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Live, And More

I don't really care whether or not Beyonce lip-synched the National Antrhem, so much as I am fascinated by why a fairly modest, unsurprising decision redounded so badly for her. And I think the problem is twofold, and intertwined: a failure to be frank and up front, and a desire to preserve an unrealistic illusion.

Beyonce Knowles is a curious kind of star, at least for me; though she's obviously quite talented, her success has a lot to do with a long term, carefully managed strategy dating back to her childhood. Very little, ever, was left to chance. Destiny's Child (which is, literally, a description of her) went through several iterations before the carefully managed combination of Beyonce, Michelle Williams and Kelly Rowland became the  standard bearers. And even then, this was never a fantasy of Supremes like equality before Diana Ross got pulled forward. The ultimate goal, always, was solo stardom for the lead.

The notion of carefully controlled image, of carefully managed impressions, tends to dog Beyonce constantly. The internet rumors that her pregnancy was faked or stage managed, the presentation of her marriage, the ups and downs of her acting and singing careers... always there's this dissonant sense of what's real and what's "faked", and how to square the public presentation with overheard, "private" impressions.

The first thing that flashed in my head when suggestions of Beyonce's lip-synch surfaced was of Whitney Houston, naturally, and the 1992 Super Bowl, when she, as they said, "performed to a safety track" she'd recorded in advance of her appearance. It was lip synching, and essentially, no one cared. No one cared, I think, for those same couple of reasons: Arista (her label) was pretty up front about what happened, and no one, really, thought Houston couldn't handle live singing. Ever.

Impressions of Beyonce as a live performer tend to be somewhat more precarious. And more pointedly, her public persona is more carefully managed, for better and worse, than Houston's ever quite was.  Houston probably needed more protection, less overexposure. But it'e telling that, even now, neither Beyonce nor her spokespeople have particularly addressed the performance at the Inauguration, even after a week. Even a simple, "yes, she performed to tape" statement would kill a lot of the speculation and surmises that follow from the gossip.

Two things about the performance probably stick: the first is that faking a performance at the Inauguration is not a huge deal, but it's an odd choice, especially when, in the Obama years, Aretha Franklin, James Taylor, and Kelly Clarkson all managed live singing in similar, or identical circumstances (it's worth pointing out, too, that all three of those names are extremely seasoned live performers; and, too, that Franklin's performance wasn't her best... but no one cares). These are the days when, warts and all, the public has come to expect live event singing at particular venues and events. The other point is that Beyonce probably didn't help herself by recording a small, fairly intimate version of the National Anthem that didn't necessarily play well in the expanse of the National Mall. Big events tend to call for a "big" reading of the Anthem; we're full on Americans in our moments of natiuonal patriotism. Beyonce's version was small and quiet in the early going, and it felt small, and kind of tentative. It doesn't mean her performance choices were bad... but I tend to think she's still learning, as a singer, to be the kind of performer her fame suggests she already is - bigger than the room, up there with the legends. Her stardom is huge; her performing abilities are not, always. And again, that tends to be a reflection of her place in her generation, not necessarily a knock on her potential. A lot of these younger stars - whose fame seems outsized, and who have been carefully stage managed - seem overwhelmed when stepping into the shoes of these giant moments.

As I started, I don't care whether she lip synched; and, like RuPaul, I think she probably lip synched it better than most; she made it look so genuine, it was hard to believe the stories, at first. But I think the point is, lip synching wouldn't be a big deal if Beyonce and her people were honest about it, and if they challenged the occasionally absurd expectation that "live" singing should be an expectation or an ideal. But both, really, would be challenging and asking people to let go of their illusions. And that faith in illusions, I think, is still the problem Beyonce Knowles has most. Be fake if you must... but really, you might as well be honest about it. That's how to get to the place where no one cares.

... Including And, And The

I'm less interested in Lance Armstrong "coming clean" about his doping habits than I am about the sense that it was appropriate, or necessary, for him to take his confessional to Oprah, and why Oprah seems to think of herself as national obsolver of celebrity sin. Armstrong's behavior, and his lying about it, strikes me as fairly clear well before he admitted it on television; and Oprah showed, yet again, why this role of confessor is hardly her strongest suit. She got few if any specifics about his doping practices, rarely challenged his (debatable) accounting of past events, and was hardly probing nor suggested the kind of familiarity with cycling or the medical issues around doping to quiz him in any thoughtful way.

That's hardly new; along with the casual assumption of her role as celebrity confessor comes a docile media rarely willing to hold Oprah up to her own past, challenge any aspect of her (even still, however limited) popularity, apparently awed, still, by her (even somewhat reduced) wealth and clout. Oprah's strength in daytime talk television was never particularly related to her strengths as an interviewer (I'll maintain Donahue was way better, forever), but more her ability to empathize and speak for a segment (a surprisingly large segment, in retrospect) of the audience who shared her sense of struggle over personal issues and sense of empowerment from within. OWN has lately, with some desperation, been programmed with significant amounts of old "Oprah Show" broadcasts, and they are, often as not, fairly illuminating just in terms of the host's own transition from charming neophyte to polished celebrity sob sister. The sobbing didn't change... but she did.

Armstrong's fall was, in its way, mostly inevitable; our society lauds athletes in weird ways, and leaves them few options as their athletic prowess fades. It doesn't diminish the talents of those who can run faster, kick harder, jump higher to point out that those physical skills are temporary, at best, and no proof of overall personal greatness. You don't have to be a good person to be a great athlete, and too often we grant too much of the former and, in a sense, take the latter too much for granted. It's why, after so many years of watching, I find Olympic athletes, especially the stars, more sympathetic than laudable. Outside of those grand arenas, out in the real world, I'm not sure those unicorns really have a place in the world.

"Doping" is a curious scandal, one that I'm not prepared, as some are, to call a hanging offense. How much of Lance Armstrong's success was the extra kick of steroids and EPO and blood replacement will be hard, if ever, to sort out, and in the end, hardly matters. He shouldn't have done it. But we can't, I think, confidently claim to know what would have happened if he never had. Perhaps the really sad story is that, without drugs, Lance Armstrong could have achieved many remarkable things, and those things, the true things, are the ones we'll never know.

Instead, we are left with Lance Armstrong, the man who lied and lied and lied again, who lied when it would have been easier to tell the truth, and who, most likely, hardly knows enough to know how to tell the truth, fully, at this late date. It's okay, though, because Oprah says so. I mean, it is... right?

(The title of this post comes from Mary McCarthy's memorable line about Lillian Hellman during their decades long feud, mostly about Hellman's "memoirs" that put herself central to the major developments of major events. "Every word she says is a lie," McCarthy said. "including 'and' and 'the'.")

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Men On The Net(Works)

I am truly embarrassed to admit this, but I used to keep this (especially exhaustive) list of men I found attractive in a little notebook I kept hidden in my room. After I came out, the point of this lst was much more clear; but at first, you know, it was just an interesting diversion.

Apparently... I'm not alone in this: Via World of Wonder, James St. James directs us to Matthew Rettemund's exhaustive list of the 50 hottest men on television. This makes perfect sense since James, Matthew, me, and the rest of my gay generation kind of all kept this list, with many of the same men on it. I'm not sure it's the same for the kids these days, but that moment of recognition, that "you thought he was sexy too?" conversation was like a feminist click of "I'm not crazy" and "I finally fit in with the others."  It was not just, simply, the leering and lust... but goodness, aren't they talented?

Rettemund (who has the "nice work if you can get it" of being Professionally Gay) covers pretty much all the bases, and does a nice job of filtering in some of the more recent examples to a list that he's clearly been caring about for years. I don't make a physical list anymore (or even an Excel soreadsheet)... but one does, you know, keep track. And these days, when every TV show has that "hot guy who drips sexy" role, that isn't always easy.  Thank Goddess for IMDB.

A lot of this fascination can be traced back to the late seventies, when increasing gay visibility made frank depiction and interest in male beauty less of a social taboo (and the seventies were pretty sex-mad, anyway). Rettemund covers most of the bases - though he misses, most egregiously, Parker Stevenson and Shaun Cassidy of The Hardy Boys - with a little heavy emphasis on youth, even for my tastes. I'm not sure Blair Underwood is am especially brave choice, either. But Rettemund does capture, in pictures, that glorious moment when Tony Danza and John Schneider were as hot as street trade (and don't think they didn't know it).

One can nitpick this sort of thing to death (shortlist: Ian Somerhalder, Paul Wesley, Cam Gigandet, No Dawson's Creek?, Patrick Dempsey, Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki... I mean, jeez), and that's without diving deeply into daytime soaps (he does namecheck Brian Bloom!), but this list will serve as a fine, fresh start. And Rettemund rescues the show that nearly every gay man can remember even if the show was barely watched: the CW's Summerland, where the male beauty was simply freaking ridonkulous. If nothing else... thank you for Ryan Kwanten!

Oh, and yes, this is just TV. Film is a different story altogether. And yes, this is really gay, too. But Betty, how could I resist? And hey.... Merry Christmas!

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Ew, It's Gross. I'm Not Doing It (Plus Some Thoughts On Taylor Swift)

 

"We are never ever ever getting into leather" is much fun (via one of my regular must reads, the World of Wonder blog), but then so is the Taylor Swift original which kicked off her album Red.

 

 

Swift has gotten a lot of grief because the song, apparently, is a thinly veiled diss of Jake Gyllenhaal. This is in line with previous songs, her subtextual critics suggest, with a string of songs aimed at exes and occasionally their new girlfriends. For her part, Swift doesn't entirely deny that her songs come out of her experiences, or that some of them are indeed, about a specific person or event.

That is usally how one writes a song.

I'm sort of struck by the obvious sexism at play in this, and by the blindness of otherwise sensitive types (like Jezebel) to the double standard at work. It's as if all that material written by high profile male rockstars to their (often equally high profile) girlfriends and exes never happened. Did nobody hear the backstory of "My Sharona"?  Or how Dylan aimed a string of (actually rather bitchy) singles at his girlfriends from the sixties (including, just as a for instance, Edie Sedgwick)? How about something more recent - did no one listen to the words to "Gives You Hell" by All American Rejects? (Yeah, I don't love it either... but still).

Apparently, it's wrong for a woman to complain about bad boyfriends... or something. Or perhaps it's just that Swift's kiss-offs are aimed at young, handsome, popular celebrity men whose puppy dog reps (even a dog like John Mayer) preclude thinking badly of them in the public sphere. Perhaps it's simply the charmed nature of Swift's career and her own super-sweet public persona. I know I resisted at first, but Swift's chops as a musician and songwriter have become simply impossible to dismiss or ignore. And that, really, is why a song like "We are never ever getting back together" has sting. 

Whatever the case for resistance and ugly backlash, I can't help the feeling that if Swift were a man and the disses in question were aimed at ex-girlfriends we wouldn't be having this backlash and the star would be a hero, not a bitch. And that's just like... ew.

Articles We Never Finished Reading (Except For The Pictures): The Rocks That I Got

"The house, a classic white brick manse, is huge—nine bedrooms—and sprawls out from the center hall with two giant wings. The interior is echt J.Lo: luxe, modern, and sexy—dark floors, gray curtains and walls, pastel-colored furniture. Her assistant, Gilly, deposits me in Lopez’s office and says, “Jennifer will be down shortly.” I hear kids shrieking somewhere upstairs. Like Lopez herself, the office is both masculine and feminine. There are wood-paneled walls and wingback chairs, a killer sound system, and a fur throw draped over a sofa. There’s a huge plaque (30 MILLION ALBUMS SOLD WORLD-WIDE); a ledge full of various film- and music-industry awards; and on her desk, nude shots of J.Lo for the advertising campaign for her forthcoming perfume, Glowing (the sample fragrance bottle actually lights up). A quick glance at the shelves reveals a taste for the classics (The Grapes of Wrath, Shakespeare); memoir (Arthur Miller’sTimebends); and self-help (Lies at the Altar: The Truth About Great Marriages). On the glass coffee table there is a big, lush book on Pucci, which somehow seems perfect."

"Venus Rising", a profile of Jennifer Lopez by Jonathan Van Meter, in the April 2012 Vogue

I just wanted to prove that not everything I put down is in New York, and also that not everything is a political or intellectual diatribe. I don't (generally) buy People or Us (though I admit a weakness for the sleazier Star) or other mags with fawning celbrity profiles... but Conde Nast can get me to read them anyway, posing as fashion (Vogue, GQ) or deep thought (Vanity Fair, which isn't). At this late date, I know what I'm in for: a quick tour of the Star's Lovely Home, a few bites of Our Star at a Meal, the old "they're just like us" anecdote, and another few thousand words about how, really, they're not (multiple divorces, million dollar lifestyles, blah blah blah). Sometimes they're interesting (Julia Roberts, Charlize Theron), even thoughtful (Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway)... but sometimes you can't even fake the necessary interest, which appears to be the case here. I kept putting this issue at the top of my pile, even after the new one came out, determined to read the Lopez piece all the way to the end. But I just couldn't do it; I'd get hung up on descriptions, like the one above, which illustrate both the absurdity of her wealth and the vapidness of the profiles like this (and, by extension, the vapid prose of writers like Van Meter). Then there's the fact that Lopez, still, is the odd kind of nondescript star only America can quite produce: she's not exactly good, her career is kind of middling, she's the third chair on a reality panel show whose recording career has been modestly succesful. Although she seemed a promising actress, that hasn't really worked out either. So why does she get Vogue covers? I mean, obviously, she's attractive, but that seems to be about it, and even there, there are more striking brunettes and women of Puerto Rican descent. So mostly, I've given up, the Vogue goes into my back issue pile, and I'll never know Jennifer's beauty secrets. Oh well. Life, I suppose, must go on.

Articles We Never Finished Reading: And The World Screams, Kiss Me, Son Of God

"[Cornel] West and Cone did a Q&A at a Princeton bookstore last winter, and afterward, they and a handful of friends and colleagues—including the journalist Chris Hedges, who wrote the Truthdig piece; Carl Dix, a local communist organizer; Brother Ali, an albino rapper; and a few professors—went to dinner. There, West was in his element. He had no one to provoke, and it was clear to see why some might compare West to Ralph Waldo Emerson, W.E.B. DuBois, or even Mark Twain. The conversation started with an appreciation of the works of novelist James Baldwin. “At Baldwin’s funeral,” said West, “I sat next to Stokely Carmichael. He’s a hard brother, and he cried like a baby.” West regarded Baldwin in the light of William Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, Amiri Baraka, and his friend Toni Morrison. Then the conversation took a turn, touching briefly on the works of the slavery historians ­David Brion Davis and Leon Litwack, and the civil-rights historian Howard Zinn, ­before resting for a time on Paul Tillich and Reinhold Niebuhr, the definers of ­twentieth-century Christian theology—both of whom taught at Union. About the literary critic Harold Bloom, West pronounced, “He’s not always right, but he’s always got something to say,” and then he veered straight through Martin Heidegger to praise his lesser-known disciple, Hans-Georg Gadamer."

 - This week's profile of Cornel West titled - I'm not kidding - "I Want To Be Like Jesus", by Lisa Miller.

Miller does manage the neat trick of being both fawning and dismayed in profiling West, apparently going with "how could such a great mind have so many personal problems," but none of West's admirers can outdo West himself. If you can get past the Jesus part - it's an actual quote that West says he doesn't see himeself as any of Jesus' disciples, but rather as Jesus, himself - there's still West polishing his resume over a string of appointments at Ivy League schools (the hook for the story, ostensibly, is that West is leaving Princeton for Union Theological Seminary), and name dropping like mad. It's not West's celebrity that gets me, or the self satisfaction; his Jesus complex is no doubt helped by the sycophants he's trained to follow him and who shower him with accolades and praise. Miller does a nice job, really, of highlighting the fact that all this mass love is no substitute for the fact that he has few friends, three bad marriages and even a fairly checkered set of professional connections (and really, when forced to choose between Larry Summers or Professor West, who's really worse?).

No, the thing that got me to throw down the artcle was the paragraph above, which to me laid bare the intellectual pomposity that annoys me when West talks in most interviews and appearances (I can only imagine what his classes would be like), the scattershot deployment of Big Intellectual Names You Must Know, the smattering of celebrity names and inside gossip that make you feel like an intimate (why else name drop of Stokely Carmichael?) , but the considered lack of thought about the ideas that are supposed to drive these big thinkers and their works. I feel very lucky to have had college professors who challenged me not to just read the assignments, but to think about what I read, synthesize my own ideas and apply the learnings to all sorts of aspects of life in general. It's not who you know, or how fabulously well read you are, I think it's what you do with the ideas that you discover along the way, and the life you put together as a result. Otherwise, why bother learning anything along the way?

West, the article suggests, is suffering now because he's one of the few major black intellectuals to have soured on President Obama, but that, of course, is of a piece with West's general approach: his over-the-top praise for Obama initially was both too much and too intended to get attention for himself, and his new contrarianism is just as self aggrandizing and just as poorly thought through (if you can stay long enough, Melissa Harris-Perry takes it apart in the article, with her usual combination of smarts and class). Maybe it's my life spent around collegiate types, and faculty in particular; but the best teachers, and the best friends, I find, carry less pretension and look more to share ideas rather than win the contest of Obscure References, because it's a better world when we all know a little bit more. West can probably win the name game... but that doesn't make you Christ. Or even Christ-like.

Articles We Never Finished Reading: Here, There... Somewhere

Deepika Bahri, a friend and an associate professor of English at Emory University in Atlanta, where Mr. Rushdie is a distinguished writer in residence, said that Mr. Rushdie was game for interacting online with any person or subject, highbrow or low. “I don’t think it really matters to him,” Ms. Bahri said, when asked how such behavior might affect public perception. “He does not fear or have concern about what people think or what it will do to his literary reputation.”

                 - Laura Holson, "From Exile To Everywhere," The NYT, Sunday Styles (emphasis mine)

"Everywhere," it seems, refers to Manhattan nightclubs and restaurants, not frequent flights to Atlanta, where Salman Rushdie is apparently "in residence."

This one isn't a "don't bother" because of the actual piece - like most Sunday/SunGay Styles articles, sure, it deals in trivialities, but it's not as bad as, say, building a makeup line off of the villains in The Hunger Games, or treating Kim Kardashian impersonators as art. No, what made me throw this one down was the subject of the article, Rushdie himself, who still, somehow, manages to garner this kind of coverage as if anything he's done literarily is remotely relevant or important. Even when The Satanic Verses was published, earning Mr. Rushdie death threats from fundamentlaist Islam (mostly Iran), Rushdie was more social butterfly than literary light; and time spent in hiding didn't particularly help ground him much better. But even the Times article notes that whole escapade ended after about ten years, and we're a good twenty years past that. And still, Rushdie is most notable for catting around with attractive women, frequenting nightclubs and bars, and vaguely talking about writing a new series for Showtime. And the difference between him and some other guy you run into on the Hotel Gansevoort rooftop? Not much, save that Rushdie is paid absurd sums to serve as things like "Distinguished Writer", no seriously... wait for it... "In residence" at Emory in Atlanta.  

Of course, Emory is welcome to throw its money away in any way it sees fit, but I just feel bad for the actual students at Emory, who deserve better than some Page Six Publicity Monster who can't even be bothered to take terms like "in residence" seriously.  And to be even fairer, this is hardly even one of the ten top reasons I'd never take Emory seriously, either (number one: Atlanta). None of which can be blamed on the Times, though it's hard to tell just how firmly Holson is relaying all of this seirously, or tongue in cheek. In either case, I couldn't be bothered to find out how this one turns out... because the thing really seems to write itself.

Why I Watch The Oscars, Part 2

Just a suggestion, skip the excruciating banter between Chevy Chase and Paul Newman. This was the year of the Writer's Strike.

 

 

Why I Watch The Oscars, Part 1

 

The Oscar Predictions

It's sad to say, but necessary: the internet and the 24/7 news cycle have largely robbed the Oscars of any sense of spontaneity. It's true that, for years, it hasn't been impossible to pick obvious winners, but lately the sense of foreordained outcomes have overtaken any sense of suspense and the unexpected upset is really a thing of the past (even if Meryl Streep beats Viola Davis this year). The Golden Globes, the SAGs, the DGA and Producer's Guild have all become staples of the "Award Circuit" and between their choices and gossip blogs and Deadline Hollywood... there's just no room for the weird left field lunacy that occasionally took hold (and surely, no streakers or Sacheen Littlefeathers, either). It doesn't make me love the Oscars less, it just makes me feel... old.

In any case, I'm heartened by the fact that this year's choices really do reflect much of the best of film this year, and the likely winners, too, tend to be good choices who deserve recognition. It's not hard to predict, but let's get to it:

Best Picture - Will Win: The Artist. Should Win: The Artist. Honorable Mention: My Week With Marilyn. There's a small, even accurate, subset of caring filmgoers (like my Mom), who have a point that The Artist is not quite all its ardent admirers make it out to be. I freely admit: it's a small film, with modest points to make about life, love, and film. But those modest points are, indeed the point - no film both revels so fully in film history and in the joy of both performing and just, well, living. That last is a point, I think, that a number of the competing films (Hugo, The Decendants, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close) kind of miss. Not the necessity of living life to the full, but the joy in it. The Artist is just too happy to ignore. And in another year, a lot of what distinguishes The Artist, right down to its admiration for old films and real stars, would be the reason to reward My Week With Marilyn.

Best Actor - Will Win: Jean Dujardin, The Artist. Should Win: Jean Dujardin. George Clooney has one. Otherwise, I think he'd get this (I still think he did, for Michael Clayton, for some reason). Brad Pitt doesn't need one. And after that, there's Jean Dujardin, with the best role for a guy this year, making the most of it. He had me at hello (unlike Tom Cruise ever did), but I think Dujardin's Oscar hopes were sealed once the final number began; all that... and he taps!

Best Actress - Will Win: Viola Davis, The Help. Should Win: Meryl Streep, The Iron Lady. Honorable Mention: Michelle Williams, My Week With Marilyn. Non-Nominated Choice: Kirsten Dunst, Melancholia. I hated The Help, but Davis is a great actress and about the only thing that saves the film from utter embarassment, and let's be frank, Oscar has a lot of work to do (still) recognizing actors of color. Still, this is one year when Streep's natural skills and star power went further than ever to make a memorable impact, and 17 nominations in 30 years do mean something. Even sadder, the failure to recognize Michelle Williams is getting to be a real failure on the part of the Academy. She's too good to keep ignoring. And finally, the real robbery victim is Kirsten Dunst, with her tour-de-force in Melancholia.

Best Supporting Actor - Will Win: Christopher Plummer, that movie where he pretends to be gay. Should Win: Kenneth Branagh, My Week With Marilyn. Overlooked: James Cromwell and John Goodman, The Artist. Plummer's never quite put it together, as a star, which goes a long way, I think, to explain why his generally good acting has never gotten an Oscar. I suppose then, pretending to be gay is as good as any reason to give it to him. I mean... that's totally believable, right? As opposed to, say, Branagh putting tons of colors into the desperate, petty, intelligent shades of Sir Laurence Olivier. Or the pure embodiment of decency and loyalty James Cromwell gives off with no words in The Artist, or the equally wordless brilliance Goodman conveys as a hard nosed, but softhearted, movie studio exec. Nope, gay it is.

Best Supporting Actress - Will Win: Octavia Spencer, The Help. Should Win: Berenice Bejo, The Artist. Nice Try, but No: Melissa McCarthy, Bridesmaids. Utterly Overlooked: Judi Dench and Julia Ormond, My Week With Marilyn. ... And here's progress: 73 years later, it's still brave to give a black woman an Oscar for Supporting for playing a maid. A sassy maid. A sassy southern maid. Oh never mind. All this so we can overlook the phenomenal part of Peppy Miller in The Artist. And while the masses and critics sing the praises of Melissa McCarthy (and I agree, she's great), that role isn't even the best thing in Bridesmaids. Meanwhile, Dame Judi Dench obviously can't win again... but how crucial is her underplaying as Dame Sybil Thorndyke in Marilyn? And how gloriously did Julia Ormond evoke Vivien Leigh? But never mind, it's all about maids this year, anyway.

Best Director - Will Win: Michel Hazanavicius, The Artist. Should Win: Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris. Honorable Mention: Asghar Faradi, A Separation. There's a lot of talk about rewarding Martin Scorsese for Hugo, but Scorsese is always and forever too needy and too desperate to be rewarded; and anyway, does the world need more children's films made for grownups? I think not. That said, Hazanavcius is a fine choice... but I'd be just as pleased if we recognized Woody Allen, just once more, for his sustained brilliance, especially as exemplified in a film as rich and satsfying as Midnight in Paris. And for real directorial insight, go see A Separation, and tell me any American director coud have managed anything that dense and deep.

Best Original Screenplay: The Artist. Shoud Win: Bridemaids. This could also go to A Separation, and another good choice woud be Woody Allen's writing for Midnight. But I'd mostly love it if we recognized Kristen Wiig and her cowriter for the real genius of Bridesmaids - the brilliant, startlingly honest script.

Best Adapted Screenplay: The Descendants. I didn't see it. And I'd be okay with all of the others... except the dreadfully boring adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

Best Foreign Film: A Separation. If only for its brilliant, wordless final shot as the credits roll. As bad as the characters feel, you'll feel worse. And yet, that's a good thing.

Best Costumes: Probably The Artist. If they give it to Sandy Powell (again) for Hugo, I'll scream. And if there's any justice, they'd give it to Arianne Phillips for W.E.

The rest... well, just give it a good guess. They really like The Artist, and they like to spread the wealth. That, plus the height of the cliff and the breath of the sea... and you should be able to figure it out for yourself. :)