Oscar reaffirms its reputation as a suck-up prize
Alas, the most sinister prophecies and most pessimistic forecasts were proven right during the 76th Oscar-presenting ceremony at the Kodak Theatre in Los Angeles. Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King received eleven statuettes, almost matching the Titanic and Ben Hur (including such important nominations as the best film and best direction).
The rest of the prizes were awarded the picture for the best production design, costumes, music score and song, video effects, sound mixing, film editing, makeup, and writing (adapted screenplay).
There is something especially, even perversely ironic about Jackson winning the largest number of Oscars. Before 2001, when he was suddenly chosen by the producers for the screen version of Tolkien’s trilogy, the New Zealander did not have any special attainments on the screen and was known in a narrow cinephile circle in a special way, as a trash horror [splatstick, according to an encyclopedic entry] film director. It suffices to recall some of the titles: Bad Taste (1987), Braindead (aka Dead Alive, 1992), The Frighteners (1996). Cinematographic trash is, in a fact, a separate topic. This kind of filmmaking has no creative value whatsoever, except that it is like a distorting mirror of Class A moviemaking industry (trash, accordingly, being referred to Class B), and this makes it funny. Trash film directors usually borrow emotional content, topics, and suchlike from the big-time cinema, and make their own slapdash products. As a rule, trash movies are made with meager budgets, the process lasting days and the script (if any) spinned out of thin air. They lack any original techniques and show practically no taste (so Jackson chose the only correct title for his debut). Most such movies are horror stories about zombies, maniac killers, and bloodthirsty aliens. Since trash horrors can hardly scare anyone, even children, they are treated as absurd comedies noir and thus appreciated by gourmet cinephiles.
That was the kind of trash Jackson had been making before becoming king of goblins and hobbits. This author watched his Braindead, a rare example of an utterly stupid and nauseating production. Of course, all those millions invested in Tolkien’s trilogy is serious business, yet a Russian classic [e.g., Gavriil Dezrhavin] wrote [in The Magnate, 1794]: “An ass, alas, remains an ass for all his stars and ribands...” The mind-boggling budget did not help Jackson become any more talented or even resourceful. His trilogy is often a self-sufficient accumulation of special effects with no dynamism whatsoever, and with some of the cast proving complete fiascos on screen (fortunately, none was awarded an Oscar). Be that as it may, the New Zealand director was lifted to the Oscar summit. A better self-characteristic for that prize, having actually nothing to do with the art of cinematography, could not have been imagined.
Another triumph of the commercial grip over talent is evident from the awards in other nominations. Andrew Stenton’s snotty glamour Finding Nemo was awarded as the animated feature film, leaving behind the true European masterpiece The Triplets of Belleville. The story about a dead fish had only one advantage, being a joint Disney-Pickstar production. Canadian director Denys Arcand’s Barbarian Invasions won the foreign-language film nomination, although the picture is obviously a dull biographical drama with perhaps the only noteworthy aspect of showing a politically correct attitude toward euthanasia.
There was one truly gratifying thing about the 76th ceremony, namely the awards conferred on the best male actors: Sean Penn in the leading role and Tom Robbins in a supporting role, both in Clint Eastwood’s Mystic River, a truly tragic and beautiful picture, both playing very sophisticated roles and showing virtuosity. Sofia Coppola’s original screenplay Lost in Translation receiving an Oscar also looked sufficiently logical.
All told — and I realize that I am not saying anything original — the ceremony produced no sensations. Oscar once again reaffirmed its reputation as a conjuncture award serving the interests of large moviemaking corporations. Peter Jackson remains a mediocre craftsman, even if gripping his omnipotent Ring. Clint Eastwood and Sofia Coppola remain good film directors, Penn and Robbins are still top-notch actors.
The main thing is that a great many excellent films continue being made without Oscars.
