The Oscar hopes of her Brokeback Mountain were dashed by trash (or make that Crash), writes Annie Proulx
On the sidewalk stood hordes of the righteous, some leaning forward like wind-bent grasses, the better to deliver their imprecations against gays and fags to the open windows of the limos - the windows open by order of the security people - creeping toward the Kodak Theater for the 78th Academy Awards.
The red carpet in front of the theatre was larger than the Red Sea. Inside, we climbed grand staircases designed for showing off dresses. The circular levels filled with men in black, the women mostly in pale, frothy gowns. Sequins, diamonds, glass beads, trade beads sparkled like the interior of a salt mine. More exquisite dresses appeared every moment, some made from six yards of taffeta, and many with sweeping trains that demanded vigilance from attendees. There was one man in a kilt - there is always one at awards ceremonies - perhaps a professional Scot hired to give colour to the monotone showing of clustered males. Larry McMurtry defied the dress code by wearing his usual jeans and cowboy boots.
The people connected with Brokeback Mountain, including me, hoped that, having been nominated for eight Academy Awards, it would get Best Picture, as it had at the funny, lively Independent Spirit Awards the day before. (If you are looking for smart judging based on merit, skip the Academy Awards next year and pay attention to the Independent Spirit choices.) We should have known conservative heffalump academy voters would have rather different ideas of what was stirring contemporary culture. Roughly 6,000 film industry voters, most in the Los Angeles area, many living cloistered lives behind wrought-iron gates, out of touch not only with the shifting larger culture and the yeasty ferment that is America these days, but also out of touch with their own segregated city, decide which films are good. And rumour has it that Lions Gate inundated the academy voters with DVD copies of trash - excuse me, Crash - a few weeks before the ballot deadline.
After a good deal of standing around, people obeyed commands to get in their seats. There were orders to clap and the audience obediently clapped.
From the first there was an atmosphere of insufferable self-importance emanating from "the show" which, as the audience was reminded several times, was being watched by billions all over the world. There were montages, artfully meshed clips of films of yesteryear, live acts, smart-ass jokes by Jon Stewart, who was too witty, too eastern perhaps, for the somewhat dim LA crowd.
Both beautiful and household-name movie stars announced various prizes. None of the acting awards came Brokeback's way, you betcha. The prize, as expected, went to Philip Seymour Hoffman for his brilliant portrayal of Truman Capote, but in the months preceding the awards thing, there has been little discussion of acting styles and approaches to character development by this year's nominees. Hollywood loves mimicry, the conversion of a film actor into the spittin' image of a once-living celeb. But which takes more skill, acting a person who strolled the boulevard a few decades ago and who left behind tapes, film, photographs and voice recordings, or the construction of characters from imagination and a few cold words on the page? I don't know. The subject never comes up.
Despite the technical expertise and flawlessly sleek set evocative of 1930s musicals, despite Dolly Parton whooping it up and Itzhak Perlman blending all the theme music into a single performance, there was a kind of provincial flavour to the proceedings reminiscent of a small-town talent-show night. Clapping wildly for bad stuff enhances this.
The hours sped by on wings of boiler-plate. Brokeback's first award was to Argentinian Gustavo Santaolalla for the film's plangent and evocative score. Later came the expected award for screenplay adaptation to Diana Ossana and Larry McMurtry, and only a short time later the director's award to Ang Lee. And that was it: three awards, putting it on an equal footing with King Kong. When Jack Nicholson said best picture had gone to Crash, there was a gasp of shock, and then applause from many (the choice was a hit with the home team since the film is set in Los Angeles). It was a safe pick of "controversial film" for the heffalumps.
After three hours of butt-numbing sitting we stumbled away, down staircases and across the red carpet. In the distance men were shouting out limousine numbers, "406 . . . 27 . . . 921 . . . 62" and it seemed someone should yell "Bingo!" It was now dark, or as dark as it gets in the City of Angels. As we waited for our number to be called we could see the lighted marquee across the street announcing that the "2006 Academy Award for Best Picture had gone to Crash". The red carpet now has taken on a a purple tinge.
The source of the colour was not far away. Down the street, spreading its baleful light everywhere, hung a gigantic vertical, electric-blue neon sign spelling out "SCIENTOLOGY".
"Seven oh six," bawled the limo announcer's voice. Bingo.
For those who call this little piece a Sour Grapes Rant, play it as it lays.