Oscar hopefuls and hopeless

Who will win, and who should win, at the Academy Awards

It wasn’t a huge surprise to learn that “Juno” had been selected as the Academy’s now-requisite Best Picture nomination to give itself the false appearance of indie cred, as the film itself is perfectly indicative of that mentality. Screenwriter Diablo Cody joins the ranks of Joss Whedon and Douglas Adams as a writer who is so self-consciously clever as to become unbearable—so consumed with establishing her titular protagonist (an avatar for herself, of course) as hip and cool and witty that it comes across as all so much sound and fury. Juno and “Juno” throw out pop culture references indiscriminately, hoping that enough will stick; it’s all about being “different,” you see, this vague desire to be seen as an individual without exerting the energy necessary to achieve it. Never mind that the film’s pregnancy-plot attempt at emotional growth is just a simpering procession of snark and straw men. Long story short: it’s probably the worst film I’ve seen from 2007, and it’ll probably get Best Screenplay to boot. When it comes to genuine, learned wit, Wes Anderson is the real deal—which makes “The Darjeeling Limited”’s complete shut-out all the more painful and bewildering.

A two-hour-long puff of air, “Atonement” is a triumph of cinematography but of absolutely nothing else—it’s a lively, sweeping camera sent across a lot of blank stares and fiddle-de-dees. I have been told that Ian McEwan’s source novel is actually an astounding work of literature, but the screenplay feels like it was taken from a trashy dime-store romance, with every word delivered like a leaden pronouncement awaiting your indiscriminate applause. Give Seamus McGarvey the Cinematography Oscar that he so richly deserves, but let’s go for “Zodiac” as the film I’d rather see in the Best Picture slot, an infinitely better film about the long, perhaps futile struggle to do the right thing.

Next up is “Michael Clayton,” directed by Tony Gilroy, a veteran screenwriter and probably one of the smartest guys working in the business today. Sadly, Gilroy has a tough time translating his fascinatingly entropic beliefs into his directorial debut—a dense, ridiculously metaphorical tale about the evil that men do (gotta love that incorruptible pack of horses!), further dragged down by an excessively self-aware lead performance from George Clooney. I look forward to watching Gilroy’s filmography unfold; I’m almost glad that “Michael Clayton” was nominated, as it assures a comfy distribution for his next film. In terms of actual quality, however, Tim Burton’s adaptation of “Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street” should have snagged this nomination—it being a film that recognizes the atrocity of which man is capable but very clearly delineates where misanthropy ends and the selfish vanity of nihilism begins.

However, the two nominees that actually deserve their slots are the hardest to pin down: Paul Thomas Anderson’s “There Will Be Blood,” a mesmerizing treatise on obsession and human frailty, and the Coen Brothers’ “No Country for Old Men,” about mankind’s long journey to better understand itself. “There Will Be Blood” is, as the title implies, a mortal battle between spirituality and greed, and how each feed into one another as companions and rivals—furthermore, thanks in part to Daniel Day-Lewis’ slow-burn performance, it’s the brilliant character study that “Michael Clayton” tried to be before it drowned in its own aspirations. Meanwhile, some two months after the fact, “No Country for Old Men” continues to astound me with the impossible simplicity of its premise—a man, some money and the spectre of death—and how it ends up as a bleak, yet somehow hopeful summation of human nature. I have to see both of these films again, but my best guess would be that “No Country” will take the Best Picture Oscar—a rare feat for the honest-to-God best film of the year—but with the Writers’ Guild still on strike, I’m personally hoping that we can somehow wean Hollywood off the masturbatory exercise and meat parade (to crib a phrase from George C. Scott) that is the Oscars.