Wherefore art thou, Harry Potter?

In 2009, after yet another Oscars ceremony with five best-picture nominees that no one had seen, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences made the decision to double the best picture pool to ten, thereby ensuring that at least a few blockbusters would make the cut each year (the snubs of “The Dark Night” and “Wall*E” were probably the deciding factor).  Increasing the nominees to ten would – in theory – raise ratings, promote the industry in general and lead to more ticket sales.

For the first couple of years it seemed to pan out.  In 2010, “Avatar” and “Up” – both top-ten grossing pictures – were best picture nominees, as were the “The Blind Side” and “District Nine.”  Things seemed to be going exactly according to plan (although “Avatar,” the biggest money-making motion picture in history, lost to “The Hurt Locker,” which came in at 116 for the year).  And last year, big money makers “Inception” and “Toy Story 3” made the list, with “The King’s Speech” – coming in at eighteen – taking the award.

This year, I have to believe that some of the bigwigs in the Academy were shuddering when the best nine picture nominees of 2011were announced (for reasons unkown, they dropped the number of nominees to nine this year):

"The Artist"
"The Descendants"
"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"
"Hugo"
"Midnight in Paris"
"The Help"
"Moneyball"
"War Horse"
"The Tree of Life"

Some of these movies are still in theaters and will be sure to add to their totals, but as of today, “The Help” is the highest grossing of the bunch, coming in at thirteen.

Not exactly what the Academy was hoping for.

For a guy who only sees about ten movies a year (and most of them being of the “Puss in Boots” variety) I somehow managed to see five of the ten best picture nominees.  A small miracle.  And I can tell you straight out, none of them was any better – and some were worse – than ”Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2."

The most successful franchise in motion picture history doesn’t even get one nod in the major categories?  Not even an Alan Rickman best-supporting actor nomination?

Seems a little silly.

When “The Return Of the King” won best picture of 2003, it felt more like a “thanks for three successful movies” award than overt recognition that it was in fact the best movie of that year.  Had the final “Harry Potter” movie been given the same honor this year, it would have earned the award.  At the very least, it should have cracked the top ten. 

But just like with the NCAA tournament, no matter how many you allow in the Big Dance, there will always be some on the bubble who are snubbed.  This year, it was Harry Potter.

Maybe next year the Academy could expand the number of best picture nominees to twenty?

Sting at the Rosemont in Chicago

In the liner notes of Joe Jackson’s first live album from 1988, Jackson writes that artists should play the music they want to play when performing live shows because an audience will always see through a canned performance.  Sting appeared to have taken this advice to heart for many of the earlier shows on his “Back to Bass” theater tour, as he ignored a great number of hits in favor of deeper cuts from more recent releases.  You couldn’t blame some fans if they walked away from these performances a little disappointed. 

At the Rosemont Theater near Chicago on Saturday night, Sting’s stance appeared to mellow just a bit, as a few additional audience-pleasing songs were inserted into the set-list.  Still, it’s interesting to note first the songs Sting didn’t play: If I Ever Lose My Faith In You, Brand New Day, Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, You Still Touch Me, Why Should I Cry for You, Soul Cages, Fragile (or anything else from his second solo album, Nothing Like The Sun), and Set Them Free.  If he’d denied the audience “Desert Rose,” “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” and “Every Breath You Take,” there might have been a riot.  As it was, Sting did a nice job of interweaving various highlights from his repertoire, including stellar deep cuts, into the set-list, though the show still hit a bit of a lull about two-thirds in when he focused on tracks from his last studio album of originals, Sacred Love.

Supported by a first rate 5-person band, including a fiddle to take up many of the solos heretofore handled by woodwinds, Sting looked – let’s be honest here – fabulous as a sixty year-old man, sporting nothing more than jeans and a t-shirt.  Yes, I’m happy he no longer takes off his shirt as he used to do while singing “Don’t Stand So Close To Me,” but I’ve no doubt he looks better shirtless than I do at 17 years his junior.  Ho hum.  He plays better bass than I do, too.  Absent on this tour were keyboards, and with rare exception, they weren’t missed in the least (and this is coming from a keyboard player).  Like Joe Jackson, Sting manages to rearrange his songs to fit the instrumentation at hand and still have a full and exciting sound.

My three favorite Sting songs were all played, with “I Hung My Head” and “Seven Days” two of the show’s best of the evening.  My other favorite, “Ghost Story,” which was preceded with an explanation of how String wrote the lyrics for his father, didn’t fare as well.  The song was rushed and its climax was in need of additional instrumentation.  Better represented were “The Hounds of Winter,” “Stolen Car” and “Dessert Rose,” the latter coming off surprisingly well considering the absence of keyboards, and one that coaxed the audience to its feet all the way up to the balcony.

Fiddle player Peter Tickell handled much of the solo opportunities with terrific results, the most memorable being an impassioned run during an extended outro of “Love Is Stronger Than Justice” (among the worst Sting songs ever recorded, though the fiddle helped to make it at least palatable). 

Sting’s voice was mixed expertly, with nearly every syllable clearly understandable.  Though the low-end of the band suffered a bit in the mix and the acoustic guitar came out sounding tinny, I appreciated being able to actually hear the stories in the lyrics unfolding during some of the more compelling songs.

Six Police selections were included, including “Driven To Tears,” “Next To You,” and the deeper track, “Demolition Man,” which came out even better than the original, as did “Sacred Love,” another subpar track from Sting’s last album, but which played better live than in the studio.

My three children attended the concert, and despite not knowing a good percentage of the material, they were able to enjoy the musicianship and the obvious talents displayed on stage.  Seeing Sting perform an acoustic “Message in a Bottle” to finish the show is a memory I believe they’ll hold onto decades from now.  It reminds me of how we had to leave the Paul McCartney show six years ago while he played “Yesterday” because one of my daughters was falling asleep.  Perhaps fourteen is a better age to witness a legend.  Oh well.

Next week we see Paul Simon at the same venue, and 70 years from now my daughters will be able to tell their grandchildren that they witnessed the greatest American songwriter (Simon) and the greatest English songwriter (McCartney) as youths.   Throwing Sting in the mix is icing on the cake.

The Clouds Part for Rufus

Foreboding clouds and cool winds yielded to a brilliant sky and mild temperatures last night for Rufus Wainwright’s fourth appearance at Ravinia in Highland Park, IL – this time with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra – to perform five Shakespearean Sonnets, followed by a solo set of pop music.

Three of the sonnets originally appeared on 2010's All Days Are Nights: Songs for Lulu, which Wainwright performed last year in Chicago with only piano accompaniment.  This time the sonnets were backed by a full orchestra while the singer, wearing a tan blazer and vest, a flashy scarf and white pants, stood at center stage, his hands clasped at his front for much of the show.  Rufus's vocal talents flourished in such a setting, and although some season-ticket holders might have not been sold on Wainwright as a classical artist (many of them left after intermission, or shortly thereafter), it’s undeniable that in pop music his vocal range and control have few equals.  As for the orchestral arrangements, at times they were too busy, with embellishments that cluttered up the melody, but at their best – like in Sonnet 43 – they anchored Rufus’s singing superbly.

For the second half of the show, Rufus appeared onstage – surprisingly without a costume change – for a solo show accompanied by piano, save for four songs backed by acoustic guitar.  His set list was less ambitious from his last Chicago appearance, sticking closely with fan favorites for the most part and ignoring his debut album, though he did unveil a new song devoted to publicist Barbara Charone, and he dusted off two lesser-played songs from his album Poses, “Grey Gardens” and “California.”

As always, Rufus was humorously self-deprecating on stage, admitting before playing “The Dream” that he might not be able to get through it.  Last year, he struggled throughout the most difficult parts of the piece (if you can find me a more complicated piano part for a pop-song, I’d like to hear it) but managed to plow his way through.  This time, Rufus had to stop, utter “Let’s try that again,” and then finally acquiesce after a few more attempts to find an on-ramp.  “I can’t play it anymore,” he laughed, before playing a chord that allowed him to finish the piece.  Perfection or not, the audience seemed genuinely appreciative at his efforts.

A few songs later, Rufus offered a new piece slated for his next pop album (to be produced by Mark Ronson), and said it wasn’t entirely set yet, but that he’d approach it as an “open rehearsal, which is what the show has sort of become.”

The show’s high points were from Rufus’s more intimate songs – “Dinner at Eight,” “Martha,” and “Zebulon” – all devoted to various trials and hardships with his family.  During these pieces, the audience – at least those seated in the pavilion – fell completely silent, a feat which might not have been possible in a setting other than Ravinia. 

The concert ended with the upbeat “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” along with two encores, Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” and “Going to a Town,” the last introduced with Rufus’s admission that “although it’s sometimes been hard, I still believe in Obama.”

If there were any Tea Party supporters in attendance, they opted to stay silent.  When it comes to art, sometimes you gotta swallow a few political quips.

A Tale of Two Movies: A Lousy Winner and a Fabulous Loser

I had the great misfortune last weekend of watching what has got to be among the worst Best Picture Oscar winners ever: Chariots of Fire, 1981’s victor in a field of forgettable movies (Raiders of the Lost Ark notwithstanding).  Ask my family to trust me again with a movie selection and you’ll likely start a fist-fight. 

I’ve been trying to get the five of us to watch films none of us have seen before, and it seemed reasonable that a PG Oscar winner with a hummable theme might fit the bill.  After all, we all saw The King’s Speech at a theater a few months ago with great success (albeit with a bit of restlessness from my son), so I know that my kids are able to handle a movie that doesn’t offer explosions, wizards or fart jokes.  And my first attempt to expand our horizons, 1973’s Paper Moon, while not a resounding success, was deemed enjoyable enough to allow me another crack at picking a movie.  Unfortunately, not only does Chariots of Fire not have explosions, wizards or fart jokes, it also doesn’t have Tatum O’Neil and lacks what I deem to be essential in filmmaking: a reason to be filmed. 

My daughter’s summation of 1981’s Oscar winner: “It wasn’t about anything.  Nothing happened.  There wasn’t even a main character, really.”  Well, there kind of was a main character, but why we should care about him is beyond me.  The guy has to overcome anti-Semitism, which you would think might offer just a hint of interest for a Jewish family, but…um…no, actually.  And the synthesized music clashes with a period piece that takes place in the 1920s, and not in a cool, ironic “Moulin Rouge” sort of way, but in a “man, this music is just plain awful” sort of way. 

Lousy film.  If I’m being generous, I give it a two-stars on a four star scale, four on a scale of one to ten.

On the flipside, I had the pleasure of re-watching a film that didn’t even make the Best Picture category in 1989: Do the Right Thing (and no, I didn’t watch this one with the kids).  Viewing it for the first time in twenty years, I was amazed at how this movie still cuts to the core of race relations.  When the film was originally released, some reviewers were critical of the tumultuous ending and the motives behind it, and at the time I was probably among those who agreed with these criticisms.  Viewing it again, however, made me appreciate how deftly Spike Lee illuminated multiple sides of racial divide, exposing prejudices and failings of all people while humanizing the characters with witty and biting dialogue. 

The biggest flaw in this film is the same as it ever was: Radio Raheem, whose death incites a riot, isn’t shown to be a fully fleshed out character, but rather a cardboard cutout of a man.  We don’t particularly care when he dies because we’re not given a reason TO care about him.  But never mind.  When Kim Basinger announced at the Oscar ceremony in 1990, “The best film of the year is not even nominated and it's Do the Right Thing.” she was spot-on.

So add Do the Right Thing to the ever-growing list of notorious Oscar snubs.  And is Chariots of Fire the worst Best Picture winner ever?  Well, I still haven’t seen Gladiator, so it’s hard to say.  But I’ve read that Spike Lee likes to refer to 1989’s winner, Driving Miss Daisy, as Driving Miss Motherf***ing Daisy.

So I guess we know what Mr. Lee’s vote is.

The Latest Biography on Mickey Mantle

Author Jane Leavy’s latest biography has a preposterous title, but that doesn’t take away from its achievements.  The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the end of America’s Childhood is an expertly researched and well-written tale about a sports icon whose legacy might be as exaggerated as the book’s implication that somehow Mickey Mantle paralled the end of America’s innocence. 

This whole idea that America’s purity was soiled in the 60s and 70s has been exploited countless times, but bittersweet nostalgia still sells books to a generation that believes America’s best years have passed.  Depending on which book you read, America lost its innocence with the assassination of JFK, the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr., the Vietnam War, Watergate, or the “me” decade of the 80s.  All of these notions are overblown, but at least within the realm of reason.

But Mickey Mantle?  That’s a bit of a stretch. 

The title notwithstanding, Jane Leavy’s book is hardly a trip down nostalgia lane, but rather a look at where reality and legend intersect and diverge. 

During his best years, from 1952 to 1964, Mantle was among the greatest baseball players ever, rivaling New York’s other center field stars, Willie Mays and Duke Snyder (not to mention another outfielder, Henry Aaron, the most underappreciated player of them all).  Mantle won the Triple Crown in 1956, earned the top spot in three MVP contests, and appeared in twelve World Series, winning seven of them.  The injuries he endured were numerous and devastating, starting with his rookie season in 1951, when he tore his knee in game 2 of the World Series so badly that he would never play without pain again.  Some of the stories surrounding Mantle’s baseball career are so grandiose, so epic in proportion, it would take a Hollywood movie to properly capture them, and in some sense they were in Barry Levinson’s The Natural, albeit through the fictitious Roy Hobbs.  But Mantle really did drive a ball off a the façade of Yankee Stadium  – twice, some 510 feet had the balls travelled unimpeded – and he really did play with blood seeping through his jersey in the ’61 World Series.  Roy Hobbs had nothing on this guy.

Throughout the 387 page book, Leavy interweaves a personal encounter she had with Mickey Mantle in 1983, and this very effective tactic (borrowed from Doug Write’s play, I Am My Own Wife) helps to illuminate not only the various traits of one of the greatest ballplayers to play the game, but also how the public’s perception of the Mick changed over time.  As is so often the case with sports figures, Mantle’s off-the-field activities undermined the heroic status he garnered from so many star-struck fans in the 50s and 60s (Tiger Woods, anyone?).  Starting prior to his retirement in 1968, and especially in the twenty years that followed, Mantle’s life degenerated into one long binge of drinking, philandering and selling himself with no less shame than Orson Welles did during his final years.  As a result, the public became more aware of Mantle’s humanity, for better or for worse, and it’s this realization the Leavy attempts to link to the end of America’s childhood, a broad attempt that falls short.  But as a personal journey of disillusionment, it works beautifully.

Mickey Mantle’s greatest achievement may have been his sobriety for the last eighteen months of his life, perhaps the first grown-up decision he’d ever truly made, and no doubt the most difficult.  Appearing on the cover of Sports Illustrated in 1994 to talk about his alcoholism was more important than any of his 536 home runs.  This turn around, along with the revelation of Mantle’s own sexual abuse as a child and the portrayal of his stern and discontented father, help end Mantle’s story on notes of empathy and redemption.  Mantle was no human being to emulate, but he was human through and through.