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TotD’s Oscar Picks 2019

February 24, 2019 / / 3 Comments

BEST PICTURE

Black Panther Important question to ask yourself, if you’re an Academy Member and Oscar voter: Does this film have basically the same plot as Ant-Man? And if the answer is “yes,” then that film cannot be the Best Picture. That’s just common sense. Also, Black Panther wasn’t even 2018’s best movie set in Wakanda and the special effects were done on a Commodore 64.

BlackKKKKKKKKlansman Spike Lee was a dick to Brother on the Dead, so fuck him forever.

Bohemian Rhapsody You know how I feel about this excretion. If I discuss it, I will become flustered.

The Favourite Emma Stone’s in this, and I would let her pee on me. I’m not into that, but I would pretend to be if that’s what she dug. Probably not in my mouth, but it’s not a definitive no.

Green Book I have not, and will not, seen Green Book. I imagine this is how it goes:

“Oh! You’re tellin’ me that you’re a mulignan AND a fanook? Marone!”

“Sir, just drive the car.”

“Oofah, I’m not racist no more!”

And then a mid-credits scene in which Nick Fury invites them both to join the Avengers of Tolerance.

Roma The movie is called “Roma” but takes place in Mexico City. Fuck you for a liar, Roma. That’s like Casablanca being set in San Diego. AND it’s black-and-white. AND it’s in Spanish. AND there is no punching, let alone super-punching. BUT the director will most likely give his acceptance speech in Spanish, and that’ll send Basketball Head into a paroxysm of rage, so it’ll probably win.

A Star Is Born Not only have I not seen this film, I have managed to avoid hearing–even once–the much-loved song it spawned, Shallow. I will listen to it now, in order to generate fresh and exciting content for you, the content-enjoyer.

That was fine.

This is better:

You’re welcome. Get that taste of power ballad out of your mouth. (ALSO: old-timey, down-homey sexism!)

Vice This is like leftovers of a meal that gave you food poisoning: why would I want to suffer through Dick Cheney again?  The man was a war criminal, and not even an interesting one. Pinochet was imaginative, at least. Kissinger was friends with Robert Evans. Cheney had no style.

WINNER: ONE OF THE ETHNIC MOVIES

BEST ACTOR

Christian Bale Is he Batman? No? Then, fuck him.

Bradley Cooper Is he Rocket Raccon? And is he buddies with Sean Penn? Fuck him..

Willem Dafoe. Look at this bullshit:

Admit it: you couldn’t tell whether or not that was a satire.

Rami Malek Bug-eyed fuck.

Viggo Mortenson Why is he still so handsome and virile? Fuck him.

Nobody wins Best Actor this year.

BEST ACTRESS

Yalitza Aparicio Finally! A good role for a Latina woman in Hollywood. (She plays the maid.)

Glenn Close The woman’s been in four films a year for the past three decades. She’s the white Samuel L. Jackson. As to what particular movie she’s been nominated for at present, I haven’t the foggiest.

Olivia Colman I have no idea who this person is.

The Lady Gaga She won’t win. Hollywood doesn’t let dilettante outsiders waltz in and win the big prize their first go-round. Unlike some cities I could name.

Melissa McCarthy Comedians and comic actors always pull this shit: they get successful and the first thing they do with their new power is stop being funny. Bill Murray demanded that the studio fund The Razor’s Edge if they wanted him to do Ghostbusters, and Jim Carrey spent a decade trying to be meaningful, maaaaaaan, and now Melissa is a mopey drunk with a terrible haircut. You just wait: two more hits and Kevin Hart will make Paramount pay for his version of Raisin in the Sun.

WINNER: Glenn Close, I guess.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

Mahershala Ali I have never attempted to say this man’s name out loud in public. I would screw it up and Twitter would cancel me.

Adam Driver Does he play a sullen mumbler in this one? Because I have seen Adam Driver in two roles (Star Wars and the underrated Logan Lucky) and he was a sullen mumbler in both. I have no need for sullen mumblers. Gimme a James Spader who sings his damn lines.

Sam Elliot Would his mustache receive a smaller, more bristly Oscar statue? Because 90% of Sam Eliot’s performances are the ‘stache.

Richard E. Grant He’s just fucking desperate for this award. He’s all over the talk shows and social media and I’m sure at every meet-the-voters cocktail party in Beverly Hills. Dignity, Dicky.

Sam Rockwell Love this man. Forget Dwayne Johnson: Sammy is the real Rock. Better Sam than Sam Elliot, and that’s a fact.

WINNER: Just give it to Grant; he’ll have a breakdown if you don’t.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

Amy Adams One of these days I’m gonna be able to tell her and Rachel McAdams apart. This is not that day. Those two are the female Dylan McDermott/Dermot Mulroney.

Maria de Tavira I have no idea who this woman is and neither do you.

Regina King Regina King’s name means “Queen King.” Isn’t that fun?

Emma Stone She can pee in my eyes. I’ll keep them open, perhaps with clips like in Clockwork Orange, and Emma Stone can blast my eyeballs with her versatile and expressive urine. Hell, she can pee in my butthole. I don’t even know how that would work, but I would let her do it.

Rachel Weisz Emma Stone can also pee on Rachel Weisz. That would be a party.

WINNER: Emma Stone’s healthy and wide urethra.

A Guide To The New Academy Awards

August 9, 2018 / / 3 Comments

As you may have heard, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts, Sciences, and De-Aging Michael Douglas has a problem: no one wants to watch the Oscars, which is understandable. The broadcast is nine hours long, musical numbers featuring interpretive dance are performed, sound editors are allowed to speak, and Jack Nicholson is still sitting up front being a big ol’ rebel. (I mean, wearing sunglasses indoors? Oh, you wild Hollywood outlaws.) The show is essentially the same as it was when Adolph Zukor attended, and no one under 50 gives a shit.

THERFORE, the Academy of Motions, Pictures, and Tangible Judaism has announced changes to this year’s Oscars.

First off: the show shall be constrained to only three hours, even though it only needs to be about an hour. Here, watch:

  • The pretty people are all forced to line up and twirl for us so we can evaluate their outfits and note how old Robert Downey Jr. is starting to look.
  • Monologue. (And holy shit I do not mean Ricky Gervais. That tick can take his teeth and his atheism back to Brexitville and bring James Cordon with him. Maybe they can sing show tunes on the plane.)
  • Diverse and attractive duo of actors–say, Chadwick Boseman and Emma Stone–announce the address of the website listing all the winners who are not in the acting categories or Best Picture because no one cares about anything else.
  • If there’s a good Best Song nomination, then someone can sing the song but it better fucking be Celine Dion.
  • Maybe Bublé.
  • Definitely not Josh Groban or John Legend.
  • And Alicia Keys is not even allowed in the building.
  • In Memoriam, but instead of discouraging applause for individuals, we install a decibelometer and measure which dead fucker gets the biggest reaction; whoever wins, their mourning family gets a new Nissan Altima and a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni.
  • Best Supporting Actor/Actress. (The awards are announced simultaneously and the two winners have to fight each other for the microphone.)
  • Someone embarrasses themself.
  • Best Actor/Actress.
  • Best Picture.
  • BOOM: done.

There will also be new awards this year. Among the rookie trophies are:

  • Most Popular Picture.
  • Best Steroid-Filled White Boy Named Chris.
  • Thickest yokka-yokka. (Upon receipt of this prize, the recipient will be required to let the crowd stare at said yokka-yokka while Kevin Hart jumps up and down and shrieks “DAAAAAAAAAAMN that’s thick yokka!” over and over until Twitter hunts him down and kills him.)
  • Best Zazie Beetz.
  • Wokest Male. (Accepting this Oscar is a trick, as the truly woke thing to do would be to defer and give the award to a fluidgender Native American.)
  • Wokest Female. (This is also a trick, as Kevin Hart is going to scream about your ass.)
  • Best Problem Attic Picture. (YES, Kevin Spacey likes to grab teen boy dick, and YES, Johnny Depp punches wives, BUT they are still overseas draws and we live in the real world. It’s show “business,” not show “treating others with respect.” Grow up.)
  • Best Picture of 1991. (Using the Time Sheath, the Academy goes back a few decades and gives Goodfellas the prize that Dances With fucking Wolves got.)

Hosting: Hologram Bob Hope.

A High Honor

December 8, 2017 / / 1 Comment

For Your Consideration

Those are three important words in Hollywood, Enthusiasts. There’s “I love you,” and “Where’s the coke?” or “Ronan Farrow called,” but “For Your Consideration” has ’em all beat. They are a mantra of supplication, your opening bid for immortality (or a temporary version of it); those words are a magical incantation, Enthusiasts. Say it once: tuxedos; say it twice; gowns; say it three times, and Jack Nicholson’s sitting up front wearing his sunglasses inside. But if you say it juuuuuuust right, then your asking price quadruples.

Long Strange Trip, Enthusiasts, is up for an Oscar, sorta maybe. The acclaimed documentary has been placed on the Short List for Best Feature Documentary: out of 170 films, the voters picked 15 for further perusal and another round of ballots. On the 23rd (1/23/17, if you insist), the final five nominees will be announced and then the winner gets…excuse me, the Oscar goes to one of ’em in the dead middle of a four-hour show hosted by Jimmy Kimmel.

Now, you and I and the Academy all know that LST is much better than those other 14 pieces of dogshit, but this is Los Angeles and “the movie actually being good” is only one of the interlinking qualities a film must possess to win the coveted golden tchotchke. (Fun fact: neither Chachi nor Greta Schacchi has ever been nominated for a golden tchotchke.) Winning an Oscar requires three avenues of attack:

  1. Quality.
  2. Bribery.
  3. Schmoozery.

Let’s take LST‘s artistic achievement as a givenand move on to number two: bribery. It takes a shitload of cash to win an award worth about $400 in gold plating. “For Your Consideration” really is a bit of a magical phrase: you have to slather it all over full-page ads in the Hollywood Reporter and Variety to let the town know you’re serious about being considered. You can’t just send out a mass e-mail or post on your Instagram account, nuh-uh. Full. Page. Ad. At least once a week in both rags from now until voting is over, and that’ll run you.

And parties. Gotta throw a party or two for the Academy. Cocktails for the rank and file, maybe host a dinner party for the influential folks, and this ain’t some Milwaukee kegger, no: this is a Hollywood party with extra expenses. Cocaine, and orifices, and alibis have to be provided.

You have to throw these parties because they are where you schmooze. Cajoling, wheedling, dealing from the middle of the deck, buttonholing, hollering, strategic negging, rumor-spreading, blackmailing, flirting, nipple-tweaking, negotiating in shaky faith, bullshitting, horsetrading, bird-dogging, begging, threatening, fetching the universe from within your ass, insinuating, massaging the facts, accusing the messenger, assaulting the bartender, and–if you feel it won’t hurt–just being yourself.

You know: schmoozing.

What we need, Enthusiasts, is a solid plan; a path to victory. (I won’t lie to you: I need this one. I think an Oscar can fill an Al Franken-sized hole in my heart. Let’s start out 2018 right.) Luckily, I have such a plan, and here’s what the key players need to do:

Amir Bar-Lev, Director You know what show biz is, Amir? It’s a game of inches. You win by inches, you lose by inches, and sometimes if you want something bad enough, you take some inches. Or give some. Basically what I’m saying, Amir buddy, is that you’re gonna have to fuck your way onto that stage. God gave you those blue eyes for a reason, and now you’re going to fulfill your destiny. Men, women, Martin Landau’s corpse: doesn’t matter what you think, pal; if they give you the green light, take your dick out.

(WARNING: this is the single worst moment in American sociopolitical history for a straight white man to try to fuck his way to the top. Nevertheless, I believe in you. Fuck for all of us, Amir. Fuck us up that mountain.)

Eric Eisner, Producer Eric, you need to call your father, Michael Ovitz, and have him do something.

Justin Kreutzmann, Producer Justin, you need to call your father, Bill Kreutzmann, and have him do nothing.

Ken Dornstein, Producer Ken, I don’t know you, so you’re going to be the tech guy. Every team needs a tech guy. You’re like Ving Rhames in the Mission Impossible movies, but–I am assuming–not an enormous black man. Or, if you wish, the one guy in Ocean’s 11 who wasn’t famous or Chinese. You get a van with all sorts of knickknacks and doodads, and you get to deliver tense, whispered dialogue like, “You’ve got twenty seconds,” and “I’m in!”

Alex Blavatnik, Producer Martial arts expert.

Nick Koskoff Master of disguise/help Justin keep his dad out of the process.

Martin Scorsese, Executive Producer Please don’t get accused of anything in the next few weeks.

Bob Weir, Bob Weir Bobby, put the guitar in the Tesla, drive to LA, and sing some cowboy songs for fancy people in a living room off Benedict Canyon. You’re our secret weapon. If you could bring Josh with you, so much better.

All right, everybody got their assignments? Okay, “Grateful Dead” on three. One, two–

Jackass!

–three. Yes?

Did you think to, perhaps, congratulate Amir and the rest of the team on an incredible honor?

Is that not what I’ve been doing for 800 words?

No. Not at all.

Well, that’s what I meant. Hollywood types are smart enough to read between the lines.

Something something cocaine joke.

Things The Oscars Can Do

February 26, 2017 / / 1 Comment
  • Go fuck themselves.
  • Stop being so nice to Roman Polanski.
  • Continue fucking themselves.
  • Harblegarble diversity blackpartsmatterwhitewashingbetterredthandeadsuckmyballs.
  • Why did you stop fucking yourselves, Oscars?
  • Give Bobby the Irving Thalberg award.
  • Let Rob Lowe sing again.
  • Seriously, Oscars: fuck yourselves until I tell you to stop or your dicks fall off.
  • Give an impassioned speech about the president; I bet that’ll be the thing to do it.
  • Merge with the Grammys, Emmys, and Tonys and get all this self-suckery out of the way in one night.
  • Announce from the stage that there was an error in last years tabulations, and Leo will have to give his Oscar back.
  • Coat statues with VX, give Best Director to Mel Gibson.
  • Go fuck themselves.

TotD’s Guide To The Oscars

January 25, 2017 / / 8 Comments

Academy Award nominations came out today, Enthusiasts, and I thought I’d give you a rundown of the Best Picture nominees, though loyal readers will recall that TotD only likes moronic action movies. I have, however, seen two films starring Ryan Gosling this year, so I feel like I’m qualified to discuss the state of Hollywood.

As always, we will be abiding by the tenets of Without Research.

Fences This used to be a play; I vaguely recall commercials in my youth advertising James Earl Jones in the lead role as Angry Dad. Baseball is involved: the outfield fences are also the fences between us, or some symbolic crap like that. (Plays generally are symbolic. The Crucible? Not about the thing it’s about AT ALL.) I am 99% sure that Denzel Washington was in this.

Manchester By The Sea If the Academy doesn’t nominate a film full of blue-collar Bostonians mumbling and wearing Red Sox hats at each other every year, then Los Angeles gets swallowed up by Moirthrongh, who is a giant monster. (You should have been able to infer that from the context clues, quite honestly. Sometimes I feel like I’m holding your hand and walking you through all this Please keep up.)

Hacksaw Ridge Spider-Man’s in this. Not the new one, or the old old one; the old one. Andrew Garfield; he has a head like a lollipop. Mel Gibson directed it and fuck Mel Gibson forever.

Moonlight Musical with black people. That is the extent of my knowledge about Moonlight and I may be wrong about it being a musical. I will feel more guilt for never seeing this than I will for never seeing Hacksaw Ridge, but still not enough to make me see it.

Hidden Figures This one’s an interesting story about the black women that worked at NASA during the Space Race. Shockingly enough, they were treated poorly. It also stars Janelle Monae, who is one of the best human beings. I will also not see this, but would like very much to read the book it was based on, if it was based on a book.

Hell Or High Water I have never heard of this movie.

Lion I have never heard of this movie, but I am familiar with the animal.

Arrival Many people whose opinions I respect have told me this is a good film; I will cut off my own head with a meat cleaver before I look at Amy Adams and Jeremy Renner for two hours. I do not like their faces.

La La Land Musical with white people. Enthusiasts, I saw this film. On my Christmas trip to Brooklyn, my family went to one of those drafthouse places that serves tapas to your seat and threatens you in a nasty tone before the show about not using your phone. I was excited to see La La Land right up until the second it started. Ever get that pit in your stomach from the first shot of a movie?

It didn’t work as a romantic comedy–it was too cartoony and generic–and it didn’t work as a musical for several reasons:

  1. Neither lead could sing.
  2. The music, all original, was forgettable and banal.
  3. The last half of the film isn’t a musical. Ryan Gosling plays jazz piano a few times, but the characters don’t sing. That’s what a musical is: the plot is advanced through song.

And it was too long. And the ending was bullshit. And Ryan Gosling’s eyes are too close together. And J.K. Simmons was in it as a guy who owns a bar. J.K. Simmons isn’t the guy who owns the bar, he’s the Nazi gang leader or the psychopathic drum teacher or J. Jonah Jameson. You have J.K. Simmons on your set and you waste him as “guy who owns bar?” Kiss my ass, La La Land.

It’ll probably win.

Live/Dead From Hollywood, California

February 22, 2015 / / 1 Comment

Even allowing the Dead in the city of Los Angeles during the Academy Awards was inadvisable, but inviting them to perform a medley of that year’s Best Song nominees was downright foolish.

To their credit, the Boys did rehearse. Well, they hung out in Bobby’s studio for a week or so, and played a little, but spent most of their time on the phone arguing with the manager of the local chicken joint. (“But, we’re not in Kentucky. Do you fry it there, and then ship it out? Hello?”) There was also a pinochle game.

As far as the actual medley goes, they did not get around to it. For a number of reasons, of course: Garcia found four of the five tunes “pedestrian;” Bobby got confused at to which mailbox was his and, instead of the charts and tapes he had been sent, got a Berlitz course and spent his time learning Italian; Phil was just lazy as usual and didn’t do it, relying on the ol’ perfect pitch to pull him through, even though perfect pitch has nothing to do with arrangements.

It should be noted as this point that, of all Great Bands, the Grateful Dead may have been the least-suited of all to the medley format. Medleys rarely, if ever, allow for four or five minutes wandering around the stage smoking and fiddling with doohickeys. They also–and here’s the real dealbreaker–don’t change dependent on whether or not you’re “feelin’ it.”

Medleys require serious rehearsal, not two hours of jamming on a riff that Bobbys been promising to turn into a song for 18 months now. They need someone to lead the band and tell people what to play, which in the Dead so often ended poorly: with the ritual punching of the dicks, or hiding for a decade in a basement being a junkie, or Bobby’s solo albums.

“Um, okay: here are the changes and there’s a chorus in here somewhere, so when I find, I’ll cue you. Bobby, you know the words?”

…

“Yes?”

That bullshit right there? The way all the other Dead songs came together? That bullshit right there does not work for the Oscars.

They should have been cut before the show: all the signs of a disaster were there. Brent showed up in one of his furry costumes. He had affixed a bow-tie to it, but that somehow made it worse. Billy mistook the red carpet for the valet stand and ran over Anjelica Houston. Then, he mistook Sidney Poitier for a parking attendant and tossed him the keys.

Bobby had a lovely chat with Tom Hanks, who is just as wonderful as you think he is, about space and World War II that was unfortunately and suddenly brought to an end by Mickey’s duffel bag full of raccoons. (Marlon Brando got bitten, but hired a Puerto Rican woman dressed like Pocahontas to accept the vaccinations for him.)

Bad luck multiplied, as it will. The opening number, a schmaltzy broadway-style goof in which the affable and gently-talented host sings about how wonderful the industry he belongs to is, ran so long that by the time it was over, the show was four days behind schedule.

The Dead took the stage to an audience made up of mainly seat-fillers, the stars having decamped to do cocaine at one another and let out the farts they’d been holding in for hours. They made an abortive stab at the Randy Newman song they were supposed to do, then played Playin’ in the Band for twenty minutes.

They were not allowed in Elton John’s after-party.

The Stacks

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