Film: Lord and Master

Men and their fantasies at the 76th Annual Academy Awards

By Jeannette Catsoulis

The nominations are announced, the Academy is taking a well-earned nap and Nicole Kidman is looking up "overexposed" in the dictionary. But as the anointed jostle for appointments with their plastic surgeons--and the shunned wish they had returned Peter Jackson's phone calls--some of you may be wondering why so many of this year's films are being discussed in terms of adjectives like "bleak" and "dismal" and "grim." And why the most fun you had in a movie theater all year involved Jack Black and a passel of kids.

From House of Sand and Fog to Cold Mountain, City of God to Mystic River, 21 Grams to Monster, feel-good experiences were in short supply. Prominent film critics, God bless them, are eager to offer explanations; but while Entertainment Weekly busily deconstructs Mystic River for signs of post-9/11 angst, and The New York Times develops its thesis on the rebirth of American idealism in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, I think something much more troubling is going on. The clue is right there in the Best Picture category, all but one presenting an overwhelmingly male world (and even Lost in Translation is more concerned with Bill Murray's midlife crisis than Scarlett Johansson's emotional limbo). Our screens are dominated by men on quests--for honor, for revenge, for glory, for self-knowledge. Mankind needs saving, and women need not apply. These films may not lack quality; but those of us who were seasick during Master and Commander, snoozed through Seabiscuit, and would be happy to see Elijah Wood take early retirement, have but one question: Where was the love?

More specifically, where was the sex? As we watched our manliest actors draw their swords, stroke their horses, float their boats, murder their friends and gallop through the Depression, we couldn't help noticing that last year's biggest movies were peculiarly chaste affairs. Though not nominated in this category, The Last Samurai saw Tom Cruise get more action from a bottle of hooch than from his female costar. Master and Commander? When even Russell Crowe is reduced to gazing passionately at Paul Bettany, things are very bad indeed. Lost in Translation? Aside from an off-screen fondle with a minor character, the only thing Bill Murray gets to wrap his lips around is a karaoke mike. The Return of the King? Three hours of battles and 21 minutes of total female screen time is not exactly a date movie. And don't even get me started on Mystic River, a film so claustrophobically homocentric it practically has "Stand By Your Man" on the soundtrack.

In a year when our most romantic movie featured actors who will never see 55 again, and even Charlize Theron was too ugly to take her clothes off, the sexiest thing on screen was Johnny Depp's swishy turn as Priscilla, Queen of the Ocean. Even the few recognized movies with something interesting to say to, and about, women were strangely averse to intimacy. After a lengthy tease, Cold Mountain's quickie in the snow was a romantic disappointment, while Lost in Translation's diaphanous panties remained an unfulfilled promise. (And much as I admire, even revere, the acting talents of William H. Macy, his full-frontal scene in The Cooler was more creepy than cute.) Meanwhile strong movies like Thirteen, The Missing, The Magdalene Sisters, Veronica Guerin and Kill Bill Vol.1--all female-driven, if unromantic, storylines--were almost completely ignored by the Academy. The message seems clear: when men go to war--at sea, in Middle-earth, on the racetrack, or on the streets of their home town--women need to shut up and keep the lovin' out of the way.

Will win: The Return of the King. If Jackson hasn't forced every one of the 2,000 people who worked on his trilogy to join the Academy in time for voting, he's a fool. Should win: Lost in Translation, because it's the only contender that gives a damn about a female audience.

Best Director

Oscar's narrowly focused celebration of testosterone-fuelled fantasies has bled into almost every category. While the most pressing concern--for producers of the telecast, at least--is whether Best Director nominee Peter Jackson will shave his feet (if not his face) before stepping onstage, it's worth noting that the addition of Fernando Meirelles for the overrated little-boys-running-wild-in-Brazil movie, City of God, only strengthens the overall masculine esthetic. The slighting of Quentin Tarantino and his exhilarating Kill Bill Vol.1 also says much about the mindset of this year's voters. Love or hate his slickness, there wasn't another director all year who gave us such a joyous display of movie love and woman worship. Shameful, too, is the omission of Gus Van Sant; unlike most Hollywood product, which fetishizes the exertion of control, Elephant's slow eruption into violence resonates with an honest and profound helplessness.

Will win: Please don't make me say it. Should win: Sofia Coppola. As the token woman with the token American indie (the first time an American woman has ever appeared in this category), she probably hasn't a prayer--despite being the only nominee whose touch with her actors is so light it's almost invisible.

Best Actor

In the race for Best Actor, only Johnny Depp's camp buccaneer in Pirates of the Caribbean threatens to alleviate the depressing tone of this year's entire event. (Two of the nominees in this group don't even make it to the final credits.) But since Depp's performance is more cabaret turn than acting, and Jude Law is the only male character in Cold Mountain who doesn't deserve a nomination, those slots should have been filled by Nick Nolte's solid anchoring of The Good Thief and Chiwetel Ejiofor's gentle decency in Dirty Pretty Things. Come decision time, if Depp is deemed too fey, Bill Murray too passive, and Ben Kingsley too depressing (and his Iranian colonel too ethnically sensitive), this could be Sean's year in spite of some heavy-handed emoting and a character who literally gets away with murder.

Will win: Sean Penn. Should win: Bill Murray--because, dammit, he should have won for Rushmore.

Best Actress

Braving the ire of the most feared group in Hollywood--showbiz moms--I nevertheless have to ask: What in Oscar's name is a 13-year-old kid doing with a Best Actress nomination? Yes, the whale thing was very cute; but if anything a child does in a movie is ever more than playing themselves in dress-up, I'll eat my Hope Davis wig from American Splendor. In a category filled with glaring omissions--Uma Thurman, Cate Blanchett, Scarlett Johansson, any one of the three leads in The Magdalene Sisters--the inclusion of this child is just silly. As for the rest, Charlize Theron is astounding, but I can't get past the props; I adore Samantha Morton, but Jim Sheridan's relentless self-promotion of In America has frayed my last nerve. And Naomi Watts' performance in 21 Grams, while heartbreaking, is also unvarying. Not that any of this matters; Charlize has been stomping the competition at every major awards event this year. Not even a whale would dare get in her way.

Will win: Charlize Theron. Should win: Diane Keaton. Not only does she deliver the most natural, unfussy performance of the year, she deserves the award just for convincing us Jack Nicholson would ever be attracted to any woman remotely close to his own age. Diane, women everywhere salute you.