So there she was, a 73 year old actress, a scion of a great British acting dynasty, basking in a warm miasma of sentimental approval, being presented with a BAFTA fellowship following a lifetime of regular employment mainly thanks to dog-eat-dog capitalist movie studios.
Ah, bless!
Vanessa Redgrave, revolutionary nutter, arch-republican , anti-democrat, and – judging by her reference to ”Zionist hoodlums” during an Oscar acceptance speech back in the 1977, not wildly keen on Israel or American Foreign Policy in general - was gracious enough to give Prince William, who has recently taken over as the Academy’s President, an OTT curtsey when accepting her honour last night. She also power-hosed his dad with the sort of gushing praise luvvies normally reserve for directors or producers.
Although I had to watch it with my hands clamped over my eyes, loudly repeating “la la la la” while she spoke (my wife was kind enough to furnish the details afterwards), it was actually rather heartening: 13 years after the Nation supposedly turned against its Queen because of her lack of public contrition following Lady Diana Spencer’s demise in a Parisian underpass with her Egyptian boyfriend, you have a former election candidate for the Workers’ Revolutionary Party sucking up to the latest generation of The Firm with the sort of toe-curling enthusiasm only 12-year old pop fans and the acting fraternity can muster.
Mind you, the honouring of this supporter of Marxist sects dedicated to destroying everything that makes Britain worthwhile wasn’t the only irritating aspect of last night’s event (even leaving aside the presence of “Dead Man Walking” Jonathan Ross – can’t they just ditch this toad right now?)
The Outstanding British Film award went to Fish Tank, one of those dreary foul-mouthed paeans to the underclass so beloved of our domestic movie industry. Repellently anti-social teen brat shags Mum’s bloke. How fantastically rivetting. And how satisfyingly liberal and caring it must make one feel not to turn away from these societal rejects – we are all to blame, in a very real sense. (Telstar orHarry Brown would have been worthier winners. And how did The Young Victoria not get nominated? Empire, monarchy, tradition, the Upper Classes seen in a sympathetic light, a portrait of Britain’s history to make one proud? Nope.Beats me.)
Best Film was – and I predicted this – The Hurt Locker, whose director Kathryn Bigelow also picked up the best director award. Nothing sets the lefty establishment’s juices flowing quite like a slice of “War, what is it good for?” propaganda. What could be more agreeable than spending two hours in darkness feeling, in turn, horrified, compassionate and somehow terribly wise? (It picked up Original Screenplay as well – stick that in your pipe and smoke it, George Bush! Fascist!)
Precious, which showed just how to treat the underclass in a sympathetic, compelling way without actually celebrating the awfulness of their lives, just about deserved the prize instead – in fact, I’d have been happy with any of the other nominees.
A Prophet won Film Not In The English Language. No problems there: it’s a brilliant French gangster movie, mainly set in prison. God knows why the Frogs beat us hollow when it comes to crime movies, but do they ever! Any of the nominees would have deserved the award – I was particularly fond of the Swedish vampire movie, Let The Right One In, which was stunningly original, but BAFTA is really sniffy about horror in any form, even when, as in this case, the horror actually mean something.
Animated Film was Up – well of course it was: a masterpiece (and undoubtedly the film of the year).
Carey Mulligan as Best Actress in An Education? Happy with that, although Gabourey Sidibe as the eponymous heroine of Precious would have been acceptable (though, of course, not quite as cute). Delighted that Mo’nique picked up Best Supporting Actress as Precious’s utterly monstrous mother.
Colin Firth Best Actor in A Single Man – yeah, okay, though Jeff Bridges in the rather predictable Crazy Heart was fantastic (mind you – sloppy, self-destructive, hard-drinking, nicotine-stained, grizzled, hairy, aging, insensitive rural Yank slob versus super-fastidious, beautifully-dressed, fantastically well-spoken, sensitive, gay, suffering British academic? Not really a contest.)
Christopher Waltz as Best Supporting Actor for Inglourious Basterds was deserved – he made the film work – but you have to feel sorry for Christian McKay as Orson Welles in Me and Orson Welles: hard to believe we’ll ever see a more inch-perfect impersonation of a public figure.
So, a few minor irritations, but, on the whole, reasonable choices, and the rejection of Avatar – perfectly entertaining film, mind you – proved once again that the British don’t much care for overdogs. No bad thing.
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