..Gary Dretzka
..Noah Forrest
..Leonard Klady
..David Poland
..Douglas Pratt
..Ray Pride
..Kim Voynar
..Michael Wilmington

Week Five - 108 Days to Go
Isn't It Romantic?

I think I finally figured it out.

The reason Oscar season is so irritating to so many of the people who work within it and who make their livings because of it is that it is the most irritating form of intercourse possible… at least until nominations. And then, the pressure is significantly reduced in almost every quarter, except for Mr. Weinstein's, who is known to eviscerate staff for losses… at the Kodak… within minutes… and, even sometimes for wins that they didn't believe in enough.

But think about it. The foreplay started four or five months ago, in most cases, with the object of lust even being in the room. The foreplay would heat and cool as the weeks passed. In Toronto, we found out which films were premature ejaculators, while others got super heated… but still no satisfaction, only more rubbing.

The crowd broke up. Everyone went back to their beds at home. And yet, the rubbing continued, now chafing at the bits in the exhaustion of it all. Even the fumbling, slightly irritating bedmates from Toronto couldn't be sent on their way, never to be clumsy again, because what if the frogs turned out to be princes/princesses and we were too stupid to see it and sent them away too soon and someone else became their famous mate?

Then everyone tried to get enthusiastic about the New York Film Festival. But all they got was more Pedro and Penelope and Kate and Todd. Delightful, but enough already!

Finally, Clint Eastwood was ready to lower the boom and let everyone have their ecstatic release. Come on, Clint… you manly man. You can do it. Bring out those canons and invade that beach and everyone will be able to roll over and get some sleep, assured that we all know that we don't really have to keep up all the courting for months on end. Sure, we would go out on dates and eat their stuffed mushroom caps and indulge in the delights of dining with incredibly talented celebrities who had no chance of winning anything. But we would happily come home, knowing that Big Daddy Clint made the bed with one-million count Egyptian cotton sheets, fluffed up the pillow, and left an Oscar shaped chocolate for us to enjoy before we rested.

But in his long-earned arrogance, he refused to take his Viagra and while still quite viral, his flag couldn't be fully raised on our Oscar Iwo Jima.

So we soldiered on…

Little Miss Sunshine drove its yellow VW bus further into our hearts. Our look up The Queen's knickers started taking on more significance than it seemed to have early on. And Jack Nicholson threw cocaine all over Hollywood's writhing behind.

But still… not quite relief.

So now we are wading through the last dates standing. We're being reminded that Steven Soderbergh is, for all of his Oceans films, still kinkier than Steven Shainberg… and a hundred times more talented. We're waiting for DeNiro to stop hemming and hawing and to make his statement. We're endlessly discussing Ed Zwick's latest well-intended dubious achievement. And we're wondering whether Babble… uh, Babel, will be speaking Academy after a 1200 screen expansion this weekend. (Suddenly, people are believing the Academy might speak Kazakh… and that could change in a disappointing second weekend hurry too.)

Meanwhile, next Wednesday looms. It could all be over that night. Some of us are so cranky that we are rooting for Dreamgirls' media premiere at the Academy and across the country to be a disappointment. After all, going through this as long as we have, the idea of having an answer next Wednesday (Sunday for the HFPA… look for Emanuel Levy to use his position in Hollywood's Fucked-up Press Ass-kiss to be the first to drool all over the film on Monday morning) is almost too much to bear.

All that dating… all that rubbing… and it turned out everyone should have just stayed home and gotten off on the expected, not very challenging, too easy solution to their Oscar needs.

And even then, it just keeps going on, an entire industry desperate for some lube.

We try to distract ourselves. We go to actual movie theaters where people pay for tickets to see James Bond, Happy Feet, another look at Borat, anything… ANYTHING… to get away from the pretentious twaddle of Oscar season.

But Thanksgiving comes but once a year. Suddenly, we are back on O-Date and we can't seem to say, "no… no… 100 times no!"

National Bored of Review… whoopee! Indie Spirit noms. LAFCA. NYFCA. BFCA. Hollywood Fund for Professional Acquirers. Please. Someone. An ultra-violent Mel Gibson action drama… love it! A Nancy Meyers chick flick on Jack Black steroids… fabulous! No… can't quite pay for Eragon. But a geriatric Rocky movie? We'll make that calcium deposit in the bank of desperation… absolutely!!!

What? They STILL haven't sent out the Academy ballots? Come on! Get a move on! The new year must be new. This can't go on!

I guess we should just join O-Harmony. O-Harmony matches movies with Oscar based on compatibility in the most important areas of showbiz life - like commercial success, perceived intellect, lack of humor, and 25 other dimensions.

Ah, romance…

The Charts
Best Picture
Best Actor
Best Actress
Best Screenplay
Best Director

Week Four: The Rules - Episode One
Week Three: Channel #2
Week Two: Hope Floats
Week One: Ready, Steady ... Gold, Cat, Gold!
The August 11 Preview

- Email David Poland