
I know it’s totally pointless to get worked up about awards season in Hollywood, because it rarely, if ever recognises the actual best films of any given year. I know we say this about it every year. I know we trot out the same statistics of past injustices: Hitchcock, Welles and Kubrick never won Oscars; Dances With Wolves beat Goodfellas; Forrest Gump beat Pulp Fiction; from a largely fool-proof field that included Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Munich and Good Night, And Good Luck, the Academy still managed to fuck up and give Best Picture to Crash.
I know we all just let out a sigh, acknowledge that the Oscars have happened and move on with our lives. Goddammit, though – nothing quite hammers home the essential frippery of these awards like the knowledge that Michael Hazanavicius’ The Artist is considered this year’s frontrunner.
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