saccharine ploy, it's a legitimate statement of factual observation. And yes, Sterling K. Brown is a worthy nominee for Best Supporting Actor.

Things come to a head when Monk is asked to serve on a panel for a literary award that My Pataolgy, now renamed Fuck (that's a whole other thread worth seeing as opposed to me recounting) is up for. Sinaara Gold is also on the panel and Monk takes umbrage when she says the book is "pandering". Monk calls her out on that and says that her book is equally so. She counters by saying she researched the characters and gave them voices that would otherwise go unheard. While, of course, "giving the market what it wants". 

Additionally,  Coraline and Monk's break-up is partially triggered by her embrace and defense of Fuck, and Monk still wou't tell her why he's upset or disclose his identity as the author of the book. Naturally, what's really at issue is Monk not fully letting Coraline see him, and their separation stings because of his obtuseness.

The end of the film is, we find out, is a series of re-enactments of his accepting the award as filtered through his screenplay for the film. Again, this should be seen; it's pretty damned funny, is what I'm seeing. The last scene of Monk and Cliff driving off the set (with Cliff exchanging a knowing nod at an actor) is a perfect bow on the film.

In some sense, both American Fiction and Anatomy of a Fall deal with facts, truth, how we tell stories and how they may deviate from what is. This is almost platitudinous, but each film asks us to question how do we interpret our world and how much do we act out of a sense of defensiveness, whether being accused of murder or out of financial necessity (and in Monk's case, insecurity)?

Both films are so expertly composed that there isn't a bauble of cliche in either and the dramatic (and in American Fiction's case, comedic, as well) beats land solidly and resonate long after you've left the theater.

Maestro

Last up, Bradley Cooper's latest opus brings to life one of my heroes from middle school years. I was concerned that his take on Leonard Bernstein might be something of a Bohemian Rhapsody treatment, shying away from Lenny's sexuality and other aspects of his career and how he viewed himself.

I needn't have worried. Cooper doesn't play Bernstein; he inhabits him and even nails Bernstein's distinctive voice (which the movie smartly calls out as an affectation). His wooing of and marrying Felicia Montealegre, an up-and-coming actress and his concurrent affairs with sundry men is handled beautifully and non-judgmentally. Carey Mulligan as Felicia adds another stunning revelatory performance to her resume.

There is an incandescence in the look of the film that mirrors that of the performances. Cooper is proving himself one of the most expert craftsmen of the medium going and the only thing that tempers the love I have for the movie - and I do love it, please be sure - is that it does feel measured. In some ways, it reminds me of producer's Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull in structure and execution. That's not a slight, by the way; if anything, it's meant as a compliment. But there are enough cinematic ploys and techniques that distanced me somewhat from the story. In other words, I didn't find myself completely lost in the narrative.

I'll pause here to re-iterate something I've said before and will say again. Very often, reviews tell us les about the work under review than about the person reviewing it. Maestro, by any metric, is an accomplished work and ti would be churlish, if not outright idiotic, to aver otherwise. But I was awfully aware of cinematic technique to a degree that had me thinking more about that technique than the film at hand. 

Sure, this happens a lot. To some degree, I could say the same about Barbie, Oppenheimer, or Poor Things, but the difference - again, for me only - is that Gerwig, Nolan, and Lanthimos, more skilfully employed technique to advance the narrative and the characters. 

This kind of criticism is a tricky proposition. Cooper employs black and white and color in varying intensity to evoke different periods and moments in Bernstein's life. Hell, the tonality in the photography is its own character and frankly, it's a genius turn. Once again, Matthew Libatique has helped sculpt a vision of incomparable weight, not to say beauty.

And of course, there's the music. I really want to fan-boy out over how well the film shows us Bernstein the composer, the conductor, the musician. Not everything Lenny composed was met with unqualified success. Critics were not kind to his Mass, for instance, and in general, growing up I was often struck by how backhanded some could be with his, what, more "serious" compositions. Cooper captures this critical side-eyeing in very much the way Bernstein - I think - saw it. He could be imperious and full of himself and knew he was one of the greats (listen to his Mahler recordings - both from the sixties and later from the eighties) in conducting and I'll pit any of his more popular pieces up against Gershwin any day. As for those more serious or demanding ones; Symphony no. 3 ("Kaddish")? Chichester Psalms? Even the maligned Mass? Yeah, he's one of the finest composers of the 20th Century. 

Cooper gets this. He gets Bernstein the musician, the educator, and Bernstein the man and frankly, it wouldn't work without the people around him who loved him and whom he loved. At the center of which was Felicia. 

If I'm not giving Maestro more space and no doubt what some would feel, what the film is due, I apologize, but of the nominees for Best Picture, it's the one that in any other year might stand head above shoulders over the rest, but this year, well, I just find the other nominees more compelling. 

Gee, John, so who do you think's gonna grab the Gold Guy?

Likely Oppenheimer. Normally, there is the follow up question of "do you think someone else should win?" Frankly, it doesn't matter; all of the nominees are so stellar and quite frankly, unique and different from one another, I'd be happy however it shakes out. 

This is one of those years, too, where I'd argue that each nominee carries over some degree of cultural cache that will grow over a period of time; particularly flms like Barbie, Poor Things, Killers of the Flower Moon, The Zone of Interest, and American Fiction, as well as Oppenheimer in terms of dealing - either directly or more subtly - with issues of equality, matters of political and historical repercussions, race, and more - and done so masterfully.

It's been a great year. As silly as it is to pit works of art against one another, if an award brings greater exposure to a great work, then I'm for it. For once, the Academy did good.