Getting ready for a February Oscar party, in which one enters a pot to choose the winners, I've been on a movie-watching binge. On a cold, gray Sunday afternoon, we saw "Revolutionary Road," the DiCaprio-Winslet hysteria fest. The film was a worthy depiction of Richard Yates' novel, yet, for all of the stars' emoting, I don't think it hit the depths of despair or reached the artistry of the book. Michael Shannon's performance as the mentally disturbed son of the real-estate agent channelled Robert Lowell, in a mild manic phase. The editing was jarring and at times incoherent.
Earlier, we saw "Doubt," which I found overly rhetorical. The plot devices and issues struck me as contrived and unconvincing. The sight of Meryl Streep and Amy Adams in those nun's bonnets struck me as more "Scarlet Letter" than the mid-20th century. Something about the writing hit false notes for me.
And then, I saw "Wall-E" on on demand. Sorry, robots in love and fat-people cartoons don't send me. I saw the excellence of the animation, but could only appreciate the movie on an intellectual, not visceral level. Hearing the robots' plaintive bleatings of each other's names was akin to the proverbial fingernails on the blackboard.
With nearly a month to go to Oscar night, perhaps I'll see a few more. "Slumdog Millionare" looks appealing. After Mickey Rourke's amusingly boorish Golden Globes performance, perhaps I'll see "The Wrestler." Alas, I doubt that any of today's Oscar contenders will have the narrative skill and star power of the average Hollywood vehicle of 40 or 50 years ago. They don't make them like they used to.
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