Mondo Cane.

And the BAFTAs Went To...

I love how random the BAFTAs usually are. They seem to have decided to celebrate James Bond's fiftieth anniversary by inviting Tom Jones but not by having say Sean Connery, Roger Moore and Daniel Craig present Best Picture...

Daniel Radcliffe looked so happy to be there! He kept doing huge smiles as if he was auditioning for Broadway again.

Queen Meryl looked positively regal for once, may she please wear something this magnificent to the Oscars.

Jonah Hill has such a mancrush on Brad Pitt, don't ya think?

I was shocked to see Kristen Wiig presenting because she was so brilliant last night on SNL that one would think she'd need a few days to recover and charge her brilliant batteries. In my mind she and Jean Dujardin (who was stunningly awesome on SNL too) flew together and she went through her Bridesmaids airplane skit. Or maybe just maybe she kept her 20's flapper dress and traveled via Dujardin's favored way of transportation:

I love how Octavia Spencer just radiates with joy every time she sees Viola Davis.

Well done Paddy! His Tyrannosaur won Best British Debut.

Sigh.

Oh you magnificent creature... 

The BAFTAs always offer the strangest combinations. Why would Christina Ricci and Jeremy Irvine be together? Also, what was up with Cuba Gooding Jr. and Billy Bob Thornton being there?

The Artist swept the awards even winning Best Original Screenplay.
I have nothing against the movie and contrary to what its director would think, I knew it had a screenplay.
What I don't get is how it would win for originality when it's such a rehash of so many movies? The clip they played for this category even featured the Vertigo score!

R.I.P.

This man's voice! For a minute he made me wish the BAFTAs turned into Dogville and Nicole Kidman showing up to kick everyone's asses...

Chris O'Dowd is just the cutest.

Senna not only won Best Documentary, it also upset The Artist taking Best Editing. Really people. if you have not seen this movie, run and find it now.

Don Draper is mad!

Joan knows better...

(I love that they played "All the Lovers" when she presented an award)

Meryl Streep makes winning awards both pleasurable and award-worthy within itself. When she left her shoe on the stairs going up to receive her Best Actress award, not only did she create her own headlines about being Cinderella and loosing at the balls for more than 30 years now, she also made me wonder if this was all planned. She is known for her perfect technical prowess. 

She even made me love that Colin Firth was there, even if it should be Jesse Eisenberg handing her out awards.

All bow to Queen Meryl!

Yay Pe!

Pe handing out Best Actor justifies Natalie Portman not being there. I feel like she's been out of the spotlight for too long...a bit over a year fine, but let me be!

Just give this man his Oscar already. I don't get how anyone would have anything bad to say about him, he's so charming and gorgeous and unlike Clooney and Pitt, he does act in his movie. He doesn't play himself...

Why can't the Oscars come up with interesting presenters for Best Picture?

Is it me or does Bérénice Bejo look like she could've given birth to Emma Stone?

I love how Marty is always so happy to win awards, however to be honest he's been so mistreated by awards bodies that I wish he'd go all Woody Allen on their asses and forever ignore them.

Did you enjoy the BAFTAs?

The Artist ***½

Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Cast: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo
John Goodman, James Cromwell, Missi Pyle, Penelope Ann Miller
Malcolm McDowell, Beth Grant

The one thing that was truly magical about movies when they first became popular was their immediacy. The fact that they had no spoken dialogues - and important lines were conveyed with title cards - meant that people the world over could digest them in the same way, regardless of what language they spoke and wherever they lived.
The movies values were never universal but at least everyone had the same chance of dissecting them without the undeniable effect language has on them and films had the same opportunity to be enjoyed by global audiences regardless of where they had been made. After sound was introduced, language became both the medium's most innovative technical achievement but also its greatest separator.
Except for that one genius who speaks every language in the world, the movies have lost their universality. Out of all the arts they are the one that perhaps are more affected by translation; whether its English subtitles determining that characters in an American production are speaking the language of Cervantes, or an Italian dubbing of a Japanese samurai movie, translation alters the way in which we decipher the conveyed messages. They challenge our perception of what the world we live in is actually like and more often they not they trick us into accepting societal and anthropological conventions that aren't our own.
We assume that if they're speaking in a way addressed to us, there must be some truth to what they're saying.
The Artist may not have these concepts behind its creation but it's a time appropriate reminder about the effects of globalization. This, almost entirely, silent film directed by Michel Hazanavicius was conveyed as a love letter to Hollywood's Golden Era and as such recurs to title cards and black and white to transport us to another place and time.
The film's story has shades of City Lights, A Star is Born and Singing in the Rain and centers on the life of movie star George Valentin (Dujardin), a silent era god who finds himself out of a job when he refuses to give in to the new "talking pictures". As his own star dims, George sees Peppy Miller's (Bejo) achieve blinding brightness. She becomes an overnight sensation doing the thing he refuses to do, even if the audience can't hear her talk either.
Directed with loving grace and style by Hazanavicius, the film isn't a strict silent film, it takes its visual cues from movies that range from Citizen Kane (look at the ceilings! Dark projection rooms lit by cigarette smoke!) to Sunset Boulevard (even if Cromwell makes a less creepy driver than Erich von Stroheim) and as such it isn't a silent movie as much as it's a greatest hits of the Golden Era flick.
However the film relies too much on the silent gimmick and refuses to create deeper characters; a flaw that must've been obvious from its screenplay, and one that sadly makes it difficult for audiences to connect with the characters because they don't even become archetypes.
To condemn the movie for its shallowness however would be to deny the pleasure that is watching Dujardin light up the screen with his Douglas Fairbanks smile or to surrender to Bejo's It Girl charm. It's no use to pretend you won't be enthralled by the tricks of Uggie the dog either, but upon its sparkly finale the film begs that we go and look out for the films it so meticulously homages.
Hazanavicius has proven to be a superb director of faux nostalgia films, for a less intimidating example check out his OSS 117 (also starring Dujardin) spy films which are James Bond by way of Serge Gainsbourg, and in The Artist he proves his worth as a cinephile with a great eye for symbols, references and masterful visuals.
He also has an adorable sense of humor, with several key moments in The Artist reminding audiences that they are in a silent film. "Why do you refuse to talk?" asks George's preoccupied wife and this elicits laughter in spite of its potential for eye-rolling.
The Artist is a harmless crowdpleaser that aims for the heart often forgetting about the brain. Its entire essence is conveyed in its very first scenes where we see George Valentin anxiously waiting behind the screen to see how the audience reacts to his latest picture. We see the title card announcing his movie had ended, this is followed by a haunting silence - what else could it be followed by - until the camera cuts to the audience who is enraptured and applauding incessantly. The movie selfconsciously invites you to love it or leave it and such sincerity should too be applauded.