Looking Back at Oscar, #65

For the next LBaO feature, we’re looking back at the Picture + acting Oscar nominees of the year 1992:


Chaplin
Crying Game
Damage
Enchanted April
A Few Good Men
Glengarry Glen Ross
Howards End
Husbands and Wives
Indochine
Lorenzo’s Oil
Love Field
Malcolm X
Mr. Saturday Night
My Cousin Vinny
Passion Fish
Scent of a Woman
Unforgiven

For my full length reviews of the following films, click here to see my Top 20 of the year post:
Crying Game
Howards End
Husbands and Wives
Malcolm X
Passion Fish
Unforgiven

Now for the rest! I did give a few of the following films some positive attention in my 1992 Year in Review post.

Chaplin
You can probably guess where I stand on this joyless, ugly looking disaster just from the knowledge of who directed it, for Richard Attenborough’s tendency to lionize whoever his subject was whenever making a biopic resulted in some of the most overrated mediocrity to hit the silver screen under the guise of being educational. While Gandhi at least had a certain epic sweep and a legitimately great Ben Kingsley performance, Chaplin has absolutely nothing going for it. Robert Downey Jr. may be a decent impersonator in terms of the Little Tramp’s physicality, but there’s nothing going on beyond loud dramatic proclamations about how he MUST make The Great Dictator. Directing the film in color results in some of the most unfortunate makeup work I’ve ever seen, a further distraction. Then you have to add in a clunky framing device (Anthony Hopkins is interviewing the now-elderly Charlie about the gaps in his autobiography, which just so happen to fill his entire life) and an array of horrible acting from everyone except Geraldine Chaplin, playing her mad grandmother. I hope she hated this film, because it’s genuinely awful to the legacy of one of the most talented directors and actors who ever lived. You have to laugh at how formulaic Charlie Chaplin’s life becomes-he sees Hitler and makes The Great Dictator! He sees men working and creates Modern Times! He sees a bowler hat and creates his most famous character! It’s inaccurate, stupid, far too grandiose, and annoyingly reverent, and it somehow does this all at the same time. Nowadays a movie of this quality would go straight to DVD or be shown on TV only…but then again, we recently had The Judge. Far more ridiculous is how the movie spends countless hours on people talking about how wonderful or awful the titular character is, but the women in his life are nothing but pretty faces. The mild misogyny present in Gandhi if you squinted hard reaches genuinely tedious levels for how it constantly lurks in the background like a shadow that no one seems to notice. Why was Attenborough so afraid to add flesh and blood to his movies? This version of Charlie Chaplin makes him seem like a mediocrity who just happened to get some success. One has to wonder if anyone involved with this middlebrow work ever even watched The Gold Rush. It’s not good history, filmmaking, or much of anything.

Damage
My Brief Year in Review piece for Damage: A bizarre film that is primarily successful off the back of how awful it is, with everyone coming across as some sort of unpleasant parody of a human being. It’s a sea of awful backstabbing beautiful people save for Miranda Richardson, who still reacts to the news like she wants to punch a hole through Jeremy Irons in the film’s most memorable moment (save for Irons putting the moves on Juliette Binoche).

I don’t know whether to list what makes Damage, a movie that simultaneously refuses to shed its pulp fiction roots (the characters are pure archetype of the most nasty variety) while aiming for highbrow erotic thrills, undeniably memorable as a pro or a con outside of Miranda Richardson’s unambiguously good performance. She’s a calm supporting role at first, who then gets a chance in the third act to leap out and calmly devour Jeremy Irons, slurping him down like a soup. It’s not even her second best work that year and it got her an Oscar nomination, for her performances in Crying Game and Enchanted April were too difficult to swallow. But then there’s the rest of the film, with its overcooked soap opera tendencies to believe that yes, people who are rich government workers are inherently interesting to watch even when we know nothing about them except for how their lives revolve around Parliament. There is a certain electricity to the complete lack of inner life for most of these shallow wealthy people but god only knows where it comes from. And then there’s the acting from the rest of the cast, with Irons playing his character so bizarrely as to wonder if it’s unintentionally brilliant (it certainly doesn’t feel out of place to watch him have what can only be called contorted sex, usually involving him pulling his dick out of his pants and sticking it into a still clothed Juliette Binoche), and Binoche’s blank open book face, usually able to create something great even out of thin material, getting into parody levels. The film works for me, at times very well, but I struggle to pinpoint why, for nothing outside of Richardson and the costuming really can be described as a merit. Perhaps it’s how unpleasant all the sexual acts are, for my inner misanthrope delights in watching our two leads contort themselves into porn-star positions, particularly when the climax of (SPOILER) Rupert Graves catching them fucking and then falling to his death as his father reacts like he’s been punched (/END SPOILER) is such a gleefully awful thing to do to one’s cast that it’s delicious. It’s pretty much exactly how I like to visualize all politicians: a bunch of gross older men and their paramours calmly ruining the lives of everyone around them, with the universe of this movie giving them a swift, vicious dose of karma.

Enchanted April
My Brief Year in Review piece for Enchanted April: Pretty standard “British women learn to love themselves on holiday” drama that is elevated by a great first half and some fun if not special performances…and then let down a bit when they all decide they love their husbands in the second half. Oh well, it was never going to end any other way, and it’s still lovely to look at.

Anyone who has seen one of the BBC’s many television miniseries has a fairly good idea of what Enchanted April is like just from hearing about the plot summary of “Four women from London who all have problems at home in the big city go to the Italian countryside for a vacation and change as a result.” And for the first half, it’s an enjoyable time, with none of the seams showing despite the cliches coming out in abundance. While the jokes are a predictable form of English dry humor and the material is fairly boilerplate, it’s still fun in a very lightweight way. Joan Plowright probably didn’t deserve her Oscar nomination but I still got some enjoyment out of her Sassy Older Woman archetype for how vigorously she tears into it without really giving away that she is. She definitely has a certain regal snobbishness about her at all times. None of this is great moviemaking but the little touches like the Italian villa being the one where the original novel took place, and the lovingly captured coast of Italy, help put it a few notches above average. It’s all going well until the husbands show up. For these ladies, three of whom are trying to avoid their marital issues, this triggers DOUBTS! despite the fact that all evidence shows that their partners, to be quite blunt, are unpleasant. You can’t just give us a shot of some teeth straight out of the Big Book of British Smiles chewing food with their mouth open in the first half only for Miranda Richardson to spend the second half giving dramatic voice over monologues about how much she loves her husband while lying in the electric green grass or the sun dappled sands. In a year where we had Howard’s End, it practically feels regressive. Enchanted April is still an enjoyable watch overall for things like the final scenes of Mrs. Fisher (the only time I really understood how Plowright warranted a nod even if it’s the sort of thing that AMPAS members use to justify depth), the costuming, and the cinematography that gives us a clear interior map of the house the main cast stays in before inviting the men in their lives for…whatever reason. I suppose I can’t blame the crew for simply adapting a novel but wouldn’t some straying from the novel have been a good thing?

A Few Good Men
The sincerity and grandiosity of Aaron Sorkin is not necessarily for everyone (although he can do cynical), and A Few Good Men has never really worked for me and I don’t understand why so many people cite it as a favorite. It’s an engaging movie to watch but it’s still predictable and more than a bit hokey in its sincerity. (Having said that, when you compare it to some of the other movies covered in this post, CHAPLIN, it’s downright mean.) There’s a certain amount of banality here, for the film not only foreshadows what’s coming and then recaps it afterwards, but while it’s happening there’s nothing separating it from any other courtroom movie in humor or heart or even dialogue rhythm. It spells out everything in advance and what’s spelled out is boring unless you really, really care about the military (and if you do, we come from completely different worlds and this probably isn’t the blog for you). I don’t think anyone would pretend that Tom Cruise or Demi Moore are particularly interesting in this with roles that could be played by any two young actors, and Jack Nicholson’s Oscar nominated performance is hamstrung the minute he takes the stage and gets something absolutely filled to the gills with scenery to chew, with lines like “I’m gonna rip the eyes out of your head and piss in your dead skull! You fucked with the wrong marine!” being the kind that would defeat anyone in seeming remotely realistic, let alone someone who can be an enormous ham like Nicholson. The entire casting choice is rooted in him being the ultimate rebel playing the ultimate authority figure, and casting against type is only so warranted. You can also tell that Demi Moore’s character was turned into a woman without really being turned into one-that is to say, they changed her character’s name and gender, but that’s all the editing they did, and it’s noticeable. I write that for no particular reason, but because the film is just so banal and middlebrow that I struggle to think of anything other than more warranted mockery of lines like “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!” The camera work is so in your face that it’s suffocating, forcing us to feel every single shred of righteous anger. I hate to describe a work of art, no matter how mediocre, as “douchey,” but this absolutely qualifies.

Glengarry Glen Ross
My Brief Year in Review piece for Glengarry Glen Ross: One of the most damning indictments of American manhood and the culture that encourages worship of money, that root of all evil, ever penned gets brought to the screen as intact as it could be, with Alec Baldwin’s entrance serving to make our increasingly scrabbling leads even more unsettled than they would be. Shame it’s so stagebound but the actors are doing such heavy lifting that it doesn’t matter, for this is a parade of F-bombs and unrelenting nihilism with a purpose.

Glengarry Glen Ross came very close to being included in my writeup of the year’s best films (#25 is better than it looks, no steak knives for me though), for the Pulitzer Prize winning play is mostly kept intact in the screenplay adaptation to the benefit of the viewer. The film is mostly a writer’s work, and thus director and playwright David Mamet allows his own words and a set of vaguely cookie cutter rageaholic men to do all the heavy lifting. This part of the adaptation works best in Act Two, where the obsessive clawing to the top and Jack Lemmon’s vacillations between arrogant asshole and past his prime approval whore reach gloriously deranged levels. Somehow, Al Pacino teling off the detectives who robbed him of his car comes across as one of the most restrained players, in a year where he was awarded an Oscar for yelling HOOAH endlessly. Despite the earlier claim of the profanity being primarily a second half feature, we mostly remember the movie for Alec Baldwin’s ABC monologue, too, which provides the grim thesis on the state of American manhood and the dick measuring contest that is work life in a barnstormer performance that leaves the entire staff appropriately disheveled for the remainder of the runtime. However, GGR does not really extend its written creativity to the shooting outside of some inspired looking neon signs that are ever-presently outside the windows, and once the night ends and takes the eerie pink glow with it, we’re mostly stuck in the building. There is no sense of geography, with Lemmon getting a scene in a phone booth on a hill that is never seen again, and numerous characters appearing in different restaurant booths. Said diner might as well be a theater stage pretending to be an eatery ala the Joe Wright version of Anna Karenina, for we never get a good look at it at all. The film’s visual interest is rendered irrelevant by the joy of watching the men of the office barrel through everyone and each other in different styles, but you might as well film the play for that. At least a stage has a beauty that the vaguely black void of the town where the office is located lacks. It’s interesting to visualize what could have been with a more capable man behind the helm, for this movie is far too unintentionally dedicated to its asceticism.

Indochine
Catherine Denevue is one of the greatest actresses ever in any language, so why was (is?) her one and only Oscar nomination for this unceasing melodrama that is an absolutely staggering 2.5 hours long and requires nothing more difficult of her than to look radiantly beautiful? By that point she’d been doing that on and off the silver screen for close to the entire lifespan of the actress playing her daughter, and her inability to age is an admirable skill that makes me incredibly jealous but it’s certainly not Oscar worthy. She spends the entire film as a rich white lady named Elaine with an unmoving face and eyes, romancing an absolutely beautiful and completely uninteresting hunk whose name I’ve forgotten. There’s a very serious metaphor about colonialism in there…and it’s complete bullshit and an excuse for crappy melodrama with bland dialogue. The allegory of Denevue as the white establishment (who I think is who we’re supposed to be sympathetic to?), her adoptive daughter as the future, and her lover as…I suppose Indochina itself? Even though he’s white as well? Well, anyway, the fact that our heroine is already in a position where she cannot live without Jean-Baptiste (there we go) after a single fuck session is too ridiculous for words, although I can swallow her daughter totally falling for him after he saves her life and what I’m pretty sure is the 2 hour mark (the pacing, yikes). But she’s the embodiment of all of France, so I guess it’s an ALLEGORY! (In all seriousness: making the embodiments of all of France and Indochina look like stereotypically stunning physical specimens was both totally indulgent and the right choice.) In terms of visuals and camerawork, it’s hard to complain too much, but I will anyway: the film doesn’t get particularly creative with the cinematography. It simply wants to look at pretty landscapes, which is fine at first but can’t sustain this totally absurd running time. Topping of all this confusion is the awful framing device of our protagonist on a train telling this entire story to her grandson while wearing a ton of old age makeup…despite the fact that Elaine and Jean-Baptiste would go on to become national icons, apparently? At the risk of sounding excessively crude: get your shit together, Indochine. Everything about this screenplay is an indulgent rough draft, and for this it won the Foreign Film Oscar.

Lorenzo’s Oil
My Brief Year in Review piece for Lorenzo’s Oil: Has a lot more style than most biopics thanks to George Miller, who also doesn’t try to dumb down the complicated science any more than necessary thanks to his experience as a doctor. Nick Nolte’s dreadful Italian accent is redeemed by Susan Sarandon, who plays her mother a little like she’s an action heroine, not shying away from the fact that her mothering instincts are still potentially a danger to herself and others. For a film to convince me for a few seconds that maybe the oil wouldn’t work out is a minor miracle.

1992 was a very “prestigious TV film” year for the Academy, with several nominees that felt decidedly minor and mostly focused on making the audience feel good, to mixed results in the longer run. Sometimes this lead to inspired choices that I’m glad were given a longer shelf life by their award nominee status (Passion Fish, which isn’t even feelgood), sometimes it caused us to get pure shit of the variety that also is covered in this post, and filling the “solidly good piece of Oscarbait” slot, we have Lorenzo’s Oil, the story of the couple who discovered a treatment for ALD which might be the last thing I expected from the director of the Mad Max franchise. It’s certainly a lot more stylish than most biopics, sparing us nothing whatsoever when showing us Lorenzo’s suffering and filled with more motifs and interesting camera movements than you’d expect (that dream sequence is the sort of thing that wouldn’t appear out of place in a psychological horror movie), but it still fills the basic stock notes and formula. It’s also very easy to understand thanks to George Miller’s training as a doctor and success as a visual storyteller. Giving a performance that would absolutely be nominated nowadays is Nick Nolte, but I don’t mean that as a compliment. His Italian accent and tendency to gesticulate while delivering all his lines is the sort of thing that really ought to detract from the movie more than it does, because it is just terrible to watch. I realize accents are difficult but this is pure ham smothered in olive oil with cues from the Mario Brothers. So thank god for Susan Sarandon, who gives the film something to cling to even if goes a little adrift. She has an iron grip on this character, who is as warmly maternal as Aunty Em but with a true vicious streak rooted in her grasping at every hair (even if said hairs are usually accurate), plowing through anyone who tries to get in her way even if it hurts both parties. Her line readings range from velvet softness to hard as steel within a single breath, and this is in a piece of work that is absolutely loaded with dialogue (in stark contrast to something like Fury Road). She’s the sanest kind of madwoman, and in some ways she reminds me a little of the director himself.

Love Field
Love Field is sort of objectively a weak movie, forgotten by almost everyone for the simple reason that it aims low and barely hits the target as is. I doubt Michelle Pfeiffer herself would even remember this in a career retrospective, for it’s not even her best performance of 1992 yet the Academy was never going to recognize her most purr-fect work from that year. Tonally, the film is a mess, going from a pastel colored comedy about a ditz who’s way too obsessed with the Kennedys (what a peculiar choice of subject matter to milk laughs from but I appreciate it), to a glowing celebration of Pfeiffer’s Lurene with all the lights on her as the center of attention as a full fledged Movie Star, to a Serious Drama About Racism (and I must give props to the movie for acknowledging that racism also tends to involve classism, gender, etc, thanks to a premise that inherently involves intersectionality). Despite this leapfrogging about I can’t help but have a certain amount of (low key) affection for Love Field, for even if the character is not a particularly interesting lead, Pfeiffer manages to show off a great range of skills in balancing the different tones yet maintaining the same backbone of the person throughout it all, filled with stupidity and the worst kind of good intentions, yet plenty of kindness and warmth too. The script helps her out here too, for even in its weakest moments it never loses sight of what makes the protagonist tick. Lurene, in other words, feels like the same character in a few different movies of varying quality and focus. While all of this is very minor stuff, the kind that I can’t see ever getting any Oscar attention nowadays, it seems like this was a nice little stepping stone for a lot of the other people involved with the production, even outside of our leading lady. I’m most grateful that Dennis Haysbert got to do Far From Heaven (which is like this movie’s very best self). Love Field may be a very minimal success (or the most unassuming and unnoticeable type of failure), but that’s part of the small charms on display, for there’s nothing wrong with spending 102 minutes on a bus with this crew as they learn about each other and the world-it’s like a more sober and more worldly It Happened One Night.

Mr. Saturday Night
I’ll cop to not paying full attention to this one after a certain point because it’s just awful and unfunny, so I’m just going to rip off my Letterboxd account review for this one: JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES JEWS JEWS JEWS JEWS JOKES JOKES JOKES JOKES Billy Crystal. (And David Paymer’s nomination = inexplicable as fuck.)

My Cousin Vinny
My Brief Year in Review piece for My Cousin Vinny: One of my first introductions to films that both won an Oscar and were well liked by the general public has a lot more holes than I remembered (why are the protagonists so bland?), but I still laughed a lot at it anyway. Tomei is simply superb and her shock Oscar win is mostly a pleasant surprise (although if it robbed Judy Davis then it’s a little tragic).

When I originally saw My Cousin Vinny back in my early teens I absolutely loved it, but this was back when I was on the cusp of cinephilia and just leaving behind my taste in bad, frequently slapsticky comedy (think Johnson’s Family Vacation and other similar garbage). So in the transitional sense, I do hold a soft spot for it as the perfect mix of approachable banter based comedy and Oscar bait. What can I say? I value my roots when I’m not too busy being embarrassed by the fact that I enjoyed that kind of thing when younger. But ultimately, looking back at this, it’s definitely lacking in certain areas even if I’d still give it a positive review. The defendants are the typical bland white male protagonists, the cinematography is below TV movie level even by the standards of the early 90s (fellow courtroom Oscar nominee that year, A Few Good Men, was also extremely lacking there, and neither film has any excuse when The Verdict existed 10 years ago). Most notably, the only major female character in Mona Lisa is a walking shit talking deus ex machina-it’s not misogynistic so much as the crew only cares about one person in a script that requires multiple characters to be fleshed out, not just the titular one. Really, only the costumes are worth celebrating in terms of behind the scenes aspects not related to the big stuff like direction, script, or acting. In addition to the mildly amusing B-plot related to Vinny’s inability to dress properly for court, Marisa Tomei’s outfits are the sort of thing that demand to be highlighted in many other better movies. Perhaps some sort of 1970s style dramedy about an Italian American woman’s coming of age? Even if the movie comes across like it could not be bothered with the fine details once it was put into production, the big sweeping stuff that gets all the attention is a solid foundation that occasionally hits some high notes. There’s no loose ends, the recurring jokes land well, and watching Tomei and Joe Pesci argue is something that could’ve warranted a franchise in a film that knows how to use its runtime better. Thankfully, they get the bulk of the two hours, but perhaps some of that time could’ve been used to give us reason to care about the cast beyond Vinny, Mona Lisa, and the suitably dour Judge?

Scent of a Woman
I’m tempted to do another review in the style of my Mr. Saturday Night one with just HOO-AH and perhaps I’M BLIND but I must persevere. (The Oscar bait from this year had some really exhausting stuff thrown in there and it’s wearing me out.) With that out of the way, Scent of a Woman features exactly one character who resembles a human being in the shape of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s so-called rat. Thank god he was the only one to get job perks from this, because the rest of the movie is simply awful. There’s maybe something decent to be carved out of the story of Frank and Charlie going away for the weekend, but it would require an editor equipped with a chainsaw, Chris O’Donnell to have a personality, and Al Pacino’s performance to be entirely revamped. The best way to amuse oneself throughout Scent of a Woman’s unceasing runtime is to count how many times Pacino blinks. You will be on the edge of your seat as he stares very hard at something that is not the person he’s talking to (because he’s blind, you guys) while shouting all his lines and doing wacky old man things (although really, he’s just being a selfish asshole and providing an utterly disgusting portrait of a suicidal person). In a stronger group of nominees for Best Actor I’d be offended on behalf of his competition for what a stupid choice of career Oscar this is after his unstoppable streak in the 1970s. I am certainly angry enough as it is that this schmaltzy garbage took away The Player’s slot in the Best Picture lineup. And that climax that finally comes around after what feels like an eternity where Frank has to do all the legwork for Charlie and we’re supposed to respect the latter for not saying anything! Not that a bland white male who seems like a total drip getting into Harvard is the sort of thing I’m naturally inclined to get invested in, but for fuck’s sake, at least stop pretending that he’s some great character. Where is the line drawn when it comes to allegedly ratting people out, anyway? What if the film was about a murder and not vandalism? This film has no opinion on that matter, no opinion on anything except that these boring humans are ever so fascinating. I suppose blindness and not ratting on your friends qualify as personality traits?

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