The Bastard Lounge

Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.

Cinematic for the People.

After a long period of inactivity writing-wise, I have recently emerged from my lair like Godzilla with a rubbish beard, hell-bent on wreaking my destructive prose upon an unsuspecting planet Earth. I’m angry, full of bile, and itching to put the world to rights. Like Rita Repulsa with PMT, I’m desperate to turn my cold, calculating gaze on any and all of the social injustice in the world, and make a few knob-gags about it. It’s been a while, so I wrote a new stand-up routine. Then came the tricky part of editing out all of the bits that might get me sacked.

Political Correctness gone mad.

Political Correctness gone mad.

Then I decided to put that to one side and focus on sharing with you, beloved reader, my thoughts on the latest crisis to hit this paltry spinning rock. So what, you ask, has raised me from my literary slumber? Is it the horrifying situation in Paris? The upcoming General Election? No. Grow up. The crisis I am referring to is much more serious – the Oscar nominations are out.

Now, I’ve written about The Oscars before, and it was brilliant and sexy and everyone loved it. But I’m doing it again, partly because I’m an insufferable masochist, but mainly because each year, either the ceremony or the nominations (or both) manage to provoke more outraged opinion than Katie Hopkins performing a dramatic reading of Mein Kampf.

The big talking point this year has come from The Lego Movie being snubbed for Best Animated Feature. Despite being both a commercial success, and being universally jizzed over by pretty much every critic everywhere ever, the only nomination for the little yellow foot-impalers came in the form of Best Original Song.

Likewise, another seemingly sure-thing at the bookies to be overlooked was civil rights drama Selma, which, somewhat depressingly inspired much less outrage than the Lego Movie omission. Critics have pointed out a worrying lack of diversity in this year’s offering. That’s clearly not true of course: Posh White Englishman Benedict Cumberbatch is nominated for his role as Posh White Englishman Alan Turing, whilst Posh White Englishman Eddie Redmayne went a totally different route and is up for his role as Posh White Englishman Stephen Hawking. Ah, variety.

Another Posh White Englishman getting the nod this year, though more for his glorious moustache than for his acting is Ralph Fiennes, whose film The Grand Budapest Hotel is up for 9 gongs. Why do they call them gongs by the way? They look nothing like a gong. Gongs are round, dickhead. Gong. The word has lost all meaning. Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, moustaches. Yes, it seems the insidious hipster plot to infiltrate all aspects of modern life has now reached the world of Cinema, as demonstrated by this year’s soon-to-be-forgotten Jonny Depp vehicle Mortdecai, in which “look, moustaches!” seems to be the entire plot of the film.

mortdecai-posters-slice

“Do we need a script lads?” “Didn’t you hear me? Gwyneth Paltrow has a moustache! We’re going to be billionaires!”

Of course, very few people have seen every film which has been nominated. As usual, the majority of the outrage at the nominations is therefore dominated by ill-informed dullards crying “But this is ridiculous! How can that film I didn’t see be better than the one I did!? If it were any good, I’d have seen that instead”. We’re all guilty of this to some degree. Richard Linklater’s Boyhood is supposed to be a gripping and moving portrayal of a boy growing up in real time, but I never saw it, so to me it just sounds like a shit Harry Potter.

I’m equally outraged by the lack of nominations for Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, who yet again was snubbed by the Academy despite his stellar performance as man-who-owns-silly-hat in 2014’s nippletastic Hercules.

That this man is still taken seriously as a Badass is a mystery not even Benedict Turing could solve.

Yet another mystery is the perplexing lack of nominations for Seth Rogen and James Franco’s brilliant and harrowing art-project The Interview, in which they put the entirety of western civilisation at risk of Nuclear Genocide just so they could make a few fart jokes at Kim Jong-Un’s expense. Clearly, the votes must have been fiddled by mischievous hackers, given that it wasn’t even considered for best film.

“Oh, it took you 12 years to make Boyhood did it? Well we risked World War Three. That’s dedication.”

Anywho, the ceremony itself will take place on 22nd February and be hosted by How I Met Your Mother and just generally being pretty damn awesome star, Neil Patrick Harris. One can expect shocks, upsets, overlong speeches, ridiculously-sexist-comments-on-what-certain-actresses-are-wearing, feminist opinion pieces criticising said ridiculously-sexist-comments-on-what-certain-actresses-are-wearing, and someone will have grown an unexpected beard. Same as every year then.

DPJ.

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