Yes, I’m a grouch, but why can’t the Academy Awards get it right?
By Oscar the Grouch
I know the Oscars aren’t meant for cinephile nerds like me. They’re basically a three-hour commercial to push movie tickets (fine, streaming subscriptions now that theaters are on life support) — and a chance for Hollywood insiders to pat themselves on the back for voting for the films that make them look deep.
Still, every year I get up at 5 a.m. to see the live unveiling of the nominations and hope —just for a moment—that this might be the year the Academy and I are cinematically spiritually aligned.
This was not that year.
My favorite movie of the year, “Weapons,” walked away with exactly one nomination, which feels more like a clerical error than recognition. One nod. Uno. And yet I’m supposed to pretend the Academy Awards are a celebration of the best of cinema?
Fine. Academy Awards voters. You forced me to go into grumpy territory and share what I thought of this year’s nominated films.
Let’s start with “One Battle After Another,” a title that sounds like the Netflix vs Paramount death match over the carcass of Warner Bros. Anyway, the visions of Sean Penn’s haircut and the rest of his disturbing … stiff sights … will always stay with me. Still, I have to grudgingly admit this is a banger of a movie.
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Then there’s “Hamnet.” A tasteful, grief-soaked adaptation that answers the eternal question: what if Shakespeare, but sadder? Still, I couldn’t shake the nagging thought: Why didn’t they just have another kid? Too soon? I think I’m allowed one dark joke as a coping mechanism for “Weapons” getting shafted.
“Sinners” at least understands the value of a bold choice. Making the vampires only the second-worst villains to the KKK is… a swing. Credit where it’s due: when you’re rooting for immortal bloodsuckers because the alternative is historically accurate racism, you’ve successfully recalibrated the moral universe. That’s screenwriting.
In “Frankenstein,” was it me, or was the Monster hot? No insult to Boris Karloff, but thirst trap Jacob Elordi isn’t so much a reanimated corpse made out of spare body parts in the film but a Eurotrash male model who wandered off a catwalk to star in a Grand Guignol fever dream.
“Marty Supreme” is two and a half hours of Timothée Chalamet being an asshole. Mercifully, no singing, this time around, like in that Bob Dylan flick. My main takeaway from the ping pong movie: I’m still recovering from how Timmy kisses his female co-stars. It’s not so much a smooch as a full-face inhale—less romance, more “Alien” face hugger territory.
And the Oscar for best Ikea joke goes to… “Sentimental Value.” The movie is full of soft lighting, heavy sweaters, and carefully calibrated depictions of Scandinavian stoicism in the face of family dysfunction. Its standout moment? A bleak little scene built around a suicide and an Ikea gag — because nothing unites an audience like laughing through generational trauma. Oh, those wacky Swedes! (Or were they Danes? Honestly, does it matter?)
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“Train Dreams” is Temu Terrance Malick (the acclaimed director). If you’ve ever thought, “I wish ‘Days of Heaven’ had more voiceover and fewer original ideas,” congratulations, this is your movie. It’s pretty. It’s quiet. It has tons of tinkly pianos on the soundtrack. It’s also deeply convinced of its own importance. I pretty much detested it.
“The Secret Agent” remains, fittingly, a secret. Haven’t seen it. Neither has anyone else. Yet there it is, sitting in the nominations like a sleeper cell activated by the Academy’s international branch.
And then there’s “F1,” the best movie ever made about two and a half hours of turning left. I don’t even dislike it. It’s loud, slick, and aggressively competent. But best picture material? I think not.
Finally, “Bugonia” asks: What if CEOs are aliens who hate humanity? Finally, realism. No, seriously, this movie felt like a slightly more trippy version of an “X-Files” episode, only with a whole lot more intellectual self-importance.
So yes, the Oscars did what the Oscars always do: rewarded seriousness, punished risk, and mostly ignored the movie that actually made me feel alive this year: “Weapons.” Zach Cregger’s interlocking story structure borrows openly from Altman (“Short Cuts”), Tarantino (“Pulp Fiction”), and Anderson (“Magnolia”), but unlike most of this year’s Oscar nominees, Cregger understands that movies need to grab audiences by the throat. Scenes collide rather than politely connect; dread builds sideways; information is weaponized against the audience. It’s messy, funny, and cruel — but never goes for the cheap horror movie shot.
“Weapons” deserved more. Like a golden statue more.
Still, despite my grumpy, “Weapons”-fueled grudge against the Academy, I’ll tune in this March—roll my eyes at the self-indulgent speeches, mock the terrible musical numbers, and once again bask in the dumb, undeniable power of movies.
