Social Network, The

Barring an enormous upset of (at least) Shakespeare in Love proportions, The Social Network has a slew of Oscars in the bag. Fittingly so.

So, fittingly, it is the first of 2010's award contenders I shall address.

To firmly understand my personal reaction to The Social Network one must take into account my age (34) my profession (screenwriter) and the man behind the camera (David Fincher).

I am not one of those film people who was in touch enough with young film-makers before the age of 18 to have known that "the awesome guy who was making some of the best music videos you've ever seen, and made Alien 3" was named David Fincher. He was nowhere on my radar until the autumn of my Freshman year of college when I went to see Se7en. This was a movie unlike anything I had seen before. It scared me to death. I hate the "sloth" sequence more than I hate the visual unpleasantness of say Slumdog Millionaire or Quills. But Fincher had me on the line. I was hooked. "What's in the box?" I say it on a daily.

This guy found a way to use Brad Pitt better than Redford, Zwick, Jordan, you name it. If he's not teaching me how to rob a convenient store with a hair-dryer, folks, this was the Pitt we wanted.  It helped, of course, that Morgan Freeman was on-hand and that Brad and Gwyneth were the new super couple -- Kenneth Brannagh and Emma Thompson having parted ways within weeks of Se7en's release. It also didn't hurt that they were psychotically beautiful and sporting matching aryan haircuts.

Nor did it hurt that we all came home to a winter-break where we Regians who attended the college JUG night sprinted to the Beekman for 12 Monkeys. That 1995 Brad Pitt one-two punch could not have helped Fincher more -- even though he was only the director of one of the pictures.

I went through college and was shipped off to Munich to conduct a relatively soul-devouring depressing research project -- the likes of which one would imagine takes place in the German Alps. But lo and behold I had discovered the English Language movie theater -- right across the street from Lowenbrau. Here I could forget my troubles and just hear English -- my native tongue -- pouring from the mouths of the Hollywood elite. What rapture it was. Especially the night I sat amongst a pack of Scandinavian exchange students and Munich's hip youth to see Fight Club. There's no point in writing an entire Fight Club treatise here. But let it be known that I routinely returned to the theater to listen to the dialogue, to avert my eyes from Jared Leto's post-pummel punim, and to rest easy in the notion that I would return to America to make movies -- not just study dead people who already had.

I also rested easily in the assurance that this David Fincher character wasn't just some brainiac who'd wandered off the set of "Janie's Got A Gun" to lens a one hit wonder. This man -- nearly the exact same age as Brad Pitt -- might well be the director of a generation.

And one must forgive the director of a generation for attempting a cookie-cutter Oscar slam-dunk like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I happened to like the film and have little to say about its endless comparisons to Forrest Gump or the questioning of its choice to embed its tale in Katrina. In hindsight, audiences will be far more forgiving and Brad Pitt's legacy with both Fincher and the city of New Orleans will justify that. I needn't do so here.

So it brings us to the "best picture" of 2010. The critic sweeper. The circuit savior. The Globe grabber. The Odds-on Oscar-owner.

Before Jesse Eisenberg made it back to his dormitory we all knew it was a done deal.

Hell, J.R. knew during the ad-campaign before the film was even released.

But all we needed was a Sorkin dump scene -- a trot through the green-hued shadow ridden world of David Fincher -- and a couple of piano key plunks from Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross -- and that was it. Anyone who felt otherwise missed this generational juggernaut when it pulled out of the station -- or was a Harvard grad with an oddly defensive kneejerk reaction.

What can you hold against the film? Is it wrong to "attack" a public figure because he is young (though a legal adult)? Judging by the "60 Minutes" footage I've seen, Jesse Eisenberg wasn't as prickly as Mr. Zuckerberg often seems. And didn't the film make that point clear -- multiple times -- that this was an enormous case of perception becoming reality? And isn't that the most fitting (and obvious) leit motif to bang like a set of bongos in a film about Facebook?

I'm all for hating a front-runner. It's part of what makes America great. Hell, it's a pastime of mine. But I readily admit when I'm doing it. I'd encourage any folks not on The Social Network express to give it another view. It's there, folks. It's bloody stalwart.

No, it is not my favorite picture of the year. I'll get to that when I write about it. No, it is not the film that I think was the best made film of the year. I'll get to that one, too. But this is the winner, plain and simple. It's got winner written all over it and it's a deserving laureate.

What makes me so happy about The Social Network win is that it is finally a best picture by a member of the '90s class of directors -- that group that hailed the '70s as the greatest era in film history -- that followed through with one of the essential ingredients that made '70s films great: YOUNG ACTORS.

Young actors can act. Coppola knows this. Spielberg knows this. Hal Ashby knew it. Scorsese knows it. Woody Allen knows it. And the list goes on.

There are important stories to tell about young people with young people. The only other film to hand the reins over to young actors so completely and take a true run at the '70s windmill was Brokeback Mountain and well... Crash! Nicholson's face said it all on that one.

But we have literally wandered through 30 years of cinema where the same stars from the 70s have anchored nearly every "important" film to come down the pike. I can already see people running at me with Adrien Brody -- did you honestly see that coming? Do you think the fact that he was nominated against four actors from the previous generation (all of whom had Oscars) had nothing to do with it? And what other blow can be thrown? Sean Penn? Daniel Day Lewis? These men aren't young. And say what you will -- even The Departed needed Sheen, Baldwin, and Jack.

So cast the pop star of the generation and let the story roll. You've got a deal. How else would you like to have bank-rolled the movie? Robert Duvall in the role of Sean Parker? Perhaps it could have been the story of the drunk attorney who took the Facebook case and we could follow Russel Crowe home to find out that while his wealthy client was lining his pockets, social networks were making his daughter an "at risk teen." That's how you narratively compromise yourself around youth. It's either that, be a drug addict, or be British. The Social Network refused.

I salute the brave star-less casting of a major generational tale -- beyond the masterful directing, writing, photography, music, editing, and pacing. You can put the boxing gloves down, set your crystal meth aside, hang up your spurs, and blast the Piaf: this is the ensemble of the year.

I'll gladly watch it collect its statuettes that fateful Sunday night. 15 years later, Mr. Se7en has his day.

(It also doesn't hurt that DeLuca will round out the award decade he started pink-slipped for having greenlit The Lord of the Rings with a Rudin-shared golden boy. Huzzah.)

- Matthew J. McCue

Yes.

There are typos. I'll do my best.

Happy Birthday, David Lynch

This was a year without ironing bunnies. No, Jingle Dell didn't have fun with cockroaches and make his lunch -- twenty sandwiches high. No one had a nervous breakdown and won the civil war for the South -- all in the privacy of his hotel room. No ears were found on shortcuts. No worms were strung from noses. There was no death by coffee table. No arguments over grabbers. No random Australian actress' career was launched by a dreamscape. And no, that gum you like did not come back in style.

Instead, Mr. Lynch has become the grand-pappy of Transcendental Meditation -- partying with the likes of Russel Brand and showing all Americans, even David Byrne, that his hair still reigneth proud.

Being a Lynch lover is tough. The current gap between feature films seems endless. As much as it always seems to prove worth it, in the words of Mr. Petty, "the waiting is the hardest part."

At the moment, Mr. Lynch seems more the weirdo emeritus than king of the surreal -- though slipping on the crown is purely his choice. How would there be a Black Swan without you? And would Winter's Bone suffered if Daddy weren't just behind the destruction of a meth-lab, but somehow blasted his soul into another dwarf filled dimension? Of course not. I'd run that movie on a loop.

However, on his birthday, I must credit this director -- who has meant more to my psyche than most things I've encountered in my life -- with the dawn of long form cable (and the occasional daring network) television series. Where would any show on FX, AMC, HBO, or Showtime be without "Twin Peaks." One girl, one murder, one nutty band of characters. To feel the true impact, picture the situation reversed. Imagine "Twin Peaks" in a post "Lost" world. Imagine "Twin Peaks" in a post "True Blood" world. Imagine "Twin Peaks" after "Damages," "Dexter," "Carnivale." Obviously that "Twin Peaks" would have been the greatest media event the world had ever witnessed. This would be a land be a place where its series finale would be the grandest of all and we wouldn't have to endure endless references to -- oh, I don't know... MASH?! Thus it's clear none of these series could have endured without the artistic risk and foresight of David Lynch 20 years ago.

I, for one, thank you. I wish you a happy birthday. And considering this is supposed to be an awards season blog that converts into a film review site -- I await your next feature and your eventual Oscar.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I need a damn fine cup of coffee.

- Matthew J. McCue

Rick-Lash Follow-Up

According to the Huffington Post (which got its information from PopEater which I am hoping got its information from Bob Woodward) a member of the Hollywood Foreign Press is quoted as having said the following:

"Ricky will not be invited back to host the show next year, for sure," the HFPA member said. "For sure any movie he makes he can forget about getting nominated. He humiliated the organization last night and went too far with several celebrities whose representatives have already called to complain"


Honestly? Even the head of the HFPA -- while being a bit guarded and not fully endorsing all of Ricky's humor -- admits it was a great show. Obviously the man can't slam Scientologists who weren't in the room for the current ceremony but may well be nominated in the future. Nor can he knock a major television star who may recover and land in the room with a nomination for his unending CBS success. His point of view makes perfect sense. But this other, unnamed HFPA member must be joking.


Firstly, there is the double use of "For sure" which has me wondering whether Kimmy Gibler, Soleil Moon Frye, or Harriet Brindle (Hi-eeee!) has suddenly enlisted in the ranks of the foreign press. Secondly, to outright state that any comedian shall be barred from future nominations due to off-color jokes -- which he was hired to tell by your organization -- immediately compromises the validity of your awards. Sarandon and Robbins have Oscars. Dustin Hoffman has two. Brando sent an actress dressed as a Native American. Julie Andrews wasn't even allowed to refuse her Tony nomination. And someone in GG land thinks this talk is going to fly?


No, no, no.


Ricky is going to be just fine. If Dick Clark Productions is going to maintain its relationship with NBC -- and NBC is going to maintain its relationship with Ricky Gervais -- the only person deciding whether or not he hosts again will be the man himself.

Rick-Lash

Today's entry shall be brief for the only movie I have rewatched since the Globes -- which I had the joy of watching in full with Joanne last night -- has been The King's Speech. As we all know from previous posts, I consider that a tenuous ship and I dare not rock it. Furthermore, tomorrow is the first day of the semester and I have to rally dang early and head it to Dobbs Ferry for my English classes. Thus, there is a time cap on what I am going to permit myself to say. I'm already violating my Deepak Chopra sleep rules!

I would simply like to say that the negative reaction to Ricky Gervais' off-color remarks is nothing short of laughable. These criticisms have me wondering -- no offense to Steve Martin -- whether people were actual laughing at his "Bringin' Down The House" jokes. Could it be?

This is Hollywood, ladies and germs. These folks are far cooler than all of us or the entire mirage of show business is shattered. He made fun of Charlie Sheen, Scientology, and made a couple of digs at the head of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association. And?

The big joke was, "I had to pull him off the toilet and put his teeth in." Who on earth -- including those who need to be removed from the commode and supplied with teeth -- find that off-color? The reaction is nothing short of Rob Reiner's deus ex machina overreaction in Ed TV. That's right, folks: I have been compelled to make an accurate Ed TV reference. Ed TV. This is where I am. This is the only equation I am able to make.

Ricky Gervais has done so much for the Golden Globes they have the Oscars wondering if they need to shift their telecast to JANUARY! The Oscars -- the trophy of choice for all performers -- has been dancing this way and that while the Golden Globes have become admittedly more fun, have let their presenters speak their minds, have booked the best comedian we've got, and literally have all the other awards dancing around their schedule.

Lighten up, world.

The Golden Globes (The Missiles Are Flying.)

A Brief Introduction to the evening...

"Like many of you, we recall back when Ricky Gervais was a slightly chubby but very kind comedian."

-Tom Hanks

Beyond the fact that we truly have to give me some credit for nailing a chunk of the winners with my predictions, the most enjoyable portion of the Globes was the no holds barred cocktail party atmosphere that only the Hollywood Foreign Press, The Beverly Hilton Ballroom, and Ricky Gervais can provide.

The entire telecast can be encapsulated in Mr. Gervais' introducing Robert Downey, Jr. as a porn-star who is best known for his stints in rehab and prison -- only to have Robert Downey, Jr. (who we know is a borderline messianic figure for me) introduce the Actress - Comedy/Musical nominees as women he has slept with. A true delight. The kind of barb-ish humor that let's a man forget he's trapped amidst the deep cold horror of January with only February and March in sight. Oh, Golden Globes, you're like a warm Caribbean breeze on a night who's low temperature was clocking in at 9 Degrees.  That's Fahrenheit, friends.

I was lucky enough to be at the closing performance of Next to Normal and conducted a successful media lock-out despite the endless texts from dear friends and the unbelievable amount of smartphone updating and searching in a room full of entertainment folk. And even despite J.R. doing his best to force me to cave and at least let him tell me a few winners. But no, I made it back to the steam-spitting rapture of my studio where my blessed DVR let me enjoy the broadcast in the wee hours.

The (actual) Globes...

McCue Gets No Support

I wonder if my tumbling through the snowdrifts of the non-plowed New York City streets and surmounting the treacherously icy steps to meet L.P. at The AMC nee Loews nee Sony Lincoln Square is what has tainted my opinion of The Fighter. I'm willing to believe my mood was set by the Cold Mountain-esque journey to a theater of wheezy cold-havers.

But it's just not there for me, folks. I wonder if I should see it again -- but I frankly don't feel the need. The horribly cruel part of me wonders if Christian Bale and Melissa Leo are starting to pick up awards momentum simply because they are actors who deserve awards more than these being performances that demand recognition. But everywhere I look and everything I read places me in the remarkable minority. My dubious nature toward their supporting wins is nigh on a party of one: everyone loves them. I suppose there is something about their playing unlikable people that has left me at an arm's length. This has always been the case with me. It's what I have dubbed my "Scorcese Dilemma" (look for it in paperback wherever imaginary books are sold). Christian Bale is obviously fantastic and I have adored him since Empire of the Sun. Melissa Leo was great in this film and in Frozen River. I suppose I'm supposed to hate them but wasn't given the handle folks like Louise Fletcher and Javier Bardem so happily provided. That... and I'm so jonesing for a King's Speech actor trifecta that we'll have to excuse my lame reaction.

M'Lady Annette vs. The Little Bird That Could

I could stream of conscious a Biskind-size salute to Annette Bening, but I shall rein it in. It is my hope -- given my crazed ways -- that the Oscar Actress category is the prime source of my anxiety from now until the February 27th telecast. 20 years past The Grifters and in a year where Annette's award nemesis Hillary Swank isn't in the picture -- the question becomes whether Mrs. Beatty can convert her Globe into Oscar Glory. Obviously, this is my deep hope. The woman has class. The woman has charm. The woman gave a great performance. And what a classy speech. Annette, you still got it.

But will she sell this house today?

Perhaps because Annette's still got it, it can scare the bejesus out of a Beatty household lover like myself that the fine feathered friend embodied by my dear little Natalie Portman could end up the Oscar winner. Maybe Hollywood thinks that Annette is far from finished and will turn in other great performances -- she obviously will -- and so they don't need to award her for the independent film with a heart that was released during the summer and was chuck full of Oscar buzz when the rest of the country was trying to maximize beach weekends. This is, after all, Natalie Portman -- a girl the world has loved since she weepily befriended a milk-drinking mafia hitman.

I once remarked that I would "'turn' and abandon Jesus for Natalie Portman." I meant it. An Academy with even a sliver of that love could well snub Annette again -- much like Warren's sister, Shirley -- and land Ms. Bening with a trophy for some distant performance instead. Oh ramparts!!!!!

Comedy Actor


What can be said about this category? I have not seen Mr. Giammati's movie, though I know he is a wonderful actor. However, his winning over Kevin Spacey has me wondering who rounds out the fifth slot in the Academy category for actor. I truly thought Spacey would cross in -- if only to acknowledge the passing of Hickenlooper. Much as I love P.G., I doubt he'll be there for the big dance.

Firth, Bridges, Eisenberg, Wahlberg, DiCaprio? There's two names I'm deliberately leaving off this list because there's one name on it I refuse to jinx. I'll make that confession next Tuesday after the noms.

A Brief Remark about DeNiro's DeMille...


My love for Matt Damon knows no limits. Thank heavens the Globes tapped the under-used hilarious side of Damon who has the earned respect and the grinning to summarize one of the greatest screen acting careers with comedy rather than prostrate praise:

"He was literally unrecognizable as a blonde thirteen year-old hooker. He just disappears."

And my congrats to DeNiro for quipping away himself. "Thank you Matt, I loved you in The Fighter." And "You hope the films gross enough to keep your kids in private school." This from the Letterman interview mute.

Look at you, Globes! Being one of the few rare Hollywood Moments to star Pacino and DeNiro.

The Lovely Mr. Firth


"Right now this is all that stands between me and a Harley Davidson." - Colin Firth


To watch Colin Firth play this King of England this way and for it to have swept the world off its feet so completely is hands down my favorite (quiet) media frenzy of recent years. But shush! Let this steady sailing ship coast ever onward across its lovely wake-less sea toward glory! (I gave an extensive speech last night as to why I consider it so damn "lovely" and shall continue to use that word and that word only.) Something about this forward-mover seems so Jenga-like that I am hesitant to say too much. I shall leave it at that and expound on Mr. Firth once the Oscar winner is revealed.

Network Sweep


Fincher. Sorkin. Reznor. Picture.

There's no surprise in The Social Network's unending string of victories. But the uniform sweep of Critics' Circles needs to be hammered home by a Globe win.

You take the director of Se7en, add a subdued score from Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor, combine with one of the best living screenwriters and the most powerful producers in Hollywood. And what do you expect? Frankly, I don't think this is what people expected -- hence the unending accolades.

We'll see what happens when True Grit is in the Oscar mix. But one wonders if it will be anymore than an L.A. Confidential to a Timely Techie Titanic.

Do it Colfer? Do it Danes?


Well, they damn well done did. Double Huzzahs.

Do I get funnier?

Perhaps the most hilarious thing about this Blog is that I planned to write regular reviews in October -- when this blog began. Then I got caught up in 10 other things and didn't do it.

This time, however, I am going to do it.

When the Golden Globes end, I am going to write my reviews of all the big movies from the year. I am also going to talk about the jockeying and positioning for Oscar noms and we (whether I'm speaking in the editorial or there is actually a reader beyond myself remains to be seen) watch me get hooked onto cheering on the movie that doesn't have a chance of winning -- a pastime I've enjoyed since The Piano.

Before any of this happens I am going to very simply state my Top 10 (in alphabetical order) for the year and I am going to then lay down my who will win who should win predictions for the Globes. Then Monday I'll check in and start the Oscar watch since the noms are January 25th.

My dream, obviously, is that this becomes a Nora Ephron movie wherein I'm married to the adorable Chris Messina (as long as it's not Towelhead Messina because that was gross).

McCue's Top Ten for 2010

Black Swan
The Ghost Writer
Hereafter
Inception
The King's Speech
Shutter Island
The Social Network
Toy Story 3
True Grit

And then it's killing me whether I put in Scott Pilgrim (because I laughed my ass off), Easy A (because Emma Stone nailed it), The Kids Are All Right (because I adored it despite its flaws), or the lovely Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Thus, I believe I'll have to leave it as a Top Nine.

GOLDEN GLOBE PREDICTIONS


Best Picture Drama:      The Social Network
Best Picture Comedy:    The Kids Are All Right
Best Director:                 David Fincher
Best Screenplay:            Aaron Sorkin (Though we know I want Nolan.)
Actor Drama:                 Colin Firth
Actress Drama:              Natalie Portman
Actor Comedy:              Kevin Spacey (Though this category is insane. Double Depp?)
Actress Comedy:           Annette Bening (Though watch the crazy HFPA give it to Emma Stone!)
Supporting Actor:          Geoffrey Rush (But this one is honestly a true HFPA toss-up)
Supporting Actress:       Helena Bonham Carter (Though I could see Mila Kunis winning. Those Euros LOVE a pretty girl.)
Score:                            Alexandre Desplat
Song:                             Give me a freakin' break on this category! I refuse to type any of these song titles!
Best Animated Film:     Toy Story 3

I'm not going to go through the television awards as the point of this future Ephron optioned blog is Oscar lead up. Bob Hope called The Oscars "Passover" (best joke ever). I call the lead up "McAdvent."

But about TV let me just say that I hope an honorary award is bestowed upon Sally Draper while the entire ballroom takes to its feet for the most intense standing ovation in recent history. One of those ones where you hear the odd whistle and just the "Vo!" of the "Bravos."

Do it Colfer. Do it Clare Danes.