Why the Oscars are a Con

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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby Cordelia » Mon Mar 08, 2010 11:20 am

Nordic wrote:Well there ya go. "Hurt Locker" it is.

Haven't seen it, so I can't really say much about it.

But Bigelow's acceptance speech wasn't exactly .... uh ...... revealing of any anti-war sentiments on her part. "I'd like to thank all our men and women in uniform" or whatever.

Why? For being suckers? For being victims? For being gangsters for capitalism?

Or for giving her the subject matter for her career-rocketing film?

I guess it's a reminder that Hollywood's in bed with Washington.

Except for 'Hurt Locker', I haven't seen other 2009 films, but if films directed by women were needed for the 2008 list, what about 'Cadillac Records' http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QJyAXfG8NM directed by Darnell Martin? Politically or historically correct or not, I thought it was one of the best (why wasn't Jeffrey Wright nominated for best actor for his portrayal of Muddy Waters, or for some of his roles in other films?) and an opportunity to watch him and Adrien Brody together, along with terrific acting by others. And, 'Frozen River' http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90_D5nNNvQw directed by Courtney Hunt.
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby vince » Mon Mar 08, 2010 12:53 pm

Whoa! Shouldn't "9"'ve been nominated ???? or, did that come out LAST YEAR?
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby JackRiddler » Mon Mar 08, 2010 5:54 pm

BOOGIE66 wrote:
JackRiddler wrote: The closing scene has the remainder of the victorious US platoon mopping up, marching with rifles still at the ready and singing the Disney Mouseketeers song. At the call of "Mickey Mouse," the response is not a defiant "Donald Duck" as in the orignal lyrics, but a repeated "Mickey Mouse!" Kubrick leaves no doubt about which side of the "American soul" he thinks came out on top.

'
I thought that it was supposed to be a commentary on how we sent a bunch of babies to bring the "American dream" (some dream - Mickey Mouse!) to those filthy commies in Vietnam.



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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby yathrib » Mon Mar 08, 2010 6:14 pm

I have no intention of seeing it. Aside from the boneheaded American exceptionalism of the subject matter, it really irritates me that a film like this can pop out literally the week before and sweep the Oscars. Am I missing something here?


smiths wrote:Why the Oscars are a Con

Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker is in this tradition. A favourite for multiple Oscars, her film is “better than any documentary I’ve seen on the Iraq war. It’s so real it’s scary” (Paul Chambers CNN). Peter Bradshaw in the Guardian reckons it has “unpretentious clarity” and is “about the long and painful endgame in Iraq” that “says more about the agony and wrong and tragedy of war than all those earnest well-meaning movies”.

What nonsense. Her film offers a vicarious thrill via yet another standard-issue psychopath high on violence in somebody else’s country where the deaths of a million people are consigned to cinematic oblivion. The hype around Bigelow is that she may be the first female director to win an Oscar. How insulting that a woman is celebrated for a typically violent all-male war movie.

The accolades echo those for The Deer Hunter (1978) which critics acclaimed as “the film that could purge a nation’s guilt!” The Deer Hunter lauded those who had caused the deaths of more than three million Vietnamese while reducing those who resisted to barbaric commie stick figures. In 2001, Ridley Scott’s Black Hawk Down provided a similar, if less subtle catharsis for another American “noble failure” in Somalia while airbrushing the heroes’ massacre of up to 10,000 Somalis.

By contrast, the fate of an admirable American war film, Redacted, is instructive. Made in 2007 by Brian De Palma, the film is based on the true story of the gang rape of an Iraqi teenager and the murder of her family by American soldiers. There is no heroism, no purgative. The murderers are murderers, and the complicity of Hollywood and the media in the epic crime in Iraq is described ingeniously by De Palma. The film ends with a series of photographs of Iraqi civilians who were killed. When it was order that their faces be ordered blacked out “for legal reasons”, De Palma said, “I think that’s terrible because now we have not even given the dignity of faces to this suffering people. The great irony about Redacted is that it was redacted.” After a limited release in the US, this fine film all but vanished.

continued here
http://globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=17541
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby vince » Tue Mar 09, 2010 8:52 am

vince wrote:Whoa! Shouldn't "9"'ve been nominated ???? or, did that come out LAST YEAR?

I meant the computer animated movie, "9"!
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby streeb » Tue Mar 09, 2010 12:12 pm

BOOGIE66 wrote:

JackRiddler wrote:
The closing scene has the remainder of the victorious US platoon mopping up, marching with rifles still at the ready and singing the Disney Mouseketeers song. At the call of "Mickey Mouse," the response is not a defiant "Donald Duck" as in the orignal lyrics, but a repeated "Mickey Mouse!" Kubrick leaves no doubt about which side of the "American soul" he thinks came out on top.


I thought that it was supposed to be a commentary on how we sent a bunch of babies to bring the "American dream" (some dream - Mickey Mouse!) to those filthy commies in Vietnam.

Oh yea. Both, and more.


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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby JackRiddler » Tue Mar 09, 2010 4:17 pm

streeb wrote:
Hey, the M.I.C. is the KEY!

Joker: Don't take it too hard, Rafterman. It's just business.


Oh, wow! If that was intended - hardly implausible with Kubrick, control king and master of encoded meanings - it's a stroke of genius!
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The highest Wisdom and the first Love.

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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby yathrib » Thu Mar 11, 2010 11:55 am

AlterNet
The Hurt Locker Oscar Win Is a Prize For American Hubris
By Robert Scheer, Truthdig
Posted on March 10, 2010, Printed on March 11, 2010
http://www.alternet.org/story/145984/

What a shame that the one movie about the Iraq war that has a chance of being viewed by a large worldwide audience should be so disappointing. According to press reports, members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences finally found a movie about the Iraq war they liked because it is "apolitical." Actually, The Hurt Locker is just the opposite; it's an endorsement of the politically chauvinistic view that the world is a stage upon which Americans get to deal with their demons, no matter the consequence for others.

It is imperial hubris turned into an art form in which the Iraqi people appear as numbed bystanders when they are not deranged extras. It is a perverse tribute to the film's accuracy in portraying the insanity of the U.S. invasion -- while ignoring its root causes -- that the Iraqis are at no point treated as though they are important.

They never have been, at least in the American view. No Iraqi had anything to do with attacking us on 9/11, and while we are happy to have an excuse to grab their oil and deploy our bloated military arsenal, the people of Iraq are never more than an afterthought. Whatever motivates Iraqi characters in the movie to throw stones or blow themselves up is unimportant, for they are nothing more than props for a uniquely American-centered show. It is we who matter and they who are graced by our presence, no matter how screwed up we may be.

Indeed, the only recognition of the humanity of the people being conquered comes in a brief glimpse of a young boy, a porn video seller, the one Iraqi whose existence touches the concern of the film's reckless soldier hero. The American cares deeply about the quality of the sex videos he purchases, but, as it transpires, he is indifferent to the quality of his own family's life back home. Even that depressingly sad commentary on life in America is mitigated by the fact that it produces even more dedicated warriors. Maybe a deeply unsatisfying home life is a necessary prerequisite for being all you can be in the Army.

Yes, it is true, as Chris Hedges is quoted in the beginning of The Hurt Locker: "The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug." That's from his book War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, and the most positive thing to come out of this film might be that some people will be encouraged to read his brilliant book. But the film itself is otherwise an enlightened Rambo story: war is hellish but entertaining, and real men are those who will rise to the task, no matter if its larger aim is absurd.

But the real addiction to war is not that of hapless soldiers, those troops that the filmmakers insisted on applauding as they clutched their Oscar statuettes. Rather, that addiction lies in the lust for power and profit among those who sent the soldiers to Iraq to kill and be killed in a war known to our leaders to have been undertaken for false purposes. Invading Iraq became the obsession of the Bush administration after 9/11, as opposed to dealing with Afghanistan, where, as then-Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld put it, there were no good targets. The Taliban hardly provided as worthy an adversary as Saddam Hussein in our quest to replace the Soviet empire as a reason for our massive military expenditures. And there was the wan hope that the oil in Iraq would pay for it all. That oil hasn't paid for any of it, but while U.S. taxpayers get stuck with the bill, the multinational corporations swarming over the place will do very well.

Bringing up such crass motives presents an inconvenient truth for those who believe that American foreign policy is driven by higher goals. For them I would point to the example of Clinton-era Ambassador Peter Galbraith, who became a cheerleader for George W. Bush's war. His hawkishness was supposedly based on concern for Iraq's Kurdish population, even though that group was living outside of Saddam Hussein's area of control. After the US invasion Galbraith was an active adviser on the writing of Iraq's constitution and lobbied to include language that gave the Kurds control over the oil in their region. Galbraith was at the time advising a Norwegian company that secured oil rights from those same Kurds, and he, in turn, received 5 percent of one of the most promising oil fields, worth an estimated $100 million.

Don't you think at least one of the soldiers in The Hurt Locker would have known that kind of stuff was going on? If so, it's disrespectful to our troops to have censored such innate GI wisdom.

Robert Scheer is Editor in Chief of Truthdig, where he publishes a weekly column, and author of a new book, The Pornography of Power: How Defense Hawks Hijacked 9/11 and Weakened America.
© 2010 Truthdig All rights reserved.
View this story online at: http://www.alternet.org/story/145984/
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Re: Wait. Which "hurt locker" is being focused on here? Right.

Postby Hugh Manatee Wins » Thu Mar 11, 2010 4:07 pm

Hollywood product and awards are rigged for fascist psyops.

No matter how much you think Hollywood is showing something hostile to the Powers That Be, there is always something even worse being upstaged.
US soldier PTSD, although a valid subject of concern, is a spotlighted decoy upstaging two other "hurt lockers" that are even more damaging politically.

1) Woman gang-raped by contractors and kept in storage container for 24 hours to hide the evidence.
Leads to debate in Congress about withdrawing contractor impunity.

2) US-backed warlord in Afghanistan puts over a thousand prisoners in storage containers to be killed and buried in mass grave.

Repeat:
No matter how much you think Hollywood is showing something hostile to the Powers That Be, there is always something even worse being upstaged.
CIA runs mainstream media since WWII:
news rooms, movies/TV, publishing
...
Disney is CIA for kidz!
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby MacCruiskeen » Thu Mar 18, 2010 7:17 pm

Oscar-by-Numbers:



"Lead female's naaaaaame!"
There sawe I fyrst the derke ymagynyng
Of felony [...]
The pyckpurse and eke the pale drede,
The smyler, with the knyfe under the cloke.
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby 82_28 » Sat Mar 27, 2010 6:03 pm

Here's a GREAT and revealing look at attending the Oscar's by Neil Gaiman:


A nobody's guide to the Oscars


You know you're not going to win. You're seated in second-class. You've trodden on someone's dress. Author Neil Gaiman on what it's like to be invisible at the Oscars


There were authors grumbling about not going to the Oscars. I heard about it from friends. "So why are you going?" they asked.

I had written a book called Coraline, which the director Henry Selick had transformed into a stop-motion wonderland. I'd helped Henry as much as I could through the process of turning something from a book into a film. I had endorsed the film, encouraged people to see it, mugged with buttons on an internet trailer. I had also written a 15-second sequence for the Oscars, in which Coraline told an interviewer what winning an Oscar would do for her. I'd assumed that would get me into the Oscars. It didn't. But Henry, as director, had tickets and could decide where they would go, and one of them went to me.

My father had died on 7 March 2009. This year's Oscars are on 7 March. I expect it will be just another day, and it will not bother me at all, demonstrating that I do not know myself very well, because when the day arrives I am melancholy, and do not want to go to the Oscars. I want to be at home, walking in the woods with my dog, and if I could simply press a button and be there without disappointing anybody, I would.

I get dressed. A designer named Kambriel, whom I met when she had made a dress that would allow my fiancee and Jason Webley to represent conjoined twins, had offered to dress me for the Oscars, and I took her up on it. She made me a jacket and a waistcoat, and I fancy that I look pretty good in them. Best of all, I now have an answer to the people who ask, "What are you wearing to the Oscars?" And it makes Kambriel amazingly happy.

Focus Films, which distributed Coraline, is looking after me. The night before the Oscars, they had a small reception at the Chateau Marmont for their two nominees, Coraline and A Serious Man. The partygoers were a strange mash-up of Minneapolis Jews and animators. Even more oddly, I was one of the Minneapolis Jews (or almost – I wound up comparing notes with one of the other partygoers on the St Paul newspaper's pulse-pounding exposé that I actually live an hour away from Minneapolis).

The best thing about the Oscars, I realised when the nominees were announced, is that Coraline won't win best animated picture. Nothing but Up can win best animated picture.

A limo picks me up at 3pm, and we drive to the Oscars. It's a slow drive: streets are closed off. The last civilians we see are standing on a street corner holding placards telling me that God Hates Fags, that the recent earthquakes are God's Special Way of Hating Fags, and that the Jews Stole something, but I can't see what, as another placard is in the way.

A block before we reach the Kodak Theatre, the car is searched, and then we're there and I'm tipped out on to the red carpet. Someone pushes a ticket into my hand, to get the car back later that night.

It's controlled chaos.

I am standing blankly, realising I have no idea what to do now, but the women look like butterflies, and there are people in the bleachers who shout as each limo draws up. Someone says: "Neil?"

It's Deette, from Focus. "I just came back from walking Henry through. What a nice coincidence. Would you like me to take you through?"

I would like that very much. She asks if I would like to walk past the cameras, and I say that I would, because my fiancee is in Australia and my daughters are watching on TV, and Kambriel will be happy to see her jacket on television.

We head down into the throng, behind someone in a beautiful dress. It looks like a watercolour of a dream. I have no idea who anyone is, except for Steve Carell, because he looks just like Steve Carell on television, except a tiny bit less orange.

We are scrunched together tightly as we go through metal detectors, and the beautiful watercolour dress is trodden on, and the lady wearing it is very gracious about this.

I ask Deette who's inside the dress, and she tells me it's Rachel McAdams. I want to say hello – Rachel's said nice things about me in interviews – but she's working right now. I'm not. No one wants to take my photo, or, Deette discovers, to interview me. I'm invisible.

At the bend in the red carpet we pause. I look down at Rachel McAdams's watercolour dress and wonder if I can see a footprint. Cameras flash, but not at me.

And we're into the Kodak Theatre. Someone else introduces me to the editor of Variety. I realise my facial recognition skills do not work when people are in tuxedos. (Except for James Cameron, whom I have now only ever seen in a tuxedo and would not recognise wearing anything else.) I tell this to the editor of Variety. He points to a man with a tan and a huge grin, tells me it's the mayor of Los Angeles. "He comes to all these things," he says. "Why isn't he behind his desk, working?"

"Er. Because this is the biggest day in Hollywood's year?" I venture. "And it's Sunday?"

"Well. Yes. But he still comes out for the opening of a drinks cabinet."

I had been to the Golden Globes six weeks earlier and discovered that the commercial breaks in award shows are spent in a strange form of en masse Hollywood speed-dating as people shuttle around the room trying to find friends or make deals, and assume that tonight will be much the same.

The Kodak Theatre has a ground floor and, above that, three mezzanines. My ticket is for the first mezzanine. I head, sheep-like, up the stairs. There is a crush to get in, as a disembodied voice tells us urgently that the Academy awards will start in five minutes. I stare at the woman in front of me. She has blond hair and a face that's strangely fish-like, a scary-sweet plastic-surgery face. She has old hands and a small, wrinkled, husband who looks much older than her. I wonder if they started out the same age.

And we're in, with no time to spare. The lights go down, and Neil Patrick Harris sings a special Oscars song. It does not seem to have a tune. Several people on Twitter who aren't sure which Neil is which congratulate me on it.

And now our hosts: Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin. They come out, they make jokes. From the first mezzanine, the timing is off, the jokes are awkward, the delivery is wooden. But it doesn't feel as if they're playing to us. I wonder if it works on television, and send the question out on Twitter. A few hundred people tell me it's just as bad on TV, 20 tell me they're enjoying it. I decide this is what Twitter is for: keeping you company when you're all alone on the mezzanine.

Best animated movie is the second category of the night. My 15 seconds of Coraline talking to the camera goes by fast. There, I think. The largest audience that my words will ever have. Up wins.

The Oscars continue. In the audience, we cannot see what they are seeing on television at home. Somewhere below me George Clooney is grimacing at the camera, but I do not know.

Tina Fey and Robert Downey Jr present the best screenplay award, and are funny. I wonder if they wrote their own bit.

During the commercials, the lights go down, and they play music to mingle by. Roxanne does not have to put on the red light.

I head for the first mezzanine bar. I'm hungry and want to kill some time. I drink whiskey. I order a chocolate brownie that turns out to be about as big as my head and the sweetest thing I've ever put in my mouth. I share it.

People are wandering up and down the stairs.

Whiskey and sugar careening through my system, I defy the orders on my ticket not to photograph anything, and I tweet a picture of the bar menu. My fiancee is sending me messages on Twitter urging me to photograph the inside of the women's toilet, something she did during the Golden Globes, but even in my sugar-addled state, that seems a potentially disastrous idea. Still, I think, I should head downstairs and, in the next commercial break, say hello to Henry Selick. I walk over to the stairs. A nice young man in a suit asks me for my ticket. I show it to him. He explains that, as a resident of the first mezzanine, I am not permitted to walk downstairs and potentially bother the A-list.

I am outraged.

I am not actually outraged, but I am a bit bored, and I have friends downstairs.

I decide that I will persuade the inhabitants of the mezzanines to rise up as one and to storm the stairs, like in Titanic. They might shoot a few of us, I decide, but they cannot stop us all. We can be free; we can drink in the downstairs bar; we can mingle with Harvey Weinstein.

Someone tells me on Twitter that nobody's checking the elevators. I suspect that might be a trap, and head back to my seat.

I have missed the tribute to horror movies.

Rachel McAdams presents an award in her beautiful, oh-so-treadonable dress.

For the best actor and actress awards, a tableau of people who have worked with the nominees tell us how wonderful they are. I wonder if it works on TV. On the stage in front of us, it is painfully clumsy.

People below us are milling and chatting and schmoozing more with every commercial break. There is an edge of panic to the disembodied announcer's voice as she orders them back to their seats.

The man in the bar who reminded me of Sean Penn turns out to have been Sean Penn. Jeff Bridges's standing ovation reaches all the way to the top mezzanine. Sandra Bullock's standing ovation only reaches the front rows of our level and stops there. Kathryn Bigelow's standing ovation covers the entire hall except, for some reason, the top right of the first mezzanine, where I am sitting, where we remain sitting and clap politely.

It all seems to be building up to a climax, and then Tom Hanks walks out on to the stage and tells us, with no build-up (if you exclude months of For Your Consideration campaigning) that oh, by the way, The Hurt Locker won best picture and goodnight. And we're out.

Up two escalators to the governors' ball. I sit and chat to Michael Sheen, who brought his 11-year-old daughter, Lily, about the sushi dinner we had two days before, interrupted and ended by a police raid. We still have no idea why. (Next morning, it will be a front-page story in the New York Times. They were serving illicit whale meat.)

I see Henry Selick. He seems relieved that awards season is over, and that he can get on with his life.

I feel as if I've sleepwalked invisibly through one of the most melancholy days of my life. There are glamorous parties that evening, but I don't go to any of them, preferring to sit in a hotel lobby with good friends. We talk about the Oscars.

The next morning the back page of the Los Angeles Times Oscar supplement is a huge panoramic photograph of the people on the red carpet. Somewhat to my surprise, I see myself standing front and centre, staring down at Rachel McAdams's beautiful watercolour dress, inspecting it for footprints.


http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2010/mar ... s-coraline
There is no me. There is no you. There is all. There is no you. There is no me. And that is all. A profound acceptance of an enormous pageantry. A haunting certainty that the unifying principle of this universe is love. -- Propagandhi
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby Cordelia » Sat Mar 27, 2010 6:58 pm

Damn! My computer won't ever let me post an image; the little box just keeps telling me it's in progress, so here's a link to see Rachel's dress. (The guy's not Neil Gaiman, probably someone who also stepped on her dress.)
http://www.popsugar.com.au/Photos-Rache ... page=0,0,0
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby sunny » Sat Mar 27, 2010 7:05 pm

Here 'ya go, Cordelia--

Image
Choose love
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Re: Why the Oscars are a Con

Postby Cordelia » Sat Mar 27, 2010 8:36 pm

Thanks Sunny. Beautiful, it must be like wearing billowing clouds. (I wonder if she got to keep it.)
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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