Blog post #5
Awards ceremonies were magnets for outrage long before Twitter. We all hate seeing our favourite shows and movies lose – regardless of whether you believe awards are little more than ridiculously bombastic PR campaigns. I’ve often rallied online about the pointlessness of these ceremonies, where films and shows receive awards under the illusion of objective opinion. Equally, review aggregates can be damaging because a high score implies definitive quality, when – really – we’re all bodies of conflicting opinions. If there’s a viewer whose favourite films are all considered, externally, to be the best ever made, is that person really worth knowing? (Full disclosure, though: my favourite film is The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which won 11 Oscars.)
And yet… When something hasn’t won or wasn’t nominated, the lack of deserved recognition stings hard. But – to a degree – it’s an entertaining pain, attracting the sort of masochism that Twitter relishes. I came to this realisation when I saw tweet by the Daily Mirror and Jewish Chronicle critic Linda Marric:
“Awards season can be very frustrating, but I live for it and would be disappointed if there were no awards to be angry about. Admit it, you all secretly love them too.”
God, she’s right.
I watched the Golden Globe announcements last Wednesday, and there were some positives. For the first time in its history, three women will be up for Best Director: Chloe Zhao (Nomadland), Regina King (One Night in Miami…) and Emerald Fennell (Promising Young Woman). Only five women have ever been nominated in the category, so this year’s nominations show some progression (I hope). Some personal favourites also scooped up some noms, like Dev Patel for David Copperfield, Daisy Edgar-Jones for Normal People, Mark Ruffalo for I Know This Much is True, and Anya Taylor-Joy for both Emma and The Queen’s Gambit. I especially love the latter success: not only because I love Taylor-Joy, but it’s also an intriguing instance of an actor being nominated in both film and TV categories. The lines between the two art-forms continue to blur into dissolution.
Now, the negatives. There was an immediate red flag with a nomination for the Lily Collins Netflix series Emily in Paris. I can’t comment on its quality, as I haven’t seen or had the urge to see it, but the series doesn’t sound like a show that deserves the award. This connects, somewhat, to the now-infamous I May Destroy You snub. Even with the cynical front of awards not meaning anything, this was a devastating absence. Michaela Coel’s revolutionary BBC/HBO series wasn’t my favourite of 2020, but I certainly consider it the most important. It examines sexual assault and consent in ways never seen before in TV drama, and dives into race, gender, and sexuality with an absorbing sense of realism. Its absence from the Golden Globes is misjudged in that respect. Even Deborah Copaken, a writer on Emily in Paris, hates that result.
Did the Hollywood Foreign Press, consisting of 90 members, even watch the series? I don’t see any other reason why they’d prefer Emily in Paris over I May Destroy You. Again, I haven’t seen the former. Maybe Emily has a more important story than Coel’s character Arabella, but I doubt it. The HFP had their chance and they blew it. I May Destroy You will never be nominated for a Golden Globe. Maybe the Emmys will be different.
HIGHLIGHT OF THE WEEK
News of the World, Netflix
News of the World
Paul Greengrass has made a Western. After making documentary-style thrillers like the original Bourne trilogy and Captain Phillips, he’s now sweeping through scenic vistas from 1870 Texas. Tom Hanks plays the newsreader Captain Jefferson Kyle Kidd, who travels from town to town, performatively presenting stories from around the country. The contempt from the Civil War still lingers, with many staying true to their Confederate loyalties.
Kidd eventually meets Johanna (Helena Zengel), a 10-year-old girl born from German immigrants but raised by Native Americans. He reluctantly scoops her up, journeying to take her to distant relatives. The film is idealistic at times, with one scene having Kidd’s hungry audiences choosing real news over propaganda. You’d hope that would be the case, but the modern-day proof here and abroad contests that idea. Regardless, it’s an enjoyably intense road movie through a fractured America. News of the World is available on Netflix from Wednesday 10 February. Read my review on Culture Whisper.
Other highlights:
I attended a virtual summit for Judas and the Black Messiah, which comes out next week. The film follows the events surrounding the Black Panther chairman Fred Hampton, who was assassinated in 1969 after being infiltrated by William O’Neal.
The summit featured interviews with Daniel Kaluuya, who plays Hampton; Fred Hampton Jr., Hampton’s son; the director Shaka King; Hampton’s fiancee Mother Akua, and actress Dominique Fishback, who portrays her. There were also interviews with many Black activists who continue to work to protect their communities and fight for anti-racism – all with Hampton as an inspirational figure. It was an enlightening evening.
The phrase that stuck out the most was ‘Heighten the contradictions’, said by both Kaluuya and Hampton. By highlighting the disparities in society, we have the chance to erode them. You can now watch the interviews on their website.
Daniel Kaluuya as Fred Hampton in Judas and the Black Messiah.
I finished the steamy Spanish Netflix series Valeria. I’ll be honest: I was curious to watch this purely because of the promises of sex and writer’s block – but this series is so much more than that. Watching this group of twentysomething women navigating dating life, feminism, adultery, and fake orgasms was an absolute delight. I really hope a second season is, erm, coming quickly.
Next week I’ll be writing a feature on Korean television, so I’ve been watching Kingdom (Netflix). Crossing Akira Kurosawa with George A Romero, this horror series takes place in a 16th century Korea ravaged by zombies. Although this could’ve been a shameless, two-dimensional hybrid, the plot is politically fascinating – combining issues of royal deceptions and class clashes with an ‘illness’ that resurrects the dead. And the zombies are exceedingly terrifying.
I watched the first episode of Ramy, which started on Friday (Channel 4). It follows a religiously confused Muslim man in Jersey, torn between being a good Muslim and just enjoying himself. It’s funny, shocking, and offers a much-needed insight into a culture that’s often marginalised. As an atheist, it was surprisingly enjoyable.
Things I’ve written this week:
My review of News of the World (see above).
My review of Firefly Lane. The new Netflix soap-opera starring Katherine Heigl and Sarah Chalke. It’s a really, really bad series, but I found myself enjoying it. I think I needed something to hate-watch. And, as I predicted, it’s the most popular series on Netflix at the moment.
My review of ZeroZeroZero. This ambitious drug-trafficking drama is respectable, but rather slow and fragmented. It taught me a lot about how cocaine is distributed around the world, but the variety of characters make it unfocused and therefore less immersive. It’s worth seeking out though. Watch it on Sky Atlantic.
I wrote a little preview for Nomadland, which I’m dying to see. The trailers make the film look like a beautifully Malickian journey, and I’d love to experience that at the cinema (when that’s possible).
Frances McDormand in Nomadland
Sketches by Khärms #2
The short-cut
I’ll start with the oddity closest to me, at No. 54. Church Street was constructed some time in the 17th century, up a steep hill. It slants in such a fashion that the midday sun shines on a particular short-cut connecting northward to St John’s Road. There’s a similar situation on the opposite side, leaning southward to Silverton Avenue – but that’s really more of a cut-through. (That’s another peculiarity: apparently, there’s some distinction among Rosewoodians between a short-cut and a cut-through, but nobody can articulate that difference. The best that can be achieved is a few uhms and ahs. On balance, you know it when you see it.)
The sun and the short-cut align perfectly together for an hour, exactly. Afterwards, the Earth proceeds in its axis and orbit, the light continuing its intended directions. The short-cut has been tarmacked several times, and nobody knows why. Some have postulated that the neighbours on either side have such heavy rubbish that the bin-men won’t bother, and so the Smyths and Dickinsons throw their burdensome black bags over the sides. (There’s been no evidence for this.) The tarmac is often wet from the previous night, so when the sun hits the short-cut at midday, the pathway sparkles.
But few permit themselves to see those sparkles or rumoured bin-bags. Despite the convenience, most avoid the short-cut entirely. They decide they need a bit more exercise that day or it’s dark and they’re afraid of a knife in the night, even though the last stab wound in Rosewood happened back in 1834. The blacksmith Lucky Joe (he wasn’t known by anything else, being as lucky as he was) walked home from The King’s Inn up on the High Street, and slipped on a gathering of cracked eggs. He fell, heart-first, onto a blade, pointed upward arbitrarily on the path. (I read about it in the empty corners of the Rosewood Library, where the shelves are dusted with cobwebs.) The wounded yolks mixed with the ketchup blood, resembling the remains of a Full English. A local law was passed soon afterwards, similar to modern-day litter campaigns. It carried the terrible slogan, “Don’t pick a fight, pick up your knife!”
But Rosewoodians don’t need the exercise, and they’re not afraid of being stabbed for the first time since Lucky Joe. That short-cut made people vanish. They would reappear, eventually, but in somewhere unfamiliar. They return with a tan, or they’re vaguely tired, and tell their friends they’ve just come back from a spontaneous holiday. But nobody in Rosewood has any sudden urge for adventure or change. Both are considered intrusive and inconvenient. Rosewoodians can only go away by accident. After finding out about the short-cut, nobody went that way again.
And yes, I’ve tried it myself. Leaving Rosewood has been a passion of mine since I buried my parents with their parents under the floor. Naturally, the existence of a hidden teleport was an attractive opportunity. A key fact to remember about this particular anomaly, one of many in Rosewood, is that it only works under specific conditions. The sun and Earth have to be aligned perfectly, at midday, and you must travel south to north from St John’s Road to Church Street. You won’t notice anything if it were north to south, or if the sunlight shined in the wrong place. Avoiding the short-cut entirely is something of an overreaction.
The short-cut curls around the curve of the hill, so south to north faces an incline upwards. That section is smothered in nature. A large hedge stretches on the left, turning into a brick wall before ending in a falling fence. The right side is just one long and weathered fence, but several trees grow from the back garden behind, the branches poking holes in the wood. As such, that incline is bathed in shadow – as if wanting to dissociate from the flat and shining tarmac beyond. You come up against a threshold between bright and dark. When you look up, the sun obscures the north entrance. It’s so bright. You can make out the vague shapes of the iron barriers, wrapped around the light. The wet path shines like an angelic platform, like you’ve just died and gone to wherever the faithful believe they’re going. If this portal has consciousness, that purgatorial illusion is a tempting, deceptive disguise.
I braved the incline, stepped over the threshold, and walked into the glowing road. The light swallowed me up and dribbled me out. My matter, my being, descended and reformed somewhere else. But where? What perfect holiday had the short-cut gifted me with?
I opened my eyes. I was in the cut-through, directly opposite the short-cut. This majestic portal only missed out Church Street and had me heading to Silverton Avenue. I would’ve rather crossed that road if it meant my matter wasn’t reorganised and belched over a barely convenient distance. It was disappointing, of course, and I bet you’re disappointed reading it. Prior to this venture, I had dreams of short-cuts around the world: in Paris or Venice, Tokyo, New York, and Helsinki too. But the only destiny this short-cut provided was the cut-through. It couldn’t be the same for everyone. But why is that? The other teleported souls definitely went to lavish palaces and empty beaches where the sand is perfectly orange and the sea a perfect blue. Maybe the short-cut has a consciousness after all. A cruel one.
