My Best Picture Ballot

Ever since fourth grade me watched Jack Palance do a one-armed pushup next to his trophy, the Oscars have been a valued event in my life. Yes, it's a political popularity contest that gets things wrong more than right, but as a film fan, it's just FUN. The nominations inspire people to SEE MOVIES, and how is that a bad thing? The nominations stir up heated debates that force enthusiastic cinemaniacs to fervently defend and attack other people's opinions, and come on: THAT'S ALSO NOT A BAD THING. 

I love the Oscars. I love occasionally hating the Oscars. It's Hollywood prom with more expensive dresses, but somewhere between awkward presenter banter and the battle between the play-off orchestra conductor and a winner on a mission to thank everyone in his group chat by name, we get to celebrate cinema. 

On that note, I made it my mission this year to watch all of the Best Picture nominees. And much like the preferential ballot that has Academy voters rank their picks, I decided to do the same, starting from the bottom.

But with more talking. The orchestra would DEFINITELY crescendo by the time I got to #7.

10. F1: The Movie

I'm not going to say F1 is a badly made film. It used its immense budget to look good and sound even better (said by someone who watched this movie on a plane). I can even accept that it's on the Best Picture ballot because I get it: the way I'll watch anything about killer dolls or sociopathic children is the same way many MORE people will squeal at expensive and fast cars going vroom vroom. To each their own. Fine.

I'd love to just stop there, but there's that nagging voice in the back of my brain that just can't accept how easy this movie is. F1 offers no surprises. Every single thing you think will happen, happens. Every conflict plays out exactly how you'd expect it to. Brad Pitt's character can't make a wrong move if his baby blue eyes depended on it. It's exhausting. 

Maybe I'm being too hard here. Kerry Condon? A pleasure. Javier Bardem? Always welcome. Newcomer Damson Idris? Charisma ooze. As someone with next to no knowledge about Formula 1 racing, I at least learned something new here. But as soon as the last scene ended, as SPOILER ALERT, savior Brad Pitt comes to Mexico to save their style of racing, I wanted to dump out the 160 minutes that had just occupied my brain to make room for something of value. That could have been TWO Bloody Birthdays!

9. Frankenstein

I love Guillermo del Toro as a force for genre cinema and filmmaker freedom. I love his stance against AI, his devotion to craft, his unyielding pure geekiness for horror. But I sadly did not like Frankenstein.

It looks GREAT. The costumes, the sets, the framing, the makeup...all awards-worthy, and yes, they sure make the nearly 3-hour runtime a bit more bearable. But what is this Frankenstein really doing that dozens before haven't? The shame is that there are two great ideas in the story here: the toxicity of bad fatherhood and the outsider feelings that both the creature and Elizabeth find suffocating. The problem? Those should be two separate movies. When you toss in the completely unnecessary subplot of Christof Waltz's character and the repetitiveness of Victor's faults, you get an overlong mess. But boy is it pretty!

8. Marty Supreme

I went to see Marty Supreme in a theater so I could give it my full attention (and, you know, because it wasn't streaming). By the halfway mark, I found myself accepting two truths: this is an incredibly well-crafted film, and it was simply not for me. I was ready to not be mad when it won a few awards over movies I preferred, because it would feel like a matter of taste. 

Then I got to the ending. And oh boy: I was angry.

About a week before this, I had the pleasure of seeing If I Had Legs I'd Kick You followed by a Q&A with writer/director Mary Bronstein (who coincidentally, is married to Marty Supreme's co-writer and producer). It's a disturbing, hilarious, unusual masterpiece about the messiness of motherhood, starring an all-in Rose Byrne as a woman who doesn't necessarily deserve or care to have our sympathy. Sound familiar?

Marty Mauser is, much like Byrne's Linda, functioning at a level that is deliberately exhausting to the audience and people in his life. He's unapologetic about his goal, and hustles his way to get it no matter the expense (mass manslaughter, for example?). Watching the movie, I felt a distance to the character but respected the swing. Then we get to the final scene (SPOILER ALERT) where this selfish prick of a man suddenly has a revelation that he's a dad. 

I first assumed I was misreading the ending, that maybe director Josh Safdie intended the ending to be more open. But no. I've since read an interview where he really does say, "Marty is a dad now and understands what really matters."

Kill me. 

Marty Supreme has nine Oscar nominations. A movie about another crappy dad has four more. If I Had Legs I'd Kick You, just one. 

I really did intend to write these all up as one paragraph summaries on my general feelings. And here we are. Because time and time again, the Oscars celebrate certain viewpoints and mostly ignore others. So a flashy film about an asshole suddenly redeemed by doing no work is rewarded 9x more than a far more unique and challenging story by and about a woman. 

I hated the ending of Marty Supreme so much that I just wrote a mini essay. And yet, I can still FULLY concede that it's kind of a remarkable film. So. That's that.  

7. One Battle After Another

One of the cinematic discoveries I made over this past summer was coming to appreciate Robert Altman. I was hoping that enthusiasm would flow over to one of his biggest fans, Paul Thomas Anderson. 

It's been mixed.

One Battle After Another has been the awards season favorite. I sat down to watch it a few months ago when the hype had already soared. That did not help things.

This is a very good movie. Much like my feelings on Marty Supreme, I would never argue that there aren't great performances and incredibly skilled filmmaking at play here. But I just don't know what I'm missing in a world where critics had hailed this the movie of the decade. The politics felt fuzzy, and while the action was thrilling, I can't shake the sentiment that a lot of dudes like this movie because it's about a crappy dad becoming a slightly less crappy dad. That obviously doesn't apply to everyone's review, but so much of the discourse has been about Leonardo DiCaprio's arc that it's hard to not, again, scream, "BUT HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT MARY BRONSTEIN DID WITH IF I HAD LEGS I'D KICK YOU?"

I know, I'm insufferable. The orchestra has stopped trying to play me off and has instead activated USC's marching band to stomp me offstage. 

6. Bugonia

I've never not had a grand time with a Yorgos Lanthimos film. Bugonia is probably near the bottom of my rankings for that weirdo's output, but, well, it's still a Yorgos Lanthimos film, filled with black humor that simultaneously loves the possibilities of humanity while having no patience for its failures. Classic Lanthimos, just not at the same level as his best.

5. Train Dreams

How wonderfully ironic is it to realize that Train Dreams, which covers the longest stretch of time of any of the Best Picture nominees, is also the shortest. Clocking in at just 103 minutes, this is a simple story about an unexceptional man's life. That's really it! Beautifully shot in the Pacific Northwest, it feels more like a meditation than movie. I found it touching and deeply human.

4. Sentimental Value

There's always a movie like this in a Best Picture lineup that you know is going to be good, but you also don't exactly leap to watch it with a bowl of popcorn and unbridled enthusiasm. You assume it's an actors' movie, and you'll exit it with approval but maybe not adoration.

That was not the case for me with Sentimental Value. The story of two grown sisters who have processed their complicated relationship with their famed filmmaker father in different, unresolved ways shouldn't necessarily be something that we can all understand, but it's Joachim Trier's specificity that makes the film all the more effective. There's a deep truth to this family that I found myself leaning so far into that by the end, I was shocked at how much I felt. 

3. The Secret Agent

Having virtually no knowledge base of modern Brazilian history, The Secret Agent felt a bit daunting at first, particularly with a 2:40 runtime (look, I know I'm complaining about the length of these films BUT THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH TIME IN A DAY AND THESE MOVIES ARE VERY LONG). Thankfully, The Secret Agent is riveting. I had been impressed by writer/director's Kleber Mendonca Filho's Bacurau, and while The Secret Agent is a bit more restrained in its violence, it still shows an incredible level of skill and more importantly, something truly unique. Star Wagner Moura might be the most charismatic actor working today. The film doesn't make anything easy for its audience. It tells us a linear story only to veer to the side halfway through in a way that comes together in a rather haunting ending that leaves you putting pieces together. Of all the films here, this is probably the one that I'll most often find my brain returning to, and that in itself is a huge triumph. 

2. Hamnet

Recency bias: I watched this movie yesterday. I am still emotionally navigating.

I knew Hamnet was the movie that made people cry. I knew it was about the death of a child and parental grief, and while I trusted the general critical consensus that it was a Great Movie, it seemed like something prestige that probably wasn't made for me. In some ways, this is a similar approach/surprise I had back in 2006 with Atonement. I went in expecting Oscar bait only to leave with something deeply rich and challenging. 

For the first 70 minutes or so, I thought Hamnet was perfectly fine. Beautifully crafted, heartstring-tugging, and you know, fine. But then I hit that final act and suddenly, there are heavy drops of salty water cascading down my rosy cheeks. 

This is not a story about a cute little boy dying too young. It's a much richer, kind of transformative experience exploring how art can save us from each other and ourselves. It hit me, and it hit me hard. 

1. Sinners

Here's my take: Sinners is a great film, but only an okay horror film. BUT IT'S STILL A GREAT FILM.

Around these parts, we're obviously going to hold the genre to a bit of a higher standard. lf there's a flaw to Ryan Coogler's jazz opus, it's that the actual vampire siege doesn't quite hit as hard as you would want it to in a movie with this premise. But take that nitpick away, and what are we left with? A true independent vision with clear roots. There's so much here, and I can't wait to come back to it.

We'll see how closely my tastes line up with the Academy tonight. I will be ready.

Marchness!

Raise the ceilings folks! We’ve survived the onslaught of evil children, deadly dolls, German dwarfs, lustful dummies, petite clowns, itty bitty cowboys, puppet people, manitous, angry fetuses, homicidal incarnations of aborted fetuses, and babies possessed by the angry spirit of cabaret dancing little men. The First (Probably) Annual Month of the Vertically Challenged Villains hath ended, so stretch your legs stand tall.

But don’t brag about it. Some of us still need to buy capri pants in order to not have to hem, thank you.

Anyhoosers, March will get swinging soon with a potpouri of upcoming reviews but before that, I’ve got a pile of announcements in need of being shared. Among them:

-Paracinema, my favorite magazine of all time (no conflict of interest was contained in that statement) has a new issue out, and my friends, it is something truly special. Issue 11 is composed entirely of genre film articles written by those rare and mysterious beasts known as Women. 

You might have noticed I never really addressed the fact that February was Women in Horror Month. Part of it was my preoccupation with a more endangered minority (the shorties) but the other is that I don’t have any overwhelming amount to say about it. The idea is great, but when I think about all the incredible bloggesses I get the pleasure to read, I don’t necessarily see a need to single them out as a rarity. I like to believe we’re in an age where having estrogen doesn’t negate or validate your genre film parking ticket, and I think Paracinema’s Women’s Issue is further proof that smart, literate, and cinematically minded females are in no danger of disappearing. 

Head over to Paracinema's pretty new website to get your copy, and expect true happiness (and fine, maybe your period) to follow. Read such luminaries as The Horror Digest’s Andre Dumas, The Blood Sprayer’s queen Kristy Jett, Buried In a Book Crypt’s Ashlee, and yeah, Me as we pontifiicate on a variety of filmic magic. On my part, you get the chance to finally hear how I feel about George Romero’s evolutionary feminism. I’ll leave it there and expect you to complete the rest.

-Elsewhere in the Interworld, it’s Marcharaimi over at a blog that most definitely does not suck, and not just ‘cause it’s called Things That Don’t Suck. The extremely talented Bryce is dedicating the tail end of March into April to the gooey mind behind Evil Dead with a blogathon of epic Deadite proportions. I urge and implore you all to give it a gander. Raimi fans can’t lose, and readers who dig smart commentary on books and film can find few better resources than TTDS.

-Another field trip! March is a new month at Rogue Cinema, and as always, a new batch of indie film goodness is baking in the oven known as That Website. As always, it’s a great way to learn about some under the radar fare. Head on over and see what you find, paying, I would hope, special attention to my interview with the smart and promising Steve Gibson, director of the new clever ghost story-meets-Ghost Hunters chiller The Feed.

-As always, there are GleeKasts and Girls On Film Radio Podcasts floating around the Internet for your ears to experience. Hear the impassioned GoF Oscars show, where we beg the gods in vain for a Winter’s Bone victory (apparently we should have been asking for The Best Film of The Year to get ANY MENTIONS WHATSOVER in the many montage-y bits compiled on select nominated films). There was also a divisive episode on Calvaire that led to intense girlfights. Pillows were abused. And John Hawkes was sainted.

-Also, March marks a certain extravaganza known as HorrorHound Weekend and by golly, let the extravagance begin! If you're planning on being anywhere near Indianapolis in the last weekend of the month, be sure to stop by for the festivities, and I don't mean a photo op with Puppet Master vs. Demonic Toys star Corey Feldman. Sure, you can spend some time pondering how small your hand looks inside of Ken Foree's mitty handshake, but I'm more excited to have the chance to see some of my favorite bloggers, podcasters, and general Internet entities. Fun will be had, so drop a line here if you're planning on going. Just don't expect me to hold your place in the line for Boondock Saints' autographs.

-Finally, now comes the time where I address that small but vital portion of the Doll’s House readers who have suffered in silence for two years: the knitters. My dear friend and GleeKast cohostess Erica has joined the esteemed Order of the Bloggers with her own site, Knit’s a Small World. Now I don’t know a cross-stitch from a lower level Disney movie set in Hawaii, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to share Erica’s adventures in yarn with those who do. The site’s here and will be added to the blogroll. Knit’s official.

On that note, it seems fitting to toast one of my usually least favorite months with a bowl of Lucky Charms soaked in Guiness. That’s how we non-Irish do it, and trust me: we do it well.

We're Gonna Have a MONTAGE!

I wasn’t going to say it. 

I was going to let it go. 

After two weeks devoted to film awards an Oscar politics, I truly expected to wake up Monday morning with a new topic on my mind. I could block out The Blind Side’s Sandra Bullock blindsiding worthier, non-nominated actresses like Antichrist’s Charlotte Gainsbourg. As long as the Academy let me bask in Kathryn Bigelow’s victory--to which I could easily rewrite in my head as actually being an honor of Near Dark, sort of like how Scorcese’s The Departed trophy actually just says Goodfellas--I could move on. Hey, there was even a special montage reserved to acknowledge the fact that horror is a legitimate genre of film!

...‘bout that...

To begin: Kristen Stewart. Taylor Lautner. On switch.

Now I refuse to enter into a debate about whether vampires do indeed shimmer or Kristen Stewart’s personality exists. Twilight gets teenagers reading and theater seats filled, so anger is aimed not at those young, possibly empty heads on far too pretty bodies. No. Let’s look to the general planners of the Oscar ceremony, who somehow take not one minute to consider the fact that a pair of teen actors starring in a franchise aimed at 14 year old girls did not, in any real way, honor the horror genre.

Giving Roger Corman, the man responsible for hundreds of films and dozens of genuine filmmakers (including Academy Award winners themselves like Ron Howard) an honorary Oscar for lifetime achievement? Yes, that’s nice. Know what would have been nicer? Hearing him speak.

My other favorite part followed Kristen Stewart’s premature smoker’s cough: “It’s been 37 years since horror had its place on this show.” What “place” that is remains unclear. The Exorcist, cited as the last horror film allowed to have anything to do with the Oscars, picked up trophies for Screenplay and Sound, in which, presumably, the recipients stepped on stage and had their moment on television. Much like the men and women responsible for the following wins for work in horror cinema:

Jaws*:Sound, Editing, Score

The Omen*: Score

Alien*:Visual Effects

An American Werewolf in London: Makeup

Aliens*: Visual Effects, Sound Effects Editing

Beetlejuice*: Makeup

Bram Stoker’s Dracula*: Costume Design, Sound Effects Editing, Makeup,

Sleepy Hollow*: Art Direction

Sweeney Todd:Art Direction

*Films actually referenced in the montage

So The Exorcist won Best Screenplay, which is an admitted major accomplishment not generally reserved for genre cinema, and a technical award, well-deserved and something, as you can see from the list, nine subsequent “horror” films went on to win as well. Not to mention The Sixth Sense and Jaws--both featured in the montage--were nominated for Best Picture, and a slew more genre films boasted nods in the acting categories

Oh! And did I forget something? Because the Academy did. Mostly the first film since Once Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to win the qui-fecta of Best Screenplay (much like The Exorcist), Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, and oh yeah, Best Picture.

Don’t try to tell me Silence of the Lambs is not a horror movie, particularly if you then plan on including multiple clips of it in a five minute montage called “A Salute to Horror Films.” 

Few viewers were happier than yours truly to see the likes of Chucky, the blood-dripping (but sadly not rappin’) Leprechaun, Leatherface, and Baby Jane herself sharing the stage later graced by Oscar royalty and designer gowns. But something about the whole segment felt both pandering and patronizing. Hearing the barely legal Lautner and couldn’t-care-less Stewart talk about horror as if was the fat girl at the prom just felt insulting, made far worse by the simple lack of sense in any of the teleprompter script.

I admire the choice to throw a bone to the industry’s most under-appreciated genre. If only the nominations could ever prove that this odd affirmative action type time filler was unnecessary to give it the respect it deserved.

The Blind Side...of all that's good in the world

I don't know how to say this, so let me just spit it out:

Last Friday, I snuck in to watch what I soon learned was one of the most racist films to earn an Oscar nod (and tragically, most likely Oscar) since Breakfast At Tiffany's. Some may call it 'feel-good' and 'inspirational.' I call it offensive garbage.

Now I can already hear you bloodthirsty genre fans scratching your heads in confusion. "I Googled 'horror!'", you mumble, or, for those 3 viewers that seem to find this one page every month, "I just wanted a good headshot of Marc Blucas looking like an idiot ." 

I understand your pain and will now open a door for you to exit, should you choose. Feel free to return at a latter date, such as Thursday when I hope to post genital ripping praise of Lars von Trier's Antichrist or next week when the Day of the Dead remake gets its chance to thud. Allow me, however, this one pocket of cyberspace to waste on a movie that deserves none of the baffling praise it has somehow earned. 

And for the loyal readers who actually read this way too long synopsis of a way too long and unnecessary film, I threw in a reference to Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror. Don't say I don't love you.

Also of note: throughout this 'review', you may hear some electro jazz music playing in intermittent spurts. Trust me, you'll know (bwamm chicka chicka...I clearly don't know my porn music). This signifies an ideal moment for any director of feature length pornography--professional or amateur, we're all artists here--to take the otherwise uninteresting scene into X-rated territory.

Not a Quick Plot: A kindly janitor named Tony comes to a private Christian school to try to enroll his son, Stephen. In order to do this, he has to talk with the school’s basketball and football coach (Ray McKinnon, who gets to make a lot of Karrrr-azay faces in a bid to nip at Jim Carrey’s ankles) because of course, young black men are athletic and will make fine additions to any team. Turns out, Tony has ANOTHER young, potentially athletic black man under his occasional care (aka, he sometimes sleeps on Tony’s couch) named Big Mike (Quinton Aaron, who gets to...mumble and occasionally walk), and wouldn’t it be great if he could go to school too? 

Yes, that’s a fine idea, and what a nice gesture from a caring man like Tony.

Now to follow in the footsteps of the film, let us never speak of Tony again.

Big Mike walks to school and stands out, according to one source, like a fly in milk because apparently, there are no black people in Christian small towns. No black people except for Big Mike. And Tony and Stephen, but they have served the script’s purpose and seem to have evaporated into the glistening Caucasian air. Since they don’t have any nice white people to adopt them, we’re led to believe they will probably turn to drugs and die early deaths.

In the classroom, Big Mike is kind of a drag. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem to learn. Teachers snidely talk about his lack of ability, and Big Mike spends a few evenings hanging out at a laundromat and making hesitant eyes at the town’s only black woman (bwamm chikka chikka chikka) until one day, while walking nowhere in the rain, he crosses the street in front of the Tuohy family. Father Tuohy, played by Tim McGraw as a man comprised entirely of knowing grins, tells Big Mike he can “go on,” because apparently black people need permission to cross the street in 21st century Tennessee. Leigh Anne (Sandra Bullock in what I believe to be a role she sold her soul to Satan to be considered for an Oscar for) insists Big Mike come home to the Tuohy mansion and spend the night on the couch. (bwamm chikka chikka chikka). 

The next morning, she wakes up and wonders if he stole anything.

He didn’t, of course, because he had been touched by the spirit of Caucasia. Leigh Anne drives Big Mike to his mother’s house on The Other Side of Town where a bunch of thuggish black men call her Snowflake and suggestively wink in her direction. Clearly homeless, Big Mike sheepishly returns and before long, the Tuohys (teen daughter and horrendous man-child son S.J. included) are sharing their Thanksgiving dinner with the monosyllabic new guest and Leigh Anne is buying him rugby shirts, making his futon, and attending parent teacher conferences where she learns that Michael (as he’s now known because nobody on the Streets ever knew he didn’t like being called Big Mike) tested in the 98th percentile for “protective instincts.” 

Now I’m not from the south, but are students really tested on this? Am I crazy, or is this something generally reserved to describe quality guard dogs? Anyway, Big Mike gets some extra help tutoring from kindly teacher Kim Dickens (bwamm chikka chikka) and starts to smile more. Also, he gets pet by S.J.

D’oh! I skipped over the amazingly poignant scene wherein the Tuoys go to a fancy restaurant for dinner, and Michael stays behind to embrace the busboy. When asked about the identity of this rare African American male not selling drugs on The Wrong Side of Town, Michael explains that he is his brother.

And like Tony and Stephen, we never see him again.

Anyway, Michael becomes such a big part of the family, he’s actually allowed to pose with the Tuoys ) for their annual Christmas portrait! Of course, Leigh Anne assures the slack-jawed McGraw that she won’t use the photo on the Christmas card but cut to--get this--the Christmas card, complete with Michael’s smiling mug in the background! You totally didn’t see that coming, did you??? 

Naturally, the questions start coming. Leigh Anne sometimes dines on $18 salads with a few girlfriends who wear really big accessories and colorful scarves, which naturally means they’re the kind of women who don’t approve of a black man sharing house space with Leigh Anne or her 16 year old daughter Collins. One of them even compares the Christmas card to a still from 1976’s King Kong, 

which is a terribly cruel insult to both black people and Jessica Lange. 

The other great thing about this scene is it gives us the opportunity to hear this line: 

“You’re changing that boy’s life.” 

To which we can all mouth in prediction at the same time Leigh Anne’s heartfelt response:

“No. He’s changing mine.” (presumably by teaching her that black people like rugby shirts)

Soon it’s time to legally adopt Michael, a surprisingly easy feat when you’re white and Southern because you can waltz into a state office, cut the line, and charm everyone around you with your own protective pluck and low cut top. Leigh Anne is also saddened by just how easy a process it is to claim a young black man as your own, so she seeks out Michael’s birth mother so that she can direct her pity somewhere else. According to a social worker, this is a woman who’s been described as having “more than a dozen” children and naturally, there’s little Leigh Anne can do to comfort her (bwamm chickka chickka).

Leigh Anne can, however, buy Michael a brand new truck and Michael can, of course, take freckly demon seed S.J. out for a spin and immediately get into a nearly fatal crash because he was distracted singing “Bust A Move” with a nine-year-old rather than watching the road. 

Sadly, S.J. survives unscathed.

Oh well, glad that unpleasantness is behind us, because now it’s FOOTBALL SEASON! Remember, this is the whole reason Michael ever had a shot at The Good Life With White People, so it’s very important that this young man prove himself on the field. Unfortunately, football is haaaaaard. Poor Michael can’t really get a grip on the logistics, but more importantly, the big guy seems positively timid when it comes to tackling other men. Coach Rubber Face can do nothing but cross his eyes and make stupid mouth gestures. Thankfully, Leigh Anne is watching eagle eyed and solves the problem: Michael doesn’t want to hurt anybody, but if he thinks of the football team as his family and the other guys as Oompah Loompahs, he’ll be amazing! 

Remember, this is the same dog--dude, I mean dude, who tested in the 98th percentile for protective instincts.

Cut to the first Big Game, where Michael is a little slow to get moving. Also, everyone in the crowd not now in love with Michael is a blazing racist because the only black people they know--if any--come from The Wrong Side of Town. This also applies to the referee, who flags Michael for no reason other than, we’re all supposed to believe, the color of his skin. Because there are no black people playing football in 21st century Tennessee. Ah well, at least this is enough to make Coach Stupid Rubber Face realize that he loves Michael like a son. Naturally. 

So now Michael is popular ‘n stuff and everyone--including football coaches and college recruiters--want a piece of him. We even get a scene where Leigh Anne watches--in between coaching cheerleading, apparently--as a huddle of white men approach Michael and eye his giant arms as if they’re primed for heavy labor on the cotton fields. 

Again, really wish I was joking.

Since there’s still another 30 minutes let in the film, it’s time for Another Conflict. This time, Michael needs to raise his grades a bit, which is easy enough when Kathy Bates is your tutor (even if she is shhhhh! a Democrat; bwam chickka chicka). Of course, there’s one crusty old white English teacher who isn’t charmed by Michael’s poor writing skills. This is where Smiley McGraw comes in handy to recite The Charge of the Light Brigade to an otherwise possibly illiterate Michael, who then writes an essay that earns him the A he needs. 

No comment on the fact that Michael doesn’t seem to actually read the poem, providing struggling English students with a very poor example of how to earn a scholarship (i.e., have a dad like Tim McGraw).

So you thought we’re ready for the Happy Ending, right? Nooooooo. We need to EARN it! This is a Best Picture nominee, for goodness sake. See, now that Michael is the cat’s plus size pajamas, he can actually choose which university to bestow his greatness upon. Like the rest of the film, there’s no actual thought process for the character to go through. He simply mumbles in agreement after a quick montage where various men in suits wine and dine him and, more importantly, precocious little S.J. who’s far more concerned with what gee whiz bonus he gets in return for Michael’s letter of intent. 

After a lot of casual prodding, Michael decides to attend Ole Miss (which I assume is code for the University of Mississippi, but I’m not southern so I probably don’t deserve to know) but there’s Drama here because this is the alma mater of both Tuoys. Leigh Anne was even a cheerleader there! So in steps the NCAA to investigate whether the Tuoys just adopted this defensive prodigy in the hopes of improving their Division I’s roster. A black woman with a severe haircut and, most likely no happy adolescence with a nice white family is positively mean to the baffled Michael. 

Hurt and shocked at being allowed to display any sign of individuality, Michael storms off and returns to his childhood home where all the poor black people are doing drugs and drinking alcohol. I’d really like to pretend that was an exaggeration. It’s not.

Michael hesitantly parties with his new friends, (bwammm chicka chicka) but gets upset when they make sexual comments about his snowflake of a mother and white sister. I mean, Michael has shown absolutely no interest in the opposite sex the entire film, so naturally the mere thought that someone else would say such words rile his Protective Instinct (98 %, remember). Bad Black Drug Dealer pulls a gun on Michael, but since our hero is working on protective adrenaline, he easily KOs BBDD and three other villainous, non-white tutored thugs and leaves.

This brings us to the arguably Greatest Scene of All Time, and easily the reason Sandra Bullock will walk home with a quickly lessening in value Oscar in a few days. Leigh Anne has had time to think about the past year’s events and has concluded that she might not a good person. To make peace with herself, she drives back to The Wrong Side of Town to confront The Bad Black Guys, most of whom sit menacingly on a porch with their tattoos glistening with nefarious intentions under the hot sun. With her Wonder Bra beaming and southern accent chirping, Leigh Anne convinces the crowd that she’s a proud NRA member holding a gun in her designer purse. 

That’s all they need to let her go. (bwamm chick chicka)

Wow white people rule. They even intimidate black people with their sass!

Michael, meanwhile, is eventually found (not that hard because he’s the only black person on the Not Wrong Side of Town, and horizontal stripes from rugby shirts help to widen his girth even further). Leigh Anne apologizes, Michael decides Ole Miss will be his new home no matter what, and an epilogue leads them to orientation day on campus. A few attractive freshmen pass his glance, to which Leigh Anne then threatens to cut off his penis if he dares impregnate a fellow student. 

“She means it!”  says S.J. with a smile, finally confirming what I suspected from the beginning: that he is indeed a 30 year old man akin to Burial Ground’s Peter Bark, only Leigh Anne castrated him when he did indeed get someone pregnant. It explains so very much.

Real-life footage pops up over the credits as the actual Michael Oher gets drafted by the NFL, daughter Collins gets the surely equal in grandeur honor of becoming a college cheerleader, S.J. gets to walk onto the opening day football field wearing a sweater vest, and the audience around me mumbles how wonderful the last 2 hours of hell were. I consider suicide.

Lessons Learned

Owning 85 Taco Bells is an incredibly lucrative profession

The bigger the accessories, the bigger the racist

You’ll never love clothing nearly as much as you love it in the store

Thugs packing heat are easily intimidated by prayer group presidents

Disclaimer

Please understand, I mean no disrespect to the Tuohy family or Michael Oher. If this indeed their story, then more power to them for being kind and charitable and defeating the odds. They--but more importantly, we--simply deserve better. 

Conclusion

This film received a nomination as Best Picture of the Year. Enough of the Hollywood industry considered this to be just as good, if not better than, Inglourious Basterds. Thus far, it’s made over ten times more money than The Hurt Locker. This, a film in which every line that isn’t shockingly offensive in a did-they-really-say-that way, is anticipated by any audience member with a slight hold on the English language. A film that insists, sometimes outright, that black people suffer in the world every day but every once in a while, a loving white family can change that. A film whose central character has zero weight on anything that happens around him.

An equally long essay could be written comparing The Blind Side to Precious, a film also about an overweight, underloved African American. But see the difference, to sum up quickly, is that Precious cares about its lead. It empowers her. It allows actress Gabourey Sidibe room to create a human being that can be hurt and find her own strength to deal with that, occasionally with help from others but most importantly, from within herself. It’s not a flawless film by any means, but it is a film about characters that actually develop, for better and worse. Quinton Aaron's only direction as an actor is to quietly accept everything white people tell him. 

Although, it should be noted, Michael is often compared to an onion composed of many layers. 

Yes, just like Shrek.

The Blind Side is a McDonald’s--or, more appropriately, Taco Bell--dollar menu item. Seemingly appealing, yet less fulfilling than the gum scraped off a sidewalk. Dangerous to your health and destructive to the minds and bodies of those that consume it. It creates an imaginary fantasy world where people are either amazingly angelic, uneducated and dangerous, or blank slates willing to fall on whichever side seizes them with prettier colors. 

This film makes me embarrassed to be considered white. And alive.

Now let's forget our troubles with a cute photo of an English bulldog puppy.