There is a good scene partway through Remember Me, Robert Pattinson’s newest appeal to America’s loins.  In it, Tyler (Pattinson) and his girlfriend (Emilie de Ravin) list off fat New York Yankee players to irk Tyler’s rich, insensitive, Yankee-loving father (Pierce Brosnan).  It’s a welcome comedic moment in a film that generally feels smothered by its’ desire to be taken seriously.

See, most romantic films (in the US, at least) are comedies, right?  Well, Remember Me is a romantic drama!  Bet you didn’t see that coming.  Characters hit each other in anger, excessive drinking leads to vomiting, and Tyler quotes Gandhi, because he’s deep like that.  So deep that he gets his ass kicked standing up to an unfeeling NYC cop.  And then he picks up that cops daughter, out of revenge.

But they are actually perfect for each other, because they tragically deceased relatives (his brother, suicide, her mother, murder victim).  The script isn’t horrible, per say, but Pattinson simply cannot navigate scenes that don’t consist of looking hot and brooding.

There is a big twist ending that I won’t divulge, but suffice to say it exploits recent history for maximum emo-ness.  I saw the film at a preview screening, and when the credit rolled a girl in front of me stood up and loudly apologized to her group of friends for making them attend.

One last gripe: Remember Me features what I call the “Garden State effect,” whereby a spunky female love-interest is cured of  all discernible personality and joke-telling ability by sleeping with the protagonist.

 

The Crazies needed a Keanu Reeves type: someone to look worried for minutes on end only to crack a half-smile so easy and reassuring, it could only come from the mouth of a genuine movie star.  Timothy Olyphant as sheriff David Dutton is not blessed with this gift.  He is stiffer than most of the zombies he battles off.  Olyphant belongs in a Michael Mann movie or a shaving commercial. 
 
The Crazies follows the zombie movie structure blindly, or maybe just lazily.  Act I: zombies show up; we’ve got to fight them.  Act II: it’s a government thing; survivors must regroup and take a break from fighting zombies.  (Supposedly we get to know the non-zombie characters better in this act.)  Act III: the zombies come back; we’ve got to fight them again.
 
Now I admit there were scenes in Act I where I almost spilled my popcorn, but that was only a few times.  By the time the gov’t showed up — the filmmakers attempt to make them scary, too — my popcorn was never again in jeopardy.
 
Don’t see it unless you see every zombie movie that comes out and you take zombies really, really seriously.

On the way to Alice In Wonderland, I stopped in a pizzeria.  On a big Samsung television, above the soda fountain, there played Robots.  It reminded me of the old days when I would seek happiness in a movie like Bolt or Igor.
 
First of all, why do they make all these movies where everyone talks on cell phones, percolates coffee, wears ties and has female troubles (all the main characters being male)?  Only they’re talking robots or fish or bees or frankenstein’s assistants?  There is no imagination (Pixar being the exception).  Why don’t they get honest and have young humans trying to change the way things are from their apartments in New York or L.A.? 
 
My point is that Robots — which I watched for about half an hour — was so formulaic, depressingly so, I realized I could very well do without Alice In Wonderland, even if there was not one cellphone opened (onscreen) for the whole movie.  When you feel only the formula, there is a problem.
 
(Knowing Burton, he’ll probably stay pretty close to the original text.  So it’s not that.  It’s just, do I need another animated comedy that’s supposed to be high flying adventure, yet I don’t care a wink about the characters?  It goes against the spirit of this website, but no, I don’t.)
 
The pizza, by the way, was too doughy and made me feel sick for about an hour.

That being said, the Oscars are by far the most renowned awards a movie can receive, at least here in America. Festival awards, especially the plethora of Sundance prizes, are certainly coveted and in many ways respected a good deal more than the Academy Awards, among the die-hard indie filmmaking crowds, but since its inception in 1927, and especially since the first public awards ceremony that evolved out of the fledgling Academy two years later in 1929, the Oscars have captured the attention of the average American audience unlike any other awards ceremony, save perhaps the anointing of a President every four years.

You simply can’t deny the power this ceremony has come to leverage over the movie industry, made up, as it is, by some of the most powerful figures both onscreen, and off. It commands an entire evening of prime-time television; draws a veritable army of actors, directors, producers, techies, publications, fashion designers, pundits, critics, and star-struck, red-carpet cheerleaders out to the Hollywood-based Kodak Theater, essentially shutting down some of the busiest areas in LA for days; and even forces studios to rearrange their production and release schedules in order to maximize the chances a particularly heavy-hitting film has at getting a shot at one (or often, many) of these golden-overlaid nudie statues. (Contrary to popular belief, the Oscar itself is made of “brittanium”, and is merely covered in a layer of gold, much like the discrepancy bewteen the surface and substance of the films that win. I find that amusing)

Of course, the Oscars are just as susceptible to the forces of advertising, popularity and politicking as any other national-spotlight driven event, leading to my 15 year old disgust with the entire process. At the time, I had assumed these awards were given out based on some kind of artistic merit, which, in the years since, I’ve learned to be the naive idealism of youth. Studios prepare for months, and often years, to set the stage for an Oscar-hopeful film to be received in the best light possible, often crafting elaborate campaigns to spread “the buzz” among the right crowds in the hopes of maneuvering a potential contender into the final nominations list. Frequently, just as with any other political sport, issues like artistry and talent are set aside for the more tabloid-sized aspects of a film, like it’s studio power, box office gross, and celebrity.

In that vein, we here at I’ll Watch Anything embrace the many sides of the Oscar feeding frenzy, and present to you our picks for the more well-known categories, both those we hope would win (based on, you know, quality) and the cold, soul-crushing reality of the ones we actually expect to win (based on, you know, superficiality). We’re skipping some of the smaller awards because… we can.

Enjoy, and feel free to include yourself and your picks in the comments section!

For a complete list of all the Oscar awards (including the seven other lesser-publicized awards given at the Academy Awards ceremony), check out IMDB’s excellent coverage.

Under each category, you’ll find our predictions for who will win, and in parenthesis, who we think should win.

Best Picture:
Jared - Hurt Locker (District 9)
Harrison- Avatar  (Avatar)
Timothy-Hurt Locker (White Ribbon)

Best Actor:
Jared- Jeff Bridges  (Jeremy Renner)
Harrison-  George Clooney (Jeremy Renner)
Timothy-Jeff Bridges (Paul Rudd, I Love You, Man)

Best Actress:
Jared- Sandra Bullock  (Meryl Streep)
Harrison- Gabourey Sidibe (Meryl Streep)
Timothy-Cary Mulligan (Charlotte Gainsbourg, Antichrist)

Supporting Actor:
Jared- Cristoph Waltz (Cristoph Waltz)
Harrison- Cristoph Waltz (Cristoph Waltz)
Timothy Parfitt-Waltz (Waltz)

Supporting Actress:
Jared- Mo’Nique (Mo’Nique)
Harrison- Vera Farmiga (Maggie Gyllenhaal)
Timothy-Mo-nique (Lorna Raver, Drag Me to Hell)

Best Director:
Jared- Kathryn Bigelow (James Cameron)
Harrison- Kathryn Bigelow (Kathryn Bigelow)
Timothy-Bigelow (Bigelow)

Best Original Screenplay:
Jared-  Mark Boal (Quentin Tarantino)
Harrison- Quentin Tarantino (Quentin Tarantino)
Timothy-Tarentino (The Young Victoria)

Best Screenplay Adaptation:
Jared- District 9 *TIE* Precious
Harrison- An Education (District 9)
Timothy-Up in the Air (In the Loop)

Best Animated Feature:
Jared-  Up (Fantasic Mr. Fox)
Harrison- Princess and the Frog (Fantastic Mr. Fox)

Best Cinematography:
Jared-  Avatar (Avatar) [Harry Potter runner-up]
Harrison- Avatar (Avatar)

Best Foreign Language Film:
Jared- A Prophet (A Prophet)
Harrison- White Ribbon (White Ribbon)

Best Documentary Feature:
Jared- The Cove (The Cove)
Harrison- The Cove (The Cove)

I would not call this movie a masterpiece.  To say that, I think you would need to give it at least a couple of years and a couple more viewings.  But it feels like a masterpiece.  Hours after leaving the theater, my mind would return to the French prison where the movie is set; a haunting world impossible to forget. 

The movie is long, though I do not mean that in the usual sense; it does not fall apart halfway through like, say, Avatar.  It’s just long (150 minutes), with a fantastic last shot.   

The dream sequences are questionable. Not offensively bad, but since the movie is so stark the rest of the time, director Jacques Audiard’s artistic license here seems a little forced and definitely out of place.  Maybe that was the point, but for me, it did not work. 

Otherwise, A Prophet is a raging success: scary, gripping, and not without a sense of humor.  The main character Malik El Djebena (played unapologetically by Tahar Rahim) is relatable – no matter how bad he gets – because we are with him every step of the way, as he heads towards doing something unconscionable.  (He was so relatable, in fact, I am now growing a mustache in an attempt to look like him.)

Partway through The Ghost Writer, the latest film by Roman Polanski, the title figure (played by Ewan McGregor) stares in a mirror and tells himself not to have sex with the vulnerable woman in the other room.  And then he does.  Polanski, strangely,  plays this as a joke, one of many in a film that works both a superb, traditional thriller and as a grim addition to his oeuvre.

McGregor plays a writer hired to help British politician Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan) finish his autobiography.  The action largely takes place on Martha’s Vineyard-type island, where our hero finds himself alternately employee, prisoner, and detective in Lang’s kingdom.  He fixates on his predecessor, who washed up on the beach, a supposed suicide.

Suspenseful at time, more deliberate and atmospheric at others, The Ghost Writer evokes some of the director’s past work (specifically Chinatown and The Tenant).  The settings of Massachusetts sea-sides and forests, shot in Germany and Denmark, add a surreal quality to the sinister landscape.  While the film may not be audacious or apologetic enough to win those who have sworn off Polanski, it should be essential viewing for anyone looking for danger at the Cineplex.

This is a pretty common story. An olive in a bowl of cherries, something like that; a fish out of water, etc. Recently we have seen this theme in Did You Hear About The Morgans? – a NYC couple (Sarah Jessica Parker and Hugh Grant) get relocated to a small town in Wyoming by the witness protection program – and New In Town – Renée Zellweger is a Miami businesswoman who moves to a small town in Minnesota. I have seen neither of these movies (despite the name of this website); my point is that this is a narrative device for comedies still used today. Moreover, Ruggles of Red Gap took on many forms before 1935. It was a novel, a play, and two silent films, though the most successful was this version here, starring Charles Laughton as an English butler, Marmaduke Ruggles, working in Paris under the Earl of Burnstead, a rather dapper man prone to mumbling, who uses poor Mr. Ruggles as a stake in a poker game. Ruggles is won by a New Money cowboy, Egbert Floud (Charlie Ruggles (the actor’s name is purely coincidental)), and taken away to a small American town: Red Gap, Washington. Before they leave, however, Egbert gets his new decidedly uptight butler drunk to the point where all Ruggles can do is hoot, giggle, and ride Egbert as if Egbert was a horse: something Ruggles learned, of course, from Egbert. Ruggles’ untimely display of periodic tippling causes Egbert’s socially conscious (if not socially paranoid) wife, Effie Floud (Mary Boland) to threaten to terminate her new butler, though she inevitably lets him off the hook and even allows him a morning snifter which she says will solve Ruggles’ hangover, not that she would know firsthand.

The trio head for Red Gap. Ruggles’ head is a cloud of delusions about the place: wild Indians will scalp him, he’s sure of it. Yet it doesn’t take long for Ruggles to adjust to Red Gap, helped by the town’s misconception that he is a colonel, because of Egbert’s calling him that, like some people say, “Pal.” Ruggles courts a woman – Prunella Judson, played by ZaSu Pitts – who is also the hired help. Ruggles later admits to her he is not, in fact, a decorated colonel, but a butler and a cook.

After a few twists and turns, and the recitation of the Gettysburg Address, Prunella and Ruggles successfully open a restaurant. The End.

The beauty of this movie is it takes archetypal characters (a stiff British butler, a hootin’ an’ hollerin’ rich cowboy, or the cowboy’s mannish mother who is named Ma) and turns them into real and extremely likeable people. To let our guard down around a character as stereotypical as Egbert Floud and to find he is a genuine friend to Ruggles and an altogether good man is a real nice feeling. It is a pleasure to watch Ruggles succeed, as we know he will. And what would a warm-hearted comedy be without some despicable villains? Effie Floud, Egbert’s phony wife, and Effie’s scheming brother – I can’t find his name, sorry – are dead set against our hero every step of the way, and we’d just like to kick them in the ass, as Ruggles, at one point, does. There is also Lord Burnstead (Roland Young), Ruggles’ previous “owner,” the one who lost Ruggles in the poker match; he surprised me because, though he is a very affable fellow, he does not see Ruggles’ stepping out on a limb and starting his own restaurant as a noble task; rather, he wonders why Ruggles will not come back to serve him.

The movie is a pleasure because of Charles Laughton. His peculiar smile and his seemingly crossed eye, as well as his brilliant comic timing, enraptured and delighted me. He is simply top-notch. At the end of the movie, when the restaurant patrons sing, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” to an unsuspecting Ruggles, and his eyes go glassy, so did mine.

It’s short, too: 90 minutes.

Mongol is a fun bio-pic unencumbered by realism or recent history.  Genghis Khan ruled Eurasia so long ago that his story can be built from scratch.  Set against gorgeous scenery (shot in China and Kazakhstan), Mongol focuses on how the boy became the conquerer.

Temujin is the only son of a khan who gets poisoned.  Soon the family’s entire possessions are looted and a rival vows to return to kill Temujin as soon as he is old enough to die.  Thankfully puberty holds off a while, at least long enough for him to see the wolf-god and become a badass. He comes eight years late to his wedding and his bride is there waiting for him, wicked hot.

The film is a German/Mongolia/Kazakhstani/Russian co-production, and one of the pleasures of Mongol is seeing an epic that want to compete with Hollywood on its own terms, with its own heroes.  Genghis: warrior, stud, icon.

If there is one thing I hate, it’s mediocrity.  And boy, is Up in the Air Mediocre.  Set adrift without a driving plot, the film leans heavily on George Clooney’s charm.  If you are still partial to said charm, you may like this movie.  If like me, however, you now find Mr. Clooney unable or unwilling to blend into a film or inhabit a character, stay away.*

In the film, Clooney plays Ryan Bingham, a frequent flier who has made traveling on business an art form and a philosophy.  Plus, he fires people for a living (how au courrant!).  Pursuing his nirvana of 10 million American Airline miles, only subplots starring Anna Kendrick and Vera Farmiga (the Departed) stand in his way.  All of this is entertaining, but exceedingly forgettable.

*Clooney should look for a role where he can subvert his pansexual flirting, like what Tom Cruise pulled off in Magnolia.  Right now I feel like he is failing in his primary job, as an actor.  Maybe I am simply jealous of his smile and perfectly formed wrinkles.

I really don’t think you want to see this.