Honest opinions on this year's Oscar nominees

At least they didn't nominate Saturday Night.

The Oscars are the pinnacle of middlebrow culture. Sometimes a nomination can even diminish or complicate my interest in a particular film, that stamp of “prestige” rendering it over- or underrated or simultaneously both. Take Conclave, for instance, which can be viewed as either an airplane movie or more, depending on when you clocked it during its hype cycle. During awards season, watching movies is about managing expectations more so than usual. All to say, don’t take the Oscars too seriously.

Last year, I had fun writing about a selection of nominees, and this year I’m following suit. The majority of this post is for paid subscribers, and you can consider upgrading here. You’ll be supporting a working writer and getting access to full posts and a few other perks like…

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PS. I’m thinking about live-chatting the awards on Sunday. If it happens, you can join here, it’s just the Substack chat feature.

CONCLAVE

“Gossip Girl at the Vatican” serves up a handy election allegory for a reality that wasn’t in which middle-aged men posture and pontificate and eventually cede power to the humble, tragic minority figure who will save us all.

THE BRUTALIST

What I love about criticism and my fellow writers is that they can have the same exact assessment yet come to a vastly different conclusion or judgment. Adrien Brody is a gorgeous man and my husband is an architect. I liked this film, previously covered here. But for another take please read

sam bodrojan

’s excellent one here.

THE SUBSTANCE

Demi Moore for the win. I interviewed Coralie Fargeat for Vogue and wrote more about all that chicken here.

THE GIRL WITH THE NEEDLE

Exceedingly macabre and bombastically solemn in a way that I find extremely off-putting. Previously covered here.

EMILIA PEREZ

In this bizarrely tacky film, the songs are not only bad, but unmemorable and indecipherable. French director Jacques Audiard’s 8th feature is a musical in the same way you might whimsically, melodically narrate what you’re doing to inject silliness during mindless tasks in front of your infant or partner (oh is it just me?). This sing-songing is meant neither to be sung nor heard by any sentient being who hasn’t already seeing you at your most unguarded moments like taking a shit. Only in the age of the internet could such a laughably atrocious film—whose ugly quality is pretty clear—enjoy such an unwarranted extended life.