March 18 2003

Lights! Camera! Distraction!

The show will – nay, must – go on, and on, say the Academy Awards' staunch organizers, even if by airtime the U.S. military has begun bombing the people of Baghdad and beyond. Their steely determination that what the country needs at such a time is more hollow spectacle – with acceptance speeches policed by an orchestra licensed to gag – naturally brings forth a patriotic fluttering of flags.

A similar impulse to blot out reality may have been behind the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' decision to deny Palestine an entry in the Best Foreign Language Film category, though the stated reason rested on the equally steely determination that Palestine does not exist, technically speaking. This provokes confusion since – as even Slate pointed out – the Academy hasn't exactly hewn to the United Nations' guidelines for what makes a nation, with exceptions that stretch from Puerto Rico to Taiwan. The decision to exclude Palestine reflects at best an incredible insensitivity and ineptitude, and at worst a bid to out-poodle Tony Blair.

It's all the more disappointing because Palestine's would-be contender, the wonderfully original Divine Intervention (which apparently had no trouble winning the jury prize at the Cannes Film Festival), is a remarkable and important film. And its theme – in a nice, politically charged irony – deals with the role of imagination in resisting oppression. In fact, nothing better advances the humanity of Palestinians on the world stage, and confirms their refusal to just conveniently disappear, than the recent flowering of Palestinian cinema.

The Academy hasn't made Palestine irrelevant with this move; it's made itself so. I, for one, would prefer to see the Academy Awards eliminated and replaced with an event that genuinely reflects the love and passion for film art, and the values it fosters, among the international community of filmmakers and fans.

For now, however, and during perhaps the most decisive moment in world history since the outbreak of World War II, the Academy tempts us with a sanitized gawkfest. The charade must go on. (Robert Avila)

Like a prayer

"Is this it, Priest – the pope's new army? A few crusty bitches and a handful of ragtags?" Not exactly an on-the-(color-of)-money career summation of the rogues' gallery who populate Oscar hopeful (and far too often Oscar-ignored) Martin Scorsese's epic cine-liturgy. Yet somehow this quote – the first of several rude and enduring turns of tongue in Gangs of New York – sums up three decades of this preeminent American auteur's coterie of crucified Boxcar Berthas, hell-bent Taxi Drivers, ruminative Raging Bulls, and Butchers both (Daniel Day-Lewis's) Bill and Bobby (all of the various DeNiro-fications of the director's asthmatic and "ever seen what a Magnum .44 will do to a ..." id).

Think what you will of the by-turns turbulent and torpid Gangs of New York (whatever its other faults, I find Day-Lewis's Bill the Butcher – for all of his cross-channeling of DeNiro's Travis Bickle and Max Cady – a particularly vibrant addition to the gallery), but there's no denying Scorsese's right to the Academy's gleaming award. The postwar celluloid equivalent of Damon Runyan, Scorsese has detailed the urban ferret faces and lower Manhattan vocal traces of the American dream – as well as the American nightmare – with one ear in the gutter and the other on the receiving side of a confessional window. (Indeed, for Scorsese, as for Abel Ferrara, they may be one in the same.)

Remember the old cliché about some actors being so good they could bring you to tears by reading the Manhattan phone book? Martin Scorsese is the only living filmmaker who could possibly direct it. (Chuck Stephens)

The mouse that whimpered

Spirited Away marks the first time a feature-length Japanese animated film (i.e., anime) has ever been acknowledged by the Academy. And if Hayao Miyazaki's glowingly reviewed mix of traditional Japanese spa culture and Alice in Wonderland eccentricities wins, the complicated relationship between the oft-competing U.S. and Japanese schools of animation will be irrevocably altered.

It may be surprising to some that Spirited Away was distributed in the United States by Walt Disney Studios, the home not only of Mickey and Goofy but also some of those other nominees in the two-year-old Best Animated Feature category, namely Lilo and Stitch and Treasure Planet. In the postwar cradle of modern Japanese anime, Disney's early work actually served as an inspiration and watermark for Japanese artists. Since they didn't have the money to beat Disney's production values, anime evolved with an indie aesthetic based on diversity, unlimited by the "just for kids" format. While Miyazaki was cranking out increasingly ambitious films like Nausicaä and Laputa at his Studio Ghibli, Disney continued to toe the line with animation as musical comedy for the whole family – a house blend that peaked when Beauty and the Beast was nominated for Best Picture in 1992 and walked away with four Oscars. But of late the magic has been missing from the kingdom's animated offerings. While Lilo and Stitch performed admirably at the box office last year, the outright disaster of Treasure Planet capped off a string of lukewarm releases that included The Emperor's New Groove and Atlantis. Meanwhile, Miyazaki's Spirited Away grossed more in Japan alone than Lilo and Planet combined; it's currently the highest-grossing film in Japanese history. Sensing Miyazaki's potential early on, in 1996 Disney signed a deal with Studio Ghibli to help finance new works (including 1997's Princess Mononoke and Spirited Away) and distribute them on video worldwide.

Not only does Disney need Miyazaki's creativity and potential box-office clout, but it also needs his star power. Many people on both sides of the Atlantic have long considered Miyazaki as not just an animation director but an heir to the legacy of Akira Kurosawa. If Spirited Away gets the Oscar, Miyazaki will become the god of anime, albeit a sometimes crotchety deity who has been vocal in the past about the lack of "decency" in recent Disney films (as he said in a 1995 interview). Still, Miyazaki's Spirited Away was how the film was officially released in the United States, and in putting the director's name ahead of the title, the studio gave it a sense of authorship that had been previously reserved for Uncle Walt himself. In eclipsing the now stagnant Disney style of animation, anime is now poised to grab the future, with or without that little trophy. (Patrick Macias)

Throw him a Bono

This year's nominees for Best Song represent a cross-section of Oscar's musical tastes. First, you have the requisite prestige artist doing a kids'-movie ditty: Paul Simon's "Father and Daughter," from The Wild Thornberrys Movie. While this formula raked in accolades for the likes of Phil Collins and Elton John in recent years, it's no longer a sure thing, thanks to the rock-vets-get-cinematic card being played by U2 ("The Hands That Built America," from Gangs of New York). It worked for Dylan and Springsteen, and Nobel Prize-nominated Bono's omnipresence lately (he's not just a rock star, people) makes this tune a front-runner in a field that also includes thanks-for-stopping-by candidate "Burn It Blue," from Frida, and only-if-there's-a-sweep "I Move On," from Chicago. The winner should be, of course, Eminem's "Lose Yourself," a truly enjoyable, sing along-able song that took on a life of its own even after 8 Mile left theaters. But times are tough for nominated popular hits: with the exception of the Titanic zeitgeist, it's been nearly 20 years since songs like "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" were consistently bringing anyone to the podium at the Academy Awards. Will Oscar allow a rap song to take the gold? Or more likely, will Bono thank himself in his acceptance speech? (Cheryl Eddy)

Oh 'God'

Miramax put out a film this past year that – and let's all pretend the next phrase means something – deserves Oscar nominations. The movie I'm talking about traces the history of gangs in an urban area, matching epic scope with visual dynamism. No, I'm not talking about Martin Scorsese's bloated and outmoded Gangs of New York. I'm talking about Fernando Meirelles's City of God, a work obviously indebted to Scorsese – the Scorsese that used to make potent, explosive images rather than the soggy fireworks displays of Gangs.

Meirelles may have trumped the master who inspired him, but City of God was nonetheless snubbed by the Academy (Roger Ebert recently claimed that about 60 Academy members walked out of a screening of the film, which was Brazil's failed entry in the Best Foreign Language Film category). It wouldn't be the first time this movie's speedy, stylish treatment of violence met with disapproval: rumor has it a prominent West Coast critic used influence to keep City of God out of the New York Film Festival after abandoning a screening only 20 minutes into the movie's two-hour-plus time span.

Meanwhile, Meirelles's movie has already amassed a devoted following (check Craigslist's movie discussion forum for proof). City of God's populist approach obviously offends those who like to put an ahhh in their pronunciation of art film. One can argue that Meirelles's approach to youth-on-youth violence is callous and wholly exploitative – and frankly, I think that's a weak argument – but there's no denying his technical flair. No other film I saw last year matched City of God's kineticism or its enthusiastic approach to storytelling.