Gilbey on Film: the Oscars grouch

Why make the Best Film category larger? It's obvious who's going to win.

 

The obvious change to this year's Academy Awards nominations is the decision to override the five-film limit on Best Picture nominees that has been in force since 1944. Now ten titles are competing for the prize that tells idiots which movies they should ask their teenage children to download illegally on their behalf.

For all the difference it will make to the end result, the Academy might as well have expanded the category to 50 films, or 4,423 films, or simply everything that has ever been released in the civilised world since the Lumière brothers first announced in the pages of Heat magazine that they were planning something "totally massive". It's a cinch to look at that ten-strong tally and pick out the titles that would scarcely have been acknowledged in an ordinary year.

Under the old system, the nominees wouldn't have stretched beyond Avatar, The Hurt Locker (hooray!), Inglourious Basterds (hooray again!), Precious and Up in the Air. Loosening the elastic has accommodated two deserving nominees that don't stand a chance (District 9 and Up), as well as An Education, which would be this year's Little Film That Could, if only Precious didn't already occupy that role more convincingly. Just for a lark, there's also something populist (the Sandra Bullock vehicle The Blind Side, which opens here next month) and something gormlessly arty (A Serious Man).

The new system is a form of sucking-up, necessitated by the mini-scandal of a colossal hit like The Dark Knight missing out in the categories that count. The ten-film rule placates the studios behind those pictures that would not normally be nominated. And it gives the fanboys something to root for now that their favourite film is ostensibly in the running.

A bit unnecessary, that, because the fanboys' choice, Avatar, is going to snatch Best Picture anyway. First Titanic, now this: James Cameron is such a consummate highwayman that maybe we should all start referring to him as Dick. (As in Turpin, obviously.)

At least Avatar hasn't made any impression in the two writing categories. (How could it? It's only the film's 3-D effects that have distracted most people from noticing that the script barely scrapes into the one-dimensional.) Hope springs eternal in the writing nominations. In the Loop certainly deserves its Best Adapted Screenplay nod. If it wins, can Malcolm Tucker do the acceptance speech, please?

Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin will be hosting the awards ceremony on 7 March, teaming up again after their recent gromcom* It's Complicated in a crafty piece of cross-promotion which will benefit that film's forthcoming DVD release no end.

But it doesn't really matter who's holding the microphone and dishing out the spiky-seeming yet crypto-congratulatory quips. Surely the perfect Oscar show would feature the corpse of Bob Hope, reanimated with the help of technology pioneered by the Avatar boffins, performing a four-hour soft-shoe shuffle to Radiohead's "No Surprises" while Ron Howard, James Cameron and other undeserving recipients of the Best Director prize receive a Thai massage on a bed that is slowly revealed to be a vast and fully working griddle.

(*Gromcom: a romcom in which the participants are grey/silver-haired and/or some way outside the usual 18-35 casting range. I made that term up. You can have it.)

Ryan Gilbey blogs for Cultural Capital every Tuesday. He is also the New Statesman's film critic.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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Why serving wine at room temperature is a myth

There is no such thing as room temperature: there are simply different rooms. 

As a child, I loved Aesop’s Fables – all except one. Like most children, I had an aggrieved sense of adults’ perceived superiority, and enjoyed seeing them outwitted or outthought, in fiction at least, by fellow inferior beings: children, ideally, but animals would do.

Voltaire thought that fables were invented by the first conquered race, because free men have no need to dress up truth in allegory, and maybe he was right: Aesop, after all, was a slave. But children have been shackled by dependence and freed by imagination since time began, so who knows? Perhaps the form was created by them.

The fable I disliked involved a Satyr and a Man. The latter blew on his fingers to warm them, then on his porridge to cool it; the former, appalled, refused to fraternise further with a creature who could blow hot and cold with the same breath. Even to my immature self, this seemed unjust. The Man was adaptable, not dishonest; the ambient temperature had changed, and his actions with it. And who is a Satyr – half man, half goat – to accuse others of being neither one thing nor the other?

It turns out that most modern wine waiters are Satyrs of a sort. If I had a pound for every bewildered burbling about “room temperature” when I’ve asked for a wine, often red, to be cooled, I would buy myself a Eurocave. (Actually, I already have one, and it stores all my wine at a beautifully consistent 12 degrees. But it is full, so I would buy another.)

There is no such thing, Satyrs, as room temperature: there are simply different rooms, and just as I despise a wine chilled beyond all flavour perception to a degree that could be termed English Stately Home, so I desire never again to sit in a breezeless interior in midsummer while someone serves red wine that practically steams in the glass.

The vine is an exceptionally adaptable plant, stubbornly digging its roots into chalk or sand or clay, and the eventual result is a liquid that contains, when well made, something of both the land that nourished it and the hand that made it.

Humanity, too, is malleable, often to a fault. We shuck off cardigans or pull on thick coats, and sometimes we do the one while wishing heartily that we were doing the other, and we drink something that briefly transports us to the place we yearn for. It is only Satyrs who lack imagination, although adults sometimes need theirs refreshed.

Voltaire agreed. “The Man was absolutely right,” he wrote scornfully of this fable, “and the Satyr was an idiot.” I suspect he and I would also have concurred on the question of wine temperature, although, if so, Voltaire had a problem. He was in the habit of serving his guests wine from Beaujolais, just south of Burgundy, which is made with the Gamay grape. If there is one red wine that needs to be served chilled, to about 11 degrees, it is this one. But for his own enjoyment, the great philosopher cravenly reserved fine Burgundy, and the aromatic complexity of that wine would have needed a couple of degrees more for its perfumes and flavours to evaporate sensuously into his hovering nostrils.

I picture him chilling the wines uniformly, then warming the contents of his own glass with a discreet exhalation of breath. Moral failings, as every Aesop reader knows, come in many forms. That is what separates us from the animals.

 

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear