I love the glittery, hallowed, border-line kitschy pomp of the Academy Awards ceremony. The annual swagger-fest of self-love is always full of aesthetic delights and amusements; chock-a-block full of controversy, humour, ridiculousness, and genuinely heart-warming moments, it is ever entertaining. Stars, in all of their peacock-majesty, alight on the most famous red carpet in the world. This is where we, the fans, await; whether in person or sitting at home in our living rooms, we come to fawn, gape, admire and censure the entire whirring, colourful affair.
The experience is multi-faceted and highly individualistic; we all watch for different reasons. I love the dresses and the jewels--and the gossipy bonding opportunity shared with my mom. Yet, as a passionate cinema fan, ex-actress, and classic film writer, I come back year after year for that most elusive of things: a well-deserved win, one that is so right-feeling as to be virtually indisputable.
Last year, I was thrilled that Kate Winslet finally won a Best Actress statuette. She is my favourite actress (of my own generation, at any rate)--which makes the win personal, biased, and subjective. Her performance in 'The Reader' was certainly honest, sinewy, breathtaking. Her moment at the podium was , to most of us, long over-due. Yet, there are surely those who preferred another actress, another performance, for whatever mysterious, complex, or simple reason(s).
On this year's telecast, which airs on Sunday, 7 March, there is a single award that I am anticipating. Everything else can be shunted aside: the clothes, the accessories, the awkwardly long-winded acceptance speeches, all of the other golden accolades of the evening mean little next to this one presentation. Lifelong tradition or not, I am tuning in this year to watch Christoph Waltz ('Inglourious Basterds') walk away with the title of Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role.
Sure, it is seemingly easy to get behind the already awards-laden, critically lauded front-runner. He has won in his category at every major awards show of the season. Contenders rarely come this strong, especially when their performance is at the center of a popular commercial hit master-minded by the only director on the planet to enjoy rock-star like status. Yet, for all of this cache, for all of the silver-tongued words of praise, for all of the interviews, he remains largely unknown. He may be just below our consciousness, but his performance is not.
Occasionally, and to an entirely unpredictable pattern, an actor captures a character to scintillating, near-scientific perfection. You forget everything that came before, forget that you are watching a performance: you are deliciously in the moment. For a couple of hours, fiction attains primacy over reality. Being in the presence of a fully-realized character should be temporarily mind-altering. Waltz's urbane, gleeful, and horrifying Hans Landa does just that.
I do not worship without thought at the quirky, disheveled, disturbing altar of Quentin Tarantino. There is both much to love and revile in his work but when he gets it right, it is awe-inspiring. The script to 'Inglourious Basterds', also by Tarantino, is fantastic; the kind to make any writer envious.The bones of Hans Landa are laid out admirably, as scripted. Very little flesh-and-blood contribution from an actor would have been necessary to make him truly memorable; he was written that way. This makes Christoph Waltz's landing, and interpretation, of the role that much luckier for movie-goers.
In Tarantino's revisionist history, where hilarity and suffering cohabit in nearly every frame,Nazi Colonel Hans Landa is smooth, rotten-souled, honeyed, and terrifying. Evil has scarcely been more articulate. He's a hands-on, joyful killer of the innocent: the man clearly enjoys his work. There is no glimmer of redemption in this cold opportunist. Yet, Waltz as Landa mesmerises even as he terrifies. It is a rich, complex, brazen, center-of-the-spotlight performance. Many actors would have gone full-on ham with this role. Waltz, much more subtly, glimmers and thrives in a characterization that is startling; there is a sense of privileged acceptance, an acknowledgment of his great luck present in his brilliant performance, that is rare to see from an actor.
Hans Landa is, to my mind, the most fully satisfying film character in recent memory. This is not lionizing evil--he is chilling and too self-serving to have preserved even a breath of humanity. As such, he is appalling. It is not the role itself but the seamless, kinetic, unsettling inhabiting of the role accomplished by Waltz that deserves the most merit. A part as written, however promising on the white page, is like a master-less puppet. Though entertaining by itself, it takes talent, patience, and audacious manipulation by a professional to be brought to glorious, mobile, full-bodied life.
Timeless performances are often those that embrace the uncomfortable, the uneasy, the painfully humourous, the raw elements of human existence. Capturing even a sliver of that truth on celluloid happens too infrequently. When it does, it is nice to see it rewarded. This, readers, is why I will be keeping my fingers firmly crossed come Sunday. The Academy has a chance to get it beautifully, undeniably right. The occasional correct choice is, ultimately, what keeps us coming back for more.
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