A Short Reply to My Brother on the Oscars

*In response to my brother’s post on The Everything Film Blog regarding this year’s Oscar nominees, as well as numerous other commentators and film lovers.

Let’s start off with something blunt and obvious: Jonah Hill did not do anything special in Moneyball. I’m sorry to say it, kind of, for people who are big fans of his performance there. If your about to argue that “he was much more subtle than the usual Jonah Hill zaniness” then you really have no argument at all. It is not the purpose of awarding an actor for his work in ONE movie by comparing it side-by-side to the rest of his movies and/or his personality. Jonah Hill showed little emotion, to be true, but he played a stiff character who grew a little to become just a little more outgoing when he has an opinion. Also, he got happy in one scene when he became part of a multi-trade deal alongside Brad Pitt. Jonah Hill is nominated for high-fiving Brad Pitt.

Mark also points out that “The list of Best Pic nominees shows either how safe Hollywood played it this year or how friendly the Academy wants to keep the show to general audiences. It’s almost as if the Academy is trying to counter-correct for awarding smaller, bleaker films (No Country for Old Men, The Hurt Locker) over the past few years.”

Mark, I agree to a point, and then I gladly disagree. The only movies in this list that could be considered part of the “counter-correcting” are The Help, Hugo, and maybe War Horse. Moneyball and Midnight in Paris made millions, but are hardly more popular to general audiences than The Help. The Tree of Life being nominated is a way of the “the Academy” giving a nomination to an experimental film, paying tribute to film as a deeper experience than simply telling a story. And of course there’s The Artist, a throwback and tribute to silent films by a French director, an obvious tip of the hat to an older generation and perhaps a simpler time for film audiences to be “wowed” by the big screen.

Another point Mark makes is the “why the hell is Melissa McCarthy” nominated point — one which has been made by many commentors and critics. Well, I have to say I’m a little bummed that more people won’t support this nomination. Seriously. She carried the movie (much like Kevin Spacey did in The Usual Suspects, or Robert Downey, Jr. in Tropic Thunder) and gave us a monumentally memorable, off the wall character (see: Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight; See: Chris Cooper in Adaptation), one that is a reflection of a personality trait of the main character that has yet to come to light. The only difference between Melissa McCarthy and the past nominees in this category for the last three years is that she’s in a comedy. There could be deeper reading into this, but McCarthy took a one-note character on the page and gave her true life, something that’s not easy to do.

Mark also references Bridesmaids screnplay nomination — and for this I have to agree with Mark. The screenplay is simple, but weak — there are scenes that are out of order and character “issues” that are not truly justified or paid off (cupcakes anyone?). But mostly, it’s a standard comedy arc with a screenplay that is not as good, original, or emotionally impactful as, say, 50/50.

To the note of Tintin missing out on a nomination, I for one am truly bummed, but then again maybe people just didn’t know where to chalk up a nomination — Animators could’ve thought it was a VFX movie, while VFX folks could’ve believed it was only animated. Who knows? Like Mark says, why bother trying to complain if nothing can change? Focus on the good: Gary Oldman gets his first nod, Max Von Sydow is making a comeback, and Kenneth Branagh is nominated for playing Laurence Olivier — a pair of actors who, if they had been able to share the screen, would’ve given us truly great screen magic.

*And on the note of “The Academy,” I want to address Mark’s statement “how friendly the Academy wants to keep the show to general audiences.” I’ve heard this argument, and read it, from numerous other commentors, stating that the Academy should nominate more popular movies otherwise they won’t get high ratings. Well, the Academy AWARDS doesn’t work that way, I’m sorry to say. This isn’t a popularity contest voted on by the American viewing public. This is a prestigious awards show voted on by members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. There’s not a five person committee saying “well it looks like we need to get some viewers so how about we nominate The Help (Although it would be an easy way to explain why The Blind Side even showed up on the best picture list a few years back).

To suggest that the Academy Awards is only about ratings, well, if they are, then they’ve done a piss-poor job of it. And if they are seeking only ratings, why don’t they nominate films like, oh, I don’t know, Transformers? Or Rise of the Planet of the Apes? Or X-Men: First Class?

Then again, I might just be hopelessly grasping for the last truly “award worthy” awards show.

Pawn Shop: A Prequel

Arboran held open his storefront door and wiggled his toes in the water streaming from up the road. He squinted in the dawn’s first light, relishing the first five minutes of the day when trouble seemed to remain at ease. The water carried a few fallen leaves and twigs, but not much else from the typically clean sidewalks along Crenshaw.

Up in front of Magg’s Flower Shop, Magg herself sprayed her sidewalk clean, as she had every morning for the past five years, and nodded down to Arboran before shutting off the hose and turning inside her shop. Magg was not one of Arboran’s favorites on this block, but for these five minutes each morning, his toes soaking in the cool water that trickled from her shop, he felt that an amiable peace was possible.

A pickup truck rolled past, the engine sputtering and fighting through its’ last remaining days, and then the quiet of the street returned. For years now, Arboran slept on the second floor above his brother’s shop, finally moving up to the third floor when Felix passed away, and in all that time he had not once felt the inclination to close his window because of outside noise.

So quiet was the scene that when Arboran moved to re-enter his shop and the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly raised, he knew that there was a disturbance in the air, a fluttering, soundless body across the street that would bother the last remaining peace for a good long time. He waited, for any sound, any indication of movement, but there was only the quiet trickling of water, the slow breeze of the early morning, and the occasional honking horn from two blocks down on Arlington.

The sound of fabric, shaking loose caught dust, sparked Arboran to blink and look around. He found himself behind the counter of his shop, tending to a customer.

“Forty dollars and not a penny less.” The man across from Arboran wore a dark coat and fedora, his face was tied into a knot of serious, but the old man sounded regretful. Around his neck was a white strip, and his shirt was black. He held out a chain, at the end of which dangled a locket for tiny photographs. Arboran took the locket but didn’t bother looking at the pictures.

“Forty is too steep, Old Man — “

“I am a Reverend. You know how to offer respect when it is commanded, don’t you?”

Arboran gathered himself, still unsure what time of day it was. If a man could cover confusion with assured authority faster than Arboran, the world would never know. Years spent behind this very counter in this pawn shop, watching first his brother Felix, then owning up to the run of the place, and Arboran could smell a liar and a street rat from far away, a distance enough to pull out his shotgun and send the riff-raff ten blocks away before lunch.

He’d been swindled once before, because he thought he’d been doing the right thing. Back then, a malnourished teen meant hard life more often than drug addict. This particular kid was red around the eyes, sweat in his hair and sounded out of breath, like he’d been running for miles. He’d traded in a pair of golf clubs, looking only for a ten dollar bill. “To feed my wife. She’s pregnant, bigger than a Guinness World Record watermelon.” Arboran felt pity for the kid, and handed over a twenty. Felix was there, in the waning days of his ownership, and had only given Arboran a stern look before snatching up the clubs and attempting to chase the kid down for the money.

That afternoon, in the hospital, Arboran watched as Felix, just beaten in a police chase, was first brought up on charges for the theft of a city councilman’s golf clubs, and was then later released by the very same councilman — a man who had frequented their shop often to exchange his wife’s earrings in exchange for money to treat his many mistresses. Their business relationship ended after that day.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Now, still standing across from Arboran, the Reverend crossed his arms and gave him that same stern look that Arboran remembered from Felix. “You’ll give me forty dollars, or else I will make this day your last behind that counter.”

“A man of God would not make such threats.”

“You don’t know God like I do.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.” Arboran placed the necklace on the counter, and as he did so he caught the clock in the corner of his eye: ten minutes past eleven. He’d lost track of three hours time since wetting his feet in the runoff from Magg’s hose. Scanning the shelves, he began to take a mental inventory when another set of eyes met his, suddenly and fiercely close. They were bloodshot, sleepless and mad with weariness.

“This man will do.” The voice was deep and pained.

And then Arboran found himself sitting at his coffee table, on which his mug from the morning’s brew rested, now cold and devoid of taste. In front of him sat the Reverend, and another man, eyes now calm, sweat still beading on his face. He was a black man, spoke with a hint of a southern twang, and Arboran could smell fresh grass and fields. When he closed his eyes, Arboran felt safe just by the very presence of this man. But opening them again, his eyes caught blood stains, and anger deep behind the look of the man. This was going to be a very long week for Arboran.

Scavengers. Pt. I

Every Saturday, there is a string-bean of a man who sits in the corner of the cafe, just inside the cruddy door. He wears his sunglasses inside, a completely unnecessary accessory, and proceeds to arrange his iPad on his lap, pink case and everything, and wait. He sets up to wait. He keeps his back to the wall and watches the other customers slyly, without a nod or smile in anyone’s direction in particular. The screen blurs under his rapid fingers as he types, arranges, and flitters over odd facts and figures, images foreign to most human eyes.

And every half-hour, something odd occurs.

At the thirty minute mark, a group of nine people, men and women of all ages, sizes, shapes, and types, enters the cafe, searching and on the hunt for a man they call “Paris.” Inevitably, after twenty seconds of searching with questioning gazes, the man with the pink iPad looks up and, with the slightest lisp, cries out that, “yes, I am Paris, and welcome!”

From across the room, I can’t tell what their meetings are about. Fifteen minutes after they begin speaking — no one purchasing a drink or a cookie or a pastry — the group disperses — “Paris” remaining behind, already hard at work on his iPad once more. I’ve often thought of sitting closer just to hear the plan of action, but I somehow think this “Paris” would know I’m eavesdropping. He would call me out on this, and some shit would hit the fan. Inevitably.

Then one day, I decided to take the leap and approach “Paris”. He had removed his sunglasses, amazingly enough, and appeared to have completed his day of doling out marching orders to various groups of people, each of whom left the meeting with an envelope containing who-knows-what, perhaps a list unreadable names, or words and locations for an elaborate scavenger hunt. No two groups are ever the same, nor seen or heard from again. I didn’t stop to wonder where “Paris” was hiding these envelopes. The mystery was irrelevant enough to have not entered my radar.

“Your name is Paris?” I was using my so-soft-you-have-to-ask-me-to-repeat-myself voice. I use this sometimes when I want to take the upper hand. You know, speak softly, then when you’re forced to repeat yourself, act annoyed that the other person isn’t paying attention.

But “Paris” was always paying attention.

“Yes it is, Lawrence. Have a seat.”

Stop the digital uploads for a minute and decompress your files. He knew my name. And said it without looking up at me — barely, I’m sure, having heard my footsteps in his direction.

I sat down. What else could I do? Behind me, I heard the barista yell into the kitchen for a tomato basil soup and half-sandwich. A cafe with tomato soup. What happened to the good days of simply serving coffee with a fresh soft croissant, maybe a cookie in the afternoons?

“I know, it’s tacky isn’t it? Tomato soup in a cafe.” He’d read my mind. “I’m reading your mind. It’s okay I do it to everyone I want to know.”

“How the hell –”

“It’s a gift. There’s nothing more to tell. It’s not a secret, or a blessing, just a gift. I chose to unwrap it. What is your gift, Lawrence?”

“Excuse me?” He was testing me. I was sure of it. The only thing his test didn’t come with was an application and a urine test. But what kind of test would this be?

“This is not the test, Lawrence. You already passed that when you walked over to me and said hello. Anyone who ever finds me has already passed the test. How else do you think they find me?”

“You run a pretty good computer program that SPAMs them into some kind of scavenger hunt?” Paris blinked. Was he shocked, impressed, or just drawing out the moment? I couldn’t tell, but something about what I said took him by surprise.

“It’s not a simple computer program. It’s a program that invades the mind, infects it in a way, until the drive to quench an unknowable thirst becomes to great. Then, you find me, I tell you the tasks, and you go on your merry way. But you are right about one thing.”

“Tasks? I’ve never seen anyone come back to you after a completed task.”

“You’re right that it’s a hunt, a scavenger hunt. And yes, no one has ever completed the tasks I set forth. At least, not yet. I’ve been doing this quite a long time, Lawrence. Welcome to the Hunt.”

I sat back and waited for more, but Paris inexplicably turned his attention to his iPad again, bending over so his nose almost pierced the screen. I could see the faint outlines of a program, a game, perhaps, or some kind of exotic map. I was about to ask about it when he looked up, just above the rim of his sunglasses. His eyes were lined red, bloodshot, and for a moment I caught a hint of caution, a dash of unease.

“Lawrence, you’re hesitation will get you nowhere closer to your goal.”

“I have no idea what I’m after.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Paris folded over his iPad case and walked out of the cafe in two quick breaths. I stared after him until Audrey, the cafe owner, elbowed me aside, her arms full of dirty dishes.

“Dammit, Larry, either go home or sit the hell down.”

“Audrey, wait a minute -”

“No, Larry. How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t want to get a drink, I don’t want to snag a bite of dinner, and I definitely — absolutely — don’t want to grab another cup of coffee when I’m off my shift here.”

“This isn’t about that. Although, thanks for the advanced warning. Listen, who was that guy? Paris?”

“Paris? Oh, the hipster dude with the pink iPad case? Yeah, he’s been a regular since before I bought the place. I think he started coming in as soon as we opened, way back when. Never seems to order a drink these days, but I don’t mind. He’s quiet and whenever we’re crowded, he just leaves his seat. He’s harmless.”

“He’s a creep. Told me I had to hunt…something…didn’t say what though.”

“Hunt something? Larry, a word of advice: you’re a grown man. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do.” She started to turn.

“I let you boss me around.”

“Only because I can’t stand you.” She looked at me with her kind eyes at that moment, and I fell in love all over again. “Larry, really, you look tired, stressed out. Go home and take a nap.”

I let her get back to work. Who was I kidding? Audrey would always be the manager and owner of her own cafe, a success beyond reason, and me, I’d be an unlucky shmoe who spent his pocket change in her establishment without seeing a return. I felt ashamed for feeling creeped out by Paris. The guy was harmless. He had a “gift” he’d unwrapped, read my mind, that was it. Besides, there was no real danger in even trying to find whatever it is he wanted me to find. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people had sought out different things for him before, and no one ever turned up dead, right? I would’ve read about serial deaths happening if it was that common.

As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I realized how wrong I’d been.

The Older Couple

Sitting at a cafe with a steaming cup of coffee, I just watched an elderly couple enter, shuffling through the doors. The old man waited for his wife as she headed to the bathroom. His smile sort of faded while he waited, though his eyes continued to shine. Then, everything about his face and the way he stood became a little brighter as she exited the bathroom and walked towards him. He turned and as they walked out the door together, she wrapped her hand in his.

80 years old and still in love. That’s how everyone should be, I hope.

And yet, all I could think was: I hope she washed her hands…