My editors keep apologizing to me.
They say they’re sorry for giving me all these bad movies to review, but, like, they have to take the good ones since, you know, they’re the editors. They’re just . more important. And they hope I understand.
So I lower my eyes a little bit. I tell them it’s no big deal. I gesticulate as if I’m shooing away a stubborn mosquito, and I say, “Nah.”
I’m pretending to pretend to be standing up pretty well as a martyred peon. In their eyes, I am a defeated but valiant critic – a loyal goat writer that chokes down all their cinematic leftovers and vomits them back up on a big sheet of newsprint.
But I know something they don’t know.
I know that while my noble-winged editors may walk out of “Munich” with a new awareness of historical goings-on and maybe a bright-eyed, synecdochic understanding about the concept of terrorism in general, I walk out of “Underworld: Evolution” with a grin borne of my liver and the beginnings of an erection. My editors think they’re enlightened. They’re actually depressed. I, on the other hand, am quenching my Freudian thirsts. One word, bitches: viscera.
So, needless to say, when the Oscar nominations came out, I was completely taken aback. Where is “Saw II?” Where is “Cry Wolf?” Where are all my movies? Obviously, the people choosing these films, unlike me, care nothing for their malnourished, frozen loins. They can’t sleep at night. They toss and sweat, thinking about racism or terrorism or McCarthyism or the life of Truman Capote. And then when they do sleep, they have to deal with most unnerving nightmares: Heath Ledger charging naked through a black-and-white television studio with a loaded bazooka and a cigarette.
Meanwhile, I’m dreaming of a Jessica Alba in a bikini. She’s chewing on little clay pieces of Wallace and Gromit and grinding quite naughtily with Usher. I sip my drink through a twisty straw.
I don’t know how the other half does it: such a dismal existence.
So here is a list of nominees for those who aren’t afraid to cater to their Dionysian whims – for those who’d rather watch something blow up than have their consciences marred by indirect politics.
Best Picture: “In the Mix”
This film not only satisfies our primal needs for intricate gunplay and hot Italian women, but also our need for pop-and-lock. Usher Raymond is a god among men, and each member of his eight pack should be deified. I will do that right now, and you can use this article as a reference. Starting left-to-right and top-to-bottom: the God of Pyrotechnics, the God of Large Firearms, the God of Sustained Arrhythmias, the God of Orgasm, the God of Elaborate Tattoo Art, the God of Lingerie, the God of Steak and the God of Manual Transmission.
Best Actor in a Leading Role: The Rock
The world could not have asked for a better alien killer. Let’s give him some real guns and send him to Mars. For our protection, of course.
Best Actress in a Leading Role: Orlando Bloom
Did anyone see “Elizabethtown?” Fantastic.
Lifetime Achievement Award: Jean-Claude Van Damme
Chuck Norris and Jackie Chan might have fast hands and wicked roundhouse kicks, but do they have a waxed chest? Nope. Belgian accent? Nope. Only Jean-Claude has been able to provide the English-speaking community with the one-two-three punch of world-class ass-kicking, Western European charm and the ability to do the splits on a kitchen counter without busting out of his boxer briefs.
I hope that my luck continues in 2006. I hope that “bad movies” will remain “bad movies.” I hope that my dreams can stay pleasant – that my editors will still be thrilled to wallow in their guilt and depression. I will keep my mouth shut. I will just eat my extra-buttery popcorn, watch some sweet decapitations and smile.