JOHN VERNON 1932 - 2005: Dean Wormer Gets This Damned Thing Over With

Perhaps it's fitting that the robust rumble of actor John Vernon's full-bodied yet well-tempered speaking voice would first be introduced to American audiences in 1966, when the Canadian actor was featured in the Marvel Superheroes animated TV series as the voice of the stately, driven and dignified Prince Namor, otherwise known as the Sub-Mariner. Vernon was also Tony Stark, the Iron Man, and the voice of General Glenn Talbot, arrogant military nemesis of the Incredible Hulk, and he returned to voice-over work for cartoons and video games in the latter part of his career, when illness had made it difficult for him to get around. His last credited work, according to the Internet Movie Database, was voice work for a video game entitled Fallout: Brotherhood of Steel. But his last appearance on film (or, in this case, video) was a return to the role with which he would be most closely identified, in which he allowed us to catch up with the whereabouts of one Dean Vernon Wormer, former president of Faber College, in "Where Are They Now: A Delta Alumni Update," available on last year's "Double Secret Probation" DVD release of National Lampoon's Animal House. John Vernon died yesterday at the age of 72 of complications from heart surgery.

Like a lot of people my age, my first exposure to Vernon was probably those Marvel TV cartoons. But the first time I ever saw him on screen, in Dirty Harry, as the mayor of San Francisco reading a note left in the wake of a grisly shooting that promised even more bloodshed, his presence left an impression on me and my life as a young moviegoer that made him seem far more ubiquitous in my memory than his actual credits would attest. In fact, in between 1972, when I saw Dirty Harry for the first time at the tender age of 12, and 1977, when I graduated high school, I saw John Vernon in exactly two movies, the John Wayne vehicle Brannigan, and Drum, the ultra-sleazy sequel to Mandingo. Neither movie was particularly memorable, or good, or representative of his talent. (I would end up seeing his other, better work, in movies like Point Blank, Charley Varrick, The Questor Tapes and The Outlaw Josey Wales, much later, in college and into my 20s.) No, instead of blazing a trail through great movie after great movie in the 1970s, John Vernon became an indelible part of my TV landscape growing up, a frequent "special guest star" on shows that were always on in my house, shows like The F.B.I., Tarzan, Felony Squad, Mission: Impossible, The High Chaparral, Hawaii Five-O, Mannix, The Name of the Game, Storefront Lawyers, Bearcats!, Cannon, Search, Kung Fu, Petrocelli, Police Woman, McMillan and Wife, and S.W.A.T. It's no wonder, then, when I met John Vernon in 1977 on the set of National Lampoon's Animal House, that he seemed so familiar, so approachable, and at the same time so intimidating.

The intimidation was actually no surprise. Fresh from the sagebrush of Lake County, I was an extremely green freshman trying to navigate through my first term in the relatively bustling scholarly environs of the University of Oregon. Intimidation was a way of life for me, a form of functioning. Yet I managed to gather enough courage to respond to a cattle call ad in the school paper, the Oregon Daily Emerald, which said that Universal Pictures was looking for fresh faces to be used as extras in a new comedy that would be shooting on campus in October. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor of the Delta house, watching with several other "Delta pledges" on camera as Jamie Widdoes (Hoover) talked about the house being put on "double secret probation, whatever that is," while Tim Matheson (Otter), Peter Reigert (Boone), Bruce McGill (D-Day) and, of course, John Belushi (Bluto) began to hatch the plan for the big toga party.

Earlier that same day was when I first met John Vernon. I'd spotted him on the set a couple of days earlier, milling about, checking things out, but I was far too terrified to introduce myself or say anything to him-- I imagined him as being tough and mean and unapproachable, like most of the characters I'd seen him play, and I didn't even yet know him as Dean Wormer. (I also lived in fear on the set of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and incurring the wrath of the assistant director, a craggy veteran of The Wild Bunch and other Sam Peckinpah movies.) I wasn't as gregarious and inquisitive with all that talent floating around as I wish I'd been in retrospect. But when Vernon arrived on the set to drop the "double secret probation" bomb on the Deltas, I gathered what little courage I had and sidled up to him for a brief moment before he began rehearsing his scene. I don't remember much about what I said, other than some witty bon mot along the lines of "What's Clint Eastwood like?" But I do remember he was very gracious, very open to talking with some nobody kid who'd found himself smack in the middle of a dream situation, and he never once made me feel like I was intruding or being obnoxious. I told him what my plans were for college and beyond (I thought I wanted to direct movies back then!), and he was cautiously encouraging and told me I was lucky to get a crash course in what filmmaking was like just by being a part of this movie. I made sure I told him how much I liked him in Dirty Harry, he laughed and thanked me, and then he was off.

The next time I saw him, a few moments later, he was lit like the Frankenstein monster as he walked with great deliberation through the doorway into the living room where Deltas great and small were gathered, unconcerned with being caught by the dean in violation of rules concerning alcoholic beverages in fraternities on probation. He seemed completely different from the man I'd just talked with, and over the course of rehearsing and shooting the scene it became very easy to forget he was anyone but the vicious and obsessively punitive Dean Wormer, a distillation, amplification, and a perfecting of the kind of villainy I'd seen him embody on all those TV shows in years past. He didn't roam around the set between takes staring down helpless extras or demanding to be treated with special deference in order to stay in character-- the Animal House set would definitely have been the wrong arena for any actor to try to get away with that sort of Method indulgence. But Vernon carried Wormer's sweaty belligerence around with him anyway by the sheer force of his presence and his refusal to wink at the audience or his fellow actors. He infused what could have been a simple cartoon characterization with real gravitas, real arrogance, the real frustration of "the establishment" as the first hiccups of 60s rebellion began to manifest in the rebellious hi-jinks of real-life college students whom the Delta Tau Chi fraternity very closely resembled. He also displayed a deft agility with comedy that was surprising coming from someone as closely identified with dramatic bad guys as he was. He made the deliciously mean-spirited and apoplectic Dean Wormer wiggle and breathe on the hook, adding one layer to the richness of absurdity and observation and groundbreaking raunch that lifted National Lampoon's Animal House to a higher plane and kept it out of the reach of a multitude of pale imitations for 27 years and counting.

It was somehow fitting that Vernon's last appearance would be a return to Dean Wormer's shoes. Even though he was clearly ill in "Where Are They Now: A Delta Alumni Update," Vernon's cantankerous Wormer, railing irrationally at the indignities foisted upon him by the Delta house some 40 years previous, was spirited fun to see. And after toiling during the post-Animal House years in roles that, to put it kind kindly, didn't give him much of a chance to shine-- brief appearances in films like Airplane II: The Sequel, Chained Heat and I'm Gonna Get You, Sucka were the highlights-- there was some satisfaction in seeing him come home and lay fresh claim to a characterization that has given so many moviegoers so much nasty pleasure since the movie premiered in August 1978.

During Animal House's fraternity council hearing scene, as the Deltas are preparing to present their case for not being kicked off campus, Dean Wormer, in his best conspiratorially hushed tones, leans over to Omega lackey Gregg Marmalarde and mutters, "Let's get this damned thing over with." It's not a laugh line, and certainly it's not in the same canon of classics such as "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son," or "Put a sock in it, boy, or you'll be out of here like shit through a goose." But for reasons probably entirely related to the way Vernon delivers the line, it has resonated with me, and I often use it in situations, both lighthearted and of import, in my own life. And it's the first thing I thought of when my friend Todd dropped me a line on this blog and let me know that John Vernon had died. He had finally, after illnesses related to heart problems, and surgery undergone to repair them, gotten this damned thing over with. And he's left a body of good work, and one vivid, dare I say great, characterization that lovers of laughter will enjoy as long as film exists in one form or another, an achievement that any actor would relish. It's inconceivable to imagine that John Vernon didn't delight in knowing he was one of those lucky ones. I feel lucky that I got to meet him briefly and watch him in the process of creating Dean Wormer, but I'm no luckier than anyone who's gotten a chance to see the movie and appreciate that performance. Imagine with me the actor's deadpan response to the pencils up Belushi's nose, or his attempt to placate the angry mayor on the telephone while his drunken wife wraps her legs around his head and eventually tumbles to the floor, and then join me in saying thanks one last time to John Vernon for a dean well done indeed.

GOD'S LONELY MAN... PART TWO?

And speaking of Scorsese-- We were speaking of him, even indirectly, weren't we? (Well, if we weren't, you can be damn sure somebody was)...

Brian Libby writes a rather impassioned plea directly to the famously Oscar-less auteur in today's Salon Arts and Entertainment section. Although Libby is rather too impressed with Scorsese's oeuvre on the whole, citing the usual suspects as, I think, arguable masterpieces (Raging Bull, GoodFellas), his panic upon hearing of Scorsese and Robert DeNiro's considering a sequel to one of the director's inarguable (I think) masterpieces, Taxi Driver, is well-founded and understandable. Libby's most compelling argument is that in creating an answer to the question, "Where is Travis Bickle now?" the ambiguity of the first film, part of what makes it rich and misunderstood and controversial, would be destroyed.

You can read Brian Libby's essay here at http://www.salon.com/ent/feature/2005/01/28/taxi_driver/index.html

DIRECTORS GUILD AWARDS ANNOUNCED

After the inconclusive spreading out of honors at the Golden Globes a couple of weeks ago, it looks like the Oscar race is now a little more focused. Clint Eastwood has become the odds-on favorite to claim the Best Director Academy Award next month by winning the Directors Guild's highest honor Saturday night. Martin Scorsese, thought to be a favorite after The Aviator garnered 11 Oscar nominations, including one for Best Director, was passed over again for the Directors Guild Award on Saturday, as were fellow nominees Taylor Hackford, Marc Forster and Alexander Payne. Eastwood won the prize for directing Million Dollar Baby. Only six DGA winners in the past 57 years have failed to go on to win Oscar gold, including Francis Ford Coppola, who won the DGA for The Godfather, Steven Spielberg for The Color Purple, Ron Howard for Apollo 13, Ang Lee for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and, most recently, Rob Marshall for Chicago. Other directors who were recognized by the Guild jury at this year's awards ceremony included Byambasuren Davaa and Luigi Falorni, whose Story Of The Weeping Camel earned them the Documentary prize, and Walter Hill, who claimed the honor of Best Dramatic Series for TV western series Deadwood.

VON TRAPPED

Sometimes things happen for a reason. But sometimes it seems they don't. What I'd really like to know is, is there a reason I was subjected to The Sound of Music twice this week? Was it the ghost of kindly old Father Phelan of St. Patrick's Parish in Lake County, Oregon getting some kind of metaphysical revenge on me for my being lukewarm (to say the least) on The Passion of the Christ? Perhaps I'd become the focus of an insidious torture campaign at the hands of the Daughters of Julie Andrews (or, as they were known in the heady days of kidnapping newspaper heiresses and winning them over to radical terrorist causes, the DJA) who conspired with the cackling Fates to make my week a living, candy-coated hell.

Oh, probably not. It's more likely just one of those ugly bits of happenstance that mean nothing, but seem like everything in the midst of enduring them. What makes the whole thing even stranger, in terms of coincidence, is that I'm also currently knee-deep in another movie that was released in the wake of The Sound of Music's middlebrow cultural hijacking, 1967's Bedazzled, written by and starring Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, a comic reworking of Faust in which Cook's Satan uses the magic words "Julie Andrews" to transport Moore's rumpled everyman soul-seller to and fro in the fulfilling of his various wishes. Believe me, the idea of using the name of a post-Poppins/post-von Trapp Julie Andrews as some sort of satanic invocation is a very appealing one to me right now. I've never been a fan of her squeaky-clean image or her clipped and overly precise enunciation of all those teeth-rotting lyrics. And although I've always found Mary Poppins entertaining, it's also a bit much-- my inevitable siding up with the movie's stern taskmaster, played by David Tomlinson, during each viewing is a pretty good indication that the movie doesn't work on me in the precisely the way its creators intended.

But as a kid I loved Mary Poppins and the world it lovingly (if a bit creakily, as it turns out) evoked. Not so The Sound of Music. My mom dragged my sister and I to see it in the friendly confines of the Alger Theater back in 1969-- probably on one of the movie's many, many re-releases-- and even as a relatively impressionable nine-year-old I found it virtually unwatchable, as dead in the water as any movie (and I hadn't seen that many yet, really) I'd ever seen. The Sound of Music is chock-full of moments that make me question the sanity of everyone involved: the queasy lunacy of the nuns' bizarre obsessing over their pesky postulant (the answer to their query, "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?" always seemed obvious to me, but there just aren't many good Catholics like Torquemada around anymore); the lockstep animatronics of the von Trapp "children" (Nicholas Hammond as Friedrich is, I believe, the first MPAA-documented use of the UNIVAC Artificial Intelligence Unit in a worldwide Oscar-winning hit); the obvious homage to Hammer Films in the Christopher Lee-like entrance of Captain Georg von Trapp (surely the most paternalistically fascistic anti-Nazi in the history of lousy familial melodrama); that inexplicably perverse moment at the conclusion of the devastatingly bad Charmian Carr’s big “16 Going On 17” number when, in a burst of romantic joy at having had such a lovely encounter with her soon-to-be-goosestepping boyfriend Rolfe, she launches herself out of the gazebo, through the pouring rain toward the camera, and just before Robert Wise-ly cuts away, gives us a giddy, whooping “Wheeeeeeeeee!” as she gathers her arms around herself and swoons with delirious abandon (maybe that’s just delirium brought on by creeping hypothermia at being out too long in the cold Austrian rain); and, of course, the psychotically insistent effervescence of Maria herself (early on, when she describes to the Mother Superior how the birds calling to her was so sweet that she felt she could almost fly away with them, I can never hold back my fantasies of her being successful in her fine feathered flight of fancy, thus lopping off an excruciating two hours and 35 minutes of running time). Every time I see this movie I always end up with one question: What is it that others see in this movie that seems to so completely elude me?

And I think that's a fair question, if it's posed as more than a rhetorical one. So for anyone reading who finds The Sound of Music as rapturous and delightful as I find it inexplicable, uninspiring and fully absent of style, and who would like to take the opportunity to explain why, I'd love for you to do so.

But I'd also like to pose another question, and that is:

What movie, beloved by seemingly everyone else, do you find to be unconscionably, unsupportably, unmistakably bad?

Your choice really should be a movie that has enjoyed some improbable measure of popularity at the box office, critical acclaim, a plethora of awards, or some combination of these, which just drives you around the bend with frustration and irritation. Irrational responses are, I suppose, inevitable, but I'd like to hear why something grates on you so badly, when all else is but praise. I guess I've already answered that question for myself. Now I eagerly await your stories. Come share the pain.

YOU SON OF A BLOGGING BASTARD! *

Traversing the blogosphere as a writer is about the most exciting thing, creatively, that I’ve done in a long while, and one of the most satisfying. I’ve been able to write what I want, for as long as I want, with only my own editorial instincts to tell me when to rein it in or cut for length (a bad thing as well as a good thing). And even sticking to my stated themes (movies, baseball) is a flexible and negotiable restriction, though I have, with only a couple of exceptions so far, not challenged it too severely as yet. Learning to write on this platform has been, as a friend of mine so keenly referred to it when I first started, an exercise in confronting the terror of writing, of putting your work out there with no barriers between it and its intended audience, as well as the discipline to keep it up, even when there are no “deadlines” screaming and blaring at you. Another part of the excitement is discovering new sites where other people are doing the same thing. I’ve been able to communicate with a lot of people regarding their blogs, blogs that have inspired me to step out on my own, and I’ve seen some friends enter the fray recently and use the format in some interesting and exciting ways. Basically, I just wanted to take up a little bit of my own space to recommend some places to go when you’ve stopped by my SLIFR site, gotten bored and are looking for another place toward which to drift. Once I get a little more HTML-friendly (shouldn’t be too long now) I’ll have a sidebar up and running that will allow you to click on these sites and run. But for now, here are some suggestions that will just have to do:

The first blog I read with any regularity was Jon Weisman’s “Dodger Thoughts.” Jon calls it his “outlet for dealing psychologically with the Los Angeles Dodgers and baseball,” and given the Dodgers’ history over the last couple of decades, that’s a mighty tall order for a blog to fill. But Jon has developed a real following for what I’ve come to think of as well-considered, intelligent optimism toward the condition of being a Dodger fan, and his regular readership, and more to the point those who regularly post comments on his articles, form the most intelligent, non-flame-throwing forum for baseball talk (or any kind of Internet talk) I’ve ever seen. These guys are smart, opinionated, not beholden to Jon for his approval, considerate of Jon’s attempts to keep the comment strings family-friendly, and largely considerate of readers who care to read well-written thoughts, not illiterate Internet-ese peppered with bad grammar, typos and profanity for profanity’s sake. (As much fun as their response to Jon’s articles are, what’s really exciting is logging on during a game and taking part in the open forum chats—talk about adding a third dimension to watching or listening on TV, radio or the Internet.) The site has really been a sanctuary for Dodger fans in the off season who have searched for some voices of reason. to counterbalance the soft, indifferent, or at times downright hostile coverage of the team in the Los Angeles Times. The local paper of record seems to have given up on considered analysis and insistence on the value of the long view, preferring instead to give in to the prevailing winds, whether blown by panic, cynicism or narrow-minded nostalgia. Fortunately, for fans who have been made to feel like blind nincompoops for supporting the team by such coverage, reasoned overview is the meat and potatoes of “Dodger Thoughts,” and the site is regularly filled with the kind of writing and fan response that ought to have a lot of well-known sportswriters hanging their heads in shame. Jon Weisman’s “Dodger Thoughts” can be found at http://www.all-baseball.com/dodgerthoughts/


I’m lucky enough to have three friends who have decided to navigate the blogosphere recently. All of them are sharp writers who threaten to illuminate virtual reality with some really interesting and provocative perspectives on various aspects of the lives they lead.

Cruzbomb has started what promises to be a site filled with sharp wit revolving around pop culture and his experiences in the world of endurance running. It’s called “Revolution Pollution” and can be found and bookmarked at http://www.revolutionpollution.blogspot.com/. One of his first long pieces is called “Endurance Junkie,” a genuinely effective piece of inspirational writing that never succumbs to sentiment or platitudes (Cruzbomb’s wit is far too acidic, and he's too willing to break the mood at any point for another slightly cracked observation, fully confident in his ability to get back on point, for this to ever happen). The post chronicles his attempts to get his life together and push himself to places he never thought he could go, and it’s definitely worth checking out. He promises a couple of weekly features too, and if the first entries are any indication, there’s going to be some addictive reading added to my list. Just posted this weekend is a profane, and profanely funny, deconstruction of The Brady Bunch that rallies, helplessly, around poor Alice and her seemingly cheerful, and cheerfully imposed, life of servitude at the hands of her San Fernando Valley slave masters. Also, tantalizingly, Cruzbomb has yet to dig into his hinted-at obsession with Hayley Mills, so count me as one reader who is waiting very patiently for him to get there.

Loxjet, a recent Los Angeles émigré who has found himself back in his real world, that is, the Big Sky of Billings, Montana, from which he sprang, has not been at the blogging business long, but his economical, allusive writing style proves him to be the real deal. At his “Wailing and Gnashing: A Beginner’s Guide,” he’s set himself the goal of creating a blog that has functioned so far as an online diary, a journal of a man at a crossroads in his life, in the midst of rediscovering himself, with all the fears, insecurity and leaps of faith implied in such a journey. Loxjet clearly loves writing (a recent entry about the perfect paragraph is evidence of that), but he's a hell of a writer himself, one who knows the value of the economy of words (a lesson many of us, myself included, would do well to learn). But he locates the poetic heart of his tender appreciations of the land where he grew up, the struggles of raising a son diagnosed with autism (while never forgetting that those struggles never preclude love), and the aesthetic beauty of a Fender Stratocaster, with such ease and precision that I hope his journey through the blogosphere is a long and productive one, even if and when he gets everything he wants. Discover “Wailing and Gnashing” for yourself at http://gnashingwailing.blogspot.com/

Finally, you’re not likely to find much poetry in Stoogeking’s raucous observations about punk rock and hard-core Italian giallo horror films, and it remains to be seen what direction the site will ultimately take (he has only posted twice so far—step it up, SK!), but “Hey Ho Argento!” looks like a lot of fun so far. His New Year’s Eve Eve (not a typo—Ed.) dalliance with Danzig is terrific and, depending on how much more writing we see from Stoogeking in the next month or so, is thoroughly indicative of the sensibility and powers of observation one might reasonably expect from this site. Catch up with this ne’er-do-well at http://stoogeville.blogspot.com/

* Ten points and entry into the "Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule Hall of Fame" to the first person who can tell me from whence cometh the line which this entry title twists ever so slightly. Sorry, Cruzbomb, Loxjet and Stoogeking, but your insider knowledge precludes you from participation. Your comments, however, are still as welcome as ever!

DON SIEGEL TRIBUTE MONDAY, JANUARY 31

Just a reminder, because I promised, about the Don Siegel tribute coming up Monday on Turner Classic Movies. Here's the schedule (all times Pacific Standard Time):

5:00 pm
Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956)
Soulless pods take over the inhabitants of a small California town. Kevin McCarthy, Dana Wynter, Carolyn Jones. 80m

6:30 pm
Madigan (1968)
NYC police detective Madigan has 72 hours to find the mobster who got away with his gun. Richard Widmark, Henry Fonda, Inger Stevens. 101m

8:15 pm
Charley Varrick (1973)
A band of small-time crooks accidentally steals the mob's money. Walter Matthau, Joe Don Baker, Felicia Farr. 110m

10:15 pm
Hell is for Heroes (1962)
A small U.S. squadron holds off the Nazis in a desperate last stand. Steve McQueen, Bobby Darrin, James Coburn. 90m

12:00 midnight
The Big Steal (1950)
Seduction and murder follow the theft of an Army payroll. Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, William Bendix. 71m

1:15 am
Telefon (1977)
A Russian agent travels to the U.S. to stop a crazed defector from triggering human time bombs. Charles Bronson, Lee Remick, Donald Pleasence. 103m

DELIRIOUS NOTES ON THE 2004 OSCAR NOMINATIONS, or "Johnson Family Vacation" Was Robbed!

So, Michael Moore aces himself out of all Oscar consideration by not submitting his movie for Best Documentary (didn't want to distract from other worthy work, he says), but instead gambles on his movie's unprecedented popularity launching it to a Best Picture nomination. Well, Fahrenheit 9/11 failed to oust Bush from office, as was one of its stated goals, and Oscar voters, notorious and rabid liberals, one and all, must have thought it was better not to be reminded of the limits of film as a tool for social change and consequently left the movie completely off its honor roster for 2004. And Academy voters, each one surely a radical, left-wing, Christ-hating (or at least Gibson-hating) Jew, obviously conspired to make sure The Passion of the Christ, otherwise known as the People's Choice for Best Drama, got only perfunctory notice in technical categories, all the better to further punish its divinely inspired (and damnably wealthy) director. Those are the two angles you've probably already heard way too much about if you've followed any analysis of Tuesday's announcement of the 2004 Oscar Nominations.

But there were other questions not based in red state-blue state baiting that were equally compelling. I'll be damned if I can figure out how it happened, but when Paul Giamatti got out of bed Tuesday morning, listened to Adrian Brody read, in alphabetical order, this year's Best Actor nominees and realized they would never get further than the F's, I'll bet he suddenly had a much better idea of how Sandra Oh has probably felt all during this awards season, and more to the point, how Bill Murray felt in 1998 when all the talk about his performance in Rushmore failed to result in a nomination for the popular comedic actor. Much of the fretting and speculation about the logic, or lack thereof, behind figuring Oscar winners of any season is curiously predicated on decoding the mysterious groupthink of "they," as if the Academy, made up of voters from every field of expertise, gathered together in one room and cast the final ballots so as to better form some kind of a consensus statement. But even when one understands that the nominations are voted on only by those within the nominee's own peer group-- actors nominate actors, cinematographers nominate cinematographers-- the specter of "they" still raises its cloaked head. How could they find room for Johnny Depp and leave out Giamatti? How could they honor Thomas Haden Church and not Giamatti? How could they nominate I, Robot for anything? Well, just like it's silly to suppose that every member of the New York Film Critics Circle voted for Million Dollar Baby as Best Picture of the Year (reading David Edelstein's dismissive review in the online magazine Slate ought to put that myth to rest), artists and technicians who vote to nominate their peers are as prone to individual taste, splinter factions, politicking, and inconsistency, as any other group. It's the only way to explain how the Best Director nominees never quite match up with the Best Picture nominees. (Finding Neverland and Mike Leigh are this year's nominees without a corresponding director or film.) Explanations of groupthink are usually futile efforts anyway, except in years like the last one, in which one movie seems to totally overwhelm the sensibility of the voting body to such a degree that consensus almost seems plausible, if not probable.

Much better, and much more fun, then, to go at the categories one by one and point out the surprises and, more often, the deficiencies of the nominations in order to shore up the unassailable conclusion that the Oscars don't really mean a hell of a lot in the grand scheme of cinema. It's a very rare year that I can look back on in Oscar's 77-year history and say that the Academy really got much of anything right, as least as far as I can tell-- the list of Best Picture winners, despite the appearance of obvious classics like It Happened One Night, The Best Years of Our Lives, An American in Paris, Lawrence of Arabia, The Godfather (Parts 1 and 2) and Unforgiven, is as loaded with lard and empty calories as the drive-thru menu at Jackrabbit Slim's. (Would you like some fries with your Around the World in 80 Days? Or extra cheese on your Sound of Music?)

But the fact that the awards are largely insignificant to one's appreciation of film as an art form doesn't mean that following the vagaries and inconsistencies of the ceremony can't still be a lot of fun. And with the nominations announced Tuesday revealing that the 2004 Oscar race figures to be one of the tightest and, with one or two glaring exceptions, most unpredictable in quite some time, why not take a dip into Hollywood's foulest fondue pot and gulp down as much hot cheese and crusty bread as possible? (I haven't felt particularly well the past few days, so one would think I'd avoid rancid metaphors like that last one, but the weakness brought on by vacuum-packed sinuses, nausea and tumbleweed-ridden lungs may inadvertently lead me in directions I don't necessarily want you or I to go, so for that I apologize in advance.)

Best Actor: Don Cheadle, Hotel Rwanda; Johnny Depp, Finding Neverland; Leonardo DiCaprio, The Aviator; Clint Eastwood, Million Dollar Baby; Jamie Foxx, Ray

Well, I already covered the puzzling absence of Paul Giamatti in this category, but I can imagine that Javier Bardem and Liam Neeson might also be scratching their heads in the wake of this category's announcement. The Sea Inside ended up with a foreign film nomination, but nothing for the virile Spanish star of this true-life drama, whose subjugation of his sex appeal to portray a quadriplegic campaigning for the right to die probably accounts for the film's only other nomination, one for Best Makeup (Bald Wig Division). Kinsey did receive one nod, in the direction of Laura Linney, which in the end may only make Neeson wish that his on-screen imitation of John Lithgow was as good as hers. I haven't caught up with Don Cheadle or Jamie Foxx yet (I know, I know, but I'm trying), but even sight unseen it's not hard to project why these acclaimed performances are getting some respect. Less obvious is how Johnny Depp, in a performance much less universally heralded, found himself among the final five. In fact, the whole Miramax-backed Finding Neverland movement, another film I have yet to see (and little interest in, to be honest), would only make sense to me had the film been directed by Lasse Hallstrom, thus completing a mysterious Chocolat-Cider House Rules trifecta of which the director's own The Shipping News (2001) fell far short. Finally, there's Clint Eastwood and Leonardo DiCaprio doing perhaps the best acting work of their careers (so far) in Million Dollar Baby and The Aviator, performances that in any other year would stand as strong a chance as any of taking the prize. But unless Foxx makes good on his Golden Globe acceptance speech joke and does something massively, publicly horrendous between now and the final ballot date, nothing short of a Roland Emmerich-sized global disaster could possibly detain the likable actor from his date with the little gold man.
Winner: Jamie Foxx My Pick: Clint Eastwood

Best Actress: Annette Bening, Being Julia; Catalina Sandino Moreno, Maria Full of Grace; Imelda Staunton, Vera Drake; Hilary Swank, Million Dollar Baby; Kate Winslet, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Okay, well, at least I've seen three of these nominated performances, and I fully intend to catch the outstanding two in this category before Oscar night, February 27. The rookies in this category are Moreno and Staunton, somewhat surprising nominees when you consider the under-the-radar status (at least by Hollywood standards) of the movies they were in. But given Oscar's fairly recent tendency in the acting categories to notice minimally hyped work from the industry margins that generates a lot of positive word of mouth, then suddenly these two actresses look less like dark horses for recognition and more like obvious choices. What, then, to make of Kate Winslet? (That's a rhetorical question.) I'm wondering-- only semi-seriously-- whether this talented British actress is going to start developing some sort of reputation for leaving her romantic costars in the Oscar dust. She was nominated in 1997 for Titanic while poor Leo was left holding James Cameron's bags (at the bottom of the Atlantic, no less). Sure, he's got his nod this year too, but now Kate's latest on-screen partner, Jim Carrey, whose got something of his own history of being ignored (rightfully or not) by Academy voters, finds himself hitched to Winslet's Love-'Em-And-Leave-'Em wagon as well. How long before Hollywood's he-men start shunning the stunning actress for fear of scuttling their own Oscar chances before a frame of film has been exposed?

And of course, the story in this category, surely to be rehashed into utter boredom and further inconsequentiality by, say, the end of the week, is the big "rematch" between likely front-runners Hilary Swank and Annette Bening. Swank snatched Bening's plump opportunity for a teary, pregnant appearance on Oscar's big stage right out from underneath her in 2000, winning for Boys Don't Cry, and most seem to believe, at this early stage of the game anyway, that the young whippersnapper might just be poised to do it again, despite both actresses taking home Golden Globes for their work a few weeks ago. I haven't yet seen Bening's film, and considering that I've only liked her on screen twice (in The Grifters and Mars Attacks!) I hadn't seriously considered doing so until my best friend Bruce saw Being Julia and recommended it to me, and now Oscar is kind of pressing the point. I can only hope her work in the new film is less stiff and obvious than her nominated turn in American Beauty, or, for that matter, her stilted Golden Globe speech accepting Best Actress honors this year. Bening is one of those major actresses whose persistent acclaim puzzles me, in large part because many of those praising her are people whose critical and observational instincts are usually fairly well attuned with my own. If they get it, why don't I? (Or, of course, the reverse.)
Winner: Hilary Swank My Pick: Hilary Swank

Best Supporting Actor: Alan Alda, The Aviator; Thomas Haden Church, Sideways; Jamie Foxx, Collateral; Morgan Freeman, Million Dollar Baby; Clive Owen, Closer

The hole in this category for me is Closer and Clive Owen, so I obviously have nothing to say about him, other than I thought he was better as the assassin in The Bourne Identity than he was in his perhaps purposeful sleepwalk through Mike Hodges' dreary I'll Sleep When I'm Dead. But since neither film is germane to the discussion at hand, I will gingerly move along. Alan Alda achieved something in The Aviator I wouldn't have thought possible in this day and age-- at no point during his performance did I find myself wanting to recoil in horror or revulsion at his mere presence. Now, after enduring 415 seasons of M*A*S*H, each one further paving the way for the actor's sainthood, and a career as a director of films with little ambition beyond hammering home the actor's most piously annoying liberal-humanist tendencies, how nice to see him tearing up a nasty, juicy character role as a corrupt senator that doesn't insist you find him likable or politically sympathetic. For Alda, at 66, that practically constitutes a leap of faith, and it comes courtesy of what might be his best performance since Paper Lion. Thomas Haden Church's work in Sideways is raucously delightful, but I think it pales next to Alda's, and I don't think either of them really approaches how Jamie Foxx holds the screen in Michael Mann's nightmarishly terrific Collateral. That said, they're all rookies, both in terms of previous nominations and sheer effortless effectiveness, next to Morgan Freeman, who not only does brilliant work alongside Swank and Eastwood in Million Dollar Baby, but also almost single-handedly redeems the concept and execution of the narrator from its many past excesses and misuses. And he's never won an Oscar before.
Winner: Morgan Freeman My Pick: Morgan Freeman

Best Supporting Actress: Cate Blanchett, The Aviator; Laura Linney, Kinsey; Virginia Madsen, Sideways; Sophie Okenedo, Hotel Rwanda; Natalie Portman, Closer

With apologies to Sophie Okenedo and Natalie Portman, neither of whose performances I have yet seen, this category looks to me to be as much of a slam-dunk as Jamie Foxx winning Best Actor, and, coincidentally, it's all about another uncanny embodiment of a beloved and distinctive real-life personality. From the minute Cate Blanchett strides on screen as Katharine Hepburn in The Aviator it's clear we're in the presence of an inspired actor who deepens what could be a simple impersonation with every gesture and with each beautifully written scene she plays against DiCaprio's Hughes. With all due respect to Virginia Madsen's career revival courtesy of Sideways, and to Laura Linney, whose work in Kinsey is creditable but not particularly distinctive, Blanchett is the clear choice here.
Winner: Cate Blanchett My Pick: Cate Blanchett

Well, the hour is growing late, and I stayed up even later last night, ignoring household chores, cold symptoms and the strong desire to crawl into bed and disappear, in order to get as much writing done as possible, so tonight I'm going to finish up and give in to at least the bed part very soon. But not before touching on some of the various other oddities that I saw crop up amongst the list of nominees yesterday.

Why, for instance, does the Best Animated Feature category this year look less like a place to honor quality work wherever it might manifest itself (The Spongebob Squarepants Movie, Teacher's Pet, the critically acclaimed Ghost in the Shell 2) than a clearinghouse for cruddy, big box-office flotsam and jetsam (Shark's Tale, Shrek 2)? Either The Incredibles takes this contest in a walk, or they might as well shut down the whole operation.

Does anyone else find the inclusion of The Passion of the Christ in the Best Makeup category as somewhat tasteless? Maybe only if you found the experience of watching the film as distasteful and borderline pornographic as I did. I would think that if those involved in this aspect of the film's production had even a degree of Mel Gibson's zealousness they might also find it odd being lauded for, essentially, flaying the Lord so graphically and in such loving detail. But in a way it's appropriate that one of the movie's only nominations should highlight what for most, including its director, was probably its most powerful attraction-- the opportunity to indulge in unparalleled sadism with equally unparalleled sanctimony. Here's hoping the Academy just gives it to Lemony Snicket so we can just put this all behind us.

The selected nominees for Best Original Musical Score seem to be a pretty middle-of-the-road bunch this year. Even John Williams' fine, prickly score for Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban skirts the familiar a little too closely. It's a damn shame that Clint Eastwood's sublime, haunting score for Million Dollar Baby was overlooked, but I didn't really expect recognition for the movie here. I had hoped, however, that Michael Giacchino, who composed the year's most rousing and delightful score, for The Incredibles, or Rolfe Kent, composer of Sideways' sassy jazz accompaniments, might find some respect. Howard Shore's terrific Aviator soundtrack was another obvious choice, but due to some odd Academy bylaw that I'm unfamiliar with, it was disqualified (if anyone can point me to a source describing the circumstances for this disqualification, I'd appreciate it.) Instead, room just had to be made, I guess, for more hackwork from the overly nominated James Newton Howard (The Village) and John Debney's derivative ambience for The Passion of the Christ. I'll be in the kitchen getting more bean dip when this winner is announced.

Perhaps the strongest technical category this year is that of Best Cinematography, with nominations going out to brilliant and evocative work from Robert Richardson (The Aviator), Zhao Xiaoding (House of Flying Daggers), Bruno Delbonnel (A Very Long Engagement) and Caleb Deschanel (The Passion of the Christ). But I would have gladly sacrificed John Mathieson's nomination for The Phantom of the Opera-- I'm sorry, Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera-- to see Tom Stern's name on the roster instead, not only to honor his fine, underrated work in Million Dollar Baby, but to also take a step toward acknowledging that work by other cinematographers and validating it against incomprehensible accusations of incompetence. I also wish voters were willing to cast more votes to acknowledge the groundbreaking digital video cinematography of Collateral courtesy of Dion Beebe and Paul Cameron, if only to spotlight what can be done brilliantly with a format that has more typically been implimented as an aesthetically neutral, economically feasible option for do-it-yourself filmmakers. But there may still be substantial resistance to tacit endorsement of the format in an industry comprised mostly of directors of photography who don't yet know their way around digital video the way they do celluloid, and who may resist contributing to a revolution they see as threatening to the legacy of film as film, even with pictorially challenging films like Collateral and Robert Altman's The Company pointing the way.

Finally, I couldn't be more thrilled for Brad Bird and his movie's nomination not only for Best Animated Film, but perhaps even more so for The Incredibles' wise and hilarious script. This movie bested just about every other live-action feature of any genre this year, and its appearance in this prestigious category is tacit recognition of that fact. I'm also very excited that, if the movie itself couldn't find its way toward other significant nominations, at least the dense and intuitive work from Richard Linklater, Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke in their script for Before Sunset is being acknowledged. But in the Best Adapted Screenplay category? Adapted from what, exactly? From their extensive notes during improvisations? As I used to say to my high school English teacher, I just don't get it.

The march toward Oscar Night is a mercifully short one, thanks to the newly condensed period between announcement of the nominations, the balloting and the awards themselves, all designed to discourage grossly excessive and unseemly campaigning. Of course, those in Hollywood who naturally gravitate toward the grossly excessive (there are so few of those, aren't there?) will find a way. It is my job to ignore as much of that as possible and try to enjoy the spectacle of Oscar Night divorced completely from any lingering thought that it matters a damn. And I will do my job. If it's your job too, I wish you much success and enjoyment in the next month or so. I'm sure there'll be plenty more to write about between now and then. But right now my head, she swims pretty fluidly, that going-to-bed idea is getting to be nearly impossible to ignore, and I don't think I have a whole lot more to say anyway... It was just outside of Barstow that we first saw the bats... Did I type that out loud? Dreams of Oscar, take me away...