Looking into Oscar's crystal balls....

It’s my favorite time of year: OSCAR TIME! And I have predictions!

Wanna hear ‘em? Here it goes:


BEST PICTURE NOMINEES
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Milk
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Who Will Win: Slumdog Millionaire.

Who Should Win: Though I don’t think any of these films are worthy of a Best Picture Oscar, I think the finest on this list is surely Slumdog. The film is ridiculously unrealistic, but therein lies its charm: it is, after all, a modern day fairy tale. The two best films of last year, Rachel Getting Married and Revolutionary Road, were, sadly, not nominated.

Dark Horse: Milk. I found the script wildly uneven, but Gus Van Sant’s direction was inspired and the performances were nothing short of miraculous. I could see this winning for two reasons: A) the snubbing of another Big Gay Movie, 2005’s brilliant Brokeback Mountain (did Crash REALLY deserve a Best Picture Oscar?), may have given some Academy members a guilty conscience; and B) in the aftermath of Prop 8, Hollywood wants to show its support for 'da gays.


BEST DIRECTOR NOMINEES
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire
David Fincher, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard, Frost/Nixon
Stephen Daldry, The Reader
Gus Van Sant, Milk

Who Will Win: Boyle.

Who Should Win: Boyle. Again, because Slumdog is the best of this lot.

Dark Horse: Van Sant. For explanation, see my above reasoning as to why Milk is a dark horse for the Best Picture award.

BEST ACTOR NOMINEES
Richard Jenkins, The Visitor
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn, Milk
Brad Pitt, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Who Will Win: Too close to call. Penn and Rourke are neck and neck.

Who Should Win: Mickey Rourke. Never in my life would I have thought Mickey Rourke deserved an Oscar over Sean Penn, but, alas, this year is an exception. Both were brilliant in their respective films, and I’d be happy with either of them nabbing the statuette. And Penn’s performance was studied, brave, and fiery. But when it comes to plunging the depths of human emotion, Rourke has all these guys beat. He takes his larger-than-life character – former pro wrestler Randy “The Ram” – and subtly, honestly makes him someone with whom we can all relate. It’s one of the best performances I’ve seen in recent years.

Dark Horse: There isn’t one. This is between Penn and Rourke to the bloody end.


BEST ACTRESS NOMINEES
Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Angelina Jolie, Changeling
Melissa Leo, Frozen River
Meryl Streep, Doubt
Kate Winslet, The Reader

Who Will Win: Winslet. She deserved a nomination for Revolutionary Road, but winning for The Reader is a pretty good consolation prize. Plus, she’s one of our greatest younger actresses and has been nominated five times previously. She deserves the award more for her body of work and less for this singled-out performance.

Who Should Win: Anne Hathaway. Her performance in the astounding Rachel Getting Married was pitch-perfect. As a just-out-of-rehab black sheep in her upper middle class suburban family, Hathaway is a raw nerve of energy, an open wound exposed to the air for the first time in ages. I adore all these performances, and Streep and Winslet have always been favorites of mine, but no one here can touch what Hathaway did in Rachel.

Dark Horse: Meryl Streep. Never, ever count Meryl out of the running for any award. When it comes to actresses, there has never been a greater one than Streep.


BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR NOMINEES
Josh Brolin, Milk
Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Robert Downey Jr., Tropic Thunder
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Doubt
Michael Shannon, Revolutionary Road

Who Will Win: Ledger.

Who Should Win: Ledger. If for no other reason than to give him the award he deserved to win for Brokeback.

Dark Horse: Brolin. With his roles as Dan White in Milk and what’s-his-name in W., this year showed the acting chops of this talented thespian.


BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS NOMINEES
Amy Adams, Doubt
Penélope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis, Doubt
Taraji P. Henson, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Marisa Tomei, The Wrestler

Who Will Win: Cruz. With Winslet’s supporting turn in The Reader inexplicably up for the leading category award, Cruz stands the best chance of winning. She’s also won a slew of critics’ prizes for this performance. And again, two of the year’s most incredible supporting performances were from Rachel Getting Married: Rosemarie DeWitt and the great Debra Winger, but they were both criminally overlooked.

Who Should Win: Viola Davis. Even had DeWitt and Winger been nominated, there still wouldn’t be a contest in my mind. Davis deserves this award, hands down. In an all-too-short, explosive scene, she walks away with the entire film—not easy to do when you’re playing opposite Meryl Streep. Davis’s work in Doubt is one of the greatest supporting performances I’ve ever seen. Vulnerable, fearless, emotionally naked, and ferocious, this is a legendary performance.

Dark Horse: Amy Adams. Though I don’t think she merits an Oscar for her work in Doubt, Adams is an amazingly talented, intensely likeable actress. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Academy noticed that by giving her the statuette.

Just a Bunch of Mischief: A Review of the Film "Mamma Mia!"

"Mamma Mia!" is the gayest movie ever made. It's big, splashy, colorful, campy, and absolute crap. And you know what? I loved every minute of it.

What's so refreshing about this film -- which, admittedly, took a little time for me to figure out -- is that it tries to be nothing more than it is. It's an ABBA musical for Christ's sake! Let me say that again. It's an ABBA musical. If you're expecting Bertolt Brecht or Kurt Weill (or hell, even Andrew Lloyd Webber), you've come to the wrong movie. This is just pure fun and fluff. "Mamma Mia!" isn't going for the gold here. It's going for something like sheet metal. And it succeeds beautifully.

Yet I didn't understand this for the first twenty minutes or so. As soon as Meryl came barreling onto the screen in her rolled-up denim overalls with the broken strap, I cringed and said, "O Meryl! Why hast Thou forsaken me?". It took me a while to realize that Meryl, along with the rest of the cast and crew, knew exactly what they were doing. I doubt anyone involved with this production was under the impression they were making a grand, deep, complex piece of musical genius. It is, after all -- and say it with me now! -- an ABBA musical. The cast of actors, most of whom are known for their serious dramatic abilities, let down their collective hair and just have fun. The result? "Mamma Mia!" is a rocking, rollicking, raucous good time.

In my bizarre and overactive imagination, I imagine director Phyllida Lloyd, who helmed the original stage version, giving the following direction to her actors at the first read-through:


To Amanda Seyfried (Sophie): "Just be sassy and make lots of big eyes."




To Stellan Skarsgård (Bill): "Look bored. Look REALLY bored."



To Pierce Brosnan (Sam): "OK, Remington Steele, you're only here because we need some hotness. Keep your shirt unbuttoned to the navel, or completely off, as much as you can. And please, for the sake of the children, don't sing unless you absolutely have to."


To Colin Firth (Harry): "Squint your eyes a lot and look baffled, like you're wondering what the hell a hot piece like yourself is even doing in this movie to begin with."

To Julie Walters (Rosie) and Christine Baranski (Tanya): "Blow it out of the water, girls. Walk off with the scenery. The gays love that."

To Meryl Streep (Donna): "Do whatever the hell you want! You're MERYL STREEP!"

Now, in any other movie, these sorts of cardboard characters would really piss me off. But in "Mamma Mia!", they are perfect, fitting in seamlessly with the bright hues of the film, the spontaneous eruption into nearly all of ABBA's greatest hits, and the simple, sweet plot that brings it all together.

The story takes place on a remote Greek island, where 20-year-old Sophie is about to be married and decides to invite three of her mother Donna's ex-boyfriends to the wedding. Of these three, one is Sophie's father, but no one is sure which. And that's about it for plot.

Don't be misled. This isn't a musicalization of a Maury "Which One of These Men is My Baby's Daddy?" Povich episode. "Mamma Mia!" would never stoop to something as serious and thought-provoking as "Maury".

And the music is, of course, great; I defy anyone not to get swept up in the catchy cotton candy sweetness of the songs. My favorite, though, was "Dancing Queen", a song which has been played to death in recent years. Lloyd and her team reinvent "Dancing Queen" and turn it into a fantastic feminist manifesto. Donna, Rosie, and Tanya go flitting through the Greek hillside as they sing, releasing all the women in the village from their archaic and traditional roles, until everyone ends up on the docks. This leads to the inevitable, gleeful jumping-in to the sapphire waters of the Aegean.

Another standout is Christine Baranski bringing down the house with one of my least-favorite ABBA songs, "Does Your Mother Know?". She belts the song in true diva fashion to a beach full of shirtless, muscly young men, who are, of course, all lusting after her 50-year-old ass. Baranski transforms the number into an innuendo-laden, laugh-out-loud romp. Both she and Julie Walters are so divinely over-the-top in this film that you can't wait to see what they'll do next. They do not disappoint.

Despite the pervasive fluffiness of "Mamma Mia!", Streep is given one moment to show off her dramatic mettle. Standing on a rocky cliff, working a bright red shawl, she belts "The Winner Takes It All" with palpable passion and heartbreak. It is one of the film's more unforgettable moments.

And no, Pierce Brosnan cannot sing. Not even a little bit. Every time he's called upon to croak out a number, it sounds like he's taking a massive dump in his Speedos. But this, like everything else in "Mamma Mia!", is intentional. You're supposed to laugh. That, above all else, is what this movie is about.

Worth a special shout-out is the film's Greek chorus. Random heads popping up at precisely the right moment to sing back-up, or native villagers sweeping across the screen with supporting vocals and carefree dance moves. Never has the term "Greek chorus" been used so literally.

I'm so glad I saw "Mamma Mia!". I enjoyed it far more than I ever would "The Dark Knight" or "Hancock". But then again, how could I not? It's an ABBA musical!

Coming [Back] to "Terms"

It's easy to criticize "Terms of Endearment". Let's face it: because of the last half-hour of the film, it is now only remembered as a sentimental tearjerker with nothing important to say and nothing of substance to offer the viewer (outside of a good, long, cathartic cry). Even my own husband, in the final moments of the film, exclaimed in frustration, "I get it! Just get on with it already!". While I sat there uncontrollably weeping, hooked into this movie that I'd seen several times before, my response to John's outburst was a moment of shock; I couldn't believe someone else was not able to see what I was seeing. Despite my numerous viewings over the years, I had never watched "Terms of Endearment" with the clarity and appreciation as I did this time around.

This film is not, contrary to what you may have been led to believe, a big weepy melodrama. And this is the precise reason that "Terms of Endearment", based on Larry McMurtry's novel, was so unique and powerful when it was released in 1983 -- and remains so today. Before "Terms", movies that culminated in a key character's death (usually of a terminal illness) were big weepy melodramas. I'm thinking of "Love Story", "Doctor Zhivago", and even one I particularly enjoy, "Now, Voyager", just to name a few.

But "Terms" is different. The hour-and-forty-minutes leading up to the tragic finale can't be, and shouldn't be, discounted. Director/adapter James L. Brooks and the exceptional cast come brilliantly together to make movie magic. The story is wonderfully quirky, encompassing all manner of poignant, and often hilarious, subjects: mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, dating and sex, love and marriage, children and parents, friends and lovers. But it is this quirkiness that gives "Terms of Endearment" its most potent, enduring gift: it is utterly, raucously, heartbreakingly REAL. The unadorned reality makes the comedy that much funnier...and, of course, the tragedy that much more devastating. Perhaps this reason more than any other is why most people only remember "Terms" as a five-hankie tearjerker.

Yet how fearless honesty got misconstrued as big-screen soap opera is beyond me. The only reason that comes to mind is that the unabashed realism of the movie, which unarguably presented us with a cold hard look at the death of a loved one, was, for many, entirely too uncomfortable and close to home. So what better way to deal with it than to laugh it off, to ignore the discomfort and the painful feelings it arouses, and relegate it to the realm of the maudlin, the mushy, and the melodramatic? "Hmph! A story about REAL LIFE?!? That'll learn 'em!" Well, that's a cop-out.

"Terms of Endearment" is the story of the relationship between spunky, discriminating widow Aurora Greenway (Shirley MacLaine) and her endearingly oddball daughter Emma (Debra Winger). Buzzing around this main relationship are several others: Emma and her lovable loser husband Flap (Jeff Daniels); Aurora and her horny ex-astronaut neighbor Garrett (Jack Nicholson); Emma and her vastly different children, two sons and a daughter; Flap and his student/mistress; Emma and her man-on-the-side (John Lithgow); Aurora and her eternally-devoted circle of Texan suitors (among them, an adorable Danny DeVito); Emma and her best friend Patsy (Lisa Hart Carroll); Aurora and her faithful maid Rosie, who's also sort of a more-accessible mother figure for Emma. So you see, tossing this movie into a category of "mindless fluff designed to illicit tears" is offensive. This is a story first and foremost of relationships. In all their bizarre, frustrating, comic, and yes, even sad, beauty.

It had probably been ten or more years since I last saw "Terms of Endearment". Perhaps because I'm a much different person now than I was then serves as the reason that last night's viewing seemed like an altogether new experience. I picked up on things I hadn't noticed before. Scenes that didn't affect me in the past now provoked gales of laughter, or rivers of tears. I recognized the absolute genius of the script. I saw the performances differently; I saw the relationships differently; I saw the characters differently. As a result, I saw myself differently. I don't need to tell you: only truly exceptional movies have this power.

Shirley MacLaine won a much-deserved Oscar for her work here. In a mile-long resume of flawless performances, it is Aurora Greenway for which MacLaine will perhaps be best-remembered. She is simply extraordinary every second she is onscreen. Hell, she deserved the Oscar for the now-legendary "Give my daughter the shot!" scene alone. But MacLaine goes above and beyond the "spunky older gal" image of Aurora and succeeds beautifully in doing something next-to-impossible: she creates a character with whom we both empathize and sympathize -- and whom we both love and hate in equal measure. As controlling and "proper" as her Aurora is, she is a flawed but forgivable character. Just like all of us.

MacLaine brings this universality to light with great humor, depth, and authentic human emotion. And what she learns in the end is maybe what we all learn in the end: that no matter how controlling and "proper" we are, there are some things we can't control. To see Aurora grasp this is to glimpse some of the finest acting ever put on screen.

In addition to the aforementioned scene, there were two others in which MacLaine really stood out to me during this latest viewing. One is when Emma first calls Aurora to let her know that she's sick. Aurora hangs up the phone, and though the scene is short, its wrenching honesty comes flying through the screen, hitting us with the realization of where this story is headed. Aurora stands and embraces Rosie, telling her, "Rosie, our girl is sick...." Every moment of this exchange is brutally truthful. Watch the reactions. Watch the mannerisms. Watch these woman absorb the painful reality at the exact moment we do. In a movie flowing with authentic and sincere moments, this is perhaps the finest.

The other scene that stuck out to me, which was a bit more challenging but nonetheless a knock-you-on-your-ass depiction of pure honesty, was "the deathbed scene". Aurora is sitting by Emma's bedside. Emma wakes, turns to her mother, and weakly smiles. The camera then fixes on Aurora, which is a wonderfully unconventional touch, as one would expect all eyes to be trained on Emma at this pivotal moment. As we are watching Aurora, Emma dies, and we only know this by Aurora's reaction: she turns away.

Let me say that again.

She turns away.

There was no motherly smile in return to her daughter's. There was no rushing to her aid, no calling of nurses, no big hysterical breakdowns. There was just the heartbreaking honesty of someone smacked square in the jaw with death: a turning away. This might seem cold, and maybe it is. But how many of us would react in exactly the same way? How do we know how we will react when faced with something like this?

And if your heart hasn't already been torn out and Mexican-Hat-Danced on by this point, the moments that follow this will surely make it happen. Yet one thing is for sure: you won't find a single instant of dishonesty or insincerity. Everything...all of it...is terribly real. Too real.

I always knew MacLaine was spectacular in "Terms of Endearment". But I committed this latest viewing to looking closer at Debra Winger's work (inspired, no doubt, by reading her masterpiece of a memoir), and I was blown away by this performance to which I had not previously paid much attention. In watching her, I discovered something huge about this movie: while it's true that MacLaine's Aurora is the "showier" role, it is Winger's Emma that gives the film its sturdy, sensitive spine. And Winger, just 27 when "Terms" was made, does this with the deft talent of the truly phenomenal actress she is. She is so natural, so smoothly organic, that it's ridiculously easy to dismiss the massive complexities which drive Emma as nothing more than idiosyncratic. Yet everything about Winger's performance -- from the biggest emotional expressions to the smallest mannerisms and habits -- are carefully studied and genuinely executed. This is an unconventional, brave, and completely raw performance. It is something to be watched closely because, while MacLaine may get the best lines of the movie, Winger manages to get the heart.

She plays her Emma as a woman who's never really fit seamlessly into the roles she's been assigned in life: daughter, wife, mother, and, eventually, tragic heroine. She's waited a lifetime for the house with the white picket fence and the ship with sails of silk and a trove of gold bullion. In the meantime, she's marched to the beat of her own drummer while trying to make sense of the craziness of her life. It is this fact -- as well, I think, as a last peacemaking effort in her turbulent relationship with her mother -- that I feel propels that final, resigned, wan smile from her hospital bed. Emma has made her peace with a life spent on the edge -- and a mother simultaneously pulling her away from and pushing her closer to it.

One scene in particular between Aurora and Emma really glared brightly at me. It's toward the end, in the hospital, and the two women are talking.

Aurora: "I just don't want to fight anymore."
Emma: "What do you mean? When do we fight?"
Aurora: "WHEN do we FIGHT? I always think of us as fighting!"
Emma: "That's because you're never satisfied with me."

That last line cut me to the core. I think we can all relate to this exchange on some level, especially when it comes to our parents. And MacLaine and Winger, so awake in the moment, let this dialog become a realization for Aurora and Emma as well. It's a breathtaking scene.

And then there's Jack Nicholson, portraying...Jack Nicholson! Actually, his character's name is "Garrett Breedlove", but it might as well be "Jack Nicholson". With the exception of "About Schmidt", which I adored, Nicholson pretty much plays himself in every film he's in. Don't get me wrong, Jack's good at playing Jack. But I'm good at playing Donn -- and I don't have the multi-million dollar paychecks and three Academy Awards to show for it. Nicholson won his second Oscar for "Terms", and this was only because of Shirley MacLaine. The give-and-take between these two actors -- and the white-hot sparks that fly -- are definite highlights of the film. In their scenes together, MacLaine seems to almost be taking a step back in order to let Jack do his Jack Schtick. The result is remarkably successful, and their onscreen chemistry is dynamic. It is a great actress that can do this for a fellow actor, selflessly shifting the balance of the scene so the other actor can shine. And it is a secure actor who can allow an actress to do this for him.

So as you can plainly see, "Terms of Endearment" is not the farcical swan song that many would have you believe. As further proof, it should be noted that "Terms" won five Oscars, including Best Picture, and is regarded by the vast majority of film experts to be among the best movies ever made. Clearly, this is more than a syrupy, mawkish cornfest. Indeed, "Terms of Endearment" is a singular, witty, and altogether real testament to the ties that bind -- and sometimes strangle.

Wildlife Documentaries: Not Just For Stoners Anymore!

When I was livin' the dazed life during my pot-smoking years, one of my favorite things to do was toke up, eat tortilla chips dipped in cream cheese and salsa (try it, it's orgasmic), and watch wildlife documentaries. In fact, I knew a lot of stoners who enjoyed these types of programs. Though, for them, I think it had less to do with educational merit and more to do with not being able to reach the remote.

Anyway.

There were certain subjects, however, in which I was not particularly interested. Snakes, for one. I don't really care for them, and wildlife documentarians always seem to profile the kinds of snakes who are able to dislocate their jaw and swallow entire Mexican villages. The insect shows were another that I often skipped. I don't have a problem with insects per se, but when the camera is that damn close and they all have eyes like Heather Graham, I'm a bit uncomfortable.

For the most part, though, wildlife documentaries provided me with good, solid entertainment. Nonetheless, I hadn't watched one in years, at least since I put down the bong -- and also because John and I are cable-less peasants. Until the other night, when I caught a show on PBS (yup, PBS on a Saturday night -- there are only two words for that: Party. Animal.) profiling the wild horses of the Rocky Mountains. Horses aren't as fascinating to me as, say, manatees, or orphaned flying squirrel babies, but I have nothing against them -- and it had been years since I watched a show like this -- so I settled in for an hour of wholesome viewing pleasure.

The wild horsey program was filmed and narrated by this fantastic holster-hipped lesbian, whose name escapes me. She spent several years intermittently tracking and following a particular band of wild horses in the Rockies. From what I understand, wild horses live and travel in small packs, led by a dominant mare (feminist horses! -- who knew?!?), a few additional mares, their foals, immature horses of both sexes, as well as a lead stallion. Sometimes there are also less-dominant males in the pack, who prefer to stay on the fringes of the band. These are the gay uncles, I'm assuming.

Most of the show was centered around one horse: a beautiful, nearly stark-white creature, whom the filmmaker christened with the pretty lame-ass name of Cloud. We watched Cloud grow from an unsure, wobbly-legged foal into a handsome full-grown stallion. We also got to know several of the other horses in his life, including his doting mama, his siblings, his pack's feisty and protective lead stallion, and his friend, a blue roan paint horse that, after being plucked from the wild and rounded up for auction, the filmmaker ended up adopting. My favorite amongst these was one of Cloud's sisters, who was a total slut. She hadn't even arrived at full maturity, and the amazing little tramp was shaking her ass in the face of every male on the mountainside. I expect to see her on "Maury" next week.

The whole experience of this show was really insightful and a lot of fun. True, it was a bit different watching this kind of program stone-cold sober -- mainly because I could actually follow what was going on. Cloud and his entourage just warmed my heart; they lived basically and simply, looked out for one another with unconditional devotion, and asked nothing more than the necessities: a little pasture, a little love, a little sun. In a way, I envy them.

All this got me to thinking how cool it would be to become a wildlife documentary filmmaker. I mean, I could never do it. There's no way I have the physical stamina to schlep up and down mountains and through rain forests with a camera strapped to my shoulder and a backpack on my back, lugging a little red wagon stocked with books, all manner of Body Shop products, and an endless supply of Sour Patch Kids. I also don't possess the scientific knowledge to know much about my subjects. You're talking to a guy who dropped high school biology mid-year so he could VOLUNTARILY join the crayons-and-circles-of-paper class.

But observing, documenting, and living with the animals in such an intimate way would be so intriguing. Which led me to the logical thought, Hey! I could do this without leaving the comfort of my own home! So I, inspired by a horse-loving lesbian I've never met, spent the day yesterday observing the cats and making mental notes of their every move. It would help if, when you get to the next section, you imagine a soft British voice reading the words aloud; this will give the full effect of my very own wildlife documentary. Ladies and gentleman, enjoy the show.

National PornogrGeographic Presents
"Tracking the Elusive Wild Housecat"
with your host, Donn Brody-Streep
(sorry, my agent FORCED me to change my last name)

"It is 5 a.m. Our subjects have been up all night: playing, scratching their scratching post, rolling around on the kitchen carpet in an attempt to clog the evil vacuum cleaner yet again, and tearing up and down the hallway, thereby terrorizing the downstairs neighbors. Our two subjects are a breed of the elusive wild housecat; there is a lean orange male named Fergus, and a rotund black-and-white female named Claire.

"When their handlers have not gotten out of bed by 8:00, Fergus begins jumping atop the bed and darting across their heads before fleeing the room...only to return moments later and do the same thing again -- repeatedly. Fergus, typically quiet, is something of a chatterbox in the mornings. More accurately, he's a squeakbox, since the creature doesn't seem to know how to meow. Claire is fairly silent, less interested in her handlers and more focused on sitting on a single square foot of a corner of the aforementioned kitchen carpet. Indeed, this is the spot she stays for most of the day and night.

"Once the handlers have started their day, Fergus continues squeaking with great urgency, though nothing seems to be wrong. The food dish is mostly full, the water is changed and clean, and the litterbox is freshly de-pooped. Having tired himself out, Fergus retires to the living room window, where he gazes into the top of a huge tree and wishes bloody death on those fucking birds.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Whenever the handlers walk by, she emits a small meow and rolls with some effort onto her back. One would think this is an open invitation for a belly rub. However, every time the handlers reach down to pet her, she jumps away, startled, as if she's never seen them before in her life. She calms herself by going to the food dish and eating.

"As the morning progresses, Fergus grows bored of his window seat, hops down, and slips under the bed. This is what wild housecat experts call his "happy place". He curls up in a ball and falls asleep. This is how he spends the remainder of the morning and the entirety of the afternoon.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Occasionally she gets up to eat, but then returns.

"Throughout the afternoon, Fergus is conspicuously absent, while his sister stays on high alert at her station. When a handler walks by with a particular footstep she doesn't like, she jumps back, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her post.

"Late afternoon. Fergus has emerged from his happy place, soft and warm and eyes barely open. He rubs across the calves of his handlers, ignores Claire, and has a drink of water and a bite to eat. After this, he disappears into the litterbox for a few minutes, in view of his sister who is watching from her corner of carpet. He gives her a disgusted look. She jumps up, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her corner.

"As darkness falls, Fergus is snuggled on the bed with his handlers, one of whom is reading a book, the other watching a movie containing aliens, spaceships, and Pia Zadora. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Claire rises wearily and now she, too, must use the litterbox. She is in there for an inordinately long period of time, as after she has pottied, she seems to enjoy scratching the hell out of the interior side of the litterbox. Once the novelty wears off, she goes to the food dish and returns to her corner of carpet.

"Night has arrived and the handlers are turning in. Fergus lays at their feet awhile, until he's sure they're asleep, before hopping off the bed to prepare for a night of play.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet."

Her Turbulent Brilliance: The Artistic Fire of Debra Winger

Once upon a time, in a mythical land called Hollywood, during an era of polyester leisure suits, wide lapels, and halter tops, there was a young actress who exploded onto the silver screen with a fierce intelligence and fiery integrity. Her fresh, apple-cheeked beauty and uncompromising standards led her to star in some of the biggest films of that period, many of which are now considered classics. She worked with such passion, drive, and natural talent that, despite her young age, she completely bypassed the label of "starlet" and instead shot to the stratospheric brand of "serious actress". By 29, she was a major box office draw, a respected thespian, and had been nominated for two Leading Actress Academy Awards.

Throughout this startling ascent, stories, rumors, and gossip slowly began to show cracks in the plastic foundation of the fairy tale. She was blunt, outspoken, oftentimes tactless. She was called "difficult", openly and unapologetically clashing with some of the biggest names in the business (including Robert Redford, Richard Gere, Shirley MacLaine, Steve Martin, and director Taylor Hackford). She was also regarded as something of a party girl: drinking, drugging, and having several high-profile relationships and affairs (including one with then-governor of Nebraska Bob Kerrey). A 1983 "Life" magazine profile was bylined, "Why the star of 'An Officer and a Gentleman' is such an outrageous free spirit". Perhaps she was TOO free for the tastes of many.

The foundation started its hasty erosion when she began to become more famous for the roles she didn't play than the ones she did. She turned down (or quit) half a dozen films throughout the latter part of the 80s and into the early 90s; these films eventually became wildly successful blockbusters. The film work she did choose to do was often met with disinterest, perhaps because of her reputation, or perhaps because Hollywood has a short memory: a star's descent can be just as stealthy and absolute as its initial sparkling trajectory. Whatever the reason, her talent was still unshakable, ever-present, and impossible to ignore. In 1993, she received a third Oscar nomination for Best Actress.

After a few more forgettable films, the actress -- now, in Hollywood terms, a woman "of a certain age" -- did something no one saw coming.

She disappeared.

It was such a thorough and complete vanishing act that a documentary film was made in 2002, in which the filmmaker (actress Rosanna Arquette), went in search of her.

Her sudden absence from show business was baffling to many; after all, you don't just turn your back on stardom, no matter its position in the cosmos. How could this actress, so celebrated, admired, and, yes, even despised, just go away of her own accord? How could she give it all up to disappear into "civilian life" -- and a life in the country no less? How could she throw in the towel for the trowel? How could she sacrifice the plastic fairy tale foundation for the indestructible, embracing foundation of earth and stone? Who does she think she is? Did we ever know her? Who is she?

Her name is Debra Winger.

And, as it turns out, we didn't ever really know her. The 53-year-old mother, humanitarian, and actress has just released her memoirs, entitled "Undiscovered". But this is not your typical celebrity autobiography. There's no juicy gossip here and very little name-dropping. There is no conventional chronology of a life and career, no routine storytelling detailing the rise and fall of a celebrated performer. What there is is a collection of reflections: random thoughts, brilliant flashes of insight, recorded dreams, recalled memories, and poetry. Winger gives us less of the facade and more of the brave, complex motivations behind it. In doing this, she has created an entirely new form of memoir, one that is at once raw, witty, intelligent, and altogether inspiring. The result is a powerful and unique glimpse into the mind of a true artist.

"Undiscovered" resonated with me for so many reasons. Too many, in fact, for me to go into them all here. It's safe to say that much of the book sliced through many of my misconceptions and emotional boundaries and pierced me -- challenged me -- in the most personal of places: my own authenticity. "Authenticity is not a goal for the faint-hearted," Winger writes. "I have started on this journey, and I want to continue with grace." Unlikely as it may seem, "Undiscovered" is a lesson in grace...and, also unlikely as it might be, Debra Winger has become one of my teachers.

I've stated before how compelling, and sometimes uncomfortable, it is that certain books find us at the exact point in our lives when we need to hear what they have to say. On the heels of "Veronika Decides to Die", a book that met this criteria with aplomb, the gentle, knowing beauty of "Undiscovered" has slipped into my hands. It, too, has found me when I most needed its insights. It has found me when I needed to be found.

Some of you may know that in my late teens and early twenties, I attempted a foray into show business. I lived in L.A., auditioned for agents, managers, directors, and casting directors, and even found the odd job now and then. It didn't take me long, though, to realize that my passion for acting had a cut clean through the middle: my passionate love of the craft (which, even to this day, has not waned) was only rivaled by my passionate hatred for "the business". I took a great big heaving sigh of relief when Winger admits that, from the very beginning of her career all the way up to the present, "I love the work and don't much care for the business."

Winger's show biz experience, of course, was worlds different than my own. I obviously never came close to achieving the fame she did (oh, how I would LOVE to be nominated for Best Actress!). But the emotional undercurrent is the same. Look at it like this: show business is first and foremost a business, which means the top priority is making money, which means any initial contact or opportunities that may be presented are based on one thing and one thing only: looks. It is, at least in the beginning, not a matter of talent, not even in the smallest way. The powers-that-be are more interested in your physical appeal than any skill, integrity, or passion you might have. Pretty people = pretty money. I was once at a call-back audition where the director, who had praised and fawned over me the previous day, told me to go home because "he had problems with my looks". Gee, I'm sorry my nose is here and my eyes are there and my jeans don't hug my ass just so. Did you happen to notice that I can act?

Then, if one is lucky enough to actually land a job, there are more physical demands to be met. You are required to fashion yourself in certain ways. For example, if you're playing a sexy role, then you'd better ooze sex 24/7 for the sake of the film. Objectification is huge. Who's going to go see a movie about a sexy superhero when the actor who plays him just wants to live in the mountains and be a hippie when he's not at work? You've been assigned a persona -- not just a character -- and you need to play it to the hilt. Sometimes, actors don't even have to try at this. They are naturally attractive and then, given the nature of the role, they are objectified into icons of sex. This was the case with Winger after "Urban Cowboy" was released. She was just an actress playing a role, but the world saw her as some sort of revolutionary new sex symbol. I'm sure the mechanical bull scene didn't hurt that outcome. But all Winger felt was, I'm an actor. I just want to do my job. I just want to tell the truth.

But there's not a lot of room for truth in Hollywood.

Add to this movie-mix all matter of legalities to tend to, executives to bow to, and egos to assuage. Winger, like me, is not a traditional method actor, though certain intensive approaches are in place. We are both more interested in diving head-first into a character until that character infiltrates every pore, every crevice both external and internal. We want to go the edge of that character's reality and totally lose ourselves in the process. This is good acting, this is truth. And as you try to best portray your character, you have others around you constantly telling you that your authenticity, your TRUTH, are wrong. To survive in this world, you need to either bow out, or develop a thick protective skin. I chose the former. Winger chose the latter.

And, as time went on, this protection translated itself into a reputation of being difficult. What in her own mind were precautionary measures taken to allow her to simply focus on the work, were, to others, aggression and hostility. And Winger does not disagree with this perception of her during that time. In "Undiscovered", she looks back and "cringes" when she thinks of how she treated people. By her own admission, she was raunchy and often rude. This was the version of herself she felt she had to put out there. To stay safe. To stay separated from the politics of the business. To stay wholly devoted to the one thing she loved above all others: acting. Though the results on the screen speak for the remarkable success of this second skin, the relationships she had with co-workers speak something much different.

I've heard it said (and I can neither vouch for nor advocate the efficacy of this statement, as Winger discusses it nowhere in her book) that during those early successes she was a cocaine addict, and during "Terms of Endearment" she was in the process of getting clean. This, coupled with her finely-honed defense mechanism, could be the reason for the friction between herself and co-star Shirley MacLaine. Their disagreements and battles while making the film have become part of Hollywood legend. But whatever happened between the two actresses (I, for the record, am a huge fan of MacLaine), it was transformed into magic once put on film. "Terms of Endearment" is a modern masterpiece, and both women are phenomenal in it. The two were pitted against one another at the Oscars that year, both nominated for Best Actress. MacLaine won, but on the way to the podium to accept the statuette, she stopped to embrace Winger and whispered, "Half of this belongs to you." Winger replied, without missing a beat, "And I'll take half of it." In her acceptance speech, MacLaine acknowledged Winger's "turbulent brilliance" and the expert thoroughness with which she executed the role. Click here to see the speech (and hey, Rock Hudson and Liza Minelli presenting: it doesn't get much gayer than that!).

Over the next twelve years, Winger made a variety of films, none of which were terribly successful. The exception was 1993's "Shadowlands", where she did some terrific work as American poet Joy Gresham; she was again Oscar-nominated. During this time, she devoted her energies to being a mother (Winger has two sons, one with Timothy Hutton, born in 1987, and another with current husband Arliss Howard, born in 1997). But after "Shadowlands", there were a few more movies, and then...the disappearance.

This retreat from all things Hollywood is what makes up the bulk of "Undiscovered". For the first time in her life, Winger has an opportunity to embrace the quiet, and she does it like she does everything else: with passion and artistic fire. Moving to the remote countryside in upstate New York, she begins a fearless introspection and reflects on her life and career, dissecting her own behavior and choices, examining the natural world with the wonder of a poet, and embracing a life of simplicity. Motherhood, gardening, writing. That's all she needs. This idea of simplicity, living with just the essentials in the wilds of the country, appeals greatly to me. I heard with inspiring identification and breathtaking clarity every single word she wrote. Through Winger's self-awareness, I am beginning to touch upon my own.

Like "Veronika Decides to Die", "Undiscovered" has done something quite huge, and a little scary, for me. It's forced me to ask questions, to look inward and inquire further, to examine my own choices, barriers, strengths, weaknesses, and direction. "The possibility exists," Winger writes, "for all of us, at any age, to imbue our days with a breath fully taken, the thought fully formed, and the emotion wholeheartedly felt. How often do we? We are full of undisclosed fear, unexpressed resentment, and a feeling that there will be a time in the future when we will get to it."

Thank you for helping me get to it, Ms. Winger. Through examples like yours, I hope to do it with grace.

The Hotness, Part 2: The Ten Sexiest Actors

Well. I hope you've all recovered from yesterday's Unbridled Ecstasy Fest, a.k.a. my list of choices for The Top Ten Sexiest Actresses. Actually, I hope you've recovered and then some, because today we move on to the fellas!

It should come as no surprise that compiling this list of The Top Ten Sexiest Actors was infinitely more challenging than putting yesterday's catalog together . In fact, at one point in my first draft, I had nearly thirty names on the roster. Narrowing it down to ten was harder than -- well, harder than me assembling this list. But I do think I've made some good choices; at the least, I've released an inordinately high amount of serotonin into my brain, which is never a bad thing.

So grab a fork and some A-1, sit back, and sink your teeth into these Grade A, USDA choice hunks of man-meat. Buon appetito.

The Gentlemen

10. Joaquin Phoenix. Dark, brooding, intense, AND vegan, Joaquin Phoenix is a man after my own heart. There's that piercing stare that seems to see clear through anyone and anything in its path; those thick, suggestively-arched eyebrows; even that Average Joe body is wildly sexy. But Phoenix, 33, is not your Average Joe. In between dazzlingly complex movie roles, while his peers are lounging on the beaches of St. Tropez or boinking 18-year-old starlets, Phoenix is fighting for animal rights and working with native tribes in the Amazon. I wonder how you say "I want to have your babies" in Yawanawa?

9. Djimon Hounsou. In one of my favorite episodes of "Designing Women", a rather amorous client takes an instant liking to Anthony, the African-American deliveryman, and says, "I hope you don't find this racist, but where ever did you find this big black beautiful buck?". This line came back to me the instant I first laid eyes on actor-model Djimon Hounsou, who is so stunningly beautiful that I was left speechless. With his unerring style and grace, Honsou, 44, has set aflame both the big screen and the world's most renowned catwalks. Despite an imposing stage presence, his film performances are studied and emotionally-centered (his roles in both "In America" and "Blood Diamond" will break your heart). Barrel-chested, with a soft, sensuous face and an erotic baritone of a voice that can shake one down in even the naughtiest of places, Djimon Hounsou is a walking tribute to the powers of elegance, diversity, talent...and yes, even sex.

8. Ralph Fiennes. Ralph Fiennes is serious. Seriously talented: see "Schindler's List", "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "Spider", "The Constant Gardner"; the man is electric. Seriously serious: Fiennes, 45, rarely smiles; when he does, it looks about as natural as a rabid cougar playing tiddlywinks. And of course, seriously sexy: the lack of smile only enhances Fiennes' esoteric sex appeal -- hooded eyes that are surprisingly bright (and the most paralyzing shade of icy blue), a chiseled angular nose, wan skin belying the raging vitality churning beneath, and a lustrous golden timbre wrapping around words while wrapping around your very soul. Yup. That's pretty serious: seriously fucking HOT.

7. Jonathan Rhys Meyers. His lips, which look as if they were sculpted by hand in replication of some Greek god, and eyes the color and strength of cold hard steel, are worthy topics alone to swoon over in this paragraph. But Jonathan Rhys Meyers, 30, is far more intricate than his flawless face (and body) reveal. The tremendously gifted actor is equally adept at playing contemporary characters ("Velvet Goldmine", "Match Point") and historical icons ("The Tudors", "The Lion in Winter", and my personal favorite, "Titus"); he has the uncanny knack of imbuing his roles with a mixture of a bad boy's swaggering bravado, a naive innocence bordering on purity, and an uninhibited sexual energy (this energy, I think, is something innate in Rhys Meyers: a natural extension of who he is). It's amazing to watch him pull this combination off so successfully. Hell, it's amazing to watch him just standing there.

6. Sendhil Ramamurthy. Whenever a straight guy comments on the undeniable hotness of a male celebrity, I always take note. This was the case with my friend Mitch, who's as straight and secure as they come. But even he had to admit his lust for "Heroes" star Sendhil Ramamurthy. I will confess I didn't know much about the 34-year-old actor before Mitch's disclosure, but I'm so grateful I've been introduced to Ramamurthy's sizzling hotness. The lambent copper skin, sumptuous chocolatey eyes, thick mass of jet curls, lean, lickable (did I just say that?) frame: if it's enough to turn a straight man, you KNOW it's gotta be good.

5. Christian Bale. Christian Bale can do no wrong in my book. Maybe it's because we share the same birthday. Maybe it's because I fell head over heels for him when I was a young'un watching those craptacular movies "Swing Kids" and "Newsies". Maybe it's because he's one of the most talented (and underrated) actors working today. Who am I kidding? It's because he's blisteringly sexy. Whether buffed to chiseled perfection ("American Psycho", "Batman Begins") or slim and scrumptious ("Little Women", "Velvet Goldmine"), Bale, 34, lifts the label of "classic good looks" to a new standard of sexiness.

4. Jake Gyllenhaal. Let us now look at a Timeline of Hotness, shall we? Jake Gyllenhaal was cute before the gay cowboy movie; beautiful during the gay cowboy movie; and hotter than a fried egg cooked on the belly of a hooker just released from a Death Valley prison after the gay cowboy movie. The 27-year-old has done some pretty impressive work in his short career, with "Brokeback" of course being a standout. With his enchanting gaze of wonderment, strong masculine jawline, and pristine, clean-cut good looks, no other actor in recent memory has so totally captured the erotic fantasies of women and gay men everywhere. Gyllenhaal, much like yesterday's pick Scarlett Johansson, is a young actor on the precipice of superstardom. And we are all the luckier for it.

3. Liev Schreiber. Gather round y'all, it's time for another true story. I once worked in a ginormous office building, and I'd occasionally run into this guy on my cigarette breaks who looked very similar to Liev Schreiber. Being the nutcase that I am, I transferred my crush on Liev to this lookalike, and soon I had coordinated all of my smoke breaks with his. We chatted from time to time (he only spoke to me because he wanted to pork one of my female colleagues), and though he was a nice guy, he was -- alas -- not my Liev. Schreiber, 40, is a somewhat unconventional-looking sex symbol -- yet it is precisely in that unorthodoxy that his libidinous charms reside. Round-cheeked, squinty-eyed, and gravelly-voiced, he comes off as a rough-around-the-edges type but is in actuality quite graceful, stylish, and a helluva good actor. He also has a mysterious quality that makes him look like he's hiding something -- and oh what fun I'd have trying to solve that mystery....

2. Daniel Day-Lewis. A few short years ago, there was no way you could tell me that, should I ever write a Top Ten Sexiest Actors list, anyone but Daniel Day-Lewis would be #1. Though things have changed, and Daniel has slipped to the none-too-shabby #2 spot, it is not at all a reflection on the intense talent, sexiness, and magnetism of this iconic actor. Day-Lewis, 51, is rightfully regarded as one of the finest actors of our time, delivering powerhouse performances every time he sets foot before a camera. His unrivaled talent, though, often overshadows his equally powerful beauty: classic bone structure; dark, almost menacingly sexy eyes; and a regal, sensuous demeanor that is a throwback to some of the great leading men of Hollywood's golden age. Oh, and he looks great in a loincloth.

1. Adrien Brody. Oh, PLEASE. Like you didn't see this one coming for miles. There's not much more I can say about my Adrien that I haven't already salivated over in previous posts. Except this. I would let Adrien Brody, 35, do things to me with just his nose -- things that I wouldn't let anyone else do with...with, well, other body parts. Enough said. Actually,


I think that may have been TOO much said. (BONUS: If you want to witness the event that nearly caused me to have a testicular explosion, check out Adrien accepting his Oscar from my #2 sexiest actress, Halle Berry. This is hardcore porn for me.)



And so wraps up my lists for The Top Ten Sexiest Actors and Actresses. In closing, I'd just like to say that these were the two most draining posts I've ever written. Lesson learned: writing about sex is almost as fun, hot, and exhausting as actually doing it.

I need a shower.

The Hotness, Part 1: The Ten Sexiest Actresses

I have just realized, with horror, that I haven't done a "list" post for several days now. For shame! We all know how I luvs me some lists.

I have also realized the Debbie Downer tone of my last few postings, so I've decided it was high time to roll out the barrel of monkeys and write a light, fun list. I debated back and forth for a while on what the topic should be. After much internal struggle, strife, and bloodshed (OK, not really), I've chosen to present to you my Top Ten Sexiest Actors and Actresses. I'm splitting this into two separate posts; I'll cover the women -- erm, excuse me -- the womyn today, and the fellas tomorrow.

Now. A couple of things to remember. Firstly, this is not a list of my picks for The Sexiest Actors and Actresses of All Time. It's my list for those actors and actresses working (and alive) today. As much as I love classic film and its stars, I needed to narrow down the porking field.

Also, it's important to know that the sexiest thing in the world to me is talent. Sexier than the most sparkling eyes, tightest abs, largest boobs, or biggest schlong. I think this fact is evident in all my selections.

Finally, these are my choices. Just my opinions, my tastes, my attractions. You'll probably disagree, or at the least be a little shocked, at some of my picks. If you've stumbled upon this post looking for the names of Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts, you may as well stumble on. You won't find those names here. Admittedly, a few of my picks are conventional, but most are not. Though my tastes tend to defy any particular type or style, one thing is consistent: I don't do cream cheese. And when it comes to contemporary Hollywood -- to quote the immortal words of Clairee Belcher -- "they all look like they were carved out of cream cheese."

I'm not saying you may not find slight traces of creaminess here, but for the most part, my list is entirely vegan and damn HAWT. Bon Appetit.

The Ladies

10. Marion Cotillard. In the greatest performance by an actress I've seen in 10+ years, Marion Cotillard utterly transformed herself to play the titular "Piaf". The transformation was so successful (Cotillard shaved back her hairline and shaved off her eyebrows), that the beauty of the 32-year-old Parisian was completely unrecognizable. But damn: look what was hiding under that immense talent. A delicate heart-shaped face. Glowing china-doll skin. Eyes emitting a light that is at once radiant and mysterious. It's enough to make a hot-blooded gay break into a cold sweat. Marion, if you need help polishing your Oscar, call me.

9. Lynn Whitfield. I've had a massive girl-crush on Lynn Whitfield ever since "The Josephine Baker Story" in 1991. Even in more recent fare, like [one of my personal favorites] "Eve's Bayou" and the TV show "Without a Trace", the 55-year-old actress proves she's still got it. With her intense, imploring gaze, stunning smile, and regal elegance, not to mention her drool-inducing recreation of Josephine Baker's famed banana dance, Lynn Whitfield is a childhood crush that still makes my granny-panties moist.

8. Catherine Deneuve. Class, thy name is Catherine Deneuve. Yes, she's old enough to be my mother (in fact, she's the same age as my mom -- a number I won't disclose here because my mom will kill me), yet Deneuve's breathtaking combination of style, class and subtle sexual mystery are not only worthy of a spot on this list, but a high-ranking slot on The Sexiest People Who Ever Walked the Earth list as well. Deneuve possesses an ageless grace, stunning good looks, and an immense talent that is all but obsolete in the contemporary Hollywood landscape.





7. Meryl Streep. Because this is a Top Ten List, and Meryl deserves a place on EVERY Top Ten List. It's in the Bible.




6. Scarlett Johansson. Oh, Miss Scarlett! In a time when most young starlets Johansson's age (23) are running wild, drinking and drugging and creating scandal with every step, Scarlett Johansson is a true anomaly. She's rarely seen in public, does not discuss her personal life, and chooses impressive and diverse roles to best showcase her ever-growing talent. It also doesn't hurt that she's a ravishing beauty. Curvy and voluptuous, with full pouty lips, lush features, and eyes that emanate a wisdom far beyond her years, this young actress is poised on the threshold of greatness.

5. Tilda Swinton. Tilda Swinton is not your typical Hollywood sex symbol. Hers is a sexiness that radiates from a striking, ethereal, and unconventional woman, who has created a life and career around bucking tradition and challenging accepted ideas of beauty. Her shock of red hair, ghostly skin, penetrating emerald eyes, and unique style lend her the haunting exquisitenesses of a noblewoman plucked from the annals of history. Swinton, 47, also has a remarkably androgynous quality, which she wields with great sophistication and soul-baring sensuality.

4. Jessica Lange. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she's had a little work done, but Jessica Lange remains -- and shall always remain -- one of the great beauties of all time. Now 59, both Lange's sex appeal and talent seem to increase with age. Just when I think she can't top her last performance, she comes along and one-ups herself. Just when I think she can't possibly get any hotter, she ages another year and shows all those young plastic bitches how it's done. The lush, shapely figure, dramatic, angular face, and that voice -- holy crap, that voice! So throaty and languid and positively dripping with sex. Excuse me, I think something just happened in my pants.

3. Kate Winslet. Screw Hepburn, this is the real winner of the title, "The Great Kate". Not only did Winslet, 32, have FIVE Oscar nominations by the age of 30 (and another at 31), but she has managed to avoid the Hollywood drudgery and remain true to her art. After "Titanic", she could've easily become the next Julia or Angelina; instead she did a terrific little art film no one saw called "Hideous Kinky". Today she floats effortlessly between independent and mainstream films, but always opts for the most fascinating of characters. Yet talent is just one part of Winslet's knock-out beauty. She's also extremely sexy and earthy -- and she's actually shaped like a real woman, something she is both proud of and unapologetic about. And the beauty in that speaks for itself.

2. Halle Berry. Just look at her. Forget "Catwoman" and "The Flintstones", and just stare at that warm brown gaze, flawless mocha skin, and perfectly sensual poise. Remember "Introducing Dorothy Dandridge" and "Monster's Ball", and behold the captivating sexiness and talent of the first woman of color to win a Best Actress Oscar. Watch her acceptance speech again (one of the most authentic and genuine ever), and you'll see that the physical beauty of Halle Berry (41 -- and a new mother!) ain't nothin' compared to what's inside. That, my friends, is true beauty.

1. Cate Blanchett. The following is a true story. Though I'd loved Cate Blanchett for a while (she blew me away in "Elizabeth", "The Shipping News", "The Gift" -- pretty much anything she's ever done), it wasn't until "Lord of the Rings" that I fell in love with her. While watching her in the rather small role of Galadriel, I locked eyes with Blanchett, my heart fell to my knees, and I said aloud, "THAT is the face of heaven." Like Swinton, Blanchett's beauty is almost ethereal, I'd even go so far as to say celestial, in its otherworldliness. And it's all edged with an undeniable sex appeal, a raw erotic power that could turn me faster than a charred pancake. Blanchett, a 39-year-old married mother of two sons, has also proved herself as a style icon: it's impossible for her to set foot on a red carpet without burning the damn thing up. She too, of course, is worthy of "The Great Kate (Cate)" title (Hmmm....CATFIGHT!), consistently turning in the most impressive performances of any actor in recent memory (rent "The Aviator" and see her Oscar-winning turn as Hepburn; it's my favorite Blanchett performance). I think it can safely be said that she is well on her way to becoming the next Meryl Streep -- and, well, we all know how I feel about her.


WHEW! I'm spent. Now I'm going to have a cigarette, roll over, and go to sleep. Was it good for you too?

And tomorrow...THE MEN!

Origins of War: The Enduring Genius of "The Lion in Winter"

"Of course he has a knife, he always has a knife, we all have knives! It's 1183 and we are barbarians! How clear we make it. Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war: not history's forces, nor the times, nor justice, nor the lack of it, nor causes, nor religions, nor ideas, nor kinds of government, nor any other thing. We are the killers. We breed wars. We carry it like syphilis inside. Dead bodies rot in field and stream because the living ones are rotten. For the love of God, can't we love one another just a little? That's how peace begins. We have so much to love each other for. We have such possibilities, my children. We could change the world." -Eleanor of Aquitaine, The Lion in Winter


These words strike the icy Queen Eleanor in a rare moment of wistful tenderness and compassionate philosophy. In a play (and eventually, two film versions) bursting with fantastic, memorable dialog, this is one of my favorite passages. It stands out not only because of its uncharacteristic sensitivity, but also because its message is just as pertinent today as it was in 1183. Perhaps more so.

Be warned, though: this rather open-hearted monologue is not commonplace in "The Lion in Winter", playwright James Goldman's 1966 raging inferno of family discord and political intrigue. The majority of TLIW is devoted to examining -- minutely, explosively, and often uncomfortably -- the treacherous deceit, vitriolic emotion, and long-buried secrets between members of what could very well be the world's first dysfunctional family. In fact, this medieval clan -- King Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and their three surviving sons -- just might win the title of Most Dysfunctional Family of All Time.

Maybe we should give them trophies or something? Nah, they'd just use them to beat the hell out of each other.

And there's no shortage of beatings in "The Lion in Winter". If you doubt Eleanor's assertion that war begins at home, this royally fucked-up family spends the entirety of a delicious, tense, and entertaining play proving just how right she is.

TLIW is set during a Christmas Court at Henry's castle in Chinon, France. For this blessed and brutal occasion, Henry has decided to bring together his estranged family. There is his wife, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, who, ten years ago, he had arrested and exiled to a remote English castle for organizing one-too-many civil wars against him. There is their eldest son (and Eleanor's favorite), Richard, a dashing though ruthless soldier and war hero. There is Geoffrey, the long-ignored middle son who has grown into a cold, calculating menace of palpable energy and crafty intelligence. The youngest son (and Henry's favorite), Prince John, is a chubby, pimply teenage buffoon who holds fast to his simplistic ideals and boyish view of the world, even living as he does in the crossfire of an eternally-warring family.

Add to this mix King Philip of France, an invited honored guest to the family Christmas. Philip is a young king, but his approach is deceptively simple and open. He, like his royal hosts, is of course hiding a few secrets and strategies of his own to further his political position. And then there is Alais, Philip's sister, who has long been an adopted member of the English royal family: Eleanor raised her as a daughter from a young age, though the two have grown apart. It may have something to do with the fact that Alais, now an attractive young woman, has openly become Henry's mistress.

This assemblage of characters, come together for the not-so-merry Christmas Court, arrive at Chinon with their swords drawn and their agendas on the table. You see, Henry is getting older and needs to name an heir to the throne. He of course wants young John, his favored child. Eleanor, his banished Queen, wants her pride and joy Richard to get the title. Geoffrey knows he has a popsicle's chance in hell of being king, being as out-of-favor as he is with both his parents, so he has been devising numerous ways to alienate his brothers from Mom and Dad's affection -- thus making him the only choice for king. Philip is at the bloody buffet so that he can see to it that the terms of his sister Alais's dowry are met. Long ago, Alais was "given" to the English court to be groomed as a future queen for John, in exchange for France's rich and fertile lands of the Vexin. His sister is now grown, still unmarried, porking the King, AND England has the Vexin. Alais, for her own part, has the least-political agenda of them all: she desperately loves old Henry and simply wants to be with him.

With all of these schemes to acquire the throne, the characters of "The Lion in Winter" go at one another with a ferocity that is sometimes witty -- and sometimes quite terrifying -- in its dark descent. It's difficult to take your eyes off of, but it is imperative to pay very close attention. The power and plans and schemes change hands, change course, and change intent so often that one must always be on top of the wickedly entertaining game. If not, it's easy to get lost and impossible to find your way back again. The story is complicated but not inscrutable. The key to understanding all of it is to always remember that in those days, power meant one thing and one thing only: Land. Spouses, your own children, your friends, enemies, riches, and popularity were not indicative of power. It was a time when a bunch of egomaniacal men with bad teeth lived in a perpetual contest of "Whose is Bigger?". But instead of measuring penis-size, they were measuring land.

It's impossible to forget, though, that the principal characters of TLIW are a family. This fact churns and roils like lava below each and every one of their exchanges with one another. They love and despise each other in equal measure. Someone could be embraced with a loving familial bear-hug just as easily as they could end up face-down in the eggnog. As Henry says delightfully in one scene, "What shall we hang...the holly, or each other?"

Historically, this yuletide gathering never happened. Though the agendas of the characters are no doubt accurate, there is no historical evidence they ever assembled at any time to duke it out with one another. This does not detract from the drama and entertainment of their tale for a second. In fact, it makes it even more fascinating, adding an interesting "What if?" to the lives of these power players of history.

Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine were mesmerizing historical figures in their own right. Henry was, for all intents and purposes, a popular and successful king, large and imposing and fiery. But like all kings of the era, Henry was something of a scoundrel in his personal affairs (pun very much intended). In addition to fathering an unknown number of illegitimate children, he openly cheated on Eleanor with a variety of mistresses, including his longtime love Rosamund (who remained a source of great hatred for Eleanor, even years after Rosamund's death, as is evidenced in TLIW), and of course, Alais Capet.

Eleanor of Aquitaine, equally complex, was undoubtedly a woman ahead of her time. She wielded great power (read: Land) and authority wherever she went. In a time when women were relegated to the home (or castle) to be absorbed in their needlework or the raising of dozens of children, Eleanor went off and fought wars. She memorably fought in the Crusades ("I dressed my maids as Amazons and rode bare-breasted halfway to Damascus. Louis had a seizure and I damn near died of windburn...but the troops were dazzled!" she remembers in TLIW). She was married at the time to Louis VII, making her Queen of France, but she had this first marriage annulled once she met Henry ("We shattered the commandments on the spot!" she boasts, remembering her first meeting with Henry). Once she had married him and become Queen of England, she firmly established Henry II's power, for it was Eleanor who brought with her all the land, titles, and wealth. Without her, he never could've attained the power he eventually exerted. She loved him passionately and happily shared her nobility with him. But the marriage was strained; Eleanor was more than likely just as adulterous as her husband, and, as we see all too clearly in TLIW, neither were really cut out to be doting parents. Once their sons had grown, she started to influence and conspire with her children to rebel against their father. The ensuing battles did nothing to help the couple's relationship (where the hell was Dr. Phil???), and Henry banished her to a life of isolation in various castles around England...though, interestingly, he never divorced her.

This makes for a great back-story, but it's not at all necessary to know about any of it when you watch "The Lion in Winter". It all comes up -- trust me, it ALL comes up -- throughout the story, giving us a firm grasp of the turbulent foundations that created these characters. They wear their histories like great unwieldy chains, clanging them violently against one another -- and themselves -- in their despairing efforts to be free.

"The Lion in Winter" opened on Broadway in 1966, with Robert Preston as Henry and the terrific British actress Rosemary Harris as Eleanor. Harris won a Tony for her performance.

Two years later, the legendary film version was released. With its taut direction (by Anthony Harvey), soaring performances (Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor, Peter O'Toole as Henry, Anthony Hopkins, in his film debut, as Richard, and a young, blindingly handsome Timothy Dalton as Philip), majestic, ominous score (by John Barry), and Margaret Furse's impressive costumes, the movie has rightfully claimed its place as one of the greatest of all time. From the opening shot of two swords locking forcefully in the air, we know we are in for the ride of our lives.

Hepburn won her third Oscar for her work here. Most of you know I've never been a huge Hepburn fan, but her performance in TLIW is the one exception. This is simply one of the best female performances ever committed to film. Her complete immersion into the body and soul of this character is exhilarating. She plays her Eleanor with a studied restraint, though all the wicked planning, cunning deceptions, and complicated emotional terrain are constantly, visibly, boiling beneath the surface. They spill out in careful measure, with impeccable timing, from the treacherous gleam in her cat-like eyes, the dirging lilt of her gravelly voice, and the rigid monster of her small weary body. It is truly something to behold.

Matching her step-for-step is Peter O'Toole. O'Toole's Henry is a big, booming, burly bear of a man, imposing and intimidating. But he too is noticeably strained, to the point of near-madness, by his own history and his warring family. While O'Toole successfully manages to send Henry's rage exploding through the castle roof, he is equally adept at going in the opposite direction: letting us glimpse the heartbreak of a king, who, for perhaps the first time, is understanding his failure as a man. It is a riveting portrayal and proves why O'Toole ranks among our finest actors.

The trick to filming (or staging) "The Lion in Winter" is to realize that the entire thing is a matter of keeping the balls (get your mind out of the gutter) in the air. The story demands the pace to be desperate and frantic, and the balls must constantly be flying back and forth between the actors. The balls must never have the chance to touch the ground.

Unfortunately, in the 2003 film version, the balls do drop from time to time. This is no fault of the actors (who I'll get to in a minute), but rather a misjudgment in direction. This is the only problem I had with the remake. While the 1968 version used tight close-ups and scenes played out in cold, isolated rooms, thereby heightening the in-your-face psychology of this mighty messed-up clan, the 2003 version employs big, open shots and wide angles and intimate scenes filmed with all manner of servants, kingsmen, ladies-in-waiting, court jesters, and peasantry milling about. Director Andrei Konchalovsky misses the mark here by inadvertently lowering the frenetic pace. Luckily, the rest of the film is damn near flawless and more than makes up for it.

This is thanks in large part to the actors, who are, pardon my Olde English, fucking brilliant. In the tradition of its predecessor, the remake's cast is sparkling, daring, and perhaps even a bit unconventional. Judging these performances against those of the original cast, though, is unfair. First and foremost, actors act differently today than they did forty years ago. Also, no two actors are going to approach the same character in exactly the same way. The two films may share a story and nearly-identical script (Goldman wrote both film versions as well), but they are two different lions, so to speak.

Patrick Stewart is Henry. For all you sci-fi geeks, there's no Captain Picard to whack off to here, so don't say you haven't been warned. For my part, I love Patrick Stewart. Once, when I lived in LA, I was in an elevator with him, just the two of us, and I wanted to speak so badly but all that came out was the nervous giggling of a nun in a cucumber patch. He is beautiful, though, and did a damn fine job pushing that elevator button. If memory serves, he did say "Hello"; I replied with, "Teeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Anyway, I digress.

Patrick Stewart is Henry. He makes some really interesting choices in his portrayal, and they all work with remarkable success. His Henry is not quite the loud, terrifying tyrant of O'Toole's imagining (though Stewart does have some powerfully enraged scenes in that beautiful lush baritone of his); he is more focused on Henry's sensitivity. His performance is the character study of a man on the verge of a complete emotional collapse, worn away by a life spent in the thick of both internal and external war. Stewart also brings out a raw sexuality in his Henry; his interactions with Alais, and even at times with Eleanor, are laced with sensual intimations and a physicality bordering on seduction. It's easy to see why women fell for this man, and fell hard. It's a new and fearless take on an old character, and the result is refreshingly poignant.

And then there is Glenn Close as Eleanor. Now, Glenn Close is not only one of my favorite actresses, but she's also my all-time favorite person to watch have an emotional breakdown. She is in touch with something that can almost be called primal. It's mesmerizing to watch. But mental breakdowns aside (and Close has a few truly heartbreaking ones in TLIW), this performance is perhaps the finest of her career -- a career rich with flawless performances. Unlike Hepburn, Close's Eleanor is a much more accessible character. Though she attempts to hide it beneath layers of ice and malice, for fear of being perceived as "weak", this Eleanor wears her emotions on her billowing sleeve. Close is clued in even to the tiniest smidgen of feeling coursing through her labyrinthine character. Even when she's proclaiming the opposite of what she feels, we can read every painful truth on Eleanor's radiantly mask-like face. She's also a much more maternal character than Hepburn's. While it was difficult to find any sense of motherly affection in The Great Kate's Eleanor, Close does not make us doubt for a second that Eleanor did indeed love her children. But as such a constantly scheming and underhanded character, one can't look to Eleanor's words as the truth in her heart. We must look into Close's eyes, and the truth -- sometimes warm, sometimes cutting -- is there. She plays Eleanor with a raging fire: a winning mix of devotion and deception, rage and sadness, delicious wit and devastating melancholy.

The 2003 cast is rounded out by a team of strong performances from some up-and-coming young actors. The intense, talented [and one of my pretend boyfriends] Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is a moving, unconventional Philip. Andrew Howard as Richard and Rafe Spall as John are both solid and effecting. As Geoffrey, John Light is pitch-perfect: he has the shifty eyes, cautious bearing, and emotional coldness of the ignored young duke. (Interestingly, both actors to play Geoffrey on film, John Castle in the original, and John Light in the remake, are almost painfully sexy actors, as if to say, "Well, Geoff was surely ignored and unloved, but he was DAMN HOT!" Both actors, incidentally, do a stellar job.) Julia Vysotskaya, a ravishing Russian actress, shines as Alais, providing a heightened and often over-the-top story with its very fragile human center. Like Close, Vysotskaya's face is a breathtaking canvas of human emotion, and her Alais's utter heartbreak and confusion is so tangible that we can almost reach out and touch it.

One more thing I love about "The Lion in Winter". Amidst all the secrets that come to light throughout the course of the story, it is revealed that Richard and Philip were, at one time, lovers. The 1968 film is surprisingly daring and commendable in its handling of this scene, but the 2003 version, of course, is able to do a bit more with it. Howard and Rhys-Meyers slip into this scene with bravery and abandon, and the result is not only tremendously moving but quite sexy as well. Though there's no sex (come on, it's 1183 and there are people behind the tapestries!), the sexual tension and erotic energy between these two is raw and honest. It's better than any porno I've ever seen.

The messages and themes of "The Lion in Winter" are many and intricate. What it all comes down to, I think, is that you can pick your friends, you can pick your lovers, but you can't pick the tyrannical king, exiled queen, and brood of rivals you're born into. We make the best of it. We've always made the best of it. Even in 1183, they were making the best of it. But just remember: war starts at home. So, too, does peace.

As Eleanor says in one scene, "What family doesn't have its ups and downs?".



A scene from the 1968 version of "The Lion in Winter".



The trailer for the 2003 version of "The Lion in Winter".

You're the Top: The Five Best Over-the-Top Performances

Whenever I watch a movie and observe actors at work, I am always tuned into the little moments of a performance. In my opinion, 99.9% of the time the key to a decent performance lies in the subtlety and restraint an actor brings to a role. Walking the line between the genuinely powerful and the ridiculously melodramatic can be a tricky one; indeed, it's a line that even the most gifted of actors cross at least once.

Yet there are exceptions to the "nuance = great acting" theory. There are some roles that require an over-the-top portrayal in order to present the extreme realities and natures of the character and/or the story being told. Watching an actor totally devour the scenery and catapult through the roof, when it's done right, can be a damn entertaining experience.

Here are my picks for The Five Best Over-the-Top Performances. These choices are by no means bad performances (four out of the five were nominated for Oscars). They are human explosives detonating before our eyes to best serve their characters and the films in which those characters play. And they're also a hell of a lot of fun.

5. Peter Finch, "Network" (1976). Peter Finch was one of the greatest actors who ever lived (if you doubt me, rent "Sunday Bloody Sunday"). But it is his role as the slowly-crumbling newscaster Howard Beale in "Network" that will forever be his trademark performance. Finch, who won a posthumous Best Actor Oscar for his work here, has so many terrific scenes; his Howard is a whacked-out time-bomb lamenting corporate greed, American ignorance, and the soulless crap factory called television. It's an important performance that Finch fuels with a frightening bravado. He's mad as hell and isn't going to take it anymore -- but, thankfully, he takes us along for this wild ride to bedlam...and, in many ways, to truth.




4. Robert DeNiro, "Cape Fear" (1991). When it comes to nut-job psychopaths, no one can compete with Robert DeNiro's Max Cady. Just released from prison, Cady exacts a sadistic, menacing, and gory revenge on the lawyer (and the family of the lawyer) whom he felt was responsible for his imprisonment. It's such a riveting over-the-top performance, perfectly in keeping with Cady's psychotic gravitas, that it's next to impossible to take your eyes off him. It's not easy to be the standout in a luminous cast of acting heavyweights -- DeNiro shares the screen with Nick Nolte, Jessica Lange, and Juliette Lewis -- but his overboard (and I mean that quite literally) Max Cady is a crap-in-your-pants bogeyman that often had me saying, "Oh, there are other actors in this movie?".




3. Faye Dunaway, "Mommie Dearest" (1981). Let's face it: the only reason "Mommie Dearest" remains so memorable and such an important pillar of popular culture is because of Faye Dunaway's iconic performance as Joan Crawford. What's so unsettling and entertaining about this portrayal is that it's more than likely pretty close to how the real Joan behaved (at least if daughter Christina is to be believed). Even today, it's easy to laugh at Dunaway's extremes in this role, and it's hard to tell whether or not she approached the character with this campy intent. Legend has it that before the film was released, the buzz was that Dunaway had given a powerful and serious dramatic performance. The end result, regardless of it's original intent, was nothing serious or dramatic, but it sure as hell was powerful. Dunaway chews the scenery with such ferocity that it's amazing there were any sets still standing on the studio lot after filming wrapped. And where, I ask you, where we would we be without lines like: "NO. WIRE. HANGERS!"; "Tina! Bring me the ax!"; and, my personal favorite, "I am not one of your FANS!"? Hell, the drag queens alone owe a huge debt to Faye Dunaway's brilliantly insane performance. Note: the clip below is a "best-of" collection of Faye/Joan's crazier moments. Look for another of my favorite Christina lines: "Jesus Christ". Classic.




2. Diane Ladd, "Wild at Heart" (1990). Filmmaker David Lynch has given the world a variety of over-the-top performances by a variety of actors. You might even say that an over-the-top performance is a prerequisite for any actor in a David Lynch film. Among the best, Grace Zabriskie in "Inland Empire", Dennis Hopper in "Blue Velvet", and Catherine E. Coulson (in a fantastically hammy performance as the well-remembered Log Lady) in "Twin Peaks". But towering above all of them is Diane Ladd and her stellar grenade of a performance in "Wild at Heart". Ladd plays Marietta Fortune, an obsessed and unbalanced mother doing everything she can to get her beloved daughter (played by Ladd's real-life daughter Laura Dern) back from the likes of smarmy Nicholas Cage (and really, who can blame her?). This performance is absolutely delicious: Ladd's choices for her character are by turns strange, terrifying, brave, disturbing, perverse -- and consistently effective. She doesn't so much chew the scenery as she does swallow it whole and throw it all back up (see clip below). Oh, and she likes lipstick. A lot.




1. Gloria Swanson, "Sunset Blvd." (1950). Norma Desmond could easily rank as one of the greatest characters in the history of film. And that is only so because of Gloria Swanson's unforgettable performance. Desmond, once a superstar of silent film, has grown weird and reclusive in her Hollywood mansion, with just her dead chimp and an ex-husband-turned-personal-servant for companionship. But when struggling writer Joe Gillis (the awesome William Holden) enters her life, Desmond's entire existence is transformed into something that is simultaneously hopeful and tragic. It bears mentioning that Swanson herself was a bit of a waning star in those days, which just adds to the bravery and intensity of her performance. Her work here is about as far from realism as one can get: Swanson's Norma is all singsong voice, buggy eyes, and grand sweeping gestures. But this is precisely what makes the performance so flawless. Silent film actors had to do everything big and exaggerated in order to successfully pull off a role, and Norma Desmond, so lost and delusional, is still trapped in that soundless era of her youthful fame.