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.

Ben Whishaw as Hamlet by Derry Moore, 2004 © Derry Moore
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The art of coming out: how the National Portrait Gallery depicts the big reveal

Portraits of gay celebrities, politicians and sports stars line the walls in a new exhibition called Speak Its Name!, marking 50 years of advances in gay rights.

I have a million questions for the doctor friend I’ve brought with me to the National Portrait Gallery. A million questions that, if I really think about it, boil down to: “Why were the Tudors so godforsakenly ugly?”

Inbreeding? Lead makeup? An all-peacock diet?

I don’t know why I assume she’ll know. She’s a neonatologist, not a historian. But I’m desperate for some of the science behind why these 500-year-old royals look, if these imposing paintings of them are anything to go by, like the sorts of creatures that – having spent millennia in pitch black caves – have evolved into off-white, scrotal blobs.

My friend talks about the importance of clean drinking water and the invention of hygiene. We move onto an extremely highbrow game I’ve invented, where – in rooms lined with paintings of bug-eyed, raw sausage-skinned men – we have to choose which one we’d bang. The fact we’re both gay women lends us a certain amount of objectivity, I think.


Alexander McQueen and Isabella Blow by David LaChapelle, 1996 © David LaChapelle Courtesy Fred Torres Collaborations

Our gayness, weirdly, is also the reason we’re at the gallery in the first place. We’re here to see the NPG’s Speak its Name! display; photographic portraits of a selection of out-and-proud celebrities, accompanied by inspirational quotes about coming out as gay or bi. The kind of thing irritating people share on Facebook as a substitute for having an opinion.

Managing to tear ourselves away from walls and walls of TILFs (Tudors I’d… you know the rest), we arrive at the recently more Angela Eagle-ish part of the gallery. Eagle, the second ever British MP to come out as lesbian, occupies a wall in the NPG, along with Will Young, Tom Daley, Jackie Kay, Ben Whishaw, Saffron Burrows and Alexander McQueen.

Speak its Name!, referring to what was described by Oscar Wilde’s lover Lord Alfred Douglas as “the love that dare not speak its name”, commemorates 50 years (in 2017) since the partial decriminalisation of male homosexuality in England and Wales.

“Exhibition” is maybe a grandiose term for a little queer wall in an old building full, for the most part, of paintings of probably bigoted straight white guys who are turning like skeletal rotisserie chickens in their graves at the thought of their portraits inhabiting the same space as known homosexual diver Tom Daley.


Tom Daley By Bettina von Zwehl, 2010 © Bettina von Zwehl

When you’re gay, or LBTQ, you make little pilgrimages to “exhibitions” like this. You probably don’t expect anything mind-blowing or world-changing, but you appreciate the effort. Unless you’re one of those “fuck The Establishment and literally everything to do with it” queers. In which case, fair. Don’t come to this exhibition. You’ll hate it. But you probably know that already.

But I think I like having Tudors and known homosexuals in the same hallowed space. Of course, Angela Eagle et al aren’t the NPG’s first queer inhabitants. Being non-hetero, you see, isn’t a modern invention. From David Hockney to Radclyffe Hall, the NPG’s collection is not entirely devoid of Gay. But sometimes context is important. Albeit one rather tiny wall dedicated to the bravery of coming out is – I hate to say it – sort of heart-warming.


Angela Eagle by Victoria Carew Hunt, 1998 © Victoria Carew Hunt / National Portrait Gallery, London

Plus, look at Eagle up there on the “yay for gay” wall. All smiley like that whole “running for Labour leader and getting called a treacherous dyke by zealots” thing never happened.

I can’t say I feel particularly inspired. The quotes are mostly the usual “coming out was scary”-type fare, which people like me have read, lived and continue to live almost every day. This is all quite mundane to queers, but you can pretty much guarantee that some straight visitors to the NPG will be scandalised by Speak its Name! And I guess that’s the whole point.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.