I’m throwing in the towel. I’m giving up. My tail is tucked and I’m headed back to the land from which I came. Okay, not really, but…
I don’t belong in Los Angeles, in the movie business. After all, I have no clue. My gauge is off, my readings are skewed. Worst of all, re-calibration at age 24 is both hopeless and impossible.
I watched as Crash was given a golden statue as the year’s best picture and my heart fell. My stomach, my lungs…and if you’ll allow, my soul.
I have lost faith in the Academy.
I’m not shy. I fucking hated Crash. So much that I have to irresponsibly lead with profanity in an attempt to paint my disdain.
Excuse me while I stage the dramatic, but I must get this point across…
Say you grew up believing in God. For as long as you can remember, your faith has been absolute, unwavering. You have trusted his guidance without question or suspicion. One thing leads to another, which leads to another. General, I know…but such is life. You find yourself at the county fair in Milton, Arkansas. Don’t look up Milton, Arkansas. Chances are, it doesn’t exist. You walk the rounds and find 5 ride tickets crumpled up on the ground. Lovely. So you buy a funnel cake and hit the Tilt-A-Whirl. Next thing you know, you’re alone at the front of the line. Thousands of people, none sharing a desire to tilt OR whirl, apparently. The operator calls your name and invites you to come aboard, which you reluctantly do. “But how did you know my name?” you ask. By which he responds, “Actually, it’s quite simple. I am God. Though, my true passion lies in the carnie arts. Six months out of the year, I please riders to their heart’s content…”
Suddenly, every word God speaks distances his proximity from being absolute. He stands not on rock, but ice. He can no longer face the tornado, but is blown off by a gentle gust. You watch as he wavers and feel loneliness greater than any you have previously known. All because of an inescapable, faith-murdering curiosity…
God runs the Tilt-A-Whirl?
…
Next time our paths cross, I want you to ask me a question. I’ll even include unisex formalities. It’s the kind of guy I am. Goes a little something like…
“Hey Reilly, how’s it going? It would pleasure me greatly to state this: you inspire my life. And let me also add, as a side note, that if our world met the fate of a near apocalyptic catastrophe and only one man could be selected to re-populate the entire species of man, I would be honored to spearhead your election committee. Now that I got that off my chest, I have a query. Would you rather, a) Purchase the movie Crash, allow it into your home and watch it for a second time, or b) Fuck a barbed wire mannequin?”
I can assure that in the seconds following…if you watch closely…you will bear witness to a pondering mind. Yes, that IS sincerity talking.
…
Trailers began popping up early April leading into the May 6th release. It was gripping. In fact, I drove all the way out to Universal City for the 12:01 show on Friday morning just to see it. I was ready for Paul Haggis to blow me back. I was ready to build upon my layers of love for Don Cheadle. I was ready to be pleasantly surprised by Sandra Bullock. I was even ready to look past the fact that Brendan Fraser is the most regrettable lead this town has ever lent stardom.
And beyond the eye rolling and face burying, I couldn’t help but feel as if someone were cashing out. This irresponsible thing was rolling out in front of me, exploiting race cards like trying to take a dive in Jenga. It was a “top this” of absurdity.
As the end credits rolled, I heard applause. As we were herded out, I listened as praises filled the halls. I looked around and thought to myself, “It’s a dupe. You’ve all been played.”
…
I despised Crash, yes. But I want to make very clear that I have NO problem with the millions who apparently made it their darling. After all, what’s art if not that? And although it is admittedly in my nature to at times fly against the grain for the pleasure of, I assure this is not one such instance.
Which brings me back to the Academy…
There is no greater way to cap off this year in film than to see Crash take home best picture. It felt like the 2004 Presidential Election. Certainly, this can’t be it. Or can it?
Can it?
…
I’m not going anywhere. Nights like this cement my foot into the ground. Nights like this lock me in for the long haul, so that I may never send accusations of hypocrisy to, well, myself for not being the agent of change I preach.
Because at some point, someone is going to have to stand up and fight for a town that has let go of its foundation. Someone who realizes it’s about more than exclusively taking the heart or mind for a successful ride, but having the decency and capability to take both. I know, it’s a rarity…but the time, it’s coming.
If history is any guide, I have little to lose sleep over on this troubled night. Change like this, it usually occurs in waves. They’re large. They’re violent. They’re sweeping…
And all they know to do…carry us away.
