Where did the Oscars go wrong?

Wow. Just wow. Let me start out by saying that I’ve been disenchanted with the Oscars and their whole “nomination” process for years. This year I wondered what was going on with them because of the deplorable state of Hollywood’s creative energies. This is probably the worst. year. ever. Never fails to amaze/ disgust me.

“Midnight in Paris” is all over the place. Best picture, original screenplay, director, blah, blah, blah. If you’ve read my blog, you know how I feel about Woody Allen’s latest opus. Let me just say that I stand by my abhorrence of his movie. There is no way it deserves ANY of the awards it’s nominated for.

Next there is “Moneyball”. Seriously? Moneyball? Was the Academy trying to make Jonah Hill feel good about himself and his career? Or was it a Brad Pitt thing? Because the movie had one of the most boring stories I’ve seen all year. The movie ran around 2:10 and felt like 5 or 6 hours. It was “The Social Network” for baseball fans. If you want to do a movie about numbers in baseball, do a movie about Pete Rose. Hell, even let Brad Pitt play him. At least it’d be interesting.

I can’t believe “Tree of Life” made it anywhere near a nomination. I could only get through 15 minutes of that piece of work. I felt like I should’ve been watching it in some artsy theater surrounded by snooty academics in Cosby sweaters. Throw in soy lattes for the full effect. Either that, or I should’ve been watching it on massive amounts of psychedelics. At least the dreary, disjointed story and constant bombardment of weird images would’ve made sense. Who knows? I might even have dug out the meaning of life if I wasn’t desperately trying to reach the DVD player to stop the torture.

Sigh. Nothing sacred anymore. Forget the Oscars. Forget them all over the place. This year, I’m having an anti-Oscar party. And every time Woody Allen is mentioned, we all take a shot to forget the pain. Yeah, that sounds like a riot.

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on January 25, 2012, in Author, Movies, Uncategorized, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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