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2019 Best Picture Nominees Ranked

Here’s my ranked list of 2019 Best Picture nominees.  When I think a movie deserves a certain award, I’ll list it below the review—but I haven’t seen all the movies that produced the other nominees in various categories, so take those pronouncements with a grain of salt. 

 #8: Vice

I’m very comfortable ranking Vice as my least favorite 2018 nominee.  Director Adam McKay hit a home run with The Big Short, but he’s brought back the same snappy, resourceful style to a subject that decidedly doesn’t need it, the result being an aimless, whimsical highlight reel of Bush-era politics.  It’s poorly edited and tonally erratic, but most damning of all is that it has nothing in particular to say about Dick Cheney, other than that he is bad.

At times I felt like I was watching a Star Wars prequel (fitting, because Cheney was so often compared to Darth Vader): we see the characters before they are themselves, and are expected to watch in earnest as they’re forced into lame backstories that clumsily try to explain the signature traits for which we know them.  Christian Bale does a good job as Cheney, I guess, but Steve Carell is badly miscast as a demonic yet strangely juvenile Don Rumsfeld, and Sam Rockwell overdoes George W., as everyone does.  Even Amy Adams, who specializes in Lady MacBeth roles, is surprisingly boring as Lynne Cheney.  Skip this one and go watch some old SNL footage.

Awards: Best Hair and Makeup

#7: Black Panther

Black Panther is a welcome addition to the ever-growing comic book movie family, certainly the best since 2008’s The Dark Knight.  It refreshes the genre with new features: complex social commentary that doesn’t detract from the fun, a large and interesting supporting cast, and visuals that are at times extraordinary—I loved, in particular, the scenery of the cliffside gladiator-type fights.  I’m glad Black Panther was nominated, as it deserves recognition for such resounding success in multiple respects.

But give me all the flak you want: a movie like this simply doesn’t require the same level of creative energy as the other nominees.  It may have refreshed the genre with new layers, but it’s still squarely planted in that genre, meaning that we as viewers expect, and get, a movie that mostly consists of a likeable lead who acquires impossible abilities, various action sequences that highlight those abilities, a CGI-laden final battle, and a halfhearted love story.  We also get a perfectly happy ending, because although Black Panther has the guts to temporarily blur the hero/villain line, that line eventually comes back into clear focus, as it must: after all, we’re in the Marvel Comic Universe, and unlike the Real Universe, where all the other nominees have the burden of taking place, this universe is governed by certain child-friendly rules.  For example, good guys win, bad guys lose.  (Look out, Thanos.)

Black Panther simply sets an easier bar for itself than the other nominees.  In one scene, our hero T’Challa, after a car chase scene featuring some breathtaking deployments of kinetic energy, is maskless in front of a crowd of smartphone-filming spectators.  Later, he reveals his big secret to a shocked United Nations, demonstrating that, somehow, no one during all that time has attempted to figure out the identity of the guy with superpowers on the highway.  You might say, “Don’t take it too seriously, it’s just a superhero movie!”  Exactly: in the end, it’s just a superhero movie.

Awards: Best Costume Design, Best Production Design, Best Sound Editing

#6: Bohemian Rhapsody

Rami Malek has the gargantuan task of playing larger-than-life rock icon Freddie Mercury, and he… doesn’t quite nail it, in my opinion.  If Mercury were alive, it’s hard to believe that he would have stood for this portrayal without objection, because, intentionally or not, the character’s most notable trait is childishness: he’s reined in again and again by his contrastingly cerebral band mates, and the considerable anxiety he builds up in his tempestuous personal life is vanquished wildly onstage. 

I don’t think Mercury was like this in real life.  In interviews he spoke of his stage presence as a finely tuned act, underscoring his total control over his art.  And he wrote the majority of Queen’s hit songs, surely not all the works of an eccentric musical mad scientist, as the movie portrays him, but of an impeccable craftsman.  It’s hard to summon the proper admiration for this version of Freddie Mercury, because he doesn’t seem to be in control of any aspect of his life, including his music.

Still, the movie is fun, and puts a magnifying glass to the recording of hit songs.  We see arguments with producers, recordings of challenging harmonies, arguments over musical direction, and even the shoestring budget production of an all-important first album.  When we get to Live Aid, recreated beautifully, the dominant feeling for us as viewers—and properly so—is relief: creating music, we now feel, has so many challenges and pitfalls that simply reaching the defining moment is perhaps more miraculous than the incredible performance we remember.

#5: A Star is Born

In the most buzzed about movie of the year, two of our biggest stars portray artists striving to maintain their authenticity in today’s conformist industry, developing a memorable, touching romance and delivering some of the year’s best original music. 

The year I’m referring to is 2016, and the movie is La La Land.

Alright, I’m being mean.  If people like the formula, why not give it another go?  Plus, A Star is Born separates itself with a truly amazing performance from Lady Gaga, who is absolutely this year’s Best Actress even in a year crammed with great female performances.  I’m not much of a fan of her music, but she works magic in this movie, taking the well-worn role of undiscovered talent from blue collar America and elevating it with tremendous subtlety and complexity.  Her character is terrified, overwhelmed, insecure, in love, and yet aware of her abilities—and all this comes through in Gaga’s performance.  Her delivery of “Shallow,” a slam-dunk for Best Song, is an inescapable stand-up-and-cheer moment.

I’m not as enthusiastic, though, about Bradley Cooper’s contributions.  To be sure, his acting is impressive at times, but when he finally sobers up, it becomes apparent that some of the intonations that we interpreted as conveyances of drunkenness were actually his attempts at a down-home Midwest growl, accidentally creating confusion about whether his character is secretly still drinking.  And his direction focuses too heavily on his own character’s tailspin, such that the movie is less about the emotional power of music or the characters’ romance than about the pitfalls of alcoholism.  He was snubbed for a Best Director nomination, so on this one the academy and I agree.

Awards: Best Actress (Lady Gaga), Best Song (“Shallow”), Best Sound Mixing

#4: Green Book

Led by two strong acting performances, Peter Farrelly’s Green Book charms us through a low-key story.  Viggo Mortenson’s creation of everyman Frank Vallelonga is a pleasure, and through the movie this character learns complicated, emotional truths about race in the United States.  The main interest of the movie for me, though, was his more nuanced counterpart: musician Don Shirley, played by Mahershala Ali. 

I can’t think of a character similar to Shirley in any movie I’ve ever seen.  He’s out to break barriers for the benefit of the black community, but he doesn’t appear to have any ties to that community.  This distance from his roots initially appears to be a consequence of his artistry’s heavy demands, but later developments suggest that Shirley himself may be maintaining it in part by his own choosing; for example, the revelation of his sexuality raises questions about why and how he has isolated himself.  The amiable Vallelonga, irresistible in his likeability despite his frequent ignorance, causes a change in Shirley that leads him to swallow his pride (previously an impossibility for him) and join Vallelonga’s family dinner.  But what was the nature of that change?  Is Shirley henceforth likely to attempt to reconnect with the black community?  Does it matter?  The movie leaves these important questions to us.    

Green Book is at times a safe, sentimental film.  But at more worthy moments it intrigues us with multifaceted characters and situations, which is why I’ve ranked it fairly highly among the nominees.

Awards: Best Actor (Mortenson), Best Supporting Actor (Ali)

#3: BlackkKlansman

Like Jordan Peele’s Get Out, Spike Lee’s BlackkKlansman employs a daring combination of comedy, horror, and timely social commentary.  Unlike Peele, though, Lee doesn’t seek to blend these disparate elements into a cohesive tone, instead letting them take turns dominating the narrative.  This gives the film a disorientating, scattered quality that might turn off viewers who value a smooth artistic experience, but I for one enjoyed the approach, because it allows Lee to pack more of a punch with each separate element.  No scene in Get Out, for instance, is as laugh-out-loud funny as Ron’s (John David Washington) self-reveal to David Duke (Topher Grace) with friends hooting with laughter in the background—and no moment in Get Out is as scary as the excellently shot and scored cross burning at BlackkKlansman’s finale.

This disjointed approach also engenders interesting and useful meditation after the film is over.  Is the KKK in some ways—as multiple scenes depict—kind of funny?  If so, does that make the organization less terrifying?  More terrifying?

Lee puts all his cards on the table for the epilogue, which, for a conventional film, might be a bit disappointing.  But BlackkKlansman is already transparent in its contemporary politics long before the epilogue, and with subject matter such as this, I’m not sure Lee could have been anything less than heavy-handed.  It works.

Awards: Best Adapted Screenplay (Lee), Best Editing (Barry Alexander Brown), Best Original Score (Terence Blanchard)

#2: The Favourite

Yorgos Lanthimos’ dramedy about royal chaos during the early 1700’s makes no pretense of its characters behaving as though they are actually in the early 1700’s.  Rather, Lanthimos has coached his actresses to channel the likes of “Doctor Who,” summoning irreverent wit, endless innuendo, and contemporary deadpan.  This is all for the better: what do I care about adherence to the timeline?  I wasn’t there. 

Freed from period piece conventions, The Favourite lets sparks fly with memorable characters and hilarious dialogue.  Olivia Colman kills it as a bonkers, bunny-obsessed Queen Anne, whose wildly fluctuating self esteem is the movie’s major plot driver; and Rachel Weisz outshines an also-nominated Emma Stone, the former playing an aggressively ruthless manipulator and put-down artist who somehow has us all rooting for her by the movie’s end. 

Just as importantly, the cinematography is strictly top flight.  Channeling Stanley Kubrick for wonderful candle-only lighting in several scenes, Lanthimos and cinematographer Robbie Ryan have turned a fairly typical setting into a memorable visual experience.  The liberal use of wide-angle lenses underscores the kookiness gripping the castle, and even routine tracking shots are framed sharply and beautifully.  It would be an easy pick for Best Cinematography if not for the #1 movie on this list…

Awards: Best Supporting Actress (Weisz), Best Original Screenplay

#1: Roma

The clear winner. 

In terms of artistic vision and execution, Alfonso Cuaron’s Roma dwarfs any movie made this year. Scene after scene of this portrait of Mexico City family life circa 1970 supplies us with an abundance of rich visual detail, courtesy of a slowly rotating camera that highlights the observant gaze of the film’s quiet but keen protagonist, Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio).  Contrastingly, these scenes deny us explicit information about what we’re seeing.  We learn things just as Cleo learns them: through hints and implications, such that final confirmations of truths, such as matriarch Sofia’s announcement of her separation with her husband, are notable not for their content, but for the way in which they are handled by all involved. 

Cuaron is without a doubt this year’s Best Director.  This is Cleo’s story, and Cuaron accordingly makes sure that we experience it as Cleo does.  When Cleo’s boyfriend departs to the bathroom at the end of a film, Cuaron leaves us in the theater with Cleo to feel with her the growing realization that he isn’t coming back. When Cleo wanders out of the theater and the man is indeed gone, Cuaron doesn’t cut away; instead he puts us on the steps with Cleo and lets us suffer with her.  When Cleo wades into a choppy ocean to save two children, already having stated that she can’t swim, our hearts are pounding louder than in any cinematic moment this year: we know, like Cleo, that one or all of those involved could easily perish.  

The cinematography is so good that it contributes to our understanding of Cleo as a character. For example, when Cleo visits an obstetrician, we feel her discomfort not just because of Aparacio’s great acting but because the camera is so uncharacteristically close up. Cleo prefers watching at a distance, we can feel, and with the focus so sharply on her, she’s anxious and embarrassed.  

Indeed, even around her best friend Adela, with whom she’s relaxed and playful, Cleo mostly plays the role of listener, commenting on Adela’s amusing stories but offering few of her own.  This is why, when the movie ends with Cleo’s line to Adela, “I have so much to tell you!” we know that Cleo’s experiences have left her a changed woman—more confident, comfortable, and in control of her own story.

Awards: Best Picture, Best Director (Cuaron), Best Cinematography, Best Foreign Language Film

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Birdman Explained: Part 1

You’re probably here to find out what happens at the end of Alejandro Innaritu’s 2014 Best Picture winner, Birdman or: (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance). If so, you’re in luck.

First, however, I’ll need to address a lot of other, subtler mysteries in the film, because the ending scene is too vague to interpret without context. Thus, this piece will be a thorough examination of the themes and symbolism of Birdman, capped by a convincing deduction of what, exactly, happens after a washed up actor draws a loaded handgun onstage.

ACT I: Riggan’s Quest

Birdman is the story of Riggan Thompson (Michael Keaton), an aging actor attempting a comeback. He’s best known as the titular hero of a pioneering superhero franchise. With his youth long behind him, however, he’s endeavoring on a “serious” comeback as writer, director, and star of an upcoming Broadway adaptation of a Raymond Carver novel.

The most noticeable thing about this comeback idea is that it has pleased exactly no one. The blockbuster audiences that adore Riggan for the Birdman films are averse to the play’s heady, arcane source material. Theater aficionados like cast newcomer Mike Shiner (Edward Norton) and critic Tabatha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan) resent Riggan for coopting their beloved medium and think him a mere “celebrity.” Riggan’s daughter Sam (Emma Stone), ex-wife Sylvia (Amy Ryan), and some time lover Laura (Andrea Riseborough) lament the destructive behavior he exhibits in his desperation for the play to succeed. 

So the first puzzle to solve is: Why is Riggan doing this? Why is he attempting a Broadway comeback that nobody wants, to the detriment of his most cherished relationships? 

The characters offer various answers, but none ring true. Riggan himself claims to Sam that his goals are artistic: he wants to create something “important” that “actually means something.” But he clearly betrays this notion in conversations with Shiner, defending popularity at the expense of artistic merit. Sam, for her part, cynically opines that Riggan is merely trying to “stay relevant,” but that doesn’t quite hold water either: if this were the case, why wouldn’t Riggan just return for another Birdman film, as many people (such as the Asian man at his press interview) seem to want?

Another answer is supplied by Riggan’s agent Jake (Zach Galifinakis), who reminds Riggan that the project was conceived for garnering “respect.” But if that’s true, whose respect is Riggan chasing? After all, his family and friends are, if anything, losing respect for him, and he demonstrates on multiple occasions that he doesn’t care much for mindless Twitter masses or snobbish theater gurus.

Again, then: why is Riggan doing this?

The correct answer and key to the film, which I will go on to support, is that Riggan is attempting to preserve his long-held notion (now threatened in his advancing age) that he is exceptional—that he is better than everyone else.

As a former megastar, it’s reasonable—expected, even—that Riggan would have come to harbor such an idea. But as he’s aged, all the evidence has piled up against him. His family life, for instance, is a mess. He has wasted all of his money. His looks have faded (“I look like a turkey with leukemia!”). And maybe worst of all, the superhero genre that he helped launch has proved an easy avenue to success for any number of questionably talented actors.  

Riggan’s ego, then, has been under heavy fire, which, we can infer, is why he’s embarked on this foolish project. He needs to re-separate himself, to prove his specialness to himself, not to others. And he has envisioned that this play will do just that: maybe anyone can play a superhero, but only a true great could do that and a successful Broadway show!

Unfortunately, by the time the movie starts, this fantasy has all but crumbled. Riggan doesn’t really know anything about theater, so he has written a mediocre script and hired a shaky cast. With opening night fast approaching, the wheels are coming off the production, and Riggan knows the play isn’t any good: to Jake’s disbelief, he tries to cancel the first preview. The arrival of the talented Shiner seems to offer hope, but ultimately, the arrogant new costar only gives Riggan’s ego more of a beating, criticizing Riggan onstage and stealing the spotlight in the newspapers.

How will Riggan deal with failure? After all, if the play flops, the only publicly visible avenue left to Riggan would be to return for another silly Birdman film. And that wouldn’t help demonstrate his greatness, right?

Wrong, says a voice in his head.

ACT II: Birdman

The crucial point to understanding the voice (and later appearance) of the Birdman character is that it comes to Riggan out of a necessity: the necessity of making a case for his own greatness.

As we’ve seen, the play was devised to reestablish the validity of Riggan’s oversized ego, but with this plan now seeming likely to fail, the bankrupt and attention-starved Riggan may be forced to return to the superhero franchise that made him famous. Consequently, he begins to fall under the persuasion of a rather convenient new idea: that, actually, such a return to the Birdman movies would be far more evidentiary of his excellence than the play’s success would have been. This idea, in a piece of inspired movie fun, is personified by the actual character of Birdman.

Birdman’s arguments are, of course, pure sour grapes. He chiefly relies on baseless mockery of theater and Riggan’s new theater persona: they are simply “lame,” unworthy of Riggan’s inherent excellence. Birdman especially hates, not coincidentally, plays just like the one Riggan is about to screw up, declaring, “People, they love blood. They love action. Not this talky, depressing, philosophical bullshit.”

Translation: Riggan isn’t any good at theater, so theater must be stupid. The logic of a narcissist.

And Birdman doesn’t stop at mocking Broadway, either. In fact, he demeans, Trump-like, just about everything that threatens Riggan’s supposed greatness. When Dickinson tells Riggan, “You’re no actor, you’re a celebrity,” Birdman later hits back: “Forget the Times, everyone else has.” Regarding Riggan’s insecurity about the growing list of lucrative superhero successors, Birdman sneers: “You’re the original, man. You paved the way for all these other little clowns.” 

These wishful, masturbatory takedowns show us just how tenacious Riggan’s ego is. But we should take a step back to note that Riggan isn’t all narcissist. Remember that for most of the movie Riggan resists Birdman. And in various moments he displays a genuinely good heart, for example comforting his supporting actress Lesley (Naomi Watts) after Shiner’s crazed behavior onstage leaves her distraught. Riggan also wants the best for Sam and regrets his lackluster parenting.

The problem is that despite this generally good disposition, Riggan can’t give in to mediocrity. He needs proof that he is exceptional, and the only proof that exists, currently, is Birdman, who notes as much in a particularly biting taunt:

Without me, all that’s left is you: a sad, selfish, mediocre actor grasping at the last vestiges of his career.

Thus, when Dickinson promises that she will indeed “kill” Riggan’s play, definitively ending his dream of theater success, the voice of Birdman wins out.  In perhaps the movie’s most memorable sequence, Birdman sells Riggan on a new path forward, in which he triumphantly returns to the Birdman role, inspiring awe and transcending common folk.  “You are a god,” Birdman summarizes.  “You save people from their boring, miserable lives!”  Faced with mundane failure, Riggan goes full egoist (and full crazy), convincing himself that his last remaining career option is godlike and awesome.

ACT III: Superpowers

Importantly, this sequence also features the most dramatic manifestation of Riggan’s “powers,” a mysterious motif throughout the film. In multiple scenes, Riggan defies gravity and moves objects with his mind. What is the significance of these abilities?

I’ll first point out that when other characters observe Riggan using his powers, it becomes clear that Riggan is only imagining them. In a typical moment, we see Riggan using telekinesis to destroy his dressing room, but when Jake walks in, we see from his vantage point that Riggan is merely heaving his TV to the ground. When Riggan “flies” to work, a cab driver demands payment.

Since Riggan’s imagined powers appear to be the superpowers of the Birdman character, and since, as previously mentioned, the Manhattan flight scene is the most prominent manifestation of both Birdman’s influence and Riggan’s powers, it might seem that the two motifs represent the same concept.

But multiple scenes contradict this. In fact, every time we see Riggan use the powers except for the flight scene, he seems to be using them in opposition to Birdman’s rhetoric. When Riggan demolishes his dressing room, for example, he argues against reclaiming the Birdman mantle (“I was miserable!”). When he levitates in the film’s opening shot, he seems to be clearing away negative thoughts such as Birdman’s complaints about the premises.

And besides, one “powers” moment in particular proves that the abilities are independent of Birdman’s influence. It comes immediately after Sam scathingly accuses Riggan of hopeless attention grabbing:

You’re worried, just like the rest of us, that you don’t matter. And you know what? You’re right! You don’t.

Based on what we’ve already said about Riggan’s ego, we can infer that these remarks will cut deep. Indeed, Riggan is clearly shell-shocked after Sam’s tirade. But then he does something strange: he looks down at the object on the table and begins rotating it with his mind.

This moment has nothing to do with Birdman. We don’t hear Birdman’s voice or get any indication that Riggan is contemplating returning to the Birdman franchise (in fact, he adamantly dismisses that option to Sam). Rather, in this moment Riggan is focused on his own self-worth, showing us that Riggan’s powers symbolize his own belief in himself, independent of whether he returns as Birdman. By moving the flask, Riggan is stubbornly resisting Sam’s criticism: “I am important,” he means to insist with this gesture. “I do matter.”

It makes sense, given this framework, that Riggan’s powers sometimes oppose Birdman and sometimes align with Birdman. In the flight scene, when Riggan believes that returning to the Birdman franchise will reestablish his excellence, the two work together. In other moments, when Riggan still believes that a Birdman return would be a lowbrow, disappointing move, the two are at odds.

This distinction is critical, and you may have already deduced why.  I’m referring, of course, to the necessity of interpreting the sequence in which Riggan sees Birdman, tells him, “Fuck off,” and then flies out of the window.

To continue to the second half of this analysis, click here.