Translucent Tigers, Bob Saget
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Ang Lee’s superb martial arts melodrama (even though everyone seems dead set on calling it an epic, but I’d like to note that the picture weighs in at a decidedly trim 120 minutes) CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON may very well pick up as many as 10 Academy Awards next Monday evening. Given the other nominees in the respective categories, it deserves to win no fewer than four (Picture, Director, Original Score, Foreign Language Film) at the very least. But the question is whether this would necessarily be a good thing.
Over the past decade, the Oscars have done an expert job of squandering whatever credibility they once had, and are now on the verge of becoming a glorified rubber-stamp award show recognizing whatever is hot at the box office in a given year, artistic merit be damned. The same could be said of the Grammies, of course, but even they manage to maintain some professional distance from what is purely pop—even if only by overlooking Eminem and others in order to salute Steely Dan’s first record in 20 years (to their benefit, Fagen and Becker did look suitably bewildered when accepting their multiple awards). Then again, the Grammies never had any real credibility to speak of, having long been at least two decades behind in recognizing the cutting edge in whatever genre of music. Actually, the more apt analogy for the Oscars would be the Billboard Music Awards, which is quite literally a rubber stamp of a sad little affair, as pointless as it is self-congratulatory.
For those (I am one) then who look favorably upon the decline in the Academy Awards’ credibility as a gauge for the best in film, what could be better than for Ridley Scott’s entirely mediocre Gladiator to make a grand sweep of the night, winning in all 12 categories for which it is nominated. This would make it the winningest film in Oscar history (by one trophy over both Ben-Hur and Titanic), a truly preposterous triumph that would completely overshadow such lesser absurdities as a win for the film’s half-assed watery visual effects or the Best Supporting Actor trophy going to Joaquin Phoenix (who, we can only hope, would celebrate his victory by OD-ing on bad E outside the Viper Room).The entertainment press would coo and preen over the triumph the next day, as per the script, but at some point embarrassment would have to start setting in. Wouldn’t it? Think about it: Gladiator is not the best film ever, not by a long shot. It’s not the best movie of the last decade or of the last year. In all fairness, however, it was probably the best movie released in the United States on May 5, 2000 (the other contenders in this category being the truly loathsome trio of Up at the Villa, Human Traffic, and I Dreamed of Africa). This kind of collective bad judgment may not be up there with Nazi war crimes, but it’s still not the kind of thing I’d want to have to explain to my grandkids. At least not to any grandkids that were worth their salt.
On the other hand, a split decision with at least a few awards going to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon could add some respectability to both this year’s show and the Oscar institution as a whole. Unlike last year’s big winner, American Beauty (this win being essentially a bone thrown to “serious” film audience as an apology of sorts for the Titanic embarrassment two years earlier, which blinded most people to the fact that American Beauty was no less despicable), CT,HD is truly a film worthy of merit, regardless of what you might think about carpetbagger director Ang Lee and his previous work. The performances by Michelle Yeoh and Chow Yun-Fat (not to mention Zhang Ziyi and Chang Chen in quasi-supporting roles) are first-rate from a dramatic point of view and utterly spectacular from an action point of view. Curiously, not one of the film’s nine nominations was in an acting category—I guess all those crazy Chinamen do kinda look alike. The fight scenes (choreographed by legendary Hong Kong action director Yuen Wo-Ping, he whose talents were used on secondment by The Matrix) are literally breath-taking. The melodramatic plot—which plays as if seeking to reclaim for the entire Eastern Hemisphere the narrative style borrowed from Akira Kurosawa by George Lucas when he made Star Wars—is another strength, executed just lightly and sparsely enough to encompass the film’s genre-weaving of epic, romance, magic, and myth without causing the entire structure to collapse under its own weight. What’s still more surprising, the musical score (rightfully nominated for an Oscar, although John Williams can be expected to pick up his 28th or so trophy for The Patriot) is flawlessly conceived and orchestrated, everything a film score should be.
In fact, the film’s only glaring flaw is the cheesy Disney-fied pop song (“A Love Before Time,” performed by some kind of Southeast Asian Celine Dion) that begins playing about halfway through the closing credits (hint: leave the theater before the cast credits have finished rolling unless you want the experience to be partially soured). This too was deemed worthy of an Oscar nod, although in this case you can expect the award to go to sentimental favorite Bob Dylan for his contribution to the critically hyped but largely ignored Wonder Boys. Personally, I’d love to see Sting take home the trophy for his “My Funny Friend and Me” from The Emperor’s New Groove. Even at his age, Bob Dylan should have better things to do than schlep around Hollywood appearing at award shows like a damn museum exhibit. His in-person acceptance of the award at this year’s Golden Globes will forever be a humiliating memory for anyone who has ever listened to Highway 61 Revisited more than once.Anyway, the only sensible reason to root for a CT,HD Oscar triumph is if this results in the making of more quality films. But somehow, I just don’t see that happening. So good luck to Russell Crowe and the entire Gladiator crew—hit ole Charlton Heston where it hurts. In other words, here’s hoping that Ridley Scott’s million-dollar CGI tigers can pounce Ang Lee’s metaphorical one, and that all will remain right with Hollywood—and the world.
Other Oscar Notes: After nearly a year of nonstop praise for his two borderline passable stylized genre exercises Erin Brockovich and Traffic (both of which were nominated for both Best Picture and Best Director), Steven Soderbergh is now being lauded for his supposedly principled decision not to lobby for either film in particular, which will effectively split the vote and leave him empty-handed. Fuck that. Soderbergh is a fascist twerp and deserves to win Best Director for Erin Brockovich. It would also be good for the overall humiliation of everyone involved if favorite Julia Roberts lost Best Actress to Juliette Binoche in Chocolat. By that rationale, it would also be nice if Robert Nelson Jacobs were to win Best Adapted Screenplay for Chocolat over the much more deserving O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And speaking of the Coen Brothers, isn’t it funny that, after The Big Lebowski (and Jeff Bridges in particular) was completely ignored by the Oscars, the Coens are this year partial favorites to win for adapted screenplay (despite now claiming that they never actually read The Odyssey, on which O Brother is supposedly based), while Bridges is nominated for his bland Lebowski-alluding supporting role in The Contender? Yes, it is funny. It’s fucking hilarious.