And Now for Something Completely Not Different

 I confess to having a problem with the #OscarsSoWhite movement.  In years past, when it comes to the Academy Awards, the Motion Picture Academy has certainly snubbed any number of worthy performers and other theatrical artists, and, despite the growing diversity of the American population, the most visible Oscar categories (e.g., acting, directing, "Best Picture") have often displayed a conspicuous uniformity in terms of race and ethnicity (i.e., a whole bunch of white folks).  The snubs are often inexplicable, such as Jennifer Lopez being overlooked for her performance in "Hustlers" despite ubiquitous praise and early expectations that she would win the award, never mind being nominated.  And it's this very inexplicability that leaves the Academy open to charges of unconscious (or, indeed, conscious) racism.

Still, whenever the #OscarsSoWhite hashtag would start trending, I would always wonder.  First, while people could certainly take issue with the lack of Black or Brown faces among the nominees, the nominees themselves were generally not objectionable.  That is, one couldn't necessarily point to any of the (white) actors who were nominated and say, "Well, SHE certainly doesn't deserve a nomination. . .  He didn't really do a good job."  With a limited number of nominations (generally five per category), you will always have some deserving people left out.  Second, the fact that people expressed outrage when all the nominees were white could cause a certain backlash if and when more people of color were ultimately nominated: Are they being nominated because of the excellence of their work or is there some Hollywood quota system being employed?

The issue, of course, is not a lack of talent among communities of color, but a lack of opportunities.  And ultimately, one of the good things to come out of #OscarsSoWhite was an attempt to diversify the Academy, to provide more support for films that portray the experiences of communities of color and to broaden the pool of those honored beyond the usual suspects.  And one could argue that last night's Academy Awards represented a sort of triumph for this movement.  Of the 20 acting nominations, nine went to non-white actors.  Of the eight films nominated for Best Picture, only two featured white male protagonists (three if you count the mostly-white ensemble cast of "Trial of the Chicago Seven").  But even here, we see some "snubbing": Eight films were nominated for Best Picture, but up to ten films could have been.  And among the non-nominated pictures were such critically acclaimed and Black-centered movies as "One Night in Miami" (three other nominations), "Da 5 Bloods" (a Spike Lee Joint), and "Ma Rainey's Black Bottom"--probably the most inexplicable oversight, given its prominence on Netflix, its provenance as a somewhat well-known play, and its two lead-acting nominations.  Including any two of these movies wouldn't have entailed bumping any other nominee (all of which seem more or less deserving), yet they were left out.  Why?  (Yes, I'm sure there are arcane rules around voting and nominations and yadda yadda yadda. . . But again, this is as much about perception as anything else.  The perception is problematic.)

And then, of course, despite the diversity of the nominees, the two big acting awards went, surprisingly, to two old white Hollywood veterans--Frances McDormand and Anthony Hopkins--both of whom had won Oscars already (twice in McDormand's case), to boot.

This is a disappointment.

I feel I should stipulate that both Frances McDormand and Anthony Hopkins are brilliant actors--giants in their field.  I haven't seen either "Nomadland" or "The Father," but I have absolutely no doubt that both actors give flawless performances.  This is not about that.  Because let's be clear: The Oscars are not an acting competition.  The awards are not given on the basis of some judgment that Anthony Hopkins gave a better performance in "The Father" than, say, Riz Ahmed did in "Sound of Metal."  How would one make that judgment, exactly?  They performed different roles that called for different skills and preparation.  The only real way that the Oscars could be an acting competition would be if each nominated actor were given, say, a monologue to perform--the same monologue--and then judged on the execution. There would still be a certain level of subjectivity involved, but at least then you'd be comparing apples to apples, so to speak--performing apples to performing apples.

(DIGRESSION: I think we have a premise for next year's ceremony! Mr. Soderbergh, call me! END OF DIGRESSION)

No, to the extent that the Oscars are a competition, they are a marketing competition, the winners a reflection of which studio did the best job of promoting their product.  But quite often, the Oscars are also an opportunity for Hollywood to make a statement.  And in this year Black Lives Matter and white nationalists parading proudly through American streets, the voters of the Motion Picture Academy could have--should have--made a clear statement about the value of diversity in the world of film. A clear statement that the movies can look like the best vision of a multicultural America. Instead, the statement that Hollywood made by bestowing the highest honors on representatives of the status quo is that the Academy is still largely stuck in the past.

*****

I said "surprisingly" about the wins by McDormand and, especially, Hopkins.  The Award ceremony producers clearly expected something different, as evidenced by the otherwise inexplicable decision to announce "Best Picture" before "Best Actress" and "Best Actor."  Presumably, Steven Soderbergh (along with any number of other people) thought Chadwick Boseman would receive a posthumous Oscar.  The announcement of his win would certainly have been a highly emotional moment--not a dry eye in the house--a moment which would have rendered the award for Best Picture anticlimactic, no matter which film won.  But from a television-production perspective, the Oscars got the absolute worst result.  Boseman would have been perfect.  Ahmed or Yeun would have at least been seen as young, exciting avatars of Hollywood's next generation.  Gary Oldman would have at least been there to make a speech!  Instead, the award went to a highly respected previous winner, who wasn't even at the ceremony in any of its 92 locations; word is, he had to be woken up to be told he had won. 

I suppose the one positive to take away from all this is that, in case you were wondering, even the producers of the show do not, in fact, know the winners ahead of time.  Three cheers for integrity?

*****

Can we please, please, PLEEEEEASSE never again do extended introductions of each nominee.  Seriously, I don't need to hear biographical details about each of these people or hear Laura Dern emote over everyone's "bravery" or what have you.  If I want biographical details, well, that's why God gave us Wikipedia.  That's how I know that Carey Mulligan is a former Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. . . 

. . . OK, maybe I shouldn't rely on Wikipedia, but still! Let's keep the show moving people!  Give us a clip from the movie and get on with it!

This IS Your Father's "Hannibal"

Anthony Hopkins did not originate the role of Hannibal Lecter on film.  That distinction belongs to Ronny Cox, who played Hannibal in "Manhunter" (1986), Michael Mann's adaptation of Thomas Harris's novel, Red Dragon (1981).  Ronny Cox is quite good, and the film is quite nifty overall, but it didn't take off to the same extent as "The Silence of the Lambs" (1991), the film version of Thomas Harris's Red Dragon sequel.  That film, of course, is a modern classic, sweeping the Academy Awards and establishing Hopkins' incarnation of Hannibal Lecter as a nightmare figure for the ages, right up there with Dracula, Darth Vader, and any number of recent Republican celebrities.  After "Silence," though, things started to go downhill.

I have no idea whether Thomas Harris always intended to write some sort of Hannibal trilogy.  In both Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal is a supporting (albeit fascinating) character.  He is imprisoned, having been captured earlier by Special Agent Will Graham (William Petersen in "Manhunter," Edward Norton in "Red Dragon" [2002], and Hugh Dancy in the current TV series "Hannibal"--more on that to come).  In both novels and films, Lecter is consulted by FBI agents--first Graham, then Clarice Starling--who seek his unique insights into cases they are investigating.  In Silence, Lecter escapes from custody, so we can imagine that Thomas Harris wanted to give himself the option of writing another book that would, presumably, focus on the hunt for Hannibal.  Still, there was not necessarily a huge demand for such a book; we all could have happily gone on with our lives knowing that Hannibal was "out there" somewhere, ready to murder us horrifically (but with a certain panache) and eat our livers.

Once the film version of "Silence" went blockbuster, though, one can only imagine the amounts of money being thrown at Thomas Harris by both publishers and studios to finish the third installment, appropriately titled, Hannibal (2000); indeed, I for one am impressed he was able to hold all these people off for eight years while he finished writing the thing.  Overall, though, the book and subsequent film have to be seen as disappointments.

The main problem with Hannibal is that, once Lecter becomes a central (as opposed to supporting) figure, he can no longer truly be a monster.  Oh, sure, he's still a murderer, but his killings now seem justified.  He butchers a Florentine detective, but, while we feel somewhat bad for the policeman, and while his graphic demise is disproportionate to his "crime" (i.e., trying to capture Hannibal and hand him over to someone who wants to kill him), we can also chalk Hannibal's actions up to a sort of self-defense.  All Lecter's other victims in this novel seem in one way or another thoroughly deserving of their fates: They themselves are mostly criminals and murderers--or at least thoroughly distasteful and sleazy individuals.  Hannibal Lecter has been transformed from monstrous sociopath into avenging angel.  And even with Anthony Hopkins' continued revelry in this juiciest of roles, the character becomes decidedly less interesting.  The low point comes in Hannibal Rising (2002, film version, 2007), a sort of Lecterian origin story, wherein we learn that Hannibal was driven over the edge during his childhood, when he witnessed his baby sister being cannibalized during the waning days of World War II.  See, folks?  Society is to blame for Hannibal's depravities!

Thank God for "Hannibal," which just completed its first season on NBC.  (And thank God that NBC was apparently so desperate for ratings that they took a chance and put this on the air.  This show is, to say the least, not your typical network drama.)  This series takes place in what I can only assume is a sort of "parallel universe" to the Thomas Harris novels: Hannibal has not yet been captured, and he is still a respected psychiatrist in Baltimore.  He still serves as a consultant to the FBI, particularly to Will Graham (who has obviously not yet figured out that Lecter is a serial killer).  And, of course, he still engages in highly artistic murders and in culinary tours de force (just don't ask about the ingredients).

The best part, though, is that Hannibal, played by Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen, is once again thoroughly and unrepentantly evil.  Presumably he still has the same back-story as the Hannibal we've all come to know and fear from the earlier books and movies, but we hear nothing of his sister's murder or of any other mitigating factors.  This Hannibal, like the Hannibal of Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, is a pure genius, a pure sociopath, and an addictively watchable character.  I'm not saying that Mikkelsen is a better actor than Anthony Hopkins--I'll leave that argument for others--but this version of the now-iconic character is much closer to the original conception than anything that has been seen since "Silence of the Lambs."  It's kind of like seeing Dracula as "Dracula" (1931) again, after having spent the last ten years watching "Love at First Bite" (1979).