What I Really Want To Do is Direct

In case you hadn’t heard, it’s the Oscars on Sunday night. Last year was a bit of a mess for prestige pictures, with the British contingent in particular not finding their designated runner until late in the year. Never Let Me Go was an early favourite, but that fell by the wayside, possibly because the premise is identical to Michael Bay’s The Island, which was in turn the subject of a plagiarism lawsuit. Made in Dagenham failed to catch on, not helped by the producer throwing a strop over the BBFC rating. Four Lions was acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic, but was too edgy for mainstream awards.

Finally, The King’s Speech showed up, and immediately became the front-runner. It’s a good film, and one that deserves the rounds of applause that have been greeting in British screenings. But it’s still a schematic, formulaic picture, filled with the kinds of elements that appeal to awards voters, especially American ones. The British monarchy is regarded with fond affection by many of our cousins; one of those funny quirks that separates us, apart from three thousand miles of brine. Films about them always go down well in the US, as do stories of overcoming adversity, beating disability and standing up for what needs to be done. One could view the film as a Merchant-Ivory take on High Noon.

It’s the performances that make the film stand out, and the only thing that will stop Colin Firth collecting the award for Best Actor is a sudden fatal heart attack.  He adds a convincing emotional frailty to a story that needs an unpredictable element, and it neatly counters Geoffrey Rush staying just the right side of the ham counter. If The King’s Speech wins the top prize, even if it sweeps the board, I won’t be too miffed.  Like I said, it’s an enjoyable film, slickly produced and telling an engaging story neatly without resorting to obvious manipulative tactics.

And then there’s Inception.

Don’t get me wrong. I was delighted that a blockbuster action movie on this scale should demand such a high level of intellectual engagement from its audience and be an enormous global hit – fourth highest-grossing film of the year, and the number one out of those with original scripts. But it’s still an action movie. For all the film’s ideas and switching between different levels of perception and reality, there is never any emotional engagement, and this is a serious weakness in Christopher Nolan’s writing.

His debut film, the little-seen Following, was a straightforward noir story set in contemporary London, but it’s gimmick was its achronic script. Once that was removed, the rest of the story was tedious in the extreme, even with some unexpected twists and a 69-minute running time. The sudden swerve in the last five minutes should have been a “Whaaatttt???” moment. Instead it was “...Oh”.

Inception is the first film since then he’s written alone, and dazzling though it may be, challenging though it’s audience may find it, it’s just an exercise in mind games that many have played before in other media, most prominently Philip K. Dick’s novel “Ubik”, which has a near-identical premise, albeit a different plot. In short, Nolan can send me to Limbo, but he can’t make me care.

So who’s my money on? I’m not normally a betting man – I worry about having an addictive personality, especially since I always finish bottles of wine the evening I open them and constantly insist to myself that I’ll just have one more go: the reason I don’t have a games console – but I were, my money would be on The Social Network.

A recent survey found that the average age of the voting members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – the people who decide who gets what – is 57. 57. There’s been some concern that a hip, youthful film like The Social Network would struggle to engage with older viewers, but the film’s greatest strength is that you only need to understand the most fundamental basics of Facebook to appreciate the story of its creation.

It’s a classic tale of flawed genius, pride, greed, friendship and betrayal, told against a backdrop that has only existed for a few years. Another commentator (What? I can call myself a commentator if I like. I can call myself Susan If I want, but it might attract a different clientele) noted that it was the first major film that could not have existed before the 21^st century. I’d say that you could have made this story about the inventors of the Penny Post, but it would not have the immediacy, vitality and relevance that are endowed in it by Aaron Sorkin’s engaging script and David Fincher’s masterful direction. Fincher was previously nominated for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a heartstring-tugging crowdpleaser and the worst film of his career – yes, including Alien³ – so it’s a pleasure to see him getting recognition for a piece of work worthy of his ability and talent. The prize is his.

What about the other Best Picture nominees? My thoughts on Black Swan have been previously aired, and were less than complimentary. Or polite. I missed both The Kids Are All Right and Winter’s Bone, since both looked uninteresting, and I don’t regret not seeing them. That leaves four.

Toy Story 3 is a new high-water mark for Pixar and the best Second Sequel of all time. I honestly don’t know of anyone who has seen the film and not loved it. It’s a phenomenal piece of work with a multitude of layers, offering children another fun adventure with the gang, teenagers a chance to reflect on their lost childhoods and adults to see a metaphor for death and the afterlife, but without ever becoming heavy-handed or bogged down in subtext. It’s characters who have always come first at Pixar – this, by the way, is the reason they are so successful – and no scene in the company’s catalogue proves this better than one particular moment in this film. Those who have seen it know the one I mean. Everything is expressed with simple gestures, without a word being spoken. It’s incredibly powerful, and only reinforces my opinion that there is nothing beyond Pixar’s reach. Not even infinity itself.

More people should see this film.

True Grit, The Fighter and 127 Hours all share the thread of men with something to prove, and all are strong films, but all have something lacking. None are the best works of their directors, since the Coens and Danny Boyle already have astonishing filmographies already, and David O. Russell will probably never match I ♥ Huckabees for its sheer wit and invention, finding a way of posing a philosophical argument in the form of a screwball comedy. They are fine, solid pieces of work. But they probably shouldn’t be on the ballot paper.

As for what should be on the ballot paper, I will be presenting my own list on Sunday. Probably. Possibly.